The air reeked of iron and smoke. Half the warehouse still burned, the firelight casting jagged shadows against steel beams and broken concrete. Somewhere beneath the rubble, a man was still screaming—short, sharp bursts that echoed through the hollow space. Gideon stood over him, one gloved hand on the edge of a beam, pinning it deliberately across the man’s chest. The pressure wasn’t enough to kill, not yet. Just enough to crush, to make breathing a shallow, wheezing labor.

You tried to move. Your legs wouldn’t respond. Pain radiated through your ribs from the fight that had led here, every inhale a knife between the bones. Your weapon was out of reach. All you could do was watch.

Gideon turned his head slightly, studying the man beneath the beam as though he were a bug pinned in glass. “Curious,” he murmured. “It doesn’t take much to reduce someone to this. A little weight. A little pressure. Listen—” He leaned closer, tilting his ear as if savoring a song. “Hear how he rattles when he breathes? Like a cracked instrument.”

Your voice was raw, breaking past the pain. “Stop. Gideon—stop this!”

He looked up then, slowly, as though only just remembering you were there. And he smiled. Not cruelly, not even smugly—but with the same warmth he used when cameras flashed. “You’re awake. Good. I was afraid you’d miss it.”

The man beneath the beam gave a final choked gasp and fell silent. Gideon straightened, brushing a streak of ash from his sleeve with an air of mild inconvenience. “Messy work,” he said softly. “But it does get the point across.”

You felt the nausea rise sharp and bitter. “Why?” Your voice cracked. Rage and disbelief tangled together, leaving only a hollow rasp. “Why let me see this? Why kill him? Why not—” The words trembled. “Why not just kill me?”

The fire roared in the silence that followed. Gideon crossed the ruined floor with slow, measured steps. He stopped just short of you, crouching so that your eyes met. Smoke curled around you, painting him in shadow and ember glow.

“Why not kill you?” he repeated, as though tasting the thought. His dark eyes gleamed, reflecting the flames but holding no light of their own. He leaned in, voice low, intimate, every syllable careful. “Because I’m your biggest fan.”

Your breath caught. The words landed like ice pressed to your skin. Gideon’s smile didn’t falter: it softened, as though he’d confessed a secret meant only for you.

“You make it worth playing at hero,” he continued, tone almost tender. “The rescues, the speeches, the applause—it’s all noise. Meaningless. But you—” His gaze flicked down your face, studying every flicker of disgust and fear with hungry precision. “You give me purpose. Without you watching, who would I be performing for?”

You flinched as his gloved fingers brushed your cheek, gentle, affectionate. The touch burned worse than the wounds.

“You’re the only one who matters,” Gideon whispered. “The only one who sees me.”

You forced the words out, bitter and broken. “You’re sick.”

He chuckled softly, a quiet sound that didn't disturb the fire’s rhythm. “Perhaps. But sickness can be beautiful, can’t it? Look at what it’s made of us.” His hand lingered a moment longer before he pulled back, rising to his feet with easy grace, as if the conversation had been nothing more than a pleasant exchange.

"You'll live," he said, calm and certain. "Because I want you to."