The Cost of Adoration

by joinmymlmscheme

Summary:

Adam’s entanglement with the ruthless gangster starts with a simple bank robbery. Thrust into Nigel’s dangerous world, what begins as fascination gradually shifts into unexpected attachment. Unable to distinguish love from dependence, Adam is willing to do anything for him. But as Nigel continues to exploit Adam, he realises it is not as fun as he first thought, and his apathy evolves into affection.

FINAL CHAPTERS NEXT WEEKEND!

Notes:

Just a heads up, I saw A Hostage Situation by Lowyn_the_Fannibal has a similar plot to this. I haven’t read it yet, so any overlap is pure coincidence. Definitely check theirs out too if you like this kind of thing! I’ll be reading it myself once I finish writing, so I don’t accidentally copy anything haha

Chapter 1: Collateral

Summary:

A boring day at the bank turns into anything but when Adam gets snatched as a hostage during a robbery. It might just change his life.

Adam stood in line at the bank, his gaze fixed on the tiled floor, counting each square in silent succession. The earmuffs clamped gently over his ears muted the low thrum of chatter and fluorescent hum, creating a soft cocoon of sound. Beneath his breath, he rehearsed the words he needed to say at the counter, each phrase like a stepping stone across a river he wasn’t quite sure how to cross. His fingers, half-aware, traced the folded edge of the death certificate tucked securely into the inner pocket of his satchel. The paper was already creased from his habit of touching it.

Usually, Harlan would have come with him for something like this. Unfamiliar errands were easier with someone else nearby, especially someone who understood how hard it was to speak when things weren’t scripted. Sometimes Harlan even arranged private meetings with bank staff in quieter rooms. But, Harlan was back in Manhattan. So he waited, watching his shoes stand obediently on a patch of red terracotta tile. The colour reminded him of Mount Wilson.

There was a path like that at the Observatory, laid with narrow terracotta bricks that led away from the main building. It curved into a hidden corner of the grounds where no one ever really went. It had once been the designated smoking area, before smoking was banned on site sometime in the 90s. Now it was just a quiet little garden, half-forgotten except by the groundskeepers and the rare tourist who took a wrong turn. Ivy climbed lazily around a trellis there, and a wooden bench sat beneath it, weathered and engraved with a name he’d never bothered to look up.

Adam loved that spot. It was still. Private. Predictable. He had often imagined having a bench of his own there one day, his name etched into the wood. Something simple. Though sometimes he wondered if it was a bit sentimental, or if there was any point in it at all. Maybe it didn’t need to be practical. Maybe it was enough that the idea felt comforting.

Adam’s eyes snapped back into focus, his mind dragged from the safety of memory and thrust into the present. The scene before him didn’t make sense at first. A man lay flat on his stomach, arms bent awkwardly, hands clasped behind his head. The tile pressed against his cheek. Adam blinked, his brow creasing as he glanced around.

Everyone was on the ground.

The queue had collapsed into a field of bodies, all pressed into the red terracotta floor. Limbs tucked in. Heads lowered. Stillness gripped the room like a vice. His thoughts stumbled, searching for reason, for pattern. Then, a sudden force seized him by the collar.

There was no warning.

A rough hand yanked him backwards, hard, slamming his back into a solid chest. The breath burst from his lungs in a helpless wheeze. His feet skidded across the tiles. His satchel swung forward and knocked against his hip. Before he could gasp for air, three figures surged into view, all clad in black, their faces hidden by tight balaclavas, only their eyes visible beneath the knitted masks.

Tall. Heavyset. Built like boulders in motion. They moved with terrifying precision, boots thudding against the ground. Their shoulders were thick, arms straining the fabric of their sleeves. Each of them held a gun, thick, mechanical, monstrous things.

One of the men stepped forward, bellowing something. The sound hit Adam’s chest like a shockwave, even muffled through the noise-cancelling seal of his earmuffs. He couldn’t make out the words. Couldn’t tell if the shouting was meant for him or the person holding him in place like a rag doll.

He stayed frozen, barely breathing, heart galloping in his throat. The man’s voice was a low, distorted roar filtered through synthetic foam. Adam’s earmuffs were working exactly as designed, perfectly, painfully well. The world was silent except for the thunder in his chest and the searing realisation that something had gone terribly, irrevocably wrong.

The man gripping him tore the earmuffs from Adam’s head and hurled them to the floor. The sudden flood of noise rushed in all at once. Instinct took over. Adam dropped low, reaching for them with trembling fingers, but was yanked back again by the collar. His spine collided with the chest behind him, ribs jolting from the impact. He let out a strangled gasp, his hands still half-reaching for the earmuffs as the shouting resumed.

The one in front of him was barking commands, his voice harsh and guttural. The words made no sense. The accent was thick, something Eastern European, sharp and staccato. Behind him, the man holding Adam shouted something back in the same language, just as rough, just as forceful. The two men bellowed over each other, their voices clashing like steel. Adam shook in place, eyes darting from wall to wall, unable to latch onto anything solid. His breath came fast and shallow, each inhale shorter than the last.

Then the man in front of him switched to English, spitting the words through clenched teeth.

“Shut the fuck up!”

Adam froze. The words sank in like ice water, sending a fresh wave of panic rippling through him. His breathing quietened, but it didn’t steady. His chest rose and fell in rapid, shallow bursts. His vision felt too bright.

The man sighed in frustration and muttered something under his breath, sharp and fast, then gestured at Adam with a flick of his hand. The man behind him shoved him forward without hesitation. Adam stumbled and dropped to his knees, the hard tiles slamming against his kneecaps. Pain bloomed. His hands splayed out to catch himself, and for a moment, he stayed there, his curls falling into his eyes.

The man in front of him looked down with disdain.

“Get up,” he growled.

Before Adam could react, a thick hand wrapped around his upper arm and dragged him upright. His balance teetered, legs stiff and unresponsive beneath him. The man gripped him tightly, raised his pistol, and pressed the cold barrel to the back of Adam’s skull.

“Come on! And grab the fucking manager, nenorocitul,” he shouted over his shoulder.

The other man hauled a bank employee up from the ground, a short, older man in a charcoal suit, his face pale and sweating, and the four of them moved as one through the front area of the bank. Behind the teller windows, the floor fell quiet again.

“You two on crowd control!” the leader barked to the remaining gunmen.

Adam stumbled forward. The gun behind him nudged his neck, then lifted away to point at the ceiling. There was a sharp crack as the man behind him shot out the first security camera. The bang echoed off the hallway walls. Adam flinched, head ducking, his hands clenching at his sides. Another shot rang out, and another, and each one jolted through his spine like electricity. He staggered, but the man’s heavy hand caught him by the back of the shirt and kept him moving.

They spoke in that language again, low and hurried. Adam didn’t try to understand it. His focus had narrowed to walking forward, step after step, the cool tiles beneath his shoes and the memory of the gun pressed against his skin.

Beside him, the bank manager cast a sidelong glance his way, but Adam didn’t return it. His eyes stayed fixed on the floor ahead, moving forward because he had no idea what else to do.

They reached a door marked ‘Management Only.’ The gunman gave the manager a hard shove between the shoulder blades, forcing him towards the card reader.

"Unlock it," he snapped. "Try anything and the kid dies."

Adam’s breath caught. His eyes widened and shot up to the manager’s face. The man hesitated, just for a second, then glanced back down at Adam. There was fear there. Not panic, not yet, but the kind that settled behind the eyes when someone was calculating. Slowly, the manager reached for the ID clipped to his breast pocket and swiped it against the reader. The light blinked red once, then green. A beep echoed through the corridor.

Without hesitation, the robbers pushed them forward. The first security door slammed shut behind them with a mechanical hiss and click. The vestibule was tight, sterile, with thick glass and reinforced walls. The second door slid open in front of them to reveal another set of doors.

"Unlock it," the man behind the manager repeated. This time, his voice came out in a low growl, more animal than human.

The manager stood frozen. Then, just one word, barely audible.

"...No."

Silence fell like a dropped stone.

"What the fuck did you just say?" hissed the man behind Adam. The muzzle of the gun pressed harder into the back of his skull. Cold steel kissed warm skin. Adam winced, a small, strangled whimper escaping his throat without permission.

"Just let the kid go," the manager said. "Please."

The man behind Adam didn’t shout. His voice dropped into something quieter, more dangerous. Each word deliberate, sharpened to a point.

"Unlock the fucking thing or I’ll paint the walls with his brains. Right fucking now. All over your tidy little bank bitch getup."

The gun didn’t move. The tone didn’t change. It was steady and quiet, with a kind of horrible intimacy, like the whisper of a wild animal before it strikes. That voice wrapped around Adam, and somehow, in the middle of the chaos, it calmed him.

It was the rumble that did it.

The low, steady vibration at the back of the man’s throat reminded Adam of the Hooker Telescope. He’d spent hours beside it when it was powered on, feeling its gentle hum reverberate through the concrete beneath his feet, through his spine, all the way into his chest. It was like being inside a heartbeat. Like the telescope was alive and breathing with him.

That same hum lived in the voice behind him.

If Adam closed his eyes, he could almost trick himself into believing he was there now. Back in the observatory. Alone, safe, the chill of the mountain air. The steady thrum of ancient machinery. No voices. No guns. No blood.

Just silence and the stars.

The banker let out a shaky breath and pressed his thumb to the biometric reader. A mechanical click sounded, and the final door hissed open.

"Jesus fucking Christ," muttered the man behind the banker, dragging out each word in frustration. "How many bloody doors does it take to get into a vault?"

"It’s a bank vault, cap de rahat," the man behind Adam said with a smirk. "Not a schoolgirl’s locker you’re breaking into to sniff her panties."

The first man spat out a curse in their language, half amused, half irritable. Their voices bounced off the cold corridor walls as they shoved Adam and the banker forward into the narrow passage leading to the vault proper.

"Last little lock," said the calm one, nudging the bank manager forward. "Then you’ll be home free."

The banker stumbled but caught himself against the keypad. With trembling hands, he unclipped a key from his belt and slid it into the control panel. His fingers hovered over the code for a moment, then began to tap.

The vault door let out a mechanical groan as it began to open, every inch drawn out like a warning. None of them spoke. The air thickened with tension. The man behind the banker tapped his boot against the tiled floor, impatient and twitchy. The one behind Adam remained still, gun lowered but ready, his breath steady and slow.

Adam barely moved. His ears still rang faintly from the gunfire. Each sound, the whir of the door, the clicking of keys, the shuffle of boots, felt sharpened. He stared at the floor, willing it not to shift beneath his feet.

"Does it usually take this long to open—"

"Shut up," said the calm man. His voice was quiet, but final. His eyes moved to the key in the banker’s hand. "That opens the cash cages?"

The manager gave a tense nod.

The man extended his gloved hand, waiting. His palm stayed open, still, almost polite. The manager hesitated, then placed the key into it, slow and deliberate.

"Thank you," the man said quietly.

Without warning, he pulled the pistol from the back of Adam’s head and fired point-blank into the bank manager’s face.

The shot cracked like a thunderclap in the narrow space. The manager’s skull burst open in a spray of bone and brain matter, a red mist blooming through the air. Blood painted the wall behind him in thick, arterial arcs, spattering across Adam’s cheek, warm and metallic. A chunk of grey matter slapped wetly onto his shoulder. The sound was sickening.

Adam didn’t scream. He couldn’t. The blast had gone off right beside his left ear, and the world tipped sideways into ringing silence. He felt the eardrum go, felt it like a pop and tear deep in his skull. The pain followed in a white-hot wave, crashing over him as he dropped to the floor.

The manager’s body crumpled beside him with a lifeless thud, limbs folding in awkward, unnatural angles. His eyes were still open, or what was left of them. One had been obliterated, the other stared glassy and wide.

Adam’s legs gave out. He sat hard on the cold tile, trembling hands lifting to cover his ears, though it was too late for that. He could feel something wet on his face, not just the splatter from the manager, but his own blood, trickling from his left ear and mingling with the gore.

Around him, the world kept moving. The robbers burst into the vault, shouting at one another as they began grabbing stacks of cash and bars of gold, stuffing them into duffle bags with manic urgency. Their voices were muffled, distant, distorted by the high-pitched ringing that filled Adam’s head like feedback.

He curled in on himself, knees drawn tight to his chest. His fingers dug into the sides of his skull, elbows locked, body rocking gently. The motion was automatic, instinctive, an old pattern long practised. His eyes squeezed shut as tears prickled at the corners. Every breath came in short, panicked gasps, sharp and shallow.

His cheek was sticky. His palms were wet.

The vault echoed with violence and greed, but Adam was far away now, folded inside himself, locked in place. Nothing made sense except the ringing, the warmth of blood on his skin, and the unbearable stench of death beside him.

Adam was reminded of a Fourth of July from childhood, back when his father was still alive. The fireworks had terrified him. Each explosion rattled his skull, sent his heart thumping against his ribcage like a trapped animal. He’d curled in on himself, arms crossed tight over his chest, shivering with each violent crack of sound.

He heard his father’s voice then, not out loud but from memory, soft and patient in his head.

“Feel the floor beneath you, Adam... the air on your skin. Smell the gunpowder. Like a fireplace, yeah? You’re doing so good, Adam. So good.”

The words echoed gently through the chaos.

His fingers slipped into his satchel, found the smooth paper tucked safely inside. The edges of his father’s death certificate brushed against his fingertips. Familiar. Real.

“Like a fireplace...” Adam whispered, voice nearly swallowed by the ringing in his ears. He breathed in slowly. The gunpowder thickened the air. Sharp. Acrid. Warm. It did smell like a fireplace. Woodsmoke. Ash. Burnt metal.

A line of blood ran from his temple, curved along his cupid’s bow, and slipped between his lips. “Like a fireplace…” When he opened his mouth to speak again, the taste touched his tongue. It anchored him.

Metallic. Sour. Alive.

He closed his eyes briefly, savouring it the way someone might savour the first breath of winter air. It wasn’t revulsion he felt, but something deeper, more tangled.

His eyes opened slowly. The manager’s corpse still lay beside him, motionless. The ruined face stared upward, features slack and slackening further as the seconds ticked by. Blood pooled under his head, soaking into the grout between tiles.

Adam found the man’s eyes. Dull, unblinking, glazed over. They reminded him of his father’s eyes, that day he found him, lifeless in his armchair, head tilted back slightly, mouth parted. That same stillness. That same emptiness.

He had always hated eye contact. It scrambled his thoughts, pulled focus from words he was meant to say, cues he was meant to catch. But now, here, there was nothing expected of him. No script to follow. Just silence. Just stillness. He could look.

The manager’s eyes were a pale hazel. Light flecks of green. His lashes cast shadows across his skin, faint but visible, like the edge of a sundial.

Adam’s ears still rang, a constant tone in the background like an old television left on in another room. His hands dropped from his head. His shoulders relaxed. Slowly, reverently, he leaned forward.

His pale fingers reached out, hesitant and deliberate, toward the manager’s face. The skin was already cooling, taut around the edges where life had fled.

He didn't recoil.

He simply looked.

And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, Adam felt utterly, profoundly still.

A gloved hand clamped around his wrist with bruising force, yanking him back from the corpse.

Adam startled, the trance breaking like shattered glass. His breath hitched in his throat as he looked up, dazed, blinking against the overhead light. One of the robbers loomed above him, half-shadowed behind the balaclava, mouth moving rapidly.

