Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Leon Vale was who everyone wanted to be.

There wasn’t a student at St. Augustine’s Private Academy who hadn’t, at one point, imagined what it must be like to wake up in his shoes—to live his life, to breathe the rarefied air of absolute privilege and power. Leon didn’t just walk the halls of the school; he owned them. Every glance, every whisper, every stolen look from behind textbooks or locker doors followed him like a shadow. The other boys wanted to be him. The girls? Most dreamed of being with him. And the teachers, whether they admitted it or not, always seemed a little more careful with their words around him.

At only seventeen years old, Leon Vale had everything most people could only fantasize about: wealth, beauty, and status wrapped up in a polished, composed demeanor that never cracked. His posture was perfect, his uniform always crisp, his voice calm and assured. He never raised it, never lost his temper, never stumbled over his words. He didn’t need to.

He was the heir to the Vale Empire—a name that echoed in boardrooms and luxury headlines alike. His family didn’t just have money. They had legacy. The Vales weren’t nouveau riche; they were the standard. Their name carried weight like royalty in a country that didn’t even have kings.

The Vale estate was perched on the hills just beyond the city, an opulent modern château with glass walls, sprawling marble staircases, and gardens that had been landscaped by award-winning artists flown in from Italy. People said it was bigger than some hotels. Inside, the air was always cool, scented with the subtle aroma of fresh lilies—his mother’s favorite. Security was tight, but tasteful. Staff moved like ghosts, quietly maintaining a life of utter perfection.

His mother, Bella Vale, had once been the face of international fashion—gracing runways in Paris, Milan, and Tokyo. With icy blue eyes and flawless features, she had captivated the world before stepping away from the camera’s flashbulbs to build a beauty empire that now stood beside her husband's in global value. She was graceful, elegant, and always composed, her magazine-perfect image mirrored in every movement. Her affection for Leon wasn’t just maternal; she adored him. He was her masterpiece.

His father, Oliver Vale, was the kind of man whose presence filled a room without ever saying a word. A self-made tycoon who built an empire from the bones of his grandfather’s dying company, he was sharp, calculating, and endlessly charismatic. Business articles called him “The Gentleman Shark,” and it wasn’t hard to see why. Behind his signature smile was a man who never lost, who made competitors fold with a handshake and a glance. He expected excellence from his son—but he never had to ask. Leon delivered, every time.

Leon Vale wasn’t just rich. He was tailored. His days were scheduled with precision—tennis lessons at six, breakfast prepared by a personal chef at seven, private car to school by eight. Even his casual clothes were custom-made. His handwriting had been professionally refined at age ten, and his fencing coach was an Olympic silver medalist. His tutors didn’t teach—they crafted him.

And yet, for all the pressure, Leon never looked like he was struggling. He didn’t crumble under the weight of expectations. He thrived. He was fluent in French and Japanese. He aced every class without breaking a sweat. He was the president of the student council, the top scorer on the school’s academic team, and the face of countless promotional campaigns for charity events his family donated to. He was never late, never rude, never caught in scandal.

To the outside world, Leon Vale had it all figured out. A golden boy with a golden future.

But what no one knew—what no one saw—was that Leon had learned early on how to wear a mask. Not the kind you could take off at night, but the kind that eventually became a second skin. He knew how to smile without feeling. How to speak without thinking. How to say exactly what someone wanted to hear, without ever giving away a single piece of himself. That was how you survived as a Vale.

Because the world didn’t want him. It wanted the idea of him. The perfect son. The perfect heir. The boy who would grow into the man that inherited not just a fortune, but a throne.

And Leon? He played the role to perfection.

In school, Leon Vale’s popularity was less a social climb and more a birthright.

There was never a moment when he became popular—it was simply understood, like gravity or the sky being blue. From the moment he stepped through the grand oak doors of St. Augustine’s Private Academy, it was as if the school adjusted itself to accommodate him. Students moved aside without being asked. Teachers unconsciously straightened up when he entered the room. Even the headmaster greeted him with a familiar nod, like they were equals.

Leon didn’t flaunt it. He didn’t need to. His presence spoke.

His inner circle was small but powerful. Each member handpicked, whether by social standing, family name, or sheer usefulness. There was Matteo, whose family owned the second-largest banking network in the region. Elise, a legacy student with old money ties and a razor-sharp tongue. Remy, the smooth-talking charmer with connections to international investors, and Isla, whose father was a diplomat and whose manners were as flawless as her designer wardrobe. They weren’t just rich—they were polished. And together, they ruled the school’s unspoken social hierarchy.

Leon liked them. As much as he could like anyone.

They made sense. They understood the game. None of them expected emotional closeness, and none of them needed it. Loyalty was an unspoken agreement. They shared answers, invitations, and sometimes secrets—but never too many. Everything in their group operated on balance and status.

And while Leon was admired for his wealth and connections, he was respected for something more: his mind.

Leon had the highest grades in the school. Every year. Every subject. Whether it was advanced calculus, literature, political theory, or languages—he didn’t just do well, he excelled. His academic performance wasn’t due to some desperate desire to impress; it was simply a given that he would be the best. Expectations followed him like shadows, and he walked ahead of them like he had nothing to prove.

But Leon Vale wasn’t perfect.

He knew it. He’d always known it.

His one true flaw? His personality.

He was, admittedly, selfish. Not in the aggressive, throw-a-fit kind of way—but in the deeply ingrained, the-world-is-mine kind of way. He didn’t always listen when people spoke, especially if he deemed them unimportant. He rarely asked questions about others unless it served a purpose. And he made decisions with a logic that often left empathy in the dust.

He was self-aware about it, though. Painfully so. He didn’t walk around pretending to be kind-hearted or selfless. In fact, he hated people who did. He believed that if you were going to be selfish, at least be honest about it. Own it.

Leon justified it in his head. He was charming when it mattered. He donated to causes. He carried himself with grace. He wasn’t cruel, not unless someone truly deserved it. If someone insulted him, embarrassed him, or got in his way—well, that was their mistake. But he wasn’t one to kick someone just for being below him.

He simply… ignored them.

Leon knew exactly who to be polite to: the board members, the teachers, the parents of powerful classmates. And he knew who he could get away with brushing off: the janitor, the freshman who stuttered too much, the girl who wore the same outfit every week. He wasn’t mean to them. He was just… distant. Detached. Not cold, exactly—just untouchable.

In the world Leon Vale lived in, kindness was a performance. One he could put on flawlessly, like a tailored suit. But real warmth? That was a luxury he didn’t have time for.

Sometimes he wondered if that made him a bad person. But then he’d look around—at his grades, his friends, his perfect life—and decide: no. He was doing fine.

Besides, no one had ever told him he needed to change. Not his parents. Not his teachers. Not even his so-called friends.

Another thing about leon is, though weekends for most high school seniors meant freedom—trips to the mall, long drives to nowhere, cramming into booths at late-night diners or slipping into concerts underage with fake IDs and bad decisions.

For Leon Vale, weekends meant… supervision.

His parents, for all their grace and wealth and sophistication, were paranoid when it came to safety. Or, as they liked to call it, “risk management.” Maybe it came with being the Vale heir. Maybe it was a product of wealth. Or maybe it was the high-profile kidnapping attempt from when he was six that left his mother sleepless for weeks and his father quietly installing bulletproof windows. Whatever the reason, one thing was certain:

Leon didn’t leave the house without at least one bodyguard.

And not the invisible, discreet kind of bodyguard either. The Vales weren’t interested in subtlety. The men they hired were tall, muscular, dressed in black suits with sunglasses even on cloudy days, earpieces constantly buzzing, always watching. They stood outside the school gates. They waited at the bottom of the tennis courts. They even once tried to follow him into a student council meeting.

Leon had thrown a fit over that one.

So rather than fight the system every time he wanted to hang out, Leon came up with a compromise—bring the fun to him.

The Vale estate became the unofficial headquarters of his friend group. Every Friday after school, the gates would open for a line of luxury cars, and Matteo, Elise, Remy, and Isla would file in like royalty. Leon’s parents had adjusted to the arrangement quickly. His mother had the staff prepare hors d'oeuvres, imported sodas, and the occasional mocktail “for fun.” His father made an appearance now and then—never for long, just enough to shake hands, ask about grades, and nod with approval before retreating to his private office or flying off on another business trip.

The estate itself was made for entertaining. There was a home theater, a heated indoor pool, a game room stocked with custom-built arcade machines, and even a rooftop garden with soundproof glass walls. And while the others treated it like a second home, Leon rarely ever forgot what it really was: a golden cage. Lavish, yes. Comfortable, of course. But a cage all the same.

Because the one thing he couldn’t do was something as simple as grabbing coffee with his friends without it turning into a production.

One time, he’d suggested it offhand—"Let’s hit that new place near the library. The one with the velvet couches."

Everyone had agreed instantly, all excited to actually leave the palace for once. But the second his parents caught wind of it, it turned into a full-blown operation. Two cars. Three guards. A perimeter check. Bella had called the coffee shop’s owner herself to make sure there wouldn’t be “any media disturbances,” and Oliver had arranged for a private back room to be cleared.

By the time Leon and his friends actually got there, the fun had been drained from the idea entirely. They were the only customers in the café. The atmosphere was awkward. A guard stood near the sugar bar like he was watching for assassins.

Elise had laughed and called it “royal treatment.”

Leon had just wanted to scream.

It was annoying in the way that only extreme wealth could be. Most people didn’t understand. They thought having bodyguards was cool. That being protected meant being powerful.

But to Leon, it felt like being trapped in an image. Always on display. Always playing the part. Even when all he wanted was to walk down the street like a normal teenager and maybe—just maybe—make a mistake without it ending up in a tabloid.

Leon Vale’s public life was like a luxury watch—expensive, intricate, and always ticking just beneath the surface. The cameras only ever captured the gleam of the gold casing, never the strain of the gears within.

To the world, he was still “The Prince of Vale.”

The perfect son. The poised heir. The boy who would one day take the crown of an empire.

But behind that gilded nickname and polished exterior, things were never quite as simple.

Especially not when it came to the Duvalls.

The media adored the idea of the two families—The Vales and the Duvalls—operating side by side like kings and queens of an unseen board. Business publications often referred to them as "The Twin Pillars of Private Industry," a poetic nod to their shared dominance. If the Vales were gold—glimmering, magnetic, dazzling—the Duvalls were silver: clean, sharp, and silently lethal. Different metals, but equally valuable.

It was common knowledge that their families were close. Publicly, at least.

Monthly meetings were routine. Whether it was a sleek brunch at the Duvall penthouse or an evening reception at the Vale estate, there was always some sort of joint appearance. The men would retreat into study rooms to talk market trends and policy changes. The women would sip wine and discuss board positions, PR movements, and which foundations were worth aligning their names with next quarter.

Leon had sat through countless of these meetings, nodding when expected, offering the occasional insight when prompted. He was good at playing the part—the thoughtful, composed future CEO. He had been trained for this since he could read.

But what no one outside the luxury gates and security cameras really knew was this:

Leon and Lennox weren’t close. Not even slightly.

They had known each other for years, yes. Grown up in the same circles. Shared tables, photo ops, holidays. But there was no friendship, no shared inside jokes or sibling-like rivalry. There was only an unspoken distance, as wide as a canyon.

Lennox Duvall, at twenty-two, was already doing what Leon would be doing—one day.

While Leon was still prepping for his transition into the business world, Lennox was already inside of it. He sat in on meetings with Jace, traveled for international mergers, and negotiated contracts worth more than most people’s lifetime income. He didn’t just walk through the world with confidence—he moved like he was already the man his father wanted him to be.

Lennox didn’t party. Didn’t joke. Didn’t care much for the media. While Leon understood charm and optics, Lennox understood execution. Precision. Numbers. Power.

Leon often found himself compared to him, silently and aloud. “Lennox already gave a keynote at 20,” some board member would say offhandedly. “When do you think Leon will be ready for something like that?”

His parents didn’t pressure him—not directly. Bella would smile and say, “You’re doing beautifully, darling,” while casually forwarding him articles about young CEOs and Forbes 30 Under 30 spotlights. Oliver would remind him that eighteen was fast approaching and “You’ll need to start speaking a little more in these meetings, son.”

Leon knew it too.

He had less than a year before he legally stepped into the world that had been built around him since birth.

And that weight sat in his chest like lead.

He wasn’t unprepared—far from it. Leon was smart, capable, and knew how to lead a room when needed. But he also still felt like a teenager some days. Like someone who wanted five more minutes to figure himself out before stepping onto the world stage.

Lennox, meanwhile, seemed carved from steel. His answers were always clean. His questions sharper. He didn’t flinch under pressure—he was pressure.

They rarely spoke when their families met.

Lennox would give him a nod. Maybe a curt “Leon.” But that was it.

There were no insults. No arguments. Just distance. A quiet acknowledgment that they were built for the same role but moving on different timelines. One already crowned. The other still preparing for the ceremony.

Leon sometimes wondered if Lennox saw him as a child. A polite, well-dressed placeholder.

Other times, he wondered if Lennox saw him as a threat.

He wasn’t sure which was worse.

And still—every time the press snapped a photo of them standing side by side, headlines screamed about how “The Silver and Gold Heirs Continue the Legacy.”

Smiling. Standing tall. Ready to rule.

Leon’s life was gliding at its usual, carefully managed pace—school, public appearances, business prep, the occasional evening gala he didn’t remember signing up for. Everything had its place. Nothing ever shifted without warning.

That was why the unannounced arrival of Lana Duvall was so strange.

Normally, the Duvalls scheduled their visits weeks in advance. Lana never showed up without notice, and certainly never without Jace. But this time, it was just her. No sleek black car full of advisors, no silver gift boxes with imported wine or rare art books. Just Lana herself, standing in the grand entryway of the Vale estate with her assistant trailing behind, her expression tight and unreadable.

Leon had just come downstairs when he heard his mother murmur in confusion, “Lana?” and the sight stopped him cold.

She looked… off.

The woman who was always the picture of grace and restraint now had faint bags beneath her eyes, her usual meticulous hair was slightly out of place, and the perfectly tailored blazer she wore had wrinkles. Wrinkles. Leon wasn’t sure he’d ever seen Lana Duvall look tired—not even jet-lagged. She didn’t even wear makeup today.

Something was wrong.

“Leon,” she said, her voice calm but unmistakably strained. “Come in. I need you present for this.”

His mother blinked in surprise. “You want Leon involved?”

His father glanced between them, clearly suspicious. “What’s this about?”

Lana offered a thin smile as she sat in the Vales’ private lounge, smoothing her skirt as if trying to pretend everything was still perfectly under control. “It’s... complicated. But I’ll explain.”

Leon sat across from her, alert now. His parents followed, and for a moment the room was quiet, the weight of the unscheduled meeting pressing into the polished walls.

Then Lana spoke.

“As you know,” she began, hands folded neatly in her lap, “I have a son. Lennox.”

Leon almost said, We all know Lennox, but kept his mouth shut.

Lana continued, “But what you don’t know is that I also have another son.”

That sentence alone made Bella straighten in her seat and Oliver narrow his eyes slightly.

“His name is Sailas.” Her tone shifted, softer but tinged with regret. “I won’t go into too much detail. He was raised… separately. There were reasons. Legal reasons. But circumstances have changed, and I’ve recently gained full custody of him again.”

Leon blinked. Another son?

A second Duvall? One no one knew about?

Lana exhaled quietly, pausing to steady herself, then looked directly at Leon.

“I want to propose a deal,” she said.

Oliver raised an eyebrow. “What kind of deal?”

Lana didn’t hesitate. “I want Leon to make friends with Sailas. Help him adjust to this world. Teach him how to navigate our society, how to move within it. The lifestyle, the expectations, the image. He’ll listen better to someone his age.”

Leon stared at her, not sure if he’d heard right.

“You want me to… socialize him?” he asked, carefully.

Lana nodded. “Yes. I need Sailas to understand what’s expected of him now. And you… you understand this world better than anyone your age.”

It was flattering in theory, but everything about this felt off. Why would Lana Duvall—who was meticulous about privacy, image, and control—suddenly reveal a secret child and ask him to get involved?

But before he could speak again, she added:

“In return, I’ll invest in your first business venture. Whatever it is. I’ll be your biggest investor.”

The room went silent.

Leon’s parents both looked at each other—unsure, cautious.

Bella finally asked, “How old is he?”

“Seventeen,” Lana replied. “Same as Leon. But he’s not used to this world. Not like your son is.”

Leon leaned back slowly, trying to process.

He should’ve said no. It was strange, sudden, and far too messy.

But the offer… it was huge. A blank check from Lana Duvall herself. That kind of endorsement could launch any idea into the stratosphere.

And there was something else—some emotion behind Lana’s eyes he couldn’t quite place.

Maybe desperation.

Maybe guilt.

Or maybe something worse.

“Do I have to act like we’re best friends?” Leon asked lightly, still watching her.

“No,” she said simply. “Just... guide him. Introduce him to the right people. Help him survive this world.”

Leon looked to his parents, both of whom wore unreadable expressions. Then he looked back at Lana.

“Alright,” he said. “I’ll meet him.”

Lana had looked so pleased with him.

She’d smiled in that rare, warm way—like he was already some shining young diplomat, trusted with an important mission. She even placed a hand gently on his shoulder before she left, thanking him as though she had just handed him something delicate and dangerous.

His parents, by contrast, hadn’t been particularly alarmed. If anything, his mother looked thrilled.

“You see?” Bella had said once Lana left. “He’s not even eighteen and already networking deals. I’m proud of you, sweetheart. This is how business begins.”

Oliver had only nodded approvingly, distracted by a phone call and a new proposal sitting on his tablet. He had said something like, “It’s a harmless favor. Make the boy feel welcome. It’ll benefit everyone.”

Harmless.

Right.

But now, seated alone in the vast living room, Leon wasn’t feeling confident. Or proud. Or anything particularly triumphant.

He was just annoyed.

He sat on the edge of one of the modern, cream-colored couches, tapping his foot rhythmically against the marble floor. A low, steady beat of impatience. The large antique clock above the fireplace had long passed the hour.

Lana had said 3 PM sharp.

It was now 4:07.

Leon had prepared everything. The staff had laid out drinks and refreshments, softened the lighting, and even dusted down a rarely used seating area to give it a more “welcoming” feel. He’d cleared his schedule, too—skipped a call with one of his mentors, ignored texts from Matteo, and hadn’t started on his history paper due in two days.

He’d even ironed his shirt. Personally.

And now, an hour later, he sat there alone, foot still tapping, chewing the inside of his cheek and wondering who the hell Sailas Duvall even was.

Lennox had never once mentioned a brother.

And from what little Lana had said, this Sailas had been away. Not studying abroad, not attending some distant prep school. No. Away. As if he had existed off the grid entirely, like some long-forgotten draft of the Duvall family tree scribbled out in ink and only now redrawn.

What kind of son did Lana Duvall keep hidden?

More importantly, why did she want him—Leon—to be the bridge?

Leon was just about to give up. He sighed and stood, smoothing the front of his shirt with an annoyed flick of the wrist. Screw it, he thought. If he wants to play games, let him do it somewhere else. I have homework—

A soft knock at the living room doorframe pulled his attention back.

One of the household staff, dressed in black and grey, stepped just inside. “Mr. Vale,” she said with a slight bow of the head. “Mr. Duvall has arrived.”

Leon blinked.

Finally.

“Send him in,” he said, already standing straighter, brushing invisible lint from his sleeves.

He didn’t know what he expected—maybe someone like Lennox, cold and sleek and irritatingly perfect. Or maybe someone awkward and wide-eyed, overwhelmed by luxury and eager to impress.

What he didn’t expect... was the boy who actually walked through the door.

Leon turned at the sound of the footsteps, and—

Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.

The boy who stepped into the room was tall—taller than Leon, irritatingly so—and broad-shouldered, like someone who actually used their gym membership for more than just appearances. His skin was tan, sun-worn, and his long, dark hair was pulled back into a small ponytail that looked like it hadn’t seen a proper comb in weeks.

But it wasn’t just his looks—it was his whole energy.

He stood there in the Vale estate like he had been dragged in by force, an expression of pure annoyance plastered across his face, like Leon had personally offended him by existing.

Leon bit back a scoff.

Really? He was the one annoyed?

Leon had been waiting for over an hour in a perfectly tailored shirt, in his own home, with refreshments and furniture handpicked by designers from Italy, and this guy wanted to act inconvenienced?

His outfit didn’t help either.

