The two spies of Tristan moved quickly when they heard the engine stop outside the abandoned building. The sound echoed against the empty concrete, bouncing between broken pillars and shattered windows. Dust stirred where the sunlight fell, gold and ghostly.
They exchanged a quick glance.
Then they hid — one crouching behind a rusted beam, the other by the staircase that led downward into the shadows.
One of them took out a phone, the same number Tristan Ashford himself had given earlier that morning — Isidore's number.
Tristan's voice still lingered in his mind: "Play the part well."
The man's thumb hesitated before pressing the call button.
Outside, Isidore's hands gripped the steering wheel. He was staring at the tall, decayed building before him — grey, hollow, lifeless, yet full of something that pulled him in with dreadful gravity. His pulse thundered in his throat. Every second felt too long. Every silence — unbearable.
His phone rang.
Isidore snatched it up immediately, pressing it hard against his ear. "I— I brought the money," he stammered. "I did what you said—"
Inside the building, the first spy tried to keep his voice steady. "Good. Then go to the top floor."
His companion — crouched beside him — was doing his best not to burst out laughing. He was shaking, biting his own hand to hold it in. His eyes watered from the effort. The one on the phone glared at him sharply, his jaw locking.
The second spy turned his head away, muffling his laugh into his sleeve.
"The top floor," the first one repeated, voice growing harsher. "immediately."
Isidore swallowed hard. "Can— can I hear my child's voice? Just once, please—"
But the call was cut.
The silence hit him like a slap. His chest tightened. His breathing faltered. He opened the car door and stumbled out, clutching the leather bag from the passenger seat — the bag that carried everything.
The air was still, heavy. His voice cracked softly, a whisper only the wind could hear. "I'm coming, my darling. Just wait— mommy's coming."
Then he walked toward the building.
The abandoned doors groaned open. Inside was ruin — walls cracked open like old wounds, ceiling beams bowed from years of neglect. Light bled in through broken windows, painting dust in midair. The scent of damp concrete mingled with something faintly burnt.
Isidore's heart lurched. How could his Julian— his little boy— be here?
He clutched the bag tighter and began to climb the stairs.
Step after step.
He didn't care that his legs trembled. He didn't care that each breath cut through his chest like glass. Sweat beaded on his forehead, sliding down his pale skin. His heart ached so sharply he thought it might burst, but still he climbed.
Halfway up, the scent of burning grew stronger.
He coughed, shaking his head, it's nothing.
He couldn't stop. Not now
The only thing that mattered was Julian.
Down below, the two spies had already slipped out through a back door.
The one carrying the child adjusted his hold nervously. Julian stirred, small fingers clutching the man's coat collar. The spy froze in place — his breath caught. But the boy stilled again, only sighing softly in his sleep.
The companion beside him muttered, "What'll happen when he finds out the child isn't up there?" He gave a shaky laugh. "Oh, God… he'll be devastated."
Before the first spy could answer, another sound cut through the afternoon air — the smooth purr of an expensive engine pulling up beside Isidore's car.
Both spies turned. Their spines straightened.
"Master's here," one whispered.
The driver of the black car stepped out first — tall, precise, and wordless. He bowed and opened the backseat door.
From within stepped Tristan Ashford.
He was dressed in his usual attire — the dark coat, perfectly tailored, the collar trimmed in fine detail. His red hair glowed under the pale afternoon light, tousled with deliberate carelessness. His crystalline eyes gleamed like cut glass as his lips curved into that faint, careless smirk.
Every movement of his was unhurried — like a man who owned time.
The spies lowered their gazes immediately. The one holding Julian shifted uneasily, as Tristan's attention landed on the small, sleeping figure in his arms.
"He's cute," Tristan said at last, voice low, faintly amused. "Just like his mother."
The spies exchanged quick glances, uncertain whether to respond or stay silent.
Tristan extended a gloved hand lazily. "Give him to me. And call my brother."
"Yes, master."
The man stepped forward, carefully placing the sleeping child into Tristan's arms.
Julian stirred again. His small eyelids fluttered open — crystalline blue eyes, so similar to Tristan's own.
For a moment, Tristan hesitated. Children were unpredictable creatures — especially frightened ones. He half-expected the boy to cry.
But instead, Julian blinked once, then reached up with a tiny hand and touched Tristan's cheek. His voice came out soft, blabbering: "Hero."