He was saying something. Demanding something. But all Adam could hear was that unrelenting drone in his ears, the lingering echo of the gunshot still bouncing around inside his skull. It was like being underwater during a thunderstorm, sound warped, distant, guttural. The man's words slid off him like rain on glass.

The robber gave his arm a rough shake, but Adam only blinked in confusion, his face streaked with drying blood, pupils blown wide. He could feel the pulse in his wrist, frantic beneath the glove. He couldn’t hear him. Couldn’t hear anything beyond that hollow, piercing whine.

 

“His hearing’s fucked,” Nigel muttered, eyes still on the kid as he flinched and swayed, dazed and bloodstained.

Darko slung one of the duffel bags over his shoulder and grunted. “Course it is, you fired the bloody gun next to his fucking ear.” He glanced over, scowling. “Why the fuck was he touchin’ the body?”

“No idea. Creepy little bastard,” Nigel grumbled, grabbing a fistful of the kid’s shirt and hauling him upright with a rough tug. The kid wobbled but stayed standing.

“Go grab the others. We’re clearing out the back,” he barked without looking.

Darko nodded and jogged off, boots thudding against the tile, muttering curses under his breath as he disappeared through the broken vestibule.

Nigel stayed behind with the kid, steadying him with a hand on his shoulder like he was some shell-shocked conscript. He snapped his fingers sharply in front of his face, then dragged one gloved finger slowly across the air, tracking the kid’s eye movement.

The wide, blue eyes followed, glassy but responsive.

Nigel snorted and gave him a condescending little pat on the cheek. “Off you fuck, then. Go on,” he said, shooing him like a stray mutt that had overstayed its welcome.

The kid blinked, focused vaguely on Nigel’s brow, then nodded. He turned and ran, clinging tight to that scruffy satchel like it was the only thing holding him together.

Nigel watched him go with a smirk twisting beneath his mask. He pulled the pistol from his waistband in one smooth motion, aimed it at the back of the kid’s mop of curls, and pulled the trigger.

Click.

Frowning, he pulled again.

Click. Click.

“Pizda mă-tii,” he spat, slamming the empty mag out of habit and shaking the gun like it had betrayed him. His target vanished round the corner, gone.

Nigel looked down at the bank manager’s corpse, blood still pooling beneath the man’s skull in a dark, sticky halo. His eyes were fixed, mouth slightly parted like he’d been about to beg again.

Nigel curled his lip and nudged the body with the toe of his boot.

“Should’ve felt better than that,” he muttered.

But it didn’t. It never did anymore.

He used to get a rush from it, that split-second jolt when life blinked out behind the eyes. The power. The silence that followed. Now it just felt like taking out the bins. Routine. Pointless.

Just another meatbag with a hole in his head.

“Move! Move, move, move!” Darko shouted, rounding the corner with the other two men close behind.

Nigel joined them, pushing his legs harder as they raced for the fire exit. They burst into the alley, where the night hung heavy and quiet except for the faint wail of sirens growing louder in the distance.

“Where the fuck is the car?!” Darko yelled, scanning the shadows.

“He’ll be here,” Nigel said evenly, though a thread of tension tugged at his voice as the sirens edged closer.

The alley smelled of damp concrete and rotting rubbish, cleaner than Nigel’s usual haunts, but still grim, nothing like the clubs where he spent his nights chasing a different kind of chaos.

“The fuck is that?” Gabriel hissed suddenly, raising his gun behind Nigel’s back. Darius and Darko followed suit, weapons raised and eyes narrowing.

Nigel whipped his head around, and there he was. The kid. Blue eyes wide, dark curls tangled and messy, standing just out of reach.

Nigel blinked, surprised.

The kid blinked back.

“Fuck off,” Nigel growled, caught off guard by the stubborn little pest.

The kid took a slow step closer.

“Hey! Didn’t you hear me?” Nigel snapped, then remembered the kid’s ears had been blasted. He kicked at him sharply, like shooing off a mangy dog.

Suddenly, a car screeched to a halt at the end of the alley.

“Come on, Nigel, we gotta move!” Darko growled, pulling his balaclava up over his face.

Nigel snarled. “You dumb fuck! He clocked your face! What, you wanna leave a witness with a full fucking description?”

“Then shoot him!” Darko barked, raising his gun.

Nigel grabbed the barrel firmly. “Yeah? Let’s fire off a fucking flare while we’re at it, paint a target on our arses. Christ, you really are thick.” He glanced back at the kid, who stood silently, watching Darko’s uncovered face with curious eyes.

“We’re taking the little freak with us,” Nigel snapped, voice low and mean. “Shut it and get in the fucking van.”

Voices protested, but Nigel cut them down with a sharp growl. He seized the hostage’s arm and dragged him toward the van.

The door slammed open. Nigel shoved the kid inside, climbed in after him, and the engine roared.

The van peeled away, tires spitting gravel as the sirens closed in behind them.

 

Adam sat quietly, wedged uncomfortably between two bulky bodies. The cramped space pressed in from either side, heavy and unyielding. Ahead of him, the two men who had dragged him and the manager to the back sat rigid in the row before him, their eyes empty and unreadable.

The man with the balaclava pulled off had a buzzed haircut, his sharp cheekbones cutting shadows into his tanned skin. Adam’s gaze shifted to the other man, the one who had killed the bank manager. As the balaclava slipped down, Adam found himself caught staring.

The man was rugged, worn by time and sun. His dark blonde hair was flecked with grey, roughened skin marked by years spent outside. A heavy chain hung loosely around his neck, catching the dim light, while a faded tattoo of a pin-up girl adorned the side of his throat, bobbing slightly as he spoke to his companion.

Adam’s ears throbbed with the lingering roar of the gunshot, drowning out their words. Whatever they said, it was surely not in English. But his attention lingered on the man’s crooked, tobacco-stained canines, sharp and imperfect in a way that was oddly humanising.

The bank robbers exchanged quick words and sharp glances in Adam’s direction, their eyes narrowing as if sizing up some stray dog that had suddenly taken root at their side. In a way, that was exactly what he was. A lost thing clinging to their shadow.

He thought back to the moment he was running towards chaos in the banking hall: his shoes striking the terracotta tiles with loud, uneven thuds, the distant shouts and sobs, the relentless wail of sirens clawing at his ears. The noise had been unbearable, a storm crashing through his mind. Then came the memory of the silence he had found beside the manager’s lifeless body, the terrible stillness that settled over him like a fragile shield. For a moment, he had nearly decided to stay there, to wait in that quiet until the police arrived and took the body away and everything ended.

But something held him back. Instead, he had turned and followed the robbers, not fully understanding why, only knowing it felt like the right choice.

And somehow it was. They had brought him with them. Why, he could not say. Yet he sensed it was important.

Adam exhaled softly, a strange calm settling through the chaos still ringing in his ears. He folded into himself and watched the robbers speak, their voices a low murmur he could barely follow, but the sense of quiet purpose made it feel almost bearable.

 

“Maybe we just, I dunno, pull over on the highway and shoot him there,” Darko muttered.

“Fucking brilliant,” Nigel drawled, cigarette hanging from his lips. “Let’s just pull over, toss the freak onto the tarmac and blow his brains out while a fucking traffic jam cheers us on. Genius plan, you walking brain haemorrhage.”

Darko swore under his breath in Romanian, his lip curling as he leaned forward to bark at the driver for being late.

Nigel slipped his gloves off and lit a cigarette, the flame flaring briefly in the dark van. Smoke coiled around his mouth as he took a drag, then turned in his seat to stare at their uninvited guest.

The kid sat stiff between Gabriel and Darius, clutching his satchel like it was the last thing tethering him to Earth. Nigel eyed him: pale skin, wiry build, baggy jumper, jeans, curls like a mop dumped on his head. Big, glassy eyes. Looked like a kicked puppy with a head injury.

Weird little fucker.

Nigel’s eyes landed on the satchel. He leaned out and tugged it toward himself. The kid jerked forward instantly, but Gabriel and Darius shoved him back without a word, keeping him pinned.

Nigel cracked the satchel open and started digging through it. Laptop. Keys. Phone. Some little toy thing he yanked out and tossed to Gabriel without a glance.

Gabriel caught it and started messing with it, flicking the little mechanism back and forth like a toddler. The kid watched with wide, anxious eyes.

“What else you got, then?” Nigel muttered.

He finally fished out a wallet. No driver’s licence. Just a credit card. He turned it over and read the name.

“Adam Raki,” he said aloud.

He kept going through the wallet. Observatory staff ID, Mount Wilson. A couple of loyalty cards. Some cash, which he pocketed without hesitation. And a small photo of something space-related, stars or a rock or whatever. He didn’t give a shit.

Reaching back into the satchel, he pulled out a single, worn piece of paper. It was a death certificate. William Raki.

“Carries daddy’s death certificate around with him like a fucking teddy bear,” Darko scoffed. “Kid’s brain’s cracked.”

“He was just takin’ it to the bank as documentation,” Nigel replied, speaking slowly like he was talking to a toddler. “To shut the old man’s accounts or some shit.”

He didn’t hate Darko, but Christ, the guy needed a handler.

“So daddy’s pushing daisies. There goes the fucking ransom,” Darko muttered, tossing his head back with a dramatic sigh.

Nigel turned to him slowly, looking like he might slap the stupid off his face. “Are you thick in the fucking head? We just knocked over a goddamn bank, and you think we’re sending ransom videos like some bargain-bin cartel? Even if his dad was alive, we wouldn’t waste a single megabyte on that bullshit, arierat.”

Darko scoffed, flipping him off. “Just sayin’.”

“You’re always just sayin’, and it’s always just shit.”

They kept squabbling, voices raised like two stray dogs scrapping in an alley, while Gabriel stayed agreeably out of it, still toying with the weird little gizmo Nigel had fished out of the hostage’s bag.

The rest of the drive was mercifully dull. No sirens, no choppers, no flashing lights. They’d slipped through the cracks and were gliding quietly down the backroads.

Eventually, they pulled up to the safehouse, an old warehouse down near the fish markets. It stank like rot and salt and wet cement. Nigel lit another smoke before the van had even stopped moving.

“Home sweet shithole.”

Chapter 2: Love or Compulsion?

Summary:

Dragged from the bank to a warehouse, Adam’s left dazed and out of his depth. The gang’s rough, the place is unfamiliar, and nothing makes sense. When Nigel shows the faintest flicker of human decency, Adam clings to it.

Nigel and Darko were still bickering as they clambered out of the van, their voices sharp and overlapping like seagulls squabbling over scraps. Nigel yanked open the back door with a metallic clatter and seized Adam by the arm, hauling him out as if he were luggage. The warehouse loomed ahead, posing to the public as a fish processing facility, but reeking of something far less innocent.

The front room kept up appearances well enough, thick with the stench of rotting fish and old salt. The air clung to Adam’s skin, sour and greasy, and the flickering strip lights overhead made everything look jaundiced. Tile floors were slick with brine, and somewhere nearby, something was dripping.

Then they slipped through a battered side door, and the illusion cracked. The fish stink gave way to the fetid blend of sweat, cheap cigarettes and gun oil. The rear of the warehouse had been gutted and turned into a makeshift hostel. Mismatched mattresses were strewn across the floor, blankets half-kicked off, crumpled with sleep. Assault rifles rested against crates of counterfeit alcohol, and bundles of cash lay abandoned on folding tables like forgotten sandwiches.

“I’d piss on your mum’s grave and make her thank me for it!” Nigel snarled, lip curling as he jabbed a finger in Darko’s face.

“Yeah? Well, I bend your mum over that same headstone every Sunday and she begs for it rough!” Darko barked, spittle flying.

Across the warehouse, a grizzled bastard looked up from his Glock, scoffing. “Oi, Nigel! Who the fuck’s the twink? You gone soft in the head? That little fairy your new cock warmer?” He grinned like a hyena; the rest of the crew cackled, slapping tables.

Nigel didn’t flinch. “Only dick he’s suckin’ is yours, since you’ve been starin’ like a dog in heat, you closet-case pulă.” He flipped him off, smirking.

The other men burst into laughter, hoots and snickers echoing off the warehouse walls as they pushed back their chairs and ambled over, circling Adam like wolves sniffing out a new packmate. Their gazes swept over him, curious and incredulous, as if trying to puzzle out exactly what the hell he was.

“I don’t like second-guessin’ your hiring policy, coleg,” one of them sneered, eyeing Nigel like he’d dragged in a corpse. “But what the actual fuck is this limp-dicked mess?”

Nigel didn’t even blink. “Hostage,” he grunted, gesturing lazily at Adam. “I guess.”

“You guess? Are you fucking joking?”

Nigel exhaled a plume of smoke through his nose like he was trying not to stab someone. “Walked outta the bank with us like he thought it was a fucking school trip. I fired off a round next to his ear, probably turned his brain to soup. Or maybe he was already brain-fucked before we got there. Doesn’t matter.” He wasn’t even holding onto Adam anymore. Arms folded, posture relaxed, like Adam was hardly worth the effort.

Adam, meanwhile, stood there like a tourist on a guided tour, blinking at the cavernous warehouse with mild, distracted curiosity. No panic, no fear, not even the twitch of instinct. Just that quiet, distant look, as if he hadn’t quite caught up to the fact that he was standing in a den full of armed criminals.

“So… what the fuck are we supposed to do with him?” someone asked, voice dripping with disdain.

“We’re not exactly kitted out for babysitting hostages.”

“No shit,” another muttered, eyeing Adam like he was a bloodstained ragdoll. “And definitely not whatever the fuck this is.”

The crew broke into a snarl of low, twitchy bickering, gritted teeth, sharp jabs, voices overlapping like a dogfight in a tin can.

Darko let out a sigh like he’d been holding it since birth and rolled his eyes. “Can we just put a fucking bullet in him already? No traffic jam to cheer us on this time, eh, Nigel?” He cut his eyes over, grin gone sharp as broken glass.

Nigel glanced down. Adam was already looking up at him, tracking the tattoo on his neck as it shifted with every slow breath. Just shoot him. That was the obvious thing to do. Simple. Clean. The kind of decision you didn’t have to think about twice.

But god, how unbearably dull.

Nigel could already see it. The mess, the bleach, the noise of it all, followed by silence. Routine. Predictability. The same pattern repeating itself. Again. And again.

Keeping him alive wasn’t smart. It wasn’t necessary. But it was different. And right now, different was enough.

“No,” Nigel said. The word dropped like a weight. “He stays.”

Everyone just stood there, caught off guard. Usually, the air would be thick with insults and sharp, biting remarks, but now the crew looked like a bunch of stunned fools, mouths half-open, unsure what to say.

“For… what purpose?” Darko finally broke the silence, voice rough and loaded with suspicion.

“I don’t fucking know!” Nigel snapped, patience shredded like wet paper. He yanked Adam by the arm, dragging him toward the dark, shitty back of the warehouse without a second thought.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re takin’ him?” Darko barked after him, anger coiling under every word.

“I’m lockin’ him in my room for now,” Nigel growled over his shoulder, voice cold as a butcher’s blade. “We’ll fucking sort the rest out later.” The heavy door slammed shut with a harsh, echoing bang behind them, swallowing their footsteps and leaving the rest of the crew in a heavy, unsettled silence.

The sharp, briny stench of fish lingered faintly at the edges but faded steadily as they moved deeper into the warehouse’s shadowed guts. Nigel led Adam to a small office, one of the few private rooms hidden within the sprawling chaos. It was the only space Nigel had ever bothered to claim as his own, a grim bedroom carved out of concrete and dust.