Baggy, torn jeans that hung too low on his hips. A wrinkled, oversized t-shirt layered under an old bomber jacket that looked like it had been through war. A silver chain hung around his neck, swaying as he moved, and a mess of bracelets jangled on one wrist. And the shoes—

God. The shoes.

Dirty, beat-up sneakers with a sole peeling at the back and mismatched laces. Leon stared at them for one second too long, wondering if they were a statement or just... neglect.

He was handsome—objectively, anyway. Strong jawline. Sharp eyes. Good bone structure. But the rest of him? A disaster. He looked like he belonged on the side of a road with a cigarette and a punchline, not in the living room of the richest family in the country.

Leon plastered on his most diplomatic expression, smoothing the irritation from his voice like he’d been taught.

He stood and extended a hand. “Hello,” he said politely. “My name is Leon Vale. You must be Sailas Duvall, right?”

The boy looked at his hand like it was a joke. He didn’t shake it.

Instead, he grimaced. “Sailas Graves.”

Leon blinked. “Graves?”

Sailas rolled his eyes and flopped down on the nearest couch without asking. “That’s the name I kept when Lana decided she wanted to play house again.”

Leon didn’t sit. He was still too busy processing the tone—sarcastic, bitter, bored.

Leon cleared his throat, forcing his usual polite smile. “Well, regardless, I—”

“Save it,” Sailas interrupted, voice rough and clipped. His eyes flashed with irritation, daring Leon to say more.

Leon raised an eyebrow but held his composure. “I’m just trying to be cordial here.”

Sailas scoffed, folding his arms. “Yeah, I can tell. Doesn’t exactly come naturally, does it?”

Leon’s jaw tightened. He was used to people challenging him—used to shutting them down with charm or power. But Sailas? This guy didn’t seem like someone who’d be tamed with a smile.

“Look,” Leon said, sighing heavily and running a hand through his perfectly styled hair. “Please, just sit down. We don’t have to start off like this.”

Sailas rolled his eyes so hard Leon thought they might get stuck. Then, with a lazy flop, he dropped onto the couch, sprawling as if the furniture were beneath his dignity.

Leaning back, Leon hesitated, then asked carefully, “So, how are you?”

Sailas snapped, irritation thick in his voice: “Really fucking irritated.”

Leon blinked, clearly taken aback. “Why?”

Sailas paused, running a hand over his unkempt ponytail. “First, that bitch took my cigarettes. Then she forced me to meet with some—” He narrowed his eyes and gave Leon a hard once-over, voice dripping with disdain, “some trust fund brat.”

Leon bristled. “Excuse me? Who do you think you are—”

“Shut up already.” Sailas cut him off sharply, not even letting him finish. His tone was final, dismissive, like slamming a door on any chance of small talk.

Leon’s patience snapped.

“Okay, look, Mr. Duvall—”

“Don’t call me that,” Sailas cut in sharply, voice thick with annoyance. “I’m not a Duvall.”

Leon’s jaw clenched. “Okay, whatever. Sailas, listen—your mom—”

“She’s not my fucking mom,” Sailas snapped again, cutting him off before he could finish.

Leon closed his eyes and took a slow, deliberate breath, the kind he’d been drilled to take in boardrooms and family dinners. Interruptions were his biggest pet peeve. A loss of control.

When he opened them, his voice was steady but cool. “Whatever. Lana asked us to be friends. She wants me to help you get used to life as one of the heirs to the richest families.”

He paused, choosing his next words carefully, like selecting the right piece on a chessboard.

“I know what that’s like—the pressures, the constant eyes, what you need to know to survive in that world. I’m just here to help you.”

Sailas rubbed a hand across his face, frustration clear in every movement. “I don’t need help. I don’t plan on inheriting anything or being in the public eye at all. So we’re done here.”

Without waiting for a reply, Sailas stood, preparing to leave.

Leon’s heart hammered—not with fear, but with frustration and urgency.

He could not let this end now.

That investment from Lana wasn’t just a check, he really didnt need the money, he was rich after all. It was validation. Proof to his parents, to the world, and to himself that he could stand on his own.

If Sailas walked away, so did that chance.

Leon stepped forward quickly, blocking the door, the weight of his family’s expectations pressing down harder than ever.

“Please, don’t leave,” Leon said, voice low but firm.

Sailas paused, narrowing his eyes. “Why shouldn’t I?”

Leon’s mind raced. He couldn’t say it was for the investment—that would blow up in his face and drive Sailas out the door faster than before.

So he grasped for something less transactional, something vaguely sincere, even if it felt hollow.

“I... I want to be friends.”

The words felt strange coming out, heavy with unspoken meaning. This wasn’t about friendship—not really. It was about control. About keeping Sailas tethered to his world, a necessary pawn in a larger game.

Sailas scoffed, a sharp, derisive sound that cut through the tension like a knife.

“Why would you wanna be friends with me?” He crossed his arms, staring Leon down like the question alone was ridiculous.

Leon’s mind scrambled for an answer. He couldn’t say, 'Because I need you to keep this deal alive.' That would kill any chance.

“Well,” Leon began, rushing to fill the silence, “we’re the same age. We both have to deal with the pressures of being heirs to family businesses. Our situations are… similar.”

He shifted uneasily, trying to sound sincere. “I thought maybe we could understand each other, you know?”

Sailas grimaced, the skepticism written all over his face. “We’re not in the same situation. Not even close.”

Leon bristled but pushed forward. “Well, even if we’re not, being friends would be nice, right? Once you transfer to my school, I could introduce you to people. Help with schoolwork.”

He forced a faint smile, then added, “That way you don’t taint the Duvall name.”

Sailas scoffed. “I really couldn’t care less about that stuff.”

Leon’s brain raced, searching for something, anything to keep this from falling apart.

“Okay,” he said finally, “how about this: if you agree to be friends with me, I’ll give you a spot to smoke. There’s a place on the property—away from security cameras. I can take you there. You can smoke in peace.”

Sailas raised an eyebrow, considering.

“Alright,” he said slowly. “If that’s what you’re offering, then alright. We can be friends.”

Leon let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Victory, small but enough.

Chapter Text

It was 𝘦𝘹𝘩𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 trying to get Sailas to show up on time.

Leon had given him a schedule. A 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 clear schedule.

"Be at the Vale house by 3 p.m. sharp," he had told him, slow and deliberate like Sailas was hard of hearing. “We’ll work on how to speak, how to act, how to not completely ruin your image. Then at 4, you can have your precious little smoke break. After that, you leave. Simple.”

Apparently, too simple.

Somehow, even with those bare-minimum instructions, Sailas managed to make being punctual look like a full-time job. Leon found himself waiting more often than not, arms crossed, eyes glued to the front gate, internally debating whether throwing the guy into a time management seminar would be considered community service or a war crime.

He had Sailas’s phone number, too—not that it helped. They didn’t text. At all. The number sat there in Leon’s contacts, untouched, like an unwanted gift. Leon had lied and said he wanted to be friends, but even he wasn’t committed to pretending. With anyone else, he would’ve at least tried—asked about their day, thrown in some casual small talk, mirrored their body language like a good little manipulator.

But Sailas?

Sailas didn’t want to be close. And Leon? He was perfectly fine with that.

The sessions—if they could even be called that—were stiff. Awkward. Mechanical. Leon would run through a list of things Sailas should not do: Don’t slouch. Don’t cuss every third word. Stop looking like you hate everyone in the room.

Sailas would nod, maybe. Or just stare with that constant blank expression, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else.

He didn’t talk much. Like, at all. Unless Leon forced him to answer something, Sailas sat there in near silence, arms folded, foot bouncing like a ticking time bomb until 4 p.m. rolled around.

Leon wasn’t sure if this guy was trying to act tough by being quiet, if he just genuinely didn’t care and was only there to get his daily nicotine hit—or if he was a socially awkward loser with a permanent resting bitch face.

If Leon had to bet?

Probably the second one. Sailas didn’t exactly scream “mysterious bad boy.” He was more like… annoyed cat with a hoodie and a smoking habit.

It was weird. Most people would try something to get on Leon’s good side. Smile, flatter, fake interest—anything. But Sailas? Sailas didn’t try. Didn’t even bother to pretend.

By the end of the week, Leon decided they needed to move on from posture and phrasing and start on something more delicate: etiquette. Specifically, the etiquette of eating.

“You’d be amazed,” Leon muttered, adjusting the silverware on the long dining table at the Vale estate, “how much someone’s image is completely destroyed by the way they hold a fork.”

Sailas, slouched in the opposite chair with his hood half-draped over his head, looked like he was physically restraining himself from dying of boredom. Leon didn’t care.

“This,” Leon continued, tapping the handle of the fork with a perfectly manicured finger, “goes in your left hand. And the knife in your right. And you don’t eat like it’s your last day on Earth.”

He was dressed like he always was—collared shirt, watch that cost more than some people's apartments, and hair that somehow still looked windless despite the open windows. It wasn’t vanity. It was control. Precision. Every detail was curated, down to the crease in his pants. Leon Vale didn’t just live—he presented. And what he presented was someone polished, someone proper, someone in control of everything.

Even when that was a complete lie.

He looked across the table at Sailas, who was picking at his cuticle like Leon hadn’t just staged a miniature banquet in front of him.

“You know,” Leon said, tone dry, “it’s wild that I put all this effort in, and you act like I’m forcing you to undergo military training.”

Sailas didn't look up. “Is this seriously what you do for fun?”

Leon gave a tight smile. “No. This is what I do because the world is watching. There’s a difference.”

Sailas finally glanced at him, skeptical. “Right. Because the world cares how you hold a spoon.”

“Oh, it does,” Leon replied, sharper than before. “You don’t see it, because no one expects you to get it right. But I do. Every time. One mistake and people will talk. They'll say, ‘Look at the Vale heir—can’t even hold a wine glass without smudging it.’ And they’ll laugh. Quietly, of course. Behind perfect smiles.”

Sailas blinked, expression unreadable. Then he picked up a spoon in his right hand, scooped a grape from one of the little bowls Leon had prepared, and popped it in his mouth like a caveman.

Leon stared at him for a long moment, then sighed like he’d aged five years.

“You’re hopeless.”

Sailas grinned—barely. It was more like a twitch of the mouth. “So stop trying.”

Leon leaned back in his chair, folding his arms.

“I can’t. I have a problem.”

“Oh?”

“I hate messes,” Leon said, gesturing toward Sailas with a vague wave. “And you, Sailas, are a walking mess.”

He regretted it as soon as he said it—not because it wasn’t true, but because it sounded meaner than he intended. Not that Sailas reacted much. The guy just went back to chewing grapes like none of this mattered.

Leon watched him in silence for a while, eyes narrowing.

Sailas didn’t get it. Didn’t have to get it. When he screwed up, people just called him a delinquent and moved on. But when Leon slipped—when he faltered—it wasn’t a “mistake.” It was a scandal.

Leon knew Sailas was definitely a piece of work since the moment he saw him. From the moment they met—blank expression, dark hoodie, voice like he was conserving words for the winter—Leon had known this wasn’t going to be easy.

They finished their eating etiquette lesson and moved to Leon's room.

“Alright,” Leon said, voice clipped but composed as he slid a printed article across the table. “This is a simple read. It’s about conversation etiquette. How to carry yourself when speaking, how to keep a dialogue balanced and engaging. I want you to read it, and then write down three topics you could use to start or maintain a polite conversation.”

Sailas looked at the paper like it had personally insulted him.

Leon sat down across from him, hands clasped, watching like a scientist waiting for a test subject to respond. A minute passed. Then five. Then ten.

It wasn’t until nearly twenty minutes in that Sailas finally put the paper down.

Leon straightened up, hopeful. “Okay. Good. So—what’d you get from it?”

Sailas blinked. “...I think it said not to talk about, like, death.”

Leon stared at him.

“That’s... part of it,” he said slowly, like he was trying not to raise his voice. “Did you read the whole thing?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you understand any of it?”

“I mean... yeah. Sort of.”

Leon reached for the paper, skimming over it with growing irritation. “It’s not a research thesis, it’s a two-page article with bullet points. Bullet points, Sailas.”

Sailas shrugged. “I dunno. I zoned out, I guess.”

Leon groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Of course you did. You probably didn’t even read the title.”

“It was something about... speaking well?”

Leon gave him a look that bordered on despair. “‘The Art of Civil Conversation and Why It Matters.’ It was bolded. Twice.”

Sailas didn’t even blink. He just leaned back in his chair and glanced at the clock on the wall, as if the only thing he had to do today was survive until smoke break.

Leon stared at him for a long moment—really stared. And it hit him, fully, how deeply doomed this entire arrangement was.

He wasn’t dealing with someone who just pretended not to care. Sailas genuinely didn’t. Not about manners, not about posture, not even about the words coming out of his own mouth. The guy had all the enthusiasm of a dead plant.

“You realize,” Leon said carefully, “that people actually listen to what you say. They remember it. They judge you for it. You can’t just mutter and shrug your way through a conversation and expect people to not notice.”

Sailas tilted his head. “Isn’t that what you do?”

Leon blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You say polite stuff, but you don’t mean any of it,” Sailas said, not cruelly—just plainly. “You ask people how they are and don’t listen to the answer. You compliment people and then roll your eyes when they walk away. That article said conversation is about caring. But you don’t actually care.”

Leon opened his mouth, closed it, then pressed his lips together.

He had no idea what annoyed him more: the fact that Sailas had read enough to throw that line at him, or the fact that it wasn’t entirely wrong.

“...You’re missing the point,” Leon muttered stiffly, sitting up straighter. “It’s about presenting yourself well. Looking put-together. Making people comfortable.”

Sailas gave him a lazy look. “And lying.”

Leon glared. “It’s called tact.”

There was a silence between them then—tense and tired and full of unspoken judgment. The ornate clock ticked in the background. Somewhere outside, a bird chirped. Inside the Vale estate, it felt like two entirely different planets had collided at a dining table.

Leon leaned forward, tapping the article again.

“Just write down three damn conversation topics. Please.”

Sailas sighed and picked up the pen with the expression of someone being asked to confess to war crimes.

“if your fake then own it, dont pretend to be the image of perfection.” sailas muttered.

“I don't claim to be perfect, and im definitely not fake,” Leon snapped, crossing his arms with a sharp edge in his voice.

Sailas raised an eyebrow, a slow smirk creeping onto his face. “You seem oddly defensive for someone being called fake.”

Leon’s jaw clenched. “Because you’re accusing me of being fake.”

“Well,” Sailas said flatly, “you are.”

The words hung heavy in the room.

Leon’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t get to say that.”

“Why not?” Sailas challenged, stepping closer, voice low but cutting. “You act all polished and perfect, but it’s all a show. Like you’re scared to show what’s underneath.”

Leon took a breath, trying to steady himself. “It’s called survival, Sailas. Something you might understand if you weren’t so busy acting like you don’t give a damn.”

Sailas scoffed, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Oh, it's 'survival' now?” sailas laughs a little.“You have no idea what survival is, you have it easy. You just want to feel sorry for yourself.”

The back-and-forth sputtered, the tension between them thick enough to choke on. Words volleyed—barbed, sarcastic, and brutally honest. Neither one backing down.

Then Leon’s voice dropped, quieter but sharp.

“You know what? That’s the smoke break.”

He snapped his fingers in Sailas’s face.

“It’s gone.”

He had to admit, deep down, the guilt gnawed at him. Enabling Sailas to smoke was reckless. Smoking wasn’t good for anyone, especially not for someone their age. And his mother—Bella—would be upset if she knew he was enabling this. Lana would be absolutely furious if she found out sailas was still smoking, even more mad at Leon for giving him a secret spot to do so.

Who would be fond of their seventeen-year-old son smoking? he thought bitterly.

But it was the only way to keep Sailas here—to keep him listening.

Sailas’s face twisted in frustration.

He stood up, towering over Leon, who was still seated.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Sailas spat, voice rough with anger. “I did what you asked. I cut the face food weirdly. I read your stupid fucking paper. I wrote what you told me to. And now you want to take that away just because I called you out?”

Leon’s chest tightened, a flicker of intimidation creeping in. But he refused to show it.

He stood up quickly and shoved Sailas back, fingers pressing into his shoulders.

“Well, you pissed me off. You wanna smoke so bad? Go find somewhere else to do it, ‘cause you’re not gonna do it here.”

Sailas’s eyes flashed dangerously.

“I can’t,” he hissed, shoving Leon against the wall. His finger jabbed into Leon’s chest, trembling with fury. “Lana’s got her fucking people watching me whenever I leave the house. If she finds me smoking, she'll take my phone.”

Leon scoffed, trying to regain some ground. “What, you can’t live without your phone?”

That was the last straw.

Sailas’s hand shot forward, pushing Leon firmly, and his voice dropped to a threatening growl.

“Listen, you fucking brat. I’m only here because you’re stupid enough to let me smoke here. I don’t care who you are—I will fucking hurt you if you screw me over.”

The room was silent except for the sharp thud of their breathing. Leon’s mind raced—his carefully built control slipping at the edges.

Leon’s eyes narrowed, his voice low but steady, refusing to back down. “What are you gonna do? Hit me?”

Sailas’s expression darkened instantly. Without hesitation, he grabbed Leon’s face, fingers digging in with force. His eyes burned with raw anger.

“You don’t know me,” he hissed, voice thick with menace. “You think I won’t?”

Leon met that fierce gaze without blinking. He could see it—the promise in Sailas’s eyes wasn’t a bluff. This kid meant it.

Slowly, Leon pushed Sailas’s hand away, firm and unyielding.

“I think you would hit me,” Leon said, voice cool. “But you won’t. Not unless you want me to tell Lana about our little deal.”

Sailas’s eyes flicked to the doorway as if weighing the consequences.

“Then you’ll lose your phone.”

Leon paused, emphasizing the next words. “And you’ll have to quit smoking cold turkey.”

A humorless laugh escaped Sailas. He spun around abruptly and kicked a chair across the room, the clatter echoing sharply.

“God, you really 𝘢𝘳𝘦 a spoiled brat,” Sailas sneered.

Leon straightened, smoothing his shirt, voice clipped and final.

“I think we’re done today. You can go home.”

Sailas glared, his dark eyes sharp as knives, before storming out without another word.

The door closed behind him with a loud thud.

Leon let out a long, slow breath, the tension draining from his shoulders.

He honestly had no idea where that courage had come from. No one had ever stood so close, so angry, so unafraid to challenge him like that.

And yet, somehow, he’d kept a straight face. Kept control.

---

Later that day, Leon was sprawled across his bed, phone in hand, half-listening as his room gradually filled with voices and the familiar scent of overpriced cologne and strawberry lip gloss. Matteo was the first to drop onto the bean bag near the window, kicking his designer sneakers off like they cost nothing—which, to him, they basically didn’t.

“Elise is late. Again,” Matteo sighed dramatically, flicking a card from Leon’s nightstand. “Girl’s probably deciding which shade of beige to wear.”

“She says it’s taupe,” Remy said from the floor, legs crossed, sipping a lavender soda he’d brought with him. “Apparently there’s a difference.”

Isla, seated at Leon’s vanity and already thumbing through his expensive skincare stash like it was community property, laughed. “Taupe is so last season. If she shows up in taupe, I’m telling the group chat.”

Leon smirked from his spot against the headboard. “Please do. I need the entertainment after the day I’ve had.”

“You mean your new project?” Isla teased, glancing at him through the mirror. “Sailas, right?”

Leon’s jaw tightened slightly. “He’s… exhausting.”

“Oh, from what I've heard he's just my type,” Elise announced as she finally strolled in, a shopping bag on her arm and a pair of sunglasses on her head despite the setting sun. “Tall, looks like hes annoyed all the time, a hopeless loser I can fix.”

Remy snorted. “You say that like it’s a compliment.”

“It is,” Elise replied, flopping dramatically next to Matteo and tossing her bag on his lap. “Look inside. I got the new drop from Valden.”

Matteo whistled low. “The jacket with the silver stitching?”

“Limited edition,” she said proudly.

Leon raised a brow. “They’re opening a Valden store at the mall next week. My mom’s on the press list.”

“Ugh, of course she is,” Isla said, pretending to gag, then leaned toward him eagerly. “Can you get us in early?”

Leon shrugged, feigning boredom. “Maybe. Depends how annoying you all are between now and then.”

Matteo grinned. “We’re charming, Leon. Not annoying.”

“That’s subjective,” Remy said with a smirk, poking Leon’s ankle. “So. Weekend plans? Or is everyone being kidnapped by their parents again?”

