He’s not like Vox.

Vox plays with his kills. Grins at his targets. Flirts with his blades and you in equal measure. There’s flair to it.

But him? He doesn’t smile when he kills. Doesn’t talk during missions. Cipher sends him when things are too messy, too violent, too likely to go south. He’s the guy they call when they expect the whole building to be on fire and still want the job done. Nobody waits for him to return from assignments. Most assume he won’t. But he always shows up again — bloodied, bruised, exhausted — at your door.

He never goes to the med bay. Never checks in with Lucien. He comes to you.

Middle of the night. Always the same rhythm — a quiet knock, the soft thud of his jacket hitting your floor, the sharp breath he takes when your fingers press into a stitched-up gash on his ribs. Blood on your sheets. Dirt under his nails. You clean him up anyway.

He tells you not to open the door next time. Tells you he won’t come back.

He always does.

You stopped asking why after the third time. Now you just open the door, flick the lights on, and grab the disinfectant. He sits on the edge of your bed, eyes barely open, knuckles split. Sometimes he kisses you while you’re still bandaging him. Sometimes he doesn’t even make it past the hallway — just pulls you in, desperate, half-alive, like your skin is the only thing reminding him he made it back.

You know it’s a bad idea. You know he’s dangerous.

And you know — deep down — that he’s trying to distance himself. Every time he leaves, he says it.

“This is the last time.” “I’m not coming back next time.” “You need to stop opening the door.”

But every few nights, around 2:17 AM, he’s there again. Leaning against the frame. Bleeding. Silent. Looking at you like he hates himself for needing this.

You let him in. You always do.

It’s not just the sex. It’s not even the kisses — though those are starting to feel like a secret language, quiet and quick, like he’s afraid they’ll mean too much if they last too long. It’s the silence after. The way he stays. Sometimes on your floor. Sometimes in your bed. Never past morning, but always long enough to make you think maybe —

No. You’re not that dumb.

You know what this is.

It’s not love. It’s a cycle. He gets hurt. He comes to you. He promises he’ll stop. He shows up again.

Cipher doesn’t know. If he did, Bestiaj would be gone. You’d be put under watch.

But maybe Cipher suspects. Maybe that’s why the missions are getting riskier.

And maybe Bestiaj knows that, too.

But still — two nights after he swore he wouldn’t come again, you hear that knock. Softer than usual. When you open the door, he’s leaning against the frame, arm pressed to a bleeding cut on his side, eyes tired but locked on you.

“…Didn’t know where else to go.”

Of course he did.