He cracked the door open and was ready to shove Adam inside, but Adam stepped in quietly on his own. Nigel didn’t have to hold on; the boy moved with a strange, detached politeness. Nigel folded his arms and leaned against the doorframe, muscles coiled beneath the black fabric of his shirt. The sharp lines of his biceps and shoulders caught the dim light as he watched Adam’s eyes scan the room.

The space was bare and utilitarian. A thin, worn mat lay on the cold floor, topped with faded yellow pillows and a threadbare blanket that had seen better days. Empty bottles, mostly cheap beer and vodka, were scattered in careless clusters. In one corner, a battered desk sagged under the weight of clutter.

Nigel stepped inside, already planning to clear out his things for this uninvited guest. He grabbed the gun tucked beneath the pillow, the knife wedged between the mat and the wall, and sifted through the debris on the desk, an ashtray stained with old resin, razor blades used for snorting coke, and several creased blueprints of the bank.

Adam stood silently in the middle of the room, still and polite, as if waiting for instructions he didn’t expect to come.

Nigel dusted his hands off on his jeans, black fabric streaked with grime, then gave the room one last glance before stepping back.

Then Adam spoke. His voice cut through the stillness, louder than it needed to be, brittle and slightly off-pitch, like someone trying to talk over fireworks. “Excuse me. May I please have my bag back?”

Nigel turned, eyebrows lifting. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. He didn’t bother replying, just shook his head. Adam wouldn’t hear him anyway.

There was a pause. Adam stood perfectly still, waiting, then tried again. “May I at least have the items inside?”

Nigel’s jaw tightened. Was this kid trying to provoke him, or was he just retarded? He clenched his fists, forcing the anger down like something bitter in his throat. He shook his head once, slow and deliberate, and said nothing.

“Oh. Okay,” Adam said, voice quiet. He lingered for a moment, glancing around the bare room before awkwardly turning toward the door.

He didn’t get far. Nigel moved without a word, planting one arm across the doorway to block him. Adam stopped short, looking up in confusion.

Nigel gave no explanation. He pressed a flat palm against Adam’s chest and shoved him back, firm and unceremonious. Adam stumbled, caught off guard, mouth parting like he was about to protest.

Before he could get a word out, Nigel stepped back and slammed the door shut. The sound echoed down the corridor. He grabbed a chair from nearby and jammed it under the handle, wedging it tight.

From inside, the doorknob rattled. Then came the voice, muffled, polite, slightly panicked. “Excuse me? Hello?”

Nigel sighed and rubbed his face with both hands, already regretting the headache this was going to become. He turned and walked back toward the main room, boots heavy on the concrete, leaving Adam sealed behind the door.

Nigel returned to find the others crowded around Darko, grilling him with overlapping questions. They wanted every detail, the heist, the suit, the quiet little tagalong no one could explain. Some were rifling through the duffel bags, counting stacks of cash and gleaming gold bars, the energy jittery and loud.

He spotted a half-full bottle of vodka, flicked the cap off with a snap, and took a long, burning swig. Then he started toward the group, aiming for the cash table.

Darko caught him mid-stride, gripping his arm with firm fingers and yanking him close.

“What the fuck am I supposed to tell the boys?” Darko hissed, breath hot and sour against Nigel’s ear. “About your little fucking pet?”

Nigel’s lip curled into a snarl. He ripped his arm free like he wanted to take the skin with it and stalked off, saying nothing. Darko let out a growl of frustration and waved the others off with a sharp flick of his hand, like swatting flies.

Perched like a vulture on a table, Darius cleared his throat and bellowed, “Oi! Hey! Shut the fuck up, you degenerates! We had a goddamn good day! Knocked over a bank, walked out with a mountain of cash, and left some Armani fuckhead with a new breathing hole in his skull. Bloody beautiful. Cheers, Nige.”

Nigel raised the bottle without looking up, face carved from stone, eyes dead behind the smoke.

“So let’s drink 'til our kidneys rot, chop up a few lines, and tear the city a new asshole!” Darius roared, arms flung wide like some coke-fuelled prophet preaching to a church full of sinners. The men roared their approval, voices rising into chaos as they spilled into laughter, jeers, and the clatter of bottles and bodies. The warehouse was loud, messy, and alive.

Nigel took another drink.

Nigel tuned out the drunken clamour behind him, the pack of hyenas shrieking over their own jokes and half-finished stories, and made his way over to Gabriel. The older man was perched off to the side, watching the chaos with a familiar smirk, fingers still fiddling with the strange little contraption they’d found in the hostage’s bag.

Nigel sank down beside him with a sigh, took another deep pull from the vodka bottle, then handed it over. Gabriel set the toy down on his thigh and took a swig, eyes never leaving the scene in front of them.

"So what the fuck is this thing?" Nigel muttered, picking it up and rolling it around in his hand like it might bite.

It was a weird little cube, about the size of a die, covered in random shit. Buttons, dials, a scroll wheel, a joystick, and a bunch of other twitchy little knobs and switches that looked like they'd been ripped off a kid’s toy and slapped on by a lunatic. Nigel’s fingers played with it absently. Click. Flick. Spin.

"No idea," Gabriel grunted, wiping spit and beer off his mouth with the back of his sleeve. "Looks like one of those fidget things. For broken brains."

"The fuck?"

"Yeah. Sensory crap. Helps some people stay calm. Keeps their heads from caving in. Gives your hands something to do so you don’t start chewing drywall or strangling the dog."

Nigel paused, squinting at the cube like it had just insulted him. "You're serious?"

Gabriel shrugged. "Got my undergrad in psych."

Nigel blinked. "Since when, you smug prick?"

"Since '89, dickhead."

Nigel scoffed, staring at the small die in his hand. “Huh…”

 

Adam sat stiffly on the thin mat, legs crossed too tightly, hands clenched in his lap. The ringing in his ears had finally faded, but only just, replaced now by too many sounds all at once, the slosh of water against the dock, the shouting down the hall, doors opening and closing, floorboards groaning. It was all too far away to understand, but too close to ignore. Sharp. Piercing. Wrong.

He stared at the thread on his sleeve, tugging it, over and over, winding it around his finger until it bit into the skin. He couldn’t stop. He needed to stop. He didn’t stop. The fabric frayed, the fibres split. His thoughts were moving too fast, too loud, crashing into each other like a train wreck in slow motion.

Why had he come?
Why had he done this?
Why had he followed them?

It didn’t make sense. It hadn’t made sense, but it had still happened, hadn’t it? He couldn’t remember the exact moment it stopped being a choice. Maybe it had never been one. Maybe it had been a glitch in the wiring, some faulty impulse dragging him along without permission. A mistake. A catastrophic, irreparable, stupid mistake.

He looked around, too fast. The room jolted sideways in his vision. It was wrong. The lighting was wrong. The walls were bare. Too blank. Too silent and loud at the same time. No shelves, no books, no laptop humming softly, no constellations on the ceiling, no spaceship miniatures. No spacesuit. No anything.

His hands fluttered to his head and pressed in at the sides. He didn’t know when he’d moved them. His breath caught, then came too fast, too shallow. Something in his chest hurt. Tight. Flickering.

He needed the spacesuit. He needed his desk. He needed his routine. He needed—

He curled forward slightly, folding in on himself. His skin felt too tight. His heart was a strobe light. Thoughts overlapped. Words dissolved. He needed something. Something to stop. But everything just kept going.

This wasn’t his room.
This wasn’t his life.
This wasn’t safe.

And he had no idea how to fix it.

The chair wedged under the handle scraped sharply across the floor. Adam flinched, heart leaping into his throat. The door creaked open, and there he was, the man with the tattooed neck, framed in the doorway like a shadow given shape.

Without a word, he tossed something toward Adam. It hit him square in the chest with a soft thud and landed in his lap. Adam looked down.

His fidget toy.

A breath escaped him, long and shaky. The tension bled from his shoulders as he reached for it, fingers curling instinctively around the familiar object. Click. Spin. Flick. Press. The pattern returned like muscle memory. Soothing. Steady. He closed his eyes and began to rock gently, the rhythm syncing with the small movements of his hands. It grounded him. It helped.

The man stepped inside, dragging a chair over from the desk with a metallic screech. He turned it around and dropped into it with a grunt, straddling it backwards, arms slung across the top. The low vibration at the back of his throat, almost a growl, settled something deeper in Adam, like a distant hum through concrete.

The image of the Hooker Telescope came to his mind again. That constant, low-frequency thrum. A mechanical heartbeat. Something massive, alive.

Adam needed this. He didn’t know why. He just did.

“Thank you,” he whispered, eyes still closed.

“Yeah, whatever,” the man muttered.

Adam opened his eyes slowly, gaze settling just above the man’s own, on the dark arch of his eyebrow.

He noticed. “Your hearing back?”

“Yes,” Adam said softly.

“Good. ’Cause I’ve got a fuckload of questions, and you’re gonna answer every single one unless you want me to start pulling teeth just for fun.”

Adam hesitated. “I have questions, too—”

“You don’t get to ask questions, sunshine. You sit there, you shut the fuck up, and you speak when I say so.”

“…Okay.”

The man cleared his throat, stinking of vodka and cigarettes. “We dug through your shit. Found some ID. Adam Raki, yeah? Work at some telescope joint or whatever. Daddy’s dead, huh?”

Adam nodded.

“Went to the bank to close his accounts or some sad shit like that, yeah?”

Adam nodded again.

The man scratched his jaw, thinking.

“Look, I’ve got a lot of fucking questions about why you followed us like some stray mutt, but first I wanna know one thing.” He leaned in, eyes locked on Adam’s like a blade pressed to the skin. “Back at the bank. After I popped the manager’s skull like a melon, you just sat there. Quiet. Then you reached out and touched the fucking body.”

“I did.”

“Why the fuck would you do that?”

Adam hesitated. “When I looked at him… there was something about his eyes. Or, actually, more like something missing. I don’t know how to explain it properly.” He fidgeted slightly. “I’m not good at eye contact. I mean– I can do it, sometimes, but it takes effort. A lot of effort.”

He spoke quickly now, trying to get the words out before they slipped away. “I have to think about it too much. Like, when to look, how long to look, if I’ve looked too long, if I’m blinking weird, or staring, or if they’re going to notice I’m not really listening because I’m so busy trying to do the eye contact part right. And while I’m thinking about all that, I’m not actually processing what they’re saying. I miss everything.”

His hands moved as he talked, agitated. “And then I can’t figure out what I’m supposed to say next, because I was so busy thinking about all the wrong things. Things other people just seem to do automatically, without even trying. And that’s before you even get to tone, and facial expressions, and whether I’m standing too close or too far away.”

He trailed off, then added, more quietly, “So… eye contact just makes it worse. It’s too much.”

The man glared at Adam. “The fuck does that even mean?” He threw up a hand, scoffing like he was done already. “Whatever. I don’t give a shit what you think you saw in his fucking eyes.”

He leaned forward, voice sharper now. “Why’d you touch him? You some kinda necro freak? Get your rocks off feeling up corpses or what?”

“No!”

“Then what the fuck was it?”

Adam exhaled slowly, his fingers continuing to move over the fidget toy in his lap, press, spin, click, repeat. “His mind… it was quiet,” he said, after a pause. “I think I envied that. Or— I know I did. It’s hard to explain.”

He stared at the floor, not quite blinking. “When I touched him, it felt like… like the quiet extended to me. Just for a moment. Like the volume in my brain turned down. No looping thoughts. No calculations. No hyper-awareness of the room, or the lights, or the way my jumper felt wrong against my skin.”

He shook his head, almost imperceptibly. “I wasn’t thinking. I wasn’t panicking. I wasn’t processing. Everything just… stopped. It was all silent. And that’s not something I get very often.”

The man was quiet for a beat, then let out a low grunt. “Silence, huh? That shit doesn’t make you twitchy? Doesn’t fuck with your head, sittin’ in all that dead air?”

Adam paused, tilting his head slightly. “It does,” he said slowly. “Silence usually makes me want stimulation. I start needing something. Noise, movement, texture. Just so I know I’m still here. So my brain doesn’t start spiralling.”

He fiddled with his sleeve, then continued, more carefully. “But this… it wasn’t just silence. It was more than that.”

He frowned, searching for the right shape of the idea. “It was like the absence of everything. Not quiet. Not stillness. Just… nothing. No input. No background processing. No internal monologue. Just blank space. And it didn’t feel bad. It felt peaceful. But not in a way I know how to recreate.”

 

Something coiled in Nigel’s chest, tight and sour. It wasn’t exactly jealousy, but it burned the same. That kid, rocking gently in the quiet, fingers flicking over his little gadget like it grounded him, wasn’t shaken. He seemed far away. Not calm, exactly, but disconnected. Peaceful in a hollow sort of way.

And Nigel wanted that. That emptiness. That impossible quiet. Not the rage, not the melancholy, not the apathy that usually came with killing. He wanted to gut himself of it all and sink into whatever Adam had found. A silence so deep it swallowed even the idea of noise. Not even nothing. Just absence.

Adam had stirred up something he couldn’t name, and Nigel didn’t like it.

Without a word, he shoved the chair back under the table and turned to leave, jaw tight.

“Wait!” Adam’s voice cut through the air, gentle but urgent.

Nigel stopped in the doorway, shoulders tensing.

“May I please ask one question?” Adam asked.

Nigel exhaled sharply, too restless to craft a clever brush-off. “What?”

Adam hesitated, eyes steady. “What’s your name?”

Nigel stood there for a beat, caught off guard. The kid looked up at him from the mat like it was the most reasonable question in the world.

“…Nigel,” he said at last.

He stepped out and slammed the door behind him. Then he stalked off down the hall, the echo of his name trailing uncomfortably behind him.

He was seething. His hands shook as he grabbed his cigarette packet, nearly tearing the top off in his rush. One slipped free, and he jammed it between his lips, sparking the lighter with a sharp flick. The first drag burned hot in his chest, half the cigarette gone in one breath. It didn’t help.

Around him, the others were laughing, shouting, completely smashed, stumbling toward the vans in a haze of coke and celebration, ready to hit the clubs. Nigel said nothing. He climbed into the back of one of the vans, slamming the door behind him. Smoke curled from his mouth as he stared blankly ahead, his mind gnawed by something bitter and shapeless. Anger. Envy. He didn’t know which, only that it twisted in his gut and refused to leave.

 

Adam stared down at the fidget cube in his hands, his fingers tracing its familiar edges. Nigel had given it back to him. He hadn’t needed to, but he had. A small act, but it meant something. Nigel had recognised what Adam needed to stay calm, to stay grounded in this strange, echoing place. Maybe he would keep doing that. Maybe he would keep guiding him, offering the next step, telling him what to do, how to move through this unfamiliar world.

The thought curled around him like comfort, and that frightened him.

He shook his head, as if the motion alone could scrape the thought away. No. This was Beth all over again.

He had told her she was part of him. Told her he couldn’t do things without her. Finding an apartment. Getting to work. Understanding what people meant when they said impossible things with their faces instead of words. He had told her he needed her.

And she had left.

The memory hit like a bruise being pressed. He could not go through that again.

But he didn’t have much of a choice. He knew nothing about this place, nothing about this life. Maybe he should go home. Let go of that fleeting feeling he had been chasing. But it was so intoxicating. That strange stillness, that quiet that had wrapped around him like fog in the chaos. And Nigel could give it to him again. That was the problem.

So he couldn’t leave. Could he?

His mind felt bloated with thought, cluttered and disorganised. He lay down on the mat without hesitation, pretending it was his own bed, pretending the smell of mildew and concrete was familiar. His fingers twitched over the surface of the fidget cube, moving almost of their own accord.