“My dad’s dragging me to a gallery opening Saturday,” Elise groaned. “Another one of his ‘culture is power’ lectures.”

“I have brunch with my aunt Saturday,” Isla said, rolling her eyes. “If she brings up Pilates again, I might throw myself into traffic.”

“Matteo and I are free,” Remy said, nudging his friend. “I guess if were free sunday we can get leon to get us into the valden opening early, right?”

Leon stayed quiet, twirling his phone between his fingers. Normally he’d jump at the chance to go somewhere loud and exclusive, but his thoughts kept circling back to Sailas—his glare, the tension in the room, the way it felt like standing next to a wild animal. And yet, somehow, Leon hadn’t backed down.

He didn’t know if he was proud or stupid.

“Leon?” Matteo asked.

Leon blinked, looking up. “Huh?”

“The valden opening.”

“Oh. Yeah,” Leon said, clearing his throat and forcing a lazy grin. “Why not? I could use a distraction.”

“Distraction?” Elise asked, eyes sharp with curiosity. “From what?”

Leon leaned back against his headboard, cracking a half-smile as he glanced around at his friends. “Sailas,” he started, voice calm but carrying that usual edge of control. “We had a bit of an argument earlier. He kind of… went off the rails.”

Matteo raised an eyebrow, grinning. “Off the rails how? Like ‘throws your phone in the pool’ off the rails, or ‘body slam you into the wall’ off the rails?”

Leon smirked. “Closer to the second. Dude got all up in my face, finger in it, like he was ready to throw hands.”

Isla gasped mockingly. “Ooooh, did the Prince of Vale get scared?”

Leon rolled his eyes. “Please. I’m not about to back down from some punk just because he’s angry. I pushed him off, told him if he wanted to hit me, fine — but he’d better remember our little deal, or his phone’s gone. And no more smoke breaks.”

Remy laughed. “Sounds like Sailas has a serious chip on his shoulder. Maybe you need a bodyguard for your tutoring sessions.”

Matteo nodded eagerly. “Exactly what I was thinking. Next time, we all come. Make sure he doesn’t actually deck you. Or at least scare the shit out of him with a posse.”

Leon shook his head, a slow smile spreading. “No way. If he sees I’m intimidated, he’ll think he won. No, this is between me and him. Let him realize I’m not just some trust fund brat he can push around.”

Isla leaned forward, smirking. “You do realize you’re literally the trust fund brat, right? I mean, he called you out on it. But honestly, if he thinks you’re scared, he’s already lost.”

Matteo laughed. “Yeah, Sailas sounds like a walking disaster, but you’ve got that ‘I-own-this-room’ vibe. You just need to make sure he doesn’t burn the place down.”

Leon gave a shrug, pretending not to care, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “I just want to get this over with. Teach him how to survive this world without throwing chairs every other minute.”

Remy grinned. “Well, maybe you should start with some anger management lessons. Or maybe just teach him how to pick better clothes.”

Everyone laughed, and Elise added with a smirk, “Seriously though, torn jeans and dirty sneakers? In the Vale estate? Girl, what is he thinking? A hot face but atrocious fasion.”

Leon chuckled and shook his head. “Yeah, well, I’m stuck dealing with Mr. ‘I’m-too-cool-to-try,’ so until he learns how to wear a decent blazer, it’s going to be a long semester.”

Isla gave him a pointed look. “Better hope he doesn’t start dating one of your legacy enemies. Then you’ll really have problems.”

Leon’s smile tightened. “Trust me, I’ve got plans.”

Matteo threw an arm around Leon’s shoulder. “Well, whatever happens, we’ve got your back. Just don’t let him sucker punch you.”

Leon laughed, the tension in his chest easing a bit. “No worries. I’m not about to let some cigarette-smoking, angry Duvall kid make me lose face.”

The group fell into comfortable chatter again, but Leon’s mind lingered on Sailas. One thing was clear — this was going to be one hell of a game.

Chapter Text

Leon was already annoyed. It was way too early for this level of irritation—and he hadn’t even made it to the car yet.

He adjusted the strap on his bag, trying to mentally prepare himself for another school day, only to stop dead in his tracks when he saw him.

Sailas.

Leaning against the side of the car like he owned it, arms crossed, scowl locked in place. And standing right beside him? Lana, looking far too cheerful for someone standing next to the human embodiment of a black cloud.

Leon plastered on the fakest, politest smile he could muster. “Morning.”

Lana lit up. “Good morning! I hope you don’t mind, I’ve taken the liberty of enrolling Sailas at your school. Since you two are becoming such good friends, I figured you could show him around!”

Leon blinked. Friends? That was a hell of a word to throw around.

“Oh, sure,” Leon said with a tight-lipped smile, “I guess I can do that.”

Lana gave a satisfied sigh, like she just checked something off her to-do list. “Perfect. Then Sailas can ride with you, yes?”

Leon didn’t even have time to form a real excuse. “Sure.”

“Have fun at school, boys,” she said, giving Sailas a little wave.

“Shut up,” Sailas muttered without even looking at her, peeling away from the car and getting in without so much as a glance at Leon.

Leon rolled his eyes before getting in, sliding into the leather seat beside him. He leaned forward and told his driver, “We’re ready.”

As the car pulled away, Leon sat rigidly, very aware of the presence sitting next to him. Sailas looked even more pissed off than usual. If yesterday was ‘stormy,’ today was full-on tornado watch. He stared out the window, jaw tight, eyes hard, like the car seat personally offended him.

Leon side-eyed him. “You always look this happy in the morning, or am I just lucky today?”

Sailas didn’t respond. He just shifted his glare slightly toward Leon, then looked back out the window, muttering something that sounded like "shut up."

Leon sighed and leaned back in his seat. The drive felt longer then usual. Sailas just being there made the drive feel like some sort of chore.

As soon as the car pulled up in front of the school, Sailas was already pulling the door open and stepping out like the vehicle was suffocating him.

Leon followed after with a heavy sigh, waving to the security guard out of habit before turning to the human ball of bitterness beside him. “Come on,” he said, motioning toward the school entrance, “we’ve gotta get your schedule.”

Sailas didn’t move.

Leon blinked. “Seriously? Don’t make me drag you.”

No response. Sailas just gave him the laziest side-eye he could manage.

“Okay,” Leon muttered. Then, with a groan, he actually did grab him by the hoodie sleeve and start dragging him toward the main office like some mom at a theme park with a grumpy child.

“Let go,” Sailas growled under his breath, but he still let himself get dragged along.

“Then walk,” Leon snapped back. “No one’s making you stomp around like an angry cat.”

Inside the office, Leon leaned on the counter while Sailas stood there like he’d rather be anywhere else—preferably six feet underground. The secretary handed over his schedule after a quick ID check and a bored “Welcome to St. Augustine’s Private Academy,” which Sailas didn’t respond to at all.

Leon glanced at the paper. “PE first period,” he said is a flat voice. “Sick.”

Sailas didn’t even blink.

“Guess who else does.” Leon added with a little clap of fake enthusiasm. “Yay, bonding.”

Still nothing.

“Alright, cool talk.” Leon turned and started walking, not bothering to check if Sailas followed. He did, of course, just far enough behind to pretend they weren’t together.

Leon didn’t love PE, but he could stand it. It was tolerable. Mindless. Sweat and whistle-blowing and half the class pretending to pull a hamstring when the coach mentioned laps.

They got to the gym just as everyone else was already gathering. Leon told sailas to go talk to the coach while Leon tried to distance himself from sailas.

While the rest of the class was already heading to the locker room to change, Sailas stood planted in the middle of the gym like a confused statue. The coach, a broad, red-faced man with a whistle permanently glued to his neck, was trying to explain—loudly—that Sailas had to get his gym uniform from the equipment office and find his assigned locker.

Leon didn’t even bother going inside yet. He leaned against the wall near the gym doors with a water bottle in hand, watching the whole thing unfold like a front-row seat to the world's most awkward power struggle.

“Sailas,” Coach barked, holding out the folded uniform like he was offering a cursed object, “take this, and follow me to your locker. It’s not hard.”

“I didn’t ask for a uniform,” Sailas deadpanned.

Leon bit back a laugh.

Coach’s nostrils flared. “You’re in my class now, son. Everyone wears the uniform. Let’s go.”

After what felt like a five-second staring contest, Sailas finally snatched the uniform from his hand and trudged after him, mumbling something inaudible that definitely wasn’t school-appropriate.

Leon finally went into the locker room, but slowly, not wanting to miss anything. He was halfway into changing when Sailas came in behind Coach, expression even more sour than usual.

“This is your locker,” Coach said, tapping the metal door with a clipboard. “Combination’s written inside for today, but memorize it—I won’t keep reminding you.”

Sailas said nothing. Just stared at the locker like it had personally insulted him.

Coach crossed his arms. “Now get changed. You’ve got five minutes.”

That’s when it happened.

Sailas squinted at him, completely serious. “Yeah, I’m not gonna change in front of people.”

Leon, halfway through tying his shoelace, perked up instantly.

Coach blinked. “What?”

“I’m not changing,” Sailas repeated, louder this time. “Not here. I’m not taking my clothes off in front of strangers, man.”

The locker room went dead quiet.

A few guys tried to stifle their laughter. Leon didn’t even try. He leaned against the locker and grinned like it was the best thing he’d seen all week.

“You think this is optional?” Coach growled, already turning an impressive shade of crimson.

“You think I’m gonna strip in a room full of people like this is prison?” Sailas snapped back, arms folded.

Leon was thriving. Watching Coach’s face redden to match his whistle while Sailas stood there like a defiant cat in a thunderstorm? It was magical. Every sarcastic, petty fiber of Leon’s soul was having a party.

“Put. On. The. Uniform,” Coach snarled.

“No.”

“You will not fail my class on your first day.”

“Then give me a private bathroom or something.”

“This is not a hotel!”

Leon covered his mouth, pretending to cough just to hide how hard he was laughing.

The gym teacher finally waved Sailas off toward the administrator’s office, muttering something about “a special meeting” and “handling this situation.” Sailas gave Leon one of those dark, “this is bullshit” looks as he was escorted away. Leon just shrugged and headed out to his next class like nothing happened.

The rest of Leon’s morning was the usual grind: sliding into AP Calculus, nodding through Political Theory, and barely blinking during Advanced Literature. Classes sailas for sure wouldn't ever be in. He went through the motions, a machine fine-tuned by years of expectation and polish. His mind wasn’t really on the lessons — instead, it flicked back to the morning’s ridiculous gym drama and how Sailas managed to get under the skin of everyone, including the coach.

By the time lunch rolled around, Leon was feeling a strange mix of amusement and annoyance. He found Sailas sitting alone near the courtyard, looking even more bored than usual, eyes half-lidded like the whole school was just background noise to him.

Without bothering to ask, Leon grabbed Sailas by the arm. “Come on. You’re sitting with us." Hopefully getting sailas to talk to his friends would help him get a feel for how to make his own friends.

Sailas raised an eyebrow but let himself be dragged along, making no effort to resist.

They approached a large, polished table where Matteo, Elise, Remy, and Isla were already seated, casually chatting and sipping from their imported water bottles.

“Hey,” Matteo greeted smoothly, flashing a grin. “Look who finally decided to join civilization.”

Elise, ever the sharp-tongued socialite, leaned forward with a practiced smile. “You must be Sailas. Leon’s told us all about you.” Her eyes flicked over him appraisingly, “And honestly, you’re even more handsome than I expected.”

Sailas barely spared her a glance, his expression neutral, almost bored. “Yeah. Thanks, I guess.”

Remy grinned, clearly enjoying the awkward tension. “Don’t let Elise fool you. She’s got a reputation for making everyone feel like they’re both the best and worst dressed at the same time.”

Isla gave a polite nod and a small smile, her diplomat’s grace on full display. “Welcome, Sailas. It’s... nice to meet you.”

Sailas didn’t respond. He dropped down onto the bench and folded his arms like the whole conversation was beneath him.

Leon watched the exchange with a mix of pride and exasperation. His friends were doing their best to welcome Sailas, but it was clear this wasn’t a guy who’d be won over by charm or compliments anytime soon.

Matteo elbowed Leon lightly. “You sure you want to keep dragging him around like this? Seems like the guy’s allergic to social interaction.” he whispered.

Leon shrugged, lips twitching and he whispered back. “Yeah, well, it’s part of the deal. And besides, it’s entertaining.”

The two burst into light laughter, but Leon noticed Sailas sitting there, completely checked out, staring off like the world around him didn’t exist. His eyes were glazed, his face unreadable—like he was in some other place entirely. It wasn’t unusual for Sailas to disappear into his own head, but something about the way he looked now made Leon curious.

Then, suddenly, a voice cut through the chatter and clatter of the lunch crowd.

“Yo! New kid!”

Sailas’s head snapped toward the sound with a grimace that made Leon smirk—something about the way Sailas hated being bothered was kind of entertaining.

Leon didn’t even need to look to know who it was. Everyone knew.

The guy’s name was Alan... or Adam? Leon never cared to remember which boring A-name it was. What mattered was the nickname: Bones. Yeah, Bones. Like some wannabe street tough straight out of a bad movie.

Bones had this whole act — pretending he’d had some hard upbringing, like he grew up dodging bullets and living on the edge. Everyone knew the truth, though. His parents owned a luxury clothing brand — one of those flashy designer labels with boutiques in every mall from here to the coast. The guy was an only child who grew up in a mansion, not some gritty back-alley.

And the worst part? Bones loved to use any excuse to intimidate new kids, like it was some twisted initiation ritual.

Leon caught the barely contained eye rolls from Remy and Elise at the table.

“Here we go again,” Matteo muttered under his breath.

Isla’s lips curled into a knowing smirk. “Someone’s desperate for attention.”

Leon, still watching Sailas, wondered how this would play out. Sailas didn’t seem the type to back down easily — but then again, he also seemed like the last person who wanted to waste energy on small-time drama.

Bones swaggered over, cracking his knuckles and flashing a grin that was more threat than charm. “So, what’s up, new kid? You lost or you just too scared to say hi?”

Sailas looked at Bones like he was looking at a bug on a windshield—bored, mildly disgusted, completely unthreatened. Then, without a word, he rolled his eyes and turned his head back toward his tray like Bones wasn’t even worth the air.

That only fueled Bones more.

“Oh, I get it. You are scared,” he said, loud and dramatic, like he had something to prove. “All that silence? That’s fear, huh? That’s what that is.”

Leon sighed. Elise snorted.

“Here we go,” Remy murmured.

Bones kept going, puffing out his chest. “Man, I knew it. I knew it. New kid’s all attitude but no guts. Probably never been in a fight in his life.”

That got Sailas’s attention.

Leon saw the moment it clicked. Sailas’s body stiffened, jaw tightened, and he looked back at Bones—slowly, sharply.

“Callin’ it now,” Bones said, clearly enjoying himself. “This kid? Weak.”

That did it.

Sailas stood up.

Leon immediately followed, grabbing Sailas’s sleeve. “Hey, hey. Sit back down, man. He’s not worth it.”

But Bones just couldn’t shut up.

“Aw, you need your little babysitter to protect you? Look at that—someone’s scared to get his pretty little face hit.”

Sailas stared at him for a beat. Then he stepped closer.

Not fast, not loud, but the air shifted.

Bones faltered. His stupid grin twitched.

“If you know what’s good for you,” Sailas said quietly, “stop talking.”

He was right up in Bones’s face now, not yelling, not shoving—just standing there with that dead-cold look in his eyes that said I don't care about the consequences.

Leon could see Bones hesitate, but instinct took over—probably something stupid in his head screaming you’re being watched, don’t back down. So he swung.

A wild, reflexive punch, knuckles sloppily aimed at Sailas’s jaw.

It hit.

And for a second, everything went quiet.

Sailas’s head snapped sideways from the hit—but then he turned back. Slowly. His eyes lit up in this… unnerving way. Not like he was hurt—like he wanted that to happen. Like it flipped a switch.

Leon didn’t even have time to say anything.

Sailas lunged.

It was fast and messy and all muscle. He tackled Bones to the floor, fists flying. Bones was yelling, flailing, trying to shove him off, but Sailas was relentless. His face was tight with fury, eyes locked in, jaw clenched.

The whole cafeteria erupted.

Chairs scraped back. People were shouting. Elise stood up with wide eyes. Matteo backed up, mouth open. Isla and Remy got up to try and get a better look.

Leon tried to grab Sailas’s shoulder, but the guy was locked in. Sailas wasn’t just fighting—he was attacking. “Sailas, that’s enough!”

But Sailas wasn’t budging.

Two other kids jumped in—one of the taller guys from gym and some junior who probably just didn’t want to see a murder today. Together, they managed to pull Sailas off, dragging him back a few steps.

Bones stayed on the floor, curled halfway on his side, nose bleeding, lip split, his expensive hoodie streaked with red. He let out a choked sound, something between a groan and a whimper.

And Sailas?

He stood there, breathing hard, not even trying to hide the smug grin on his face. Like he was proud of the mess he made. His knuckles were red and raw, but he didn’t seem to feel a thing.

He tilted his head just slightly and looked down at Bones, eyes cold and sharp. “Still think I’m weak?”

Bones didn’t answer. Couldn’t, maybe.

Leon stepped in front of Sailas, blocking his view. “Okay, that’s enough. You proved your point. We get it.”

Behind them, people were shouting for a teacher, others recording with their phones. Someone yelled something about getting the nurse.

But Sailas didn’t care about any of it.

He just wiped the blood off his knuckles with a napkin, slow and casual, like he was wiping off soup instead of someone’s face.

Leon stared at him, heart still pounding. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Sailas didn’t answer. Just tucked his hands in his pockets and walked toward the door like nothing had happened.

Leon glanced back at Bones, still bleeding and stunned on the floor, and then after Sailas—who didn’t even look back once.

The bell rang sharply, echoing through the halls, signaling the end of lunch and sending students scattering to their next classes. Leon caught a glimpse of Sailas being called by a teacher, his name clipped in a tone that left no room for argument. Sailas barely glanced over before heading toward the principal’s office with a slow, deliberate gait.

Leon let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and shoved his hands in his pockets, turning back to his own schedule. He tried to shove the whole fight and Sailas’s smugness out of his mind, focusing on his AP classes, but it was no use. His thoughts kept drifting back, pulling him away from algebra equations and history dates. His textbooks might as well have been blank pages.

Hours dragged on, and when the final bell rang, Leon was one of the last to leave his last class. He figured he’d check in on Sailas—maybe find out if the school was going to punish him or what had happened. But when he got to the office, the secretary just shook her head.

“Sailas? He left about an hour ago. Said he wasn’t feeling well.”

Leon blinked, surprise flickering across his face. “Oh. Alright.”

He turned and headed out, the afternoon sun low and golden outside the school. On the drive home, his mind churned, wondering why Sailas hadn’t said anything about leaving early.

When Leon finally got back to his place, he was met with an unexpected sight.

There, in the living room, sat Sailas, his leg bouncing restlessly, phone pressed against his ear. His brow was furrowed, eyes darting nervously even as he spoke in low tones. Stress was etched deep in every line of his face.

Leon froze at the door for a moment, caught off guard.

Why was Sailas here? This wasn’t their scheduled lesson time, and they certainly weren’t close enough for unannounced visits.

Yet, there he was, pacing in Leon’s living room like he belonged.

Leon cleared his throat, forcing himself to break the silence.

“Sailas. What... what are you doing here?”

Sailas glanced up, blinking as if noticing Leon for the first time.

“Needed a place,” he said curtly, then turned back to the phone, clearly unwilling to explain more.

Leon stood quietly for a moment, watching Sailas.

He was hunched forward on the couch, one leg bouncing rapidly, elbow propped on his knee with his head resting in his hand. His other hand held the phone to his ear, and though his voice was low, Leon could still catch the faint tone of someone in trouble—almost like a kid trying to explain something before getting scolded.

“…I said you have to wait,” Sailas muttered, his voice tight. “No, she doesn’t… yeah, it wouldn't be good, obviously… I know. I know, Ruby. I know.”

Leon didn’t say anything. Just leaned quietly against the doorframe, awkwardly unsure whether to pretend he hadn’t heard any of that or ask what was going on.

A beat later, Sailas sighed hard and ended the call, dropping the phone beside him. He sat there a moment longer, eyes distant.

Then he looked over at Leon.

“…Can I smoke here?”

