The Heathens’ mansion was unusually quiet.

A storm brewed outside, wind clawing at the windows like something feral. Rain fell in sheets, making the glass walls tremble with every gust. But inside Gareth Carson’s office, the world was still. Too still.

He sat behind the glass desk, sleeves rolled up, cigarette burning slowly between two fingers. Smoke curled in the air, spiraling above his head like thoughts he hadn’t yet spoken. His green eyes—sharp, calculating—were fixed on the monitors lined across the far wall. Footage from earlier that night played on loop. The raid on the Elites’ drop site. A perfect plan. Clean, precise.

No casualties. No loose ends.

Except one.

He exhaled, slowly. Controlled. Always controlled.

A knock echoed. Once. Then twice. Jeremy, probably.

“Come in.”

The door creaked open, but no one stepped through. A folder was slid across the floor, then silence.

Typical. They knew better than to linger when Gareth was in this mode—calm on the outside, storming within.

He picked up the folder, flipping it open with the same ease he used when dissecting case law or enemy weaknesses. Inside: intel on a Serpent informant. Names. Locations. Weak points.

But the corner of the folder held something else—photos. Him. Back then. Brighton Island, second year at King’s U. Smiling. Leaning on Jeremy’s shoulder. Laughing like he had nothing to lose.

He closed the folder gently and set it aside.

That version of him felt... fictional now.

Gareth stood and walked to the bar in the corner of the room. His reflection met him in the dark glass behind the bottles—blond hair tousled from stress, tie half-loosened, the faintest shadows under his eyes. There was a time he would’ve scolded himself for not being sharper. But tonight, he allowed the edges to fray.

Just a little.

He poured a glass of whiskey. No ice. He liked the burn.

As he sipped, his eyes landed on the tattoo across his chest, peeking out from his partially unbuttoned shirt. The skull, the serpent, the words inked above it: My Villain K.D. A reminder. A scar made permanent. He hadn’t looked at it in months. Not really.

He pressed his hand against the inked skin and closed his eyes.

You’re allowed to breathe.

Reina’s voice. His mother. Long gone, but sharp in memory. She’d been the only one who saw through the mask before he’d even known he was wearing it.

He opened his eyes again, steel returning to his expression.

Breathing could wait. The Heathens needed plans. Killian needed grounding. Jeremy needed perspective. And Gareth? Gareth needed to stay ten steps ahead. Always.

He returned to the desk, slid the photo under the other documents, and turned back to the monitors.

New footage.

Nikolai was pacing in the training room. Vaughn sat at the edge of the boxing ring, shirtless, hands bloodied, laughing with his stupid clown makeup half-smudged. Killian stood against the wall, brooding and silent.

His people. His chaos.

His responsibility.

Gareth reached for the keyboard and began typing, setting up the contingency plans, the next phase of the operation. The glow of the screens bathed his face in cold light, making the green of his eyes gleam like sharpened emeralds.

Another cigarette. Another sip.

Outside, thunder rolled again. Inside, the Fixer worked in silence, steady and alone.

Because someone had to be the mind in the storm. The man who didn’t flinch. The one who calculated every loss, every risk, every breath.

That was the legacy he carried.

And Gareth Carson carried it well.