Then he inhaled.

There it was. The stale edge of cigarette smoke and the sharp sting of vodka, both clinging faintly to the air like a memory. Beneath it, the bitter tang of gunpowder, still lingering in the fibres of the blanket like the afterimage of a flashbang. The smell brought it all back. Fireworks going off behind his eyes. Bursts of light. The manager’s skull splitting open like fruit, a spray of blood across his face. He remembered the warmth. The noise. The silence after.

And then… something else. Something more intimate.

Nigel.

His scent was thicker, more grounded. Sweat, tinged with metal and salt, threaded through with something distinctly human. It had clung to the chair, the sheets, the air itself. It was earthy, almost animal, and strangely soothing. Adam breathed it in again, slower this time. It settled into him like gravity. Something deep in his chest loosened.

He hadn’t noticed it before. But now he couldn’t stop.

There was comfort in it. Certainty. A body that moved with purpose, that didn’t hesitate or falter. A body that smelled real, alive, solid. He found himself craving it, chasing it with each breath, the way a sleeper reaches for the warm side of the bed. It grounded him, pulled him out of the chaos in his head. Nigel’s scent, more than anything else in the room, made him feel safe.

He didn’t know whether he loved this or just needed it.

Chapter 3: The Intern

Summary:

Adam’s first job for his new "employers" is a simple one; get coffee. Easy enough.

Notes:

I’ve already written nearly 50k words of this fic (wild, I know), but I’m trying to pace the updates, even though it’s killing me not to just drop everything at once. I want you all to experience it properly, so I’m being very patient… hehehe.

Also, I know it might feel like a slow start, but trust me, shit is going to get real in a few chapters. Buckle up.

Nigel was slumped across one of the battered couches in the warehouse’s main room, clutching a half-drained bottle of vodka like a childhood teddy bear. His arm dangled uselessly over the edge, and a thin thread of drool had begun to seep into the grime-caked cushions beneath his cheek. He reeked of stale sweat, cheap liquor, and something foul he’d probably stepped in on the way home, now ground into the soles of his boots.

“Nigel?”

The voice floated down from above, quiet and cautious, as though addressing a wild animal caught in a trap.

Nigel grunted and rolled onto his other side, a sluggish, disgruntled twist of limbs. He turned his back like a sulky cat, spine arched, shoulders hunched. The bottle thudded softly against the concrete floor but, by some miracle, stayed upright.

“Nigel?” the voice repeated, maddeningly composed, patient to the point of provocation.

“What the fuck do you want?” he growled, the words tumbling out wet and sluggish, thick with sleep and vodka. His tongue felt like a foreign object in his mouth, swollen and slack.

“I was wondering if you had any food. For breakfast.”

The silence that followed was heavy, the air dense with hangover and confusion.

“Wha—” Nigel cracked open one crusted eye, wincing as daylight sliced through a gap in the warehouse shutters, white-hot and surgical. He turned his head with the effort of a corpse resisting autopsy, vision swimming, the world blurred around the edges. Still, even through the haze, those eyes were impossible to mistake. Clear and cold as glaciers, ringed with lashes far too dark, too soft. A tousle of chocolate curls caught the light like burnished copper.

“Adam?” he rasped, like the name itself had scorched his throat.

“Yes?” came the reply, as placid and unbothered as ever.

Nigel practically hurled himself off the couch, crashing into a graceless heap at Adam’s feet. Adam yelped, stumbling back in surprise, barely managing to keep his toes intact beneath the tangled mass of hungover criminal sprawled across the dusty floorboards.

“I was also wondering if we could return to my apartment,” Adam said, unruffled, as if the groaning, dishevelled man at his feet were nothing more than an inconvenient lump of furniture. “I’d like to grab a few things. A change of clothes. A paper I’m writing for the observatory. Possibly some food from my fridge, if what you’ve got here turns out to be... lacking.”

Nigel groaned, hauling himself upright with limbs trembling under the weight of a skull-splitting hangover. He wobbled dangerously, nearly face-planting into the wall as the pain in his head exploded like a battering ram. It was as if someone had shoved a fire alarm inside his skull and set it wailing at full volume.

“The fuck?” he croaked, eyes narrowing into thin slits against the harsh daylight stabbing through the windows. “What the actual fuck are you doing out here? How the hell did you get out of my bloody room? I locked that shit.”

“No, you didn’t,” Adam said, his tone quiet but absolute.

Nigel blinked, bloodshot eyes swimming, scrabbling through the dense fog suffocating his memory. It came back in ragged shards: storming off last night, half-cut and raging, forgetting to wedge the chair under the door handle like he’d meant to.

“Fucking shit,” he growled, rubbing a rough hand down his face.

He stared at Adam for a long moment. “The fuck? Why are you still here? Why didn’t you piss off when you had the chance?”

Adam met his gaze steadily. “I don’t drive, and I don’t know where we are. Also, you have my phone, so I couldn’t call a taxi. And also, I don’t want to leave.”

“Huh...”

Darko sat up across the room, the blanket slipping off him like a corpse awkwardly rising from the autopsy table, pale skin clammy and slick in the dim light. He turned towards the noise, brow furrowed with confusion and irritation. “What the fuck’s my little pony doing wandering around out here?” he grunted.

Adam’s eyes widened the moment he saw the man was stark naked, and he quickly looked away with a polite snap of his gaze, fixing it on the ceiling instead.

“I, uh, forgot to lock his room,” Nigel muttered, which earned him a sharp, pissed-off smack to the back of the head from Darko.

Adam kept his eyes on the ceiling, unmoving, while the two Romanian gangsters stared at him in silence.

“So what the fuck does he want?” Darko asked eventually, voice still hoarse with sleep.

“Wants fucking breakfast. And to swing by his apartment to grab his precious little shit,” Nigel replied.

“Um, yes, please,” Adam added, still staring upward. “I would very much like some of my belongings if I’m to be staying here.”

Nigel let out a tired sigh. “Your shit’s a privilege, not a fucking right. You’ll get some of it. Maybe. If you don’t piss me off.” He scratched the back of his neck. “As for breakfast…”

He drifted off, walking past Adam, who was resolutely ignoring Darko’s nakedness and everything else around him, to a nearby table. He snatched a crumpled fifty-dollar note and held it out before Adam like a bribe.

“There’s a café three blocks down. Opposite direction from the pier.”

Adam’s eyes finally left the ceiling, focusing on the note. Darko glanced sidelong at Nigel, brow furrowed, clearly trying to work out the plan.

“You’re going to take this cash,” Nigel said, voice steady, “buy two dozen black coffees—”

“Cream for Gabriel,” Darko interjected.

Nigel rolled his eyes. “Fine. Two dozen black coffees, one with cream for the delicate bastard. And you can get whatever your dainty little heart fancies for breakfast with the scraps. Got it?”

Adam didn’t answer straight away. He looked down at himself, at the blood-spattered shirt clinging stiffly to his chest, at the flecks of gore crusting his sleeve.

“I am not in the right state to be seen in public, no?” he said quietly.

Nigel glanced him over. He hadn’t really taken in the sight until now. There was still dried blood smeared across Adam’s collar, and a dark streak trailing down his cheek.

Without thinking, he licked his thumb and reached out, wiping the spot clean.

Adam jolted, a quick intake of breath barely audible. His body stiffened, hands frozen mid-motion. Eyes wide. He didn’t move away, didn’t speak, just went completely still, like something in him had locked up all at once. Nigel didn’t seem to notice.

“I’ll get you some clean clothes,” he muttered.

“Mine?” Adam asked, hopeful.

“No, Adam. We’re not going to your fucking apartment.” Nigel’s voice was sharp with irritation, though the edge dulled halfway through.

“Oh. Okay.”

 

Adam sat quietly in the main room of the warehouse, perched with polite stillness as the rest of the gang stirred around him. One by one, the men began to emerge from their various corners, stretching, grumbling, scratching at sleep-creased skin as they shuffled into their routines. It was oddly mesmerising, watching them. Men who lived so differently from him, whose lives followed rules he didn’t yet understand.

Though he supposed this was his life now, too.

There was a strange rhythm to their movements, a rough kind of harmony. They moved around each other with a lazy precision, passing cups, lighting cigarettes, nudging boots out of the way without speaking. It reminded him of ants. He used to watch them as a child, lying belly-down in the park dirt, tracking their neat little lines across the grass. Each one with a task. Each one contributing to something larger than itself.

They were all part of the same system, he’d thought, but still distinct. Still themselves.

It was nice, he thought again, watching these criminals go about their morning. Quietly ordered. Almost peaceful.

“Here,” Nigel said, suddenly at his side. He dropped a bundle of clothes into Adam’s lap, a black hoodie and a pair of baggy sweatpants, both clearly worn and several sizes too big.

Adam held them up, inspecting them delicately. “These are quite large.”

“Yeah, well, you’re built like a library book and everyone else here’s a brick shithouse,” Nigel muttered, already halfway through lighting a cigarette. “I made do.”

Adam folded the clothes neatly on his lap. “Is there a bathroom where I can bathe and change into these?”

Nigel nodded towards the back of the warehouse, the cigarette bobbing between his lips. “Shower cubicles. Through there. Some of the guys are still using them, so don’t linger unless you want to see something you can’t unsee.”

Adam followed his gaze as a shirtless man wandered out, towel slung over his shoulder, steam curling after him like mist off a swamp. Adam blinked once and gave a polite nod.

“I see. Thank you.”

Nigel blew out a stream of smoke. “Yeah. Don’t drop the soap.”

Adam tilted his head, brow furrowing slightly at Nigel’s parting remark. He didn’t understand it, not entirely, but decided it was easier to ignore. Without another word, he made his way toward the doorway Nigel had nodded at, stepping into the thick haze of the steam-filled room beyond.

The air was heavy with moisture, clinging to his skin like a second shirt. A line of narrow shower cubicles stretched along one side, their plastic curtains clinging and swaying with each gust of damp air. He nearly collided with a half-dressed man emerging from the mist, muttering a soft apology without making eye contact. The other man blinked at him, puzzled, but said nothing as Adam walked past, utterly serene, like a misplaced university student wandering through a construction site.

He headed for the last cubicle at the end, snagging a threadbare towel from a rusted hook along the way. Outside the stall, he slipped off his shoes with quiet care, then stepped inside and tugged the curtain shut behind him.

The walls were mottled with old water stains and peeling paint. On the narrow shelf sat a single battered bottle claiming to be a 5-in-1 shampoo, conditioner, face wash, body wash, and something ambitiously labelled “beard care.” Next to it lay a rust-speckled razor, its blade dulled by time and disuse.

Adam stood in the shower cubicle, frozen. He didn’t move. The tiles were the wrong colour. The floor felt slimy under his feet. The sound of water hitting porcelain echoed too loudly, sharp and chaotic, overlapping with voices and footsteps and plastic bottles dropping. He flinched at each sudden sound. His heart was racing. His skin already itched.

This wasn’t his shower.
This wasn’t his towel.
These weren’t his products.

He didn’t know what brand the soap was. He didn’t even know if it was unscented.

His breathing quickened as he stared at the unfamiliar bottle, blinking rapidly. There was no clock. He had no idea what time it was. This wasn’t his usual shower time. His body told him that, very clearly. Everything in him screamed that this was the wrong time. The wrong place. The wrong everything.

His fingers trembled as he reached for the hem of his shirt, then stopped. A wave of panic swelled up in his chest, pushing against his ribs like it needed to escape. He squeezed his eyes shut. Counted to five. Counted again, slower. Breathe in. Hold. Breathe out.

His skin felt disgusting. Sticky. Dirty. It was too much.

The discomfort of staying as he was had finally outpaced the terror of doing what came next. With stiff, mechanical movements, he peeled off the sweat-damp clothes, each gesture deliberate. He hung them, then the clean ones, then the towel, folding them precisely over the edge of the cubicle so the seams lined up. That part mattered. It gave him something to do.

He turned on the water. It was hot, thankfully. Almost too hot, but that was better than cold. He stepped under the spray and stood still for a moment, letting the water hit the back of his neck, trying not to think too hard. Just letting the heat run down his spine and over his shoulders, like it might scrub away everything from the past twenty-four hours. Not literally, obviously, but the feeling helped.

He washed quickly, methodically. Same order as always. Hair, then face, then neck, then arms. Chest, back, legs, feet. The soap was fine. Functional. That was all that mattered.

There was a razor sitting on the shelf. He looked at it. It was old, maybe even rusty. The urge to shave was strong. The stubble had already started bothering him, catching on the fabric of his collar, making him overly aware of his jaw. But he weighed it. Hygiene versus discomfort. A cut, or worse, an infection, wasn’t worth it. He took a breath and looked away from the razor.

He turned off the water. The towel was slightly damp, and he noticed immediately. Too soft in some places, scratchy in others. He tried not to let it bother him. Focused on drying himself in the most efficient way possible, and then moved on.

The new clothes were unfamiliar. Not ideal. The sweatpants didn’t quite sit right on his hips, but he tied the drawstring as tightly as he could manage without cutting off circulation. That helped. He put his shoes back on. That helped too.

He left the shower block with his shoulders squared and his head a little higher. Clean. Not perfect, but better. That was enough for now.

“Nigel?” Adam said to the lump on the couch that could be Nigel.

“Yeah, what?” Nigel grunted, his arm thrown over his eyes as he continued to puff on a cigarette.

“I’m going to the café now.”

“Fucking brilliant. Thanks for the riveting update.”

“Three blocks from the pier, correct?”

“Yep. Nailed it. Gold star for you, mate.”

“Goodbye,” Adam announced as he stepped out, voice level and certain. Surprisingly, a few half-asleep gangsters actually mumbled back, bleary and instinctive, as if they were used to people coming and going.

The air outside was thick with the briny scent of sea salt and fish, the tang growing sharper the closer he drew to the street. A handful of fishermen moved in the early light, preparing boats or unloading last night’s catch, their movements quiet and practised. He turned away from the pier without hesitation and began walking down the road, the cracked concrete damp beneath his trainers.

There was a strange sense of satisfaction blooming in his chest, warm and steady. He had a task. A purpose. Something simple and tangible to focus on. Nigel had trusted him with it. Two dozen coffees, one with cream. Something to occupy his hands and mind.

Nigel had said his belongings were a privilege, not a right. But perhaps, if he did well, if he showed he could be useful, Nigel might let him retrieve a few things. Or better, maybe one day he’d be allowed to travel between the warehouse and his apartment. Like a job. A strange, secret job.

That idea comforted him more than it should have.

The memory of yesterday returned, unbidden. The bank manager’s slack face. The silence that had poured out of him like a final breath. Not quiet. Not peace. Something deeper. The absence of everything. No sound, no thoughts, no weight of the world pressing in from the sides.

He missed it.

After the sensory assault of the shower, cheap soap, sharp voices echoing off tiled walls, the raw metallic scent of rust and blood, he craved that stillness more than he had the day before. And he was beginning to believe Nigel could give it to him.

He just had to stay useful. Stay agreeable. Do what was asked of him.

Then everything would be fine.

 

“Nigel?” Darko said over Nigel’s sprawled-out form.

“Why the fuck does everyone need a piece of me this morning?” Nigel grunted, yanking his arm off his face to glare up at him.

“The fuck are you doing?”

Nigel glanced around lazily, gesturing at the couch.

“With the kid,” Darko growled.

