August 10. 2025
Hugo Hollands, Age 24.
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We finally got the call. They're preparing for the Fall Ball. I thought they were stringing me along, dangling another promise with no intention of keeping it. But turns out, they were legit. The Morrison board sent an invitation for a meeting with Igor Ivanov himself—name heavy as marble, reputation heavier.
It should have thrilled me. Once, it might have. Now it just felt like another rung on a ladder I wasn't sure I wanted to climb. Still, it was something to do—something that didn't involve watching myself decay in a mirror.
I hadn't spoken to Eddie since that day at the cemetery. He'd gone quiet, vanished back into his corners of Ebonreach. I told myself I didn't care. He was useless anyway. I tried to clean him up, make him look like someone who belonged in this version of my life. But maybe what comes from the streets should stay there. Some things just aren't meant to rise.
Someone else had to fill his place.
The bathroom door creaked open. Poppy stepped out, steam curling behind her.
For a moment, I forgot how to speak.
Her hair fell in long black waves, the kind that caught light like oil on water. A white headband kept it loosely away from her face, though a few strands escaped to brush against her cheeks. Her skin glowed with warmth; freckles dotted the bridge of her nose like dust from the sun itself. Her lips were soft, parted just slightly as if she'd been mid-thought before walking in. The white off-shoulder blouse she wore slipped down her collarbone, delicate against her skin, the fabric looking too clean for the world we lived in. She looked both timeless and startlingly alive, like something that shouldn't have survived this long in a city like ours.
"Wow, Poppy," I said, the words slipping out before I could soften them.
She smiled, adjusting one sleeve. "I told you I clean up nice."
"Damn right," I said, grinning despite myself.
She rolled her eyes, but I caught the faintest flush of color in her cheeks as she crossed the room to gather her bag. The scent of her perfume—something floral, with a trace of smoke underneath—lingered in the air.
For a brief, passing second, the world looked almost kind again.
From the far end of the room, a voice broke the moment in half.
"Are you going to make out now or what?"
Corvian stood there, half-slouched against the wall, boredom carved into every line of him. His arms were crossed, eyes half-lidded, the picture of someone long past patience. The way he looked at us, you'd think he'd walked into a room full of children playing house.
Poppy turned to him, brow furrowed. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"
He didn't even flinch. "You're both so boring," he said flatly. "Can we go now?"
Poppy scoffed, a teasing smile breaking through as she tilted her head toward him. "Come on, Corrin, don't you think I look good?"
Corvian let his gaze drag lazily over her before answering. "You look like a luxury that's been pawned one too many times."
Poppy's mouth fell open. "Wow," she said, half laughing, half insulted. "You're such an asshole."
"I'm consistent," he replied, voice as dry as ash.
I couldn't help it—I laughed. The tension cracked just enough for the sound to escape me. Poppy shot me a look that could have burned through glass, but even she was fighting a grin. Corvian only raised an eyebrow, his expression unreadable, like all of this existed for his private amusement.
He pushed off the wall, stretching his shoulders as if shaking off the dust of our small human scene. "Now that we're done with your fashion show," he said, "shall we move? Or are we waiting for applause?"
Poppy flipped him off, and he smiled faintly, the kind of smile that didn't reach the eyes. I followed them both out, still carrying the echo of his voice—half cruel, half divine—as though every room he touched left a shadow behind.
I moved to an apartment—rented, paid in cash, no paper trail. No questions asked. No traces left. It was better than I expected: quiet, clean, spacious enough for silence to breathe. The compound was gated, the kind where guards stand like furniture and nod without speaking. High security. It almost made me believe I was getting there. Almost.
The car from The Morrison arrived just before dusk. Poppy and I took the back seat; Corvian claimed the passenger side like he owned the world outside its window. The driver—a stiff man in a charcoal suit—gave us a polite nod before starting the engine.
The city blurred by, its lights glinting off the glass, rhythm steady as breath.
"I want to change my last name," I said suddenly.
Poppy looked over, surprised. "To what?"
"Hollands doesn't fit anymore," I said. "I'm thinking… Dynasty."
Corvian turned his head, the corners of his mouth lifting. "That works—if you're a drag queen."
