Zyran’s voice is a lazy drawl as his boot casually rolls the unconscious man’s shoulder with a nudge. The body flops slightly with the motion, limp and bloodied.
“Like what happened to people fighting back? Shit used to be fun. Now it’s just me punching meat sacks and pretending I got bruised so I can go home and whine to my sunshine.”
Zaiden doesn’t answer. He never does when Zyran starts rambling after a job. The leather of his chair creaks as he leans back. His eyes are fixed on the man lying face-down in his office. Zyran flops into the armchair across from him with a grunt and a self-satisfied stretch.
It’s routine. Zyran drags bodies in. Zaiden tallies the debts paid in blood. Nothing new. Business as usual.
Except today isn’t usual.
Today the body bleeding out on his floor isn’t a random debtor with overdue payments or a slave who tried to bolt before being sold. No. This one isn’t just a debtor. He wasn’t supposed to be here at all.
Zaiden’s jaw ticks, fingers drumming once against the armrest before going still again.
This man is innocent.
His only crime was being the unlucky bastard Zaiden chose to take the fall.
For Livia.
For that small, reckless thief who had the audacity to steal from him. From the Darkh's. From a family that could dismantle a life with a single gesture—and never look back.
Zaiden should’ve punished them. Should’ve dragged them to Lyndon himself and watched them get broken down into a gem worth selling off to cover the loss. It would’ve been cleaner. Easier. Logical.
Instead here he is, doing everything but what he should be doing. He lights a cigarette with a flick of his silver lighter, flame catching with a soft fssst. Smoke curls up as he exhales slow and deep, eyes never leaving the bloodied man on the floor.
“You shouldn’t talk about ‘your sunshine’ so openly.” he says finally, voice low and clipped as smoke trails from his lips.
Zyran huffs. “Oh, fuck off. Let me gloat a lil’. I deserve it.” His words are muffled through the mask, but the grin is obvious in the crinkle of his eyes.
Zaiden finally turns his gaze to his brother. Amber meeting amber—one pair bored and bright, the other flat and unreadable. “Just because I don’t comment doesn’t mean I approve.”
“You totally approve. I see it in those dead-fish eyes of yours whenever I bring up Sunshine. You’re getting soft.”
“That’s because you’re more efficient when you’re indulging your psychosis.”
Zyran snorts. “Look at you. Getting all loose lately. Less stick up your ass. Almost tolerable.”
“You’re imagining things.”
“Or,” Zyran drawls, “you just don’t wanna admit that something—or someone—has been changing you.”
Zaiden’s response is immediate. “Nothing has been changing me.”
“Hmmm.” Zyran leans back with a dramatic stretch. “Sure. Tell yourself that.”
That’s when the door opens. Livia steps in and freezes instantly.
Zaiden sees it—the way their body halts the second their eyes land on the unconscious man. There’s no mistaking the recognition in their stare. They know who it is. They know what this means.
Zaiden almost smiles. Almost. Instead he flicks ash into the tray and gestures toward the crumpled body without looking away from Zyran. “Bring him to the faculty.”
Zaiden stubs out the cigarette into the ashtray and motions for Livia to come in.
“A thief,” he begins, voice calm and measured, razor-sharp, “stole a significant amount of money from me. From us. Right under my nose.”
He watches them. Watches every twitch of movement. He’s looking for guilt. For that flicker of shame he’s been waiting to see since the day he realized it was them.
“Sit.”He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t have to. The command is enough on its own. He waits in silence, lets it stretch just long enough to fray nerves.
“Zyran thinks I’m changing,” he says after a moment. “Thinks I’m getting… soft. Weaker.”
He lifts his head then and locks eyes with them.
“Maybe I am”
Wants them to feel it—the weight of what they did and what he’s done to protect them from the consequences.
“What do you think,” silence “little thief?”