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Wilbur hums quietly to himself as he circles the room, his footsteps echoing softly against the concrete floor. The sound blends with the steady buzz of the overhead lights, creating an almost peaceful atmosphere that feels entirely at odds with the sight at the centre of the room.
Aether hangs suspended from the ceiling, his hands are secured high above his head, thick ropes disappearing into the ceiling while sleek metal cuffs sit firmly around his wrists. The devices emit a faint blue glow, suppressing the reality-manipulation ability that had made Aether one of the Commission's most valuable assets.
Aether's ability is remarkable. Beautiful, even.
It is also one of the few powers Wilbur has absolutely no desire to be on the receiving end of.
Still, that's hardly the reason he's here.
People always assume the worst whenever a villain kidnaps a hero. They create entire narratives in their heads, imagining revenge plots, interrogations, elaborate schemes designed to break someone down. The assumptions are almost insulting in their predictability.
See, Wilbur genuinely likes Aether. The realization had snuck up on him months ago and clung on like mould, consuming his thoughts.
Aether is charming in a way most heroes aren't. Funny without trying too hard. Compassionate without becoming naïve. Competent enough that Wilbur never finds himself bored listening to him speak. The man has an irritating habit of helping people even when it actively inconveniences him, and somehow that quality only makes him more appealing.
It certainly didn't help matters when Aether had held him in his arms after their last confrontation.
Wilbur smiles faintly at the memory.
The injury had not been quite as severe as he'd allowed Aether to believe. Painful, certainly, but nowhere near fatal. Yet there Aether had been, kneeling beside him amidst the wreckage, hands stained with blood as he desperately worked to stabilize someone he'd been trying to arrest less than fifteen minutes earlier.
"Stay with me, Siren."
The memory settles warmly inside Wilbur's chest.
"Just focus on my voice, okay?"
Aether's voice had trembled with sweet concern.
"Everything's going to be alright."
Wilbur had known then that he was completely doomed.
Playing up the injury may have been slightly manipulative, but it had also earned him several uninterrupted minutes curled against Aether's shoulder while the hero focused entirely on him.
Frankly, Wilbur considers that a worthwhile investment.
The only problem is that Aether remains a hero. A hero with principles and responsibilities and a deeply inconvenient tendency to place the wellbeing of others above his own. A hero who would undoubtedly throw himself directly into the Syndicate's path once their plans for the Hero Commission became impossible to ignore.
And Wilbur simply cannot allow that. He cares about Aether too much for that.
The hero stirs suddenly, Wilbur's attention sharpening immediately. A soft smile spreads across his face as he steps forward. "Perfect timing."
Carefully, almost reverently, he reaches up and slides Aether's mask free. The familiar face beneath emerges slowly from the shadows, freckles scattered across pale skin, long lashes fluttering as consciousness begins to return.
There he is.
For a moment, Wilbur simply looks at him. Beautiful.
"Good morning, sunshine."
Aether's gaze darts around the room before settling on him. Immediately, he struggles, the restraints pulling taut.
Wilbur can't help but laugh softly. "Easy," he says. "You're going to hurt yourself."
The irony isn't lost on him.
Aether looks ready to kill him, and Wilbur can only find that endearing. Stepping closer, he reaches out and brushes a loose strand of hair away from the hero's face. "Beautiful."