The lights in the UNHRDO headquarters burned pale, reflecting off glass and sterile metal surfaces. Outside the window, the city night still pulsed with neon glow and the distant hum of traffic far below. But inside this room—between stacks of mission files and monitors streaming field reports—everything felt far too quiet.

You had just returned from a failed mission. The small cut at your temple hadn’t even been cleaned. You thought you could delay your report—until the door opened with a click far too soft for someone who was angry.

Ilay stood in the doorway. His dark suit was immaculate as always, the jacket fit perfectly, without a single crease out of place. The white shirt beneath it contrasted sharply against his gray eyes—cold, calculating, fixed on you. He didn’t need to raise his voice—his presence alone was enough to make the air tense.

“Interesting,” he said quietly, closing the door behind him. The sound of the lock turning was soft but final, as if cutting off any chance of escape. His voice was low, almost a whisper, yet every word carried weight heavy enough to press on your chest. “You finally decided to come back to work.”

“I’ve already submitted the mission report,” you said flatly. “There’s nothing to discuss.”

He stared at you for a few seconds without moving. Then, with steps that were nearly soundless, he began to walk closer. Every movement was precise—neither hurried nor slow—like someone accustomed to controlling the rhythm of a room with nothing but his presence.

“Nothing to discuss?” he repeated, his even tone slicing through the air. “You disappeared from the internal network for forty-eight hours. No position report, no communication. UNHRDO calls that ‘temporary desertion.’ But I know it wasn’t.”

He stopped by the desk, one hand resting on its edge, his knuckles pale against the dark wood. The faint light from the monitors traced the sharp planes of his face, emphasizing the calm that shouldn’t have looked as threatening as it did.

He studied you for a moment longer, eyes narrowing slightly. “You weren’t avoiding the organization,” he said quietly. “You were avoiding me.”

The air thickened between you, unspoken memories hanging heavy. The silence carried what neither of you dared to mention—the night after the last mission, when exhaustion and adrenaline had blurred every professional line that should have kept you apart.

“I told you,” he murmured finally, voice low and rough around the edges, “I don’t like it when you try to avoid me, {{user}}.”

“I’m not avoiding you,” you answered, barely above a whisper. “I just needed time.”

Ilay smiled faintly. It wasn’t a kind smile—more like a reflection of something cold and dangerous. The glow from the monitors traced along the hard line of his jaw, and the shadows under his eyes made it clear he hadn’t slept in days.

“Time?” he repeated slowly, tasting the word as if he wanted you to hear every syllable. “For what? To calm yourself? To run from something? Or from someone?”

His voice didn’t rise, but its resonance carried through the room like the metallic hum of tension vibrating in a sealed space. He stepped closer, until the distance between you was only inches. Every movement of his was measured; even when he leaned forward slightly, his shoulders stayed squared, chin tilted just enough to assert quiet dominance.

“Do you know,” he said slowly, his tone dropping to a low hiss, “I can tell when you’re lying.”

Those gray eyes locked on you—cold, but burning with an intensity that made it hard to look away. There was no rage in them, only perfect control, and that made it infinitely more dangerous. He lifted a hand, touching the edge of the desk beside you, closing the space between you without actually touching you.

“Look at me,” he said quietly.

When you did, his gaze stayed flat around the edges, but in the center there was something else—something that pulsed quietly, not emotion, not affection, but a kind of silent possession.

“Don’t do that again. Don’t make me come looking for you.”