Grayson knew he couldn't go back. Not after what he'd done. Not after what he'd seen. The container. The body. The way Kane pointed his gun and shot a man — a cop, no less, right in the head without hesitation. No warning. No build-up. Just the sharp crack of gunfire and the sudden, smothering silence that followed. And then there was the time in the office. The woman bent over Kane's desk, her body draped over it like she already knew the rules. Kane's fingers slick with her, his eyes locked on Grayson as he lifted them to his mouth and said, "Suck." It should've disgusted him. It should've scared him more than it did. But what it did more than anything was leave something burning low in his gut. He didn't understand it. Didn't want to. He just knew that it was wrong. And still, he hadn't walked away. He hadn't said a thing. He'd just stood there, heart pounding, mouth dry, and let it happen.
This wasn't a job anymore. It wasn't about bartending or cocktails or skill. It was about control. Ownership. Power. It was about Kane and what it meant to belong to him, whether you wanted to or not. But Grayson didn't want to play that game. He didn't want to become another one of Kane's little pieces, a loyal soldier or a pet project. He didn't want to find himself looking back years from now and realizing he'd been swallowed whole.
He reached for the tie, the only piece of his uniform, shoved it in his coat pocket, and headed for the door. He didn't let himself think. Thinking was dangerous. Thinking led to hesitation. And hesitation, in a place like Elysium, could get you killed.
********************
Outside, Grayson kept his head down, his shoulders squared and moved quickly through the city's veins toward the club that had almost ruined him. As he walked, memories bled into him like bruises. He thought about the first day he'd arrived, résumé in hand, cocky and sure. He'd thought he could handle anything. But he hadn't known the rules, hadn't realized there were no rules, just power and appetite disguised as luxury. Now he knew better.
The club loomed into view, all glass and darkness, gold trim catching the light like polished teeth. It didn't welcome. It waited. Inside, Tessa sat at the counter, legs crossed, drink in hand, wearing something silky and backless. Jax was behind the bar, polishing a shaker and smirking through some half-flirtatious story. Grayson didn't slow down. He strode across the polished floor like he still worked there, like it was still his space.
Jax looked up, surprised. "Hale," he said, pausing mid-polish. "Your shift isn't till a couple of hours."
Grayson didn't answer. He pulled the tie from his coat pocket and laid it flat on the bar. The sound was quiet, but the meaning behind it was loud. Final.
Tessa blinked. "Is that your—?"
"Yeah," Grayson said, voice flat. "Consider this my resignation."
Jax raised an eyebrow, though the corner of his mouth twitched like he wasn't surprised. "You quitting?"
"I've seen enough."
Jax stared at him for a beat, the towel still dangling from his shoulder. Then, more quietly, he said, "You sure you want to do that?"
Grayson met his eyes. "Already did."
Jax's tone stayed neutral, but his gaze sharpened. A flicker of something behind it, not judgment, not mockery. Just awareness. "You know what happens when people walk out on Kane, right?"
Grayson didn't blink. "Let him come find me."
Jax gave a slow nod. No smile this time. Just something resigned. "Suit yourself. Just don't forget who owns the floor you're walking off."
Tessa looked between them. "Grayson, are you okay?"
He turned his eyes on her and leaned in a little. "You ever bury a body with your bare hands, Tessa?"
Her expression froze, glass still in hand. "That supposed to be a joke?"
Grayson gave a crooked smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Do I look like I'm joking?"
Her eyes searched his face, the playful edge she usually wore slipping. "Jesus, Grayson. What did they pull you into?"
He straightened. "Exactly why I'm walking."
Grayson turned to go, and as he made his way toward the exit, movement caught his eye — Connor, leaning against the hallway wall with his usual lazy posture, arms crossed, unreadable. They locked eyes. And for a moment, no one moved. Then Grayson offered a sharp, two-fingered salute. Connor's mouth twitched. It wasn't quite a smile, but it wasn't disapproval either. And without another word, Grayson pushed through the doors, the air outside hit him hard — too clean, too bright, almost unreal. The city still smelled like exhaust and hot pavement, but it was real in a way Elysium hadn't been for weeks.
For the first time in what felt like forever, Grayson didn't feel like someone else's possession. He didn't feel safe. But he felt free. And right now, that was enough.
******************
The second the door closed behind him, Grayson exhaled like he'd been holding his breath for days.
The apartment was dim. A half-eaten takeout box sat on the coffee table beside Holly's laptop, and the smell of microwaved noodles lingered in the air. She sat curled up on the couch, a highlighter stuck between her teeth as she typed.
She glanced up, brows raised. "Hey. Where you been?"
Grayson didn't answer. He crossed the room in three quick strides, scooped her up off the couch, and kissed her hard.
