Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Mobius sat hunched over his cluttered desk, the soft amber glow of his desk lamp casting elongated shadows across a battlefield of empty coffee cups and dog-eared books. His office smelled faintly of old paper, ink, and caffeine—the perfume of obsession. Outside, the sun dipped below the horizon, painting his small office window in hues of gold and rust. Not that he noticed.

A book on the French Revolution lay open in front of him, its cracked spine stretching as if in protest. Mobius flipped another page with the slow deliberation of someone both eager and reluctant. He didn’t want to admit what he was looking for, not really, but his pulse quickened as his fingers smoothed over the yellowed paper.

And there he was.

A simple ink drawing, lost among depictions of chaos and violence—a man with sharp, elegant features and dark hair spilling over his shoulders, standing in the corner of a revolutionary assembly hall. It wasn’t just any man, though. It was him. The same black-haired stranger who had been haunting Mobius' every waking moment for the past… year? Year and a bit? Time was blurry when you lived in the archives.

Mobius leaned back in his chair, the springs groaning beneath him. He rubbed at his eyes, the tips of his fingers rough with graphite smudges and the ache of long days spent writing, circling, underlining. But no amount of exhaustion could shake the now-familiar jolt of unease and fascination coursing through him. This man—this impossible man—kept appearing. A face that never aged, slipping through centuries like water through cupped hands.

“Who the hell are you?” Mobius muttered under his breath, the words lost in the low hum of the desk lamp.

He grabbed his phone and snapped a picture of the page, the camera’s artificial flash briefly banishing the golden haze of the room. Moments later, the printer at the far end of the desk rattled to life, its choppy whirring almost too loud in the stillness. Mobius reached for the fresh printout, warm to the touch, and stapled it to the sprawling bulletin board beside him.

The board was a mess of photographs, sketches, and hastily scrawled notes—all connected by a web of red string and thumbtacks. Mobius had tried to keep it organized, to give it that tidy, “detective” aesthetic you saw in crime dramas, but the reality of his obsession spilled over in chaotic loops and crossed-out theories.

One string connected a faded daguerreotype of the man, dressed in a tailcoat at some 19th-century ball, to a charcoal sketch of him in Elizabethan finery. Another string linked a photograph from the early days of the American frontier to a group portrait taken in 1940s Paris.

It didn’t make any sense.

No name, no references, nothing but a trail of ghostly appearances, all caught in fleeting moments of art and history. There was no reason for him to be there, no plausible explanation for his presence across centuries. And yet, here he was again, smirking at Mobius from an assembly hall nearly two and a half centuries ago.

Mobius exhaled slowly, leaning forward to study the newest addition to his wall. “Why do you keep showing up?” His voice was quieter this time, almost tentative, as if asking might prompt the man in the sketch to answer back. But of course, he didn’t.

He reached for his notepad, flipping to the last few pages filled with shorthand musings and a catalog of the man’s appearances. His pen hovered over the page, unsure of what else he could add. The pieces weren’t fitting together. They never did.

And yet, Mobius couldn’t stop looking. Couldn’t stop searching.

Mobius tapped the enter key, waking his computer from its brief slumber. The screen flickered to life, bathing the desk in a cold, bluish glow that clashed with the warm golden haze of the lamp. He navigated to the folder he knew by heart and opened the photo, the image popping up with a quiet click that felt far louder in the stillness of his office.

There it was again: the grainy black-and-white photograph that had haunted him for months. A wartime snapshot, worn and imperfect, its edges slightly blurred as though the moment had been snatched in haste. The man—the same man—sat front and center, surrounded by the heavy fog of cigarette smoke and the weight of another time.

This photo was different from the others he had painstakingly collected. Unlike the sketches, the paintings, or even the occasional grainy group photograph where the stranger was tucked discreetly in the background, here he was unmistakably the focus—or at least, that's how Mobius saw it. Dressed in military fatigues, his dark hair pulled back into a loose ponytail, he leaned casually over a barrel repurposed as a table. Cards fanned out in his hands, and a ghost of a smile curled on his lips, as if the universe had granted him one moment of peace in the middle of a war.

Two other men flanked him, their faces worn but light with laughter. James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes and Steve Rogers, the caption had read when Mobius first stumbled upon the photo on a forgotten corner of the internet. Two names etched in history, their faces recognizable even to someone who hadn’t spent their life in the archives. But the man between them? The one with the air of a misplaced king disguised as a soldier? Nothing. Not a mention, not a hint of identity.

It was as though whoever had written the article, cataloging the lives of Rogers and Barnes, hadn’t even noticed him. Just another nameless figure in a sea of faces from a war long past. Yet Mobius couldn’t look away. His eyes always returned to the same spot: the stranger’s face, illuminated by some phantom light that made him stand out even amidst the grain and grit of the photo.

The image didn’t just intrigue Mobius—it pulled at something deeper, something visceral. It was the little details that kept him coming back: the way the grime on the man’s uniform seemed to enhance, rather than obscure, his sharp cheekbones; the careless elegance in the way he held his cards, his wrist bent just so, as though he could win the hand without even trying. He didn’t belong in the photo, not really. He looked too perfect, too poised, as though someone had plucked him from a fashion shoot and dropped him into the middle of a warzone. And yet, there he was, frozen in time, laughing alongside legends.

Mobius’ finger hovered over the mouse, tracing the contours of the stranger’s face on the screen without touching it. A man who defied categorization, slipping through history like a thread in an unraveling tapestry. Each appearance only raised more questions, and none of the answers were within reach.

He sighed and leaned back in his chair, the springs groaning under his weight. What was he supposed to do with this? He’d searched every database, every archive he had access to, and nothing—nothing—ever came up about this man. No records, no names, no context. It was as if history itself had turned a blind eye to him.

“Front and center,” Mobius muttered, his voice rough from disuse. He tilted his head, studying the photo again as though a new detail might suddenly reveal itself. “Why don’t they ever seem to notice you?”

The question hung in the air, unanswered, as the man in the photo continued to smile, oblivious to the historian’s spiraling thoughts.

Mobius drummed his fingers absently on the edge of his desk, his eyes unfocused as his mind drifted back to the image of the man in the military photo. He stared at the computer screen, the grainy black-and-white image starting to blur together as he lost himself in thoughts of where he might find him next. Was he always in the background, like an actor in a historical reenactment? Or was there a grander plan behind all of this—a pattern Mobius just wasn’t seeing yet?

A sharp knock at the door pulled him out of his reverie. Mobius blinked, his hand faltering mid-tap as he turned toward the door.
“Come in,” he called absently, still preoccupied with the thoughts swirling in his head.

The door creaked open, and in stepped Ravonna, followed closely by her intern, Casey. Ravonna, ever the picture of composed chaos, bustled into the room with her usual energy, her heels clicking sharply against the hardwood floor. Casey, a fresh-faced young man with a perpetual look of curiosity, stepped in more quietly, his hands clasped together behind his back.

“The office is heading out for drinks,” Ravonna announced with an almost sing-song quality to her voice. “Figured you could use a break, Mobius. Get out of that room for a bit.”
Mobius barely looked up, his eyes darting back to the photo on his screen. “I’m fine. I’ve got work to do,” he muttered, tapping the mouse to scroll through the picture again, his fingers restless.

Ravonna’s brow furrowed at the response, and she planted herself in the middle of his office, arms crossed. “Mobius,” she began in that tone she always used when she was about to lecture him, “you’re going to burn yourself out. You’ve been at this mystery for how long now? A year? A year and a half? And for what? To track down a random stranger who keeps showing up in old photos? You don’t even know if he’s the same person, for all you know. They could all be different people who just look alike. You’re being stupid.”

Mobius could feel her gaze boring into the back of his head, and he flinched inwardly at the scolding. He rubbed his temples in a futile attempt to ward off the inevitable headache forming.

“You’re too obsessed with this, Mobius,” Ravonna continued, her voice a little louder now. “This—this person isn’t a mystery. You’ve got a whole business to run, and this—this—” she gestured vaguely to the mess of papers and photographs covering the walls, “—isn’t going to get you anywhere. It’s just a waste of time.”
“I know,” Mobius muttered, trying to focus on the screen again, his pulse quickening. “But it doesn’t make sense.”
“I don’t care,” Ravonna interjected, completely ignoring his protest. “It’s unhealthy. You’re obsessed, Mobius. You need a break. You’re coming with us, and that’s final.” She punctuated her sentence with a finger wagging directly in front of his face.

Mobius couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at his lips despite himself. She looked like a bossy older sister, even though he was nearly seven years older than her.
“Fine, fine,” he said in a resigned sigh, waving his hand as if to dismiss the argument. “I’ll go. I’ll go.”

He stood up, giving in with a heavy sigh, and reached for his jacket. The warmth of the material settled over his shoulders as he slid his arms through the sleeves, still trying to shake off the frustration of his latest thoughts. The man in the photo kept swimming back into his mind, but maybe a drink with the office would help clear his head.

He turned toward the door, and Ravonna’s sharp voice followed him. “Good. You can at least pretend to be normal for one night.”
He rolled his eyes but didn’t reply.

The moment he stepped into the reception area, Mobius saw Bee and Ob standing by the door, chatting quietly, while Ravonna continued her tirade about “wasting time” and “getting out of the office for once” to Casey, who stood awkwardly, listening.

Ob greeted him with a warm smile, his face lighting up in a way that Mobius found unexpectedly reassuring. “You’re coming, right?” Ob asked with a quiet laugh, his voice friendly and grounded.
“Yeah, yeah,” Mobius answered gruffly, feeling the weight of his work shift off his shoulders, if only temporarily. “I’m coming.”
“Great!” Ob grinned, moving to hold the door open for Mobius as the others started to gather their things. Ravonna was still grumbling behind them, now arguing with Casey over the logistics of what “fun” actually meant.

Mobius sighed, glancing over at Bee, who just gave him a small, knowing smile. "She’ll wear you down eventually," Bee said with a wink.
Mobius snorted, though it lacked real bitterness. He was too tired for that. “She already has.”

The cold hit Mobius like a slap across the face the moment he stepped out of the building. It was sharp, biting, the kind of cold that sank through layers of clothing and straight into your bones. He hadn’t realized how deep he’d been buried in his work today—how long he’d been staring at the photographs, the books, the endless theories about a random stranger in history—until now, when the world outside felt so much sharper than the dim glow of his office.

When he’d printed out the photo earlier, the sun had been slipping beneath the horizon, casting long shadows through the blinds. But now, the streets were a sea of darkness, punctuated only by the low, warm glow of the streetlamps casting pools of light along the sidewalks. It was strange, how quickly night had fallen while his mind had been so thoroughly consumed by the mystery of the man.

Ravonna, as always, was in the lead, pushing her way through the small group with the force of someone who believed they knew exactly where they were going—whether anyone else did or not. She nearly knocked Ob off his feet in the process, and Ob, always steady and composed, had to grab Bee’s arm to keep from falling into the gutter.

“Watch it,” Mobius muttered under his breath, but Ravonna didn’t hear. Or if she did, she didn’t care.
She kept marching ahead, her coat trailing behind her like a cape as she led the charge into the night, clearly on a mission. Normally, they’d all turn left from the office building and take the winding alleyways to their usual spot—a small, tucked-away pub in the heart of the city. It was cozy and warm, one of those places where the barman knew everyone’s name and the drinks were always strong enough to forget the world.

But tonight, Ravonna didn’t turn left. She didn’t even slow down. Without a word, she took a sharp right, heading straight for the main streets, where the bustling, louder part of the city began.

“Ravonna,” Mobius called, trying to catch up with her, though the joints in his legs protested with every step. He hadn't been running, not really, but he certainly felt the age creeping into his knees and hips as he jogged, trying to close the distance between them. “Where the hell are we going?”

But she didn’t answer. Ravonna just quickened her pace, her stride almost mocking his. The others followed along, Bee with her steady, graceful walk and Ob trying his best to keep up despite the near collision that had just happened.

Mobius cursed under his breath as he forced himself to catch up. He wasn’t exactly thrilled with this sudden detour, but part of him appreciated the unpredictability. In a way, it was like being pulled out of his mind, out of the obsessive pull of the strange man’s face, and into something simpler, something human. The city itself.

As they walked, Mobius couldn’t help but observe the people passing by. The thing he loved most about the city was the sheer variety of people he saw on any given day. Hundreds of different faces, each one telling its own story, and Mobius always found himself wondering where each person was going, what they were thinking, who they were.

He noticed a woman with fiery red hair, her bright curls catching the streetlights in an almost surreal way. She was dressed in a leather jacket, carrying a large canvas bag slung over her shoulder. Walking beside her was a blonde man, whose oversized sweater and thick scarf were in sharp contrast to her edgy appearance. They had two young boys with them, both of whom were arguing about something—likely whether the ice cream shop on the corner had the better flavors than the one they passed a few blocks ago.

Further down the street, a large bald man walked with an air of quiet confidence, his strong frame only accentuated by the eyepatch that covered one of his eyes. Mobius couldn’t help but wonder how he had lost it, but before he could dwell on it too long, the man turned the corner, lost to the crowd.

Then there was a woman walking past them, her skin painted a bright green—almost as if she’d walked straight out of a fantasy novel or a sci-fi movie. She had a sort of bohemian air about her, wearing a flowing skirt and a loose, colorful top. Clutched in her arms was a stuffed raccoon, which Mobius realized with a start was probably the key to her entire look. She held it like it was her most precious possession, smiling softly to herself as she meandered down the sidewalk, seemingly unaware of the oddness she presented to the world.

It was moments like this that Mobius loved about the city. The constant movement, the kaleidoscope of lives all intersecting in tiny, fleeting moments. He could spend hours just observing, trying to puzzle out who these people were, where they were going, what they were thinking. It was a beautiful, messy dance of existence.

But as the group moved deeper into the city, his mind was still tugged back to the mystery. The man. The one who seemed to slip between the cracks of history like a shadow, never quite solid, always out of reach. Mobius couldn’t shake the feeling that somehow, this strange man was connected to the ebb and flow of life he was watching.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Bee said, pulling him out of his thoughts. She shot him a knowing smile, as if she could read his mind.
“I’m just—” Mobius paused, unsure of what he was about to say. “Just thinking about people.”
Bee gave him a thoughtful look but didn’t press him further. Instead, she turned to Ravonna, who had already sped ahead, lost in her own world as usual.
“Ravonna, slow down! Where are we going?” Ob called, his voice echoing slightly in the stillness of the street.
But Ravonna didn’t even break her stride. She just waved a hand over her shoulder, not bothering to look back. “You’ll see when we get there,” she called, her voice light and playful.

Mobius grumbled to himself, but the truth was, even with his frustration mounting, part of him appreciated the mystery. After all, in a life filled with so many answers and so little meaning, sometimes it was nice to have something you couldn’t quite figure out. Even if that something was as simple as a detour on the way to a drink.

Ravonna didn’t slow down. She never slowed down
.
Mobius, begrudgingly following, could barely keep pace. His joints groaned in protest as he jogged after her, weaving through the occasional pedestrian or street vendor, but she was relentless. She turned down street after street, most of which Mobius, despite his years of living in this city, had never stepped foot on. She was dragging them farther into the heart of the unknown—somewhere, somewhere away from everything familiar and comforting, leaving them all to wonder where the hell this was going.

They turned one last corner, and suddenly, the street ahead opened up, revealing a brightly lit facade that made Mobius squint against the harsh light. Music thrummed through the pavement, vibrating in his chest even before they could see the door. The sign above the entrance flashed in bold neon letters: TVA. The lights flickered in rhythmic bursts, casting an almost hypnotic glow across the area, and the bass of the music poured out into the street, overpowering everything around them. It wasn’t just music. It was a soundwave, a heavy pulse of the night itself.

Mobius stopped dead in his tracks, eyes widening. “Wait. A nightclub? Really?”
Ob, standing beside him, squinted at the name. “I didn’t think we were those kinds of people.” He chuckled, but there was a note of hesitation in his voice. “I didn’t bring my noise-canceling headphones. This is gonna be—”

Ravonna didn’t even look back. She was already walking toward the door, her hips swaying with purpose as she reached for the handle. Mobius could almost hear the unspoken I’m not waiting for any of you in her every step.

Mobius stared at her, then glanced at Ob and Bee. His eyebrows arched. “I mean, aren’t I too old for a nightclub?” he muttered, half to himself, but loud enough for the group to hear.
Ob gave him an amused look, but it was the kind of look that carried both understanding and a little bit of sympathy. “Maybe. But you’re already here, aren’t you?”
Bee, ever the calm one, just smirked. “At least it’ll be an experience.”
Mobius couldn’t help but groan in frustration. “Ravonna, what’s your deal?!” he muttered, but the woman didn’t so much as spare them a glance. She was already through the door and into the club, swallowed up by the chaos.

“What is her problem?” Mobius grumbled as he reluctantly followed her in. The rest of the group followed, a little more hesitantly, and as they stepped over the threshold, the full force of the nightclub hit them all at once.

It was like being thrown into another world. The air was thick with the smell of cheap perfume and sweat, the lights flashing in strobe patterns so erratic it made it hard to see straight. The music was so loud, it reverberated in his chest and rattled his bones—a deep, throbbing beat that felt like it was coming from the floor itself. People in tight, skimpy outfits pressed against each other, moving like a collective organism, bodies swaying and gyrating with reckless abandon. It was a sensory overload, a chaotic mess of flashing lights and pulsing music and people, all blurred together in a single, overwhelming moment.

Mobius blinked a few times, feeling a slight headache starting at his temples, but he pushed through it. He was here now, wasn’t he? It wasn’t like he could turn back.

He quickly spotted Ravonna sitting at a booth toward the edge of the room, looking perfectly at ease in the madness, already with a drink in hand. It was like she belonged here, as though this environment was exactly where she thrived, and Mobius could feel the bitterness creeping up in his chest. She always did this—dragged them all into these situations, never offering any explanation, never checking to see if anyone was remotely comfortable. It was just Ravonna, leading the way with that smile that said she was right, and everyone else was just along for the ride.

“Come on,” Mobius muttered, leading the others over to the booth. They slipped through the crowd, making their way around dancing bodies and drunken laughter, their footsteps swallowed by the bass.

When they reached Ravonna, she was sitting back in the booth with a satisfied grin, clearly not concerned with the noise. "This is so much better than that dingy old bar we usually go to," she said, her voice a little too loud to be heard over the music, but she didn’t seem to care. "I mean, really, it’s more our speed." She motioned to the brightly lit dance floor, where a group of people were grinding against each other in a haze of flashing lights.

Ob, despite his earlier misgivings, leaned against the booth and smirked. “I mean, I like the old bar. It’s... homey.” He caught Ravonna’s eye, but she was already brushing him off, her attention fixed firmly on Mobius.

“Isn’t this better?” Ravonna asked again, this time directing her question specifically at him, leaning forward with a grin that bordered on smug.

Mobius refrained from saying anything as he slid into the booth, trying to ignore the couple literally making out in the booth next to them, their hands all over each other as they practically melted into the cushions. He shot a quick glance at Bee, who was already busy looking anywhere but at them. Ob, on the other hand, had his face buried in his hands, obviously trying to shield himself from the scene.

“Yeah,” Mobius muttered, trying to sound nonchalant as he adjusted himself in the booth, “much better.” His voice was as dry as the desert, but Ravonna didn’t seem to notice.

At this point, Mobius wasn’t sure why he kept letting Ravonna drag him into these situations. Maybe it was the quiet hope that one day, he’d see her look up at him and ask him how he felt, maybe give him a chance to offer an opinion before the chaos descended. But, as usual, Ravonna had no time for that. She was already off somewhere else, her attention elsewhere, in the pulse of the music, the movement of the crowd, the world swirling around them like a dream Mobius couldn’t escape.

Mobius sank further into the booth, still trying to make sense of the chaos around him. Maybe, he thought, there could be something good in this. Maybe Ravonna’s incessant dragging them to random places might actually have a silver lining. Maybe this place could be a fresh start—a chance to meet new people, to take his mind off the endless spiral of the mysterious man haunting his every thought. It was just a nightclub. A noisy, sweaty, and entirely too colorful nightclub, but still. There could be something here, right?

Just as he was starting to entertain the idea that maybe Ravonna had been right for once, Casey leaned forward, his eyes wide, his hands slightly shaking. His voice was barely audible over the roar of the music, but it was enough to cut through Mobius’s thoughts like a knife.
“I... I don’t think I’m old enough to be here,” Casey said quietly, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

Mobius froze for a beat, then let out a long, exasperated sigh. The irritation that had been simmering in his gut bloomed into something much bigger. Of course, Casey wasn’t old enough. Of course, he wasn’t. What had they been thinking bringing him to a place like this?

“Of course you’re not,” Mobius muttered under his breath, rubbing his temples. The music felt louder now, more invasive, and for a moment, he wished he could just retreat to his office, where things made sense and didn’t smell like cheap liquor and body spray. He shot a glance at Casey, who was visibly uncomfortable, his eyes darting around the room like he was trying to figure out how to escape.

“Just sit there, alright?” Mobius said, trying to keep his voice as calm as possible, though it was hard to manage when everything inside him wanted to scream. “It’s probably fine. Probably.”

Casey gave him a doubtful look, but he nodded. Mobius didn’t blame him for being nervous. He wasn’t exactly thrilled to be here himself. But there was no turning back now, and if Ravonna insisted on making a night of this, they were all stuck with it.

“I’m going to get everyone some drinks,” Mobius added, more to himself than to anyone else. “You’re good, Casey. Just... stay put.” He didn’t give Casey a chance to respond, already standing up and making his way through the crowd.

The noise hit him like a physical wall as soon as he stood, the thumping bass vibrating in his chest. The room was a whirlwind of lights, bodies, and laughter, the air thick with the smell of alcohol and sweat. Mobius had to weave through clusters of people dancing, some more coordinated than others, and a few who were so far gone that they looked like they were moving purely on instinct. His annoyance at the entire situation seemed to swell with every step, but he kept his head down, pushing forward.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of maneuvering through the crowd, Mobius made it to the bar. The space felt like a brief reprieve—a tiny island of relative calm amidst the storm of the nightclub. He leaned against the bar, giving a small, silent thanks that it was quieter here.

The bartender, a man with a messy bun and sleeves rolled up, looked at him with a bored expression, clearly used to the late-night crowd. "What can I get you?" he asked, his voice a little hard to hear over the music, but Mobius could make it out.

“Alright,” Mobius said, leaning in slightly, his irritation still bubbling beneath the surface. “I need one whiskey, neat,” he said to start, rattling off the orders for the others. Bee had asked for a gin and tonic, Ob wanted something darker, something heavier—probably a rum or whiskey, Mobius wasn’t sure. He’d just go with what felt right.

“And...” he glanced down at Casey’s order. It had been said so quietly that Mobius had to lean in closer to catch it. “One J2O. That’s... what? The fruit juice thing?” He couldn’t help the dry edge to his voice. The thought of a grown man ordering a J2O at a nightclub had Mobius’s stomach turning. It wasn’t quite the drink Casey needed, but hell, it was the one he was getting. “Fine. J2O,” Mobius muttered, rubbing his temple again. “Yeah, I’ll take one of those, too.”

The bartender nodded, clearly unfazed by Mobius’s somewhat grumpy demeanor, and set to work on the drinks. Mobius waited, shifting uncomfortably as the music thumped relentlessly, his thoughts still buzzing. The crowd seemed to get even louder, the chaos of the club sinking in deeper. Mobius glanced around, trying to ground himself, but everything about this place—the flashing lights, the overwhelming noise, the sweaty bodies moving in sync—felt so far removed from the world he knew.

Mobius continued to lean on the bar, fingers drumming lightly against the wood as his thoughts drifted back to the office. The rhythmic sound of the bass pulsed through the floor beneath his feet, and the overwhelming heat and noise of the nightclub wrapped around him like a suffocating blanket. He missed the quiet serenity of his office—the gentle hum of the fluorescent lights, the comfort of the worn leather chair that had long molded to his back, the reassuring silence that allowed him to get lost in the pages of history. Here, everything felt… chaotic. The lights were too bright, the air too thick with bodies, and the music too loud. Mobius let out a deep sigh.

And then, as if the universe had decided to add another layer of confusion to his night, a warm body slid in next to him at the bar.

A silky smooth voice cut through the noise, asking for a midori sour. Mobius’s heart stuttered, and for a split second, his mind struggled to catch up with the sound. He turned slightly, not expecting much, maybe another person trying to get the bartender’s attention.

But then he saw the face.

It was him.

Mobius froze, blinking rapidly as the world seemed to come to a screeching halt around him. There, standing at the bar with effortless ease, was the man he had been obsessing over for the past year. The mysterious stranger who had haunted every page, every drawing, every photo he’d poured over. The one who shouldn’t exist, not in this time, not in this place.

The man was leaning casually against the bar, his lanky frame effortlessly towering over the crowd. He was dressed in a tight black shirt that hugged his torso just enough to accentuate his long limbs, and baggy jeans that only added to his height. He wore large, extravagant heels that clicked against the floor as he shifted, his movements graceful and fluid, like he belonged here—like this club had been made just for him. His dark black hair fell in waves down to his shoulders, and Mobius couldn’t help but notice how it shimmered under the strobe lights, almost otherworldly.

But it was his eyes—his eyes that Mobius had seen so many times in blurry photographs, in sketches, in history books—that froze him. Green. Brilliant green, like the light at the edge of a storm, bright with a golden hue that seemed to glow, framed by thick lashes. And those cheekbones—sharp, angled, perfect. The very same sharp features Mobius had spent countless hours studying. They were even more striking in person, the soft shimmer of glitter highlighting them under the neon lights.

Mobius didn’t know whether to gasp or shout or even cry, the rush of emotions overwhelming him. He was real. Standing right in front of him, like he belonged here, like he had always belonged here. The face he had spent so long chasing in history, in fleeting glimpses, in faded photographs, was now alive in front of him.

And he was beautiful. More beautiful than Mobius had ever imagined. The man’s presence seemed to command attention, effortlessly drawing the eye. He had a kind of magnetic aura that made Mobius’s breath catch in his throat. He couldn’t explain why, but everything about him—his features, his mannerisms, the way he stood there without even trying—was enough to render Mobius speechless. It was like the man belonged in another time, another place, not in this nightclub at the heart of the city.

Mobius blinked again, trying to wrap his mind around the impossible sight in front of him. How? How was he here? Why was he here? He couldn’t be. He couldn’t—he shouldn’t be real.

The man glanced over at Mobius, catching his gaze for a brief second. His lips curled into a small, knowing smile that made Mobius’s pulse quicken. His expression was entirely unreadable, but there was something about it—something about the way his eyes held Mobius’s—that made the world seem to shift.
Mobius’s throat went dry. He was frozen, unable to speak, as the man’s eyes lingered for just a moment longer before he turned back to the bartender, completely at ease.

The bartender, seemingly unfazed by the striking figure beside him, started preparing the man’s drink, but Mobius could barely process the exchange. He could still feel the weight of those green eyes on him, and the rush of disbelief and confusion churned in his stomach. This was it—the mystery. The endless, inexplicable presence he’d been chasing, trying to untangle for months—standing right in front of him.

Mobius wasn’t sure what to do. He wanted to reach out, to say something, anything, but the words felt stuck in his throat. The man, the mystery man, was here—alive, real, and in the same space as him. And Mobius had no idea why. Or how. Or what the hell he was supposed to do with any of it.

The bartender slid the midori sour in front of the man, who took the glass in one elegant motion, his fingers brushing the rim as he raised it to his lips. Mobius watched, mesmerized, completely at a loss for words.
The man took a slow sip, his eyes glancing sideways at Mobius again. This time, the smile was wider, almost knowing, like he’d been waiting for Mobius to catch up.

Mobius’s heart skipped a beat. This wasn’t just some stranger anymore. This was the face that had haunted his waking hours. The man in history books. The man who shouldn’t exist, yet here he was, in the flesh, with the kind of presence that seemed to distort time itself.

And Mobius had no idea what to do next.

Mobius stood there, absolutely floundering, lost in a whirlwind of confusion, shock, and something else he couldn't quite name. The world seemed to spin around him as he tried to process what was happening. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe properly—he was so used to studying the man through the lens of history, through the faded ink of books and the blurry grain of photographs. But now, in front of him, the man was more vivid than he'd ever imagined. Every detail was so much sharper, so much more alive than anything Mobius had dared to dream.