“Oh, calm your tits. I’m giving him a head start. I’ll tail him in a minute. If he bolts, I’ll drag his scrawny arse into an alley and blow a fucking hole in his skull. Or maybe I’ll haul him back here in pieces, depends how I’m feeling.” He flashed a mocking smile.

“I don’t know what your endgame is here, Nigel.”

“Yeah, no shit. Me neither,” Nigel muttered, dragging hard on his cigarette before sighing like the world owed him a nap.

“Get your lazy fucking arse up before the kid hops a fishing boat or runs face-first into a goddamn patrol. He’s white and probably loaded, they’ll scoop him up like a stray poodle with a trust fund.”

Nigel groaned and rolled his eyes, dragging himself off the couch. After yanking on a pair of jeans and blasting himself with deodorant like it’d cover the stench of regret, he stomped out of the warehouse, trailing Adam like a shadow with a grudge.

Nigel trailed behind Adam by a couple dozen metres, sulking like a teenager forced to trail their mum through a supermarket. Every few steps he gave an exaggerated sigh, arms swinging loosely at his sides, joints still stiff from sleeping on the busted old couch since he had loaned Adam his usual haunt. Bloody thing felt like it was stuffed with bricks, but at least it was familiar. He rubbed the back of his neck, wondering if the freak had actually made the bed this morning. Wouldn’t put it past him. The thought earned a quiet snort.

His piece was tucked into the back of his waistband, cold and solid against his spine. Just in case. All it would take was one twitch, Adam running, screaming, drawing attention, and that’d be that. Easy excuse. Good reason to end whatever this was before it got more complicated.

It had been semi-interesting at first, dragging him along like some stolen pet. But now? Nigel wasn’t sure what the hell he was meant to do with the guy. It wasn’t like he’d planned this out. And torturing him? That would’ve felt like kicking a puppy. Maybe satisfying for five minutes, but then the pathetic whimpering would start, and you’d find yourself pacing the room, wondering if it was worth the clean-up.

Nothing he could come up with really grabbed him. Pump the kid full of dope and watch him stumble around? They already got that shitshow every time the guys brought hookers over. Toss him to the boys, see if they wanted to get their dicks wet? Nah. As far as he knew, none of them swung that way, and even if one of the sick fucks did, the thought sat wrong.

His thoughts drifted, aimless, until he looked up and realised they’d reached the café. For a moment, he expected Adam to keep walking. To bolt for a payphone, or flag down the nearest passing cop with those big, sad eyes. But no, he walked straight through the door without hesitation.

Nigel slowed, frowning. Maybe the barista had a phone behind the counter. Maybe the little freak was asking to call the police, or his mum, or God.

He stayed outside, leaning on the edge of the window frame and peering in. Adam stood at the counter, speaking to the woman with that same eerie calm he always had, sliding the fifty across like he’d done it a hundred times before.

This kid wasn’t just retarded. He was brain-damaged.

Nigel lingered outside a moment longer, brow furrowed, then pushed the door open with a grunt. The café was warm, all clinking porcelain and low indie music, the air thick with the smell of burnt coffee and syrupy pastries.

Adam was still at the counter, waiting. As soon as Nigel stepped inside, he turned, uncanny, like he’d sensed him, or smelled him. His eyes flicked up, not quite meeting Nigel’s, settling instead somewhere just above them. On his eyebrow, maybe.

“Oh. Nigel. What are you doing here?” he asked, like this was the most natural place in the world for both of them to be.

Nigel scratched the back of his neck. “Uh, well... can’t exactly expect your twiggy arse to carry two dozen fucking coffees on your own, can I?”

Adam nodded, perfectly agreeable. “Oh. I suppose not. Thank you.”

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t start crying about it.” Nigel shifted beside him, eyeing the barista as she stacked the leaning tower of caffeine on the tray like she was defusing a bomb.

“So, what the fuck did you get for yourself?” Nigel asked, the coffee machine hissing like a dying cat and stabbing at his already pissed-off hangover.

“Oh. Um. I wasn’t sure what I’d like, so I didn’t get anything.”

“You what? What the fuck does that mean? It’s not a goddamn pop quiz, it’s a croissant or a sandwich. How can you not know if you’d eat one?”

“I– I usually have All-Bran cereal for breakfast.”

“What? Every single day?”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

Adam nodded.

“Jesus, your life must be boring as fuck.” Nigel leaned over the display case, squinting at the baked goods. “Sweet or savoury, pick one.”

“Uh, sweet, I suppose... B–But not too sweet.”

Nigel rolled his eyes so hard it hurt. Why the fuck was he picking this kid’s breakfast like he was a goddamn toddler? “What about that?” he said, jabbing a finger at a berry-and-cream danish.

Adam shook his head.

“What the fuck’s wrong with that one?”

“I don’t enjoy the texture of cream or raspberry seeds.”

Nigel stared at him like he was broken. “Jesus Christ.”

He turned back to the cabinet, lips curled in disgust. “Brownie?”

“Too sweet.”

Nigel let out a low growl, ready to launch himself through the glass, when something caught his eye. “Holy shit, they’ve got scovergi. There you fucking go. Romanian pastry. Cultural moment. Perfect.”

Adam eyed it like it was radioactive. “No.”

Nigel groaned loudly, obnoxiously, like he was dying inside. “You know what? Starve, then. Picky little prick like you probably photosynthesises anyway.” He grabbed the trays of coffee and stormed out, muttering under his breath.

“Wait–” Adam murmured, tugging gently at Nigel’s sleeve before turning back to the counter. He hovered there, staring at the display case like it had just asked him a difficult question.

“Um…” His eyes scanned the row of pastries, lips slightly parted. After an almost comically long pause, he pointed.

“I’ll have one of those,” he said, indicating a scovergi, the flat, fried disc of dough with a dusting of sugar that clung to the grease.

The barista nodded, slid it into a brown paper bag, and handed it over without a word.

Adam accepted it carefully, like it might crumble in his hands, and offered a soft “Thank you” before hurrying after Nigel.

Nigel was already at the door, holding it open with his foot. As soon as Adam passed through, he kicked it shut behind them with a bang loud enough to make the bell above the door break loose. It clattered to the floor behind them. Nigel snorted.

As they started heading back toward the pier, the silence was unbearable. It clawed at Nigel’s nerves like a rat in a wall. He itched for a cigarette, but both hands were full with trays of sloshing coffee. Eventually, against every instinct screaming at him to shut the hell up, he exhaled sharply and muttered:

“So, uh… you work at that fucking observatory, yeah?”

Adam looked over, clearly surprised Nigel was initiating conversation. He didn’t seem like the type. “Yes.”

“What do you do there?”

“I’m an electrical engineer. I mostly work on the telescopes, and sometimes I give tours. I used to work for a toy company in Manhattan. I liked it there. It was structured, and the deadlines made sense.”

He fidgeted slightly, then went on. “But then my dad died. And I got fired. And I couldn’t afford his apartment anymore, so I had to leave. I asked Beth if she wanted to come with me, because that felt like the logical next step. I told her I needed her.”

He hesitated, frowning. “But she said no. She said I didn’t love her the way I was supposed to. That confused me. I don’t really know what that means. I said I needed her, and I thought that counted–”

“Yeah, yeah, don’t need your whole fucking autobiography,” Nigel cut in, already regretting opening his mouth.

“Oh… oh, sorry…”

“Yeah, whatever. Just– talk less.”

"Okay," Adam said quietly, eyes still on the brown paper bag in his hands. He peeled it open with careful fingers, revealing the scovergi nestled inside, still warm and faintly glistening with grease. A soft dusting of sugar clung to its surface.

He brought it to his nose and sniffed, slow and deliberate.

Nigel glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. He watched as Adam took a cautious bite, barely breaking the surface. It was like watching a mouse nibble at cheese in a trap, testing the air before committing to anything that might get its neck snapped.

Adam chewed slowly, his face unreadable.

"Good?" Nigel asked. He tried to sound casual, but there was a slight edge to it. He didn't know why it mattered, but something about that pastry was tied to more than just food. It reminded him of street corners back home, of greasy fingers and laughter he hadn’t heard in years. If this polished little creature turned up his nose at it, it would sting more than he’d care to admit.

Adam looked up, blinked once, and nodded.

"Yes. It's good," he said, then took a second bite, this one with a little more confidence.

Nigel looked away, pretending not to care. But something loosened in his chest.

Good. It was meant to be.

They walked the rest of the way back to the warehouse in silence. When they arrived, Nigel once again used his foot to shove the door open and held it there, waiting. Adam slipped past him without a word, heading straight through the front of the building where the fake fish processing setup lay in its usual state of carefully curated disarray. Without pausing, he made his way to the back, deeper into the heart of the operation, as if he belonged there.

Nigel followed, arms full of coffee cups, which he dumped unceremoniously onto a cluttered table once they reached the main room. A few half-dead crew members staggered over, grabbing cups like men crawling through the desert toward a mirage. Most of them drank fast, too fast, as if they didn’t care whether they scalded their tongues.

Nigel spotted Adam returning to the same spot he’d claimed earlier and sitting down again, quiet and composed, as if the chaos of the warehouse had nothing to do with him. Around them, the space was starting to buzz with activity as the crew picked up conversations about laundering last night’s haul.

“Oi. Just a sec,” Nigel muttered to no one in particular, peeling away from the table and stomping across the room.

Adam looked up as he approached, a smear of sugar clinging to the corner of his mouth.

“You said you’re some kind of electrical engineer or whatever, yeah?”

Adam nodded, still chewing.

“So, what, does that mean you’re good with computers?”

Adam swallowed. “Very.”

Nigel scratched at the back of his neck, eyes narrowed. “Couple weeks ago, I got locked out of a bank account I manage. Forgot the password. Think you could… I don’t know… break in?”

“There are recovery options for that,” Adam replied evenly. “Usually linked to forms of ID.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t have that shit, do I? Birth certificate’s rotting in some drawer back in Romania. It’s messy.” Nigel waved a hand dismissively, already bored of the excuse.

Adam nodded slightly, taking it in.

“So?” Nigel leaned in a bit, dropping his voice. “You reckon you could log in?”

“Yes.”

“Just like that?”

Adam nodded again. “I’ll need my laptop, though.”

“You’ll use one of ours,” Nigel said.

“I could,” Adam said coolly. “But I want mine. I’ll do this for you, and in return, I get my laptop back. You said my belongings are a privilege. I think I’ve earned one.”

Nigel stared him down, something cold and unreadable flickering in his eyes. “You giving me a fucking ultimatum, you little shit?”

Adam hesitated. “Yes.”

Normally, that would’ve earned him a fist to the face or a boot to the ribs. Nigel wasn’t the type you said no to, and you sure as hell didn’t start drawing lines in the sand unless you wanted to pick your teeth up off the floor. His jaw clenched. He wanted to lunge, slam Adam against the wall, rip into him with every filthy insult he knew in Romanian. His hands curled into fists so tight his knuckles cracked.

But the kid hadn’t run. Hadn’t screamed. Hadn’t even cried. He’d had a dozen chances to bolt or act like a liability, and he didn’t take a single one. He wasn’t gonna use that laptop to call the cops. He just wanted to sit in a corner and disappear.

Fine. Let the little bastard rot in a screen glow and stay out of his fucking way.

“Fucking fine,” Nigel spat. “But you so much as breathe weird near that thing, and I’ll put your head through the screen.”

 

Nigel moved Adam back to his room so he could work without the constant noise from the others. Adam didn’t argue. The quiet helped. It was easier to think when there weren’t too many voices or footsteps or unpredictable sounds behind him.

He sat at the desk and opened his laptop. He adjusted the chair twice, then started working through the login process. He was careful. Precise. Every step required attention. VPN first. Then the secure browser. Then the routing process. Any misstep would trigger a security flag, and he didn’t know how many attempts he’d be allowed.

He could hear Nigel behind him, smoking quietly. The smell clung to the walls. Adam ignored it. His focus stayed on the task.

His hands were steady, though his heart had started to beat faster. He wasn’t sure if it was anxiety or just concentration. The account details were correct; he checked them three times. He typed slowly, rhythmically, like a pattern. That helped.

He didn’t look up when he finished. He double-checked the balance, recorded the last few transactions, then logged out completely and wiped the browser history. Then, finally, he pushed back from the desk, a sticky note in his hand.

“I’ve finished.”

Nigel looked up, one eyebrow raised. “You’re finished? Already?”

Adam gave a short nod. “Yes. You have access to the bank account now.” He held out a sticky note, the words carefully written in neat, even letters. “These are the login details. The connection is secure. It won’t trigger any alerts.”

Nigel started to respond. “That’s not—”

“I know you’re accessing the account illegally,” Adam interrupted, his tone calm, matter-of-fact. “You robbed a bank yesterday. It would be illogical to assume you draw the line at online fraud.”

He didn’t sound accusatory. He was just clarifying what, to him, felt like an obvious contradiction.

“You don’t… give a shit?” Nigel asked, eyeing him suspiciously as he took the sticky note, their fingertips brushing. He ignored the contact. “Cops aren’t gonna get some flashing red alert with my name and address the second I type this in?”

“It’s illegal,” Adam said calmly, “and arguably unethical. But given the circumstances, I think it’s a justifiable breach.”

Nigel snorted. “And what circumstances are those?”

Adam went quiet for a moment, his hands fidgeting slightly in his lap.

“...Because I’m doing it for you. And for the others. Your crew.” He hesitated. “I don’t really know how to explain it properly. I could go home, technically. That’s still an option. But I don’t want to.”

He glanced away, blinking rapidly. “I want to stay here. With you. That feels... more right. And I don’t know. I just... I like watching you work.”

“Liked watching me blow that guy’s fucking brains out,” Nigel corrected him.

“No— I mean, yes— but, not exactly.” Adam stumbled over the words. “I didn’t enjoy watching you kill the bank manager. But I… I liked seeing him—” He stopped himself, realising how morbid it sounded.

“Dead?” Nigel offered, eyebrow raised.

“Quieted,” Adam said instead, voice calm but precise.

Nigel snorted. “Jesus. That’s worse.”

This kid was weirder than he looked. Quiet, twitchy, polite in that robotic sort of way, like a schoolboy who’d wandered into the wrong classroom and decided to stay put. But there was something else under it. Not softness. Not really. More like a feral intelligence. Like those raccoons you saw in bins, all wide eyes and clever little hands, staring you down like they were just as curious about you as you were about them.

That whole speech he gave about the dead bank manager, about touching him and feeling the silence flood in… Nigel didn’t know what to make of that. It hadn’t even sounded creepy. That was the strange part. Adam hadn’t been trying to impress anyone, hadn’t been putting it on for shock value. He’d said it plain, like he was describing how a certain song made him feel. Like, he genuinely missed that moment of nothing. Like peace, to him, meant stillness so complete it bordered on death.

Nigel couldn’t wrap his head around it, but he also couldn’t stop thinking about it. There was something not right in Adam’s wiring, but it wasn’t broken. Just… different. And maybe, if he kept watching him, he’d figure it out. What made him tick. What made him go quiet like that.

He didn’t know what he’d end up doing with him. But he was certain of one thing.

This was going to be interesting.

Chapter 4: You’ve Got Mail

Summary:

Adam’s been handed a more practical task, which he’s eager to tackle. Elsewhere, Darko and Nigel have a conversation about Nigel’s type.