Holly laughed against his mouth, breathless. "Whoa—what the hell's gotten into you?"
"I quit," he said, voice rough, forehead pressed to hers. "I fucking quit."
She blinked, pulling back just enough to see his face. "You what?"
"I walked out." He let out a sharp laugh — part disbelief, part hysteria. "Tossed my tie on the bar, told them I was done."
There was a pause. A long one.
"…You quit?" Her voice was flat now. "Grayson, we need money. Now. Today. It's our final warning."
He closed his eyes.
Fuck.
The adrenaline rush was still there, humming in his veins, but her words were like a knife through it — clean, cold, unavoidable.
"I know," he muttered.
Silence stretched between them. Holly waited — not angry yet, just waiting. Grayson set her down, and rubbed both hands over his face.
"I'll figure something out," he said quickly. "Just not tonight."
Holly arched a brow. "Gray-"
"Let's go out," he said. "Somewhere loud. Somewhere normal. Just you and me. Just for tonight."
She stared at him, mouth twitching like she wanted to yell and laugh at the same time. "You're serious."
"One night," he said. "I need to not feel like I'm still in that place."
Her jaw worked. She wanted to be mad. Maybe she still was. But in the end, she nodded.
******************
The club wasn't Elysium. No gold trim. No velvet ropes. No sharp-dressed predators lounging in glass booths like gods with favourite toys. No eyes following your every step, waiting to pounce the second you slipped. Just a dive bar built out of noise and neon.
It was too loud, too hot, and everything smelled like cheap cologne, beer, and sweat — but it was alive. The kind of alive that didn't demand anything from you. No rules. No games. Just a beat pounding so hard it made your ribs vibrate and the lights strobing like broken stars.
The floor was sticky under his boots. Somewhere, a girl screamed-laughed as her drink sloshed over the rim of her plastic cup. The DJ was barely visible behind a wall of coloured fog and bass drops, cycling between pulsing house music and bad remixes of early 2000s bangers. And in the middle of it, Holly—spinning, laughing, glowing.
She had her hair up now, neck slick with sweat, crop top clinging to her skin in all the right places. Her arms were thrown around Grayson's shoulders as they moved together, their bodies falling into that drunk, blissful rhythm — more motion than choreography, hips sliding, hands gripping, breath shared in stolen pockets between beats.
He pressed his forehead to hers and let the pulse of the music wash over him. For a moment, there was nothing else. No blood. No bodies. No voices. Just Holly's mouth brushing his, her laughter a warm hum against his skin.
They danced until their limbs were shaking. Until the alcohol buzzed under their skin like an electrical current. Until their mouths crashed together in a corner booth, all clumsy tongues and teeth and too much heat, her hand dragging down his chest, nails grazing the trail just beneath his waistband before she giggled and pulled back, teasing him with her eyes.
"Slow down, tiger," she said against his ear. "Pace yourself."
"I don't think I remember how," he murmured.
They did shots at the bar with strangers. Tequila, maybe. Or something that burned like it had been distilled in a garage. Grayson winced, laughed, knocked his shoulder into hers like a schoolyard crush.
When the lights dimmed even more, they danced again — looser now, Holly's back pressed to his chest, her ass rolling against him to the rhythm. His hands on her hips. His lips at her neck.
There were no clocks here. No right or wrong. Just sweat and music and the illusion of being untouchable.
Eventually, she leaned in, breath warm and sweet at his jaw. "Bathroom," she said, and kissed him once more before disappearing into the crowd.
Grayson lingered near the edge of the dance floor, hands on his knees, breath coming fast. His shirt clung to his back with sweat, and every beat of the music felt like it was trying to crawl inside his skull. The lights pulsed like a migraine. The bodies around him moved like a single, chaotic organism — too close, too loud, too much.
He straightened slowly, wiped a hand down his face, and slipped through the crowd without a word.
Outside, the air hit him like a slap — sharp, damp, real.
The bass still thudded faintly through the club's walls behind him, but out here, the city made its own music: a car alarm down the block, the metallic rattle of a passing train, far-off sirens weaving through the dark.
Grayson leaned back against the brick, dragging out a cigarette with fingers that still trembled. He lit it with the same cheap lighter he'd borrowed weeks ago and never gave back. The flame flickered, then caught. He inhaled deep.
The smoke curled into his lungs and settled there, warm and bitter. His chest eased slightly. But his hands wouldn't stop shaking. Because beneath the glow of cheap euphoria, the crash was already coming.