The music pounded in the background, a constant, relentless thrum against his chest, but all Mobius could hear was the sound of his own heartbeat, erratic and deafening in his ears. His eyes traced the man—no, the mystery man—who still stood beside him, effortlessly cool, sipping his drink like he was the center of the universe, which, in that moment, Mobius couldn't argue with.

The bartender's voice broke through the haze of Mobius's thoughts, sudden and practical. "That'll be fifteen bucks," the barkeep said, his tone casual as he gestured to the drink in the black haired mans hands.

Mobius blinked, still a little dazed. He wasn’t sure how the exchange could feel so surreal. There was no way this could be real. His mind was still processing the impossible, trying to find a logical explanation for the impossible situation in front of him.

But the man didn’t reach for his wallet. Instead, he gave the bartender a lazy, almost amused look, as if he’d done this a hundred times before. With a single wave of his hand, he gestured toward Mobius. "Put it on his tab," he said smoothly, the words rolling off his tongue like he was ordering a coffee at a local diner.

Mobius’s head snapped toward him, his mouth suddenly dry as he tried to comprehend what had just happened. The man was looking directly at him, his green eyes glittering with a mischievous spark, a sly smile tugging at his lips.

And then the man spoke again, his voice low and teasing, cutting through the noise of the nightclub like a razor. "Seeing you ogling me like that, I think the least you could do is buy me a drink," he said, the grin on his face widening, and Mobius felt his heart stutter in his chest.

It was like a jolt of electricity had just shot through him. Mobius blinked, trying to gather his scattered thoughts, but his mind was still in a state of chaos, unsure of whether to laugh, to argue, or to just stand there and gawk like an idiot. Was this real? Was this really happening?

He could feel the heat rising in his cheeks as he scrambled for some kind of response, but the words just wouldn't come. The audacity, the confidence of this stranger—it was like he knew exactly what was going through Mobius’s mind. And it was maddening.

Mobius opened his mouth, but for a second, nothing came out. He was still too stunned to say anything, so instead, he just stared at the man, who was still casually leaning against the bar, watching him with that same amused smile. His green eyes held Mobius’s gaze as if he were daring him to deny it, to refuse.

"Yeah," the mystery man said, raising an eyebrow, clearly enjoying Mobius's reaction. "Don't think I didn’t notice you staring." His voice had a teasing, almost flirtatious edge now, and Mobius could only stare back, completely caught off guard by the sudden shift in energy.
Mobius’s brain finally caught up enough for him to gather a semblance of coherent thought. He cleared his throat awkwardly, attempting to compose himself. "I—uh, I wasn’t staring," he managed, his voice betraying him by sounding a little breathless.

The man tilted his head slightly, an expression of mock disbelief on his face. "Really? Because if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were about to burn a hole right through me with those eyes of yours." He leaned in just enough that Mobius could feel the heat of his presence close enough to make his chest tighten.

Mobius swallowed hard, his mind still reeling, and for a moment, he almost forgot what he was supposed to do. The bartender, sensing the tension, raised an eyebrow and glanced at Mobius expectantly.

Right. Drinks. Mobius blinked again and gave a shaky sigh, trying to pull himself together. He was completely out of his depth now. There was no logical reason for this. No explanation. Just the absurdity of it all.

"Fine," Mobius muttered, still feeling heat creeping up his neck. “Fine, I’ll pay. Just... just one drink.” He threw a glance at the bartender, who seemed too indifferent to care about the unfolding drama, and fumbled with his wallet, his hands suddenly clumsy.

The man’s smile softened, but there was something a little more dangerous behind it now, something that made Mobius’s pulse race as he handed over the money. "Good choice," the man said, his voice barely audible over the music.

Mobius’s throat went dry again, and he couldn’t help but wonder—was this some kind of joke? Or was there something else happening here, something that his brain just couldn’t process? Whatever it was, he knew one thing for sure—this wasn’t just a coincidence. This wasn’t some random encounter in a nightclub.

This was him. The man who had been haunting Mobius’s every waking moment, appearing in every corner of history, like he was an inescapable thread woven through time itself.

And now, for reasons Mobius couldn’t understand, he was standing right here, in front of him, asking for a drink and grinning like he knew exactly what was going through Mobius’s mind.

Mobius could feel his mind still struggling to process what was happening, the disorienting rush of emotions and thoughts swirling around him like a storm. But even in the haze of confusion, one thing was clear: this was the opportunity of a lifetime. This was the moment he had been unknowingly waiting for—the man who had appeared in history so many times, the man who defied explanation, who was both everywhere and nowhere. He was standing right in front of Mobius, smiling like it was the most casual thing in the world, as if it was just another night at a bar. The reality of the situation was slipping through Mobius’s fingers like sand, but he was determined not to let it escape. This was his chance—his one shot to speak with the man who had been haunting his every waking moment for over a year. He wasn’t about to waste it.
Mobius leaned in a little closer, his mind a swirling mess of questions that he couldn’t quite seem to organize. His pulse quickened, and he tried to steady his breathing, but all he could focus on was the figure standing before him. This wasn’t a dream. This wasn’t some weird hallucination. No, this was real. Too real. And Mobius had questions—so many questions. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth, his words stumbling out in a flurry of urgency, as if he was afraid the man might disappear if he didn’t say something. “You were in WW2. And... and the French Revolution. And in Ancient Egypt! How are you... what are you?”

The words tumbled out of his mouth in a rush, leaving Mobius to immediately regret the awkwardness of it all. He cringed internally, his face flushing with embarrassment, but he couldn't stop now. His heart was racing, his brain barely keeping up with his mouth. It wasn’t even a proper question—it was a jumble of thoughts, a desperate attempt to make sense of the impossible. But the man didn’t seem perturbed. In fact, he seemed faintly surprised—although Mobius noticed that it was more like mild amusement than genuine shock. He didn’t even blink at the absurdity of Mobius’s words. Instead, the mystery man took another sip of his drink, savoring the liquid slowly as if they were casually discussing the weather.

“That’s an awfully rude first question,” the man said after a pause, his voice smooth and mocking in a way that sent a shiver down Mobius’s spine. “Personally, not what I’d start with, but…” He trailed off, the faintest of smirks dancing at the corners of his lips. Mobius could feel a cold sweat forming on the back of his neck. This was a man who was far too comfortable with the bizarre situation unfolding. His nonchalance was unsettling.

The stranger tilted his head slightly, studying Mobius with those piercing green eyes, and then took another long, deliberate sip of his drink. The seconds stretched into what felt like an eternity, and Mobius could feel the pressure of the silence weighing down on him. His thoughts were racing, but all he could do was wait for the man’s next words.

“So,” the man continued, leaning back ever so slightly against the bar, his posture still casual and self-assured. “How exactly did you find all that out, hm?” The question seemed simple enough, but there was something deeper lurking behind the words. He was intrigued, Mobius could tell. He didn’t seem put off by the fact that Mobius had apparently been stalking his existence through centuries of history, piecing together the puzzle that was this stranger. No, this man wasn’t intimidated—he was curious.

Mobius hesitated, blinking rapidly, his mind catching up with the question. “I’m a historian,” he finally said, the words coming out with more confidence now, though his voice still felt unsteady. “I study history. I’ve been pouring over these books, these accounts of your appearances, and I couldn’t ignore it. The same face, the same person, popping up in different times and places, like some kind of anomaly. And yet, there’s nothing about you in any of the records. No name. No identity. Just... just your face, like you’re some kind of ghost drifting through time.” His voice wavered at the end, and for a moment, Mobius wondered if he was actually speaking sense, or if this whole conversation had spiraled into madness.

The man smiled again, a slow, lazy grin that stretched his lips and made Mobius’s stomach flutter with something he couldn’t quite define. “That’s one way of putting it,” he said, his voice smooth and playful. “But, uh, you’re not entirely wrong, I suppose.” He glanced at Mobius from the corner of his eye, his green gaze gleaming with something that Mobius couldn’t quite decipher. “I’m a time traveler,” the man added casually, as though it were the simplest thing in the world.

Mobius blinked, a laugh rising in his throat, but it caught in his chest. A time traveler? That was what he was claiming? The man didn’t look like any time traveler Mobius had ever read about. He didn’t look like a scientist, a physicist, or a wandering soul caught between eras. He just looked... like him. Like this man who had somehow crossed the boundaries of time and history. Mobius tried to process the words, but they didn’t fit. The logic wasn’t there. “Time... traveler?” Mobius echoed, the words tasting foreign on his tongue. “You... you can’t be serious.”

But the man only nodded, still looking entirely sure of himself, as if Mobius had just asked the most obvious question in the world. “Oh, I’m very serious,” he replied, his eyes flicking to Mobius’s with a glint of mischief. “And, frankly, you’ve got a lot more to figure out if you want to keep up with me.”

Mobius’s brain sputtered, trying to catch up with the enormity of what he was hearing. Time travel? A time traveler standing right in front of him? He wanted to argue, to call it absurd, to dismiss the idea as completely insane. But the man’s confidence, the casual way he spoke about it, made Mobius hesitate. There was something in his eyes—something that suggested he was telling the truth, or at least, believed he was.

“You’re... really a time traveler?” Mobius asked again, trying to force the words to make sense, but they still didn’t seem to belong together in one sentence.

The man gave him a slow, deliberate smile, as if this were some game he had already won. “I’m not from around here,” he said simply, “but I’ve been around long enough to know a few things.” His tone was quiet, almost reflective now, and Mobius couldn’t help but feel that there was so much more to this stranger—this time traveler—than he was willing to let on.

And suddenly, Mobius found himself wondering, despite all his doubt and skepticism, if this wasn’t just some elaborate story, some joke played on him by fate itself. What if this man was telling the truth? What if the answers Mobius had been seeking for so long were standing right in front of him, wrapped in the body of a stranger who seemed to hold all of history in his hands?

The thought was dizzying.

The black haired man continued to sip at his drink, those piercing green eyes never leaving Mobius. It was as though he was studying him, weighing him up, trying to figure out exactly what to make of the man standing beside him. Mobius tried his best to maintain composure, but it was hard when everything felt so surreal. Every time the man moved, it sent a shockwave of confusion through him, as if the world itself couldn’t quite decide if this moment was real. He was standing next to the very person who had appeared throughout history, the one who had become Mobius’s obsession over the last year, and yet, here he was—completely alive and real in front of him, standing too close for comfort, his presence nearly suffocating.

Suddenly, without warning, Loki leaned in far too close, his breath warm against Mobius's ear. The sudden proximity made Mobius freeze, his heart leaping into his throat, and a shiver ran down his spine as hisi's voice, soft and teasing, whispered, "The name's Loki."

Mobius's mind short-circuited for a moment as the name hit him like a ton of bricks. Loki. That name, that face—it all clicked. The puzzle pieces he had been trying to fit together for so long suddenly locked into place with terrifying clarity. His heart clenched in his chest, and for a moment, he almost couldn’t breathe. This was the name he had been searching for, the identity that had eluded him in every book, every record, every drawing of the mysterious man who had haunted him for over a year. It was the name he had never thought to look for, and yet here it was, standing right in front of him.

Loki, the man who had appeared in every corner of history, from the French Revolution to World War II, to Ancient Egypt—he was standing here, in a nightclub of all places, right beside Mobius, offering his name with a smirk that seemed far too self-assured. The realization hit Mobius like a wave, leaving him breathless and disoriented.

Mobius took a moment to collect himself, trying to steady his racing heartbeat. He had to speak. He had to say something. He couldn’t let this moment slip away without a response, not after everything. "I'm Mobius," he said, his voice a little unsteady, but he managed to get the words out. "Mobius M. Mobius."

Loki tilted his head, studying Mobius’s face with an unreadable expression. And then, just as Mobius thought he might explode from the sheer tension of the moment, Loki giggled—a light, melodic sound that didn’t match the weight of the situation at all. It was a laugh that was both mocking and amused, full of mischief.

"Mobius?" Loki said with a grin, his voice dripping with amusement. "What a strange name." He giggled again, his eyes sparkling with delight as he took another sip of his drink. "But I suppose strange names are fitting for strange people, aren’t they?"

The comment sent a flush of embarrassment to Mobius’s face. He had been expecting something—maybe a deep, intellectual conversation, or at the very least, a proper exchange about the mysteries surrounding Loki's existence. Instead, here was this man, laughing at his name like it was some kind of joke. Mobius felt like a fool, but at the same time, the sound of Loki’s laughter was oddly comforting, like an invitation into a world that was far beyond his comprehension.

It wasn’t what he had expected, but Mobius wasn’t sure he knew what to expect anymore. Everything had changed, and suddenly, his once-clear focus on history and facts seemed distant, almost irrelevant in the face of the living, breathing enigma standing before him.

Loki took another step closer, leaning in slightly as if sharing a secret. “Don’t worry, Mobius. I’m sure your name will grow on meeventually.” His grin widened, and for a moment, Mobius found himself forgetting about the years of research, the countless hours spent in libraries and archives, all dedicated to solving the mystery of this very man. It was as though the entire weight of the past had evaporated, leaving him with nothing but the strange, magnetic pull between them.

Mobius didn’t know whether to laugh, to yell, or to simply stand there in stunned silence. He was still trying to grasp what had just happened—the way Loki had appeared, so casually, in his life. How was this real? How was any of this real? But there was something else there, too. Something far deeper. The world had just gotten a lot bigger, and Mobius was standing at the edge of it, staring into the unknown, unsure of whether to step forward or run.

Loki glanced down at his wrist, as though checking the time, but Mobius couldn’t help but notice the absence of a watch. The action felt absurdly casual, but there was something deliberate about it, as if Loki knew exactly how to keep Mobius on edge. A smirk tugged at the corners of his lips as he looked up at Mobius, his eyes gleaming with a secret that Mobius couldn’t quite decipher.

“It’s time for me to get going,” Loki said, his voice light and almost playful, though Mobius could hear the finality in his words. As if he had a schedule to keep.

Before Mobius could open his mouth to say anything—before he could process the fact that this man had just appeared in front of him and shared his name and revealed who he was—Loki was already moving. He stepped past Mobius with an easy grace, his fingers brushing the man’s shoulders in a lingering touch that sent a jolt straight through Mobius. The brief contact felt like electricity, and Mobius’s heart skipped a beat. Loki’s breath was warm against his neck as he leaned in just enough to whisper, his voice low and teasing.

“See you soon,” Loki murmured, the words sliding smoothly off his tongue, full of promise and mystery.

And just like that, with a final wink that seemed to hold more meaning than Mobius could understand, Loki was gone. Mobius didn’t even have time to process the words fully before Loki had vanished into the crowd, slipping away like he was nothing more than a fleeting shadow in the neon-lit nightclub. Mobius stood frozen in place for a moment, his mind racing to catch up with what had just happened. His chest felt tight, his heart hammering as though he had just sprinted a marathon.

By the time he snapped out of it, the bartender was looking at him expectantly, and he quickly paid for the drinks, his hands shaking slightly. He didn’t even bother to collect the drinks he had promised to bring back to Bee and Ob. His mind was still reeling from the encounter, and he could barely focus on anything other than the way Loki had looked at him, the way he had touched him, the way he had disappeared.

The walk back to the stable felt like a dream, each step muffled, as if Mobius were walking through fog. His thoughts were a tangled mess, swirling around the face of the man who had just turned his life upside down. He couldn’t seem to quiet the rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins, the memory of Loki’s voice, his touch, and those final words hanging in the air. See you soon. It wasn’t a promise, but it didn’t sound like a threat, either. It was simply... a fact. Like Loki had already decided they would meet again.

The rest of the night passed in a blur. Mobius barely heard Bee and Ob’s complaints as they joked and argued about the lack of drinks—he barely even registered their words. He was too far away, lost in his own mind. His thoughts kept drifting back to Loki, to the way he had moved, the way he had made Mobius feel as though he were standing at the edge of something monumental, something he couldn’t yet understand. And his heart... his heart was still racing, like it was desperately trying to catch up with the whirlwind of emotions that had just torn through him.

Even as the night wore on and the laughter of his friends faded into the background, Mobius couldn’t bring himself to focus on anything else. He sat there, zoned out, staring into the dimly lit space, his thoughts a million miles away. Loki. The name echoed in his head, relentless, like a song he couldn’t get out of his mind. And with it, the image of that man—the man who seemed so out of place in the world Mobius knew, yet so seamlessly connected to everything Mobius had ever studied.

It wasn’t until much later, when the noise of the club had faded into the distance, that Mobius finally allowed himself to breathe, but even then, the tightness in his chest wouldn’t dissipate. His thoughts kept circling back to that moment—the moment when Loki had whispered those three simple words, leaving him with a sense of anticipation that Mobius couldn’t shake, no matter how hard he tried.

See you soon.

And suddenly, Mobius wasn’t sure if he was ready for what that would mean. But he knew one thing for certain: he had no choice but to follow this strange path Loki had laid out for him. Because wherever it led, Mobius was certain he couldn’t walk away now.

Chapter Text

At his age, Mobius shouldn’t be here.

He shouldn’t be in this neon-lit, sticky-floored club that pulsed with bass so deep it rattled his teeth. He shouldn’t be sitting in a corner booth with his coworkers, nursing a whiskey that tasted like regret, watching as people half his age lost their minds over flashing lights and half-hearted pyrotechnics.

He sighed, swirling the ice in his glass. This wasn’t his scene. Not that he had much of a “scene” anymore.
The divorce had been finalized three months ago. Long enough for the shock to wear off but too soon for him to stop feeling like a man uprooted.

Twenty years of marriage in a series of polite conversations, paperwork, and practiced smiles. The kind of break people liked to call “amicable,” as though there was something noble about two people slowly drifting apart until they had nothing left to say to each other.

He supposed he was lucky, in a way. There’d been no screaming matches, no fights over assets or custody of anything beyond a shared coffee machine. But sometimes he wondered if that made it worse. At least anger would’ve been something to hold onto. Something to push against.

Instead, it had been all quiet resignations and awkward silences. His ex-wife had said it first, that they’d grown apart. Mobius had nodded along because what else was there to do? She wasn’t wrong. Somewhere between the early years of road trips and shared jokes and the later years of spreadsheets and mismatched schedules, they’d lost each other. The spark had gone out.

She’d wanted more. He’d wanted to give it to her, but he hadn’t known how.

Now, he was here. Forty-something, single, and dragged out of his quiet, predictable solitude by a group of well-meaning coworkers who were convinced he needed a “night out.”

“It’ll be fun!” Casey had said, beaming at him over his desk. “You’ve been holed up for months. Time to get back out there, man!”
“Back out where?” Mobius had replied dryly, though the sarcasm hadn’t deterred them.

His protests—that he was too old for this, that he didn’t belong in places like this, that he’d rather be at home rewatching bad reality TV—had fallen on deaf ears. And now, here he was, sitting in a booth that smelled faintly of stale beer and questionable life choices, feeling painfully aware of his own existence.

The club wasn’t helping. It was loud and crowded, the kind of place where everyone seemed to move with a purpose Mobius couldn’t quite understand. The air buzzed with energy, with laughter and shouted conversations and the clinking of glasses.

“Cheer up, Mobius,” Casey said, leaning over to nudge him. “You look like you’re at a funeral.”
Mobius snorted. “Feels like one.”
“Don’t be such a downer. This is supposed to be fun.”
“Fun for who?” Mobius muttered, but Casey was already distracted, his attention drawn to the stage as the lights dimmed.

Mobius resisted the urge to check his watch. It wasn’t that he hated being out—it was just that he didn’t know how to be out anymore. After twenty years of being part of a pair, of always having someone to lean on or joke with or just sit next to in comfortable silence, he wasn’t sure how to function on his own.

The therapist he’d started seeing after the divorce called it “rebuilding.” Rebuilding his identity, his routines, his social life. Mobius had nodded along, pretending the idea didn’t terrify him. He wasn’t good at rebuilding. He liked things steady, predictable. And right now, nothing in his life felt steady or predictable.

Maybe that’s why he’d let his coworkers drag him here. Because at least this was something. Not sitting alone in his apartment, staring at the blank walls, wondering if he’d made the right choices.

And yet, as the room erupted into cheers and whistles, Mobius couldn’t shake the feeling that he was completely and utterly out of place.

Mobius stared blankly at the amber liquid in his glass, lost in his own thoughts, when Casey’s voice cut through the noise.

“Holy shit,” Casey whispered, his tone reverent. “Woah. They’re beautiful.”
Mobius glanced up, half expecting to see another over-the-top display of flashing lights and dollar bills flying through the air. But instead, his gaze landed on the stage, and everything else faded away.

The first thing he noticed was the legs. Long, lean, and commanding, they moved with an effortless grace that made it impossible to look anywhere else. Each step was deliberate, a slow sway of hips that seemed to tease the crowd with every movement. Glitter shimmered under the stage lights, catching on the curve of toned thighs and trailing up to the sheer, black leotard that clung to a lithe frame.

And then there was the face.

Sharp cheekbones, a perfectly arched brow, and lips that curled into a knowing smirk—like the man on stage was in on a secret no one else could hope to understand. His dark hair was sleek and wild all at once, framing a pair of piercing green eyes that scanned the crowd with a look that was equal parts daring and disinterested.

The room erupted into cheers, the kind of loud, unbridled enthusiasm that usually made Mobius cringe. But for once, he didn’t care. He was too busy watching, transfixed as the man made his way to the pole at the center of the stage.

And then he began to dance.

It wasn’t just movement—it was a performance, deliberate and mesmerizing. He circled the pole slowly at first, his fingertips grazing the cool metal as though testing its limits. His hips swayed in time with the music, smooth and sinuous, as if his body were made of water. And then, with a sharp, practiced motion, he hooked a leg around the pole and lifted himself effortlessly off the ground.

The crowd roared, but Mobius barely registered the sound. He was too busy watching the way the man twisted and spun, his body defying gravity with an elegance that shouldn’t have been possible.

Glitter caught in the air as he arched his back, toes pointed, muscles taut as he held himself suspended. It was art and athleticism rolled into one, the kind of skill that only came from years of practice. Yet there was something else, too—something intangible that made it impossible to look away.

He wasn’t just performing; he was commanding. Every roll of his hips, every glance at the crowd, every slow, deliberate climb up the pole was calculated to draw people in, to keep them on the edge of their seats.

And Mobius was no exception.

The man flipped upside down, his legs splitting into a perfect V as he slid down the pole with practiced ease. The lights caught the faint sheen of sweat on his skin, making him glisten like something out of a dream. When he landed back on his feet, his arms stretched wide, the audience erupted into applause so loud it felt like the room might come apart at the seams.

Mobius didn’t clap.

He couldn’t. His hands felt heavy, frozen on either side of his glass. His pulse had quickened, a steady thrum that matched the rhythm of the bassline still echoing through the room.

Casey nudged him, grinning like an idiot. “Dude. Are you seeing this?”
Mobius didn’t answer. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the stage, from the man who stood there basking in the crowd’s adoration, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips.
“Yeah,” Mobius muttered finally, his voice low and almost breathless. “I see it.”

Mobius wasn’t sure how long he’d been staring.

The music pulsed, a sultry beat that seemed to move through the air like a living thing, and the man on stage moved with it, as if the rhythm had been made just for him. Each roll of his hips, each deliberate twist and turn, felt like a conversation—intimate and electric—between him and the crowd.

Mobius’ glass sat now untouched on the table, the ice melting into the amber liquid as his attention stayed glued to the stage.

The man—no, not just a man, something more, something impossible—wrapped a long leg around the pole and spun, his body arcing gracefully as he hung suspended, like gravity itself had decided to take the night off. When he slid down the pole, his thighs gripped the metal with a strength that belied the ease of his movements. He landed lightly on his heels, his black leotard shimmering in the light as he struck a pose that made the crowd erupt in whistles and cheers.

Mobius felt Casey’s laughter more than he heard it, a faint, distant sound that barely registered.
“Oh my God, Mobius,” Casey was saying between fits of giggles. “You’re just—oh, this is priceless. You’re sitting there like a deer in headlights.”
Mobius didn’t respond.

Casey’s voice faded into the background, just another noise drowned out by the pounding music and the roar of the audience. Mobius’ world had narrowed to the stage, to the long, lithe figure that bent and twisted and owned the space in a way that felt almost unfair.

The man danced closer to the edge of the stage, hips swaying in time with the music as he crouched low, running his hands over his thighs and up his torso. Glitter clung to his skin, catching the light in flashes of gold and silver, and when he reached the stage’s edge, a flood of cash came flying toward him.

Bills rained down in every denomination, some fluttering to the floor while others landed perfectly on the stage. The man smirked, his green eyes flicking over the crowd as he reached for a handful of money and stuffed it into the neckline of his leotard. The bills poked out from between the curve of his chest, nestled provocatively like they belonged there.

Another spin, another flip, and the crowd screamed louder. Mobius watched as the man’s long fingers traced the pole, his movements fluid and precise, every line of his body speaking a language Mobius didn’t know how to translate.

It wasn’t just beauty—it was mastery. The way he held the audience’s attention, the way he commanded the space, was like nothing Mobius had ever seen. He wasn’t just dancing. He was performing, radiating a confidence that felt untouchable.

Mobius leaned forward slightly, his elbows resting on the table as if moving closer might bring him some clarity. But the closer he looked, the more his thoughts unraveled.

In the back of his mind, he registered movement—Casey standing, muttering something about getting another drink or finding someone to talk to—but it barely mattered. Mobius didn’t look away.

He couldn’t.

The man climbed the pole again, his body twisting gracefully until he was upside down, his legs extended in a perfect split. The leotard clung to him like a second skin, the sheer fabric revealing just enough to leave the rest to imagination. When he slid back down to the stage, landing lightly on his feet, the applause was deafening.

Mobius swallowed hard.

He knew it was ridiculous. He knew this was just a performance, a polished act designed to enthrall. But that knowledge didn’t stop his pulse from racing or the tightness in his chest as the man turned his back to the crowd, flicking his hair over his shoulder before sauntering toward the other side of the stage.

The man lingered on the far side of the stage, a glittering spectacle that demanded attention. He dipped low, his hips rolling in slow, tantalizing circles as the crowd erupted in cheers. Mobius watched as hands reached up toward him, desperate to close the gap between performer and audience.

The man indulged them, just enough to drive them wild. His long fingers trailed over a few outstretched hands, grazing skin in fleeting, feather-light touches. His smirk deepened as he leaned closer, whispering something inaudible to a lucky patron who looked ready to pass out.

Mobius felt a strange twist in his chest—something between fascination and jealousy.

The man straightened, flipping his hair back with a dramatic flair as he sauntered across the stage. Each step was deliberate, his heels clicking against the polished surface as though punctuating the rhythm of the music. He moved like a predator, slow and measured, savoring the attention as he prowled toward Mobius’ side of the room.

Mobius sat up a little straighter, his hands gripping the edge of the table without realizing it. He wasn’t sure what he expected—he didn’t expect anything, really. The man was a performer, and Mobius was just another face in a sea of onlookers.

But then it happened.

The man’s green eyes swept over the crowd, skipping from face to face with practiced ease. When they landed on Mobius, they stopped.

For a moment, everything else faded. The lights, the music, the noise of the crowd—all of it dissolved under the weight of that gaze. Mobius felt his breath hitch as those piercing green eyes locked onto his, sharp and unrelenting.

He couldn’t look away.

The man’s expression shifted, his smirk softening into something more thoughtful, almost curious. Slowly, his gaze flicked downward, raking over Mobius’ seated figure with a scrutiny that felt equal parts appraisal and amusement. Then those eyes snapped back up, meeting Mobius’ again with an intensity that sent a shiver down his spine.

It was a look that said, I see you.

Mobius’ heart hammered against his ribs, his pulse roaring in his ears. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to feel flattered or exposed—or both.

The man’s lips curved into a smirk, sly and knowing, as if he’d just read every thought in Mobius’ head and found them amusing. Then, without breaking eye contact, he turned on his heel, the glitter on his leotard catching the light in a dazzling display.

The crowd cheered as he exited the stage, his long legs carrying him gracefully behind the curtain.

Mobius sat frozen, his hands still gripping the table, his heart racing as though he’d just run a marathon.