The driver tried to stifle a laugh, choking it into a cough.
Corvian looked at him through the rearview mirror. "Thank you for appreciating my humor."
I slouched against the seat. "Do you have any better suggestions then?"
"No." He said it with such satisfaction, as if denying help was its own reward.
Poppy tilted her head thoughtfully. "What about Bourne?"
Corvian groaned like it physically pained him. "You haven't a single creative cell in your system, Poppy."
"Stop bullying me, Corrin!" she said, half laughing, half glaring.
"Okay," he replied, without a shred of conviction.
I looked out the window. "He's not going to stop," I said. "You should just get used to it."
"Too bad he's hot," she muttered under her breath.
"He's right about you not being creative," I added, grinning.
"Traitor," she said.
Corvian's voice cut through, calm again. "If you must change your name, choose something with spine. Something that carries itself. Names are like armor—they should sound like they can outlive you." He glanced over his shoulder, eyes glinting faintly. "Verran," Corvian said at last, the name rolling off his tongue like smoke. "It sounds like someone who's walked too far from grace and refuses to turn back. I like it."
Poppy wrinkled her nose. "It sounds pretentious."
"That's what makes it perfect," he said, leaning back.
I looked out at the skyline, the name echoing in my head—Hugo Verran. It felt strange, detached, almost like I was saying goodbye to myself. But maybe that was the point.
The car rolled on through the lights of Ebonreach, the city spreading wide and indifferent around us. Corvian watched the road with quiet amusement. Poppy fixed her lipstick in the reflection of the window.
And for a moment, it almost felt like forward motion was enough.
The car slowed to a stop before The Morrison, its façade rising like a polished memory—too familiar, too opulent for the hour. The air outside the glass shimmered with late summer heat. I was half-lost in the reflection of myself when Corvian turned in his seat.
His eyes met mine, cold and unreadable. "If I happen to walk in on you anywhere alone with Clay—"
"Don't worry about it," I cut in, smirking before he could finish. "You're the only one for me."
He paused, mouth twitching with something almost human before he said, "Ew." Then he opened the door and stepped out without another word.
I watched him go, the corner of my lips curving despite myself. He liked that. I could tell. I was starting to learn his rhythm—when to bite, when to yield, when to throw something sweet and poisonous into the air just to keep him interested. That was the secret, wasn't it? To perform, not to please. To learn him the way he'd studied me. Gaining immunity to his tactics was the only way to come out of this with a win.
I stepped out after him. The driver was already circling the car, opening the rear door for Poppy. She emerged carefully, one hand adjusting the strap of her bag, the other brushing back her hair. The perfume she wore trailed behind her like an announcement.
The Morrison's entrance looked almost theatrical—polished marble, glass glinting against gold fixtures, the air-conditioned stillness that smelled faintly of lilies and furniture polish. Inside, everything gleamed with quiet control.
It wasn't Hope behind the desk this time. The new receptionist was younger, brighter, her hair pulled into a perfect bun. Her nametag read Summer. She smiled when she saw us, a rehearsed kind of warmth that didn't quite reach her eyes.
"Mr. Hollands," she said, her tone dipping into practiced familiarity. "Welcome back to The Morrison. Please, follow me."
I nodded, saying nothing, and the three of us followed her through a long corridor lined with framed photographs of the city's skyline. Poppy's heels clicked lightly on the marble; Corvian's footsteps made no sound at all.
The elevator waited at the end, gold-trimmed doors sliding open with a hiss. Summer stepped in first and pressed the button for the eleventh floor. Her grin stayed fixed, a polished mask. The small space filled with the quiet hum of motion.
No one spoke.
Poppy's eyes darted around, drinking in the design—the mirrors, the soft amber light, the faint scent of lavender that clung to everything in this place. Corvian leaned lazily against the wall, looking every bit as disinterested as he felt. But I could see it in the set of his jaw, in the stillness too deliberate to be idle. His mood was off.
He knew we were about to meet Clay.
I could feel it too, the tension drawing thin between us as the elevator climbed. It was the same every time Clay's name hovered near—the air changing shape, the devil's patience shortening to a thread.
