Hastur walked with Ellios to the edge of the club's entrance, the yellow lights of The King casting long shadows across the pavement. The guards bowed slightly as they passed, their eyes carefully averted. Outside, the night felt calmer, cooler, as if the city itself had drawn a breath.
Ellios spotted his car almost immediately.
There it was—parked beneath a streetlamp, familiar, reliable, safe. The sight of it gave him a strange sense of relief, like a rope thrown to a drowning man.
He slowed, then stopped.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Ellios turned to Hastur. Up close, under the streetlight, the man looked different than he had inside—less theatrical, less otherworldly, though the intensity in his eyes remained unchanged. It unsettled Ellios how easily those eyes pulled him in.
"I hope you won't mind," Hastur said at last, his voice low and even. "Today was… unprepared. Another time, I would arrange my thanks better."
Ellios blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity beneath the words.
"It's okay," he replied quickly, forcing a small smile. "You don't owe me anything."
Hastur studied that smile the way one studies a fragile artifact—aware of its cracks, its effort.
Ellios hesitated, then stepped back. He opened his car door, paused again as if considering saying something else, then thought better of it. Without another word, he got in, shut the door, and started the engine.
The car pulled away smoothly, tires humming against the asphalt.
Hastur stood still, watching as the headlights disappeared down the street.
Only when the car vanished entirely did Ellios allow himself to breathe.
He drove farther than necessary, streets blurring past him, his grip on the steering wheel tightening with every passing second. His thoughts churned, tangled and sharp, and by the time he found an empty stretch of road, his chest felt too tight to contain them.
He slammed the brakes.
The tires screeched briefly before the car skidded to a stop. Ellios leaned forward, forehead nearly touching the steering wheel, breathing hard.
"Idiot," he muttered to himself.
His hands trembled.
What were you thinking?
The memory of Hastur's breath, his voice, the weight of his presence pressed against Ellios's mind with relentless clarity. He shut his eyes, but it only made it worse.
"These are dangerous desires," Ellios whispered.
Desires he had buried for years. Desires he had trained himself to ignore, deny, suffocate—because giving in had once destroyed him.
His sister's face surfaced in his mind. Her quiet strength. Her fragile safety. Reminded him what was at stake.
Then the Blade name—its reputation, its empire, the expectations chained to it.
And finally, the old man. Marcus Blade.
The mere thought of him sent a familiar chill down Ellios's spine. Control. Surveillance. Consequences. There was no room in that world for mistakes—especially this kind.
"I can't," Ellios said aloud, voice breaking. "I can't let this happen.. Not after all that happened."
He straightened, inhaled deeply, and wiped a hand across his face. The warmth that had bloomed in his chest earlier now felt like a warning burn.
Hastur.
A man who had appeared out of nowhere and, in the span of hours, stirred something Ellios had sworn never to touch again.
"He has the power to awaken things that should stay buried," Ellios murmured.
That alone made him dangerous.
Decision hardened in Ellios's chest.
Stay away.
He started the engine again and turned the car toward home, toward distance, toward safety. Toward the life he knew how to survive.
Hastur remained where he was long after Ellios had gone.
The street was quieter now. The music from the club thudded faintly behind him, dulled by walls and distance. Neon yellow lights flickered overhead, casting his shadow long and distorted across the pavement.
A voice drawled from behind him, amused. "Is it worth all this trouble?"
Hastur did not turn as Dan stepped out from the shadows, a cigarette already between his fingers. The red tip flared as Dan inhaled, smoke curling lazily into the air.
"For a human," Dan added.
Hastur's gaze shifted slowly, deliberately, until it settled on Dan. The look alone made the incubus straighten slightly, though the smirk remained.
Dan shrugged. "You know, I'm an incubus. Seduction is my nature." He exhaled smoke. "I could have had Ellios eating out of my hand tonight. Make him fall completely. Then—" he snapped his fingers softly, "—break him. Betrayal is easy. Especially with men like him."
Hastur's eyes darkened. "It's worth it," he said simply.
Dan clicked his tongue. "Strange. I almost feel bad for him."
That was a mistake.
Hastur turned fully now, his presence shifting, pressing outward like a gathering storm. His eyes glowed faintly, something ancient and unforgiving stirring behind them.
Dan froze.
"You feel bad?" Hastur said quietly.
Dan swallowed. "I—I just meant—"
"Doesn't Ellios like to play Buddha?" Hastur interrupted, his voice low and sharp. "That mercy will be good on me only."
The words were spoken without heat, without raised volume—and that made them far more terrifying.
Dan took a cautious step back, raising his hands slightly. "I was joking."
"What do you see him as?" Asked Hastur.
"A powerful human, dense but smart. Knowing when to start and when to call truce. Worthy of being a CEO of Blade Group." Answered Dan. Then questioned. " Don't you?"
"Maybe he is. But in my eyes I see a small girl still hoping for prince charming." Smiled Hastur thinking , And I plan to be that prince charming.
Hastur looked away, dismissing Dan as easily as one might dismiss a thought. The glow faded from his eyes, replaced by something colder—resentment, perhaps. Or shame.
"In this sealed state," Hastur thought to himself, "I am completely human."
The admission tasted bitter.
Once, he had been something else. Something vast. Untouchable. Feared across dimensions.
Now powerless, defenceless.
One of his kin used to favor black color. He delighted in gifting humans magic. Weapons. Bombs. And he would watch them destroy themselves and laugh. Truly chaos.
Hastur had called it pathetic back then.
Now, stripped of his true power, he found himself relying on scraps of magic he once insulted. cheap illusions, intimidation—to keep demons like Dan in line.
The thought made his jaw tighten.
"That bastard," Hastur muttered, "would laugh his a** off, if he saw me now."
Embarrassment flickered through him, sharp and unwanted. Not that he would ever voice it. Not to anyone.
Hastur lifted a hand to his chest.
The spot where Ellios had collided with him earlier felt… warm.
Still warm.
He frowned, pressing his fingers there slightly, as if expecting the sensation to vanish. It didn't.
Something settled in his expression—confusion, perhaps, or irritation at the unfamiliar feeling.
"…So warm," Hastur murmured.
Behind him, the club pulsed with life and noise.
Ahead of him, somewhere in the city, Ellios Blade was driving home, determined to forget.