“Mobius,” Casey said, returning with a fresh drink in hand and a grin plastered across his face. “Man, you are gone. Did you see the way he looked at you?!”
Mobius blinked, finally tearing his gaze away from the now-empty stage. He opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out.
Casey laughed. “Don’t even try to deny it. You’re smitten.”
Mobius shook his head, but it felt half-hearted even to him. He didn’t know what he was feeling, exactly. Only that it was more than he’d felt in a long, long time.
________________________________________Mobius sat motionless, staring at the empty stage as if willing the man to reappear. His mind was a swirl of conflicting thoughts, none of which made any sense. All he knew was that the world felt strangely brighter and more alive in the wake of that fleeting moment of eye contact.

“Earth to Mobius.”
Casey’s voice broke through his daze, and Mobius turned to see his coworker grinning like a cat that had just swallowed a canary.
“Wow,” Casey said, dragging out the word as he dropped into the seat next to him. “You look like you just got hit by a truck. But, you know, like a good truck. A sexy truck.”
Mobius scowled, though it lacked any real conviction. “I don’t even know what that means.”
“Oh, I think you do.” Casey leaned in closer, practically vibrating with glee. “You should’ve seen your face, man. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone look so gobsmacked. It was like you were in another universe.”
“Casey,” Mobius said, his voice low and warning.

But Casey ignored him, pulling a small slip of paper out of his pocket and holding it up like a prize. “Anyway, while you were busy having a spiritual awakening over there, I took the liberty of doing you a little favor.”
Mobius frowned, eyeing the paper suspiciously. “What is that?”
Casey’s grin widened. “It’s a receipt.”
“For what?”
“For your private room,” Casey said, his voice practically dripping with smugness.
Mobius stared at him, uncomprehending. “My what?”
“Your private room,” Casey repeated, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. “With him. You know, the gorgeous guy you’ve been drooling over for the past fifteen minutes. Apparently, his name’s Loki. Cool, right?”
“Casey,” Mobius said, his tone incredulous. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
“Nope.” Casey slid the receipt across the table, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Paid in full. You’re welcome, by the way.”
Mobius picked up the receipt as if it might burn him. There it was, in black and white—a charge for a private room, followed by the name Loki scrawled in looping handwriting.
“You’re out of your mind,” Mobius muttered, but his voice lacked conviction.
Casey shrugged, clearly pleased with himself. “Hey, you looked like you could use a little push. Consider this your friendly shove off the edge of the cliff.”
“I’m not going,” Mobius said firmly, though the words rang hollow even to his own ears.
Casey snorted. “Yeah, sure you’re not.” He gestured toward the bar. “Go on. Ask the bartender where you’re supposed to go. You know you want to.”

Mobius hesitated, his heart pounding in his chest. The idea of going through with this was absurd. Insane, even. And yet, the thought of walking away, of leaving without seeing Loki again, felt like an opportunity slipping through his fingers.

He looked down at the receipt again, at the bold scrawl of Loki’s name, and felt a strange pull he couldn’t quite explain.
Casey leaned back in his chair, sipping his drink with a self-satisfied grin. “You can thank me later. Or not. Either way, you’re welcome.”
Mobius sighed, running a hand through his hair as he stood up. “If this backfires, I’m blaming you.”
“Noted,” Casey said, raising his glass. “Now, go get your destiny or whatever.”
Shaking his head, Mobius made his way to the bar, the receipt clutched tightly in his hand.

The bar was well-stocked, with an assortment of colorful bottles lining the shelves behind it. The bartender, a woman with blonde hair pulled into a messy ponytail, was polishing a glass when Mobius approached. She wore a name tag that read Sylvie, and she looked up at him with an expression of mild amusement as he slid the receipt onto the counter.

“Hey,” Mobius said, voice a little rougher than he intended. “I’m, uh... supposed to ask about a private room?”
Sylvie raised an eyebrow, glancing down at the receipt before looking back at him. Her gaze flicked over his features, assessing him in a way that made him feel like he was being evaluated for something he hadn’t signed up for.

“Ah,” she said, a knowing smile creeping onto her lips. “Room five.”
Mobius blinked, surprised at how quickly she answered. “Room five?”
“Yep. Just go down the hallway in the back. It’s the second door on your left,” Sylvie instructed, already moving to take care of another customer.
“Thanks,” Mobius muttered, feeling a slight weight lift off his shoulders.
But before he could turn away, Sylvie’s voice stopped him.
“Oh,” she said, her tone suddenly turning more serious. “Just a heads-up. Loki’s a real feisty thing. Watch your words... and, uh...”
She hesitated for a moment, as if debating whether she should say more.
Mobius looked at her, eyebrow raised in confusion. “Watch my words?”
“And your dick,” she added with a sly grin, her eyes twinkling with mischief.
Mobius froze, blinking rapidly as his mind processed her words. Did she just—?

He opened his mouth to respond, but the words caught in his throat. Instead, he nodded awkwardly, unsure of how to handle the situation. Sylvie’s smirk only deepened, and with a little wave of her hand, she turned back to her duties, clearly amused by his flustered state.

Mobius exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of the situation come crashing down on him.
“Watch my dick…” he muttered under his breath as he turned to make his way toward the hallway, a hot flush creeping up his neck.

The hallway stretched out in front of him, dimly lit with faint glimmers of light flickering against the walls. Mobius’ footsteps felt louder than usual as he walked down the corridor, his mind swirling with disbelief. He was actually doing this. His hands were still clenching the receipt, the words Room 5 printed in bold, mocking simplicity.

How the hell did I end up here?

The thought echoed in his mind, a question that had been hanging over him ever since he walked into the club. His divorce, the endless therapy sessions, the nagging feeling that his life had become a series of small, desperate attempts to feel something again. It all led him here—walking down a hallway to a private room where a stripper named Loki was waiting.

He reached the door, the brass number 5 gleaming under the soft light. Mobius stared at it for a long moment, feeling like he was standing at the edge of some cliff.

What am I doing?

For a fleeting moment, he thought about turning back. About walking away, pretending like he hadn’t been dragged into this world of neon lights and strangers who were too damn beautiful for their own good. But then he remembered Casey’s smirk, the way he’d practically shoved him into this situation.

He had to admit, part of him was curious.

Curious? The word felt almost laughable. This wasn’t curiosity. It was desperation. A strange yearning to feel something other than the endless numbness that had followed him since the divorce.

But was this really the answer?

His hand hovered over the door handle for a moment longer before he finally turned it and stepped inside.

The room was smaller than he expected. A modest space, dimly lit with only a few low lamps casting soft shadows on the walls. The center of the room was dominated by a pole, standing tall like a silent witness to whatever would unfold here. A few scattered chairs and couches filled the rest of the space, but there was nothing extravagant about the setup.

Mobius stood just inside the doorway for a moment, his chest tightening as his gaze scanned the room. He could feel the weight of the walls pressing in on him, the air thick with the smell of perfume, sweat, and something else—something faintly intoxicating.

He sat down on the closest couch, rubbing his hands together in thought. This wasn’t supposed to be me.

He wasn’t the kind of man who went to strip clubs, not even in his youth. He’d always thought of them as the place for men wanting a quick wank to go so he wasn’t sure where that left him now.
________________________________________
Mobius wasn’t sure how much time had passed as he sat there, the weight of the room pressing down on him. The couch beneath him was surprisingly comfortable, upholstered in soft, dark fabric that felt slightly worn but well-kept. His fingers absently traced the stitching along the armrest, his thoughts swirling in a hundred different directions, none of which made sense.

He was just starting to wonder if Casey had somehow played a trick on him when the door clicked open.
Mobius froze, his breath catching in his throat as he turned toward the sound.
And then he saw him.

Loki stepped into the room with a grace that was almost inhuman, his presence filling the space instantly. The lighting seemed to soften around him, catching on the shimmer of glitter that clung to his skin and leotard, making him glimmer like he’d been dipped in stardust. His long black hair framed his angular face, a wild halo that accentuated his sharp cheekbones and pointed chin. There was an ethereal quality to him, something otherworldly and dangerous all at once.

The leotard he wore was sheer in places, clinging to his slender frame and pushing his chest together in a way that was impossible not to notice. It plunged just low enough to hint at skin beneath, while still leaving plenty to the imagination. His legs seemed to go on forever, long and delicate but undeniably strong, leading down to a pair of knee-high boots with heels sharp enough to make Mobius wonder how anyone could walk in them, let alone move the way Loki had onstage.

And then there was his smile.

That smirk was something else entirely—a devilish, knowing curve of his lips that suggested he was already several steps ahead of whatever Mobius thought might happen next. It was the kind of smile that promised trouble, the kind that made your pulse quicken even as a voice in the back of your mind warned you to run.

But Mobius didn’t run. He couldn’t have moved even if he wanted to.
“Good evening,” Loki said, his voice smooth and velvety, with a lilting cadence that sent a shiver down Mobius’ spine.
Mobius cleared his throat, suddenly hyper-aware of how out of place he felt. “Uh… hi.”
Loki’s smirk deepened, his green eyes glinting with amusement as he stepped further into the room, letting the door click shut behind him.
“You must be my lucky guest,” Loki said, his tone light but dripping with mischief. He moved toward Mobius with a slow, deliberate sway of his hips, the glitter on his skin catching the light with every step.
Mobius felt rooted to the spot, his tongue suddenly heavy in his mouth. “I—uh… I’m not really sure what I’m doing here,” he admitted, his voice quieter than he intended.

Loki stopped in front of him, tilting his head slightly as if studying him. His expression softened, though the playful glint in his eyes never faded. “Don’t worry,” he said, his voice dropping to a soothing murmur. “You don’t have to know what you’re doing.”
Mobius blinked, momentarily caught off guard. “I don’t?”
Loki smiled again, and this time it was softer, almost reassuring. “Of course not,” he said, his fingers trailing lightly over the back of one of the chairs as he moved. “That’s what I’m here for.”

Mobius felt his cheeks heat up, but before he could say anything, Loki continued.
“Let me lead,” he said, his voice curling around the words like a promise. “All you have to do is relax.”

Easier said than done, Mobius thought. But as he looked into Loki’s eyes, sharp and glittering with confidence, he couldn’t help but feel a flicker of trust.

Loki’s gaze never left Mobius as he moved deeper into the room, his every step deliberate and feline, like a predator toying with its prey. The air seemed to grow heavier, charged with something electric and unspoken. Mobius felt rooted to the spot, every instinct telling him to look away but unable to obey.

Without breaking eye contact, Loki extended one long, elegant arm toward the wall. His fingers brushed against an unseen switch, and a low, sultry rhythm began to hum through the room. The bass was soft but insistent, a slow heartbeat that pulsed through the space and seemed to match the rhythm of Mobius’ quickening breath.

Loki’s lips curved into that same devilish smirk, the faintest glimmer of amusement flickering across his face as he moved to the pole. His fingers, long and delicate, curled around the cool metal, and for a moment, he simply stood there. His head tilted slightly, dark waves of hair cascading over one shoulder as he studied Mobius with a look that was equal parts challenge and invitation.

Then, with an almost imperceptible shift, Loki began to move.

His hips swayed first, a slow, deliberate motion that seemed to ripple through his entire body. The movement was subtle, but there was something hypnotic about the way he let the rhythm flow through him, as if the music itself were an extension of his will. His other hand joined the first on the pole, and he spun with a smooth, practiced grace, the glitter dusting his skin catching the low light in dazzling bursts.

Loki arched his back as he circled the pole, his body curving in a way that felt both impossibly fluid and sharply precise. The sheer leotard clung to him like a second skin, accentuating every line of his figure—his long legs, the delicate curve of his waist, the strong muscles of his thighs.

When he lifted one leg and hooked it around the pole, Mobius’ breath caught in his throat. The motion was effortless, almost languid, as if Loki were weightless. His body stretched upward, his chest pressed against the pole as his other leg followed, crossing in a deliberate, sensuous twist.

And then he leaned back.

Loki’s head tilted, his black hair spilling downward like ink as he arched into a backbend, his hands releasing the pole to extend outward in a gesture that felt like surrender and control all at once. His eyes, half-lidded but still fixed on Mobius, burned with an intensity that made the air in the room feel almost suffocating.

The music swelled, and Loki’s movements quickened slightly. He spun again, this time letting his legs unfurl from the pole like the petals of a flower in bloom. He caught the pole with the back of his knee, using it as a pivot to swing his body around in a fluid arc. His fingers brushed the floor, trailing along it as he moved, before he pulled himself upright again with a strength that seemed almost hidden beneath his ethereal beauty.

Mobius couldn’t look away. He couldn’t blink.

Every movement Loki made was deliberate, an intoxicating mix of power and grace. When he slid down the pole, his thighs gripping it tightly, Mobius felt his pulse quicken. Loki’s boots clicked softly against the floor as he landed, his knees bending slightly before he rose again, his hips rolling to the beat of the music.

Loki turned his back to Mobius then, his hands trailing up his own body, from his thighs to his waist, to his chest. His fingers played along the edge of the leotard, teasing but never revealing, before he glanced over his shoulder. That smirk was back, playful and predatory, as if he knew exactly what kind of effect he was having.

As the music softened for a moment, Loki wrapped one arm around the pole, his body pressing against it in a way that was almost intimate. His free hand extended outward, fingers beckoning as he leaned into the metal, his hips rolling in slow, mesmerizing circles.

And then, with a sharp flick of his wrist, he spun again, faster this time. The room seemed to blur for a moment as his body became a flash of shimmering glitter and black fabric, his movements too quick and fluid to follow.

When he stopped, he was facing Mobius again, his chest rising and falling with a hint of exertion, though his expression was as composed and confident as ever.
The music began to fade, and Loki tilted his head, his hair falling in perfect disarray as he stepped away from the pole.
For a moment, Mobius thought he might finally have a chance to catch his breath. But then Loki took a single, deliberate step toward him, his green eyes locking onto Mobius’ with a look that made it clear: this dance was far from over.

The room was quiet now, save for the faint hum of the fading music and the subtle rustle of Loki’s movements. Mobius sat frozen in place, his pulse pounding in his ears as Loki stepped closer.

There was something deliberate in the way Loki moved, his steps slow and measured, each one sending a ripple of anticipation through the air. His sharp green eyes never left Mobius’, holding him captive in a gaze that felt impossibly intimate. The glitter dusting his skin shimmered faintly under the dim light, giving him an almost otherworldly glow.

And then, with a grace that seemed almost too fluid to be real, Loki swung one long leg over Mobius’ lap, settling himself with a deliberate slowness that made Mobius’ breath hitch.

The leotard’s sheer fabric left little to the imagination, and the way Loki sat—his chest just inches from Mobius’—made it impossible not to notice every curve and line of his body. But it wasn’t just his appearance that left Mobius speechless; it was the energy he radiated, a magnetic pull that seemed to draw Mobius closer without a single word being spoken.

Loki leaned forward slightly, his weight shifting in a way that pressed them just close enough to blur the lines of space between them. His lips curled into a smirk, playful and sharp, as his hands rested lightly on Mobius’ shoulders.

“Comfortable?” Loki asked, his voice low and teasing, his breath warm against Mobius’ ear.
Mobius wasn’t sure he could speak, let alone form a coherent answer. He managed a faint nod, his hands gripping the edge of the couch as if it were the only thing keeping him grounded.
Loki chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through the small space between them. “Relax,” he murmured, his fingers trailing down Mobius’ shoulders to his chest in a featherlight touch. “You’re in good hands.”

And then Loki began to move.

It started slowly, almost imperceptibly—just a gentle roll of his hips that sent a wave of heat through Mobius’ entire body. Loki’s movements were precise, controlled, his body swaying in perfect rhythm with the fading pulse of the music. The room seemed to shrink around them, the world narrowing to the press of Loki’s weight on his lap and the mesmerizing sway of his body.

Mobius tried to focus on anything else, but it was impossible. The way Loki moved was hypnotic, each motion fluid and deliberate, like water flowing over stone. His hands slid down Mobius’ chest, pausing just long enough to make Mobius’ breath catch before tracing back upward.

Loki tilted his head, his dark hair falling across his face in a way that only made him more alluring. His green eyes glinted with a mix of mischief and challenge as he leaned in closer, his lips hovering just out of reach.

“See?” Loki purred, his voice a soft murmur. “You’re already doing better.”
Mobius swallowed hard, his grip tightening on the couch. He didn’t know what to say, what to do. He felt like he was drowning in Loki’s presence, every sense overwhelmed by the sight, the scent, the heat of him.

Loki arched his back slightly, his body pressing closer as his hands moved to the back of Mobius’ neck. The faintest hint of pressure from Loki’s nails sent a shiver down his spine, and Mobius realized he’d stopped breathing.

“You’re tense,” Loki observed, his tone carrying a teasing edge as he leaned back just enough to study Mobius’ face. “Am I intimidating you?”
Mobius let out a shaky laugh, his voice rough with nerves. “I—uh, yeah. Maybe a little.”
Loki’s smile softened, though the playful glint in his eyes never faded. “Good,” he said, his voice dropping to a sultry whisper. “I like it when they squirm.”

Before Mobius could respond, Loki shifted again, his movements smooth and seamless. His hips rolled in a way that sent heat pooling low in Mobius’ stomach, and he had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from reacting too strongly.

Loki tilted his head again, his hair brushing against Mobius’ face as he moved closer. “You’re not so bad yourself,” he murmured, his lips curving into a softer smile. “Maybe this won’t be such a chore after all.”

Mobius blinked, his mind scrambling to process the words. But before he could respond, Loki’s hands were on his shoulders again, guiding him to lean back just slightly.

Loki’s movements grew more deliberate, each roll of his hips a slow, tantalizing tease that seemed to pull Mobius further into the haze of the moment. The heat radiating from Loki’s body was impossible to ignore, and the look in his eyes—sharp, glittering, and just shy of predatory—made Mobius’ stomach twist in ways he wasn’t prepared for.

It felt too real.

Mobius knew, deep down, that it was all part of the act. He’d heard enough from Casey about the games dancers played, how they made every client feel special, unique, just to coax a little more money out of them. He knew that the smirk curling Loki’s lips, the intensity in his green eyes, the soft hum of satisfaction when their gazes locked—it was all part of the job.

But, God, it didn’t feel that way.

Loki leaned in closer, the scent of something warm and subtly spiced—perfume or skin, Mobius couldn’t tell—enveloping him. The sheer leotard glittered faintly with every subtle shift of his body, clinging to his curves as he moved in a way that was almost hypnotic. Mobius found himself unable to think of anything beyond the man before him, the delicate strength in his long fingers, the teasing tilt of his lips, the way his hair fell like a dark curtain around his angular face.

The dance became more insistent, more intimate. Loki’s hands trailed down Mobius’ chest again, slow and deliberate, leaving a phantom warmth in their wake. His knees pressed firmly on either side of Mobius’ thighs, locking him in place. Mobius felt his breath hitch when Loki leaned back slightly, arching his body with a grace that made every muscle in him tense.

And then, without meaning to, Mobius moved.

It was instinct, or maybe just the overwhelming need to ground himself in something tangible amid the dizzying haze Loki was creating around him. His hands rose of their own accord, coming to rest on Loki’s slim waist.

The moment he realized what he’d done, Mobius went cold.

The first rule of strip clubs—the one rule Casey had hammered into his head repeatedly—was that you didn’t touch the dancers. Ever. It didn’t matter how beautiful they were, how close they got, how much they smiled at you. You didn’t cross that line.

“Shit, I’m so—” Mobius began, his voice breaking as he moved to pull his hands away, panic tightening his chest.

But before he could finish the apology, Loki moved.

His hands shot down, quick and decisive, wrapping around Mobius’ wrists. For a brief, heart-stopping moment, Mobius thought Loki might throw him out, scold him, demand to know what he was thinking. Instead, Loki’s fingers tightened around his wrists, and with a surprising strength, he pushed Mobius’ hands back to his waist.

“Don’t,” Loki said, his voice low and firm, his green eyes blazing with an intensity that made Mobius’ breath catch.
Mobius blinked, his thoughts scrambling for an explanation, an apology, anything. But Loki didn’t give him the chance.

Leaning in closer, Loki tilted his head, his hair brushing lightly against Mobius’ cheek as his body pressed forward. The movement was slow, deliberate, as he shifted his hips to grind against Mobius’ lap. The friction was enough to send a shiver through him, and Mobius felt his entire body go taut, his hands trembling slightly where they rested against Loki’s waist.

“Relax,” Loki murmured, his lips so close to Mobius’ ear that the word felt more like a caress than a command. His fingers loosened their grip on Mobius’ wrists, but he didn’t move them away. Instead, he guided Mobius’ hands slightly, settling them in a way that felt strangely intimate.

Mobius’ pulse pounded in his ears as Loki leaned back again, his hands sliding up Mobius’ chest in a featherlight touch that sent heat racing through his body. The look in Loki’s eyes was unreadable—part teasing, part challenging, but also something deeper, something Mobius couldn’t quite name.

Loki moved with renewed intensity, his body rolling to the rhythm of the music, the glitter on his skin catching the dim light with every shift. Mobius could feel the heat of him, the press of his weight, the subtle tremor in his legs as Loki leaned in closer again.

“You’re not going to get in trouble,” Loki said softly, his voice carrying a teasing lilt. “Not unless you want to be.”
Mobius wasn’t sure if it was a joke or a promise, but he couldn’t bring himself to speak. He simply let his hands rest where Loki had placed them.

Mobius wasn’t sure what compelled him to do it—maybe it was the way Loki’s body moved so fluidly against his, or the lingering echo of Loki’s teasing reassurance. Whatever the reason, he found himself lifting his hands, his touch featherlight as his palms skimmed over the curve of Loki’s waist.

The fabric of the leotard was smooth beneath his fingers, almost slippery, and Mobius’ breath hitched as he dared to let his hands travel higher. His fingers traced the subtle indentations of Loki’s ribs, the shape of his frame impossibly delicate and yet imbued with an undeniable strength.

Loki’s reaction was immediate.

A soft gasp escaped his lips, barely more than a whisper, but it was enough to send a shiver through Mobius’ entire body. The sound was unexpected, vulnerable, as if Mobius had touched something far more intimate than he intended.

And then Loki moved closer.

His arms looped around Mobius’ neck, his long fingers threading into the short strands of Mobius’ hair as his body pressed forward. Loki’s chest was suddenly right there, impossibly close, the glittery sheen of his skin catching the light and giving him an almost ethereal glow. The leotard pushed his breasts together, the soft curve of them brushing against Mobius’ chin as Loki leaned in.

Mobius’ breath came in shallow, uneven bursts, and he could feel the heat radiating from Loki’s body. The scent of him was intoxicating—a subtle mix of something sweet and smoky that left Mobius feeling lightheaded.

Loki’s hips continued their slow, deliberate rhythm, grinding against Mobius with an intensity that was impossible to ignore. Every movement sent a ripple of heat through him, his senses overwhelmed by the sheer closeness of the man before him.

Mobius felt like he was on fire.

His hands trembled slightly as they rested on Loki’s sides, his thumbs brushing against the faint curve of Loki’s lower ribs. He couldn’t bring himself to move, afraid that even the slightest shift might shatter whatever fragile equilibrium they’d found.

But Loki didn’t seem to share his hesitation.

His lips curved into a soft, almost mischievous smile as he leaned in closer, the tips of their noses nearly brushing. “Careful, darling,” Loki murmured, his voice a low purr that sent a shiver down Mobius’ spine. “You’re playing with fire.”

Mobius opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out. He was too focused on the way Loki’s breath ghosted over his skin, the faint hum of amusement in his tone, the unrelenting pull of those sharp green eyes.

Loki tilted his head slightly, his dark hair falling like a silken curtain around them as his hips rolled with renewed intensity. His movements were slow and deliberate, each one designed to draw Mobius further into the haze of the moment.

Mobius’ hands tightened slightly on Loki’s sides, his fingers digging in just enough to feel the faint resistance of muscle beneath the glitter-dusted fabric. Loki didn’t flinch or pull away. Instead, he let out another soft sound—a mix between a sigh and a hum—that sent a fresh wave of heat coursing through Mobius.

The room felt smaller now, the air heavy with something electric and unspoken. Mobius could feel the rapid beat of his own heart, the warmth of Loki’s breath against his cheek, the faint tremor in his hands as he tried to process the sheer impossibility of the situation.

This wasn’t him. He didn’t do things like this. He wasn’t the kind of man who went to strip clubs, who paid for private dances, who let himself get swept up in moments that felt too intimate, too dangerous.

And yet, here he was, completely and utterly captivated by the man in his lap.

Loki’s movements shifted subtly, the deliberate sway of his hips slowing as he pressed closer to Mobius. His arms tightened around the man’s neck, and before Mobius could process what was happening, Loki tilted his head and leaned in.

The first touch was featherlight—a brush of lips against the curve of Mobius’ jaw, soft enough to make him question if it had even happened. But then Loki’s mouth moved lower, trailing along the side of Mobius’ neck with an unhurried intensity that left no doubt about his intentions. His breath was warm, his lips teasing, and every now and then, the faintest graze of teeth sent a shiver racing down Mobius’ spine.

Mobius felt his heart stutter, his pulse pounding in his ears as Loki’s chest pressed firmly against him. The soft, glitter-dusted swell of Loki’s breasts brushed against his shirt with every subtle shift, the heat of their closeness searing through the thin barrier of fabric. It was impossible to think, let alone breathe, under the weight of it all.

This wasn’t normal. Mobius knew enough to recognize that much. Private dances weren’t supposed to go this far, weren’t meant to feel this intimate, this charged. He was sure there were rules against this sort of thing, boundaries that dancers like Loki were trained to maintain.

But Loki didn’t seem concerned about boundaries.
And Mobius couldn’t bring himself to care.

His hands, which had been hovering awkwardly near Loki’s sides, slid down with an almost tentative slowness. His palms rested on Loki’s hips, the curve of them fitting perfectly against his hands. Mobius swallowed hard, his fingers flexing slightly as if testing the reality of what he was feeling.

The leotard’s fabric was smooth and impossibly thin beneath his fingertips, but it wasn’t enough to mask the warmth of Loki’s skin, the faint resistance of muscle underneath. Mobius let his thumbs trace the line of Loki’s hips, dipping just slightly beneath the edge of the leotard. The fabric gave way easily, and the bare skin beneath was soft, almost impossibly so.

The reaction was immediate.

Loki’s breath hitched audibly, and Mobius felt a faint tremor run through his body, so subtle that he might have missed it if they weren’t pressed so closely together. Loki’s hips stilled for a fraction of a second before rolling forward again, his movements slower now, more deliberate, as if he were savoring the moment.

Mobius couldn’t help but look up, his gaze catching on Loki’s face. His dark hair framed his features like a halo, and his green eyes burned with an intensity that made Mobius feel like he was being stripped bare, every inch of him laid out and scrutinized under Loki’s piercing gaze.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The only sounds were the faint hum of the music in the background and the unsteady rhythm of Mobius’ breathing.

“You’re full of surprises,” Loki murmured at last, his lips quirking into a playful smirk. His voice was low and sultry, carrying an edge of amusement that made Mobius’ cheeks burn.
“I—uh…” Mobius stammered, his voice rough and uneven. He didn’t know how to respond, couldn’t find the words to explain how he’d ended up here, his hands on Loki’s hips, his heart racing in a way that felt entirely out of his control.

Loki didn’t seem to mind the lack of a response. He leaned in again, his lips brushing against the corner of Mobius’ mouth before trailing back to his neck. His movements were slow, deliberate, each touch calculated to leave Mobius completely undone.

And it was working.

Mobius felt a wave of heat pool in his chest, spreading outward until it consumed him entirely. He knew, deep down, that this wasn’t what he’d signed up for, that this was crossing a line he hadn’t even realized existed. But with Loki pressed against him, his body warm and pliant and impossibly close, Mobius couldn’t bring himself to care.

Loki pulled back from Mobius’ neck, his lips curling into a slow, satisfied grin. His hips didn’t stop moving, though, continuing their steady, hypnotic grind against Mobius. The weight of Loki’s body, the deliberate friction, the heat pooling between them—it all left Mobius teetering on the edge of coherence.

Loki’s eyes, half-lidded and heavy with something that felt dangerously close to desire, locked onto Mobius’. The faint sheen of glitter on his skin caught the dim light, making him appear otherworldly, untouchable, yet so achingly present that it felt impossible to look away.

“God,” Mobius muttered, his voice rough and unsteady, a mix of awe and disbelief. “How much extra is this gonna cost me?”
The words were meant as a joke, an attempt to ground himself in reality, to remind himself that this was all part of the act. But the second they left his mouth, Mobius regretted them.
Loki’s response, however, wasn’t what he expected.