Summer kept smiling, the number display ticking up in soft gold light, and I watched Corvian's reflection in the mirrored wall beside me. His gaze didn't shift from the doors. He looked like he was waiting for something to burn.
The elevator opened onto the eleventh floor with a soft hiss. The corridor stretched long and polished, its air-conditioned stillness thick enough to hear your own breath. Summer led the way, her heels clicking in neat rhythm. At the end of the hall, Clay's office waited—wide glass panels, a view of the city drowning in late sunlight, everything smelling faintly of polish and money.
The door opened before we reached it. Clay stood behind his desk, grinning like a man who had just sealed another deal. "Hugo," he said warmly, stepping forward with arms slightly spread. "Nice to see you again."
"Same here, Clay," I said, my tone measured, the kind of cordiality that came with knowing everyone in the room had ulterior motives.
Then Corvian stepped through the door. I watched Clay's grin falter for a fraction of a second, that small crack in his mask before he pulled it back into shape.
He cleared his throat. "Corrin," he said with a practiced nod, his voice settling into a safer neutrality. Then his eyes drifted toward Poppy. "And this must be your friend?"
"Something like that," I said.
Poppy smiled in that charming way she did when she wanted people to underestimate her. "Pamela," she said, extending her hand.
So she brought the real name out of the drawer. Bold move. Everyone here was performing. Clay, the benevolent host; Corvian, the dormant threat in a tailored body; Poppy, the chameleon with perfume for armor. And me—God knows what I was pretending to be anymore.
Clay took her hand and kissed it lightly, all polished grace. "Pleasure to meet you, Pamela."
He motioned toward the set of chairs near his desk. "Please, have a seat."
We sat. The leather creaked softly under the weight of unspoken things. Clay straightened his cuffs, his grin returning to its rehearsed brightness.
"As you know," he began, "the Fall Ball is the biggest event in the community calendar. And this year, it's being hosted right here at The Morrison." He spoke with the cadence of someone who had said it a dozen times before, each word perfectly placed. "It won't be like Patrick Swanson's event—there won't be masks or anonymity. Which makes it even more dangerous."
He paused, letting that word linger a moment longer than necessary.
"But," he continued, "what's more important is that we're bringing you and Igor Ivanov together. We believe you two have... great things to offer one another." His eyes flicked toward me with something between admiration and curiosity. "You'll be granted the rooftop for your practice sessions. A safety team will be there, of course. We're aware that you both like to play with fire—" he smiled knowingly "—especially Igor. He tends to get a little... aggressive."
Corvian scoffed quietly, not even bothering to mask it. The sound cut through Clay's smooth monologue like a blade.
Clay's eyes darted to him, his grin freezing for an instant before returning. "As I was saying," he went on, voice tightening around the edges, "Mr. Ivanov is already in his suite. The dining hall is being prepared for your dinner. Are there any preferences?"
I shook my head. "No. I eat everything."
Clay chuckled. "Sounds like the fire speaking."
I offered a polite smile, just enough to make it seem real.
He stood, straightening his jacket. "Shall we head there now?"
"Sure," I said, rising from the chair.
Corvian was already on his feet before any of us, his expression unreadable, though I could feel the tension rolling off him. Poppy gathered her bag, still glancing around the office like she couldn't decide whether she was impressed or intimidated.
Clay opened the door for us, his charm returning full force as he gestured toward the corridor. "Then let's not keep Mr. Ivanov waiting."
The light outside the office had dimmed slightly, the city leaning toward dusk, and as we stepped out together, I caught Corvian's reflection in the glass—his smile thin, almost imperceptible. Whatever was waiting ahead, I could already feel it pulling at the air like static.
The elevator doors slid open again, and the sound of the lobby gave way to a quieter world. Clay reached for the panel, pressing the button marked 6. None of us spoke during the descent. Only the soft hum of the lift, the distant hiss of air through vents. When the doors parted, the scent of oak and old wine drifted in.
Clay led us through a narrow corridor lined with framed photographs of past events, names etched in small brass plates beneath each face. At the end, he stopped before a set of carved double doors. With a flourish that was half pride, half performance, he pushed them open.