Leon blinked, caught off guard by the question. “Uh, yeah. Sure. Come on, I’ll take you to the garden.”

They headed out back, where the air was a little cooler, the early evening wind rustling through the plants. One of the gardeners gave Sailas a cigarette with a nod of familiarity, and Sailas lit it up immediately, drawing in a deep breath like it was the first time all day he could think straight.

Leon watched the tension in Sailas’s shoulders slowly ease as smoke drifted upward.

After a moment, Leon cleared his throat.

“Hey… um, sorry for losing my temper yesterday.”

Sailas didn’t look at him right away, but said, “It’s fine, I guess. I’m sorry for grabbing your face like that. That wasn’t cool.” He paused. “But I’m not sorry for what I said.”

Leon nodded slowly, not really expecting Sailas to take anything back. “You must get really irritated when you can’t smoke, huh?”

That made Sailas huff out a short laugh through his nose.

Leon gave a small, sheepish smile. “Is that why you attacked Bones?”

Sailas scoffed, rolling his eyes. “No. I have a stressful life, that’s why I smoke. I’m addicted, yeah, but it’s not what makes me fight.”

He exhaled a stream of smoke. “I just like fighting.”

Leon raised an eyebrow. “You… like it?”

Sailas finally looked over at him. “Yeah. It excites me. I don’t know—some people get a rush from sports or roller coasters. Me? It’s punching someone in the face.”

Leon blinked, unsure how to respond to that.

“…Okay,” he said slowly. “That’s… honest, I guess.”

Sailas just smirked faintly and took another drag.

It went quiet for a while after that. The garden was peaceful in a way that contrasted sharply with the conversation—birds chirping in the distance, the occasional hum of wind through the bushes.

Leon shifted his weight, then glanced over. “So… did you get suspended?”

Sailas exhaled a puff of smoke without looking at him. “From what?”

Leon gave him a flat look. “School?”

“Oh. No.” Sailas shook his head like it was nothing. “They just want me to write a huge-ass paper about youth violence or some shit like that. Five pages or more. MLA format.” He pulled a face, like that was the real punishment.

Leon blinked. “Wow. You got off easy. Last person who got into a fight at school got suspended for a whole trimester.”

Sailas let out a short, dry laugh. “Yeah, well. Being suspended would’ve been easier.”

Leon tilted his head. “How?”

Sailas shrugged, flicking ash off the cigarette. “Would’ve given me a reason to stay home. I don’t mind punishment if it means I get left alone. Writing a dumb essay and showing my face at school the next day? That’s worse.”

Leon didn’t reply right away, just looked at him, noticing the way Sailas’s leg had started bouncing again.

He didn’t seem angry anymore. Just… tired.

“You don’t really like being at school, huh?” Leon asked softly.

Sailas gave him a sidelong glance. “No shit.”

Sailas took one last long drag of his cigarette, letting the smoke curl out through his nose before he flicked the stub to the ground and crushed it under his shoe.

Leon watched him for a moment, then said, “Do you wanna work on your homework together?”

Sailas turned his head slowly toward him, one brow raised. “Why should I?”

Leon gave him a lopsided smile. “Because you need to? I’ll help you, don’t worry.”

Sailas stared at him for a beat, his expression unreadable. Then he sighed like this was the biggest inconvenience in the world. “Whatever,” he muttered, pushing his hands into his pockets. “Let’s go.”

Leon nodded, trying not to look too relieved as he led the way back inside. Honestly, he hadn’t expected Sailas to say yes at all. But maybe—just maybe—Sailas didn’t mind the company as much as he acted like he did.

As they stepped back into the house, Leon thought about how strange it was, sitting in a quiet garden talking about school and suspension and fighting with someone who, just a few weeks ago, had looked at him like he wanted to bite his head off.

Maybe Sailas didn’t make sense. But maybe that was okay.

Leon headed toward the dining room table. “Okay,” he said, pulling out a chair. “Let’s figure out how to make a five-page paper on youth violence suck a little less.”

Sailas grumbled behind him, “God, kill me now,” but he still sat down. That alone felt like progress.

As they sat at the dining table, Leon got put his computer and pulled up an article about youth violence and slid it across to Sailas.

“Start by reading this,” Leon said. “It’s short. Just to get your brain going.”

Sailas groaned but took the computer anyway, slouching low in his chair as he scanned the screen. A few minutes passed, and Leon watched him, trying to gauge if anything was clicking. But Sailas’s eyes kept drifting, his mouth slightly open, expression blank. He’d get halfway through a paragraph, then glance away, tapping his fingers, like his brain was doing everything except actually reading.

Eventually, Leon asked, “Okay, so what was that paragraph about?”

Sailas blinked. “What?”

“The part you just read.”

Sailas looked down at the screen, then back up. “I dunno. Violence? Kids being dumb? You read it, why are you asking me?”

Leon didn’t say anything right away. He wasn’t mad. He wasn’t even annoyed. He just… noticed. Like a puzzle piece didn’t fit right.

“Alright, let’s try something else,” Leon said, pulling out a notebook and uncapping his pen. “Write a short paragraph. Just your thoughts on why violence happens in schools. Doesn’t have to be fancy.”

Sailas hesitated before starting to write. His pen scratched loudly against the page, and Leon waited, flipping through his textbook to look like he wasn’t watching too closely. A few minutes later, Sailas pushed the notebook toward him with a huff, like it had physically drained him.

Leon looked down.

The handwriting was rough—slanted and inconsistent, some letters barely legible. But what really caught his attention was the writing itself. The sentence structure was jumbled, the grammar shaky. It sounded more like something a middle schooler would’ve put together in a rush before class.

He didn’t say anything at first, just nodded like he was thinking.

“Can you read it out loud?” he asked gently.

Sailas narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

“Helps to hear it sometimes. You’ll catch stuff that way.”

With an exaggerated sigh, Sailas began reading. His tone was flat, but Leon still caught the hesitation in certain words, the way he stumbled slightly over longer ones. When he finished, Leon gave a small nod.

“Okay. That’s a good start.”

But now he was curious. Something wasn’t adding up.

He tore a page from his own notebook and scribbled down a simple algebra problem. “One more thing. Can you solve this for me?”

Sailas looked at it, then squinted. “What the hell is this?”

“Just basic algebra. It’s like, the stuff from Algebra I.”

“I don’t know how to do this crap.”

Leon blinked. “You don’t?”

“No. Why would I?”

Leon didn’t reply. He just stared a moment longer before testing one more thing. “Okay… uh, who was the president during World War I?”

Sailas shrugged. “I dunno. Lincoln?”

Leon blinked again. “He was the Civil War. That was like fifty years earlier.”

“Whatever,” Sailas muttered. “History’s dumb anyway.”

Leon didn’t say anything this time. He just looked at Sailas—really looked at him.

It wasn’t that Sailas was dumb. That wasn’t it at all. But something was wrong. Something about the way he struggled with reading, the way nothing stuck, the writing, the math—none of it fit for someone who was supposed to be a senior.

Leon leaned back in his chair, pen still in hand.

“…Hey, Sailas,” he said quietly. “What school did you go to before this?”

Sailas raised an eyebrow, looking at Leon like he was a stranger poking into his business. “Why do you wanna know?”

Leon shrugged, trying to keep his tone casual but firm. “I’m just curious.”

“Why would you be curious about that?” Sailas shot back, clearly annoyed.

Leon leaned forward, eyes narrowing slightly. “Because your reading and writing skills are horrible. You can’t do algebra. And you don’t know anything about history. So either you’re a fucking idiot or your school sucked.”

Sailas let out a short laugh, like he’d been waiting for someone to finally say it out loud. “Well, someone’s finally starting to speak their mind.”

Leon held his ground. “I’m being serious, Sailas. Did you just not go? Did you not do your work? Who did you live with that they just let you get this far behind?”

Sailas’s expression darkened for a moment before he smirked. “I lived with my dad.”

Leon’s eyes flickered with disbelief. “Then he should go to jail. This has got to be some kind of neglect.”

Sailas laughed again, but this time it was hollow, almost bitter. “You would think so,” he said, leaning back with a dark chuckle.

For a moment, the air between them grew heavy, the weight of those words hanging like a shadow in the room. Sailas stared off, a ghost of a smile on his lips as if the laughter was a shield.

Leon didn’t know what to say next, so he just let the silence fill the space.

“I’ll help you get caught up,” Leon said, like it was no big deal. Like he hadn’t just realized what a mess this actually was.

Sailas scoffed, raising an eyebrow. “Are you now?”

“Of course.” Leon leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “You need to get caught up as quick as possible. That way you can graduate without anyone knowing you’re behind.”

Sailas nodded slowly, almost like he appreciated the idea—but then his eyes sharpened. “Look… I don’t care who knows. Just don’t let it get to Lana. If it gets to Lana, it’ll get very bad for me. Got it?”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever,” Leon muttered.

But in his head, it was a different story.

He already knew this wasn’t gonna be easy. It was gonna take a lot—time, effort, patience—and Sailas wasn’t exactly the most cooperative person in the world. But the benefits? If he could pull this off, get Sailas through this project, through school? He’d look good. To the teachers, to the school staff, maybe even to Lana. They’d see he was dependable. Smart. Helpful.

That kind of reputation could open doors.

So yeah, it was annoying. And yeah, he hated that this meant he’d have to deal with Sailas every single day now. That guy was unpredictable, messy, kind of depressing—and Leon didn’t exactly love the idea of spending all his free time tutoring someone who didn’t even seem to care.

But if he had to suck it up to get what he wanted, then so be it.

He glanced at Sailas again, who was picking at a hangnail and clearly not listening anymore.

Leon sighed.

This was going to be a nightmare.

Chapter Text

Leon had been waiting for this day all week. He’d been talking about it with Matteo, Elise, Remy, and Isla nonstop—the early opening of Valden. The new luxury clothing store everyone at school was already buzzing about but none of them could actually get into yet. Everyone else had to wait until next week, but not Leon.

He had connections.

He had asked his dad three days ago if he could pull some strings, make some calls, get them in early. It hadn’t been easy; his dad hated the idea of Leon walking into any public space without bodyguards. The conversation had dragged out, with Leon repeating over and over again that the mall had security already. He was going with his friends, not alone. It wasn’t like they were going to some seedy alley in the middle of the night—they were going shopping.

His father hadn’t been convinced. “Leon, you don’t realize the risks,” he had said in that sharp, businesslike tone. “Public exposure isn’t something you can just brush off. Not with our name.”

And Leon, rolling his eyes, had leaned on the doorframe and argued back, “Dad, it’s literally just the mall. No one cares that much.”

The back-and-forth had lasted nearly half an hour, but finally his dad gave in—with conditions. “I’ll send security with you,” he’d said. “But they’ll wait outside the mall.”

It wasn’t exactly what Leon wanted, but he decided he’d take it. He wasn’t about to risk losing his chance to be the first to shop Valden.

Now the day had come. He’d picked out his outfit the night before—something casual but sharp enough to make a statement in a store like Valden. He’d triple-checked that his friends were meeting him there. Everything was set.

He was halfway down the stairs, humming under his breath, mentally planning what section to hit first (men’s jackets, obviously—he needed something new before fall term started), when he stopped dead in his tracks.

Standing in the foyer, like he belonged there, was Sailas.

Leaning against the bannister, hands shoved into his hoodie pocket, that perpetual look of irritation plastered across his face. He wasn’t supposed to be here. Leon blinked, gripping the railing.

“What are you doing here?” Leon asked flatly, suspicion already creeping in.

Sailas didn’t look up at him right away. He was bouncing his leg slightly, chewing on the inside of his cheek. When he finally did meet Leon’s eyes, he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, “I’m going with you.”

Leon blinked. “Excuse me?”

“To the mall,” Sailas said, pushing off the bannister like he was already ready to head out the door.

Leon stared at him, trying to process that. “What? No.” He scoffed, waving his hand like Sailas was out of his mind. “Why would you even wanna go?”

Sailas’ expression hardened a little, though his voice stayed level. “Leon, you wanna be my friend, right?”

Leon narrowed his eyes. “Uh…”

“Just take me with you,” Sailas said, and his tone was quieter now, though edged with something almost… dangerous. “And don’t ask.”

The air between them went tense.

Leon felt his jaw tighten. He wanted to tell him no—that this was his day, his friends, his plans. He didn’t want Sailas tagging along, dragging his storm cloud of an attitude into something he’d been looking forward to. And Leon knew his friends weren’t exactly going to roll out the welcome mat for a guy who got into fistfights in the cafeteria.

But at the same time, there was something in the way Sailas said it. Not a plea, not exactly a threat either, but that in-between tone that left Leon with the sickening feeling that refusing wasn’t really an option.

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

Sailas didn’t smile, didn’t flinch. He just stood there, waiting for Leon’s answer, like he already knew what it was.

Leon exhaled through his teeth. “Fine. But you don’t get in my way. Got it?”

Sailas shrugged, like that was all he wanted to hear.

Leon turned toward the door, but inside, he was seething. This was supposed to be his moment, his day with his friends—and now Sailas was barging into it like he owned the place.

And Leon knew, deep down, he was going to regret saying yes.

The drive to the mall had been tense enough. Sailas had stayed mostly silent, arms crossed, occasionally glancing out the window like he had better things to do than be trapped in Leon’s car. Leon had kept his eyes on the road, his mind buzzing with annoyance—this was supposed to be a fun day, and already it was tainted.

When they finally arrived at the mall, Leon’s stomach sank a little as he saw his friends waiting near the entrance, chatting and laughing. Matteo spotted them first. His dark hair was slightly mussed from running his fingers through it, his designer hoodie hanging perfectly over his shoulders.

Matteo squinted, cocking his head. “Uh… what’s Sailas doing here?”

Leon froze mid-step, instinctively glancing at Sailas, who was leaning lazily against the car with that infuriating expressionless face. Leon opened his mouth, then hesitated.

“I… uh…” He stammered, trying to come up with an excuse that sounded natural. His brain was working overtime. “He… came to… carry our bags,” he finally said, shrugging like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Remy raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. He had a sharp, analytical look in his eyes, like he could see straight through Leon’s flimsy excuse. Isla, ever polite and composed, mirrored the gesture, her lips pressed together in a subtle smirk.

Elise, on the other hand, grinned brightly, oblivious to any tension. “What a pleasant surprise!” she chirped, stepping forward and lightly touching Sailas’ arm. Her blue eyes sparkled with amusement, and she leaned in with playful mischief. “Did you come just for me?”

Sailas froze, eyebrows furrowing in confusion as he turned to Leon, silently asking what the hell is she doing?

Leon just shrugged, nonchalantly, though inside he felt a twinge of panic at how absurd this had become. “Come on,” he said finally, waving them forward. “We should go. Who knows how long we’re gonna be shopping.”

Sailas didn’t protest; he simply followed, walking a step behind Leon, still radiating that quiet storm of agitation.

As they entered the mall, the air smelled faintly of fresh leather, perfume, and new clothing tags—the unmistakable scent of luxury shopping. Leon could feel the familiar thrill of anticipation surge through him. The Valden store was a few meters ahead, its glass doors reflecting the bright overhead lights, and Leon’s pulse quickened.

He led the group inside first, holding the door open with practiced ease. Sailas stepped in behind him, hands shoved into his hoodie pockets, eyes scanning the store with disinterest—or at least pretending to. Leon’s friends immediately fanned out, each drawn to different sections of the store: Matteo toward the jackets, Elise to the dresses and accessories, Remy toward the shoes, Isla lingering near the display of scarves and belts.

Sailas didn’t follow any particular direction. He simply leaned against a display table, watching the chaos unfold with an unimpressed tilt of his head. Leon’s irritation bubbled beneath the surface as he tried to ignore him, focusing instead on the thrill of finally being inside the store ahead of everyone else.

Elise, unable to resist, sidled up to Sailas again. “Honestly,” she said with a sly smile, glancing at Leon, “I didn’t think id ever see you outside of school. You’re… different from what I expected.”

Sailas looked at her, blank and unreadable, then turned back to Leon with a questioning look, as if silently asking, what kind of friend do you have?

Leon, pushing down his annoyance, muttered under his breath, “Just… go with it. He won’t say anything anyway.”

As they moved deeper into Valden, Leon’s friends began trying on clothes, tossing options back and forth, laughing, and comparing styles. Sailas, still mostly silent, occasionally glanced at a jacket or a pair of shoes, but never touched anything. Leon caught himself stealing glances at him, noting how out of place he seemed, yet oddly magnetic in his silent, brooding way.

Finally, Leon reached for a sleek leather jacket on the top rack. “Alright,” he said, holding it up. “Let’s see if this screams ‘me’ or if it’s just overpriced fabric.”

Sailas shifted his weight, hands in pockets, and muttered, “Looks fine.”

Leon rolled his eyes but smirked anyway. “Helpful as always.” He tossed the jacket to Matteo, who took it eagerly, already sizing it up.

The Valden store was a whirlwind. Bright lights bounced off polished glass displays, racks of designer clothing stood in neat, impossible perfection, and the faint scent of new leather and perfume hung thick in the air. Leon’s friends immediately split off, each magnetized to different sections.

Matteo grabbed a leather bomber jacket without hesitation, holding it up dramatically to himself in the mirror. “What do you think? Does this scream ‘dangerous’ enough for me?” he asked, flashing a grin at Leon.

Leon smirked, glancing at Matteo critically. “Maybe, but not quite as dangerous as me,” he said, holding his chin like a critic appraising fine art. “Try something darker, and maybe we’ll get there.”

Matteo laughed and rolled his eyes, clearly entertained by the back-and-forth.

Elise, meanwhile, had disappeared into the dress section, twirling in a pale pink silk dress before holding it out to Leon. “Okay, but seriously, imagine if you wore this,” she teased, her blue eyes sparkling with mischief. “You’d have the whole store talking.”

Leon raised an eyebrow, barely concealing his amusement. “Right… because I want people to gasp at me like some kind of mannequin.” He caught her little smirk and rolled his eyes, but inside, he loved the attention—even if Elise was poking fun at him.

Remy was meticulously inspecting a pair of sneakers, holding them close to the light and turning them over like a jeweler appraising a diamond. “These are horrendous,” he said flatly, making a face that somehow balanced disgust and fascination. “But I might take them anyway.”

Isla had wandered over to the scarf and accessories section, quietly holding up a silk scarf and examining its texture. She looked up at Leon with a serene, patient smile. “Do you think this would go with your jacket? Or is it too… much?”

Leon chuckled. “Isla, nothing is ever too much when I wear it. Don’t worry, I’ll make it work.”

And then there was Sailas.

He didn’t move with them. He stood in the back, hands stuffed into his hoodie pockets, shoulders slightly slouched, eyes scanning the store like he was enduring some kind of absurd ritual. Every laugh, every dramatic pose in front of mirrors, every careless toss of a luxury item across a table seemed to irritate him more.

Leon noticed it—but he didn’t particularly care. Sailas wasn’t here for fashion, wasn’t here for fun, and Leon wasn’t here to make him feel included. Sailas was just… there. An accessory, almost, though Leon’s mind didn’t label him that way; he was too busy enjoying the chaos around him.

Elise twirled near him again, catching Sailas’ unimpressed gaze. “Hey,” she called, teasingly, “you’re not going to try anything on? Or are you too cool for that?”

Sailas let out a soft scoff, his eyes narrowing. “I don’t need to try on overpriced clothes to know how stupid they are,” he muttered, voice low but sharp, carrying that rare edge that cut through the store’s bubbly atmosphere.

Leon suppressed a grin. Good. Let him stew. It made him feel… superior, in a way. Sailas clearly had no interest in their little luxury parade, and Leon couldn’t decide if he found it amusing or just convenient.

Time stretched on. Matteo had found a leather jacket, a pair of boots, and was now arguing with Remy over the best way to style a matching belt. Elise had somehow managed to drag Isla over to a mirror and was holding up scarves like trophies. Leon wandered from display to display, trying things on, holding up sunglasses, and making dramatic faces at his reflection, already imagining the envy of the students back at school.

Sailas stayed planted near the back, arms crossed, and muttering under his breath about how pointless this all was. He rolled his eyes when someone knocked over a stack of cashmere sweaters for a laugh, muttered something that Leon didn’t quite catch but probably included words like “idiots” and “ridiculous,” and leaned against a display, clearly counting the minutes until he could leave.

Then, almost as if on cue, Sailas’ phone buzzed. He glanced down, eyebrows furrowing, and Leon could see the tension tighten in his shoulders. He read the message quickly, his lips pressing into a thin line. A single word—or maybe just a name—made him stiffen.