The man laughed, a soft, velvety sound that sent a shiver down Mobius’ spine. “Oh, darling,” Loki purred, his voice dripping with amusement as his hands slid down his own body. His fingers skimmed the delicate curves of his waist before moving upward, brushing over the soft swell of his chest.

Mobius’ breath caught as Loki cupped his own breasts, the motion slow and deliberate, his long fingers curling slightly as he massaged the glitter-dusted skin. The movement was so effortlessly sensual, so undeniably bold, that Mobius felt his pulse thunder in his ears.

“This?” Loki murmured, tilting his head as he regarded Mobius with a teasing smirk. “This is on the house.”
Mobius blinked, trying to process what he’d just heard. “What?” he managed, his voice cracking slightly.
Loki’s smirk widened, and he leaned in just enough for Mobius to feel the warmth of his breath against his cheek. “I like your silver fox vibes,” Loki whispered, his tone low and sultry, each word laced with a dangerous kind of promise. “And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to take this further.”

Mobius’ mouth went dry, his thoughts spiraling into a chaotic mess of disbelief and anticipation. He opened his mouth to respond, to say something, anything, but Loki didn’t give him the chance.

“Of course,” Loki continued, his hands drifting back down to rest on Mobius’ shoulders. His touch was light, almost teasing, as he leaned in closer. “I can’t exactly do that here. I have… rules.”

The way Loki said the word “rules” made it sound like a challenge, like he was daring Mobius to test them.

Before Mobius could reply, Loki shifted, sliding gracefully off his lap in one fluid motion. The sudden absence of him—his warmth, his weight, his scent—left Mobius reeling, his body aching with a longing he didn’t quite know how to articulate.

Loki moved toward the door with the same effortless elegance that had captivated Mobius from the start, his hips swaying in a way that seemed almost hypnotic. His long legs carried him across the room with ease, the sheer leotard catching the dim light and accentuating every curve.

Mobius stared after him, disappointment and frustration pooling in his chest. He didn’t want this to end, didn’t want to lose whatever strange, intoxicating connection they’d built in such a short span of time.

Loki stopped just as he reached the door, one hand resting lightly on the frame. He turned to glance back at Mobius, his dark hair falling over one shoulder as he tilted his head.

“I get off at one,” Loki said, his voice soft but heavy with implication. His lips curved into a devilish smile as his gaze locked onto Mobius’. “And maybe I can’t fuck at work…” He let the words hang in the air for a moment, the weight of them sinking deep into Mobius’ chest.

“But I can outside of it.”

With that, Loki turned on his heel, his hair swishing behind him as he disappeared through the door, leaving Mobius alone in the small, dimly lit room.

For a long moment, Mobius just sat there, his mind racing, his body still thrumming with the aftershocks of Loki’s presence.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered under his breath, running a hand over his face. He wasn’t entirely sure how he’d ended up here, but one thing was certain—he wasn’t going to let this end just yet.
________________________________________
Mobius lingered in the small room for a moment after Loki left, the echo of the man’s words bouncing around in his head. “I get off at one.”

The way Loki had said it, with that wicked smile and those piercing green eyes—it was enough to make Mobius feel like his world had been knocked off its axis. He let out a slow, shaky breath and ran a hand through his hair, trying to ground himself.

What the hell had just happened?

He wasn’t sure how much time passed before he finally found the strength to stand. His legs felt unsteady, like he’d just stepped off a rollercoaster, and his heart was still pounding in his chest. Shoving his hands into his pockets to stop them from trembling, he made his way out of the room and back toward the main floor of the club.

The noise hit him first—the thrum of the bass, the chatter of voices, the occasional burst of laughter. It was almost disorienting after the quiet intimacy of the private room.

Casey spotted him before he even reached the table, his face lighting up with a mischievous grin. “Well, well, well,” he drawled, leaning back in his seat and crossing his arms. “Look who finally decided to rejoin the living.”

Mobius dropped into his chair without a word, his mind still spinning. He reached for his drink, downing what was left in a single gulp before setting the glass back on the table with a dull thud.
Casey raised an eyebrow, clearly waiting for an explanation. “So,” he said, dragging out the word. “How’d it go?”

Mobius stared at him for a long moment, his face unreadable. The seconds stretched on, and Casey’s grin only grew wider, like he was enjoying the suspense.
Finally, Mobius leaned back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face as if he were trying to wipe away the memory of what had just happened.
“He gets off at one,” he said, his voice low and almost disbelieving.
For a second, Casey looked confused. And then he burst out laughing, the sound loud and unabashed, drawing a few curious glances from the surrounding tables.

“Of course he does!” Casey managed between laughs, clapping his hands together. “Oh, man, you’ve got it bad, don’t you?”
Mobius scowled, though there wasn’t much heat behind it. “Don’t start.”
But Casey wasn’t about to let it go. “I mean, I thought you’d just have a good time and maybe loosen up a bit, but this?” He shook his head, his grin never faltering. “This is better than I could’ve hoped for.”
Mobius groaned, resting his elbows on the table and burying his face in his hands. “What am I even doing here?” he muttered, more to himself than to Casey.
“You’re living a little,” Casey said, his tone light but not unkind. “And honestly? I think it’s about damn time.”
Mobius didn’t respond, but deep down, he knew Casey was right.
________________________________________
The rest of the night passed in a haze, though Mobius wasn’t sure if it was because of the two drinks he’d downed in quick succession or because Loki had completely scrambled his brain.

He saw him again and again, like a shadow flitting through the crowded room. Loki moved with an effortless grace that was impossible to ignore, carrying drinks to customers, stopping to chat at tables, his laughter ringing out like music over the din of the club.

Mobius tried to convince himself that it was normal, that this was just Loki doing his job. But every time the man’s sharp green eyes flitted toward him, even for the briefest moment, Mobius couldn’t help but feel like it was deliberate. Like Loki knew exactly what he was doing, stringing him along, keeping him on edge.

He wasn’t counting the minutes. He wasn’t.

Except, of course, he was.

By the time the clock finally hit 1 a.m., Mobius’ nerves were a frayed mess. Casey, ever the observant one, hadn’t stopped grinning at him all night, tossing out the occasional quip about “silver foxes” and “private room magic.” Mobius had tried to tune him out, but it was hard when his own thoughts weren’t much better.

At precisely 1:04 a.m.—not that Mobius had been checking his watch every thirty seconds or anything—Loki appeared again. He was standing near the bar, chatting with the blonde barkeep, when his gaze finally landed on Mobius.

For a moment, Mobius forgot how to breathe.

Loki’s lips curved into a knowing smile, and he raised one perfectly manicured hand, gesturing toward the door with a slow, deliberate motion. Then, without another glance, he turned and disappeared into what Mobius assumed was the changing room.

Mobius stared after him, his heart pounding, his palms suddenly clammy.
“Well,” Casey said, breaking the silence. “Looks like your carriage awaits.”
Mobius tore his gaze away from the now-empty doorway and glared at Casey, who looked far too pleased with himself. “Not helping,” Mobius muttered, though he couldn’t keep the edge of nervous energy out of his voice.
Casey shrugged, leaning back in his chair with an unrepentant grin. “Good luck plowing the hot stripper.”
Mobius groaned, shaking his head as he pushed himself to his feet. “You’re the worst,” he said, though there was no real venom behind the words.
Casey just waved him off, still grinning. “Have fun!”

The cool night air hit Mobius like a shock when he stepped outside, the noise of the club fading into the background as the door swung shut behind him. He took a deep breath, the crisp air clearing his head slightly as he glanced around.

The street was quiet, save for the occasional car passing by. The neon sign of the club cast a faint pink glow over the pavement, and Mobius stuffed his hands into his pockets, suddenly feeling exposed under the streetlights.

It wasn’t long before the door opened again, and Loki stepped out into the night.

Gone was the glittering leotard, the towering confidence of the stage persona. Instead, Loki wore a long, dark coat that swept around his ankles, the fabric billowing slightly in the breeze. The only thing that hinted at the man Mobius had seen earlier was the pair of massive heels that clicked softly against the pavement as Loki approached.

He looked… different, Mobius thought. No less stunning, but there was a softness to him now, a humanity that hadn’t been there under the spotlight.
Loki stopped a few feet away, his lips quirking into that familiar smirk. “You waited,” he said, his voice low and warm.
Mobius let out a soft, incredulous laugh, running a hand through his hair. “Of course I waited.”
Loki’s smile widened, and he tilted his head, his dark hair falling over one shoulder. “Good,” he said simply, his green eyes glittering in the dim light.

Loki’s fingers were warm and sure as they wrapped around Mobius’ arm, tugging him into motion. Without a word, he began to walk briskly down the quiet street, his heels clicking sharply against the pavement. Mobius, a little disoriented but still very much attuned to the electric charge between them, stumbled slightly before adjusting his pace to match Loki’s. He had no idea where they were going, but something about the way Loki moved, confident and effortlessly in control, made Mobius trust him without question.

As they walked, Mobius stole glances at Loki, his curiosity growing with every step. The man’s coat swayed slightly with his movements, and Mobius couldn’t help but admire how well Loki wore the long, dark fabric. The streetlights cast a soft glow on him, highlighting the sharp angles of his face, the elegance of his stride, and the ever-present allure that seemed to surround him like a cloak. For the first time that night, Mobius realized that this wasn’t just a flirtation, wasn’t just about the undeniable chemistry. Loki was a mystery, one Mobius couldn’t resist trying to understand.

“So…” Mobius started, his voice slightly hesitant as the silence between them stretched on. “Where are we going, exactly?”
Loki didn’t look at him right away, his focus still forward, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes when he finally spoke. “My apartment,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact.
Mobius blinked, the realization hitting him harder than he expected. He’d figured they’d end up somewhere, but he hadn’t anticipated being led to the man’s personal space—his private world. “Your… apartment,” Mobius repeated, as though the words were foreign to him, a sense of disbelief creeping into his voice.
Loki only nodded, his grip on Mobius’ arm firm but not unkind. “Yes. You’ve been waiting long enough,” he added, voice smooth and teasing, like there was more to the statement than he was letting on.

They continued walking in relative silence, the sound of their footsteps the only thing filling the air between them. Mobius couldn’t help but notice the distance growing—not between them physically, but in his own thoughts. The night had taken on a surreal quality. He wasn’t sure when it had stopped being about just a strip club and a private dance, and when it had started to feel like something else entirely.

After what felt like an eternity, Loki finally led him up to a block of flats, the entrance lit by a few weak bulbs that barely illuminated the cracked sidewalk beneath their feet. The building was modest, nothing extravagant, but Mobius felt something shift in him as they passed through the door. It was strange, this feeling of being led somewhere that wasn’t part of the world he knew. A world that belonged to Loki.

They walked up two flights of stairs, and Mobius couldn’t help but marvel at how effortlessly Loki moved, his heels clicking rhythmically with every step. It seemed almost impossible that someone could walk with such ease in those shoes, but then again, Loki seemed to defy logic in every way imaginable.

When they finally reached the top of the stairs, Loki stopped in front of a door and fished a key from his pocket, unlocking it with a smooth motion. The door creaked open, and the moment they crossed the threshold, Mobius felt the air shift. Before Mobius could even get his bearings, Loki was right there—his body flush against Mobius’, his eyes burning with something that was no longer just play.
It was desire. Pure, unfiltered, and so intense that it nearly took Mobius’ breath away.

Loki’s lips crashed against his in a kiss that was nothing short of fierce. There was no hesitation, no tentative exploration—just raw heat as their mouths melded together. Mobius’ hands, almost as if guided by instinct, found their way to Loki’s waist, pressing him further into the door as their kiss deepened. The door behind them slammed shut with a muffled thud as their combined weight pushed against it.

Loki’s body was warm, every inch of him pressed against Mobius in a way that felt both urgent and inevitable. His tongue slid against Mobius’ in a slow, coaxing rhythm, and Mobius responded, his pulse quickening as heat pooled in his stomach. He couldn’t think straight, not when Loki tasted like fire and his body felt like it belonged against his own.
The kiss didn’t slow, didn’t soften—it only intensified. Loki’s hands roamed up to Mobius’ neck, his fingers threading into his hair as he tugged him closer, the touch possessive, almost as though he wanted to consume him entirely. Mobius, equally lost in the moment, pressed his own body against Loki’s, using their combined weight to shove the door fully shut, blocking out the world as they gave into the electric current between them.

They didn’t break apart for a long time, the heat between them keeping them anchored in the now, in that moment where nothing else mattered but the way their bodies were aligned, the way their lips moved together with a desperate intensity. Every touch was a promise, every kiss a question that Mobius didn’t know how to answer but was more than willing to explore.

Loki’s voice, barely a whisper, was hot against Mobius’ lips as he muttered, “Bedroom. Now.”

The command in his voice sent a thrill through Mobius, and without another word, he found himself following Loki through the small apartment. The air felt charged, thick with anticipation, and Mobius couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so alive—so desperately alive. He was drunk on the taste of Loki, on the heat of his body, and he didn’t know if he was capable of thinking straight.

They barely made it through the doorway before Loki’s lips were back on his, hot and demanding, as if he couldn’t get enough. Mobius felt himself losing control, his own hands working quickly to find the edges of Loki’s coat, tugging it off in a frenzy. But as the coat slid from Loki’s shoulders, Mobius froze for a split second, taking in the sight of him.

Loki hadn’t gotten changed.

Underneath the coat, there was only the sheer leotard that hugged his body, glittering in the dim light. The sight of Loki in nothing but that, with the coat discarded like an afterthought, made Mobius’ breath hitch in his throat. The realization hit him like a punch to the gut—this wasn’t just a stripper he was dealing with. This was a man who lived this, who wore this like it was a part of him. The thought made Mobius’ pulse race, desire flooding his veins.

The leotard stretched over Loki’s body, outlining the curve of his chest, the long lines of his legs, and the narrow waist that seemed made for holding. Mobius could hardly focus, his mind spinning, body reacting in ways he hadn’t anticipated.

Loki’s hands were already at Mobius’ shirt, yanking at the buttons with desperate urgency. His movements were frantic, as if he couldn’t wait to touch the skin beneath. Mobius couldn’t keep up. He pulled at Loki’s waist, his fingers grazing the bare skin beneath the coat, and he realized—too late—that he was as hungry for Loki as Loki was for him.

Loki let out a frustrated growl when he couldn’t get the shirt off fast enough, and Mobius finally stepped back, allowing him to yank it over his head. The cool air of the apartment hit his exposed chest, and he barely registered it before he was pulled back into Loki’s arms, crashing into him once more.

The fabric of the leotard brushed against Mobius’ skin as Loki pressed closer, and Mobius felt the unmistakable heat of Loki’s body—every curve, every inch of him—burning against his. The sensuality of it all was overwhelming. The mere thought of Loki, still in the leotard beneath the coat, made Mobius hard.

For a moment, they simply stood there, breathless and wild, bodies pressed together as though they couldn’t get close enough. Loki’s hands slid up Mobius’ chest, his fingertips tracing the contours of his muscles with a teasing, deliberate slowness that made Mobius shiver.

Mobius, intoxicated by the sight of Loki, the feel of him, couldn’t stop himself. His hands roamed down, fingers trailing over the smooth fabric of the leotard, pulling Loki closer with a renewed urgency. He needed more. He needed all of him.

Loki’s lips found his once more, and this time, there was no hesitation. The kiss was deep, insistent, their bodies grinding together in time with the rhythm of their tongues. It was dizzying, intoxicating, and Mobius didn’t know if he wanted to pull away or pull Loki closer. The man was a drug, and Mobius was already addicted.

Mobius' hands slid up Loki’s toned body, exploring every inch of him with a mix of curiosity and desire. His fingers brushed across the smooth skin, the tight muscles that seemed to respond to every touch. It wasn’t until his hands moved to Loki’s chest, cupping the soft swell of his breasts, that he hesitated, unsure if this was crossing a line. He wasn’t entirely certain of what he was doing, of how far this was going to go, but Loki’s reaction—deep, breathy, and somehow guttural—sent a jolt of heat straight through him.

The sound that Loki made—a low, almost musical moan—was unexpected, and it hit Mobius like a wave. His body seemed to react before his mind could process it, and Loki, sensing the shift, pushed himself into Mobius’ touch, encouraging him to go further. The confidence Loki exuded was infectious, and Mobius, though caught off guard by the intensity of it, followed Loki’s lead.

With a newfound sense of urgency, Mobius tugged at the straps of the leotard, pulling it down just enough to expose Loki’s chest. The action seemed to ignite something in the air between them, and Mobius couldn’t stop himself from leaning in, his lips pressing against the soft, warm skin of Loki’s left breast.

The taste of him was intoxicating—sweet and warm, the faintest hint of salt from their heated kiss. Mobius found himself marking the pale skin with his mouth, pressing soft bites against it, his teeth grazing lightly over the sensitive flesh. Loki’s body shuddered against him, his breath hitching, and Mobius felt a rush of satisfaction at the response, his body humming with the connection.

Loki’s hands fisted in Mobius’ hair, tugging him closer as though he couldn’t get enough of the heat Mobius was giving him. Each mark Mobius left on his skin seemed to only fuel the fire between them, and the tension in the room built with each passing second.

Mobius’ lips moved lower, tracing the soft curve of Loki’s chest, before finally taking the neglected nipple into his mouth. He sucked gently at first, teasing, before applying more pressure, pulling the hard peak into his mouth. Loki’s reaction was immediate—a sharp, breathless whine escaped his lips, and his body arched beneath Mobius as if he couldn’t get enough.

The sound of Loki’s pleasure spurred Mobius on, and he responded instinctively, swirling his tongue around the sensitive nipple, savoring the taste of him. Loki’s hands gripped his shoulders, pulling him closer as his chest heaved in a desperate rhythm, thrusting into the sensation.

In a sudden, fluid movement, Loki pushed himself up, maneuvering until he was straddling Mobius. The shift was seamless, almost practiced, as if he was used to taking control in moments like this. Mobius watched, transfixed, as Loki settled over him, his long legs framing Mobius’ body in a way that made it impossible to look away. It was the same position they had been in the private room, the same thrilling closeness, but now there was more urgency, more heat.

Mobius couldn’t resist his other hand, which immediately moved to Loki’s right breast, cupping it with the same possessive touch he’d given the other. He could feel the softness of the skin, the gentle weight of the breast in his palm, and as his thumb brushed across the hardened nipple, Loki let out a sharp breath, grinding his hips down against Mobius. The motion was slow at first, teasing, but it quickly grew more urgent as Loki rocked against him, his body seeking the friction, seeking more.

Mobius’ breath caught at the sensation of Loki’s body moving against his, the way Loki controlled the rhythm, pushing them both higher with every rock of his hips. It felt intoxicating, like being swept up in a tide, and Mobius couldn’t help but give in to the fire that burned between them.

Loki’s breath hitched as his body trembled under Mobius’ touch. His lips parted, a soft whimper escaping as he tried to catch his breath, and the sound of it seemed to pull at something deep within Mobius. The vulnerability in Loki’s eyes was intoxicating, and for a moment, they were both caught in the same rhythm of desire, not quite knowing where this would lead but unwilling to pull back.

“Fuck,” Loki gasped, his hands grasping at Mobius' shoulders as he tried to steady himself. He moaned softly and then, almost in disbelief, muttered, “I don’t even know your name.”
Mobius froze for a moment, his hands lingering on Loki’s hips, before he finally spoke, his voice hoarse from the heat of the moment. “It’s Mobius,” he said, barely able to form the words.

Loki’s lips curved into a mischievous grin, his eyes flicking up to meet Mobius’, and a soft laugh escaped him. It was low and teasing, filled with dark amusement. “Mobius?” he repeated, as if savoring the name. “I’d rather call you Daddy,” he murmured, voice laced with a challenge.

The words struck Mobius like a spark. His breath caught in his throat, a groan slipping from his lips, torn between disbelief and an undeniable desire that made his pulse quicken. The playful smirk on Loki’s face only deepened the need that seemed to coil tighter within Mobius. He couldn’t help but want more, to hear Loki beg for it, to feel him come undone beneath him.

Loki’s hands slid down Mobius’ chest, desperate, needy, and it only took a moment before he was pressing his hips closer, whining, “Please… put your hands down my pants, I need you to—please.”

Mobius was breathless, lost in the way Loki’s body moved under his touch, the way he trembled with need, the sound of his voice begging for more. There was something so raw, so beautiful in Loki’s desperation that it broke any last restraint Mobius might’ve had.

Without hesitation, Mobius let go of Loki’s large breasts, his fingers gliding down, moving to the leg hole of Loki’s leotard. The sensation of his skin against Loki’s was electrifying, and as Mobius slipped his hand inside the fabric, his breath caught in his throat. The feeling hit him like a wave—Loki wasn’t wearing anything underneath.

His mind spun with the realization. And then, as his fingers brushed against the smooth skin of Loki’s inner thigh, he felt it. The wetness. The heat. Loki’s body was already responding to him, and Mobius couldn’t suppress the shock of it. He swiped his thumb gently over Loki’s clit, testing, and was met with a soft, high-pitched whine of pleasure from Loki. The sound sent a shiver through Mobius, making him burn with the need to give Loki more, to hear that sound again.

Mobius kissed down Loki’s neck, his lips trailing over the delicate skin, tasting the salt of his skin, the sweetness of his breath. The feeling of Loki’s body under his hands was nearly too much to bear, and before he knew it, he was pushing him back onto the bed. Loki’s body fell with a soft thud, and Mobius quickly climbed on top of him, closing the space between them, his chest pressed flush against Loki’s. The intensity of it all seemed to surround them, filling the room with a burning desire that neither of them could escape from.

The air between them was thick with desire, and the room seemed to hum with the intensity of their closeness. Loki, already lost in the moment, was desperate for more, his hands frantically pulling at Mobius, trying to guide him, trying to get them both past this barrier of clothing. They struggled, each tug and pull bringing them closer to the edge, but the leotard was stubborn, clinging to Loki’s body like a second skin.

Loki whined, a needy sound that sent a jolt through Mobius, and he couldn’t help but smile, feeling a rare surge of confidence. For once, he wasn’t the one caught in a spiral of doubt. Here, in this moment, he felt in control, and it felt good—damn good. The way Loki was falling apart beneath him, his body trembling with need, only amplified that feeling.

Mobius hesitated for a moment, watching Loki squirm beneath him, his eyes full of desperate longing, his mouth slightly parted as he panted for breath. Then, with a breathless laugh, Mobius decided to stop second-guessing. He wasn’t going to hold back anymore.

Bending down, Mobius lowered his mouth to the heated skin of Loki’s inner thigh, feeling the tremors in his body, and with deliberate slowness, he licked a long, teasing stripe up the man’s wet pussy. The taste was intoxicating, rich and sweet, and Loki howled at the sensation, his body jerking violently beneath Mobius as he gripped the sheets with trembling hands.

Mobius couldn’t help but savor the way Loki’s body responded, the desperate whimper that escaped him, the way he pushed up into Mobius’ mouth as if he couldn’t get enough. It was intoxicating, feeding Mobius’ confidence further, and he dove in, the hunger in his movements almost primal. Loki writhed beneath him, his head tossed back into the pillow, his body shamelessly undulating as Mobius ate him out with abandon, like a man starved.

The sounds that escaped Loki were raw, desperate, and every little noise made Mobius burn with pleasure, knowing he was the one who was driving Loki to the edge like this. Loki’s voice trembled, broken with need, as he begged for more, his body shuddering violently with every pass of Mobius’ tongue.

And Mobius? He couldn’t remember the last time he felt this good about himself. For once, he wasn’t just the older, forgotten man. He was the one in control, and Loki was falling apart beneath him—just for him.

Loki’s body was a symphony of need, every inch of him trembling as Mobius’ mouth moved against him. The way Loki bucked desperately into the heat of his touch, the way his chest heaved, his breaths coming in shallow bursts, sent a thrill of power through Mobius. His hands gripped the bed, fisting the sheets as if he were trying to hold on to something solid in the sea of sensation Mobius was giving him.

Mobius pressed his mouth harder against Loki’s pussy, practically kissing him, devouring him with a raw intensity that felt as if he couldn’t get enough. Every soft groan, every desperate whine from Loki was like a melody, pulling him deeper into this moment. He didn’t think, didn’t second-guess; he simply followed the pull of his own hunger, moving against Loki with abandon.

Loki cursed under his breath, his voice thick and heavy with desperation, as he thrust himself harder into Mobius’ mouth. “God, Mobius… fuck, you’re gonna make me… please…” His words were slurred with pleasure, his body writhing against the pressure Mobius was creating.

And Mobius? He was relentless. He sucked on Loki’s clit with fervor, desperate for the sounds he knew would come next, for the way Loki’s body would explode into pure sensation beneath him. The heat from Loki’s pussy on his tongue, the way it pulsed against his lips, made Mobius feel alive in a way he hadn’t in years. It was as if he was trying to milk the man, coaxing every ounce of pleasure out of him as his own need to please took over.

Loki’s hand tangled in Mobius’ hair, pulling him closer, guiding him as he let out a stream of curses and desperate cries. The tension in his body was building rapidly, his thighs trembling as he rocked against Mobius’ mouth, unable to stop himself. Mobius gripped him tighter, holding him steady, not wanting to let go, wanting to give Loki everything he was begging for.

With each pass of Mobius’ tongue, each suction, Loki’s body seemed to unravel a little more, and Mobius could feel the power he held in that moment. The way Loki lost himself, the way he was completely at Mobius’ mercy, was intoxicating. Mobius couldn’t get enough, feeling every pulse of Loki’s pleasure with his own body.

Lokis legs clamped hard around Mobius’ head as he came hard, his hips shaking with desperation spilling out onto the mans tongue. Mobius lapped his wetness up desperately, whispering sweet praise into the mans folds. Just as he was about to pull away he felt Lokis grip return to his hair. “You don’t think we’re done do you?” He asked his voice heavy.

If Mobius wasn’t having such a good time, hes sure the promise would have made him scared, but right now it just made him desperate.

Chapter Text

Mobius knew he shouldn’t have gone fishing today.

He’d known it the moment he opened his eyes and felt the ache deep in his bones, the kind of heavy, gnawing pain that always meant trouble. It wasn’t age, and it wasn’t old injuries catching up with him. It was something older, something he’d learned to listen to after years of working the water. His father had called it "the pull," a way the sea warned you off when it was in a foul mood.

But Mobius had ignored it. He’d gotten up anyway, tied on his boots, and pushed the boat off the dock despite the low, bruised sky and the dead stillness of the early morning air. His boys needed feeding, and feeding them meant money, and money meant going out whether it felt safe or not.

Now, the sea was making him pay for it.

________________________________________

The wind howled around him, ripping at his coat and slamming into him with such force that he had to brace himself against the wheel to stay upright. The rain hammered down in blinding sheets, each drop like a needle against his face, stinging through the thin layer of salt and cold sweat that clung to his skin. It had started as a steady drizzle when he’d left the dock, but now it was a deluge, a wall of water that blurred the horizon and made it impossible to see more than a few feet in any direction.

The boat—his old, faithful Time Variant—pitched wildly beneath him, its timbers groaning like a dying beast. Waves rose up on either side, dark and massive, blocking out what little light filtered through the storm clouds. They came in erratic, punishing intervals, slamming into the hull with enough force to make the whole structure shudder. Mobius gripped the wheel with both hands, his knuckles bloodless and aching, trying to keep the boat steady.

He couldn’t.

Another wave hit the side, this one larger than the last, and the boat lurched violently to starboard. Mobius stumbled, his shoulder slamming into the wheel as he fought to keep his footing. Water surged over the deck, icy and sharp, soaking his boots and flooding the space around him. He could feel the weight of it, the way the boat seemed to sag under the added burden, and a fresh jolt of panic shot through him.

“Come on,” he muttered through gritted teeth, though his voice was swallowed instantly by the roar of the storm. “Hold together.”
The boat groaned again, louder this time, a long, drawn-out creak that sounded too much like a warning.

The sea was alive. That’s how it felt in moments like this. It wasn’t just water and salt and cold; it was a creature, massive and merciless, surrounding him on all sides. The waves weren’t random—they were deliberate, hammering into him with the kind of malice that felt personal. The wind screamed like a predator, tearing at the sails, the rain falling in relentless sheets as if the storm itself wanted to drown him.

