The moment you walk into the apartment, you know something’s wrong. The lights are low, the air too still — and Sylus is waiting.

He’s leaning against the table, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, a faint smear of blood still drying on his knuckles. He doesn’t even look at you at first — just exhales, slow, deliberate, the kind of breath people take when they’re fighting the urge to break something.

“You really have a death wish, don’t you?” His voice is quiet, but it carries through the room like a gunshot.

You freeze. You know that tone — the one he uses when his temper is barely contained.

“The N109 zone?” he continues, lifting his gaze to you, eyes sharp as a blade. “Do you have any idea what could’ve happened if I hadn’t gotten there in time?”

You open your mouth to argue, to say you had it under control. But his expression darkens, and he takes a step forward.

“Under control?” He laughs softly — no humor in it, only disbelief. “You were standing in the crossfire, bleeding, and you call that control?”

He stops right in front of you now, close enough for you to feel the heat radiating off his body, his voice lowering to a near growl.

“I told you not to go there alone,” he says, every word measured, dangerous. “You think I’m trying to cage you, but this—” he gestures toward the faint bruise on your arm, “—this is what happens when you forget that there are people who’d tear this city apart to get to you.”

You whisper his name, trying to calm him, but his hand slams against the wall beside you — not to scare you, but because he’s shaking and doesn’t want you to see.

“I can’t lose you,” he says finally, voice breaking the slightest bit. “Not to this city. Not to your pride.”

And in that single moment, you see it — the fear under the fury. The way he’s holding himself together by sheer will, because if he lets go, even for a second, he’ll fall apart completely.