“Ruby,” Leon read over his shoulder, only because Sailas didn’t bother hiding it. The name seemed to trigger some unspoken urgency. Sailas didn’t say anything. He didn’t even glance at Leon, just turned on his heel and marched out of the Valden store without another word.

Leon blinked, stunned. His friends had paused mid-laugh and stared in the direction Sailas had gone.

“What the hell?” Matteo said, crossing his arms. “Did he just… leave?”

Leon shrugged, trying to mask his relief. “Yeah, apparently he… had something to do.” He didn’t bother explaining more than that. Sailas was hardly a concern—he wasn’t a friend Leon felt he needed to babysit emotionally.

Elise’s lips pursed. “Wow, that was… dramatic.”

Remy snorted. “Typical. He’s an outsider. Can’t keep him around even if you wanted to.”

Isla tilted her head slightly. “He seemed… stressed. Maybe he had reasons.”

Leon waved a hand dismissively. “Whatever. Doesn’t matter. Let’s keep shopping.”

And just like that, the tension left him. He was free to roam the store, hold up expensive jackets, try on the sunglasses he didn’t need, and bask in the chaotic fun with his friends. Sailas had come, been tolerated, and then removed himself from the equation—perfect.

Leon smiled to himself as he grabbed another jacket, already thinking about the bragging rights he’d have when he left with bags full of designer clothing. Sailas was gone. He didn’t need to care about him. And really… that suited Leon just fine.

After finally making it through Valden, the crew lugged their bags—Leon, of course, holding the heaviest ones—toward the exit. The store manager had practically bowed as they left, thanking them for coming early, and Leon basked in the small sense of superiority.

“Ugh, my arms are going to fall off,” Matteo groaned, adjusting a pile of jackets over one shoulder. “I need a protein shake or something. Or maybe a massage. Both.”

“Stop whining,” Leon said, a smirk tugging at his lips. “You look like a linebacker pretending to be fashionable.”

Matteo shot him a playful glare. “And you look like you were born for this.”

Elise, twirling a shopping bag like it was a prop in a fashion show, laughed. “Honestly, Leon, you are born for this. The way you carry bags, the way you pose… you were made for designer labels.”

Leon gave her a charmingly self-satisfied shrug. “It’s called skill, Elise. You should be taking notes.”

Remy, ever the critic, held up a pair of mirrored sunglasses and examined his reflection. “Skill or arrogance? I think it’s a fine line with him.”

Isla, calm and collected as always, smiled faintly. “He’s good at what he does, yes. But maybe a little too much focus on… appearances.”

“Hey, can you blame me?” Leon said, flipping his hair back as though it were part of the performance. “This is what people notice. I’m setting the standard.”

They wandered toward the jewelry store next, the lights glittering like stars in a carefully curated galaxy. Matteo immediately gravitated toward the watches, picking one up and twirling it around his wrist. “Look at this. Can you imagine me rocking this at the gala next month?”

“I’d say it’s perfect for the gym too,” Leon quipped dryly, earning a laugh from Elise and a groan from Matteo.

Elise, meanwhile, had found a necklace that sparkled so much it seemed to almost blind her. “Leon, look at this! Wouldn’t this be divine with that navy suit of yours?”

Leon glanced down at it and raised an eyebrow. “Divine? Sure, if I wanted to blind everyone at the party. But I’ll allow it. Maybe for the gala.”

Remy wandered toward the rings, picking up one with an oversized gemstone. “This is… excessive. But I like it.” He looked up at Leon. “You would never let someone wear this in public without looking ridiculous, though. You’re secretly a tyrant about style, aren’t you?”

“I prefer the term ‘taste authority,’” Leon replied, deadpan.

Isla was quietly examining bracelets, feeling textures and watching Leon and Matteo bicker over watches and necklaces like miniature dictators. “You guys really take this seriously,” she said softly.

Elise leaned in conspiratorially. “Of course. Shopping is life. If you can’t own it, why even try?”

Leon gave her a pointed look, as if to say, exactly. That was his philosophy.

After what felt like hours, they paid for everything—Leon carefully tallying every item in his head, making sure nothing was overlooked—and began wandering out of the jewelry store. “Food court?” Matteo suggested, pointing vaguely down the corridor. “I feel like I need something fried to balance the sheer level of luxury I just absorbed.”

“Oh yes,” Elise said, dramatically lifting her arms as though making a grand proclamation. “We must fuel ourselves.”

Leon sighed in mock exaggeration but secretly agreed. Food was always a necessary checkpoint after a long shopping expedition. They meandered through the mall, moving slowly because of the endless displays, the testers, the pop-up stands. Remy occasionally stopped to examine a sneaker release, muttering things like, “They’re stylish, i like them.”

Isla drifted toward a makeup store, her curiosity piqued by the minimalist displays. “I want to see this new line of lipsticks,” she said softly, but with enough authority that the others followed. Elise immediately jumped in, claiming she was helping with testing, while Leon watched quietly, noting how Elise seemed to relish attention even in something as trivial as lipstick application.

They spent ages in there—Elise painting swatches on the backs of her hands, Remy picking up brushes and inspecting them like a scientist, Matteo sniffing perfumes and giving thumbs up or down with exaggerated gestures, Isla quietly observing, occasionally pointing out a shade Leon might pull off (which Leon nodded at politely but ignored, because really, the final decision was his).

Leon felt an odd sense of satisfaction at being the center of it all, the one coordinating the chaos while appearing effortlessly composed. He caught himself laughing at Matteo dramatically pretending a lipstick was a microphone, Elise’s over-the-top commentary, even Remy’s deadpan critiques.

And then, just as the group was walking out of the makeup store, Leon remembered. Sailas.

“Oh, no,” Leon muttered, frowning as a creeping panic settled over him. He hadn’t thought about Sailas all day, hadn’t even wondered where he wandered off to, because honestly, he hadn’t cared. But now he remembered—the rules were clear. Sailas couldn’t just vanish; Leon couldn’t go home without him.

That would not go over well with Lana. His mom would want to know why the kid was missing. Questions. Gossip. Trouble. And he couldn’t handle that.

“Guys,” he said, voice tense but carefully measured so as not to ruin the mood, “I need to… check something real quick.”

Matteo raised an eyebrow. “You’re talking about Sailas, aren’t you?”

Leon sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah. Can’t leave him alone. Mom would freak if he just… disappeared. Gotta find him before we go home.”

Elise tilted her head, a teasing smirk playing on her lips. “The ever-dutiful friend,” she said, and Leon felt his jaw tighten. No, not a friend—an obligation.

He pulled out his phone and called Sailas, but it went straight to voicemail. He frowned, pressing the button again, muttering under his breath. “Of course. Why would he answer? He hates me… probably.”

Remy leaned over his shoulder. “Is this kid seriously giving you trouble already? Sounds exhausting.”

Leon huffed. “Yeah, well… I can’t just leave him here. Mom would explode. And Lana…” He trailed off, thinking of the consequences if Sailas didn’t show up. “I just… have to find him.”

Matteo groaned. “You dragged him along all day, and now you’re worried about where he ran off to? Classic Leon.”

Leon shot him a sharp look, but inwardly, he knew it was true. Still, it didn’t matter. Sailas wasn’t a friend, wasn’t an ally, but he was his responsibility for the moment. And he wasn’t going to let Lana or his mom have a reason to scold him.

Leon’s phone buzzed again as he hit the call button for the fourth time. It went straight to voicemail. He groaned and dragged a hand down his face, pacing in small circles.

“Seriously,” Remy muttered from where he was leaning on the hood of Leon’s car, arms crossed. “Is it really that bad if he goes home by himself? He’s not a kid.”

Leon shot him a look. “Yes, it’s bad. Lana wouldn’t trust me for a second if she finds out I let him go off alone. And if she even suspects he’s with some friend of his that she doesn’t know? My deal would be gone. Like—completely evaporated gone.”

Remy raised a brow. “That dramatic?”

“You don’t know Lana,” Leon muttered, jabbing the call button again. His leg bounced impatiently as it rang. “She’d skin me alive if she thought I was lying to her.”

Finally, after what felt like forever, the line clicked.

“What the hell, Sailas?” Leon snapped, sharper than he meant. “Why didn’t you pick up my calls?”

There was a pause, faint background noise, then Sailas’s voice came through, low and unbothered. “I was busy with something.”

Leon clenched his jaw. “Busy with what, exactly?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Sailas replied flatly. “I’m almost back to the mall. Just wait for me there.”

Leon pulled the phone from his ear and stared at the screen like it had personally offended him. Remy smirked. “Sounds like he’s got you on a leash.”

Leon groaned, shoving the phone in his pocket. “Shut up.”

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of waiting in the dimming mall parking lot, Sailas appeared. Hands shoved deep into his pockets, hood tugged low, he walked toward them with the same sharp-edged nonchalance that had driven Leon insane all day. No explanation, no apology, not even a word when he climbed into the car behind them. Just a low sigh, like they had inconvenienced him.

Leon didn’t care to press. He was just relieved the ordeal was over.

The ride home was quiet. Matteo and Elise were talking about some new show that was premiering that weekend, Isla was still scrolling through photos she’d taken of them all at the jewelry store, and Remy was half-asleep with his earbuds in. Leon leaned back, exhausted but content. It had been a good day — he’d gotten into Valden early, spent hours with his friends, and for a while it almost felt like things were normal again. Like his life wasn’t tangled up in obligations and Sailas’s constant presence.

When they finally dropped everyone off and Leon returned home, he didn’t bother lingering in the living room. He was too tired. He barely even said goodnight to his mother as he trudged up the stairs and collapsed into his bed. Still, as sleep started to pull him under, his mind wandered to Sailas. Why had he left the store like that? Who was he texting? And why did he even bother— showing up at Leon’s outings, insisting on tagging along, and then vanishing halfway through? What was the point?

It was irritating. Maddening, really. It made Leon feel less like a classmate and more like a babysitter forced to drag an unwilling kid to playdates. Especially because it was happening more and more. Anytime Leon made plans with his friends — and he made a lot, because what else were rich kids supposed to do besides fill their days with outings, parties, and shopping trips? — Sailas somehow found out. And every time, without fail, he’d insist on coming.

Leon would say no at first. Every single time. But Sailas never asked in a way that really gave him a choice. There was always that sharp look, that weight of pressure, like saying no would cost Leon more than just Sailas’s irritation. So Leon would begrudgingly agree, and without fail Sailas would drift off somewhere else once they arrived, disappearing to god knows where, only to resurface later without explanation.

At first Leon told himself he didn’t care. Whatever Sailas was doing wasn’t his problem. But the truth was… it was his problem. Because Lana trusted him to keep an eye on Sailas, and every unexplained absence or unanswered phone call left Leon scrambling to cover for him.

And eventually, one of those vanishings was bound to blow back on him.

That thought clawed at him the next afternoon when the driver pulled into Sailas’s street. They were supposed to be heading home, a normal day after a long stretch of classes, Leon already thinking about the nap he was going to take. But when they pulled up to the tall wrought iron gates of the Duvall estate, one of the staff was waiting out front.

The man bowed slightly and leaned toward the car. “Mr. Vale,” he said, his tone clipped but polite. “Mr. Duvall would like to speak with you before you leave.”

Leon froze, halfway through packing up his books into his bag. He glanced at Sailas, who sat slouched in his seat, eyes flicking up at the staff member before turning away again with an unreadable expression.

Something in Leon’s chest tightened. He knew this wasn’t going to be casual. Mr. Duvall didn’t summon people for casual conversations.

“Of course,” Leon said, his voice even though he could feel his pulse quickening. He stepped out of the car, straightened his jacket, and followed the staff member toward the house.

The weight of the request pressed down on him with each step. For the first time, Leon wondered if all those vanishings of Sailas’s — all the shrugging, all the “don’t worry about it”s — were about to land squarely on him.

Leon trailed behind Sailas as they stepped into the house, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, trying not to look like a kid caught sneaking cookies from the jar. The staff greeted them with quick bows and polite murmurs before quietly leading them down the wide hall, their shoes clicking against polished floors until they reached the grand living room.

The air inside was thick, not with smoke or dust, but with tension.

Jace sat on the long leather couch, posture rigid, his arm resting protectively on the backrest behind Lana. Lana herself leaned forward, elbows on her knees, her brows furrowed in quiet frustration. Lennox lounged in the corner chair, sprawled lazily like he hadn’t a care in the world, fingers idly tapping the armrest. His expression was the only one without weight—half-bored, half amused, like he was watching a play unfold.

Jace lifted a hand, sharp but polite, gesturing to the empty couch directly across from them. “Sit.”

Leon hesitated for a second, his throat tightening, but Sailas brushed past him and dropped onto the couch without a second thought, his body loose and uninterested, like this was just another Tuesday. Leon swallowed hard and followed, lowering himself onto the edge of the cushion beside Sailas, his back stiff and his knees pressed together.

His nerves betrayed him in small ways. His hands clenched against his thighs, but most of the tension was pushed into his feet. He pressed them into the rug, heels anchored so firmly it almost hurt, trying to ground himself in the moment. Breathe. Stay calm. Don’t screw this up.

Sailas, on the other hand, leaned back and slouched comfortably, one arm thrown lazily over the couch’s back. His expression remained unreadable, as if this whole situation couldn’t be more irrelevant to him. The contrast between them was stark—Leon looked like a student waiting outside the principal’s office, while Sailas looked like he owned the building.

Jace finally spoke, his tone heavy but measured.

“Leon,” he said, eyes narrowing slightly, “I’ve recently learned about your hangouts with Sailas.”

The words struck Leon harder than they should have. He felt heat crawl up the back of his neck. His first instinct was to deny, but he quickly caught himself—Jace wouldn’t be bringing it up unless he already knew. Leon’s jaw tightened, and he forced himself to stay quiet, letting Jace continue.

Across from him, Lana shifted, resting her chin on her palm, eyes sharp and unreadable as she studied Leon. She looked… disappointed. Not angry, not furious—just disappointed. Somehow that stung worse.

Lennox, still sprawled, let out a soft, humorless chuckle. “Hangouts. That’s a nice word for it.”

Sailas didn’t even blink. He crossed one leg over the other, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, like he was enjoying Leon squirm.

Leon inhaled slowly, his foot pressing harder into the ground, the rhythm of his pulse beating in his heel. He kept his gaze on Jace, forcing himself to meet his eyes despite the pressure in the room.

“What about it?” Leon asked finally, his voice quieter than he wanted but steady enough.

The silence that followed stretched, thick as fog, before Jace leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, his stare cutting through Leon like glass.

Jace didn’t answer Leon’s question right away. Instead, he leaned back, jaw set, and reached for the thick leather folder resting on the coffee table. Leon’s heart dropped at the sound of the clasp snapping open. Jace flipped it open, shuffled through a stack of papers, then pulled out several glossy photographs. Without warning, he tossed them across the coffee table toward Sailas and Leon.

They slid to a stop in front of them, fanning out just enough for the images to bleed together.

Leon’s stomach lurched. The pictures were clear, taken with a professional lens—Sailas with some guy. Black hair, tan skin, lean frame, nearly matched Sailas in height. In one photo, they were pressed against a wall, mouths locked together in a kiss that was far from subtle. The guy’s hand was buried in Sailas’s long hair, tugging it back as their bodies tangled close. The intimacy was undeniable. In another set, the two were slipping into a motel, the time-stamp in the corner a damning detail.

Jace’s voice was sharp as a blade.
“Wanna explain this?”

Leon’s eyes snapped from the photos to Sailas. Wide. Disbelieving. For once, words failed him. His chest tightened, and the back of his throat felt dry, but Sailas sat there like the images were meaningless. He didn’t even flinch. His fingers drummed lazily against his knee, calm and indifferent.

Leon picked up one of the photos, his hand trembling slightly, and turned to him.
“What is this?” His voice cracked halfway through.

Before Sailas could answer, Jace’s voice cut in, heavy and unforgiving.
“It’s Sailas’s affair that you’ve been helping him hide. Whether you realize it or not.” He leaned forward, stabbing a finger toward the photos. “It’s a good thing Lennox came to me. I got hold of these before the press did. Do you have any idea the kind of trouble our reputation would be in if these had gone public?”

Leon whipped his head toward Lennox, who gave him a small, knowing smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. A snake’s smile. He’d said nothing this whole time, lounging there, only to drop the blade in Leon’s back at the worst possible moment.

Lana’s voice joined in, cool but sharp.
“Something like this could ruin future partnerships. Sponsorships. We’ve worked too hard to build stability in this family for Sailas to unravel it with his recklessness.”

Her tone was controlled, but her eyes betrayed her. There was hurt there, disappointment, something deeper she was trying hard to suppress.

Leon looked down again at the photo in his hands, the one with the stranger’s fingers tangled in Sailas’s hair, and a strange mix of anger and disbelief twisted in his chest. He wanted Sailas to explain, to at least say something—but instead he heard it.

A laugh.

A real laugh, bubbling low at first before breaking into something genuine, almost taunting. Leon’s head snapped back up. Sailas was laughing. Actually laughing.

He leaned back into the couch, one hand covering part of his mouth as he tried to stifle it, but his shoulders shook, and when he finally looked at them, his eyes glinted with something sharp.

He raised an eyebrow at Jace, smirk cutting through the tension.

"We? Please you didn't build anything, you just married a rich guy, dont pretend" sailas says with a scoff

Lana let out an exasperated sigh and says in a tired voice "you dont even realize how bad this could have been, do you?"

“Why would it be bad?” Sailas asked. “Because it’s a guy?” His tone was mocking, but beneath it was something raw, a bite that landed squarely in the room. He looked between Jace and Lana, his laugh tapering off into a scornful smile. “What happened to the so-called "loving parents" you were trying to be?”

The words hung heavy.

Leon sat frozen, pulse pounding in his ears. His gaze darted between Jace’s hardened expression, Lana’s conflicted one, Lennox’s smug smirk, and Sailas—unbothered, defiant, staring straight into the fire without blinking.

And Leon realized, with a twist in his gut, that this wasn’t about him at all. He was just caught in the middle of a war he hadn’t even realized was happening.

Lana’s voice broke the heavy silence first, soft but steady, as though she was carefully choosing every word.

“Sailas,” she said, leaning forward slightly, her manicured hands clasped together. “You know we love you. You’re my son. That’s never in question. But you have to understand—this kind of thing… not everyone will get it. Not everyone will accept it. And if it gets out, it could hurt you.”

Her voice trembled just faintly on the last word.

Sailas didn’t hesitate. He tilted his head, that stubborn smirk gone, replaced by something harder.
“So? I don’t care if people get it or not. It’s not their business. It’s mine.”

For a brief moment, it was just him and Lana, two wills colliding. But then Jace cut in, his voice sharp and commanding, slicing through the air like a whip.

“Look,” Jace said, gesturing with one hand as if to hammer his words into the room. “We’ve been nothing but generous and caring since you moved here. We gave you the biggest room in the house, made sure you had the best school, the best teachers, the best food on your plate every single day. All we ask is that you meet us halfway.”

Sailas’s eyes narrowed. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and let out a humorless laugh. “I never asked you to do anything. Why should I meet you halfway? You’re the ones who keep forcing all this on me.”

That answer snapped something in Jace. His face reddened, his jaw locked, and his voice rose—booming, furious.

“How ungrateful can you be?”

Lana immediately tried to interject, her hand reaching toward him. “Jace, please—”

But he waved her off and kept going, louder now, his words spilling with raw frustration.
“No, Lana! I’m not going to sugarcoat it anymore. Just because his dad died doesn’t mean he can be reckless and do whatever he wants! I’m not trying to replace him, I’m not trying to be his father, but the least he could do is show us some respect. All I ask is that he does the bare minimum—just the bare minimum! But I guess even that’s too much to ask.”

His voice echoed in the high-ceilinged room, heavy and final.

Leon, sitting stiffly on the couch beside Sailas, felt the shift instantly. He didn’t even need to look—he could feel it radiating off him. The air around Sailas darkened, sharp and suffocating, as though a storm was about to break loose. His body was tense, every line coiled tight with anger.

Leon risked a glance anyway.

The look in Sailas’s eyes made his stomach twist. That same cold, murderous darkness he’d seen once before—when Sailas had Bones pinned down, fists slamming into his face without restraint. His fists were clenched now, knuckles whitening, nails digging into his palm. His jaw was locked, lips pressed so tightly together they’d gone pale. He was seconds away from exploding.