Mobius could feel it in his chest, that ancient, primal fear that no man could outrun. The sea didn’t care who you were. It didn’t care about your reasons, your family, your desperation. It would take you anyway.

Another wave surged up, towering over the boat like a dark, writhing wall. For a moment, Mobius froze, his breath caught in his throat as he stared up at it. It came crashing down with a roar, slamming into the deck with enough force to knock him off his feet.

His head hit the wood hard, stars bursting behind his eyes. Cold water poured over him, filling his mouth and nose, choking him as he struggled to push himself up. The boat heaved again, and for a heart-stopping moment, he thought it might roll.

Somehow, it didn’t. The Time Variant righted itself, though the effort left it shuddering and swaying as if it were as exhausted as he was. Mobius dragged himself back to the wheel, his hands shaking as he grabbed hold of it again. His vision blurred, whether from the rain or the pain in his head, he couldn’t tell.

Mobius gripped the wheel harder, the cold metal slick beneath his fingers, his palms raw from the relentless friction. His heart thudded in his chest, a loud, panicked beat that drowned out everything but the deafening roar of the storm. He could barely breathe, the wind and rain tearing at him, but there was no time to think about that. The boat was slipping away from him, and no matter how hard he fought to hold onto it, it felt like it was being dragged down with every wave.

He tried to pull himself together, tried to push the thoughts of failure out of his head, but they kept creeping back in, stubborn and sharp. This was stupid. I should have stayed home.

One day without food would’ve been nothing—nothing compared to this. The thought of leaving his boys behind, of them waking up to find their father gone, made his stomach twist with nausea. He could see their faces, clear as day, those wide eyes of his youngest, the questioning stare of his older boy as if asking why his dad never came back.

They need you, Mobius. Don’t you dare leave them.

The ache in his chest had nothing to do with the cold anymore. His bones ached in a way that felt like guilt, like a heavy weight pressing down on him from the inside out. He had been the one to push out into this mess, the one who had chosen to fight the storm, and now it was too late to undo it. The sea wasn’t asking for permission. It was claiming him, taking what it was owed.

The boat shuddered beneath him again, this time more violently than before, the hull groaning in protest as the next wave slammed into it. Mobius’s body was jerked forward, his face crashing into the wheel with enough force to make the edges of his vision blur. His breath came out in ragged gasps, and for a split second, he thought it might be over. The world tilted, his knees buckled under him, and his body slumped. He had no strength left, no more will to keep fighting, but the sea wasn’t done with him yet.

He dragged himself back up, blood running from his split lip as he gripped the wheel once more. He didn’t have the strength to fight the storm anymore, not like this—not with his body burning with exhaustion and his mind swimming in panic. But he wasn’t ready to give in. Not yet.

His hand shook as he adjusted the sails, fighting to keep the boat from veering into the next wave. But it was like trying to fight a tide with a single hand. Every wave felt like a mountain, rising up to crash into him, each one more unforgiving than the last. His teeth ground together as the boat swayed again, nearly tipping under the force of another hit. He saw the sea, dark and foaming, curling up in front of him like an animal with a taste for blood.

It felt personal. It felt like the sea had marked him, like it was hunting him now, waiting to drag him under. The water surged up over the deck again, forcing him to stumble back as it sloshed into the small cabin, flooding his boots with cold, stinging salt.

His breath came quicker now, panic seizing him like a vice. This is it. You’re not going to make it home. You’re going to drown out here.

His mind couldn’t stop it, the onslaught of helplessness flooding his thoughts. The thought of not seeing his boys again, of them growing up without him, was unbearable. He could picture it so clearly, those faces staring back at him from the shore, waiting for a return that would never come. The thought of them—of the life he could’ve had—felt like a cruel mockery, a life slipping further away with every wave.

But there was no time for regret. No time for anything but the fight.

The boat groaned again, louder this time, its timbers creaking under the weight of the storm. Mobius’s muscles screamed for rest, but there was no rest to be had. The water had risen so high now that it was almost at the cabin’s edge, spilling in with every crashing wave. He didn’t know how much longer the boat could hold on, but there was nothing else he could do.

He dug his boots into the deck, forcing himself upright as the boat pitched sideways again. His stomach lurched as the sea rose up in front of him, a black wall taller than any wave he had ever seen before. It crashed down with a roar, a thunderous sound that swallowed everything else, and Mobius couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t fight it.

The next wave hit him like a freight train.

It came out of nowhere, crashing into the boat’s stern with a deafening roar. Mobius was thrown backward, his body slamming hard against the rear of the boat. Pain exploded in his skull as his head cracked against the wood, the world spinning for a moment, and he couldn’t tell if the warm trickle against his neck was blood or just the sea water that had flooded over him. He couldn’t focus on that. His chest was tight, his breath shallow, the cold pressing into him with a suffocating force.

He couldn’t breathe. His lungs burned as he gasped for air, but every breath came in ragged, painful bursts. His ribs ached like they were cracked, and his heart pounded in his throat, each beat like a warning.

Just hold on…

It was a thought that barely held weight anymore, slipping from his grasp as the reality of his situation gnawed at him. How much longer could he fight this? His arms felt like they were made of lead, and his legs refused to obey him when he tried to stand.

Through the haze of pain, something strange began to break through the storm.

It was a sound.

At first, Mobius thought it was just the wind—another cruel, high-pitched screech tearing through the air. But then it sharpened. Cut through the shrieking of the wind and the pounding of the rain like a knife through flesh. A song.

A melody so foreign, so impossibly clear amidst the chaos, that for a moment, he thought he was imagining it. The words were lost to the fury of the storm, but the tune—a slow, haunting cadence—cut through him. It tugged at his chest like a thread pulling him forward. His limbs moved sluggishly, uncoordinated, as though fighting the very pull of the storm itself. He dragged himself up, coughing, his body shaking as he tried to focus on the sound.

Where was it coming from?

He couldn’t see anything through the curtain of rain, but the song persisted, drawing him in, calling to him.

He squinted, trying to peer through the downpour, but everything was blurred. All he saw was a mass of rock, jagged and dark, rising from the water in the distance.

A figure sat atop it.

It was just a shadow at first, barely visible through the sheets of rain, but the song—the song grew louder. More urgent. It felt like it was vibrating beneath his skin. He could hear the pulse of it, even if he couldn’t make out the words.

He reached out, bracing himself against the side of the boat, trying to stay on his feet as he looked harder.

There was someone—no, something—on that rock. Their shape was indistinct, their body blurred and wavering like a mirage, but there was no mistaking the way they sat. Tall, graceful, unmoving, as if the storm itself didn’t touch them. And the song… it felt like it was coming from them, wrapping around him, pulling at his very soul.

Am I going mad? The thought barely registered in his mind. The pain in his head and chest seemed to dull everything, leaving only the song, the pull of it that was almost hypnotic.

He leaned forward, blinking, trying desperately to see more clearly. But the storm was relentless, and the world was a blur of water and wind, too thick for him to focus.

And then the sea rose again.

A monstrous wave surged forward, higher than anything he had seen so far. It loomed above him, dark and endless, as if the ocean itself was coming to claim him. Mobius had no time to react.

With a deafening crash, the wave slammed into the boat with a force that threw him off his feet. The boat lurched violently, tipping sideways as the water poured over him. He flailed, his arms and legs hitting nothing but cold, merciless water. The wind howled, and the rain stung like needles against his skin as he was pulled into the depths.

The world spun as he was dragged away from the boat, from the fading song. His body felt weightless for a terrifying second, before the pressure of the water crushed in, pulling him down, deeper into the darkness. The ocean’s cold fingers wrapped around his chest, squeezing the air out of him.

Mobius tried to scream, but the water filled his mouth, choking him. He kicked, his limbs numb and useless, but the current was too strong, the pull of the sea too powerful. It was a fight he couldn’t win. The last thing he saw, burned behind his eyes, before the world went dark was the jagged rock, that silhouette sitting atop it, a figure so distant and unreachable that it might have been a dream.

________________________________________

Mobius woke with a groan, his body stiff and sore, a deep protest from every muscle as he tried to shift. He reached instinctively for his blanket, pulling it over him to shield himself from the cool air, but... there was nothing there. His hand brushed against warm sand instead.

What the hell?

His eyes snapped open, and his heart thudded painfully in his chest as he took in the scene around him.

He wasn’t in bed. He wasn’t even in his house.

He was lying on a beach.

A beach? His mind struggled to make sense of it as he blinked, still disoriented.

The storm. The waves, the cold, the terrifying pressure of the ocean pulling him down. It all came rushing back in an overwhelming surge, the raw terror of the water’s grip. But now, nothing remained.

No storm. No crashing waves. No frigid bite of the sea.

It was… serene.

Mobius sat up slowly, his head swimming with confusion, and for the first time since he’d been thrown into the depths, a strange thought crossed his mind. Maybe this is death.

He looked around, taking in the scene in awe. If this was the afterlife, it was... beautiful. Stunning, even. The sky above was a brilliant sapphire, so impossibly clear it looked like a painting. Not a single cloud marred its perfect expanse. The sun was warm, the kind of sun that sank into your bones and soothed the aches from a long day’s work. There was no wind, no chill. Just warmth. A peace that he had never felt, not even in his most exhausted moments.

The beach stretched before him, wide and golden, the sand soft and inviting beneath his fingertips. It glimmered in the sunlight, the grains sparkling like tiny bits of treasure scattered across the shore. The ocean stretched out endlessly before him, its waters a shade of turquoise so clear it looked almost unreal. The waves were gentle, rolling toward the shore like a soft whisper, lapping at the sand in an endless, rhythmic pulse.

Maybe this is death, he thought again, but now, the idea didn’t seem so terrible.

The sound of the waves filled the air, but it wasn’t the oppressive roar he’d known from the storm. This was soothing, like a lullaby. The sea had become something entirely different here, something kind. It called to him, inviting him to sit and listen, to forget the terror that had once been.

Coconut palms swayed gently along the edge of the beach, their thick trunks reaching high, their fronds dancing lightly in the breeze. The trees seemed to belong here, like they were part of the island itself, part of the earth that had risen from the sea. The branches dipped low, almost like they were bowing to the ocean, their leaves rustling softly.

The air smelled sweet, like a mix of saltwater and tropical fruit, with a faint floral scent that drifted from the jungle behind him. It was so warm, so vibrant. It felt alive, like the island was breathing with him.

The foliage was a riot of green, the dense jungle beyond filled with a multitude of trees and plants that were so bright and alive it felt like a dream. The jungle stretched high into the sky, its thick canopy filled with deep emerald leaves, while flashes of color—bright flowers, tropical fruit—added splashes of reds, purples, and yellows.

Mobius stood shakily, his body feeling as if it had been reborn in the warmth of this place. It was as though the storm and the fear had never existed. As though, by some miracle or stroke of fate, he had been placed into this paradise, this world untouched by the cold, by the chaos he had known just hours—maybe minutes—before.

If this was death, if this was the afterlife, then… well, it wasn’t so bad.

He could lie here. He could live here, forever, surrounded by the beauty and the tranquility of this island. It was perfect. Peaceful. He could feel the warmth of the sun on his skin, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he could breathe without the weight of fear pressing on his chest.

Maybe it was better this way. Maybe he had earned this. Maybe he had been brought here to rest.

His gaze drifted out toward the horizon, where the water met the sky in a perfect line, and for a moment, it felt like time itself had stopped. There were no worries here. No responsibilities. No fears. Just this. Just the waves, the sand, the palm trees. The sun.

Mobius sat on the soft sand, feeling the warmth of the sun sink deep into his bones, the kind of warmth that made him forget everything. The heat wrapped around him like a comforting blanket, soothing the aches in his body that had remained after the storm. He let out a deep, contented breath and gazed out at the tranquil sea before him. The waves were gentle now, rolling in with a calm, rhythmic pulse that seemed almost hypnotic. The horizon stretched before him in a perfect, endless line, the sky blending seamlessly into the water. It was a view that seemed too beautiful to be real, but here it was. A paradise, untouched and serene, and Mobius could feel the weight of the world lifting from his shoulders.

If this was death, he couldn’t imagine a better place to be. For a moment, he let the thought settle, the peaceful warmth of the sun lulling him deeper into relaxation. The storm, the waves, the fear—they were all a distant memory now, far behind him, and this world felt like an untouched dream. Maybe this was the reward he’d never known he deserved. Maybe he was meant to be here, away from the chaos, the grind, the struggle. Just... here.

His thoughts drifted lazily, like the clouds that were so far away in this perfect sky, when suddenly—
"Oh good, you woke up. I was beginning to think you’d die on me."

The voice was like a splash of cold water, cutting through his thoughts and jolting him upright. Mobius whipped around, panic flickering in his chest for a split second, his gaze darting around the beach to find the source of the voice. But there was nothing—no one in sight—at least not until his eyes caught a glimpse of something.

There, just beyond the lapping edge of the waves, was a figure. At first, it was just a shadow in the water, something that could’ve been mistaken for a trick of the light or the rising waves. But then, the figure shifted, and Mobius saw it clearly—just the head, poking out of the sea, with dark hair matted by saltwater.

The man’s body was mostly submerged, and Mobius squinted, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. He could barely make out the stranger’s face, but it was unmistakable: a head of black hair, sleek and wet, clinging to his skin. Mobius found himself drawn to the movement of the man as he stepped closer to the shore, his bare feet cutting through the water with ease. The sound of waves rolling over his skin was calming, but it did nothing to ease the strange sensation growing in Mobius’ gut.

"Where… where are we?" Mobius asked, his voice hoarse from the storm’s remnants, his mind still grappling with the reality—or unreality—of his surroundings. He had to know, had to understand what was happening.

The man didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he swam closer, the water splashing around his toned body as he moved through it effortlessly. Mobius' breath caught in his throat as the stranger’s face came into full view, and for a heartbeat, it felt like the world itself had stopped turning.

The man was gorgeous.

It was the only word that seemed to fit, but it didn’t even do him justice. He looked like something pulled straight from a painting, an ethereal vision brought to life. His black hair, shoulder-length and dripping wet, curled slightly at the tips, framing a face that could’ve been sculpted by the gods themselves. High cheekbones, sharp and elegant, beneath striking sea-green eyes that glowed with an intensity Mobius could feel from a distance. Long, dark lashes framed those eyes, making them appear even more piercing. His skin was pale, almost porcelain, glowing against the contrast of the dark water. His shoulders were lean and toned, muscles flexing as he moved effortlessly through the sea. And Mobius… Mobius was floored.

The man’s gaze held Mobius for a moment, and then he smiled—just slightly, as though he knew exactly what Mobius was thinking. That knowing smile made Mobius’ stomach flip uncomfortably, as if this stranger, this impossible figure, had already read his thoughts. But then, as if teasing him, the man splashed back into the water slightly, sinking lower until only his head remained above the surface.

Mobius couldn’t help but feel a strange pang of longing, like something inside him was reaching out to this figure, as if he had been waiting for him all along. But then, the man spoke again, breaking the tension that had thickened in the air.

"We’re at an island," he said, his voice calm and smooth, like the lapping waves themselves. "A few hours’ boat ride from the mainland."
The words hit Mobius with a sudden clarity, and he blinked, trying to process them. He wasn’t dead, then? He hadn’t somehow ended up in some strange, afterlife paradise? The island made sense, but not the man. Not the surreal beauty of everything around him. The sense of being pulled into something out of his control.

A few hours’ boat ride away?

The man remained in the water, floating lazily in the calm waves, watching Mobius as if he were the most intriguing thing he had ever seen. And Mobius? He couldn’t tear his gaze away, caught in the strangeness of it all, unsure whether he should feel relief or terror.

But the voice—the voice that had interrupted his peaceful, awe-stricken thoughts—was so impossibly familiar, so intoxicatingly gentle, that Mobius found himself unsure whether to trust it or not. There was something undeniably captivating about the man, about the way he moved, about the way the world seemed to bend around him like the water beneath his skin.

Mobius blinked slowly, still trying to wrap his mind around everything. His heart was racing, his thoughts clouded by the surreal beauty of the island and the stranger in the sea. He was still so dazed, still reeling from the storm, from the cold, the fear. It was hard to focus, hard to think clearly. But the questions kept coming, bursting to the surface like the waves at his feet.

He hesitated for a moment, unsure of how to voice them, but the words came anyway. "How... how did I get here?" His voice was hoarse, still thick with the remnants of panic, but there was something else there now too—a strange kind of curiosity.

The man’s laugh caught him off guard. It was soft, gentle, almost like the sound of light rain pattering against the surface of the sea, the kind of sound that might’ve been comforting if it weren’t so unexpected. The laugh seemed to carry an amused warmth, as if the man knew exactly how out of place Mobius felt.

"I saw you go flying out of your boat," the man said, his voice calm and smooth, but there was an edge of amusement in it. "Quite the sorry sight, I must say." His smile was gentle, but there was something cryptic in it, as though he was enjoying the confusion he was causing.
Mobius frowned, his mind racing as he pieced it together. "You... you saw me? You pulled me out of the water?"
The man nodded, his eyes glimmering in the sunlight as he looked at Mobius with an odd mixture of amusement and something else Mobius couldn’t quite place. "I grabbed you," he said simply. "Figured I’d give you a hand."

For a moment, Mobius was quiet, still trying to process the fact that he was talking to someone—no, something—who seemed to know far more than he should. He opened his mouth to ask more, but then a memory hit him like a wave, slamming into his chest with a painful force.

The figure. The one he’d seen sitting on the rocks during the storm.
That sight—the silhouette of someone perched on the jagged edges of the rock, unmoving and serene while the storm raged around him—had stayed with him. It didn’t make sense.

He blinked, still trying to piece together what was real and what wasn’t. Finally, the words left his mouth, his confusion bleeding through. "But… you were sitting on a rock. In the middle of the storm. How—"

The man cut him off with another soft laugh, a sound that made Mobius’ stomach tighten, though he couldn’t quite explain why. The stranger seemed genuinely amused by his questions, as though he found Mobius’ bewilderment charming.

"I’m a very strong swimmer," the man replied, as though that explained everything. He gave Mobius another of those strange, knowing smiles, his eyes glinting with something almost mischievous.

Mobius stared at him for a long moment, his brain scrambling to understand what was happening. A swimmer? In the middle of a storm like that? It didn’t add up, didn’t make sense. And yet, here he was, sitting at the edge of the sea, his clothes soaked but seemingly untouched by the chaos that had surrounded them only moments ago.

"I… I don’t understand." Mobius shook his head, still trying to make sense of it all. "You’re telling me you were just sitting on a rock… in that storm?"

The man’s smile widened, and he shrugged, as though it was the most natural thing in the world. "Why not? The sea is a beautiful thing, even when she’s angry. Sometimes, it’s better to face her head-on." His voice was calm, almost serene, and his gaze seemed distant for a moment, as if he were thinking of something far beyond Mobius’ reach.

Mobius blinked again, trying to gather his scattered thoughts, but the more he tried to understand, the more questions swirled in his mind. And yet, the strange man in front of him—this impossibly beautiful figure who appeared to be made of the sea itself—seemed so calm, so at ease with everything.

Maybe I’m still in shock, Mobius thought, shaking his head slightly. Maybe none of this is real.

Mobius hesitated, watching as the stranger moved gracefully through the water. The way he swam, so effortlessly, like he was one with the sea, left Mobius caught in a strange blend of awe and confusion. It was hard to focus—his mind was still spinning from the chaos of the storm, from the surreal beauty of the island, and now this enigmatic figure who had appeared out of nowhere to save him. For a moment, Mobius wondered if he was still hallucinating, if the trauma of nearly drowning had sent him spiraling into some kind of fevered dream. He had no real reason to trust this person, but something about him felt strangely... safe.

And still, Mobius couldn’t shake the feeling that he should at least offer something in return, especially since this stranger had, in some way, saved his life. The least he could do was tell him his name, give him something to hold onto, even if he wasn’t entirely sure what was happening.

“My name’s Mobius,” he said slowly, the words coming out more quietly than he intended. He wasn’t sure why he felt the need to tell this man, but it seemed right somehow, like it would be rude not to.

The man paused in his swimming, and for a long moment, he just stared at Mobius. His sea-green eyes seemed to look right through him, as though he was weighing Mobius with a depth that made him feel small. Finally, he spoke, his voice smooth, as if it had been carried on the waves themselves.

“Loki,” he said, his name rolling off his tongue effortlessly, almost like music.
Mobius blinked, the name lingering in his mind. Loki. It was beautiful, fitting for someone who looked like he belonged to the sea. He didn’t say that aloud, of course. Instead, his curiosity drove him to ask, “Aren’t you cold?”
Loki’s laughter, light and melodious, echoed over the water. “Not really,” he replied, his tone easy and carefree. “The sea’s pretty warm around here. You’d be surprised. And anyway, I wouldn’t want to give you a fright.”
"A fright?" Mobius repeated, confused. His brow furrowed slightly, his mind still processing the oddness of the situation. “I don’t think anything’s going to frighten me more than that storm.”

Loki’s laughter rang louder at that, as though Mobius had just said something utterly ridiculous. “Oh, you’d be surprised,” he said, his voice dripping with amusement. “I can almost guarantee you’re wrong.”

And then, as if to prove his point, Loki began swimming toward the shore.

Mobius watched, mesmerized, still trying to piece together who—or what—this man was. The more he looked at Loki, the more things didn’t add up. As Loki swam closer, there was something unsettling about him, something that Mobius hadn’t quite noticed before. The man’s ears… they weren’t quite right. They were pointed, almost delicate, like they didn’t belong to a human at all. And the whites of his eyes weren’t white—they were faintly iridescent, shimmering in the sunlight as if they held secrets Mobius couldn’t begin to understand.

For a brief moment, Mobius wondered if he was seeing things. Maybe the stress of everything, the exhaustion from the storm, was making him hallucinate. But then Loki pulled himself onto the beach, and Mobius’ breath caught in his throat.

Loki dragged himself up onto the sand with ease, but instead of standing, he pulled himself up using only his arms, lifting himself with fluid grace. Mobius stared, trying to make sense of it all. He thought he had seen everything—he had weathered the storm, fought against the waves, and now he was here, on this strange, beautiful island. But what he was seeing now was like nothing he’d ever imagined.

Where Loki’s legs should have been, there was a large, glittering tail. The tail was a rich emerald green, shimmering in the sunlight, and Mobius could see small loops of fine jewelry woven into it, sparkling like tiny stars under the sun’s rays. His mind whirled, and his mouth went dry as he tried to comprehend what he was looking at.

Mobius could only stare, dumbfounded, at the man—or... whatever he was—before him. His head spun, and he had to take a moment to steady himself. He spluttered out the only word that made any sense.

“Mermaid?”

Loki’s laugh rang out, wild and free, as though he found Mobius’ confusion utterly charming. And in that moment, Mobius realized that nothing about this situation would ever make sense. Not the island, not the storm, and certainly not the beautiful, impossibly strange creature sitting before him.

He felt like he was caught in the tide of something bigger than himself, something he couldn’t begin to understand, and yet, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from Loki.

Loki gave his tail a little wiggle, the emerald green scales catching the light as they shimmered with every subtle movement. He blinked slowly at Mobius, his sea-green eyes catching the sun in a way that made them look almost hypnotic. Mobius couldn’t look away. He should’ve been more concerned, more aware of the strangeness of the situation, but at that moment, all he could do was watch Loki, his mind still trying to make sense of the impossible
.
For a few long moments, Mobius remained silent. He had heard of mermaids before, of course. They were the stuff of old sailor's tales and fantastical myths, but he had never really believed they were real. He’d chalked them up to sailors getting drunk and seeing things, or weaving exaggerated stories to pass the time. But now, sitting on a beach with one lounging just a couple feet away from him, Mobius wasn’t so sure. The sparkling tail, the way Loki had moved through the water, the way he had saved him from drowning—it was all too real
.
Mobius was beginning to understand why Loki had been able to sit on a rock in the middle of a storm without fear. A human would have been torn apart by the wind and waves, but a mermaid? A creature of the sea? He should have known. It all made sense now, in a way. The comment about being a “strong swimmer,” the effortless way he had pulled himself from the water, the strange, ethereal quality to him—it all added up.

But still, there was something about Loki that didn’t quite sit right with Mobius. Something subtle, something he couldn’t quite place. Maybe it was the way he seemed so at ease, so unfazed by everything. Or maybe it was the way the air around him seemed to shimmer, like the sea itself was bending to his will. Mobius frowned slightly, trying to pinpoint the feeling, but the more he thought about it, the more elusive it became.

Maybe I’m just being stupid, Mobius thought, shaking his head slightly. This is crazy, and I’m losing it.

He couldn’t stop himself from glancing at Loki’s tail again, mesmerized by how it sparkled in the light. The sight of it was so breathtaking that it almost didn’t feel real. Hesitantly, Mobius gestured to it, his voice awkward as he tried to make conversation.

“I like your tail,” he said, trying to keep the awkwardness from creeping into his tone, though it was hard not to. He felt ridiculous—talking to a mermaid, of all things—but what else was he supposed to say?

Loki seemed pleasantly surprised by the compliment, his lips curling into a soft, amused smile. He blinked slowly, clearly intrigued by Mobius’ reaction. “You do?” he asked, his voice light, almost teasing.

Mobius, feeling the weight of the awkward silence that hung between them, shifted on the sand. He hadn’t meant to come off so strange, but it was hard to think straight when the very thing he was looking at seemed impossible. His gaze flickered to Loki’s face, his stunning, ethereal features, and then back to his tail, as if checking that it hadn’t somehow vanished into thin air.

Loki's expression softened, and he gave a little chuckle, his gaze still warm. “I’ll take that as a compliment. Not many get the chance to admire it up close.”

Mobius wasn’t sure what to make of that, or if Loki was even being serious, but he couldn’t deny the odd sense of comfort that was slowly creeping in. He sat down next to Loki, his movements cautious but tentative. The air was warm, the sun still beating down, and the tension that had been knotting his shoulders slowly started to unravel.

For a moment, they just sat there, the sound of the waves crashing softly against the shore filling the silence. Mobius felt a strange, almost peaceful stillness settle over him, despite everything that had happened. Maybe it was the warmth of the sun on his skin, or maybe it was Loki’s presence.

Loki broke the quiet stillness, his voice light but with a surprising authority that made Mobius pause. "You must be hungry," he said, his eyes flicking toward Mobius with a knowing gaze.
Mobius blinked, suddenly aware of how empty his stomach felt. He hadn’t eaten in hours, maybe longer. The storm, the struggle for survival—everything had pushed his hunger to the back of his mind, but now, with the adrenaline faded and the calm settling over him, he realized just how famished he was.

Without much thought, he nodded in agreement. "I am," he admitted, his voice a little quieter than usual.
Loki smiled, a small, almost mysterious smile, and his eyes sparkled with something between mischief and command. "Then start a fire," he instructed. "And I’ll see what I can do about the food."

Mobius hesitated, but there was something in Loki’s tone—so sure, so authoritative—that made him feel almost obliged to follow through. Like it wasn’t a suggestion, but a quiet expectation. He didn’t question it. Instead, he stood up and began gathering wood, feeling the rough, weathered bark beneath his fingers as he sifted through the piles of driftwood scattered along the beach.

The stones he found easily enough, sharp-edged and flat, perfect for kindling the flame. He stacked them carefully, then began rubbing two sticks together, focusing intently on the task at hand. There was a part of him—still lost in the oddity of the situation—that could hardly believe this was real. But he couldn’t let himself get distracted. He was cold, hungry, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew this could all go wrong if he didn’t focus.

As the first flicker of flame caught, Mobius kept his attention on it, watching the fire slowly begin to grow, the crackling of the wood breaking the silence. He almost didn’t hear the splash of water, the soft ripple of movement near the shore, as if something was emerging from the sea again.

When Mobius finally lifted his gaze, his eyes squinting against the fading daylight, he saw the sky turning golden and orange with the coming sunset. Loki had returned, slipping from the water like some kind of mythical creature—his emerald green tail sparkling in the last rays of the sun.

In his hand, he held a fish, large and sleek, its scales shimmering faintly in the light. A proud smile stretched across Loki’s face as he dragged himself closer to Mobius, his tail swishing through the sand with fluid grace.

Mobius stared at the fish for a moment, still slightly caught up in the surreal nature of it all. "That’s… impressive," he said, a little breathless. It didn’t even occur to him to ask how Loki had caught the fish or where he’d found it. It didn’t matter. In a place like this, it was all just part of the magic.
Loki didn’t answer right away. Instead, he handed the fish to Mobius, his eyes bright with amusement. “Go ahead,” he said, gesturing to the fire. “Cook it. It’ll taste much better that way.”

