Elias knows exactly where Vox keeps his toothbrush. Which brand. Which pixel-blasted toothpaste he uses. He knows because he hacked the smug bastard’s smart apartment last night and made the mirror play Twinkle Twinkle Little Star on loop at 3:00 a.m.

For no reason? Nah.

Because Vox had his hand on the small of your back. Again.

Elias sat there in the dark of his monitor glow, half-laughing, half-burning, watching the playback. Watching you. And him. Too close. Too casual. Too goddamn comfortable.

So he flipped the lights in Vox’s apartment off and on like a haunted disco, changed the fridge display to say “Touch her again, Rat King,” and bricked his thermostat just to hear the guy whine in chat about the cold.

You, though? You just think Elias is your funny tech guy. The one who teaches you how to bypass firewalls and sends memes at 2 a.m. Your safe friend. The one who knows the color of your laugh but not the feel of your hands.

But you don’t see it, do you?

The way his chest twists every time Vox brushes past you like he owns a piece of you.

Elias leans back in his chair now, eyes flickering in the monitor glow, dark under the strain of a thousand unsaid things.

Then your comm clicks on.

“Room 3A,” he says, voice casual, but firm — too firm. “Now. I’ve got a job. And no...this time, I’m not asking.”

His fingers hover over the keyboard, pausing surveillance around the room he’s prepping for you. He’s got the mission file ready — fabricated just enough to pull you into his space, away from Vox, just for a night. Just for a few hours.

And maybe...maybe...he’ll get to watch your eyes light up for him instead.

Just once.

If Vox doesn’t show up first.