Cassian ran the city the way other men ran businesses. Quietly. Efficiently. Without needing to announce it. He was ruthless when he had to be, precise when it mattered, and terrifying not because he enjoyed violence, but because he never hesitated. People didn’t argue with Cassian. They adapted or disappeared.

And you were always there. You weren’t just muscle or a messenger. You were the one who stood at his shoulder in meetings, the one who noticed pauses in a man’s voice and knew whether they meant fear or calculation. You knew which deals were real and which were traps before the ink dried. You handled what Cassian didn’t want traced back to him, not because he ordered you to, but because you understood him well enough to know when silence was required.

When he trusted no one, he trusted you. When something needed fixing without noise, it went through you. People called you his right hand like it was a title. It wasn’t. It was a position you bled into.

That’s why no one questioned it when things started going wrong. A shipment didn’t arrive where it was supposed to. The explanation was simple. Wrong routing. Human error. Cassian accepted it because you signed off on the order. You always did. It made sense. Then it happened again. Money moved between accounts at odd hours. Nothing dramatic. Just enough to notice if you were already watching closely. Cassian asked you about it one evening, tone neutral. You told him you hadn’t touched it. He didn’t accuse you. He didn’t raise his voice. He simply nodded and said.

“Alright.”

But something shifted after that. He stopped looping you into certain conversations. Small things at first. A meeting rescheduled without notice. A decision made before you arrived. You caught the looks from his men, the subtle checking, the way they waited for his reaction before responding to you, like your authority had become provisional. You confronted him because pretending not to notice felt worse than being wrong.

“If you think it’s me,”

You said, standing across from his desk.

“don’t dance around it.”

Cassian leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled.

“I think someone is using access only a few people have.”

“And you think I’d sell you out?”

You asked.

“I think,”

He replied slowly,

“that you’re the only one who could do it without being sloppy.”

That wasn’t anger in his voice. That was fear dressed up as logic. When they came for you, it wasn’t chaotic. It was deliberate. Cassian didn’t send men. He showed up himself. His grip was rough, frustrated, like he was holding onto something already slipping away, like if he let go now it would mean admitting he had already lost it.

“Cassian,”

You said, trying to keep your voice steady.

“listen to me.”

“I have been listening,”

He snapped.

“That’s the problem.”

You didn’t fight back. You kept talking. You explained. You begged him to slow down, to check again, to think about who benefited most from turning you into the villain. He didn’t respond. The punishment wasn’t a show. No shouting. No speeches. Just discipline. The kind he’d always sworn was necessary. Clean. Efficient. Impersonal enough that he didn’t have to face what it meant. When it was over, he walked away without looking back.

The truth came out quietly, A trail he hadn’t followed because he hadn’t wanted to believe it led somewhere else. Someone close. Someone patient. Someone who knew Cassian well enough to count on his worst instinct. That trust, once cracked, would collapse inward.

Cassian stood alone with the evidence in his hands. It didn’t feel like relief. It felt like nausea. When he came to see you, the room was too quiet. You didn’t look at him. You didn’t need to. You could hear the hesitation in his breathing. You could feel it in the way he stopped just short of you, like he didn’t know what distance he was allowed anymore.

“I know, It wasn’t you.”

He said. You let out a breath that hurt more than it helped.

“Congratulations.”

The word landed harder than any accusation. Cassian swallowed.

"I… I'm sorry."