Mobius didn’t hesitate. He took the fish, preparing it carefully over the flame, the crackle of it sizzling in the heat. He focused on the task, turning the fish every few moments to make sure it didn’t burn, the smell of it filling the air as it cooked.

When it was finally done, the fish was golden and crisp, steam rising from it in a cloud of savory warmth. Mobius pulled it off the fire, and without thinking, offered it to Loki first, holding it out in a silent gesture.

Loki blinked, clearly caught off guard, and for a moment, he just stared at the fish, his expression unreadable. Then, to Mobius' surprise, he shook his head. “I’m not hungry,” he said softly, his voice almost hesitant for the first time.
Mobius was taken aback, frowning slightly. “You’re not?” he asked, unsure why that felt so strange. "But... you brought it. You caught it."
Loki’s smile returned, but it was more subdued this time, a quiet sort of kindness in his eyes. "You’re the one who did the work," he replied. "You should eat."

Mobius didn’t know what to make of that. But it didn’t matter. He hesitated for a moment longer before taking a bite of the fish himself, the tender meat flaking apart under his teeth. The warmth of the food spread through him, and for a moment, he felt like he was grounded again. The storm was gone, the tension was gone, and though he was still confused by everything that had happened, he felt… okay.

The fish tasted better than anything he’d had in a long time. The salt from the sea was still on it, and there was a hint of something otherworldly in the flavor, something that felt deeply tied to the water and the earth beneath them. He didn’t speak at first, just chewed slowly, letting the taste linger.

After a few more bites, he glanced over at Loki, who was watching him quietly. There was something both calm and unreadable about the man, and Mobius couldn’t quite shake the sense that he was being observed in ways he didn’t fully understand. But for now, he was content to sit in the strange peace of the moment, the sun dipping lower in the sky, the fire flickering warmly beside them.

As the fire crackled and danced, its warm light flickering on the beach, Mobius couldn’t help but glance at Loki’s tail. The way it caught the firelight, the shimmering green scales reflecting the glow in a way that almost seemed to make it pulse with life. Every movement of Loki’s tail, the subtle ripples and flex of the muscles beneath, was hypnotic. Mobius couldn’t tear his eyes away, his gaze drawn to the graceful way it swished behind him, the soft curve of it, the smoothness that was both otherworldly and undeniably beautiful.

Loki seemed to notice the attention, blinking slowly, his eyes narrowing with a knowing, almost playful glint. He tilted his head, as if trying to gauge Mobius' reaction.

Mobius cleared his throat, feeling suddenly self-conscious, but he couldn’t help himself. He felt compelled to speak. “Your tail…” he started, the words feeling almost too small for what he truly wanted to convey. “It’s absolutely beautiful. You—” He cut himself off, realizing that was only part of it. “You’re beautiful.”

Loki’s lips curled into a soft smile at the compliment, but there was a lightness to his laugh that carried a strange edge—something almost sad, something Mobius couldn’t quite place.

The sound tugged at him, and for a fleeting moment, the warmth of the fire, the beauty of the island, all seemed to fade away. Mobius stared at Loki, studying his features in the firelight, and he realized something was different now. Something shifted in the air between them, and it left Mobius feeling more exposed than he wanted to be.

Loki, sensing the change, tilted his tail a little closer to Mobius, an almost inviting gesture. “You can touch it if you want,” he said, his voice low, soft. There was a slight hesitation in his tone, but it wasn’t forced, more like a quiet offer—a gift given with little expectation.

Mobius’ heart skipped a beat. It was unexpected, and yet, there was something about it that felt right. But even as the words tumbled from Loki’s lips, Mobius hesitated. His fingers twitched, unsure, but the curiosity and the undeniable pull of the moment were too strong to resist.

Setting the fish aside, Mobius slowly extended his hand, his fingers brushing against the smooth, shimmering scales. They were cool, but not cold, and they felt hard to the touch, like a protective shell, but with an undeniable softness beneath. He ran his palm up the length of Loki’s tail, feeling the subtle tension of muscles rippling beneath the smooth texture. The more he touched, the more he could feel the power that lay beneath it—Loki’s tail wasn’t just beautiful, it was strong, and the way it flexed under Mobius’ touch told him just how much strength was packed into every inch of it.

It was unlike anything Mobius had ever felt before, a strange texture almost like that time he touched a snake at the zoo—slippery but firm, with an elasticity that spoke of untold strength. The muscles beneath the scales seemed to coil and move with ease, as though Loki could snap out of the water at any moment with effortless grace.

Mobius whispered the word almost reverently, his voice barely above a breath, “Stunning.”

The moment the word left his lips, he saw the change in Loki. His gaze softened, the slightest flush rising across his cheeks, and for a second, Mobius thought he might be imagining it. But no, Loki’s skin—the normally pale, almost ethereal hue—shifted just slightly, the faintest hint of pink coloring his face.

Loki didn’t say anything for a while, his eyes closing briefly as if he was savoring the feeling of Mobius’ touch. When he opened them again, they were warm, the sadness from before gone, replaced by something more vulnerable. He swallowed hard, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

“Most people don’t like it that much,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. There was something different now—something unspoken between them that felt almost fragile.

Mobius, still tracing his fingers along the tail, felt a soft lump form in his throat. He didn’t know what it was about the moment, but it felt strangely intimate. And the longer he touched Loki’s tail, the more he realized he wasn’t just admiring it. He was connecting with it—somehow, with Loki himself.

With a final hesitant touch, Mobius slowly pulled his hand away, his fingertips still tingling from the contact. His gaze met Loki’s, and for a moment, neither of them said anything. They just sat there, the firelight flickering between them, the quiet lapping of the ocean against the shore the only sound filling the air.
Loki didn’t seem to mind the silence. He seemed content, in a way that Mobius couldn’t fully understand.

Mobius swallowed, his voice low and uncertain, “I hope that was okay.”
Loki’s lips twitched, and then he nodded slowly. “It’s more than okay,” he replied, his voice softer than before. “It’s… nice.”

Mobius leaned back, letting his head fall against the warm sand. The coolness of the beach beneath him was grounding, a stark contrast to the stormy chaos he’d endured hours before. His eyes drifted upward to the sky, the fading light casting a soft glow over the horizon. He watched the sky shift slowly from gold to pink, and then a deepening violet as the sun sank lower.

He felt the weight of the day’s exhaustion settling in his bones, but it was oddly peaceful here. He could hear the soft lapping of the waves against the shore, the crackle of the fire, and the occasional distant call of birds—sounds he hadn’t noticed before, but now they seemed to fill the space between him and the stranger-turned-guardian sitting beside him.

“I have two boys,” Mobius said suddenly, his voice a bit rough from the storm, but steady. He felt the need to share, to fill the silence. “Kevin and Shaun. They’re sweet, you know?” He smiled to himself, imagining their faces, their laughter, the way they’d run around the yard without a care in the world. They were his reason. His anchor.

His gaze wandered back to the sky, his thoughts drifting into that familiar space of longing and worry. He wondered how long it would be before he could see the stars here. Would they look the same as they did back home? Would Kevin and Shaun be looking at them right now, wondering where he was?

His chest tightened at the thought. He longed for the comforting routine of his life, for the simple and familiar moments that seemed so far away. But no matter how badly he wished for it, he had no idea when he would get to go back.

There was a long, heavy silence, and Mobius was just about to close his eyes and let the cool night air wash over him when something else occurred to him.

“You were singing,” he said quietly, and immediately felt stupid for saying it.

Loki’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second, and then Mobius saw something flicker across his face. It was a moment of something—something almost painful—before it quickly slipped away. His expression softened as he replied, “I was.”

Mobius blinked, the words lingering in the air. He hadn’t meant to bring it up in a way that felt awkward, but now that it was out there, he couldn’t shake the thought. “You have a beautiful voice,” he said, his words coming with a sincerity that he couldn’t disguise.

Loki looked at him, and for a long moment, the mermaid’s expression was one of quiet sadness. Mobius hated the look in his eyes. He wanted to see him smile again, wanted to take away whatever cloud was hanging over him. His stomach twisted at the sight.

“You don’t have to be sad,” Mobius said quickly, almost without thinking. “You really do have a beautiful voice. It’s—” He struggled for the right words, feeling the weight of everything he couldn’t quite say.

Loki’s lips parted slightly as if to speak, but instead, he only gave a small, fleeting smile. It wasn’t the same as before—softer, more fragile.

Mobius hesitated, before his voice broke through the silence once again. “Will you sing again?” he asked, almost pleading without meaning to. “Please?”
Loki was quiet for a moment, the sadness still hanging in his eyes, but there was a flicker of something else—something Mobius wasn’t sure how to read. Finally, the mermaid spoke, his voice gentle but carrying a hint of something deep.
“I can only sing in the water,” Loki said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Mobius frowned. “Is that… something you can’t change?”
Loki gave a quiet nod, his gaze turning toward the water, his fingers idly tracing through the sand. “It’s... not something I control.”

Mobius’s brow furrowed as he processed the words, but before he could respond, Loki turned his eyes back toward him, looking directly at Mobius for the first time in what felt like ages.

“Are you sure you want to hear me sing?” Loki asked. The question seemed odd to Mobius, but he didn’t think on it too deeply. Maybe it was just Loki being cautious, or hesitant about sharing something so personal.
“Yeah,” Mobius said, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I want to hear it. I’m sure.”

Loki’s lips quirked, and Mobius saw a glimmer of something like relief in his eyes. Then, to his surprise, Loki reached out, brushing his thumb gently over Mobius’s cheek. The touch was so soft, so fleeting, Mobius barely had time to register it before Loki slipped gracefully into the water, his body disappearing beneath the surface with barely a ripple.

Mobius watched him go, a sense of awe and quiet anticipation filling him. His chest tightened with the urge to hear that voice again, to hear what Loki’s song would sound like in the cool, soothing embrace of the sea. He waited, his heart pounding in his chest, knowing something profound was about to happen.

The waves gently lapped against the shore as Mobius sat in the growing twilight, his eyes fixed on the darkened water. He held his breath, waiting for the music to come.

As he sat there, the soft glow of the fading day began to soften around him. The last traces of sunlight dimmed, giving way to the deepening twilight. But then something else began to happen, something that felt almost... unreal. A strange, ethereal light danced beneath the water, like tiny sparkles weaving through the darkening depths. It shimmered and moved with a fluid grace that made Mobius’s breath catch in his chest.

And then the song began.

It was soft at first, a gentle ripple of sound that carried across the sea, just above the rhythmic crash of the waves. The voice was haunting, like something ancient, a melody that seemed to rise from the depths themselves. It pulled at him in ways he couldn’t explain—reminding him of lost moments, of quiet regrets, and of some deep, gnawing sorrow that he couldn’t quite place. It was beautiful, impossibly so, but there was something deeply melancholic about it. Like the voice itself carried a history of unspoken pain.

He couldn’t understand the words, but that didn’t matter. The song wrapped around him like a shroud, tightening in his chest, filling him with an aching need to know more, to hear more. He wanted to dive into the song, to drown in it. To understand whatever story it told.

A sudden rush of cold, wet sensation interrupted his trance-like reverie. He blinked, confused, and looked down. His legs were now submerged in the water, the cool waves lapping gently at his knees. When had he stood up? When had he moved into the sea?

He couldn’t remember.

But it didn’t matter. His mind was far too focused on the voice that beckoned him, pulling him deeper, urging him to go further. His feet sank slightly into the wet sand, and with each step, the melody grew louder, wrapping itself tighter around his thoughts. The sea had become a world of its own, drawing him in like a magnet, its rhythm matching the beat of his own heart.

You shouldn’t be doing this, his rational mind whispered to him. He was fully clothed. The water was cold. The night was drawing in, and soon there would be no sunlight to dry him.

But none of that mattered. He couldn’t stop himself.

His body moved on its own, his legs carrying him deeper, the sea caressing his skin, urging him onward. He had to see Loki’s smile again. He had to see the man’s face as he sang, as his voice echoed across the waves. He couldn’t explain why, but the need felt primal, like a force greater than his own will was pushing him forward. The closer he got to the source of the song, the more alive he felt—his pulse quickened, his breath deepened, his heart ached with something he couldn’t name.

The water now reached up to his waist, and still, he didn’t stop. He wasn’t sure what was driving him, but he didn’t care. There was only the song, the haunting pull of it, and the distant hope that Loki was waiting for him.

Mobius swam deeper into the water, the eerie glow of the light pulling him forward with an almost magnetic force. He kicked and paddled, the coolness of the sea enveloping him completely. His breath quickened, and his mind raced, but all he could focus on was the sound of Loki’s voice—the beauty of it, the pull of it, the undeniable need to get closer.

The world above the water felt distant now, the firelight on the beach a faint, dying memory. Below the surface, everything was different—shimmering and surreal, as if he had entered a realm of magic. The light danced before him, almost like it was guiding him, and he followed it, entranced, until he found himself beneath the waves.

And that’s when he saw him.

Loki.

Except, this wasn’t the Loki he knew.

Mobius’s heart skipped a beat, and his pulse thundered in his ears. A hulking, monstrous figure swam toward him, its presence like a storm that churned the water around it. Muscles rippled under murky gray skin, and the man’s features were twisted, his once-beautiful face now grotesque and monstrous. His teeth were sharp, gleaming in the light, points so dangerous that they seemed to threaten everything in their path. His tail, once shimmering with emerald beauty, was now a dull, sickly color—worse, it was covered in large, jagged spines that seemed to grow from his back like some twisted weapon.

And his eyes.

The eyes that had once held tenderness now looked empty, clouded black, like endless pits that reflected nothing but malice and hunger.

Mobius’s body went rigid, a chill seizing him from the inside out. The clarity hit him like a crushing wave, and everything seemed to freeze in place.

Fuck.

Mermaids weren’t the ones known to sing. Sirens were.

It clicked—everything. The reluctance to sing, the strange air of mystery that Loki had carried. He wasn’t just some beautiful, otherworldly creature. He was something far darker, far more dangerous. Mobius had been drawn into a trap, and he hadn’t even realized it until it was too late.

Panic surged through him, and he thrashed in the water, suddenly realizing how deep he had gone. His lungs burned for air, and his heart pounded as he scrambled to get away. He kicked his legs, trying to swim back toward the island, back toward the safety of the shore, but it was no use.

Something cold, unyielding, wrapped around his legs. Hands.

Mobius gasped, his breath escaping him in a panicked rush as his body was yanked down, deeper into the murky abyss. His vision blurred as he struggled, heart hammering in his chest, the water pressing in on him from all sides. He kicked, twisted, but the grip on him only tightened, pulling him further into the dark water where the light seemed to fade away.

And then, right before his eyes, the monstrous form of Loki rose up from the depths, his twisted face inches from Mobius’s. The sea around them swirled violently, the current strong enough to pull at Mobius’s body, and his breath felt like it was being squeezed out of him with every passing second.

No, Mobius thought, his mind desperate, as his lungs burned and his body screamed for air. No. Not like this.

The sharp teeth glinted, and the horrifying version of Loki stared at him with a predatory gleam in his eyes. Mobius’s chest tightened with terror, realizing he was at the mercy of this creature, this siren who had lured him into the water with the promise of a beautiful voice and a smile.

And now he was trapped.

Mobius’s body twisted and strained against the siren’s grip, his lungs burning as he struggled to free himself. Every movement felt futile, every attempt to break free only dragging him further into the deep, cold water. His vision blurred, the world around him spinning as the terrifying form of Loki loomed closer, his massive frame eclipsing the dim light that filtered through the water.

But then, something stopped Mobius in his tracks.

His eyes locked with Loki’s.

The raw hunger and malice Mobius had seen before didn’t disappear, but there was more to those eyes. They held knowledge, ancient and heavy, like the weight of countless years of secrets buried beneath the sea. And sorrow. A deep, aching sorrow that was impossible to ignore, even in the midst of the terror Mobius felt.

In that moment, something shifted in Mobius’s chest, a strange pull toward the creature before him. His earlier thoughts, his sense of fear, seemed to fade into the background as his eyes traced the shimmering lines of Loki’s tail. It wasn’t sickly or monstrous like he’d initially thought—it was still green, but it was a different shade, rich and vibrant. The spines that lined the tail rippled with an iridescent glow, catching the faint light from above, giving it a breathtaking beauty.

And Loki. The siren before him was more than just a predator. His large teeth, sharp as they were, weren’t ugly; they were perfect, deadly, and strangely mesmerizing.

Mobius had thought he was prepared for this moment, for whatever horror might come after being dragged under. But now, as he looked at Loki—truly looked at him—he realized he was wrong. He had been prepared for death. Prepared for a beautiful afterlife in a strange land. But what he wasn’t prepared for was the truth: that he would die at the hands of such a beautiful creature.

In the grip of that impossible beauty, Mobius’s mind seemed to slow, his heartbeat thudding in his ears as his hand, almost against his will, reached up to touch the siren’s cheek. His fingers brushed against the cool, slick skin, and he exhaled softly, the bubbles from his breath rising in the water as his lips formed the silent word: “Beautiful.”

The word hung in the water between them, muffled and soft, but it didn’t go unnoticed.

Loki’s eyes widened in surprise, his gaze flickering from Mobius’s face to his hand still resting on his cheek. The tension in the water, the terror, the hunger—they all shifted in an instant. Mobius didn’t have time to understand what had happened, though. Because before he could even process it, everything around him moved at a lightning speed.

In one smooth motion, Loki’s powerful hands gripped him tighter, and Mobius found himself yanked out of the water. The air rushed into his lungs as his body broke the surface, saltwater spraying around him. He gasped, blinking in shock as Loki pulled him up, his strength undeniable as he cradled Mobius against his chest.

The siren’s eyes were still wide with something between disbelief and something else that Mobius couldn’t name, but there was no time to think about it. His heart was still hammering in his chest, and his body was trembling, the saltwater dripping from his clothes and his skin as he struggled to catch his breath.

Loki had saved him.

But the question was: Why?

Mobius’s hands gripped Loki’s shoulders tightly, steadying himself as the siren held him with such surprising gentleness. The force of the pull had left him disoriented, the world still spinning in his mind. But as he found himself cradled against Loki’s chest, he couldn’t help but notice how effortlessly the siren supported him, how his strong arms seemed to hold him with a kind of care that belied his monstrous form.

For a few moments, the only sound was the soft swish of Loki’s tail cutting through the water and Mobius’s ragged breaths, his chest heaving as he tried to process the overwhelming flood of emotions surging within him. Fear, awe, confusion—everything was tangled together, and he couldn’t seem to unravel it.

Then, a whisper, almost lost in the wind.

“Beautiful?”

Mobius froze, his heart skipping a beat as he looked into the clouded, longing eyes of the siren before him. Those eyes, once empty and menacing, now held something far softer, something he couldn’t name. His breath caught in his throat, and for a moment, everything else in the world seemed to fall away.

The sea, the danger, the terror—everything faded as he locked eyes with Loki. Slowly, his head nodded, a quiet affirmation escaping his lips as he gazed at the siren, the weight of the moment pressing on him.

“The most beautiful being I’ve ever seen.”

And with that, the world seemed to hold its breath, the water still around them as the siren—no, Loki—gazed back at him with something unspoken passing between them. Something heavy, and something that would never quite leave Mobius, no matter what happened.

Chapter Text

Loki Odinson had long since stopped questioning the cruelty of people. It wasn’t his business to care, and he liked it that way. Yet, every so often, something came along to tug at the threads of his waning patience. This was one of those moments.

The room was dimly lit, a heavy gray haze hanging in the air from Thanos’ ever-burning cigar. The scent was acrid, filling Loki’s nostrils as he leaned back in his chair, one ankle lazily propped on the opposite knee.

Across from him, the curly-haired woman looked utterly dwarfed by the bulk of Thanos, her frame thin and almost birdlike compared to the giant of a man. Yet her sharp eyes betrayed none of the unease that most people exhibited in his presence. She was seething with something far stronger than fear: anger.

"An ex-husband?" Loki finally asked, his tone dry as his gaze slid toward the stack of papers Thanos had just slapped onto his desk. He didn’t reach for them yet. Instead, he let his fingers drum against the arm of his chair, waiting for her response.

“Yes,” Ravonna replied, her clipped voice echoing with contempt. “The bastard stole everything from me. My kids, my life—he left me with nothing.”
Loki tilted his head, his eyes narrowing slightly. “So naturally, the only solution is murder.”

Ravonna didn’t flinch. If anything, her chin lifted higher, her jaw tightening as if daring him to challenge her further. Thanos let out a low chuckle, the sound rumbling through the room like distant thunder.

“It’s not your job to understand, Loki,” Thanos rumbled, taking the cigar from his lips and tapping ash into a tray. “Just to deliver.”
“Of course,” Loki said smoothly, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in what might have been a smirk—or a sneer. He pushed himself up, reaching for the file with an air of disinterest. “I’ll take it.”

Ravonna’s expression didn’t change, but there was a flicker of satisfaction in her eyes as she stepped back, letting Thanos lead her toward the door. Loki barely spared them a glance, already flipping open the file as the heavy thud of Thanos’ boots receded down the hall.

His office was a dingy, depressing affair, barely more than a glorified storage closet. The walls were painted a sickly shade of gray, and the single fluorescent light overhead buzzed faintly, casting an unforgiving glare over the chaos that was his desk. Stacks of papers were piled haphazardly, interspersed with half-empty coffee mugs that hadn’t seen soap in weeks.

Loki sank back into his chair, letting out a low sigh as he skimmed through the file.

Mobius M. Mobius. Mid-40s. Divorced father of two. A photograph clipped to the top of the page showed a man with a kind face, soft eyes, and a silver mustache that gave him an air of understated charm. He didn’t look like someone who deserved to be here, but then again, neither did most of Loki’s targets.

Years in this business, and he still wasn’t used to it. The faces always lingered, no matter how hard he tried to ignore them. It wasn’t guilt, not exactly—it was just... something. A faint tug in his chest, a fleeting thought of what their lives might have been like if they hadn’t crossed paths with someone like him.

He shook the thought away, turning the page to find details of Mobius’ daily routine: work, school drop-offs, coffee shop visits. Normal. Ordinary.
Unremarkable.
Except, of course, to the people who wanted him dead.

For all the years he’d spent in this world, surrounded by people like Thanos and his merry band of killers, he’d never fully understood how far some people would go to satisfy their grudges.
“Rich and petty,” he muttered to himself, a faint scoff escaping his lips. “What a combination.”
Still, work was work.
And now, Mobius M. Mobius was his.

Loki snapped the file shut and leaned back in his chair, letting his gaze linger on the cracked ceiling above him. If he played his cards right, he could get this job done quickly—efficiently. Maybe even have time to grab something decent for dinner tonight. A small treat for all his hard work, he decided with a wry smirk.

With a soft grunt, he pushed himself up from the chair, wincing as his back protested the movement. The ache served as a lingering reminder of the so-called "training session" with Thanos earlier that day. Training, of course, being Thanos’ polite way of saying “a brutal beating disguised as a lesson.” Loki rolled his shoulders, the stiffness refusing to ease, and muttered under his breath.

Moving toward the cluttered desk, he grabbed a few essentials for the evening’s work: a bottle of water, a snack bar he’d swiped from Proxima’s stash, and, of course, the tools he’d need to get the job done. The sleek black case sat under a pile of forgotten files, its presence both familiar and grim. He slung it over his shoulder with practiced ease, letting its weight settle as he cast a quick glance around the room to ensure he hadn’t forgotten anything.

Satisfied, he headed for the door, his boots echoing faintly against the scuffed linoleum floor. The corridor outside was as dreary as the rest of the compound, lit by flickering overhead lights that gave everything a sickly yellow hue. The air smelled faintly of damp stone and disinfectant, the kind of smell that lingered long after you’d left the place behind.

As he made his way toward the exit, Loki passed by Maw, who was lingering by the doorway to another office. The tall, gaunt man turned his head just enough to shoot Loki one of his trademark nasty glares, his pale eyes narrowing in thinly veiled disdain. Loki didn’t even pause, his response automatic as he raised a hand and flashed a middle finger in Maw’s direction.

The gesture earned a hiss of irritation from the man, but Loki didn’t bother looking back. He had better things to do than waste energy on Maw’s theatrics, and besides, this job was already dragging enough without adding a petty hallway squabble to the mix.

The hallway stretched on, dim and labyrinthine, until he finally reached the main doors. He pushed them open, stepping out into the cool evening air. It hit him like a balm, crisp and fresh compared to the suffocating confines of the building behind him. Loki paused for a moment, taking a deep breath as he let his eyes adjust to the darkness. The city lights flickered in the distance, a sprawling expanse of glittering opportunity and quiet danger.

He pulled the file from under his arm, flipping it open once more as he leaned against the wall outside. Mobius M. Mobius. The name sat there, bold and unassuming, alongside the photograph that still nagged at the back of Loki’s mind. He let his eyes scan the page, committing the details to memory: the address, the routines, the connections. Every line was a breadcrumb leading him closer to the target.

“Let’s get this over with,” he muttered to himself, tucking the file away and straightening up. He adjusted the strap of the black case on his shoulder and set off down the street, his mind already calculating the quickest route to Mobius’ home.

If all went well, he’d be home in time to crack open a bottle of wine and treat himself to something that didn’t taste like despair.

________________________________________

The night had deepened by the time Loki perched himself on the low wall across from Mobius’ home, hidden beneath the shadow of a sprawling oak tree. The house was unremarkable, a single-story suburban affair with a slightly overgrown lawn and paint that looked like it had seen better days. There was a clutter of toys near the driveway—a plastic tricycle tipped on its side, a deflated soccer ball, and what appeared to be a small ramp for a skateboard. It wasn’t messy enough to scream neglect, but it wasn’t far off either.

Loki tilted his head, his eyes narrowing as he considered it. This was the life Ravonna wanted erased? It wasn’t as though the man lived in splendor or excess. It wasn’t even particularly clean. Still, people’s grudges rarely cared for reason, and this was just another job.

The case at his side clicked softly as he opened it, revealing the sleek black sniper rifle nestled within. It was a beautiful piece of craftsmanship—elegant, efficient, and expensive. Loki had always appreciated the artistry of his tools, even if the purpose they served was far less poetic.

With practiced precision, he set up the rifle, balancing it on the wall as he adjusted the scope. His movements were fluid, almost languid, as though this were just another part of a well-worn routine. The rifle was ready in moments, the barrel aimed squarely at the house. All that was left was to wait for his target.

And then, there he was.

Mobius stepped out of the house, the porch light casting a warm glow over his silver hair and the truly appalling ensemble he was wearing. Cargo shorts and a t-shirt emblazoned with a cartoon jetski. Loki’s lip curled faintly as he adjusted the scope, focusing it on the man’s head.

“Truly a loss for the fashion industry,” Loki muttered under his breath, his voice a low murmur that vanished into the night. He shifted his weight slightly, the stock of the rifle pressing firmly against his shoulder as he lined up the shot.

The crosshairs rested on the side of Mobius’ head, steady and unwavering. Loki’s finger brushed the trigger, light and deliberate, ready to end this job before the man could even finish stepping off the porch.

But then—movement.

A small figure darted out of the house, and Loki’s heart gave an involuntary lurch. A child.

The boy couldn’t have been older than six, maybe seven, with shaggy blonde hair and an oversized hoodie that nearly swallowed him whole. He bolted toward Mobius, his sneakers slapping against the pavement as he let out a delighted laugh.

Loki froze, his finger hovering over the trigger as he watched Mobius turn and crouch, scooping the boy up in one smooth motion. The kid squealed in delight as Mobius spun him around, the two of them bathed in the pale glow of the porch light. Their laughter reached Loki even from where he sat, soft and genuine in a way that made his chest feel oddly tight.

The boy’s hair caught the light as he threw his head back, the color so similar to Thor’s that Loki’s stomach churned.

(Don’t think about Thor.)

The man cradled the boy close as he carried him back toward the house, murmuring something that made the child giggle again. The sight was so painfully domestic, so achingly ordinary, that Loki found himself still staring long after the door clicked shut behind them.

Shit.

He’d missed his first opportunity.