He should've taken the fucking money. He hated himself for even thinking it. But the words wouldn't stop echoing in his head. That envelope. That choice. That one slip of paper that could've kept him and Holly in their apartment another six months. Bought them time. Gave them a buffer. Instead, he'd left it behind like some noble idiot — like principle could pay bills or keep the lights on.
"Fucking moron," he muttered, flicking ash into the night.
The wind stirred. Soft footsteps behind him, too deliberate to be a stranger.
A chill climbed up his spine.
And then—
"Did you really think walking away was yours to decide?" Kane's voice cut through the dark, smooth as ever, but coiled with fury.
Grayson didn't even flinch. He took a drag from his cigarette and blew the smoke out slow. "You following me now?"
Kane stepped closer, dress shirt open at the collar, jaw tight, gaze like sharpened glass. "You think you can hand in a fucking tie and that's it? That's your exit plan?"
"I didn't come with a contract," Grayson said coolly, eyes locking with Kane's. "You don't own me."
Kane's laugh was low and joyless. "I don't own you? You sure about that?" He moved in until there was barely space between them, his voice darkening. "You belonged the second you said nothing. That silence sealed it."
Grayson's jaw twitched. "You think silence means loyalty?"
"I think silence means complicity," Kane shot back. "And I think you liked it more than you want to admit."
Grayson's cigarette dropped, ember scattering across the pavement. "You don't know shit about what I want."
"No?" Kane's voice coiled around him, dark and close. His hand came up, fingers brushing along Grayson's jaw — not gentle, but claiming. His thumb pressed hard beneath Grayson's chin, tilting his face up. "Then why the fuck are you hard right now?"
Grayson's breath caught — involuntary, sharp. A flash of heat burned low in his stomach, but he glared through it, jaw clenched. "Fuck you."
Kane smiled — slow and cruel. "Already halfway there."
Grayson's pulse thundered in his ears. He hated that Kane could see it — the way his chest rose and fell too fast, the way his fists trembled at his sides, the heat coiled low in his gut. Kane stepped closer, so close Grayson could feel the warmth radiating from him, the faint brush of his breath against his jaw.
"Tell me I'm wrong," Kane murmured, tilting his head just slightly, as though daring Grayson to move, to do something. "Tell me you don't want to know what I taste like."
Grayson's jaw clenched. "I don't—"
The words caught. Stuck. Lied.
Kane chuckled — low, dark, knowing. His knuckles skimmed Grayson's throat, feather-light, dragging down to the rapid beat of his pulse. "Liar."
They were so close now that Grayson could feel the warmth of Kane's mouth just hovering over his. Every muscle in his body screamed don't do this. But his body didn't care. His body leaned.
The air snapped between them like a live wire — the tension so tight it hurt.
And then it broke.
They collided in a mess of violence and heat, Kane's mouth crashing into his, fierce and unapologetic, all spit and dominance and heat. Grayson snarled against it, his hands balling in Kane's coat, shoving back. But even as he pushed, he was kissing him. Responding. Reacting. His body was already betraying him.
He didn't want this. Didn't want to want this. But there was no space for thinking — only feeling. And what he felt was hunger, rage, confusion — all tangled up in Kane's mouth on his and the hard wall at his back and the thudding pressure of Kane's body pinning his down.
He could feel himself — hard, throbbing, aching — and it made no fucking sense.
Kane's hand slid between them. Bold. Certain. He cupped Grayson through his jeans like he had every right to, and Grayson gasped, breaking the kiss. "Jesus—"
"Don't stop me," Kane murmured against his throat. "Not unless you mean it."
Grayson's fists tightened. His whole body was screaming. This wasn't who he was. He wasn't—
But he didn't stop him.
Kane popped the button on his jeans with practised ease, slid his hand inside — warm skin on skin, fingers wrapping around him.
Grayson's breath stuttered. He should've stopped it. Should've shoved him away, said something — anything — but instead he stood there, head falling back against the brick, eyes fluttering shut as Kane's grip tightened.
"This what you're confused about?" Kane whispered, his voice rough in Grayson's ear. "Why you ache every time I look at you too long? Why your cock gets hard even when you're trying to hate me?"
"Shut the fuck up," Grayson snarled, but his voice cracked right down the middle — not fury, not fully.
Kane stroked him — slow, ruthless — and Grayson bit his lip so hard he tasted copper.
He wasn't gay.
He wasn't gay.
Kane's hand never stopped moving, thick fingers wrapped around Grayson's cock, jerking him with the kind of rhythm that was meant to humiliate — fast enough to leave him gasping, slow enough to draw it out like torture.
Grayson's hips bucked forward, trying to keep some kind of control, but it was already gone. His knuckles were white where they clutched Kane's coat, face twisted with confusion and want and hate and need.