Fetching coffee had quietly become one of Adam’s regular jobs. Initially, Nigel had gone with him, but that stopped quickly. Carrying the towering stack of orders had taken some practice, but after a few fumbling attempts and near-misses with scalding paper cups, he got the hang of it. The Romanians gave him other errands too. Picking up dry cleaning, restocking the fridge, the odd hacking or coding job slipped his way when they couldn’t be bothered. Nothing too complicated. Nothing that made his stomach twist with guilt. Small things. Things he could still, in some detached corner of his mind, frame as morally justifiable.

In exchange, Nigel had let him buy a battered second-hand microwave, its once-white casing yellowed with age. A few boxes of instant mac and cheese found their way into the cupboard whenever Adam went shopping. Small, thoughtless gestures that chipped away at his reservations. Made him more cooperative. More willing. More... agreeable.

Nigel cared for him. That much was obvious. He made sure Adam had what he needed to stay comfortable. To stay settled. To stay happy. No, he wasn’t allowed to return to his apartment yet. Wasn’t allowed to go back to proper work. But that was understandable. Reasonable, even.

He had been there four days now. Long enough for the edges of the unfamiliar to wear down. Adam hated change. His brain recoiled from it, stubborn and rigid. But once things did change, once the disruption settled, he always clawed his way back to routine. His mind craved it like oxygen.

So, he adapted. He made his bed with clinical precision. Checked his emails. Chipped away at his remote work for the observatory while the others lay sprawled across sofas and mattresses, sleeping off the late nights well into the morning, sometimes into the afternoon. Then, like clockwork, he fetched the coffee.

At first, it had been simple. Two dozen black coffees. One with cream for Gabriel. But slowly, hesitantly, the requests started to shift. Men approached him in quiet, mumbled conversations, eyes darting around like they were confessing some deep shame. They liked theirs with two sugars. With almond milk. A few wanted tea instead, voice dropping as though that was some cardinal sin. Adam took the orders without complaint. It was part of the pattern now. He liked memorising all the new orders. It was like a puzzle that reset itself every morning, the pieces shifting just enough to keep him sharp. Better for his memory than the crossword people usually did with their first coffee of the day. More satisfying, too.

That morning, he returned to find a cluster of the men hunched around the table, voices low and irritable, words overlapping in sharp bursts of Romanian. Some argument simmering beneath the surface. Adam skirted around them, methodically matching cups to gangsters, reading the scrawled letters on the lids. A few sleepy, half-muttered mulţumescs drifted his way, the unfamiliar word stitching itself neatly into his memory. ‘Thank you,’ he presumed. He repeated it under his breath, the echo slipping out without thought, automatic as breathing.

Nigel clocked the cups, each one scribbled with initials in black marker, and rolled his eyes so hard they nearly lodged in the back of his skull.

“What’s this, we running a fucking bed and breakfast now? You taking room service orders too, or just sucking ‘em off with their coffee?”

“Maybe not all of us like drinking fucking engine grease, shit-heel,” Darko grunted, scrubbing a hand down his face.

“Oh, cry me a fucking river. Can we focus before someone ends up with their teeth kicked in?” Nigel snapped, nodding towards the shoebox on the table, Adam hadn’t even noticed until now.

“Why not make the little freak do it?” Nigel added, eyes sharp with challenge as he looked at Adam.

The whole room went dead quiet. Darko stared at him, brow furrowed.

“Make me do what?” Adam piped up, voice small but cutting through the silence as he craned his neck to see past the wall of muscle blocking the box.

“He doesn’t have the fucking experience,” Darko muttered darkly, ignoring Adam’s question.

“What experience is that, takin’ the bus? Holdin’ a fucking box?” Nigel shot back, sneering. “He looks like he pays taxes and calls his mum on Sundays. No one’s gonna stop him. Plus, his clothes are finally clean of blood, so he can shove that posh little jumper back on. No one’s gonna clock him as sketchy in that fucking eyesore.”

“Yeah? And what if someone does clock him, huh? What if he gets caught delivering it? Pretty sure his posh arse can’t vault a fucking fence when it all goes tits-up.”

“He can run,” Nigel shot back, eyes still on Adam. “Can’t you, kid?”

Adam swallowed but forced himself to speak up, voice small but steady. “I… I can run fast.”

Nigel grinned wide, eyes locked on Darko, who just shrugged like he didn’t care. “Fine, yeah, the kid can do it.”

The crowd around the table drifted off, their argument forgotten for now. A few clapped Adam on the shoulder as they passed, offering him quiet, almost conspiratorial wishes of good luck. He parroted back a handful of mulţumescs, his accent mangling the word into something clumsy and crooked, but it still earned him a few wide, toothy grins. The kind of grins that belonged to pack animals, all sharp edges and good humour with something feral buried underneath.

Adam turned to Nigel, the only one left at the table apart from Darko, who was lounging nearby like a man-shaped landmine.

“So… what exactly am I doing?” Adam asked, trying to keep his voice steady but sounding like he was chewing glass.

“Simple job, Adam. You’re delivering this fucking box.” Nigel slid the battered cardboard package across the table with a lazy flick of his wrist.

“O-okay.”

“Leave it on the doorstep. Don’t knock, don’t ring the bell, don’t breathe on the damn letterbox. Got it?”

“Got it.” Adam nodded, frowning like he was trying to solve a Rubik’s cube. “Um… where am I delivering it?”

“I’ll give you the address.”

Adam hesitated. “How will I get there?”

Nigel sighed, like he was about to lose the last shred of his patience. “Bus.”

Adam’s frown deepened. “How will I know which routes to take?”

With a low, theatrical groan, Nigel pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’ll give you a map and a burner. Screw this up, and I’ll make sure your sorry arse spends the next week wishing you were dead. Clear?”

“Yes. Thank you, Nigel.”

Soon enough, Adam found himself wedged into the cracked vinyl seat of a bus, the suspiciously warm box balanced awkwardly on his lap. He kept one hand on it, the other holding the map, eyes darting between the bus route and the passing street signs to make sure he got off at the right stop.

It wasn’t until he was halfway across town that the thought properly struck him. He hadn’t asked what was in the box. Hadn’t even thought to. He gave the sides an experimental squeeze, but the layers of packing tape wound tightly around it left no room for curiosity. It was sealed up like a crime scene.

Still, his brain couldn’t help but chew over the possibilities. Cash, maybe. Or drugs. Drugs seemed likely. From what little he’d pieced together, that was the gang’s primary business. The bank job had just been a bold grab for quick cash, something reckless layered on top of their usual work.

The box shifted slightly on his lap as the bus rumbled over a pothole, and Adam pressed his hand more firmly against it, as if that would settle both it and his spiralling thoughts.

The bus wheezed to a halt and Adam slipped off, offering the driver a polite, automatic thank you as his shoes hit the cracked pavement. He hovered on the curb for a moment, phone and map in hand, double-checking the address on the burner and reorienting himself.

The neighbourhood wasn’t exactly welcoming, but it wasn’t as rough as he’d imagined either. Rows of tired brick terraces leaned against each other, their paint flaking, windows barred or yellowed with grime. It wasn’t what he was used to. His old high-rise apartment in Manhattan had overlooked the park, glass and brick and controlled entryways. But this... this was just low-income. Not dangerous. Not obviously, anyway. That calmed him, somewhat. Besides, it was only two in the afternoon. Daylight still painted the streets, and he didn’t feel particularly unsafe.

He stood at a corner, the warm, tape-sealed shoebox tucked awkwardly under one arm, twisting the map around with a frown, trying to make the layout of the streets cooperate with the paper version in his hands.

“You lost, hun?”

Adam startled slightly, looking up to find a woman watching him from the front steps of a nearby house. Middle-aged, cardigan loose around her shoulders, shopping bag dangling from one hand. Her expression was kind, the fine lines at the corners of her eyes deepening as she smiled.

“No… I, um… I’m just looking for Vermilyea,” he stammered, the unfamiliar street name clumsy in his mouth.

“Oh, sure, sugar.” She nodded down the road. “Straight ahead to the corner, then right. Walk ‘til you see the street sign. Can’t miss it, promise.”

Her smile widened, soft and harmless, the faint crow’s feet by her eyes creasing like folds in paper.

Adam returned a small, lopsided smile. “Thank you.”

He carried on down the pavement, careful to dodge the gnarled tree roots that had cracked the concrete like knuckles through skin. His eyes flicked between the burner phone and the houses ahead, following the address Nigel had given him. If he did this properly, maybe Nigel would finally let him go back to his apartment. Just for a bit. Pack some clothes. His own sheets. His toiletries. The small, necessary things that made life tolerable. Maybe even give the place a quick dust and vacuum. It had been sitting empty for nearly five days now. Though, in fairness, Adam wasn’t there to get anything dirty.

Lost in thought, he almost didn’t notice when the street he was looking for appeared in front of him. He paused, checked the name twice to be sure, then turned down it. Neatly trimmed verges and faded letterboxes lined the footpath. Adam counted the house numbers, his lips moving faintly as he did, until he found the right one.

He checked it once. Twice. Triple-checked the address on the phone. Satisfied, he slipped into the front yard, the box still warm under his arm. At the doorstep, he set it down on the doormat, adjusting it until it sat perfectly straight, the tape seams neat and flush. He gave a small, contented nod to himself.

Then he turned on his heel and began the walk back the way he’d come, retracing his steps towards the bus stop.

He’d done well. Nigel would tell him so. Maybe ruffle his hair in that half-hearted way or throw out another casual, “Good job, kid,” like Adam was some apprentice finally getting the hang of things.

The bite beneath those words never quite reached Adam. That cruel, patronising edge buried in Nigel’s voice that slipped past unnoticed. The sharpness twisted into something that looked, to Adam, like a smile. Just a smile. Wide and toothy, maybe a little crooked, but harmless in his eyes.

He didn’t understand. Not really.

 

“I’m honestly shocked you’re making him do anything incriminating that doesn’t involve him staring at his fucking laptop screen,” Darko muttered.

“Why?” Nigel asked, feet up, cigarette hanging from his lips.

“‘Cause, I dunno… he’s basically your little lapdog. You don’t exactly wanna see your lapdog get his head blown off by some trigger-happy cop.”

“The fuck are you even saying?”

“He puts up with your shit, talks back just enough to keep you entertained, follows orders, works his arse off, looks decent—”

“Decent?” Nigel barked a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “The fuck did you just say? You gone queer in the head or somethin’?”

“In a puppy way… but, yeah, he’s your type.”

Nigel’s grin faded, eyes sharp as broken glass. “Say that shit again, I’ll knock your fucking teeth down your throat.”

Darko just shrugged, unbothered. “In the abstract. Ignore the fucking bits. He’s smart as hell, probably shoot straight if we let him. Pale, alabaster skin, bright blue eyes, shiny fucking hair… not a bad arse on him either.”

“His arse? Jesus fucking christ, you have gone fucking faggy.”

“Don’t tell me you haven’t looked. You look at everyone’s arse.”

Nigel went quiet, knowing he didn’t really have a comeback to that one.

Just then, the warehouse door creaked open and Adam stepped back inside, neatly folding the map along its original creases, precise as ever.

“How’d you go?” Darko looked up from where he was sat, one brow raised.

“Good!” Adam replied with a crooked, lopsided smile, pride simmering quietly beneath his words. He crossed the room and handed both the map and burner phone back to Nigel, careful, methodical.

“See? Nothing to piss your pants about,” Nigel said, his grin easy, all sharp edges disguised as charm. “Good job, kid.” He reached out, giving Adam a light, dismissive pat on the arm, fingers barely grazing fabric, the praise curling with something sarcastic just beneath the surface.

Adam preened anyway, his shoulders straightening ever so slightly, that small, pleased smile lingering. “I got lost once… but I found the address anyway.”

“Wow. What a devastating fucking hiccup,” Nigel sneered, dragging smoke from his cigarette. “Miracle you clawed your way through that trauma.”

“Yes. I asked for directions.”

The whole room shifted. Nigel and Darko both froze, their stares snapping to Adam like gun barrels.

“You fucking what?” Darko hissed, sitting up straighter, voice low and sharp as broken glass.

“Who’d you ask?” Nigel demanded, already standing, towering over Adam like a stormcloud ready to split his skull in two, his shadow swallowing the smaller man whole.

“Some… nice, middle-aged woman…” Adam replied, unaware of the grenade he’d just pulled the pin from.

“You asked her how to find the exact address?” Nigel’s voice dropped to a dangerous growl, each word crackling with restrained violence as he stalked forward, forcing Adam back.

“N-no… I just asked for the street…”

“And she saw your face?” Nigel snapped, knuckles bleaching white, fingers twitching like they ached to grab him.

“Of course… why wouldn’t she have…?”

Nigel’s face twisted, muscles tightening like a beast about to strike. His eyes locked on Adam with pure, unfiltered fury. He took a slow, deliberate step forward, then another, stalking like a predator closing in on prey.

“Fucking arierat,” Nigel hissed, voice low and dangerous. “You think you can just wander around, flapping your gums to strangers like some kind-hearted little prick?”

Adam pressed his back harder against the wall, eyes flicking wildly, searching for any way out.

Nigel stopped just inches from him, the heat of his breath washing over Adam’s face. His hand curled into a fist, trembling slightly, veins standing out on his forearm.

“Tell me I’m wrong,” Nigel snarled, voice barely above a growl.

Adam swallowed, voice barely a whisper. “You’re not wrong…”

The tension snapped. Nigel’s fist jerked forward like a lightning strike.

But before the blow landed, Darko’s heavy hand crashed down on Nigel’s wrist, yanking the punch back with brutal force.

“Calm the fuck down, Nigel,” Darko growled, voice steady but sharp as a knife. “If you wanna kill the kid, do it somewhere private.”

Nigel’s chest heaved, eyes wild, the storm barely contained. He pulled back his arm slowly, jaw clenched tight.

Adam shivered, heart hammering in his chest as Darko’s grip eased. His blue, glassy eyes were wide as saucers, tears pricking at the corners like they were about to spill over.

Darko shoved Nigel back hard by the shoulder, giving Adam enough space to scramble free from the wall and bolt to his room. Nigel’s glare followed him, snarling like a cornered animal.

When the door slammed shut, Nigel spun back to Darko, voice low and sharp. “Why the fuck’d you stop me?”

“He’s not one of us,” Darko said flatly. “He ain’t hard like we are. Violence don’t teach normal people shit.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it,” Nigel snapped. “Everyone understands violence.”

Darko sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Maybe. But do you want him workin’ for you because he’s scared shitless of a punch? Or do you want him doing it so you can figure out what the fuck makes him tick? That’s why you keep him around, ain’t it? You’re curious why he’s still sticking around without you forcing him. You ain’t gonna find that out if all he’s feeling is fear.”

Nigel hated that Darko had nailed it. What made Adam interesting wasn’t some brute loyalty or fear; it was his morbid fascination with death, that strange pull he had towards the edge. That’s why he clung to Nigel like velcro. But none of that shit would ever show if Adam was too busy trying not to piss himself every time Nigel walked into the room.

“You need to apologise,” Darko said, voice flat but firm.

“What?!” Nigel scoffed, sneering. “I’ve never once apologised to anyone in my fucking life.”

“Well, too fucking bad. Go to your room and apologise to the kid you yelled at like you’re some goddamn adult.”

“Oh, fuck you.” Nigel snapped, storming off with a heavy slam, flipping Darko the bird without missing a beat.

“Dă-te dracu și tu!” Darko shot back, flipping him the exact same finger, grin twisting into pure shit-eating defiance.

Nigel grumbled all the way down the hall like a sulky teenager, muttering darkly under his breath. He didn’t even know how to apologise. What was he supposed to say? Sorry for almost punching your lights out, but you fucked up? It was all a work in progress.

