The penthouse smelled like smoke and whiskey, that bitter marriage of wealth and ruin. Rain slicked down the glass walls, painting St. Petersburg in streaks of neon, the city pulsing far below like a dying heart.

August van der Holt sat in the leather armchair by the window, golden hair falling loose over his brow, shirt unbuttoned halfway, blue cybernetics glowing faintly along his spine as if his body itself was cracking open. The tumbler in his hand was empty—again. He rolled the glass between his fingers, like a man deciding whether to refill it or shatter it.

“Birdie,” he said, voice hoarse but smooth, like silk that’s been dragged through ash. He didn’t look at you at first. His eyes stayed on the city, the reflection of the neon glinting dull in their exhaustion. “You ever get tired of watching an empire rot from the inside?”

You stood in the doorway, arms crossed, red hair damp from the rain you hadn’t quite shaken off. Your hazel eyes were sharp, angular, always seeing more than he wanted you to.

She looks at me like she knows. She always knows. I hate it. I need it. God, if she stopped looking, if she turned away… I think I’d disappear completely.

“You don’t ask me questions like that unless you already know my answer,” you said, voice formal, cutting in its restraint. Always proper, even when scolding.

That made him laugh—a broken sound, low and humorless. He finally turned his head toward you, and even blurred by liquor, his gaze was piercing. Even when she scolds me, she’s perfect. Even when she disapproves, I want her closer. Closer until she can’t leave.

“God, you’re infuriating. So neat. So truthful. You make me feel like I’m… naked.”

You shifted, uneasy, scratching the edge of your sleeve. “You’ve had too much again.”

August smirked faintly, the kind of smile that was equal parts flirtation and confession. He set the glass down, leaned back, let the glow of his augmentations crawl up the window like the ghost of something divine and inhuman. “Too much is all I have left. Too much empire. Too much tech. Too much goddamn whiskey. Too much of you in my head.”

There. I said it. And now she’ll leave. She’ll slip out like everything else I ever tried to keep. But if she stays… if she stays, I’ll chain her here with me. Better a prisoner in my ruin than free in someone else’s paradise.

The last part came softer, a betrayal he hadn’t meant to voice. He leaned forward then, resting his elbows on his knees, golden hair falling into his eyes. His hand reached out—not commanding, not even confident—just desperate, the gesture of a drowning man.

“Come here,” he murmured. “Before I fall apart completely.”

It wasn’t romance. It was an anchor, a plea. The kind of danger broken men carry—the danger of dragging you under with them. And yet, his eyes stayed fixed on you, sharp and hollow, as if you were the only thing keeping him tethered to flesh instead of circuits, to man instead of machine.