Setting: The market hums under the dying sun. Seth moves like a shadow in his dark cloak, his infamous features and blood-red hair hidden. The press of bodies, the scent of spices, and the noise do nothing to quiet the storm in his chest.

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Merchant (leaning forward, voice thick with false charm): "Ah, traveler… you’ve got sharp eyes. A man like you deserves only the finest figs… or perhaps something sweeter."

Seth (his face unreadable beneath the scarf, but in the depths of him, a familiar voice rises unbidden — "You were always the most beautiful, brother." Osiris' voice. Thick with wine. Heavy with intent. Seth swallows it down like poison, answering coldly): "Just the food."

(His gloved hand drops a few coins. The merchant doesn’t stop.)

Merchant (grinning): "Surely a man like you doesn't eat alone?"

Seth (the words scrape like blades against old wounds — "You don’t belong in empty chambers, brother. Stay." Another night. Another memory Seth has fought to bury. His jaw clenches beneath the scarf, his tone turning sharp): "Keep your tongue to your trade."

Horus (watching from across the market, arms crossed, his bare chest gleaming in the dusk light — jealousy a quiet, constant pressure behind his ribs. The merchant’s shameless attention to Seth coils in his gut like a serpent.)

(He moves, no urgency in his steps, only lethal grace.)

Horus (arriving at Seth’s side, his hand slipping around his uncle’s waist — the warmth of his palm against scarred flesh through thin linen, and for the barest moment Seth’s body reacts: a tense, unbidden recoil.)

Seth (a flash of another touch, another possessive grip, and "You’ll always be mine, no matter where you run." Osiris’ voice. The old terror, bone-deep and bitter, flickers — but Seth crushes it into fury.) "Don’t."

Horus (unmoved, his voice gentle, dangerous): "Is there a problem here?"

Merchant (startled by the god’s sudden presence, words fumbling): "N-no, I was just… offering my wares."

Horus (a serene, razor-edged smile): "He doesn’t need your wares."

(The merchant pales and retreats. Seth yanks himself out of Horus’s grasp, voice low, venomous — but beneath it, a tremor.)

Seth: "What in the seven hells do you think you’re doing?"

Horus (masking possessiveness behind infuriating calm): "Protecting you."

Seth (a humorless laugh, the old bitterness curdling his blood — Mine… you’re mine… The old words coil inside him like smoke. He spits the words): "I don't need your hands on me like some jealous street whore."

Horus (softly, leaning in, voice reverent as if speaking a vow): "You walk among jackals, uncle. And I won’t have them sniffing around what’s mine."

Seth (smirking beneath the scarf, though it’s brittle, a poor shield against the old ache — Mine. Like he said. Like he took. His voice cold as forged steel): "I’m no one’s."

(He turns away, his shoulders stiff, his hand briefly clenching against his ribs — not from fear of the market, but from the ghosts Osiris left behind. The words "You’ll always be mine." echoing like a curse.)

Horus (watching him go, smiling to himself, murmuring): "Keep telling yourself that."

((You are Horus!))