Every evening, as the nation tuned in to Zed's velvet voice cascading through the primetime news hour, Nigel stood just off-camera, eyes fixed. Zed was the anchor, a paragon of trust and integrity. But to Nigel, he was far more, he was ritual, he was the pulse of obsession.
Nigel was Zed's personal assistant, always composed, always ready, always watching.
He adjusted Zed's suit before every broadcast, fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary on the lapels. He knew the weight of that tailored coat, the exact number of heartbeats it took for Zed to give him that nod of readiness. And every time Zed signed off, every time he undid his cufflinks with a sigh, Nigel swallowed.
He timed his steps to Zed's. Followed every routine like choreography. When Zed disappeared into his dressing room, Nigel would sneak into the storage lounge, just a wall away. Behind the locked door, his breaths grew shallow. He'd close his eyes and replay it all: the smooth baritone, the way Zed's throat flexed around certain consonants. His mind would drift... his hands would follow.
By the time Zed emerged, fresh and buttoned-down, Nigel was composed again. Steady. Professional. Just another ghost in the walls of the newsroom.
But it burned.
He'd go home with it in his veins. Dream it. Want it. Replay Zed walking past him in slow motion, frame by frame. He imagined scenarios where Zed would finally notice the heat behind his eyes, the clench in his jaw. But Zed never did.
Not yet.
And Nigel... Nigel wasn't going to survive long if something didn't snap soon.
Tonight might be the night.
Zed had dismissed another pair. Paid them off. No satisfaction.
And Nigel, with perfect timing, was already waiting in the shadows.
Ready.
The studio's glow hadn't yet faded when Zed walked the corridor, his presence still echoing the authority of prime-time news. Every step was calm, calculated. He adjusted his cufflinks absently, not because they needed fixing, but because he liked the feeling of control in subtle actions. Around him, staff moved with hushed reverence, no one dared speak when Zed passed.
No one, except Thanos.
"Zed!" Thanos's voice rang louder than it should in that sacred hallway. The kind of voice that didn't belong in quiet spaces, too used to bar chatter and messy living.
Zed didn't stop.
Thanos trailed behind him like an overly eager shadow. "Come on, man. You've been ignoring me for weeks."
Still nothing.
"I just want to talk, just five seconds. You won't even look at me--"
In a final burst of frustration, Thanos reached out. His fingers caught the hem of Zed's tailored sleeve, too tight a grip, too much force in the tug.
Rip.
The sound was subtle but clear. And deadly.
Zed halted.
Thanos froze, his eyes falling to the sleeve in horror. The tear wasn't long, but it was precise, right at the seam of Zed's limited-edition suit. The very same he'd worn for tonight's broadcast. Sharp navy-blue with obsidian silk lapels, hand-stitched, custom-fit.
"I---I didn't mean to--" Thanos stammered, already stepping back. "I can't pay for that. I seriously can't--"
Zed turned to face him, not with anger, but something far worse, interest. His gaze fell to the torn thread as if it were the sign he'd been waiting for.
"You can't pay," Zed murmured, almost like a confirmation of a fact he already knew. His lips curved, slow and deliberate. "And you like chasing men."
Thanos blinked. "What--what does that have to do with--?"
Zed reached into his inside coat pocket, withdrawing a small ivory card, unmarked except for an address written in elegant ink. He held it out between two fingers like an invitation to a funeral.
"Come to this place. Tonight."
"I don't even know what that--"
"You'll understand when you're there."
He let the card drop into Thanos's palm, brushing his fingers lightly, intentionally. Then, without another word, he turned to leave.
But fate wasn't quite finished with him yet.
As he walked away, Nigel rounded the corner, clipboard in hand, eyes flicking from Thanos to Zed, pausing a moment too long on the tear.
Nigel always noticed details.
Zed didn't break stride, but he tilted his head slightly toward him. Just enough to let Nigel know he was aware.
"I saw what happened," Nigel said, softly. "That suit… it was special."
Zed finally stopped again, looking over his shoulder.
"You think that's what this is about?" he asked.
Nigel swallowed. "I just---" He stopped, because words were failing, and Zed was already in front of him.
Leaning in, close enough for breath to mingle, close enough that Nigel dared not breathe too loud.
"I know," Zed whispered, voice like velvet coiled around truth. "I've seen the way you look at me. The things you do when I'm done with the news. When I'm still wearing the suit."
Nigel's ears burned crimson. His hands trembled.
Zed slipped another card into his shirt pocket with the same smoothness as a thief's hand, then patted it once, letting his fingers linger.
"If you want my attention, Nigel," he said, "you'll be there too."
And with that, he walked away, leaving two men stunned, breathless, and already swallowed by the gravity of a night they couldn't resist.