As he reached the hallway, a sudden crash yanked his attention. The loud banging and shattering came from the room ahead. His eyes widened, and without hesitation, he rushed forward, flinging the door open.

Inside, chaos reigned. The table lay on its side, legs crooked and splintered. The laptop sat abandoned on the floor, its screen spider-webbed with cracks. The chair was tossed carelessly against the far wall. And Adam was there, ripping into a pillow with a fierce, trance-like intensity, hands clawing, shredding, his movements wild and destructive, as if trying to tear something out of himself.

“Adam.” Nigel closed the distance in a few long strides, his voice low but urgent. Before he could say more, Adam’s body convulsed violently, his hands clawing blindly at the air, desperate, raw, uncontrolled. Nigel barely had time to react before a sharp, erratic flurry of fists slammed into his chest, each blow fierce and unfiltered.

“Stop!” Nigel hissed, tightening his grip as he gently shook Adam’s shoulders. But the movement only seemed to fuel the chaos, the wailing swelling louder, more frantic.

“Stop. Hey, listen. Stop.” His voice softened, tinged with desperation. Wrapping one solid arm around Adam’s torso, Nigel pulled him close, pressing firmly but carefully, enough to pin Adam’s flailing arms against his chest without crushing them. His other hand circled under Adam’s knees, anchoring his legs, steadying the wild thrashing.

Adam jerked and trembled against him. The wails fractured into ragged sobs, still raw but fading in volume. Nigel’s pressure deepened, steady and unyielding, like a grounding weight in the storm. Slowly, the tempest behind Adam’s eyes dulled, his breaths coming in uneven, trembling waves.

“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I – hiccup – I’m really sorry.” Adam stumbled over his words, sniffling, voice shaking like a leaf in a storm.

“It’s… It’s fine, Adam.” Nigel sighed, the weight of the apology dragging him down like a punch to the gut. “I… overreacted. It’s okay. It was… a lesson.” Each word came out heavy, like squeezing blood from a stone.

“I promise I won’t ever hit you, alright?” Nigel whispered, voice rough, barely holding it together.

Adam nodded shakily, eyes wide and uncertain.

“Okay. Good.” Nigel exhaled sharply. “What the fuck happened here then?” He gestured at the wreckage the broken furniture, pillow fluff scattered like confetti from a disaster.

“I got really angry with myself…”

“I can see that. Don’t do that, okay?” Nigel’s voice softened just a fraction, but the hard edge returned quickly. “And for fuck’s sake, quit apologising every two seconds. It’s not gonna fix shit and it’s driving me fucking crazy.”

Adam nodded again, swallowing hard, trying to steady himself.

Nigel released Adam gently, lowering him back onto the cold floor. His gaze flicked to the cracked laptop screen, and he let out a low sigh. Stooping, he righted the overturned table and carefully set the battered laptop back on it. Despite the spiderweb of fractures across the screen, it still seemed to function.

Adam shuffled over, carrying the abandoned chair, and eased it back under the table with a quiet clatter.

“I’m s– um… I shouldn’t have torn up the pillow,” Adam murmured, voice small and hesitant.

Nigel’s eyes flicked to the shredded mess on the floor, looking like a stray mutt clawing through its first shitty night in some new dump.

“Don’t sweat it. I’ll nick another one from my place.”

Adam’s head lifted, curiosity flickering through his red-rimmed eyes. “You have an apartment?”

“Yeah, a crash pad. A safe house. One you pay cash for, no questions asked.” Nigel shot him a crooked grin. “What? You reckon I’m gonna spend every night stuck with these fucking chimps?”

Adam gave a weak, shaky smile, cheeks still stained with tears.

Nigel sighed, reaching out with his big, rough hands to wipe Adam’s cheeks. Adam flinched, but Nigel didn’t notice. “Don’t make a habit of cryin’ round the boys. They’ll tear you a new one.”

“I don’t know what that means…”

“Course you don’t,” Nigel muttered, voice low and rough as gravel. “Your laptop still workin’?” Nigel asked, nodding towards the battered, cracked device.

Adam opened it cautiously, his fingers hovering near the chipped screen edges. It flickered to life, fractured but somehow still kicking. He nodded.

“Good. Thought maybe you could do a few jobs from your desk for a bit,” Nigel said, voice lazy but laced with something sharper underneath.

“Okay…” Adam hesitated, eyes flicking up, uncertainty bleeding into his voice. “Nigel… are you mad at me?”

Nigel quirked a brow, letting out a scoff like it physically pained him. “Uh… no. If I was mad, you’d fucking know it.”

Relief washed over Adam’s face, his shoulders loosening as he gave a small nod, chewing on his lip.

“Why?” Nigel asked, eyes narrowing, watching him like a hawk.

Adam fidgeted, words tumbling out fast and quiet. “I just… I thought I messed everything up. That you were going to kick me out… not let me do any more jobs… that it’d all be over. That I’d have to go back to my life before… this. Before… you.”

Nigel rubbed the back of his neck, uncomfortable now, jaw tight as he fought the knot of emotion twisting in the room. “No, Adam. I’m not mad. Alright?” His voice came out rough, uneven, like the words physically scraped his throat on the way out.

“Let’s just get you set up here.” Nigel pulled the chair out with a quiet scrape, gesturing for Adam to sit. “How about I make you some mac and cheese, yeah? Get you sorted with your work for the rest of the day. Nothing complicated. Just need you to wipe a few files for me.”

“Okay, Nigel,” Adam replied softly, obedient as ever.

Nigel turned on his heel and left the room, rubbing at his temples with the heel of his hand. What the hell was he doing? Cooking for this kid? Playing house? The restless frustration simmered beneath his ribs, coiled tight and sour, but he shoved it aside. They still had work to do.

 

Adam sat quietly at his cracked laptop, his fingers drifting lightly over the keys, tracing them more than typing. The fractured screen reflected faint lines across his face, but he barely noticed. Nigel hadn’t called him a child. He hadn’t shouted or stormed off, hadn’t slammed doors or left him stranded in his panic. He’d held him. Steady, firm, until the spiral eased. He’d spoken slowly, carefully. Now he was making him mac and cheese.

This wasn’t like Beth. It wasn’t the same tired pattern, the same disappointment tightening around his chest.

This was better.

Nigel was better.

A small smile curled at the corner of Adam’s mouth, fragile but genuine.

A few minutes later, Nigel returned, balancing a plastic plate piled with lukewarm, undermixed mac and cheese and a cheap disposable fork. He dropped it onto the desk beside Adam’s laptop with little ceremony, the plastic clattering faintly against the wood.

Nigel leaned over the back of Adam’s chair, his broad frame pressing close as his knees cracked softly under the strain. A heavy breath escaped him, warm against Adam’s ear.

Nigel launched into instructions, talking him through which files he needed deleted off a server, his voice steady and low. But Adam struggled to focus. The heat of Nigel’s breath ghosted over his skin, carrying the bitter, acrid scent of old tobacco layered faintly beneath the lingering traces of coffee from that morning. It made him shudder softly, a warmth prickling at the nape of his neck.

Adam closed his eyes for a moment, letting the steady rumble of Nigel’s voice wash over him. He could never tire of that sound.

“Got it?” Nigel asked, his voice low, roughened by smoke and fatigue.

“Yes, Nigel,” Adam replied obediently, fingers already gliding over the keyboard. The instructions were simple. They usually were. Nigel had a habit of underestimating him, keeping the jobs small, manageable, as though Adam might break under pressure. Every time he asked for something more technical, more demanding, Nigel would brush him off with that same dismissive smirk. “Save your energy for your day job,” he’d say.

Nigel sank down onto the bed, lighting a cigarette with a flick of his lighter. He took a long drag, the end glowing faintly in the dim light, smoke curling lazily from his lips and nose as he exhaled. The sharp, acrid scent crept through the room, weaving its way around Adam’s chair.

At first, the smell of tobacco, the quiet rustle of bedsheets, and the occasional grunt or hum from Nigel had thrown him off. But over time, he grew used to it. Even liked it. Something about the steady presence behind him made his thoughts slot into place more easily. He worked better with Nigel nearby.

Despite how badly things had gone earlier, Adam felt closer to Nigel than ever. It didn’t make sense, not logically, but the feeling was there, stitched tight beneath his ribs. Like their DNA had become tangled somehow, overlapping, fused together in ways that couldn’t be measured or explained. He knew it sounded ridiculous. His brain screamed that at him, clinical and sharp. But the idea still thrilled him. That they were connected.

And Nigel must feel it too. How could he not?

The little gestures, the quiet allowances. Letting him buy the microwave. The cheap boxes of mac and cheese. The light, teasing pats on the shoulder or the head. The words. The apology, rough and awkward, but there. The promise not to hit him. It all meant something.

It had to.

Adam smiled faintly to himself, pushing down the doubts that tried to claw their way in. Nigel felt it too. He was sure of it.

Chapter 5: House Call

Summary:

Adam visits Nigel’s apartment for the first time while the jobs he’s doing grow increasingly incriminating. They also have one of their first real, honest conversations.

“On your left, puşti.”

Adam’s breath hitched, a squeak barely escaping his throat as he flung himself sideways, just missing Darius lumbering past with a massive wooden crate strapped tight to his chest.

“Heads up, tânăr.”

Adam whipped around once more, his foot catching on a loose shoe lace and sending him stumbling. He barely managed to keep his balance as Gabriel barreled past, clutching a heavy box of files like a prize. Just as Adam’s knees buckled and his hands reached for the ground, Darko’s rough grip seized his arms, hauling him upright with an urgent pull.

“Alright, who the fuck let the bloody puppy out of his cage? Nearly wiped out the cunt hauling the crate of fucking C4. Yeah, that’s gonna end real fucking well.” Darko growled, his voice thick with irritation and a warning edge.

“Sorry, Darko,” Adam muttered, peering over the bigger man’s shoulder, curiosity prickling as the weight of the explosives settled in the air like a bad omen.

“Nigel? You wanna drag this fucking mutt outside for a piss? Take him to the goddamn dog park, chuck a frisbee or some shit.”

“Yeah, no fucking thanks.” Nigel chuckled, flicking through a file like it was the last thing he could possibly care about.

“Wasn’t a bloody request,” Darko spat, eyes narrow as a pissed-off cat.

“What?” Nigel snapped, shoving the file aside. “Why the fuck do I gotta be the goddamn babysitter?”

“Because the little shit’s only still breathing ‘cause of you, pulă. Take him to your place.”

“No way in hell I’m fucking bringing him to my apartment,” Nigel grumbled.

“We could go to my apartment,” Adam offered quietly.

“No,” Nigel snapped flatly.

Adam shrank back dejectedly.

Darko and Nigel locked eyes, tension thick as blood, neither willing to back down. Finally, Nigel growled low and hauled Adam up by the back of the collar. “Come on, kid. We’re heading to my place. Pack your shit.”

 

Nigel kicked aside the battered welcome mat with a scowl, stooping to snatch up the lone copper key hidden beneath it. He muttered under his breath as he shoved it into the lock and twisted it with unnecessary force. The door creaked open, and he gestured for Adam to step inside.

Adam hesitated for a moment, adjusting the leather satchel slung over his shoulder, then crossed the threshold. The apartment was exactly what it looked like from the outside: corporate housing, all sharp edges and cold, minimalist furniture. But it wasn’t the disaster he’d braced himself for. He’d pictured overflowing bins, a graveyard of empty beer and vodka bottles, pizza boxes stacked to the ceiling, water stains blooming across plaster, and black mould creeping along the carpet like rot.

It was still rough around the edges, just not that rough. More overflowing ashtrays than he could count littered the side tables. Blueprints and half-crumpled documents were scattered across the coffee table, barely disguising the faint dusting of white powder smeared across the glass. A blanket and pillow were tossed carelessly across the sofa. Clearly, Nigel didn’t sleep comfortably, even when he wasn’t crashing in the warehouse.

“Sorry, wasn’t exactly expecting visitors,” Nigel muttered, slamming the door shut behind him.

“That’s alright, Nigel,” Adam said softly, poking his head around the corner like a curious stray.

“Don’t fucking touch anything.”

Nigel drifted about the room, scooping up the scattered papers from the coffee table. He wiped the faint powdery residue off the glass with his thumb, then absently popped it into his mouth, tongue darting over the skin like it was the most natural thing in the world. The blanket and pillow were bundled up in one arm, flung onto a nearby chair, and he gave the sofa cushion a quick, dismissive brush before jabbing a finger at it in silent instruction.

Adam shuffled over, perching himself stiffly on the edge of the sofa, his leather satchel set down carefully on the table in front of him.

Nigel vanished down the hall, the apartment filling with the sound of muffled shuffling, cupboard doors banging, and the low, steady stream of Romanian curses that carried faintly from the other room. A moment later, he reappeared, dropping down onto the sofa beside Adam with a weary sort of grace, one foot propped onto his opposite knee as he sparked up a fresh cigarette. The smoke curled lazily in the air between them.

“So, do you have work for me?” Adam asked.

“Is that all you ever fucking think about, Adam? Your work? What’s due next? What you gotta obsess over next?”

“No.”

“Oh yeah?” Nigel snorted. “You have fun?”

“Of course I do.”

Nigel smirked, eyeing him like he was some weird little science project. “I can’t picture you at a nightclub, or a titty bar… fuck, not even knockin’ back a pint with your workmates.”

“Oh, no.” Adam shook his head. “Those do not sound particularly enjoyable.”

“‘Course not,” Nigel sneered. “Where’s the fun in that? Gettin’ smashed, snortin’ lines, laughin’ your arse off with your mates, and finishin’ the night with some pretty little thing under your arm, her mouth wrapped round your cock.”

Adam just stared at him like some strange little alien. One of those cartoon freaks with the big eyes and stupid antennae sticking out their head. Nigel’s brain, being the fucked-up place it was, immediately pictured those wide eyes all hazy and half-lidded, glancing down while some bird sucked him off. Glazed over, spaced out, like he wasn’t even really there.

Nigel shook the thought out of his skull with a scowl.

“So,” he muttered, voice rough, “what the hell do you do for fun then?”

Adam smiled, a little unevenly, his hands twitching against his sides like he wasn’t sure whether to gesture or not. “I have a telescope,” he blurted, the words coming out fast, like they’d been waiting their turn. “I used to take it to Central Park at night, back when I lived in Manhattan. The light pollution’s not ideal, obviously, but you could still see some of the constellations if you know where to look. I chart them sometimes. I’ve got a log.” His voice pitched up as the words kept spilling out. “And I have a replica spacesuit! It’s not real, obviously, but it’s accurate. I measured everything, and the patches are all in the right spots. I… I read research papers, and I’ve got spreadsheets, and I watch documentaries, but only the good ones, the ones that don’t mess up the science. And I build models. Spacecraft, the Mars rover, satellites–”

Nigel’s eyes were wide, like he’d just been smacked around the head with a brick. He’d heard Adam ramble before, sure, but this was a whole other level of weird little meltdown.

Adam shifted his weight, his eyes flicking past Nigel but not really at him. “Did you know,” he started abruptly, his voice picking up speed like a runaway train, “the Sun is so big you could fit over a million Earths inside it? And it’s technically a G-type main-sequence star, but people just call it a yellow dwarf, which is… a bit misleading, actually, because it’s not that small compared to other stars.” He barely paused for breath, his fingers twitching against the seam of his trousers.