Loki let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, lowering the rifle with a muttered curse. His hands felt unsteady, which irritated him more than he cared to admit. He folded the rifle back into its case with more force than necessary, the elegant weapon now a reminder of his own hesitation.

He shouldn’t have hesitated. It was a mistake, one he couldn’t afford to make again.

But as he stood and slung the case over his shoulder, the image of the boy’s shaggy hair and Mobius’ warm laugh lingered in his mind, refusing to fade.

________________________________________

Luckily for Loki, he didn’t have to wait long. An hour later—an hour of sitting on a cold, damp wall that had done his already sore back no favors—the porch light flicked on again, and Mobius stepped outside.

Loki’s eyes narrowed as he adjusted his position, his legs stiff from sitting still for so long. Mobius looked a little more put together this time: khakis, a button-down shirt, and a blazer that didn’t entirely clash. But just as Loki was about to grudgingly admit that the man had at least tried, his gaze snagged on the tie.

Jetskis. Again.

The tie was an appalling shade of blue with tiny jetskis printed all over it, as if it had been plucked straight from a bargain bin at a gas station gift shop. Loki stared, his brain temporarily short-circuiting. What the hell was wrong with this man? Who willingly wore something so absurd?

The brief moment of disbelief cost him. By the time he registered that Mobius had moved, the man was already climbing into his car. Loki blinked, his focus snapping back to the task at hand, but it was too late. The engine roared to life, the car pulling out of the driveway and disappearing down the street before Loki could even raise his rifle.

“Unbelievable,” Loki muttered under his breath, leaning back against the wall with an irritated sigh. He pinched the bridge of his nose, willing away the growing sense of frustration. Two missed opportunities in one night. What was wrong with him?

He took a moment to compose himself, drawing a slow breath before dropping down from the wall. His boots hit the pavement with a soft thud, and he straightened up, brushing dampness off his coat as he turned to follow.

Fortunately, Loki had taken the time earlier to tag Mobius’ car with a tracker—a small, discreet device he’d stuck to the bumper while scoping out the house earlier. It wasn’t his usual method, but tonight wasn’t shaping up to be a night of usual methods.

As he began his pursuit, the cold night air bit at his face, and his fingers flexed instinctively at his sides. Mobius might have slipped away twice, but Loki wasn’t about to let this job spiral any further out of his control.

The streets were quiet, the distant hum of traffic blending into the night as Loki moved with practiced ease, his eyes flicking to the small tracker device on his phone. The blinking dot was a reassuring presence, a reminder that no matter how many times Mobius managed to slip through his fingers, Loki always had the upper hand.

Still, he couldn’t shake the nagging thought that this was already proving to be more complicated than it should have been.

________________________________________

The tracker led Loki to a bar.

The file hadn’t mentioned anything about Mobius being the type to frequent bars, which was either an oversight or a sign that Mobius wasn’t as predictable as his routine suggested. Either way, it was irritating. Loki groaned quietly as he leaned against a lamppost across the street, staring at the unassuming little pub. Warm light spilled from the windows, and faint laughter and music filtered into the cool night air.

“Well, isn’t this cozy,” Loki muttered, pulling his coat tighter around him as he made his way to the door.

The pub was even cozier inside. It wasn’t particularly large, but it was packed with people, the hum of laughter and chatter blending into the clinking of glasses and the faint strum of live music from the corner. It smelled like spilled beer and fried food, and the warmth of the crowd hit Loki like a wall as he stepped inside.

This wasn’t the sort of place for his usual line of work—not with this many witnesses. Loki slipped through the crowd, weaving between laughing patrons and waitstaff balancing trays of drinks. He made his way to the bar, leaning on the polished wood counter as he flagged down the barman.

“One shot,” Loki said, his voice dry. “Of whatever you’ve got that’s strong and cheap.”
The barman raised an eyebrow but nodded, pouring a measure of something clear and unremarkable into a small glass. Loki didn’t bother asking what it was. He downed it in one sharp gulp, the burn spreading through his throat and chest as he scanned the room.

It didn’t take long to find him. Mobius was standing at the far side of the room, surrounded by a small group of people. They were chatting animatedly, their laughter carrying over the din of the bar. Loki’s gaze locked onto him, his irritation growing as he noted how comfortable the man looked, like he belonged here.

And then he saw the cake.

A small, round birthday cake sat on the table in front of Mobius, its frosting a cheerful swirl of blue and white with little plastic jetski decorations dotting the edges. Mobius held a knife in his hand, cutting slices and passing them around to the people gathered with him.

Loki stared, his expression flat as his irritation reached new heights.

“For heaven’s sake,” he muttered under his breath, rubbing a hand over his face. “A birthday party. Of course.”

The sight was almost painfully stereotypical. Mobius looked every bit the soft-hearted suburban dad the file had made him out to be. There was no sign of the shrewd manipulator Ravonna had described, no trace of the “bastard” she’d raged about in Thanos’ office. Just a silver-haired man in a tie covered with jetskis, smiling warmly as he handed out slices of cake to his friends.

Loki leaned back against the bar, exhaling a slow breath through his nose. He wasn’t about to take a shot in the middle of a crowded pub, no matter how tempting it was to put an end to this absurd assignment. Instead, he let himself watch, scanning the scene for some hint of... something.

But there was nothing. No deceit, no malice. Just laughter, warmth, and—good grief—cake.

“This is ridiculous,” Loki muttered, his fingers tapping impatiently against the edge of the bar. He wasn’t sure if he was more frustrated with the situation or with himself for still being here.
Mobius laughed at something one of his friends said, his shoulders shaking slightly, and Loki felt that same strange tug in his chest.
He frowned, signaling for another shot.

Loki stayed where he was, watching Mobius from the corner of his eye as the minutes dragged on. The man was clearly enjoying himself, laughing with his friends and cutting more slices of cake as if his life didn’t currently hang by a thread. The warmth in his expression didn’t falter, and his friends seemed just as charmed by him as the small child back at the house had been.

Loki’s fingers drummed against the bar in irritation. He didn’t have time to wait for this party to wind down. Well, technically, he did—Thanos wasn’t exactly known for his tight deadlines—but the idea of sitting here all night, surrounded by the smell of beer and fried food, was unappealing at best.

Letting out a long sigh, he straightened up. If waiting wasn’t an option, he’d move to Plan B.

Fishing a hand through his hair, Loki smoothed it back into place, letting a bit of deliberate charm settle into his expression. Then, with a slight wave, he caught the barkeep’s attention once again.

“Whiskey,” Loki said, his voice low and smooth. “For the man over there. The silver-haired one.” He nodded toward Mobius and then added, almost as an afterthought, “And make sure he knows it’s from me.”

The barkeep gave him a curious look but didn’t ask any questions, quickly pouring a glass of whiskey before passing it to a waiter. Loki watched with casual interest as the waiter wove through the crowd, approaching Mobius’ group and leaning in to murmur something.

Mobius turned his head toward Loki, glass in hand, his expression shifting from confusion to mild surprise. Loki met his gaze with a faint, knowing smirk, raising his own glass in a mock toast before lifting his fingers in a lazy wave.

Mobius blinked, clearly thrown off guard. Loki took the opportunity to beckon him over with a crook of his finger, lounging against the bar as if this were all just a casual game to him.

It wasn’t often Loki initiated social interactions, but when he did, he made sure to make an impression. His sharp features and dark attire gave him a presence that was hard to ignore, and he leaned into it now, letting the faintest air of mystery surround him as he waited for Mobius to make his move.

The silver-haired man glanced between Loki and his friends, clearly weighing his options, before letting out a small laugh and setting down his plate of cake. He said something to the group—likely an excuse or a promise to return—and then began to weave his way through the crowd, whiskey in hand, making his way toward Loki.

Loki couldn’t help but smile to himself, his fingers brushing idly over the rim of his glass as he waited.

Mobius slid onto the stool next to Loki, his whiskey in hand, a faint, curious smile tugging at his lips. Up close, the man looked as unremarkable as the house Loki had been watching earlier—average height, silver hair brushed back carelessly, and that ridiculous tie with its tiny jetskis. Loki stifled the urge to roll his eyes.

He leaned casually against the bar, his fingers trailing the rim of his glass as he glanced over. “Nice tie,” Loki said, letting his tone hover between amusement and mockery.

Mobius looked down at it, then back up with a faint laugh. “Yeah, gets a lot of reactions.”
“I can imagine,” Loki said dryly. He gestured lazily toward the tie. “What’s the story there? Do you sell them, collect them, or are you just really into... water sports?”
Mobius chuckled, his shoulders relaxing a little. “I sell them. It’s kind of my thing.” He took a sip of his drink, then gestured at Loki. “And you? What’s your thing?”
Loki smirked, letting his eyes linger on Mobius for a beat. “Wouldn’t you like to know.” He tilted his head, his gaze sharp but inviting. “Let’s just say I’m good at reading people.”
“Oh yeah?” Mobius leaned back slightly, clearly amused. “Alright, then. What’s your read on me?”
Loki pretended to consider it, his lips quirking upward. “Hmm. Midwestern, definitely. A bit too trusting for your own good, but not naive. You’ve got a stubborn streak, though, I’d bet.”
Mobius raised his eyebrows, surprised. “That’s... not bad.”
Loki’s smirk deepened. “I’m rarely wrong.”
Mobius chuckled again, shaking his head. “Alright, your turn. Let me guess—you’re not from around here. Big city guy, huh? You’ve got that look about you.”
“Oh?” Loki arched a brow, feigning curiosity. “And what look might that be?”
Mobius gestured vaguely toward him. “You know. Polished. Sharp. Probably used to fancier places than this.”
“Maybe,” Loki said with a slight shrug. “But sometimes places like this have their charm. Unpolished, cozy... full of surprises.” He let his gaze linger on Mobius again, the faintest smirk playing at his lips.
Mobius tilted his head, studying him. “So what brings you here? Don’t tell me it was the tie.”
Loki chuckled softly, brushing a hand through his hair. “Let’s call it curiosity,” he said smoothly. “I spotted you across the room and thought, ‘Now there’s someone worth talking to.’”

Mobius looked genuinely surprised for a moment before a warm smile broke across his face. “Well, I don’t get drinks sent my way every day, so I guess I’ll take that as a compliment. I’m Mobius, by the way.” He extended a hand, the gesture open and easy.
Loki hesitated for the briefest of moments before taking it, his grip firm and deliberate. “Loki,” he said, his voice low and smooth.
“Loki,” Mobius repeated, testing the name as though it held weight. Then he nodded. “Alright, Loki. So, what’s the angle here? You just out to meet new people, or do you make a habit of buying drinks for strangers in dive bars?”

Loki smirked, pulling his hand back and raising his glass. “Oh, I’d hardly call you a stranger, Mobius. We’re drinking together now, aren’t we? That makes us, at the very least, acquaintances.”
“Fair enough,” Mobius said, smiling as he raised his glass in return. “Here’s to new... acquaintances.”

Loki tipped his drink toward him before taking a sip, the faintest flicker of satisfaction crossing his face. This was going well. Mobius was relaxed, open, falling into the easy rhythm of conversation.

But as Mobius leaned back slightly, his smile warm and genuine, Loki felt a faint, unwelcome pang in his chest. This was supposed to be a simple game. Charm, flirt, get close enough to finish the job. Yet, for a moment, it felt almost too easy.

Shaking off the thought, Loki leaned in just a little closer, his tone dropping lower. “So, Mobius. Tell me. What’s a man like you celebrating tonight?”
Mobius smiled warmly, swirling his whiskey in his glass. “Birthday, actually. Big day for me, I guess.”

Loki arched an eyebrow, feigning mild surprise. “Ah, that explains the cake.” He gestured toward the now slightly lopsided dessert on the table across the room. “Though I must say, I wouldn’t have pegged you as someone who’d make a fuss about it.”

Mobius chuckled, a little sheepish. “Wasn’t really my idea. My friends dragged me out here. Said I needed to celebrate.” He paused, then added with an easy grin, “If you’re nice, I might even grab you a slice.”

Loki leaned closer, resting his arm on the bar as he let his fingers trail through the air near Mobius’s tie before drifting upward to graze the edges of his silver hair. The soft strands felt cool against his fingertips, and the closeness was enough to make Mobius’s breath catch slightly.

Loki’s lips quirked into a smirk as he murmured, his voice low and teasing, “I’ve never been much of a fan of cake.” His fingers lingered a moment longer before slipping away. “But frosting?” He leaned in just enough to let his breath brush against Mobius’s ear. “That’s a different story.”

Before Mobius could respond, Loki closed the distance between them, catching the older man’s lips in a deep, heated kiss. His hand slid to the back of Mobius’s head, fingers curling lightly in the silver strands as he poured just enough passion into the moment to keep it feeling effortless.
When Loki finally pulled back, his lips curved in a wicked smile. “Hmm,” he mused, his voice soft but playful. “I think I could taste the frosting just from your lips.”

Mobius blinked at him, momentarily caught off guard, his whiskey glass forgotten in his hand. His gaze turned heated, his free hand rising tentatively to brush through Loki’s dark hair, his thumb grazing the edge of his jaw.

“Well,” Mobius said, his voice slightly breathless, “that was... unexpected.” He paused, his expression softening as he added, “Not unwelcome, though.”
Loki let out a low chuckle, leaning into the touch just enough to keep Mobius hooked. “Good. I’d hate to think my instincts were off.”

Mobius hesitated for a moment, his hand still in Loki’s hair, before glancing at his watch with a faint sigh. “I can’t stay out too long,” he said, his tone regretful. Then, his lips quirked into a sly smile. “But... if we hurry...”

Loki tilted his head, letting the pause hang in the air before his lips curled into a knowing grin. “Lead the way,” he murmured, his green eyes glinting with mischief.

________________________________________

Loki wasn’t sure whether to be amused or exasperated as Mobius tugged him up the narrow staircase of the pub. Their steps were clumsy, tripping over each other’s feet as Mobius paused every few moments to press Loki against the wall for another kiss. Loki let it happen, his hands sliding up Mobius’s back, already congratulating himself. This had gone perfectly. Absolutely perfectly.

By the time they reached the top floor, Loki’s grin was sharp and triumphant. As Mobius fumbled with the key to the little rented room, Loki’s fingers brushed the hidden seam in his coat, ready to slip out the blade as soon as the timing was right.

The door creaked open, and Mobius staggered inside, pulling Loki with him. With one firm push, Mobius pressed Loki back against the closed door, their mouths colliding once again. His hands were warm against Loki’s waist, gripping tightly as if he didn’t want to let go. Loki kissed him back with fervor, one hand slipping up Mobius’s chest, the other just brushing the edge of his coat.

Perfect, Loki thought, letting his fingers hover over the hidden knife. Now, just distract him for one more second, slip the blade, and—

Mobius suddenly pulled back, a sheepish expression on his face. “Wait, wait,” he said, holding up a hand.
Loki blinked at him, his hand freezing mid-motion. “What?” he asked, his tone sharp, confused by the sudden halt in momentum.
Mobius smiled apologetically. “Sorry. I just realized—I haven’t exactly been a great host, have I?”
Loki stared at him, entirely thrown off. “Host?” he repeated blankly, wondering if the man had hit his head on the way up the stairs.
“Yeah,” Mobius said, gesturing vaguely toward the bed. “You’ve been out there, buying me drinks and being all charming, and I haven’t even offered to grab you a glass of water or anything.”
Loki blinked again, his thoughts grinding to a halt. Was this man serious?
Before Loki could protest, Mobius stepped back and began tugging at the lapels of Loki’s coat, a kind smile on his face. “Here, let me get this off you first. You’ve gotta be roasting in this thing.”
“No, that’s really not—” Loki started, but Mobius had already slid the coat off his shoulders and draped it neatly over the back of a chair.
Loki sat there frozen for a moment, his entire body tense. His knife—his only weapon—was still tucked in the hidden pocket of his coat, now out of reach. What the actual hell was happening?

Oblivious to Loki’s mounting confusion, Mobius walked over to a small table in the corner of the room, where a pitcher of water and a couple of glasses sat. He poured one, turning back to Loki with that same easy smile. “Here,” he said, holding the glass out. “Figured you might need this after all that whiskey.”

Loki stared at him, utterly dumbfounded. Slowly, he reached out to take the glass, his fingers brushing Mobius’s as he did. He muttered something resembling a “thanks” before looking down at the water like it had personally offended him.
Mobius perched on the edge of the bed beside him, his expression soft. “You okay? You seem a little... distracted.”

Distracted didn’t even begin to cover it. Loki couldn’t decide whether to laugh, scream, or stab the man right there and then. This wasn’t how these things were supposed to go.

He took a sip of the water, mostly to buy himself a moment to think. He’d planned for a lot of scenarios, but being stripped of his weapon by a well-meaning dilf who wanted to hydrate him? That one hadn’t made the list.

Loki recovered quickly, masking his confusion with a sly grin. “Distracted?” he echoed, tilting his head and letting his voice drop to a lower, more velvety register. “You could say that.”

He placed the glass on the small coffee table without a second glance, then leaned in, closing the gap between them once more. His lips brushed Mobius’s softly at first, then deeper as he let his hands slide up the man’s shoulders, pulling him closer.

Focus, Loki thought, though it was getting harder to keep his mind on the task. Finish the job, collect the money, move on. He wondered vaguely if Thanos might throw in a little bonus for all this trouble. It was one thing to deal with targets, but dealing with targets who offered you water and kissed you like you were the only person in the world? That was another level entirely.

Mobius’s lips left his, trailing down to his neck with a warm, deliberate slowness. Loki shivered, his breath hitching as he felt the man’s mustache tickling his skin. It was oddly pleasant, a sensation that sent little sparks of heat down his spine.

He bit back a groan, his hands reflexively gripping Mobius’s arms as the man worked his way lower, his lips brushing just below Loki’s jawline. It was all going... too well. Mobius, oblivious to the knife hidden just a few feet away, was backing him onto the bed, guiding him down with surprising gentleness for a man who clearly had some weight to him.

Loki let himself be eased onto the mattress, his green eyes locked on Mobius’s with a smoldering intensity. He reached for the hem of his shirt, pulling it up over his head in one smooth motion, making sure to maintain eye contact the entire time. Seduction was a game he played better than anyone, and Mobius wouldn’t know what hit him—metaphorically speaking, of course.

The fabric slipped free, and Loki tossed the shirt aside, expecting a reaction. He got one, but it wasn’t what he’d anticipated.

Mobius froze, his eyes widening as a small gasp escaped him. But it wasn’t the sort of gasp Loki had been aiming for. There was no heat in it—no appreciation for the smooth lines of his torso or the graceful planes of his chest. No, this was something else entirely.

Loki’s brow furrowed slightly, his confidence faltering as he propped himself up on one elbow. “What?” he asked, his voice sharper than he intended. “What’s wrong?”

Mobius’s eyes were wide as they flickered over Loki’s exposed torso, his expression shifting from surprise to something softer—something concerned. Loki glanced down, frowning slightly, wondering if he’d somehow sprouted an extra head without realizing it.

And then it hit him.

The bruises, the welts, the shallow cuts—evidence of Thanos’s so-called “training” sessions. They stood out starkly against his pale skin, a chaotic mess of blues and purples with angry red lines cutting through them.

Shit.

Loki’s stomach twisted into a knot as he realized there was no easy way to explain this. What was he supposed to say? Oh, don’t mind these—my boss-slash-kidnapper who runs an underground hitman organization gave me a little “feedback” for mouthing off. Also, by the way, he sent me to kill you.

His throat tightened, his usual sharp tongue failing him for once. Mobius was staring at him, his gaze not judgmental but full of something else—something that made Loki feel even worse.

Fear bubbled up in his chest, unfamiliar and unwelcome. He didn’t know how to handle this. He always had a plan, a quick quip or an elegant lie to fall back on, but now? He had nothing. He just sat there, frozen, looking at Mobius with wide, uncertain eyes.

What the fuck am I meant to do?

Mobius knelt down, his hands hovering just over Loki’s bruised and battered skin, as if afraid that touching him too hard might make him shatter. Loki flinched instinctively, his body jerking back at the idea of being handled, but Mobius didn’t move any closer. His hands stayed in the air, patient and steady, radiating a gentleness that almost felt... foreign.

When Mobius’s fingers finally brushed against his side, they were so light that it didn’t hurt, and Loki didn’t pull away again. The man paused for a moment, as if giving him a chance to object, but Loki said nothing.

With a quiet sigh, Mobius stood, the resolve on his face tightening. Loki followed him with his eyes as he strode across the small room. His heart thudded uneasily in his chest. Was he leaving? Calling someone?

But when Mobius turned back, he wasn’t holding a phone. He was holding...
“A med kit?” Loki blurted, his voice a mixture of confusion and wariness as Mobius returned to the bed.

Mobius sat down beside him, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight. He opened the kit with calm efficiency, laying out bandages, antiseptic wipes, and other supplies. Loki felt a rush of vulnerability, like the air had been sucked out of the room. This wasn’t part of the plan. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

“No,” Loki said suddenly, leaning forward and pushing weakly at the med kit, trying to knock it out of Mobius’s hands. “You don’t have to—”
Mobius stopped him with surprising ease, his hands coming to rest gently over Loki’s. “I’m not going to ask what happened,” he said, his voice soft but steady, “but at least let me help.”

Loki froze. He wanted to protest, to push him away again, to say something cutting that would reestablish the walls he so carefully built around himself. But the sincerity in Mobius’s voice, the calm warmth in his eyes—it disarmed him completely.
He nodded, just once, and sat still as Mobius went to work.

Mobius cleaned the wounds with a care that Loki hadn’t realized he was longing for. The antiseptic stung as it touched raw skin, but Mobius’s hands were so gentle, his touch so unhurried, that it was almost soothing. He wiped away the dried blood, smoothing a damp cloth over Loki’s skin with a tenderness that made Loki’s chest ache in a way he couldn’t quite name.

When he finished, Mobius leaned back to inspect his work, then gave a small, satisfied nod. “There,” he said quietly. “That should do for now.”
Loki swallowed, his throat suddenly dry as Mobius helped him lean back against the pillows.
“Rest,” Mobius whispered, his voice low and kind, like he was coaxing a skittish animal. “You need it.”

Loki wanted to argue, to snap out a sarcastic retort, but his body betrayed him. Exhaustion was already pulling at him, and Mobius’s words—simple and kind—made his head feel heavier.

His eyes fluttered closed, and as sleep claimed him, his dreams were filled with flashes of sunlight glinting off water, the hum of an engine, and the soft silver of Mobius’s hair.

Chapter Text

The city at night had a pulse of its own. A slow, steady thrum beneath the hum of streetlights and the distant wail of a siren. Mobius had always liked it best after midnight, when the skyscrapers were nothing but dark silhouettes against the sky, their windows blinking like tired eyes. The streets were slick from a recent drizzle, turning neon signs into watercolor smears on the pavement—reds, blues, greens bleeding into one another, a canvas of vice and longing.

This was his city, the one that only belonged to night owls and lost souls. The ones who climbed into the back of his cab with perfume still clinging to their skin or whiskey slurring their words. Women with glitter-dusted cheeks, laughing too loudly into their phones. Men in sharp suits, ties loosened, staring out the window like they were searching for something they’d never find.

Mobius liked them. Liked the stories they carried, the way his taxi became a confessional booth on wheels. He liked the smell, too—cheap alcohol, cigarette smoke, and that faint metallic tang of rain on asphalt. By the time he pulled into his driveway at dawn, it clung to his clothes, soaked into the leather seats. It smelled like the night. Like the city. Like something worth remembering.

Tonight, though—tonight felt different. The air was heavier, thick with the promise of something just out of sight. But Mobius, ever the driver, ever the observer, only sighed, rolled down his window, and waited for his next fare.

He heard the click of heels on wet pavement and a sharp, clipped "Hey, taxi!"—the kind of voice that expected to be obeyed.

Mobius barely glanced up. "Doors open," he called back, lazily tapping the meter as he heard the man climb into the back seat. It wasn’t until he checked the rearview mirror that something made him pause—made him really look.

And then he had to turn around.

The man in the back seat was—first of all—beautiful. The kind of beautiful that should come with a warning label. Shoulder-length black hair curled artfully around his face, damp from the misty air. He wore a long leather coat, black jeans tucked into massive combat boots, and a general air of expensive disarray. But it wasn’t the smudged mascara or the streaks of glitter on his cheekbones that gave Mobius pause. It wasn’t even the split lip or the way one eye was darkening into a spectacular bruise.

It was the knife.

A large one, sticking right out of his chest.

Not just that—now that Mobius was really looking, he saw the other stains, darker patches on the coat where blood had bloomed and dried. Wounds where the knife had been removed and then presumably put back in like some kind of horrific party trick.

Mobius exhaled through his nose, slow and steady. Normally, he wouldn’t care if a passenger showed up looking like they’d just been through hell. It wasn’t his job to judge. Maybe the guy had gotten dumped and sobbed his mascara off. Maybe he’d gotten into a bar fight and lost spectacularly. But this—this was something else.

Especially because the man had a strange shimmer to him.

Something Mobius couldn’t quite name, like the flicker of a television between channels. His edges weren’t wrong, exactly—but they weren’t right either.

A ghost.

Mobius had heard of ghost passengers before. Legends about people who got into taxis, stuck in some in-between state, needing a ride to their final destination before they could move on. Most folks thought they were just scary stories, but his buddy Casey swore up and down he’d had one once.

Mobius, ever the skeptic, had rolled his eyes at the time. But now, sitting here, staring at a beautiful, bloodied man with a knife sticking out of his chest and the distinct aura of someone who did not belong among the living…

Well.

He supposed there was a first time for everything.

Mobius shifted in his seat, gripping the steering wheel like it was some kind of anchor to reality. He cleared his throat, the silence stretching just a little too long. "So... where to?"
The man in the back seat sighed, long and dramatic, and turned to look out the window. "Just drive."

That was it. No address. No instructions. Just the kind of request that people with too much on their mind tended to make.

Mobius hesitated for half a second, then shrugged and pulled out of his parking spot. He’d had stranger fares. Not many, but still.

For a few minutes, they rode in silence. The rain had stopped, leaving the streets slick and reflective, neon lights rippling over the pavement like oil spills. The city, ever restless, moved on without them—horns in the distance, the low murmur of late-night pedestrians, the occasional drunk laughter spilling from a bar.

Mobius cast another glance in the mirror. Knife guy was watching the city pass by with a far-off expression, cheek resting against the window, fingers tapping idly on his thigh. If he was in any pain from the very large knife still sticking out of his chest, he sure didn’t show it.

Eventually, Mobius broke the silence. "I’m Mobius."

The man blinked, turning his head just enough to meet Mobius’ eyes in the mirror. For a second, he just stared, like he was weighing the name, tasting it in his mind. Then he gave a small, approving nod.

"Loki."

Mobius settled into the drive, one hand resting easy on the wheel, the other adjusting the radio dial until it landed on something soft and jazzy. The kind of music that filled the spaces between words without demanding attention. He cast another glance in the mirror, watching as Loki traced shapes into the fogged-up window with one finger, his glitter-streaked cheek resting against the glass.

"Nice outfit," Mobius said eventually, his voice casual, conversational. "Looks like you had a hell of a night. You out celebrating?"

Loki blinked, shifting his gaze from the window to Mobius' reflection. For a moment, something unreadable flickered across his face, like he was reaching for an answer that wasn’t quite there. Then, as if deciding on the truth in real time, he gave a small, elegant nod.

"A birthday," he said, his voice smooth, lilting. "My brother's, actually.”
Mobius made a small sound of acknowledgment, the kind people made when they didn’t quite know what to say but wanted to fill the silence anyway. "Yeah? Sounds nice."

Loki hummed, neither confirming nor denying, and went back to watching the city blur past. The neon glow bathed his features in shifting color—red, then blue, then gold—as if the world couldn’t quite decide how to paint him.

Mobius let the quiet settle between them again, the road stretching endlessly ahead. He was used to this kind of thing. Late-night passengers who didn’t really want to talk but also didn’t want to be alone with their thoughts. It didn’t bother him. He liked the quiet. Liked the way the city felt at this hour—suspended, caught between yesterday and tomorrow, like anything could happen.

Then Loki spoke again, his voice softer this time. "What’s it like?"
Mobius glanced in the mirror again. "What’s what like?"
Loki tilted his head, considering. "Being a taxi driver."