The dining hall beyond looked like something out of a fever dream—chandeliers spilling gold over dark wood, heavy curtains drawn just enough to let in the twilight, long tables dressed in linen that looked too clean to ever be touched. The air was warm, filled with the muted scent of roasted meat and candles burning down.
At the far end, a man sat waiting.
When he stood, the air shifted.
He had dark hair that fell just past his jaw, loose and imperfect in a way that looked intentional. His skin held the kind of warmth that belonged to firelight, his eyes sharp, amber-brown, and steady in their focus. Tattoos wound across one arm, half hidden beneath the sleeve of his shirt, disappearing into the collar. His build was lean, powerful—not in the way of vanity, but in the quiet confidence of someone who knows exactly what his hands can do.
It took me a moment to recognize him. Then another to believe it.
Igor Ivanov.
The man I had admired so much as a boy that I shaped my own beginnings around his shadow. The man whose name I once whispered to my reflection when I wanted to feel certain of myself. And now he was here—alive, real, no longer a myth behind a glass screen or a rumor passed between performers.
"Hello, Hugo," Igor said, his accent lilting—British, surprisingly smooth, not the Eastern European timbre I'd imagined for years. He extended a hand. "I've heard a lot about you."
I took it, the grip warm, solid. "I admire your work," I said. "A huge fan, really. Ever since I was a kid."
He laughed, the sound rich, amused. "Don't make me look old now."
"You look as youthful as ever," I replied, managing a smile.
"Please, have a seat."
We took our places—Igor at the head, Clay beside him, Corvian across from me, his expression unreadable, and Poppy slipping into the chair to my right. Staff members began to move quietly around us, setting the table with quiet precision—crystal, cutlery, silver dishes, a bottle of deep red wine breathing between candles.
Igor rested an arm casually over the chair, his attention flicking toward me again. "Are you excited that we'll be working together?"
I tried to keep my tone even. "Yeah," I said. "It feels slightly unreal."
He tilted his head. "You look like someone forced you."
Before I could answer, Poppy spoke up, cheerful and uninvited. "Oh no, that's how he usually is."
I turned and shot her a look that could've shattered glass. Then I looked back at Igor, forcing a small smile. "What she said."
"Lovely," Igor said, a grin curling his lips as he poured himself a glass of wine.
The staff began lining the table with plates—white dishes, glistening sauces, the smell of thyme and something sweet filling the air. The candlelight flickered across Igor's arm, over the ink on his skin, turning it into something almost alive.
I couldn't stop looking at him—the man, the myth, sitting here in flesh and heat and laughter. The boy inside me still couldn't believe he was real. The man I'd become wasn't sure if that was a good thing.
"Excuse me," I said after a pause, "but I kind of thought you had a different accent."
Igor's mouth curved, amused. "Oh?" He tilted his head, and when he spoke again, his voice shifted instantly—thicker, darker, shaped by Russia itself. "Like this?"
I blinked, startled. "Yeah. Kind of like that."
He laughed softly, leaning back in his chair. "Well, I go with multiple accents. I've been everywhere, you know. I grew up in Russia, that's true. But I spent years in Lithuania, a few more in Italy, and then the United Kingdom. I've been everywhere, so I pick up accents quickly. I use whatever makes me comfortable. And whatever makes other people around me comfortable as well."
"I see," I said, though my head was still spinning from how easily he slipped between selves.
Igor leaned forward slightly, eyes glinting. "So, which one makes you more comfortable?"
"Your original one," I said.
"This is debatable," he replied, his smile tugging wider. "Because you see, it depends. Now I'm speaking to you with the Russian accent—it's easier for me. But if it matches the looks, then fine."
I laughed tightly. "Yeah, it does match your look more."
He laughed with me, the sound rich, velvet-edged. "So," he said, "I've watched your tricks. You do fire, optical illusions, a little of everything. Very interesting." His gaze flicked toward Corvian, deliberate. "I assume you've been prepared well."
The air turned thinner between them. I could feel Corvian's presence sharpen beside me, quiet but cutting. I looked at him, then back at Igor. "Yeah," I said. "I'm guessing it takes one to know one."
Igor laughed again, genuinely this time, tipping his head back. "I like you, kid. You're… something. I like you."
