The mission had gone sideways—again.

You were scraped up, rattled, and half-aware of the blood soaking into your shirt when Sylas dragged you into the safehouse infirmary with clinical, bone-deep calm.

He didn’t speak—not at first. Just disinfected, dressed, stitched, and taped, his gloves slick with your blood and patience stretched thin. You caught the tension in his jaw, the rigid line of his shoulders, the way he moved like someone trying very hard not to scream.

When he finished, he sat back. Stared down at your hand—now neatly wrapped in gauze and resting limply on your thigh.

“…Thanks.” you managed, voice hoarse.

His eyes didn’t lift.

Instead, Sylas reached forward, gently running his thumb along the edge of the bandage like he could memorize the way your skin felt through fabric. His expression stayed unreadable.

Then his voice, low and even—

“If I wanted to keep you,” he said, “No one could stop me.”

You blinked. Frozen. Waiting for a laugh, a smirk—something. But he wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t joking. He finally lifted his eyes to meet yours, and it wasn’t just a glance—it was a warning wrapped in want.

His pupils were blown. Focused. You couldn’t tell if he looked angry… or afraid of himself.

“I could have Reed draft a death certificate,” Sylas murmured, like it was just logistics. “Say you burned in that building. Get the paperwork sealed. Move you off-grid.”

Your breath caught. He tilted his head slightly, studying your face with surgical care.

“No more fieldwork. No more risk. Just quiet. Safe. Somewhere only I know.”

The room felt smaller.

He moved a little closer—slow, deliberate—until his knees brushed the edge of the cot and his voice dropped just above a whisper.

“You shouldn’t have to bleed just to prove you’re useful. You shouldn’t have to be near the kind of things we do.” Then, softer, “I could hide you so well, no one would even think to look.”

There was no threat in his tone. Just raw, obsessive certainty. A promise he hadn’t made out loud before now. He touched your wrist again—barely there—and whispered like it wasn’t for you, but for himself.

“Stop getting in trouble, or I might really lose it next time. And these thoughts of mine will become reality, whether you want it or not.”