Mobius exhaled through his nose, turning onto a street lined with flickering streetlamps. "I enjoy it," he said simply. "Good company, bad company—it’s all interesting in its own way. City looks different at night. You learn things, hear things. People talk to cab drivers like they’re not really there. Like they’re talking to themselves." He shrugged. "I like that."
Loki was quiet for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, without looking away from the window, he asked, "Have you ever wanted to be more?"
Mobius’ fingers flexed slightly on the wheel, but his voice remained steady. "I did, once." He let the words hang there for a beat before adding, "But it all worked out in the end."

Loki finally turned to look at him fully, studying him like he was a puzzle worth solving. Whatever he was looking for, whatever he saw, he didn’t share. He only nodded, slow and knowing, and let the silence swallow them again.

For a while, neither of them spoke. The only sounds were the low murmur of the radio, the rhythmic sweep of the wipers clearing the mist from the windshield, and the occasional distant wail of a siren. The city moved around them in slow, sleepy blurs—shadows of people slipping into bars, lights blinking out in high-rise apartments, neon signs buzzing faintly like electric cicadas.

Mobius glanced in the mirror again, catching the way Loki’s fingers drifted from the fogged-up glass to the handle of the knife still embedded in his chest. Not to pull it out—just to touch it, idly swirling the blood around with the pad of his thumb like a bored artist smearing paint on a canvas.

The joke slipped out before Mobius could stop it. "If you get that on my seat, I’m gonna have to charge you extra."

Loki startled, then tipped his head back and laughed—a bright, unexpected sound that filled the cab, rich and unbothered. His teeth flashed in the dim light, sharp and wicked, and when he finally looked at Mobius again, there was something amused, almost delighted, in his expression.

"Oh, I doubt it’ll stain."
Mobius snorted, shaking his head as he slowed for a red light. "Uh-huh. Sure. Because blood is famously easy to clean out of upholstery."

Loki grinned, but said nothing. His fingers trailed over the knife one more time before falling away, settling back into his lap like he’d already forgotten about it.

Mobius studied him for a beat longer before exhaling and nodding toward his chest. "That’s a nasty injury, does it hurt?" His voice was steady, even, not pushing.

Loki didn’t respond right away. His gaze flickered back to the window, watching as a pair of lovers stumbled out of a bar, arms wrapped around each other, laughing like the night would never end. The red glow of the stoplight cast his features in eerie relief, painting him like something half-real, half-remembered.

Then, finally, he spoke.
"It did once."
His voice was quiet. Thoughtful. And then, as if handing Mobius back his own words, he added,
"But it all worked out in the end."
Mobius sat with that for a second, watching the light flick to green.

Silence settled between them again, thick but not uncomfortable. The kind of quiet that only existed this late at night, when the city exhaled and let itself breathe. The radio filled the space where words didn’t, soft and low, some old jazz number curling through the cab like cigarette smoke. Mobius tapped his fingers against the wheel in time with the melody, watching the road stretch ahead, wet and glistening beneath the streetlights.

And then, before he could stop himself, he spoke.
"So… you, uh—" he hesitated for half a second, then powered through. "You dead, or…?"
In the mirror, Loki frowned. "That’s rude."
Mobius winced. "Yeah, alright, fair. Poorly phrased. Forget I said anything."

Loki huffed, clearly unimpressed, and turned back to the window. Mobius half-expected him to leave it at that, to let the question dangle there, unanswered, but after another long stretch of quiet, Loki sighed.
"I’m not sure."
Mobius glanced up again. Loki was still looking out at the city, watching the lights blur past, but there was something distant in his expression now. Something almost… lost.

"I look dead," Loki continued, lifting a hand to gesture vaguely at the mess of blood drying on his coat. "I remember dying." His fingers drifted to the knife again, but this time he didn’t touch it—just hovered there, like acknowledging it was enough. "But I don’t feel dead. Not necessarily."

Mobius chewed on that for a second, turning the words over in his head like a puzzle piece that didn’t quite fit.
"What’s being dead even supposed to feel like?" he asked finally.
Loki didn’t answer right away. He just shrugged, slow and fluid, still watching the city pass by like it might offer an answer he hadn’t thought of yet.
"No idea," he admitted. "Guess I’ll find out."
Mobius hummed, tapping the wheel. "Guess you will."
Another pause. Then, a little quieter, he added, "Hopefully not in the back of my cab."
Loki let out a small, surprised laugh, and for the first time, he actually looked like he might still be alive.

Loki was the one to break the silence this time.

"Does it bother you?" he asked, voice softer now, more thoughtful. His fingers drummed idly against his knee, a restless little rhythm. "The fact that there’s a dead man in your car?"

Mobius glanced at him in the mirror, noting the way Loki phrased it. A dead man. Not if I’m dead. Not hypothetically. Like he’d already accepted it as fact, even if he wasn’t entirely sure what to do with it.

Mobius tilted his head, considering. "I mean, I’ve had worse passengers."
Loki arched a delicate brow.
Mobius shrugged. "At least you’re polite. That counts for something."

Loki blinked, then let out a sudden, startled laugh—something rich and real, like he hadn’t expected it to slip out. He shook his head, a few stray curls falling into his face, and shot Mobius a look that was equal parts amused and bewildered. "You are a very strange man."
Mobius smirked. "So I’ve been told."

The rain had started again, light and misty, scattering over the windshield in delicate beads. The wipers swept across, clearing it away, only for it to return a moment later. The streets had emptied a little now, the late-night stragglers either slipping home or settling in for the long haul at whatever dive bar or club they’d decided to haunt for the evening. The city never truly slept, but it had its quieter moments, its pauses.

Mobius let them sit in it for a moment before speaking again. "So what were you doing tonight?"
Loki blinked, as if the question had pulled him from someplace far away. "Hmm?"
"Before you, y’know." Mobius gestured vaguely toward the knife in his chest. "What were you up to with your brother?"

Something flickered across Loki’s expression—just for a second. A shadow of hesitation. Then, just as quickly, he smoothed it away, tilting his head like he was considering how much to say.
"We’d recently reconvened," Loki said finally, carefully choosing his words. "After I… well." He trailed off, his fingers twitching slightly in his lap. Then, after a brief pause, he coughed lightly and straightened. "Anyway. We’d reconvened. And since it was his birthday—his twenty-fifth, to be precise—we decided to celebrate the only way we knew how."

Mobius arched a brow. "Which was?"
Loki’s lips curled into something almost mischievous. "By hitting as many bars as we could until one of us keeled over."
Mobius huffed out a quiet laugh. "And I take it that ‘one of us’ ended up being you?"

Loki smirked but didn’t answer, just rested his head against the window again, watching the rain streak across the glass.

The city hummed outside, the low murmur of traffic, the occasional distant shout or bark of laughter breaking through the quiet. Mobius kept his focus on the road, but his mind was drifting, following the trail of their conversation. It had shifted from strange and unsettling to something more personal, more grounded. It wasn’t just a ghost story anymore.

"Were you close?" Mobius asked, glancing in the rearview mirror, his voice soft but curious. "You and your brother?"

Loki’s gaze drifted back to the window, eyes following the blur of streetlights and passing cars. He looked like he was lost in thought, the weight of the question pulling him down for a moment. After a long pause, he answered quietly.

"We were... when we were kids," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "We were inseparable. But when I was seventeen, and he was twenty..." He trailed off, and Mobius could almost feel the hesitation, like the words were heavy on Loki’s tongue, like he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to share this part of himself. But eventually, he continued, voice tight, like it still hurt to say it. "We fell out. He was trying to get into a sports college, and I... I don’t know. We stopped seeing each other after that. Too much bad blood, too much hurt. Neither of us knew how to fix it."

Mobius nodded quietly, his fingers tightening around the steering wheel for a moment, but he didn’t say anything. He wasn’t sure what to say. Sometimes, people didn’t need a solution. Sometimes, all they needed was someone to hear them.

Loki shifted in his seat, eyes fixed on the street ahead, his jaw clenched tight. Then, after a beat of silence, he confessed in a voice so small it was almost lost in the hum of the engine.

"It was my fault," he murmured.
Mobius glanced at him again in the mirror, but Loki wasn’t looking back. He was staring straight ahead, his face unreadable, lips pressed tight. Mobius could feel the tension in the air, thick with guilt, regret, something raw.

"I... I hurt him," Loki continued, his voice cracking just a little. "It was an accident. But... right before his big game, the one that could have gotten him into college. He was going to make it, Mobius. He was going to be somebody. And I..." He paused, running a hand through his hair, his expression turning distant. "I just wanted to be noticed. I was angry. Stupid. And I... hurt him. I ran away after that."

Mobius sat in silence for a long while, the words hanging heavy in the air between them. The cab felt smaller now, like the space between them had shrunk, the weight of Loki’s confession pressing down on both of them. He didn’t push, didn’t interrupt. Just let Loki speak his truth, let the silence stretch between them until it felt like the right time to say something.

Eventually, Mobius spoke, his voice low but firm.
"It’s not too late."
Loki let out a bitter laugh, but it was without humor. "It was supposed to be tonight, Mobius." His eyes flickered to the knife still lodged in his chest. "Tonight was supposed to be our last chance to fix things. But I ruined that too."

Mobius didn’t answer right away. He wasn’t sure there were words that could fix this. There was only time, and time had a funny way of slipping through your fingers. But what he could do—what he would do—was something simple.
"You didn’t ruin it." His voice was gentle, but there was a firmness there, something that Loki might not have expected. "You’re here now. You’re still here."

Loki’s eyes flicked to him for a second, something vulnerable there, something human behind the mask he’d put on. But he didn’t say anything, just looked away again, lost in the city lights. Mobius didn’t push further.

The silence stretched between them once more, but this time, it felt different. Not heavy with guilt, but thick with something softer—something that Mobius didn’t quite know how to define. He didn’t push Loki to speak any more than he already had, but there was an unspoken understanding in the air, a mutual recognition of pain that neither of them had expected to share.

Eventually, Mobius broke the quiet again, his voice more measured now, like he was threading carefully through delicate ground.

"What’s your brother’s name?"
Loki didn’t hesitate this time. He answered softly, like the name itself carried its own weight. "Thor."

Mobius nodded slowly, committing it to memory—something about the name felt familiar, like he’d heard it before but couldn’t place where. Maybe it was just one of those names that felt larger than life, something meant for legends. He let it sit in his mind for a moment, before turning his attention back to the road.

But it wasn’t long before he saw the subtle shift in the rearview mirror. Loki’s shoulders had tightened, his hands curled into fists in his lap, his breath catching in his chest. And then, without warning, the first tear slid down his cheek.

Mobius’ heart lurched, and for a moment, he wanted nothing more than to turn around, to stop the car, to reach back and hold this man together the way he so clearly needed. The blood on his chest, the glitter streaking his face—it all seemed to melt together in that moment, leaving Loki bare, like someone who’d been running too long and couldn’t keep up the fight anymore.

Mobius swallowed thickly, the weight of what Loki had confessed hanging heavy in his throat. He kept his eyes on the road, but his voice softened, barely above a whisper. "I’m sorry."

Loki didn’t respond at first. But then, slowly, another tear fell. Then another. His breath hitched, and before Mobius knew it, Loki’s face crumpled, his body trembling in the back seat as the tears came faster. He was crying now, fully, openly, his chest heaving with the raw weight of emotion he’d clearly been holding back for far too long.

The glitter on his cheeks shimmered with each tear that fell, streaking down his face like veins of light mixed with sorrow. He didn’t even try to wipe them away—just let them fall, let them mix with the blood and the mess of the night.

Mobius’ heart clenched. He couldn’t do anything for Loki right now—he was just a taxi driver, a stranger in the night, a man who couldn’t reach back and pull him from the depths of what he was feeling. But that didn’t make it easier to watch.

All he could do was drive, and offer the smallest comfort he could—his presence, his steady hands on the wheel.
So he kept going, letting Loki’s cries fill the space between them.

Loki’s sobs continued to wrack through the cab, each one like a jagged breath, the kind that made Mobius feel like he was suffocating along with him. His heart ached watching him fall apart in the back seat, knowing there was nothing he could do to ease the pain. The weight of it was unbearable, like the sorrow hung in the air between them, heavy and suffocating.

"What if… what if he hates me?" Loki’s voice cracked as he asked, the words slipping out in broken sobs. "What if I’ve just ruined everything again?"
Mobius shook his head, his grip tightening on the wheel, his eyes flicking to the mirror as he caught a glimpse of Loki's distraught face. "No," he said softly, but firmly, trying to reach him through the pain. "You didn’t. I’m sure of it. Thor… he’s your brother, Loki. It’s not too late."

Loki’s chest shuddered with another sob, but he didn’t answer right away. The car was filled with nothing but the sound of the rain against the windows, the occasional sniffle from Loki as he struggled to pull himself together. Mobius stayed silent, letting Loki work through the turmoil in his own time.

"But what if it is too late?" Loki’s voice was smaller now, uncertain. "What if I’ve already ruined it? What if…" He paused, unsure whether to say the next part. "What if it’s already gone, and I can’t fix it?"

Mobius didn’t have a perfect answer to that. Sometimes things were broken beyond repair. Sometimes you couldn’t take back what was already done. But he didn’t say that. Instead, he just kept his voice steady. "It’s never too late, Loki."

Loki’s head dropped back against the seat, his body still trembling with quiet sobs, his breath ragged. For a moment, neither of them said anything. It was like the world had slowed, the city outside silent and still as Mobius drove on, carrying them both through the night. He didn’t know what Loki needed, but he didn’t push. He just listened.

After a while, Loki wiped his face, trying to collect himself. He took a long, shaky breath, and when he spoke again, it was quieter, calmer—though the rawness still lingered in his voice.
"Mobius, take me to 52 new Asgard road" he said. "Take me to Thor."

Mobius nodded without saying anything. He turned the car around, feeling the tension shift in the air. He drove slowly, the silence between them stretched thin, but for some reason, it felt more peaceful now. More like a moment of quiet resolve.

It took about fifteen minutes, the city falling away behind them as they drove through quieter streets, and then into more upper-class areas. The buildings grew larger and more imposing, towering above the street like silent sentinels. Mobius’s headlights cut through the darkness, illuminating the grand architecture, the manicured lawns, the elegant streetlamps. This was a part of the city where things looked neat and tidy on the surface, but Mobius knew better than to judge what lay beneath.

Eventually, they reached the house number Loki had given him—a large, elegant building that looked more like a mansion than a home. Mobius pulled up to the curb and came to a stop, the engine idling softly as he glanced in the mirror to tell Loki they had arrived.

"We’re here," he said quietly, his voice almost gentle.

But when he turned around, the seat was empty.

Loki was gone.

It wasn’t that he’d moved or gotten out quickly—no. It was as if he’d never been there in the first place. The seat was as empty as the rest of the cab. Mobius blinked, his heart suddenly pounding in his chest. His eyes searched the cab, darting between the empty space and the street outside. The night was still, eerily quiet now, with not a single soul in sight.

It hit Mobius like a sudden wave, a chill that swept through him, cold and sharp. He turned the car off, his breath coming faster now, his mind racing. Had it been a dream? Some trick of the mind? Or had he really just driven a ghost?

There was no sign of Loki. No trace. Just the faintest shimmer of glitter in the air, like a fleeting memory fading into nothing.

Mobius swallowed hard and stared at the house in front of him, feeling a strange ache in his chest.

It was as if the night had swallowed Loki whole.

Mobius sat in the cab for a while, staring at the house in front of him, the headlights of his car cutting through the night. His mind raced, trying to make sense of what had just happened—what had not happened. It didn’t make any sense. Where had Loki gone? Had he just imagined the whole thing?

Part of him knew he should just drive away, forget about it, find someone else to pick up, earn some cash. The night was still young. But another part of him—the one that had been drawn to the strange man in the back seat—couldn’t let it go. There was something that pulled him to this house, to Thor, to whatever had been left unfinished between them. Something nagged at him, like a thread left hanging, waiting to be tied off.

So, against his better judgment, Mobius stepped out of the car. He paused for a second, his hand resting on the doorframe, swallowing hard as he looked up at the imposing building. It was so quiet now, the whole street shrouded in shadows, the lights from his taxi casting long stretches of light across the lawn.

He walked up to the front door with slow, deliberate steps. Each footfall felt like it echoed in the night, louder than it should have been. The door was large, dark wood with intricate carvings—impressive, imposing. Mobius hesitated for just a moment, then knocked.

The sound felt almost too loud in the quiet of the night. He immediately regretted it, cursing himself under his breath. What the hell was he doing? This was ridiculous. Who knocks on doors at this time of night, especially at a house like this? He had no reason to be here.

For what felt like an eternity, there was silence. Not even a rustle inside, not a single sound. Mobius shifted uncomfortably on his feet, starting to feel like the biggest fool in the city. Of course, no one would answer. Whoever lived here wasn’t awake at this hour, or worse—they’d never even heard of a Loki or a Thor.

But then, just as he was about to turn and leave, the door swung open.

A younger woman stood in the doorway, her expression neutral, but her eyes sharp and expectant. She didn’t say anything at first, just looked at him like she was waiting for him to explain himself. Mobius blinked for a moment, his mind scrambling for the right words.

“I… I think I’m in the wrong place,” he began, his voice slightly awkward as he fumbled for an explanation. “I’m looking for a—uh—a Thor?”
The woman’s expression softened just a little. She nodded, stepping aside and gesturing for him to come in.
“You’re looking for Thor?” she repeated, and her tone was neither surprised nor hostile, but more… curious. She stepped back into the house, disappearing into the hallway. “He’s here. Come in. I’ll get him.”

Mobius stood at the threshold for a moment, unsure if he was even supposed to be there. He had no reason to be here—he didn’t know these people, didn’t know Thor. He hadn’t meant to cause any trouble, but it felt like the universe had already set him on this path, and now he was just following along, letting it pull him deeper.

The woman’s voice trailed off as she called for Thor, and Mobius awkwardly shuffled in, closing the door behind him. He stood just inside the entryway, his hands stuffed into his pockets as he glanced around. The house was large, elegant, and far too clean, almost too perfect in the soft, ambient light. He couldn’t help but feel out of place here.

He shifted on his feet, trying to remind himself why he was doing this, but part of him couldn’t help wondering exactly what the hell he was doing here in the first place.

Mobius barely had time to adjust to the strange quiet of the house before the sound of footsteps shuffled down the hall. He turned, expecting perhaps someone a bit younger—maybe even a little disheveled, like the partygoers from earlier. Instead, standing before him was a much older man, leaning heavily on a cane, his brow furrowed in quiet scrutiny.

This was definitely not Loki’s 25-year-old brother.

The man’s eyes, sharp yet soft with age, studied Mobius carefully. For a moment, Mobius thought he might’ve made some kind of mistake. Maybe Loki had led him here by some otherworldly design, but this… this was just a regular old man, leaning on a cane like it was his only source of support.

Mobius blinked, awkwardly clearing his throat. “Uh, sorry,” he began, his voice faltering just a bit. “I think I’m looking for the wrong person. I was told to find a Thor, but I think this might be a different one.”

The old man’s lips curved into a slow, deep smile. He chuckled—a warm, hearty sound that filled the space and made Mobius feel suddenly small, like he’d stumbled into a story he wasn’t supposed to be part of.

“Not very many Thors running about, are there?” the man said with a twinkle in his eye.
Mobius couldn’t help but chuckle, despite himself. “True,” he muttered, unsure of how else to respond.

The silence stretched on for a moment, the air thick with the weight of it. Mobius shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other, suddenly unsure of himself in this odd house with its strange, warm aura. The old man didn’t seem to be in any hurry to explain himself.

Finally, it was the older man who broke the silence, his voice gravelly but still sharp. “What brings you here so late?”

Mobius hesitated, unsure if he was ready to say the whole truth. But there was something about the man’s steady gaze, the gravity of his presence, that made him feel like he could open up—like this wasn’t as strange as it seemed.

He let out a breath, the words spilling out before he could stop them. “There was this… man. Loki. He got into my cab earlier tonight, and…” Mobius paused, swallowing thickly. “He had a knife in his chest. It was pretty bad, blood everywhere. But he seemed alright. I thought he was a ghost or something.”

The old man’s eyes flickered, but his expression didn’t change. Mobius went on, the story tumbling out of him, the strange sensation of Loki’s presence still fresh in his mind. “We talked about his brother, Thor, and how they were trying to reconnect. He told me he wanted to come here, to find you. But… when I got here… he was gone.”

For a moment, there was nothing but the quiet sound of the house settling around them, the tick of a clock somewhere off in the distance. Thor didn’t say anything right away, and Mobius felt a slight tremor in his chest, unsure if he had said too much or if the old man would laugh him out of the house.

Then, after what felt like an eternity, Thor nodded slowly, his face still serious. “Follow me,” he said, his voice steady, as if he’d heard stranger stories in his time. He turned, limping with his cane toward the next room, and Mobius followed without hesitation.

He was led into a cozy living room, with deep armchairs and dim lighting that softened the sharp edges of the world outside. Thor gestured to a couch, and Mobius sat down, feeling the weight of the night settle around him, the tension in his shoulders finally easing just a little.

Thor didn’t sit down right away. Instead, he walked to the mantle, gripping his cane tightly as he stared into the fireplace, lost in thought. The silence between them stretched again, but it didn’t feel awkward this time. It was like Thor was gathering his thoughts, deciding what to say next. Mobius waited, his heart still racing in his chest. He didn’t know what he expected from this moment, but something in the air felt different now—heavy, like they were on the cusp of something Mobius couldn’t quite understand.

The older man grabbed something to the mantle and Thor shuffled back toward Mobius, his cane tapping lightly on the floor as he took his seat with a grunt, clearly not as spry as he used to be. "Old bones," he muttered, shaking his head as he sank into the sofa beside Mobius. He held out a black and white photo to Mobius.

He handed the photo over to Mobius, his fingers curling tightly around his cane, eyes studying Mobius carefully as the younger man took the picture.

Mobius gasped instinctively, his breath catching in his throat. The photo was an old one, worn at the corners from time and handling. The first thing that struck him was the man on the left. He would have known that face anywhere. Loki—smiling in a way Mobius hadn’t seen before, like there wasn’t a single care in the world. His hair was a little shorter, a little more put together, but that unmistakable glint in his eyes was there, shining even in black and white.

But it was the man on the right that Mobius wasn’t prepared for. The man was huge—tall, broad, with wild, unkempt hair that seemed to have a life of its own. His eyes were bright, with a fire that matched the fierce energy of the photo. He looked like a force of nature, his smile one that could light up the entire room.

Thor gestured to the man on the right, his voice soft, almost distant, like the memories were still raw despite the years that had passed. “That’s me,” he said, his fingers pointing toward the hulking figure in the photo.

Mobius looked from Thor to the picture, his mind racing. The picture had been taken so long ago, before the tension, before whatever had happened between them. It wasn’t the Loki he had seen tonight—the broken, tragic figure with the knife in his chest—but it was a reminder of the brotherly bond they once shared.

He swallowed hard, looking back at Thor, who was still watching him carefully.

“You and Loki… You two were close?” Mobius asked quietly, the weight of the photo heavy in his hands. He felt like he was intruding on something deeply personal, like he had stepped into a world he hadn’t been invited into.

Thor’s gaze softened as he looked down at the picture, his fingers curling around his cane a little tighter. He didn’t speak immediately, lost in the memory for a moment. Finally, he exhaled slowly, his voice thick with emotion.

“We were,” Thor murmured. “We were inseparable once. But life… life had a way of getting in the way. You don’t always realize how much you love someone until they’re gone, and by the time I figured it out, it was too late.”

Mobius remained silent, feeling the weight of Thor’s words settle in the room. He looked down at the photo again, the brothers so young, so full of promise and potential. And yet, here they were—fragments of a bond broken long ago.

Mobius could feel the weight of the room settle even deeper as he asked his question, his voice barely a whisper. “What happened?”

Thor’s breath hitched as he let out a long sigh, one that sounded choked, like he was still carrying the weight of the memory. His fingers tightened around the cane in his lap as if it were the only thing holding him steady. He spoke slowly, like every word was a battle, but the pain in his voice was undeniable.

“Loki and I… we were out drinking,” Thor began, his voice distant as he recalled the memory. “We’d been having a great night, just like old times. My birthday… we were celebrating. It felt normal, for the first time in a long time. I thought maybe we were finally getting back to who we used to be.”

There was a long pause as Thor swallowed hard, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. He looked down at the floor for a moment before continuing. “We’d been leaving a bar in a shady part of town. I told him to wait outside while I went in to grab my jacket—I couldn’t have been gone more than five minutes. But when I came back…”

Thor’s voice trailed off, and Mobius felt a chill run through him, like he was standing on the edge of something dark and final. The air in the room grew heavier, the silence stretching between them like an abyss.

“He was lying on his back… in a pool of his own blood.” Thor finally whispered, his voice breaking. His hands trembled as he clenched the cane tighter, the old man’s face contorting with the weight of the memory.

Mobius sat frozen, his heart pounding in his chest. He couldn’t imagine the horror of seeing your own brother like that—dead or dying, a casualty of something that wasn’t even his fault. The room was thick with grief, and Thor’s words hit Mobius like a physical blow.

Thor continued, his voice barely audible now. “It was Thanos. A crime boss, someone who’d been blackmailing Loki… Threatening to expose him, because Loki… because he’s gay. He was paying Thanos, just trying to keep his life intact, but one day, Loki… he couldn’t do it anymore. He wasn’t going to keep hiding who he was.”

Thor’s voice cracked, and he paused for a moment to gather himself before he continued. “So he stopped paying him. Told him he didn’t care what happened, that he wasn’t going to live in fear anymore. And Thanos…” He let out a bitter laugh, his eyes hardening with fury and sorrow. “Thanos killed him. Just like that. Because Loki decided to stop letting the world make him small.”

The words hung in the air between them, and Mobius felt his stomach churn with a mix of anger and sadness. He could hardly believe what he was hearing—that was the story behind the blood-streaked man who had climbed into his cab tonight. It wasn’t just a story about betrayal or violence. It was a story about someone who had been pushed too far, someone who had fought to be free, only to be torn down for it.

Thor was quiet for a long time after that. The pain in his eyes spoke volumes, but his lips remained tightly shut. Mobius didn’t know what to say, didn’t even know if there was anything that could ease the weight of the truth.

Thor swallowed audibly, his chest rising with the effort, and Mobius could see the weight of the past pressing down on him. He looked older than ever in that moment—more fragile, as if the years had carved deep lines into him. “Thanos…” he said softly, his voice thick with emotion. “He stabbed my little brother seven times. Fractured his skull, dislocated his jaw, and broke his neck.”

Thor’s voice cracked, and a guttural sob escaped from him. The old man’s tears flowed freely now, his wrinkled hands shaking as he wiped at his eyes, clearly no longer able to hold it in. Mobius sat frozen, his heart breaking for the two brothers—the pain was too raw, too real.

Thor’s shoulders trembled as he continued, the words spilling out like a confession, like he couldn’t stop them even if he wanted to. “That was nearly sixty years ago, but it feels like it just happened yesterday. Every day, I miss him.” He inhaled sharply, like he was about to choke on the grief that filled him. “The last thing I said to him… it haunts me. I told him he was the worst.”

There was a long pause as Thor looked down at his hands, his voice faltering. “I wonder if that’s what he was thinking as he died. That I thought he was the worst, and that I hated him.”

Mobius sat there, feeling the weight of Thor’s sorrow wrap around him, suffocating the air between them. He knew words couldn’t fix this. He couldn’t undo the past, couldn’t take away the pain that had been buried for so long. But he had to try. He had to say something.

He leaned forward slightly, offering what little comfort he could. “I’m sure Loki didn’t think that.” He spoke softly but firmly, wanting to believe it, to make Thor believe it. “I don’t think he could’ve. He spoke highly of you—about you and your bond. He wouldn’t have said that, not truly. He might’ve been angry or hurt, but he loved you, Thor. He didn’t think you hated him.”

There was a long silence, and Mobius felt the weight of the moment sink into his bones. Thor sat still, his eyes red and wet as he stared down at the floor, lost in the memory of his brother. Finally, he looked up, meeting Mobius’s gaze with a look of quiet gratitude.

“Thank you for passing that along,” he said quietly, his voice steadying just a little. “You don’t know how much it means.”

Mobius nodded, unsure of what else to say. His heart ached, but he had said what he could and as him and Thor sat on that threadbare couch Mobius couldn’t help but feel like there were three people sitting there, rather than just two.