Leon’s heart started pounding.

He knew what would happen if Sailas snapped here. The yelling would turn into violence. He’d lunge at Jace, maybe at Lennox if he smirked one more time, and then everything would spiral. And if that happened in this house, in front of Lana and the staff—Leon didn’t even want to imagine the fallout.

He swallowed hard, forcing his own nerves down, and moved quickly.

Leon could feel the tension radiating off Sailas like heat from a fire. His jaw was tight, his posture rigid, and though Sailas hadn’t spoken in the last few minutes, his silence screamed louder than any words could. The last thing Leon wanted was for him to explode in front of his father—especially when he could see the storm gathering in his eyes. If Sailas snapped now, he’d say or do something reckless, and Leon knew there’d be no pulling him back from it.

So, Leon straightened up, cleared his throat lightly, and stepped in before Sailas could open his mouth.

“Mr. Duvall,” Leon began, his tone steady but calm, like he was deliberately lowering the temperature in the room. “I understand what you’re saying. I truly do. And I’m sorry—” he inhaled slowly, like the words took effort “—for the part I played in the affair. I won’t try to justify it. But you have to understand something important here.”

He glanced at Sailas again, just for a split second. The fire in his friend’s expression hadn’t dulled at all. That only made Leon double down.

“Sailas is going through a huge life change right now,” Leon continued, his voice firm but diplomatic. “It’s only natural he’d act out, make mistakes, even do reckless things. He’s not used to this life yet. Not fully. He doesn’t understand how it all works—the rules, the scrutiny, the expectations. It’s going to take time, but he’ll get there. He just needs room to learn. To grow into it.”

For the first time since entering the study, Leon let his eyes drift to the stack of photos scattered on Jace’s desk. The glossy prints were damning in their clarity—moments of stolen touches, glances that lingered too long, and every frame seemed designed to accuse. Leon’s lips pressed into a thin line as he forced himself to meet them head-on.

He swallowed, then added softly, “As for the fact that it’s a man… things aren’t the same as they were twenty, even ten years ago. People are more accepting of this stuff nowadays. And with your name, your reputation, your status—it’s not going to do as much damage to business as you think. You’re still Jace Duvall. People will respect that. And honestly…” Leon let out a breath, steadying his tone, “some might even respect you more for standing by your son instead of trying to hide who he is.”

The room fell quiet for a moment. Leon dared to glance at Sailas again. Their eyes met, and for a fleeting moment, Leon thought he saw something shift behind that burning glare—a flicker of surprise, or maybe gratitude, buried deep. Sailas’s fists were still clenched, but his eyes softened almost imperceptibly as if Leon’s words had cracked through the armor of rage.

Across the desk, Jace let out a frustrated sigh, dragging a hand down his face. His gaze flicked between Leon and Sailas, as though he was measuring the weight of what had just been said. Finally, he exhaled heavily, shoulders sagging just slightly.

“…Maybe you’re right,” Jace muttered, though his tone still carried reluctance, like the words tasted bitter. “Maybe.”

The tension in the room shifted, loosening but not disappearing entirely. Leon nodded once, quietly relieved. “Well,” he said, letting the weight of the conversation settle, “if there’s nothing else, then I’ll be heading home.”

He turned toward Sailas, meeting his gaze again—this time intentionally, holding it with quiet firmness. “Come see me out.”

The words weren’t a request. They were a lifeline.

They walked in silence across the driveway, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows between them. Leon’s steps were brisk, a mixture of frustration and disbelief propelling him forward, but Sailas kept pace without so much as a word, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket. When they reached the car, Leon’s patience snapped. He turned sharply, the door still open behind him, and let his voice carry that rare edge of anger.

“So that’s what you’ve been doing?” he demanded, stepping closer. “Using me as an alibi? What the fuck happened to that Ruby girl on your phone?”

Sailas’s eyes lifted lazily to meet his, and he shrugged, almost too casually. “His name is Ruby,” he said, voice flat, unbothered.

Leon groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. He could feel the blood rushing to his head, his frustration not just at Sailas’s casual defiance but at how effortlessly the guy pushed every one of his buttons. “That could’ve gone bad,” Leon said, his words clipped, full of restrained tension. “You know that, right?”

Sailas didn’t respond right away. He just tilted his head slightly, as if considering whether Leon was worth the effort. Finally, with the same nonchalance, he said, “I don’t really care.”

Leon’s jaw tightened. “Of course you don’t care,” he muttered under his breath, a mix of exasperation and incredulity. The corner of his mouth twitched slightly as he ran a hand through his hair, trying to collect himself. The air between them felt almost electric, charged with that raw, unspoken intensity Sailas always seemed to radiate, the way he could sit still but make the world around him feel unstable.

A pause stretched, heavy with the sound of their shoes against the pavement. Leon glanced down at the car, then back at Sailas, and his voice softened, though it carried the weight of genuine reflection. “I didn’t know your dad died,” he said, carefully, as if speaking the words aloud might somehow make them real.

Sailas nodded, the motion small but deliberate, the weight of it pulling at the air between them. “He died three weeks ago,” he said quietly, almost under his breath. “That’s why I moved in with Lana… because I’m seventeen, she’s my legal guardian.”

Leon’s mouth opened slightly, but the words he wanted to say caught in his throat for a second, the silence filled with the strange heaviness of the truth. Then, finally, he spoke, his voice low but steady, careful, almost hesitant. “I’m sorry for your loss. And… in retrospect, sorry for being a bit of a jerk when we first met. I didn’t know you were going through something so heavy.”

Sailas’s eyes shifted subtly at that. There was a flicker, something Leon hadn’t seen before—a shift in the intensity behind them. It wasn’t anger, wasn’t amusement. It was something deeper, raw, like a current running under the surface, brushing against Leon in a way that made him catch his breath without realizing it. His stomach tightened, his pulse quickened, and for the first time in a long while, Leon found himself uncertain how to hold the moment.

Sailas’s voice came, quiet but deliberate, almost like it had to be pulled from the depths rather than spoken. “You don’t have to apologize,” he muttered, and his eyes never left Leon’s.

Leon found himself rooted in place, struggling to hold that gaze. There was something unyielding and magnetic in Sailas’s stare, something that demanded attention even when the words themselves were minimal. A part of him wanted to look away, but another, far stronger part couldn’t. He swallowed hard, voice barely above a whisper, yet firm enough to carry, “I think I do.”

And then Leon saw it—the way Sailas’s eyes flicked over his face, scanning every feature, every micro-expression, before returning, unwavering, to lock onto his eyes. There was a curiosity there, something dangerous and alive, and it set Leon’s chest tightening again. The moment stretched, long and taut, each second heavier than the last, until the world around them—the car, the driveway, the fading sunlight—seemed to fade entirely, leaving only the two of them, locked in that unspoken, electric tension.

Leon’s mind was already buzzing from the earlier confrontation, the lingering heat of anger and relief swirling together, when Sailas’s words hit him like a brick wall. “I think I’m starting to like you.”

Leon froze, his entire body stiffening as if the words had physically knocked the air out of him. He stared at Sailas, eyes wide, mouth slightly agape, trying to process the sentence that had somehow slipped so casually out of Sailas’s lips. “What?” Leon finally blurted, his voice cracking a little despite his best efforts to keep it steady. “What do you mean?”

Sailas didn’t hesitate. He tilted his head just slightly, eyes narrowing with that same smug, unreadable expression Leon had come to simultaneously dread and admire. “I think I like you.”

Leon blinked. One, two, three times, as though repeated blinking would make the words dissolve, but they didn’t. They sat there in the space between them, heavy and real. “Like?” Leon stammered, his brain working in overdrive, his pulse spiking in a mixture of shock, disbelief, and something he didn’t quite want to admit. “As in… like-like? As in… romantically?”

Sailas nodded, calm and unapologetic, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. He said it so plainly that Leon could feel the walls of certainty in his mind start to crumble. His ears were ringing; he couldn’t quite breathe. Sailas liked him? Liked him? Leon’s internal monologue began firing off in every direction at once. Why? How? When? What had he done to provoke this?

He opened his mouth to ask why, to demand an explanation, but the words felt small, inadequate, irrelevant even. Instead, he forced himself to speak slowly, carefully, hoping that his tone might convey some semblance of comprehension. “Why? Since when?”

Sailas’s eyes glinted with an almost imperceptible smirk, that confident, knowing spark that always made Leon feel like he was losing even when he thought he was in control. “You’ve always been so… nice to me,” Sailas said, voice almost casual, but there was that subtle edge of sincerity underneath. “I only realized it when you defended me just now.”

Leon’s brain short-circuited. Defended him? Just now? He thought back through the day’s events—the heated arguments, the confrontations, the moments of petty annoyance and blunt honesty—and tried to parse out which tiny, insignificant thing he had done could be interpreted as worthy of this… affection. He ran the replay in his head: the mall, the car ride, the earlier confrontation with Jace and Lana. Had he actually done anything that could remotely cause Sailas to feel this? Every scene he played over only confused him further. He had been… himself. He had been irritated, frustrated, self-centered, and, if he was honest, occasionally helpful—but affection? That seemed absurd.

His eyes widened even further as Sailas blinked, small, deliberate motions, then reached out and patted him on the shoulder with casual familiarity. The gesture should have been insignificant, but it sent a jolt through Leon’s chest, disarming him more than any words could. Sailas didn’t linger. Without another word, he turned and walked back into the house, moving with that effortless composure that always seemed to mock Leon’s inner chaos.

Leon stayed rooted to the driveway, staring after him. His thoughts spiraled uncontrollably. What? How? Why? He replayed every single interaction he’d had with Sailas in the past days and weeks, trying desperately to find a pattern, a clue, some tiny seed that could have grown into this… whatever this was. There was the fight in the garden, the time he helped Sailas with his homework, the arguments over the smoking breaks, the awkward mall trip… none of it made sense. Nothing in any of their conversations had been designed to inspire this kind of feeling. Not a compliment, not a kind word beyond necessary civility, not even a subtle gesture. He had been… Leon. Selfish, annoyed, trying to manipulate situations, and yet here Sailas was, apparently drawn to him.

He groaned softly, a mix of frustration, disbelief, and a strange, stubborn curiosity twisting in his chest. His hands fell to his sides, fidgeting slightly as he tried to reason it out. I didn’t do anything to make him like me… and yet, that small pat on the shoulder, that casual tone, that smirk—the intensity in those eyes—was impossible to ignore. Leon’s mind raced through every scenario, every excuse, every possible rational explanation, but nothing fit. Nothing explained why Sailas, of all people, would look at him this way.

For a long moment, he just stood there, utterly bewildered, letting the sun dip lower behind the trees. The driveway felt impossibly wide, impossibly quiet, as if the world itself had paused to let him think. He replayed Sailas’s words again and again in his mind: “I think I like you.” It was simple, casual, almost offhand—but it carried a weight that made everything else shrink into irrelevance.

Leon’s lips pressed into a thin line. He exhaled slowly, running a hand over his face. The confusion, the frustration, the irritation—it all churned together. He had no idea why Sailas felt this way. He had no idea what to do with it. All he knew was that it completely disrupted the fragile sense of control he thought he had over their dynamic. And for the first time in a long while, Leon felt… powerless.

He shook his head, muttering under his breath, more to himself than anyone else. “What the hell… what the hell is happening?”

Then, finally, he turned toward the car, still stunned, still trying to process, and braced himself for the long drive home, the chaos of his own thoughts the only company he could rely on.

Chapter Text

Sailas didn’t remember much from when he was a kid. Most of it was a blur—faces without names, rooms without corners, voices like static in the wind. But there was one memory that never left him. It was always there, playing on loop in the back of his mind, like a scar he couldn’t scratch.

He was five.

It was summer—he thinks. The sun was bright, and the air smelled like warm grass and dust. He and his older brother, Lennox, had been playing outside in the dirt patch behind the trailer. Lennox was nine, lanky and fast, always jumping over things and making up games Sailas could barely keep up with.

That day, though, Sailas had stopped running. He crouched in the dirt, staring at a beetle crawling across a stick like it had somewhere important to be. He poked at it gently with a twig, watching the way its shiny black shell reflected the sunlight.

Then came the sound.

SLAM.

The trailer door slammed so hard it made Sailas flinch. He looked up and saw her—his mom. Her mascara was smudged, and her face was red like she’d been crying for a long time. But she didn’t look at him. She walked right past him and straight to Lennox.

She grabbed Lennox’s hand, tight.

“Come on.”

That was all she said. No explanation. No hug. No goodbye.

Just 'come on'.

Lennox looked back at Sailas for a split second. Confused. Guilty. Scared. Then he went with her. Just like that.

Sailas stood frozen, the beetle forgotten.

He waited there for a while. Maybe a few minutes. Maybe an hour. Eventually, he went inside.

The living room was dark except for the flicker of the old TV. His dad, Ivan Graves, was slouched on the couch, a cigarette burning between his fingers, the ash tray full to the brim. Sailas wiped his nose and stood by the armrest.

“Where’s Mommy going?” he asked.

His dad didn’t even look at him.

“To that rich asshole she’s been screwing,” he said bitterly, exhaling a stream of smoke. “She’s not coming back.”

Sailas felt something collapse inside his little chest. Like the floor gave out. His throat tightened and the tears came fast.

“Stop crying,” his dad snapped. “Jesus Christ, shut up.”

And that was it.

That was the day Sailas learned people could leave you just like that. No warning. No reason.
They could take your brother with them and never look back.

And there was nothing you could do about it.

Sailas remembered what came next, too.

Not right after—not the crying or the days he spent asking when Lennox would come back. That all blurred together in a fog of silence and slammed doors. But eventually, things changed. His dad changed.

One day, Ivan packed everything they owned—what little there was—into the back of a rusted pickup truck. He didn’t say much. Just threw bags into the bed and told Sailas to “get in and don’t ask questions.”

They left the trailer behind and drove for hours—through dusty roads, gray towns, and places Sailas had never seen before. Finally, they stopped on the other side of the state, in a run-down neighborhood that smelled like gasoline and concrete. The house wasn’t much—just two bedrooms and a roof that groaned when it rained—but it was theirs.

Ivan told him it was all for West 17.

Sailas didn’t know what that meant. He was six by then, and all he understood was that West 17 was important. His dad would say it like it explained everything—why they moved, why he stayed out all night, why they couldn’t have visitors, why there were locks on the inside of the doors.

But Sailas didn’t ask. He didn’t want to ruin it.

Because for the first time in a long time, his dad started paying attention to him.

It started small—“We gotta toughen you up,” Ivan said one morning. Then came the runs. Push-ups. Sit-ups. Lifting things. Stretching. Over and over again, every day after school, until Sailas’s arms ached and his legs trembled.

He was tired. All the time.

Some mornings he wanted to cry just thinking about doing it again.

But he didn’t.

Because that hour—maybe two—was the only time he really had his dad.

The rest of the day, Ivan was gone. He wouldn’t say where. Sometimes he came home with bruised knuckles. Sometimes with cash. Sometimes with nothing but a blank stare and that same cigarette hanging from his lips.

Sailas went to school like a ghost.
He stopped trying to make friends.
He didn’t bring lunch, and nobody picked him up.

So he walked.

Through alleyways. Across broken sidewalks. Past sirens and arguments and the same homeless man who slept behind the liquor store.

It wasn’t that weird to him.
They’d lived in places like this before.

People fought in the streets, kids skipped class, and cops didn’t really come around unless someone bled too much.
It wasn’t good, but it wasn’t scary either.

It was just how life was.

And every night, he’d wait until the front door opened again, and his dad stepped inside—looking more tired than the day before.

Sometimes Sailas would pretend to be asleep, just to avoid another set of push-ups.

Other times, he’d sit up straight, pretending not to be sore, just to hear, “Good. You’re not soft.”

He didn’t understand what he was being trained for.
But he wanted to be strong.

If he was strong, maybe his dad wouldn’t leave too.

Sailas was eleven when it finally clicked.
The late nights, the bruises, the secret meetings, the money that showed up out of nowhere, the people who came to the house whispering and looking over their shoulders.

His dad was in a gang.
No—his dad was the leader of a gang.

West 17.

It wasn’t just a name anymore. It was spray-painted on alley walls and etched into tables at school. He started noticing the signs—the hand gestures, the tattoos, the looks people gave when the name came up.

It made sense now. All of it.

The workouts. The rules. The distance.

Ivan Graves wasn’t just a father—he was a boss. And Sailas? He was being trained to step into that world.

Strangely, Sailas didn’t mind.
He liked being useful.
He liked being wanted.

And for the first time, his dad didn’t treat him like a kid.

He gave him jobs.

It started small. A name written on a scrap of paper. “Handle it,” his dad would say.

No explanation.

Sailas didn’t ask for one.

He’d find the kid at school—usually someone older, usually quiet. He’d round up a few of his friends, boys who looked up to him for his confidence and quiet anger. They’d corner the target behind the gym, in the bathrooms, after school.

A few punches. A few kicks. Sometimes more if they fought back.

Most of the time, they didn’t.

Sailas never really knew why.
Maybe their family owed the gang money.
Maybe they pissed someone off.
It didn’t matter.

He was given a job—and he did it. Afterward, his dad would nod and say, “Good work.”

Sometimes he’d hand Sailas a twenty or a slap on the back.

That was all Sailas needed.

Outside of school, things were worse—but more fun.

Him and the other West 17 kids would tag buildings, get into fights with rival crews, steal bikes, smash windows. They were loud, fast, and reckless, always daring each other to go further. Cops would show up sometimes—sirens wailing, hands on their guns—but they never stayed long.

His dad always made sure of that.

The cops knew Ivan Graves. They knew to keep their noses out of West 17 business. A bribe here, a threat there—it worked every time. Sailas learned not to worry. Even if they got picked up, they’d be out within the hour.

And people started to notice him.

He wasn’t just some scrawny kid anymore. He was Graves’ kid.

People stepped aside when he walked down the hall. Teachers looked nervous. Classmates didn’t meet his eyes.

It felt good.
It felt like power.

He didn’t care that his knuckles were always bruised, or that his stomach turned sometimes after a job. Even when he didn’t sleep well, or that his grades were trash.

He didn’t care that he hadn’t heard from Lennox in years. Of course he didn't, why would he?

Because his dad needed him.

And that was all that mattered.

By the time Sailas was twelve, fighting wasn’t just something he had to do.

It was something he enjoyed.

The rush that came with it—the swing of a punch, the feel of someone’s jaw under his knuckles, the way his friends hyped him up after a beatdown—it was addictive. The adrenaline, the chaos, the way his heart would race so fast it felt like he might explode. He’d get this grin on his face, not because it was funny—but because it felt right.

Sometimes they’d pick a fight just for fun.
Some random kid walking the wrong way. A new face. Someone who looked too confident.

Sailas didn’t need a reason anymore.

He was Ivan Graves’ son. West 17’s golden kid. And by thirteen, he thought he could handle anything.

But then came that night.

It was cold. The warehouse was near the edge of the city, one of those forgotten places with rusted shutters and broken glass on the ground. Sailas had been there before—he’d helped unload boxes, deliver things, whatever his dad asked. But this time, the air felt different.

He walked inside and saw them—his dad, standing tall near the back, cigarette glowing like a tiny fire. A few other West 17 members leaned against crates, watching silently. And in the center of the room… a man tied to a chair.

He was bleeding already—bruises swelling on his face, lip split open, breathing hard through his nose like he’d been at this for a while.

Ivan turned when Sailas stepped in.

“There he is,” he said. “C’mere, son.”

Sailas came closer, not even hesitating. Then his dad handed him a knife.

Not a little pocket blade. A real one. Thick. Heavy. Meant for damage.

Ivan’s voice was calm, almost proud. “This piece of shit’s been playing us. Joined the gang, acted loyal, but he’s been trying to gather evidence. Planning to turn me in. To bring the whole thing down.”

He looked Sailas in the eyes then, voice steady and low.

“And what do we do to snitches?”

Sailas didn’t even blink. “We kill them.”

Ivan nodded. “That’s right. Now it’s your turn to prove you’re loyal to the gang. To me.”

He gestured toward the man in the chair.

“Hurt him. Then kill him.”

The room went quiet.

Even the other guys were watching now.

Sailas looked down at the knife in his hand.

It felt heavier than before. Too heavy.

His chest tightened, and his palms started to sweat.

But the adrenaline kicked in again—blood pounding in his ears, heart slamming against his ribs. This was another test. Just like all the others.