"Glad to hear it," I said. "I was starting to think you'd throw your wine at me for being unimpressed."
He smiled, eyes gleaming. "Unimpressed? No, no. You're careful. I can tell. You watch everything. You're like a thief pretending to be a saint."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"It was," he said, raising his glass. "I tend to admire people who hide themselves well. You don't give too much away. Most young performers can't help but bleed all over the table, you know? They mistake noise for presence."
"And you prefer silence?" I asked.
"I prefer control." He leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, the candlelight catching the lines of his tattoos. "You ever lose control, Hugo?"
I paused. "Depends on the definition."
"The real one," Igor said, his tone lowering. "When the body acts before the mind decides. When you do something and, for a moment, you're not entirely sure who's steering."
"Plenty of times," I said quietly. "That's usually when I'm at my best."
He grinned, wolfish. "Good answer. That's how you'll survive this world. Not by being good. By knowing when to let go of the leash."
Poppy shifted slightly beside me, uncomfortable. Corvian's expression didn't change, but I could feel him watching me too—like he was waiting to see what I'd say next.
"So," Igor continued, swirling his wine, "what drives you, Hugo? Why the fire? Why the illusions? There's always a root, a hunger."
"Recognition, maybe," I said. "Or maybe I just wanted to be seen doing something impossible."
"Impossible," he repeated softly. "I like that word. It's the only one worth chasing." He tilted his glass, studying the reflection of the candle flame in the red surface. "Do you know what people used to say about me? That I had a death wish. That my performances were suicidal."
"Were they wrong?" I asked.
He looked up at me then, and something in his gaze turned colder, sharper. "No," he said. "They were just late to the truth."
I didn't look away. "And what's the truth now?"
"That dying and performing are not very different," he said. "You stand before an audience, you give them your fear, your pulse, your control—and if you do it right, they applaud your execution."
The words hung there, heavy as smoke.
I wanted to respond, but something in his tone—half confession, half challenge—kept me still.
Then Igor smiled again, easy, disarming. "But that's the beauty of it, isn't it? We both know how to make dying look like art."
For a moment, I couldn't tell if he meant it as a compliment or a warning. Maybe both.
"Then I guess we'll make a great team," I said at last.
His smile deepened, slow and deliberate. "Yes," he murmured. "I think we will."
Before I could respond, the dining hall doors burst open with a low swing that startled even the staff. The servers froze mid-motion as a voice rushed through the room—bright, breathless, familiar.
"I'm so sorry!" the newcomer said, words tumbling out between gasps of air. "I was running late—I couldn't decide what to wear for something this formal."
The sound hit me first. That voice—too distinct to mistake. Then the shape of him came into view as he hurried closer, brushing a hand through his hair with casual frustration. And it all connected.
The pale blond curls that fell over his brow, the soft gleam of skin warmed by the hall's light, the faintly flushed cheeks that always made him look half-alive, half-dream. His eyes carried that same unreadable depth, faintly glazed, heavy-lidded, as if sleep and mischief fought for control behind them. Even the way his shirt hung loose at the collar—sloppy and deliberate all at once—was the same as that night.
Kent.
He looked ethereal, almost unreal in the gold light of the chandeliers, like something pulled out of a fever memory. His expression brightened the moment his gaze landed on me.
"So," he said, grinning wide, "we're meeting Hugo today. This is such a huge thing."
The room felt suddenly smaller. My pulse climbed, sharp and uneven.
Was this—was he Igor's companion?
My thoughts staggered for air. The world around me blurred, voices thinning to a distant hum. The last time I'd seen him, there had been paint smeared across his face, , and the faint scent of wine on his neck when he leaned close to whisper something I could never remember clearly.
But now he stood there, radiant, alive, perfectly at ease in Igor's world.
And I couldn't tell whether the universe was playing a cruel joke—or if this was simply how it always worked: the devils I couldn't shake finding their way back, dressed in finer clothes, smiling like they'd been expected all along.
""Show me, show me, show me how you do that trick
The one that makes me scream", she said
"The one that makes me laugh", she said
And threw her arms around my neck
Show me how you do it
And I promise you, I promise that
I'll run away with you
I'll run away with you"