"I'm not—" he tried again, voice hoarse, cracking like a branch under pressure. "I'm not—this—"
"Not what?" Kane breathed, lips brushing his cheek, his jaw, then lower — tongue flicking along Grayson's throat. "Not gay? Not mine? Not hard and leaking for me like a good little secret?"
Grayson flinched — not because it wasn't true, but because somehow, it was.
He growled and surged forward, slamming their mouths together again — but this time it wasn't a kiss. It was a clash. A filthy grind of lips and teeth and tongue. No rhythm. No finesse. Just need.
Kane bit his lip, hard, until it broke skin. Blood mixed with spit. Grayson spat it into Kane's mouth without thinking — primal, furious, obscene. Kane didn't pull back. He groaned, deep and guttural, and spat it right back — warm and wet, it hit Grayson's lip, his tongue, slicking down his chin. Grayson moaned — not out of pleasure, but something darker. Loss of control. Shame. Desire. And fuck, it was all too much.
"Look at you," Kane whispered, lips dragging over his jaw, tongue catching that trail of spit. "So fuckin' confused. So fuckin' gorgeous like this — messy, panting, begging with your body even when your mouth keeps lying."
Grayson gasped as Kane twisted his wrist just right, his hand pumping faster now, thumb slick over the head, using the pre-come leaking out of him like he owned it.
"I hate you," Grayson choked.
"Yeah," Kane said, pumping him harder, dirtier. "But you'll still come in my hand, won't you?"
Grayson's whole body shook. His head hit the wall again, hard. His jaw clenched so tight it ached. But he didn't pull away. He was so close. On the edge of something that felt like falling off a cliff with no parachute. His teeth gritted, eyes squeezed shut.
Kane leaned in, lips against his ear. "You gonna come for me, Hale?"
"Fuck—fuck—" he groaned, burying his face in Kane's shoulder like that might hide what was happening — like it might keep him from shattering completely.
"You gonna make a mess in my hand and pretend it never happened? Is that how you do it? Hide from it later like a coward?"
Grayson whimpered — actually whimpered — and tried to twist away, but Kane shoved him harder against the brick, hand relentless.
"No fucking running now," Kane growled. "You asked for this the second you looked at me like that. The second you didn't say no."
"I fucking hate you," Grayson gasped again — broken, hoarse, wet-mouthed and red-eyed and trembling from the overload of it all.
"You hate that it's me doing this to you," Kane said, stroking him tighter, faster, thumb circling, hand unforgiving. "But your cock fucking wants me."
Grayson bucked. His fingers clawed at Kane's back. His breath broke into shards. And then he came — sudden, brutal, helpless — with a strangled sound ripped straight from his throat.
Kane didn't stop. Not right away. He stroked him through it — slower now, dragging out every twitch, every groan, every second of aftershock until Grayson's knees buckled and he sagged back against the wall, dazed and ruined and ashamed of the tremble still running through him.
Kane finally let go, his hand slick and warm with evidence. He wiped it on Grayson's shirt — not with delicacy, but intention.
A mark.
Grayson stared at him, chest heaving, lips parted, unable to speak.
Kane leaned in again — slow, deliberate — their mouths barely an inch apart. Grayson could still taste spit, blood, the shame clinging to his tongue.
"Next time," Kane murmured, voice low and hungry, "you'll ask for it."
But he didn't leave. Not yet.
His eyes dropped. So did his head.
Grayson stiffened as Kane's fingers dipped back down, two of them gliding through the wet mess smeared across his shirt and stomach — slow and lazy, like he was tasting victory.
Then Kane raised them to his mouth. And sucked them clean. Eyes locked on Grayson the entire time. Grayson's breath hitched — shame blooming in his chest like fire — but he couldn't move. Couldn't speak. Couldn't do anything except stand there, painfully aware of how wrecked he was. How owned.
Kane smirked like he'd won something bigger than just a body. Then he turned and walked toward the mouth of the alley, one hand already fishing out a cigarette, the other still damp from where he hadn't bothered to clean it properly. He didn't look back when he said it.
"By the way," his voice floated back, casual and cruel, wrapped in smoke, "consider your rent paid this month."
Grayson blinked. His mind didn't catch up right away. "What?" he croaked, throat raw.
Kane lit the cigarette with a flick, took a long drag, and finally turned — just far enough for Grayson to catch the gleam of that wicked little smile. "I own the building you live in, sweetheart."
Smoke curled out of his mouth, slow and satisfied.
"You just paid in full."
Then he walked off into the dark — all swagger and smoke and the scent of Grayson still on his fingers.
And Grayson? Grayson stayed pressed to the wall, heart still racing, come cooling against his skin, shame crawling under it.
And the worst part? He wanted him again already.