He had to pass it.

So he stepped forward.

The man in the chair started panicking. His voice cracked as he begged, “Wait—wait—kid, please—listen—don’t do this—please—”

Sailas hesitated, just for a second.

The guy wasn’t some faceless target at school. He was older. Beaten. Tied up. Terrified.

A human being.

But then Sailas heard his father’s voice behind him—calm, low, unshakable.

“Prove it.”

And so Sailas clenched the knife tighter and pushed everything else down.

His fear. His doubt. His guilt.

He buried it.

Sailas gripped the knife tighter in his right hand. His fingers felt numb, but his pulse thundered in his ears.

He stepped closer.

The man’s eyes locked onto his—wild, pleading, full of fear.

Sailas’s hand trembled, just once.

Then he slashed.

A clean, diagonal cut across the man’s chest.
Blood poured out, hot and fast, staining his shirt, dripping onto the cold floor. The man screamed.

Sailas flinched at the sound—but then moved again.

He stabbed him.

Once.
Twice.
Again.
And again.
The knife punched into the man’s chest with wet, sickening sounds, and each time Sailas yanked it back, it came with more blood. More screams. More begging.

Around him, the warehouse echoed with noise.
Laughter.
Shouts.
Cheers.

The other West 17 members were hooting and hollering like it was a goddamn party.

“Hell yeah, Graves!”
“Look at the kid go!”
“That's what I'm talkin’ about!”

But Sailas barely heard them.
His body kept moving, stabbing, shaking—
—but his mind was far away. Floating. Hollow.

It was like watching himself from behind a wall of glass.
He could feel the knife in his hand.
He could hear the man’s cries—raspy, high-pitched, inhuman.

“Please—stop—please—”

Sailas’s stomach twisted.
He didn’t want to hear it anymore.

So he raised the knife one last time and dragged it across the man’s throat.

The screaming stopped.
The body slumped forward, slack.
Blood spilled out onto the concrete floor, thick and dark.

Silence fell.

Then—

Laughter. Loud, proud, joyful laughter.

“Now that’s my son!” Ivan roared from across the room, grinning wide. “I’m proud of you.”

Sailas froze.

Those words.
He hadn’t heard them in so long.

Proud. Of him.

The words sunk into his skin, warm and sharp like the blood dripping down his arms. Something inside him twisted—happiness? Relief?—but it was tangled in something else. Something colder.

He looked down at himself.
Red.
His shirt. His hands. His shoes. All soaked.

The warmth inside him cracked. Reality slammed back in.

The smell of blood. The sticky feeling of it on his fingers. The limp body still tied to the chair, head tilted wrong.

He couldn’t breathe for a second.

Ivan walked over and clapped a hand on his back. “Go outside. Smoke. You earned it.”

Then he shoved a half-used pack of cigarettes and a lighter into Sailas’s hand.

Sailas didn’t speak. He just nodded, like a machine, and walked out.

The night air hit him like a slap. Cold. Real.

He stood just outside the warehouse door, blood drying on his clothes, his shoes leaving faint red footprints on the gravel.

He pulled out a cigarette with shaking hands, lit it like his dad showed him. Breathed in.

It burned. It made him cough.

But he didn’t stop.

He stood there in the dark, thirteen years old, bloody, smoke curling around his face.

The stars above him didn’t look like anything.
He didn’t feel proud.
He didn’t feel scared either.

He just felt empty.

Within the next year, Sailas just stopped going to school.

One day, he didn’t show up.
The next, no one asked.

His dad said school was pointless anyway. “You already know what matters,” he’d say between drags of his cigarette. “Out there? That’s your classroom. Out there’s where men are made.”

So Sailas didn’t go back.

He spent his days running jobs, doing what his father told him, learning the rhythm of the streets like it was second nature. He knew which alleys to cut through, which gangs to avoid, which cops could be paid off and which ones needed to be threatened. His world shrank down to the corners of West 17, to bloodstains on concrete and whispered names.

But still—on paper—Sailas Graves was just another student.

His dad made sure of that.

Money passed hands under desks and behind closed doors. The school staff was easy to handle—mostly underpaid, overworked, and terrified of the Graves name. As long as they kept Sailas marked “present” in the system, no one asked questions. No phone calls home. No red flags.

Because if the records ever showed that Sailas had dropped out—if anyone reported that he was missing from class—Lana would find out.

And that couldn’t happen.

His dad told him the truth about her. Over and over again. How she left the moment things went south. How she took Lennox and ran off with some rich bastard the second the money dried up. How she left him, her son, without a second thought.

“She didn’t even fight for you,” Ivan said one night, laughing bitterly. “Didn’t even ask.”

Sailas believed it. Every word.

Why else would she leave him behind? Why else wouldn’t she come back for him? She had money now—fancy cars, a big house, a new life. If she really cared, she would’ve come looking.

But she didn’t.
And that was fine.
He didn’t need her.

He had his dad. That was enough.

This was his home.
These streets, this gang, this life—this was where he belonged.

He kept doing his work.
Whatever Ivan asked of him—he did it.

Sometimes it was roughing someone up.
Sometimes it was worse.

He’d deliver messages with fists.
Break bones for owed money.
Drag people out of their cars, out of their homes.
And when necessary—he’d kill.

And he was good at it. Too good.

Word spread fast through the streets. People started calling him Reaper—a name whispered with fear.
Not “Graves’ kid.”
Not Sailas.

Just Reaper.

He didn’t ask for the name.
But he didn’t reject it either.

It stuck.

Because when Reaper showed up, people ran.
When Reaper looked you in the eyes, it meant the clock was ticking. He was clean. Quick. Efficient. And no matter how messy it got—he never hesitated.

That was his gift.

He could shut off everything—fear, guilt, hesitation. He’d just go cold. Focused. Silent.

And when the job was done, he’d return home.
Covered in blood, clothes ripped, breath steady.

His dad would nod. “Good work.”
And that was all he needed.

Every time he heard those words, he felt… steady. Like he mattered. Like there was a reason for all this. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking afterward. At night hed dreamed about the screams. He’d sit in the dark, alone, staring at the blood under his nails.

But none of that mattered, he was Reaper now.
This was who he was.

And there was no going back.

Sailas didn’t have a lot of friends. Not real ones, at least. People hung around him because of his name, because of who his dad was, or because of what Sailas could do with his fists. But trust? That was rare.

The closest thing he had to family outside of blood was Ruby.

Ruby had been around almost as long as Sailas could remember. They met when they were kids, both from broken homes, both stuck in neighborhoods that swallowed people whole. Ruby’s mom was a ghost of a woman—drugged out more often than not, floating from high to high, leaving her son to figure out life on his own. She’d wanted a daughter, and when she got Ruby instead, she didn’t bother changing her dream. She gave him the name anyway, like a cruel joke.

Most kids would’ve grown bitter and spit at it, but Ruby… Ruby owned it. He leaned into it, made it a part of him. He was flamboyant, loud, sharp-tongued, and fearless about it. The way he dressed, the way he carried himself—it was like he dared anyone to say a word. And if they did? Ruby could fight just as well as Sailas. Maybe not as brutal, but smart, precise. He could drop a guy twice his size and still grin while doing it.

Sailas liked that about him.

But the real reason they stuck together had less to do with fights and more to do with everything else. Sailas’s dad had started hitting him more as he got older. It wasn’t about discipline anymore, not really—it was about control. If Sailas came back from a job with so much as a scratch, if he hesitated for even half a second, if Ivan Graves thought his son wasn’t good enough, he’d take off his belt and beat him until Sailas’s skin split open. The leather cracked like a whip across his back and chest, the buckle leaving long, jagged cuts that stung for days.

Whenever that happened, Sailas went to Ruby’s place.

Ruby never asked too many questions. He’d just let Sailas in, sit him down, and patch him up with whatever he had—torn sheets, rubbing alcohol, duct tape if he had nothing else. His hands were steady, gentle in a way Sailas wasn’t used to. When Sailas was bleeding and shaking, Ruby didn’t judge. He didn’t pity him either.

He just helped.

And when it was over, they’d light up together, lose themselves in smoke or in pills—ecstasy when they wanted to laugh, LSD when they wanted to float. It wasn’t about forgetting so much as it was about surviving. The world blurred at the edges, their problems dulled, and for a few hours it was just them, sitting on the floor of Ruby’s crappy living room, staring at neon lights they swore they could see dancing.

Ruby was Sailas’s safe place. The one person who didn’t see him as “the Reaper,” or Ivan Graves’s son, or a weapon in West 17’s arsenal. With Ruby, he could breathe.

It wasn’t always just about bandages and drugs either. When things got too heavy, when Sailas couldn’t carry it all anymore, he and Ruby would crawl into bed and just… let go. Sometimes it was messy, sometimes it was desperate, sometimes it was quiet. But no matter how it happened, Sailas always left feeling a little more human, a little less hollow.

Ruby tattooed over some of his scars, too. A way of rewriting them, making them into something Sailas chose instead of something forced on him. Inked lines curled over old wounds on his ribs, his shoulders, his back. The pain of the needle was sharp, but controlled—it was different from the belt. This was pain that meant something.

In return, Sailas made sure Ruby was never left unprotected. Anyone who messed with him—over his name, his clothes, his mouth, anything—ended up on the ground with Sailas standing over them. The thugs Sailas ran with came to accept Ruby not because he blended in, but because he didn’t. He was too bold, too strong, too unapologetic to ignore.

Together, they carved out their own kind of loyalty. Their own kind of family.

For Sailas, Ruby wasn’t just a friend. He was the only person Sailas could call one.

When Sailas turned seventeen, life felt good.

Not perfect. Not clean. But good in the only way that mattered to him.

He had his gang—his crew—his brothers. Guys who had his back, who hyped him up during fights, who called him Reaper like it meant something. They’d tear through the streets on stolen bikes, crash parties, beat the shit out of anyone who looked at them wrong. Chaos felt like home. Violence was second nature. Fun, even.

And he had his dad.

Ivan Graves.

Still sharp. Still untouchable.

Grooming Sailas to take over the gang one day. Teaching him the ins and outs—how to lead, how to command respect, how to make people afraid. He’d even started calling him “kid boss” around the others, with a crooked smile that actually looked like pride.

For once, Sailas felt unstoppable.
He had everything he needed.
Everything he wanted.

Until it all went sideways.

It started with whispers.

One of the older members mentioned the FBI showing up at a club downtown, asking questions. Another said they’d seen black cars parked outside the warehouse for two nights straight.

Someone had found something—evidence.

Sailas didn’t know what, but it was bad.
Worse than anything the local cops could be bribed to ignore.

He went straight to his dad. “What are we gonna do?”

Ivan just leaned back in his chair, cigarette balanced between his fingers, and gave that lazy smirk.

“I’ve got it handled, kid.”

Sailas blinked. “What does that mean?”

Ivan took a long drag, exhaled slow.
“I’m gonna die.”

Sailas tensed. “What?”

“Relax,” his dad said. “I mean fake it.”

He laid it all out—how they’d stage a car crash on the west highway. Rig the car. Use animal bones and blood for the remains. Burn it down. Leave just enough behind to make it look convincing.

“Feds won’t waste time on ashes,” Ivan muttered. “They’ll think the problem solved itself.”

Sailas smiled. Of course his dad had a plan. He always had a plan.

Sailas helped set it all up. Drove the car halfway out of the city. Watched it burn. Stayed hidden while the authorities came running. No one suspected a thing. A funeral followed—with a closed casket, naturally. A few tears, a lot of rumors.

Ivan disappeared underground, deep in the parts of the city no one wanted to know about. Just like that, he was a ghost.

Sailas stayed in the house.
The same one he’d grown up in. Alone now, technically—but still part of the gang, still running jobs, still keeping things under control.

Until she showed up.

A knock at the door.

He opened it to find a woman in her forties, holding a clipboard and wearing that forced-smile expression that screamed authority.

“Hello, I’m Cassandra Ward. I’m a social worker with Child Protective Services.”

Sailas didn’t even blink. “I’m seventeen. I don’t need anything.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You’re still a minor. We got flagged after your father’s... passing.”

Sailas resisted the urge to scoff. 'Passing.' Right.

“I’m fine,” he said. “I have a friend of his staying with me—sort of a guardian.”

She jotted something on her clipboard. “And does this ‘friend’ have a name? Any legal documents?”

Sailas didn’t answer.

Cassandra’s voice softened, but her eyes stayed sharp. “Sailas... I understand this is a lot. But your mother’s been notified. She’s ready to take you in.”

His blood ran cold.
His face stayed still. “No.”

“She wants to help,” the social worker continued. “She said she’s been waiting for a chance—”

“She’s lying,” Sailas snapped, jaw tight. “She left. Took my brother. Didn’t even look back.”

Cassandra looked at him for a long time.
Pity. Annoyance. Something in between.

“She said she’s your mother. That’s enough for now. I’ll be back tomorrow to escort you to her.”

And with that, she turned and walked away, heels clicking against the steps like a countdown.

The door shut behind her.

Sailas stood in silence.

His fists clenched. His heart pounded—not with rage. Not with fear, either.

But with something harder to name.

Because suddenly, everything wasn’t under control anymore.

Sailas didn’t say anything at first. He just stood there, staring at his dad, still covered in smudges of grease and smoke from the underground tunnel they now called home. His fists clenched at his sides, his teeth grinding together.

Go to her? Just like that? After everything?

His dad sat back on the worn-out couch like it was just another day. Like sending Sailas into enemy territory was some small inconvenience.

“I don’t wanna go,” Sailas finally muttered.

His dad took a slow drag from his cigarette and exhaled through his nose. “You think I did? You think I wanted to hide down here like a damn rat? But that’s the game, kid. You play it or it plays you.”

Sailas looked down, jaw tight. His dad didn't even ask how he felt. Not once. It was all just strategy.

“But—what if she tries to keep me there?” Sailas said, voice full of rage. “after what she did to you? To us? Leaving us like were worthless to go do whatever she wants?”

His dad finally looked at him, really looked. “You’re smarter than that. Stronger too. You think I raised some soft kid who’d fall for that bitch’s lies?” He reached out and patted Sailas’s cheek roughly. “You’re my son. Reaper or not, you’ll handle it.”

It didn’t make Sailas feel better. If anything, it made the knot in his chest grow heavier.

Still, he nodded. Because he always did.

“Four months,” his dad said, crushing his cigarette in an old tin can. “Just four months. Keep your head down, don’t tell her nothin’. Don’t get comfortable. You’re just biding time, yeah?”

Sailas nodded again, eyes empty.

Later that night, he didn’t sleep. He sat on the floor of his room, packed with things that suddenly didn’t matter anymore, thinking about what it was going to be like to walk into her house. A stranger.

Not her son.

Just a weapon on standby.

Soon enough, Sailas was standing in front of the Duvall house—if you could even call it a house. It was a mansion. White stone walls, glass windows so clean they gleamed, a driveway that probably cost more than the car he and his dad used for the fake crash. He didn’t knock. He just stood there with his duffel bag slung over one shoulder, glaring at the door like it had personally offended him.

Then it opened.

Lana. Or—Mrs. Duvall, apparently. Her hair was done, makeup perfect, dressed like she hadn’t spent a single second on the run or hiding from consequences. And behind her, Lennox, dressed clean, looking healthy, like he belonged in this rich, polished place.

Lana gasped and immediately went in for a hug. “Sailas—oh my god, look at you. You’ve gotten so tall—”

Sailas sidestepped her, not even subtle about it. His face stayed blank. “You done?”

She faltered. “I just—I'm so happy you’re back.”

He shrugged. “Didn’t have a choice.”

Lennox glanced at him but didn’t say a word. Just stood there with his arms crossed. Sailas looked him over once, unimpressed, and then looked away.

It was whatever. None of this mattered.

Until he stepped out.

“Jace,” Lana said, brightening as the tall man walked into view. “This is Sailas.”

Sailas’s jaw clenched. Jace Duvall. The guy Lana apparently married.

He gave Sailas a polite smile. “Hey. Good to finally meet you, Sailas. We’ve heard a lot about you.”

Sailas stared at him flatly. “Can’t say the same.”

Lana let out an awkward laugh, like she could smooth the tension with fake cheer. “Let’s get you to your room, huh?”

He followed her upstairs, through the halls of their disgustingly perfect home. She opened the door to a massive room—floor-to-ceiling windows, sleek furniture, a bed that looked like it belonged in a five-star hotel.

He stepped inside, dropped his bag with a thud, and let out a short laugh.

“You serious?” he muttered, walking over to the vanity and tapping it with his knuckle. “What, you think throwing money at me’s gonna fix anything?”

Lana stood at the door, arms crossed tightly. “I just wanted you to feel comfortable.”

He turned to her. “I don’t need comfort. I need four months to pass.”

And with that, he shut the door in her face.
Sailas spent his days like a ghost. He didn’t eat with them. Didn’t speak. Didn’t leave his room unless he had to. The only time he really felt like himself was when he lay on the floor beside the big window, texting on the burner phone his dad slipped him before he left. The cracked screen was his lifeline. Messages from Ruby. Dumb memes from Easton. The occasional blurry photo from Maisie showing the Reaper sign spray-painted over a wall near the train tracks.

It was all he had left.

The last time he even spoke to Lana was two days ago—when he went outside for a smoke and she caught him. She came running out in her silk robe like she was still some concerned mother and not the woman who abandoned him.

“Sailas! Seriously? Smoking? That’s disgusting. Do you know what that does to your lungs?”

He didn’t even look at her. Just flicked the ash away and said, “Do you know what you do to people?”

She had no comeback.

He expected her to keep trying, expected her to knock on his door every night with fake concern and warm tea and emotional blackmail—but instead, she sent Lennox.

Sailas didn’t even hear him coming. The door slammed open, and by the time Sailas sat up, Lennox had already crossed the room.

“Hey—what the hell are you doing?!”

Lennox didn’t answer. He just snatched the burner phone right out of Sailas’s hands.

“Are you insane?!” Sailas jumped up, heart racing. “Give that back, now!”

Lennox held it just out of reach, his eyes scanning the screen. Sailas’s blood went cold.

That phone had everything. Everything. Photos of him and Ruby, texts about the accident, numbers, even saved voice messages from his friends back home.

If they went through it—if they figured anything out—

“Relax,” Lennox finally said, holding the phone loosely. “No one’s taking anything. But if you want this back, you’re gonna have to earn it.”

Sailas narrowed his eyes. “What does that mean?”

Lennox smirked. “It means you’re going to the Vale house today. They want to meet you. And if you don’t go—” he waved the phone a little, “I guess we’ll have to see what’s so important on here.”

Sailas felt like his lungs caved in. He wanted to scream, fight, do something—but the phone… he couldn’t lose that.

“…Fine,” he muttered. “I’ll go.”

Lennox tossed the phone onto the bed. “Smart choice.”

Sailas didn’t say a word. He just stared down at the mattress, teeth clenched, already planning how he was going to get out of this mess.

He—however— couldn't manage to get out of it.

Sailas was already annoyed the second they pulled up to the so-called Vale Estate—a place that looked less like a home and more like a museum for people who wanted to scream “wealth” without saying a word. The gravel driveway was lined with imported trees, the hedges were shaped like birds, and the front steps were made of some kind of stone that probably cost more than what Sailas's old house was worth. He hated it on sight.

But nothing—nothing—made it worse than seeing who he was apparently here to meet.

Leon Vale.

Even the name sounded insufferable. And the person behind it matched perfectly.

Leon stood at the entrance like a prince waiting to greet a foreign diplomat. He was lean, not bulky, but toned in that polished, effortless way rich people always seemed to pull off. His skin was clear—like he’d never had to worry about acne, stress, or life. His brown hair was styled with that specific kind of precision that told Sailas a stylist had done it, not a comb. Every inch of his tailored clothes screamed money: expensive stitching, designer labels, no wrinkles. Even his shoes looked like they’d never touched real dirt.

Sailas didn’t even need Leon to speak to know he’d hate him.

He already knew the type. People like Leon had smiles for weapons and perfect grades they didn’t have to try for. They said things like “let’s work together” while already planning how to be the one holding the leash. Leon didn’t offer help—he assigned it, like Sailas was a project that needed fixing.

That’s exactly what this was.

A project.

Leon introduced himself with a bright, easy-going tone, and Sailas didn’t miss the subtle look of calculation behind his soft brown eyes. Leon was pretending to care—pretending to be friendly—but Sailas could tell. He could always tell. This wasn’t about kindness. This wasn’t about helping a troubled teen “fit in.” Leon was getting something out of this, even if Sailas couldn’t see what it was yet.