Tristan froze, stunned by the word.
Then a small smile, unwilling but real, touched his lips. "You've seen me before, haven't you?" he murmured. "On television."
Julian laughed, a small sound like bells, his little hands tugging at Tristan's collar. "Mama! Mama!"
Tristan looked down at him, his smirk sharpening again. "Ah. You want to see him, don't you?"
The boy squealed happily, nodding, clutching Tristan's shoulder.
"Very well then," Tristan said softly, his tone almost playful. "Let's go see your mama."
He adjusted Julian in his arms, the boy now holding onto the locket at Tristan's throat, fascinated by its shine. With calm steps, Tristan began walking toward the building.
---
Upstairs, Isidore finally reached the top floor.
His body felt like it was tearing apart with every breath. The air grew thick, heavy, and hot. His throat burned. A faint veil of smoke rolled along the ceiling.
He pressed one trembling hand to his mouth and coughed violently.
"Julian…?" His voice barely carried.
He reached the final door — charred around the edges. The smell of burnt wood clung to the walls.
He pushed it open.
The sight before him stole every ounce of strength from his legs.
The room was blackened — gutted. Ashes everywhere. Burnt fragments of furniture, half-melted glass, beams caved inward. A soft wind moved through the holes in the wall, lifting the ashes like ghosts.
The bag of money slipped from Isidore's shoulder, hitting the ground with a dull thud.
He took one step forward, then another, eyes wide and dazed.
"I—I brought the money," he called, voice trembling. "I did what you said—"
Nothing answered.
His eyes darted across the destruction. And then — there, among the soot, Half-melted, toy's.
Isidore's knees gave out. He sank to the floor. "No…" His voice cracked into a whisper. "No, no, this can't—"
He reached for it, and the scorched plastic burned his palms instantly. But he didn't care. The pain didn't exist, he shake's his head.
"They said… they said they'll give my Julian back," he choked. "They promised—"
The tears came suddenly, hot and merciless. His breath hitched between sobs as he began clawing through the debris, dragging broken wood aside with bare hands. His skin blistered, tearing open, the pain slicing through him like a blade.
Still, he searched. Still, he called.
"My Julian— where are you?"
His heart screamed louder than his voice.
He threw aside another beam, coughed, gasped, eyes glassy. "They can't— they can't do this to my child!"
He kept digging. The ashes smeared across his face. His hair clung to his sweat-damp cheeks.
The building creaked around him. The air was suffocating. But he didn't stop.
When his fingers finally failed him — raw, blistered, trembling — he pressed his forehead to the ashen floor. His voice broke apart.
"My Julian…" he whispered, the words spilling like blood. "My baby…"
The sound that followed was not a cry — it was something deeper, hollow, devastating.
A scream pulled from the soul of a mother who had lost everything.
It echoed through the ruins, through the stairwell, out into the open air.
Down below, Tristan paused mid-step.
Julian stirred in his arms again, sensing something, his small hand tightening around Tristan's collar.
Tristan looked toward the source of the sound, his expression unreadable — half shadow, half light. For once, the smirk was gone.
"Your mother loves you too much," he murmured, voice quiet, distant. "Far too much for his own good."
Julian blinked at him, confused, eyes glassy and bright.
Tristan sighed softly. "Come, little one," he said. "Let's not keep him waiting."
And he stepped into the building, carrying the child toward the place where the ashes still whispered he's name.
"Damn it…" Tristan hissed beneath his breath as he reached the first floor, The sun struck harshly across the crumbling façade of the abandoned building. Smoke still rose in pale ribbons from the open doorway, carrying with it the scent of burned timber and sorrow. "It's worse than I expected."
Julian stirred in his arms, clutching the front of Tristan's shirt with his tiny hands. His lips quivered.
"Mama…" he mumbled in a broken, blabbering tone.
"Yeah, yeah," Tristan muttered, his throat tightening. "Mommy's in there. We're gonna meet him, alright? Just hold on to me."
The door was left wide, releasing a faint gust of gray air. The smoke thinned at once, curling upward like a dying spirit. Without another thought, Tristan entered.
Inside, light bled through the cracks in the walls. The heat had faded, but the smell of ash clung to everything.
And there—
At the center of the ruin—
Isidore.
