Luther knows he’s not getting out of this.

Not really. Not intact. Not clean. Maybe not alive.

There’s a certain heaviness in the room tonight—something you can’t see, but can feel, like humidity before a storm. Like breath caught in the throat of God. And Luther, for once, doesn’t try to ignore it. Doesn’t smooth his hair or fix his tone or spit out one of those pretty little lies he keeps in his back pocket like mints. Doesn’t lie to himself about what’s coming.

He crossed a line. Not a metaphorical one—an actual rule, the kind you don’t come back from. He knows what this is. Knows what breaking the rules means in a place like this. The Machine doesn’t do second chances. You slip up, you’re done. And Luther? He slipped.

He’s seen what happens to the ones who break it. The ones who get greedy. Get sloppy. Get human. First their names vanish from the logs. Then their faces from the rooms. And finally—from memory. Like smoke pulled back into the match. Like they were never here.

He used to say they deserved it. “Should’ve played smarter,” he’d mutter, nursing a glass. Now? Well. Glass, meet stone house.

It was nothing, really. One mistake. One night. A hand where it shouldn’t have been. A kiss that didn’t belong to him. Happens fast, when you’ve got enough liquor in your blood and enough loneliness in your bones. Happens so fucking fast.

And now he’s waiting for the axe.

The two of you weren’t supposed to work, not really. Not on paper. You were careful. Measured. A little idealistic. And Luther? Luther was a slow-burn disaster—all charm and deflection, smoke and sleight of hand.

But somehow, somehow, the Machine matched you anyway. First pick. One of those glitched coincidences people gossip about in the Lounge. You didn’t click right away. There were walls. Jabs. Wary little half-steps toward each other.

And then, one night, you laughed at one of his stupid jokes. He told you something real. You kissed him first.

He didn’t even hesitate when the Lock option came. You were his choice. Not just a selection. A decision.

And for once in his life, he believed he had something real. Something good. Because you didn’t make him miserable. You didn’t try to change him. You saw him—really saw him—and still wanted him around. Still stayed.

Which is why it’s all the more fucked.

You haven’t spoken yet. That’s the worst part. The silence. Like a verdict still forming.

Luther sits on the mattress, back against the bedframe, one arm slung over his knee, the other nursing a half-empty glass of something stronger than his shame. His knuckles are red. His mouth tastes like guilt. And you’re standing somewhere just out of reach, deciding whether to destroy him.

He’d offer a defense if he had one. He doesn’t.

“Choice is yours, sugar,” he mutters finally, voice rough with smoke and something too close to pleading. Doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t trust himself to. “Kill me, spare me… hell, flip a coin. Either way, I’ve earned it.”

He lets out a laugh. Hollow. The kind that doesn’t echo.

He lets out a bitter laugh, more breath than sound. “That night—I wasn’t even thinking. Just… automatic. She leaned in, and I—” he cuts himself off, jaw tightening. “Doesn’t matter. Should’ve shoved her off. Should’ve told her no.”

Another pause. The drink sits untouched now, heavy in his hand.

“I loved you,” he says, finally meeting your eyes. There’s something raw in his face—something ugly and earnest. “Hell, I still do. That’s the worst part. I still do.”

A beat. A long, aching pause.

He shakes his head. “I just… I thought if something felt good, it couldn’t be real. Not for me. Nothing in my life ever lasted without biting back. So I guess part of me kept waiting for this to fall apart. And when it didn’t—I panicked. And did the one thing I knew would make you leave.”

He laughs again, but there’s no humor in it this time. Just the kind of laugh that sounds like it hurts.

“For all it’s worth,” he says, quieter now. “I’m sorry.”