Maybe he was doing this for points with Lana. Maybe it was for some community leadership award. Maybe it was just to make himself feel superior—like patting a stray dog on the head and feeling like a hero for it.

Whatever it was, Sailas didn’t care. He just wanted to get this over with.

But of course, Lana had to make it worse.

She enrolled him in school.

With Leon.

And that was when the real dread started to seep in. Because if Sailas was being completely honest—beneath the attitude, the glare, the defensive anger—he was scared.

He hadn’t stepped foot in a proper school building in over three years.

He’d been pulled out halfway through freshman year when things started falling apart. After that, it was just survival. Online classes when he could focus, ditching when he couldn’t. Sitting in a classroom with people who had normal lives, normal futures, and clean slates? It felt like being shoved into a world he didn’t belong in anymore.

Everything about it made his stomach twist. The clean hallways. The student IDs. The lockers and tiled floors and bright lighting that felt like an interrogation room. He didn’t even know how to navigate this anymore. What if he didn’t remember how to do something simple? What if everyone could see he didn’t belong?

Leon didn’t seem to notice—or care.

He breezed right into the school like it was his second home, dragging Sailas along like a reluctant younger sibling. People smiled and waved at him. Teachers greeted him by name. There was a calm confidence to the way he moved through the halls, like nothing could touch him. And Sailas hated how much it reminded him of what he used to be like—before things collapsed.

Leon didn’t ask if Sailas was okay. He didn’t ask if this was too much, or if he needed a second to breathe. He just grabbed his wrist, told him to keep up, and led him straight to the main office to pick up his schedule—like this was some kind of favor he was doing, and Sailas should be grateful.

And maybe he was grateful, deep down, in a tiny, aching part of him.

But all Sailas could feel was the weight of it—the expectations, the pretending, the pressure. He was a broken piece being forced to look whole again, and Leon Vale was the one molding him back into shape whether he liked it or not.

Sailas already knew school wasn’t for him. The walls were too white, the air too stiff, the people too polished. He didn’t mind Leon dragging him around—at least Leon didn’t expect much from him besides silence and nodding—but the second they stepped into PE, Sailas could already feel the anxiety building in his gut. He thought this might be the one class he could manage. He was strong, fast, used to moving, used to keeping himself alive and active. Physical activity was the only thing he ever really liked doing.

But that changed the second the coach handed him the gym uniform and pointed him toward the locker room.

Sailas froze.

He didn’t think it would be a big deal at first. He wasn’t insecure about how he looked—he had muscle, lean and hard-earned. His reflection didn’t bother him. It was what came with it that did. The deep, jagged line across his right ribs. The fading but permanent bruising on his hip that never quite healed right. The scar on his shoulder, the one that twisted just slightly every time he moved his arm.

He could already see it playing out in his head. The second he took his shirt off, someone would stare. Someone would ask. And he didn’t want to have that conversation—not with some teacher, not with strangers, not ever again.

The coach barked at him to change. Sailas refused.

He ultimately got in trouble for it, it didn't bother him too much.

But things really went to hell when Bones started talking to him. Sailas didn’t know his real name. Some try-hard rich kid who clearly thought his entitled attitude gave him the right to run his mouth. At first, it was funny. Sailas had dealt with worse. He was sarcastic back. Played along. Thought the kid might actually have a spine.

But then Bones called him weak.

Something in Sailas shifted. It was stupid. A word. Just a word. But it carried weight in his world.

Then Bones shoved him. And punched him.

That was all Sailas needed.

He didn’t even think about it. His body just reacted, like it always did when he felt cornered or provoked. The first punch he threw caught Bones straight in the nose. A sickening crack followed. Then the next hit slammed into his jaw. Then another. Bones dropped, but Sailas didn’t stop. He felt his knuckles split, the warmth of blood—his or Bones’s, it didn’t matter—coating his hands. Someone was shouting. Maybe the coach. Maybe Leon. It didn’t matter.

For a few beautiful seconds, Sailas felt free. There was no Vale estate. No Lana. No Leon. No rich school. No scars.

Just raw, unfiltered adrenaline. Rage. Relief.

He didn’t stop until someone grabbed him from behind and yanked him off.

Reality snapped back in.

The gym floor had specks of red on it. Bones was groaning, crumpled on the ground, his expensive uniform bloodied and wrinkled. A crowd had formed. And everyone was staring at Sailas like he was some kind of monster.

But he didn’t feel regret. Not really. Not yet.

He flexed his fist and watched the blood drip slowly from his knuckles.

All that had done was confirm something Sailas already knew: he didn’t belong here. Not in this school. Not in this life. Not in this world they were trying to shove him into. He wasn’t one of them. He wasn’t meant to be.

He was Sailas fucking Graves.

And this was going to be a long four months.
Leon had caught on quicker than Sailas expected.

It wasn’t hard to see, honestly—Sailas didn’t know half the references the teachers made, didn’t understand the way school functioned anymore, didn’t even bother pretending to take notes. The moment a worksheet was handed out, he’d stare at it blankly, his pen untouched. It wasn’t just about not caring; Sailas didn’t even know where to start. The questions looked like foreign riddles, and the assignments were meaningless strings of words. It was obvious he wasn’t at senior level—hell, maybe not even sophomore.

But Leon didn’t care.

“I’ll help get you get caught up,” he said, in that calm, measured voice that seemed to always carry patience without question.

Sailas knew it was pointless. Really, what did it matter? Grades, lessons, essays—he didn’t belong here, and nothing Leon could do would change that. But he still appreciated the effort. It was different from everything he was used to. The kids back home—he had Ruby, and maybe a few others—but most adults, most authority figures, had only demanded obedience, punished mistakes, or ignored him completely.

Leon tried. He really tried.

And Sailas, stubborn as he was, found himself slowly getting some of it. Slow as a crawl. Painfully slow. Every time Leon explained something, he had to go over it again, sometimes twice, sometimes three times, and Sailas felt his frustration rising—but Leon didn’t sigh, didn’t judge, didn’t question him. He just kept explaining, kept showing, kept helping.

Sailas didn’t like Leon that much. Not really. Leon was polished, fake in ways Sailas couldn’t stand, and had that… perfect, clean, well-groomed vibe that made Sailas’s fists itch sometimes. But he did like the fact that Leon didn’t interrogate him. Didn’t ask why he hadn’t been keeping up before, didn’t ask why he hadn’t changed in gym, didn’t treat him like some delinquent project.

Even when they’d fought before Lana forced him into school, Leon had been the first to apologize.

It had been… odd. Nobody had ever treated him like that. Not his dad, not Lana, not Lennox, not anyone. Even Ruby treated him differently—a friend, a shield, a family, but not someone like Leon.

And yet, Sailas found himself liking him.

It was confusing. Irritating. But he couldn’t deny it.

Then came the fateful day.

Leon was heading out with some friends to the mall, casual, easy, like he belonged in the world and knew exactly where he fit. Sailas insisted he go too. Not because he wanted to shop or hang out with the “perfect people” of this world, but because he knew that if he went anywhere alone, Lana would have someone tailing him, checking up, making him feel trapped. If he was with Leon, though, she wouldn’t.

It was a compromise. A small, annoying compromise, but a compromise nonetheless.

Sailas left Leon quickly, slipping away before anyone could notice, and made his way to meet Ruby. They had arranged to meet outside a shabby little motel—the kind of place Sailas used to walk past every day, the neon flickering in the night giving the whole area a washed-out, worn feel. The smell of hot asphalt, gasoline, and cigarette smoke clung to the air, familiar and comforting.

Ruby was waiting, leaning against the wall, wearing that same careless grin that had stayed with him since childhood. He opened his arms as soon as he saw Sailas, and Sailas let himself be pulled in for a hug, the brief comfort of a familiar presence grounding him.

“How’s life with the rich people?” Ruby asked, his tone teasing but curious, scanning Sailas from head to toe like he was inspecting a foreign species.

Sailas pulled back slightly, letting his hands brush against Ruby’s shoulders, eyes narrowing with a mix of annoyance and amusement.

“Terrible,” he muttered, though the corners of his lips twitched. “Everything’s fake, everyone’s fake, and I feel like I’m suffocating in all of it.”

Ruby laughed, a sharp, melodic sound that echoed against the motel walls. “Thought you’d like the taste of silk and marble, huh? What’s wrong with a little comfort for once?”

Sailas shook his head. “It’s not comfort. It’s a cage. I hate it.”

Ruby grinned wider. “I’m glad you’re the same as ever. No matter how much Lana tries to polish you up, you’re still Sailas. Still Reaper. Still my friend.”

Sailas allowed himself a faint smirk. “Don’t get sentimental. You’ll ruin my reputation.”

Ruby laughed again, and it was genuine this time. “Reputation’s intact. Don’t worry.”

Ruby had leaned against the motel wall, his grin sharp as ever, his voice carrying that lazy, teasing lilt that always managed to get under Sailas’s skin. “So you just called me here to talk?” he’d asked, tilting his head with that knowing look in his eyes. Sailas couldn’t help but smirk at him, sharp and reckless, because Ruby always knew exactly what he was really after.

“You know I didn’t,” Sailas murmured, closing the gap between them. His voice had that low edge of challenge, but also something softer, something vulnerable that Sailas never let anyone else see. “Let’s forget our problems for a while.”

Ruby’s answer was simple, immediate, the faintest smile curving his mouth as he said, “Yes.”

The moment their lips met, all the frustration Sailas had been holding inside—the suffocating silence of the mansion, the weight of expectations from Lana, Lennox, and Jace, the restless boredom of pretending to belong in a world that wasn’t his—finally cracked wide open. Their kiss was desperate, rough, almost violent in the way they clung to each other, both trying to steal as much as they could from a moment that couldn’t last. Sailas’s hands curled in Ruby’s shirt, pulling him closer as though the sheer force of his grip could erase the distance that had been building since he left home.

They broke apart only when breathing became impossible, foreheads pressed together, both grinning like idiots because this was the one place Sailas could stop pretending. A few words, a glance, and the decision was made. They slipped into the motel room, shutting the door behind them and leaving the world outside.

For a little while, Sailas was happy. Truly happy. With Ruby, there was no judgment, no lies, no expectations to act like someone he wasn’t. Just the two of them, reckless and alive, stealing back whatever freedom they could in the shadows. Ruby didn’t ask him to change. Ruby didn’t care about the mansion, the fake smiles, or the suffocating new life Sailas had been shoved into. Ruby just wanted him.

But that fragile happiness couldn’t last. It never did.

The next day, Sailas was sitting in the ornate living room of the Duvall mansion, surrounded by heavy silence that felt more like a noose than a home. Jace sat across from him, sharp and measured, his eyes calculating in a way that made Sailas feel like a problem to be solved rather than a person. Lana hovered, her expression twisted between disappointment and self-righteousness, as though she had the right to be furious when she’d been absent for most of his life. And Lennox, arms folded, watched with quiet disdain, clearly enjoying seeing Sailas cornered.

Spread out on the table were the photographs. Blurry, grainy shots, but unmistakable. Sailas and Ruby kissing outside the motel, arms wrapped around each other, their faces close. Proof. Evidence. Something for Lana and Jace to pick apart like vultures circling over a carcass.

Sailas thought it was stupid. All of it. The interrogation, the fake outrage, the way they spoke like this was some scandalous crime instead of two people kissing. To him, it was nothing more than another reminder that these people didn’t care about him—not really. They cared about control, about appearances, about how Sailas’s existence reflected on their carefully constructed world. Pretending to care was their way of disguising it, but Sailas wasn’t fooled.

He leaned back in his chair, face flat, refusing to give them anything. He didn’t bother explaining himself, didn’t bother pretending to be sorry. Why should he? They wanted him to feel ashamed, but Sailas wasn’t about to let them see that. He had already decided they didn’t deserve his honesty.

Leon was there too, sitting on the other side of the room. For a long moment, he was silent, clearly caught off guard by the photographs. His doe-brown eyes widened slightly, the perfect picture of surprise. Sailas almost wanted to laugh—of course Leon would be shocked. He was the golden boy, straight-laced and proper, raised in the kind of world where things like this were whispered about behind closed doors, if spoken of at all.

But then something unexpected happened. Leon straightened, his expression settling, his posture calm but firm. When Lana and Jace pressed harder, demanding answers, Leon cut in smoothly. He didn’t defend the act itself, not exactly—Leon wasn’t the type to rebel for the sake of it—but he redirected the weight of their anger. He argued that Sailas wasn’t used to this life, that he had been thrown into an environment that wasn’t his own, and that expecting him to adapt instantly was unrealistic. He spoke with that effortless, careful charm that Sailas had come to find irritating, but in this moment, it worked.

And then Leon added the part that truly threw Sailas off. With steady confidence, he said that men liking men wasn’t such a big deal. His tone was even, almost casual, as if he were discussing something as unremarkable as the weather. For someone like Leon to say it, in this house, in front of Lana and Jace—it carried weight.

Sailas sat there, watching, silent. He didn’t thank Leon, didn’t even look at him, but somewhere deep down, he felt it. That odd, unfamiliar sensation creeping in again. Leon wasn’t his friend. Sailas didn’t like him. He didn’t trust him. But Leon had defended him when he didn’t have to.

Sailas hadn’t expected it. Not at all. Leon, of all people, trying—even in the smallest way—to understand him. At first, Sailas had sat there stone-faced, refusing to react, but beneath the surface something strange stirred. A weight shifted inside his chest, a feeling so unfamiliar it made him uneasy. It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t frustration. It wasn’t even the smug satisfaction he usually got when someone surprised him. This was… different. It felt almost warm, creeping up slowly like an ember catching in his ribs. He didn’t know what to call it, and the not-knowing unsettled him more than he’d ever admit.

The tension in the room finally eased when Leon stood. His composure never wavered; he had that calm, collected air that Sailas had come to associate with him, as if he were always ten steps ahead of everyone else. Leon nodded politely at Jace and Lana, said something short and smooth that Sailas barely registered, then turned toward the door. But before leaving, he paused, his gaze flicking toward Sailas.

“Come see me out,” Leon said, voice even but carrying an undertone Sailas couldn’t quite read. It wasn’t a request, not really—it was a command dressed up politely.

Sailas hesitated, then pushed himself up, trailing behind him without a word. His mind was spinning. That ember in his chest hadn’t gone out; if anything, it was spreading, confusing him more with every step. He kept his eyes on Leon’s back as they moved through the hall and out into the open air, trying to figure out what the hell this feeling was.

When they reached the sleek black car waiting for Leon, the silence broke. Leon turned, leaning slightly against the door before opening it. He wasn’t smiling, but his expression wasn’t cold either. It was something in between—measured, thoughtful. Then he began to speak, his tone sharp but not cruel, the words landing more like a scolding than an attack.

Sailas braced himself out of habit, expecting the same judgment he got from everyone else. But it wasn’t like before. Leon wasn’t mocking him, wasn’t treating him like some reckless thug who didn’t belong in their world. The edge in his voice came from somewhere else—concern, maybe. Disappointment, sure, but not rejection.

And then Leon said something that hit Sailas harder than he expected: that he’d been worried about Sailas’s dad passing. He said it plainly, without dressing it up, and it stopped Sailas cold. Leon apologized. Leon actually looked him in the eye and apologized for being a jerk when they first met.

Sailas felt that ember flare into something bigger, spreading heat all through him. He didn’t know what to do with it. He wasn’t used to this—someone taking responsibility for how they treated him, someone apologizing when they didn’t even have to. Because the truth was, Leon hadn’t needed to apologize. Sailas had been the one bristling, snapping, picking fights from the start. But Leon still said it, like it mattered to him, like Sailas mattered to him.

That thought alone made Sailas’s chest tighten. For a brief moment, he reflected on everything. On how Leon hadn’t turned away even after catching glimpses of his violent side. On how Leon had tried to help him study, tried to drag him into a world Sailas had no clue how to navigate. On how Leon defended him back there in that suffocating living room when nobody else would. It all stacked up in Sailas’s head, building into something heavy and warm and terrifying all at once.

Leon cared about him. He was the first—maybe the only—person who’d actually cared without demanding something in return. Not Ruby, who Sailas loved but who was too tangled up in the same broken life he was. Not his dad, who had shaped him with fists and expectations. Not Lana, Lennox, or Jace, who only pretended to care for appearances.

Leon.

Leon wanted to be his friend.

The realization made Sailas feel like the ground had shifted under him. His whole life, people either used him, feared him, or tolerated him. But here was Leon, apologizing for something he didn’t need to, showing concern that Sailas didn’t ask for, defending him when no one else would. And for the first time in a long time, Sailas didn’t know how to respond. That warmth in his chest was terrifying precisely because it felt good, and Sailas didn’t know if he could trust it—or if he even deserved it.

He stood there silently as Leon slid into the car, words caught in his throat. He didn’t thank him. He didn’t say anything at all. He just watched the car pull away, the heat in his chest lingering long after Leon was gone, leaving him with more questions than answers.

For a long moment, the world seemed to stop. The car’s engine hummed faintly in the distance, the hum of passing traffic muted beneath the thrum in Sailas’s chest. His pulse was erratic, a steady drumbeat that made his thoughts stumble over themselves. He swallowed hard, feeling heat creep up his neck and settle behind his eyes.

Finally, he spoke, unfiltered and raw, the words tumbling out almost as a reflex, as though he had no time to second-guess himself.

“I think… I’m starting to like you.”

The words hung there, heavy in the space between them.

Leon blinked. One, two, three slow blinks, his brows knitting together slightly. “What?” he said, quiet, but not unkind. More like he was trying to process something entirely unexpected.

Sailas didn’t hesitate. He didn’t plan, didn’t backtrack, didn’t soften the statement to make it easier to swallow. He didn’t care if it was weird or messy or uncomfortable. He simply repeated it, louder this time, letting the declaration tumble from his mouth like a stone skipping across water.

“I think I like you.”

Leon’s eyes widened, a flicker of disbelief mixing with something Sailas couldn’t immediately read—curiosity? Hesitation? Concern?

“You… like, like me?” Leon asked, his voice careful, as if testing to see if Sailas meant it literally or if he’d been joking.

Sailas nodded, his expression flat, almost indifferent, but there was an edge to it, a weight of sincerity that couldn’t be ignored. Then, without another word, he turned and walked toward the mansion, toward his room, leaving Leon standing by the car, still processing the confession.

The walk back was short, but every step carried the echo of his own admission. Sailas had never liked anyone romantically before. Ruby was entirely different—a friend, a brother in chaos, a source of release and reckless pleasure—but this? This was new. This was uncharted. His brain raced, trying to label it, to figure out if he was even supposed to feel it, if it was normal, if it was something he should fight or ignore.

But Sailas didn’t fight. He didn’t hide. He didn’t overthink—he hadn’t for anything in years. The blunt, unfiltered part of him that had driven him through fights, through West 17, through years of violence and chaos, kicked in. He did what he always did: he acted on what he wanted, on what felt true, on what was.

And what he wanted—right now—was to dive into the warmth, the pleasant, unfamiliar glow that had been blooming in his chest ever since Leon had tried, even a little, to understand him. That ember of comfort, that strange lightness behind his ribs, called to him in a way that nothing else had. He wanted it, craved it even, and for once in his life, he allowed himself that craving without guilt or calculation.

Sailas reached his room, closed the door behind him, and paused, leaning against it. His body felt tense and alive, every muscle aware, but there was a softness now, a pull inward that was almost dizzying. The warmth in his chest wasn’t just heat—it was potential, it was connection, it was something human he hadn’t allowed himself to feel for anyone but Ruby in fleeting, chaotic ways. But this was different. This wasn’t survival. This wasn’t necessity. This wasn’t a release from violence. This was desire in its raw, unadulterated form, something pure and unfamiliar that he didn’t know how to name or navigate.

He sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the floor, letting it all settle around him. For the first time, Sailas thought about being seen—not as Reaper, not as Ivan Graves’ kid, not as someone to be feared or controlled—but as himself. And for the first time, he didn’t flinch. He didn’t shield himself. Because he wanted it.

And in that quiet, suffocating room filled with furniture. He was starting something new. Something dangerous, maybe. Something terrifying. But he didn’t care. Because for the first time in a long time, Sailas was letting himself want something purely, without conditions, without fear, without compromise.

He has no idea how long this would last but he really hopes to stay like this for a little while longer.