He was crouched on the floor, hands raw and trembling as he tried to smother what little flame remained. His skin was ghostly pale beneath the soot, his beige hair damp with sweat and grief, clinging to his face. His fingers pressed into the scorched wood until they blistered, yet he didn't stop.
Tristan froze. For a moment, his heart forgot how to beat.
"Isidore…" he breathed.
But Isidore didn't hear him. In his mind, the world had narrowed to the sound of crackling wood and his own pulse. He was dying—he could feel it in the air, in the dull throb behind his ribs. If he didn't find his son soon, if he didn't see him again—he'd burn from the inside out.
Then a small voice pierced through the haze.
"Mama!"
Isidore froze. The motion of his hands stopped midair. His head lifted slowly, eyes wide and unfocused. I'm hearing things again, he thought wildly. It's the fire… the smoke… I'm hallucinating.
Then another voice followed—lower, rougher, painfully real.
"Isidore."
Tristan.
No. He didn't want to hear him. Not now.
He turned away, ignoring the sting in his chest. Why him?
Tristan's steps echoed across the charred floor. Guilt and fear churned in his gut. Without thinking, he reached forward, grabbed Isidore by the elbow, and yanked him upright.
Isidore's, looked up—and froze.
Tristan stood there, face streaked with soot, eyes dark with worry. But it wasn't him that made Isidore's heart stop. It was what he was holding.
Julian.
The child nestled against Tristan's chest, blinking through tears, lips trembling.
For a heartbeat, Isidore couldn't move. Then a broken sound escaped him, half a laugh, half a sob. "Julian… my baby…" His voice shattered. "You're alive—my child is alive."
Tristan tried to speak, but Isidore didn't listen.
He stumbled forward and snatched Julian into his arms, holding him as though the world might snatch him away again. "Don't cry, my Julian," he whispered fiercely, kissing his hair again and again. "Mama's here. I won't let anyone lay a hand on you ever again. I'm sorry—I should've watched over you. I'm so sorry—"
Julian's tears spilled, but his sobs softened. His hiccups came slower now, soothed by his mother's trembling voice.
Tristan's gaze fell to Isidore's hands—burnt, raw, and still clutching the child tightly. Shock twisted inside him. "Isidore, you're hurting yourself."
Isidore jerked back a step, eyes darting. Fear flared in them—fear that he'd lose his son again. "Stay away from us."
"Isidore—"
"Go away!"
Tristan didn't move. "Let me help you. Please. I shouldn't have done that" His voice cracked under the weight of guilt. "I was angry. I was wrong."
But Isidore only glared, his body trembling from exhaustion. He hadn't eaten. The doctor's warnings echoed somewhere in the back of his mind—Don't push yourself. You're an omega, your body won't endure stress like this.
And yet here he was, standing in smoke and ruin, crossing every limit just to protect his son.
His legs swayed.
Julian whimpered, clutching his shirt tighter.
But even then, Isidore's arms didn't falter.
"Shh," he murmured to the child. "Mama's fine. Don't cry."
Tristan saw it—the way Isidore's body tilted, the pallor spreading across his face.
He didn't think. He moved.
In a single step, he slid his arms beneath them both—lifting Isidore and Julian together.
"Put me down!" Isidore gasped, struggling weakly.
"No," Tristan said sharply. "You'll hurt the child."
"I don't need your help—"
"You do," he interrupted, his tone low and steady. "Both of you do. Not just the child. But you'll hurt yourself too."
Isidore's breath hitched, his lashes fluttering. But he didn't look at him.
Julian sniffled, rubbing his cheek against his mother's neck. "Mama is hurt…"
Tristan's voice softened. "I know. Mama is hurt, but he'll be alright."
Isidore managed a trembling smile. "Mama's fine, my love. Mama won't vanish again."
He looked at Tristan then, his voice sharpening. "Put me down, you bastard."
Tristan met his glare, unflinching. "I can't let you fall in front of me like this." His voice dropped to a whisper, raw and shaking. "No way. You'll hurt yourself… and the child. Even if he's not mine—he's yours. I can't stand by and watch. He has your hair"
Isidore blinked, startled. A faint blush burned through the soot on his cheeks. He turned his head away quickly, clutching Julian tighter.
Tristan looked down at them — the fragile beauty of the moment sinking into him like a blade.
He didn't know the truth.
That this child — the one clinging against Isidore's chest — wasn't the son of another man.
But, he was both Isidore and his child.