Xavier's POV
Mercy is misunderstood.
People think it's softness. Leniency. A moment of moral weakness disguised as virtue.
They're wrong.
Mercy is power deciding not to use itself.
And power only withholds when it expects something in return.
By Tuesday morning, the shift is complete.
Not visible. Not dramatic. No sudden announcement that things have changed.
They just… comply.
The hallway parts when I walk through it. Teachers pause when I speak, waiting for me to finish before continuing. Students lower their voices without realizing why.
And Aylia—
Aylia adjusts.
She's careful now. Attentive in a way that isn't obedience, but isn't defiance either. Like someone who has learned the boundaries of an electric fence without touching it twice.
I don't threaten her.
I don't corner her.
I don't raise my voice.
That's what makes this work.
In history, I slide into the seat beside her without asking.
She glances up, stiffening for half a second before smoothing herself back into stillness.
No protest.
Progress.
"You're early," she says quietly.
"So are you."
"That's not intentional."
"It rarely is."
She exhales through her nose. Not anger. Not fear.
Fatigue.
I watch the way she presses her pen too hard against the page, knuckles whitening. How her attention fractures—one part listening to the lecture, another tracking my presence beside her.
She's learning. Adapting.
Good.
The teacher announces group assignments.
Predictable. Necessary.
"Aylia Zehir. Xavier Laurent."
Her pen stills.
Mine doesn't.
She looks at the teacher, then at me. Not pleading. Not hopeful.
Resigned.
"Yes, sir," she says.
I lean closer, lowering my voice so only she hears.
"Relax," I murmur. "This is mercy."
She turns sharply. "You don't get to decide that."
"I already did."
She doesn't answer.
Because part of her understands the truth in it.
During the project briefing, I speak for us. Assign tasks. Establish a timeline.
She listens. Corrects me once—politely.
I let it slide.
Mercy, after all.
After class, she tries to leave immediately.
I stand.
"Aylia."
She pauses. Doesn't turn.
"We need to work on the project."
"I know," she replies. "I'll email you."
"That won't be sufficient."
She finally faces me. "I have a job."
"I'm aware."
Her eyes narrow. "Of course you are."
"I suggest my place," I continue calmly. "This afternoon."
"That's not appropriate."
"It's efficient."
"I don't know you."
A lie.
She knows exactly who I am. She just doesn't know what I want yet.
"That's not a requirement," I say. "Trust isn't necessary."
Her jaw tightens. "Then why would I come?"
I lean closer, voice low, precise.
"Because I asked politely."
A pause.
The air tightens between us.
She weighs her options. I can see it—calculating consequences, measuring resistance against exhaustion.
She's so tired.
Finally, she nods once. Sharp. Controlled.
"Fine," she says. "One hour."
"Two," I correct.
She doesn't argue.
Agreement achieved.
By the time we arrive at my house, the sun is already lowering, gilding the gates in amber light.
Aylia hesitates at the entrance.
Not because she's intimidated.
Because she's aware.
This place doesn't match her life. The symmetry. The silence. The kind of wealth that doesn't announce itself because it doesn't need to.
"You can leave if you want," I say, unlocking the door.
She glances at me, surprised.
That was intentional.
"Is that another test?" she asks.
"No," I reply. "That's mercy."
She studies my face, searching for mockery.
Finds none.
She steps inside.
My father is in the study when we enter—reading glasses perched low on his nose, papers spread across the desk.
He looks up.
And smiles.
Genuinely.
"You must be Aylia," he says warmly, standing. "I've heard about you."
She stiffens. "You have?"
"Xavier mentioned the project."
A lie.
But a harmless one.
He offers his hand. She shakes it, tentative but polite.
"You're very welcome here," he continues. "Can I get you something? Tea? Water?"
"I'm fine, thank you."
He nods, eyes sharp—noticing details. Her posture. Her accent. The way she stands like she's bracing for judgment.
"You go to school and work," he says conversationally.
Her eyes flick to me.
I didn't tell him.
He chuckles softly. "Xavier didn't mention that part. I heard from Mrs. Hanley at the café."
Her shoulders ease slightly.
"Yes," she says. "I work afternoons."
"And weekends?" he guesses.
She nods.
"Ambitious."
"Necessary," she corrects quietly.
Something in my father's expression shifts.
Understanding.
"And your father?" he asks gently.
Aylia swallows.
"He passed away," she says. "A few years ago."
My father's voice softens. "I'm sorry."
Silence stretches.
Then, unexpectedly, she speaks again.
"He used to say working twice as hard just meant you didn't have time to complain."
My father smiles faintly. "He was right."
They talk.
Not about wealth. Not about school.
About endurance. About obligation. About carrying families on shoulders that never asked for the weight.
I watch from the doorway.
This is not part of the plan.
And yet—it's useful.
When my mother arrives home later, the temperature drops instantly.
She barely glances at Aylia.
"You didn't mention guests," she says coolly.
"This is Xavier's partner for a project," my father replies.
My mother hums. Appraises.
"She looks tired," she remarks. "Overworked students often lack discipline."
Aylia straightens.
"I should go," she says softly.
"No," I say immediately. "We're not finished."
My mother's eyes flick to me.
Interesting.
Aylia hesitates, then nods.
Upstairs, my room is exactly as she expects.
Minimal. Controlled. Too neat.
We spread the materials across the desk.
For twenty minutes, we actually work.
Then I shift.
Not abruptly. Not aggressively.
I sit on the edge of the bed instead of the chair.
Change the dynamic.
She notices.
I speak more quietly. Compliment her analysis. Ask about her schedule. Listen.
She relaxes despite herself.
I lean in slightly when she explains a concept.
"See?" I murmur. "We work well together."
She looks at me. Searching.
"This feels… different," she says.
"Yes," I agree. "That's intentional."
Her breath hitches.
Not fear.
Something else.
I stop before crossing the line.
That's important.
When she leaves, she thanks me.
Actually thanks me.
After the door closes, my mother speaks sharply downstairs.
"Don't bring girls like that here," she snaps. "She's a distraction."
I feel something snap.
Later, my father tries to talk to me.
I lock the door.
He knocks once.
"Xavier."
Silence.
Inside, I sit on the edge of the bed, staring at nothing.
This kindness—it worked.
Too well.
Aylia looked at me tonight like maybe—just maybe—I wasn't a threat.
And that's dangerous.
Because mercy creates hope.
And hope is leverage.
Tomorrow, I will tighten the rules.
Not openly.
Not cruelly.
Just enough that she understands—
Mercy is not a gift.
It's a privilege.
And privileges can be revoked.