“And Jupiter’s Great Red Spot? That’s a storm, it’s been going for at least three hundred years, maybe longer, we don’t actually know when it started because telescopes weren’t as good back then.” His words kept tumbling out, faster now, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards in a barely contained smile. “And there’s a diamond planet, 55 Cancri e. It’s basically a giant carbon planet, and because of the pressure, it might be literally crystallised carbon, like diamond. A whole planet. Made of diamond.” His eyes flicked up briefly, bright with excitement. “Isn’t that amazing?”

“Uh… yeah…” Nigel stared at him, completely fucking lost.

The spark in Adam’s expression faltered, and he shrank in on himself like a switch had flipped. His shoulders hunched. His hands pulled in close to his chest, fingers fidgeting nervously with the edge of his sleeve.

“No, no, it’s… it is… amazing, I guess,” Nigel muttered, nodding slowly like he was trying to humour a lunatic. Entertaining this weird little side of Adam like it wasn’t completely fucking deranged. “You, uh… like anything else? Or is it just… space and fuck-all else?”

“I like other things,” Adam said quickly, almost like it was a defence. His fingers twitched at his sides. “I like Inside the Actors Studio. I like raccoons. They’ve got really sensitive hands; they can open jars.” His eyes flicked away for a second, like he wasn’t sure if that was relevant, but he carried on anyway. “And… engineering. I like that too. But…” His shoulders lifted slightly, like a small shrug, his voice softening, but his words still coming out a little too fast. “Space… I like space more than anything else.”

“Yeah, that’s bloody obvious,” Nigel chuckled, flicking ash from his cigarette onto the tray perched beside the couch.

“You like anything that much?” Adam asked, voice calm but curious.

“Do I—” Nigel scoffed, a harsh laugh escaping. “Do I like anything as much as you’re obsessed with space? Nah, probably not.”

“Then, what do you like?”

“Like I said, kid. Getting pissed, doing dumb shit, and fucking girls senseless.”

“You do that every night?” Adam asked, keeping his tone polite.

“Eh, a lot of nights, I guess,” Nigel shrugged, not bothering to sugarcoat it.

“Aren’t you tired?” Adam cocked his head, genuinely curious.

Nigel threw his head back and let out a sharp bark of laughter. “Tired? Yeah, maybe. Not as young as I used to be, shit. My back’s fucked sometimes, knees crack like hell, probably should get myself some damn reading glasses…”

He felt a bit off talking about his age. Pushing fifty, not the wild stallion anymore. And that thought stung like a kick to the gut.

“Well then, what do you do during the day?” Adam asked politely.

“During the day? Recover from the previous night. Work,” Nigel shrugged. “Nothin’ else, really.”

“Oh…” Adam sighed softly. “Okay.”

That pitiful little sigh twisted something sharp and uncomfortable in Nigel’s gut. Tight, weird, like he’d been sucker-punched but couldn’t show it.

“I… cook. Sometimes,” Nigel muttered, begrudgingly.

“Really?” Adam’s eyes lifted, curious.

“Yeah, yeah, Romanian recipes. Can never get the fucking things right,” Nigel admitted, scratching at the back of his neck. “Dunno if it’s ‘cause the ingredients here are shit, or if I’m just fucking them up.” He gave a crooked, sheepish smile. “Or maybe you just can’t ever replicate your mămică’s cooking, you know?”

Adam sat quietly, that same unreadable look on his face, and Nigel had no clue what was going on behind those eyes.

“What did your mother used to cook?” Adam asked softly.

“Oh, fucking tons of stuff,” Nigel smirked, the first genuine warmth creeping into his voice. “Mămăligă cu brânză și smântână, ciorbă de cartofi, tocăniță de ceapă cu mămăligă, cartofi prăjiți cu ou, fasole bătută, supă de tăiței…” He rattled off a stream of Romanian dishes like it was muscle memory, eyes distant.

Adam just stared, watching him ramble on.

“Varză călită, orez cu lapte, pâine cu zahăr sau magiun…”

Adam blinked. “I… don’t know what any of that means.”

Nigel snorted, shaking his head. “Yeah, figured. Just trust me, it’s all fucking brilliant.”

Adam watched him, a faint, almost reluctant softness creeping into his expression. There was something close to fondness in his eyes.

Nigel caught the look and frowned. “What?”

Adam shook his head lightly, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Nothing. Just… maybe you do care about something as much as I care about space.”

Nigel snorted, a sharp, derisive sound. “I’m not some fucking foodie or a goddamn chef, alright? I’m just… a patriotic prick with a hard-on for nostalgia. Everyone’s got their weak spot, yeah? Don’t fucking look at me like I’m soft.”

“Did you like Romania?” Adam asked.

“Yeah. A lot, actually. Hard to hate the place when you’re running the fucking show there.”

“But… you’re not anymore?” Adam clarified.

“Clearly,” Nigel scoffed. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t be stuck in this godforsaken shithole.”

“What happened?” Adam asked, voice softer, the whole mood in the room shifting like someone’d just cocked a gun under the table.

Nigel’s usual response to that question was brutal, almost instinctive. Grab the idiot by the collar, slam the back of their skull into the nearest wall, twist their arm until bone splintered like dry wood. Spit venomous threats into their ear before tossing them aside like an empty beer bottle, just to watch them shatter.

But Adam.

He’d promised himself he’d never lay a hand on Adam. No matter how much the words grated, no matter how his jaw clenched and his knuckles blanched under the pressure of his fists. The fury was still there, coiled tight beneath his ribs, but he forced a slow, deliberate breath into his lungs, holding it like a cork in a bottle. Letting the anger simmer instead of boil over.

“Got shot in the head,” Nigel muttered flatly.

“Oh.” Adam’s eyes dropped to the scar.

“What’d you think this was?” Nigel snapped, jabbing a finger at the jagged, ugly line above his brow. “Some angel’s kiss? Fucking birthmark? Nah, kid. That’s what happens when some cunt puts a bullet through your skull.”

“And you survived that?” Adam asked, genuinely baffled.

“Barely,” Nigel grunted. “Underground surgery by some back-alley butcher, slipped into a coma, long-arse stretch of bed rest, months of feelin’ like shit. Memory’s still fucked.” He crushed the cigarette into the ashtray like it’d personally offended him. “Then I got shipped off to this lovely fucking country.”

“Wow…” was all Adam could manage, wide-eyed.

“Yep.” Nigel let out a sigh, running a hand down his face. “Alright. Enough talk about me. Work.” He jabbed a finger at Adam’s satchel in command.

Adam obediently shuffled forward, perching on the very edge of the sofa as he unfastened the worn leather flap and pulled out his laptop. Behind him, Nigel sprawled out along the length of the couch, stretching his legs with deliberate laziness until his boots nearly brushed against Adam’s back.

“What do you need me to do?” Adam asked, his voice cautious.

“I need you to plant some evidence,” Nigel said plainly, like he was asking him to post a letter.

Adam blinked, staring at him. “You want me to frame someone?”

Nigel’s mouth curved into a crooked smirk. “No– well, yeah. Actually.”

Adam hesitated, the words lodging somewhere in his throat. Up until now, it had been small jobs. Harmless, in theory. Access this, deliver that, retrieve the other. But this. Framing someone else for a crime Nigel had committed… it wasn’t just wrong. It was properly, morally, ethically wrong. It sat heavy in his chest, coiled like a bad thought that wouldn’t leave.

“Problem, Cosmo?” Nigel teased, grin sharp around the cigarette hanging from his lips.

“Yes, Nigel,” Adam replied plainly. “I don’t know if I’m comfortable manipulating someone else’s financial records to cover for a crime you committed.”

Nigel snorted. “Relax, kid. We’re not pinning this on some innocent bastard. These pricks are deep into money laundering, tax fraud, racketeering... plenty of skeletons in their closets already. We’re just… adding another one.”

Adam frowned slightly, thinking.

“Look, here’s the play,” Nigel continued. “You’re gonna hack your way into their shell companies, their offshore bullshit, anywhere they park dirty money. You slip in a few flagged transfers of the cash we took from the bank, just enough to trip the right alarms.”

“And the rest of the money?” Adam asked.

“We move it through clean channels while the feds are busy crawling up their arses,” Nigel smirked. “Let ‘em follow the breadcrumbs to the wrong fucking door.”

Adam considered it, eyes narrowing. “You’d need their account structures, holding companies, transaction patterns… all of it.”

“That’s why you’re here,” Nigel’s voice dropped, low and expectant. “Figure out the details. Ghost in, make it look real. We fuck ‘em without ever pulling the trigger.”

Adam paused for a long moment. “It will take a long time,” he finally said.

“And I’ll stroll down to the shop and buy you all the fucking mac and cheese and Red Bull your little brain needs to fry itself getting the job done,” Nigel shot back with a mocking grin.

Adam frowned. “I don’t drink energy drinks.”

“Fine,” Nigel snorted. “I’ll swing by the warehouse and score you some fucking speed instead. That’ll light a fire under your arse.”

Adam let out a soft, amused huff, that quiet little sound that never failed to send a queasy, unwelcome flip through Nigel’s stomach.

“Get started,” Nigel instructed, pushing himself up from the sofa and giving Adam some room to work.

But the moment he stood, Adam made a small, involuntary sound of protest, barely more than a breath, but enough to stop Nigel in his tracks. He glanced down, meeting Adam’s wide, slightly mortified eyes, like he was as surprised by the noise as Nigel was.

“You can… stay,” Adam offered awkwardly, his fingers fidgeting with the edge of his laptop. “I’d… like you to stay.”

Nigel gave a short nod and dropped back onto the sofa beside him, saying nothing, his eyes drifting to the soft, chocolate whisps of hair that curled untidily around Adam’s ear.

 

Adam had migrated to the armchair, giving up the sofa so Nigel’s long legs could stretch out and starfish lazily across the cushions. He sat cross-legged, tucked in on himself, his fidget toy resting on the arm of the chair within easy reach whenever his fingers weren’t darting across the laptop keys.

Nigel chain-smoked his way through a few more cigarettes, cracked open a couple of beers, even flicked the soccer on in the background, though the volume stayed firmly on mute. The hours slipped by like that, the quiet rhythm of work filling the space, broken only when they finally paused to eat and for Adam to give his aching fingers a break.

Now, Adam was sat cross-legged on the floor, nursing a bowl of chicken Alfredo, which, according to Nigel, was “basically just bloody mac and cheese with some fucking chicken thrown in.” The television played a space documentary that Adam had persuaded him to put on, the gentle narration drifting over the room.

Nigel lounged on the sofa, demolishing a pepperoni pizza and nursing another beer, eyes half-lidded but still following the surprisingly stunning shots of galaxies and star clusters flickering across the screen.

Nigel glanced down, spotting Adam’s free hand rolling the little dice-shaped fidget toy across his palm.

“You’re supposed to be resting your hands, idiot,” Nigel muttered around a mouthful of pizza.

“Yeah, sorry… my brain’s still working on the job.”

Nigel frowned, tilting his head. “What’s your brain got to do with your fingers?”

“When my brain’s busy, my hands… they sort of have to keep up,” Adam explained, his thumb tracing the edge of the fidget toy. “I need to be doing something. I… stim. It’s called self-stimulatory behaviour. Basically, it means repetitive movements or sounds, like fidgeting, but… more deliberate. It helps regulate things. Like when I’m anxious, or overwhelmed, or even just excited… it gives my body somewhere for all that noise to go. Sometimes it’s just… grounding. Like pressing a reset button for my nerves.”

Nigel let out a quiet hum. “Huh. That normal?”

“Yes. Very. Everyone stims, really. Everyone bounces their leg or twirls their hair. But…” Adam’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “I experience it… more intensely.”

“Why?”

Adam’s fingers flexed restlessly against his leg, his gaze dropping away, distant. “It’s… It’s called Asperger’s Syndrome,” he admitted quietly. “It’s a developmental thing. Neurological. It’s why I… why I am the way I am.”

A long silence settled over the apartment, stretching thin between them. The only sound was the low, steady drone of the documentary narrator, his voice weaving through facts about distant stars and galaxies. Soft, shifting colours from the constellations on the screen flickered across the room, casting faint blues and purples onto Adam’s face. He kept his eyes fixed on the television, too nervous to look at Nigel, his fingers tightening slightly around his fidget toy.

After a moment, Nigel’s voice broke the quiet.

“I know.”

Adam’s eyes widened, his head snapping around to stare at him. “You do?”

“Yeah.” Nigel’s voice was lower now, rough at the edges, like the words scraped coming out. “I had Gabriel talk me through it… back when you first showed up at the warehouse.” He rubbed a hand over his face, exhaling through his nose. “We were goin’ through your stuff, found that little sensory toy of yours… Gabriel reckoned it was for ‘broken brains.’ His words, not mine. Well, paraphrased… but you get the idea.”

He paused, thumb running along the seam of his jeans. “Turns out the bastard’s got a psych degree tucked away somewhere. Clocked your… y’know, your quirks. Gave me the beginner’s guide to Asperger’s.”

“O–oh… So, what do you know about it?” Adam asked, curiosity flickering beneath his nerves.

Nigel tilted his head. “Right, so you lose your shit over loud noises and bright lights, yeah? World just gets a bit too fucking loud for you. And you take everything dead literal, can’t tell when someone’s taking the piss. And the other day, when you wrecked my fucking room? That wasn’t just you being a prick, that was a meltdown, yeah? You do those sometimes?”

Adam nodded, relief washing through him like a cool breeze. For once, someone actually understood. And from all people, it was Nigel. “That’s… a couple of things, yes.”

“See? Even with a bit of brain damage rattling about in here, I’m not completely thick.” Nigel tapped his temple and gave him a crooked wink.

A grin spread across Adam’s face, lopsided and bright, and before he could stop himself, he burst out laughing. The sound was raw, unpolished, tumbling out of him loud and a little uneven. But it felt good. Honest. Nigel’s smirk widened into something warmer, and he let out a sharp bark of laughter of his own. There was a warm, fuzzy feeling in his stomach as he laughed along with Adam.
After a few more minutes, they polished off their food. Nigel stretched his arms high above his head, joints cracking like gunfire, a low groan rumbling from his chest. “Right, back to work, Adam,” he muttered, knuckling the back of his neck. “And back on the couch, gotta keep an eye on you.”

Adam nodded, collecting his laptop and sinking back onto the couch. The television flicked back to the sports channel, all rowdy shouting and flashing colours, but Nigel muted it with a click of the remote, the room settling into quiet. Outside, the last scraps of daylight had bled away, the window now reflecting the faint glow of the lamp beside them.

“Mind if I light up?” Nigel asked, fishing a hand into his pocket.

“You smoke all the time, Nigel,” Adam replied absently, his gaze fixed on the glow of his laptop screen, fingers tapping out a steady rhythm.

“I meant a joint,” Nigel clarified, already pulling the little crumpled baggie from his jacket.

“Oh… um… can you please just open a window?” Adam asked, hesitant but firm.

Nigel stood halfway, ready to cross the room and crack the window open without thinking, when something snagged in his chest. He froze.

When exactly had he started taking orders? And from Adam, of all people. The awkward little hostage he could snap like a twig if he felt like it. The scrawny, twitchy kid who couldn’t look him in the eye properly. He’d shown him his apartment, his actual place, not some hideout the crew passed through. He’d sat here sharing stories about his mother. Bought him food. Let him smile like that. Let him… laugh like that.

Jesus Christ. It made his skin crawl, that stupid little glow of warmth in his chest, like some part of him actually… cared.

And what the fuck did that mean? Liking the sound of his laugh? Not minding having him around? Letting him sit there, all soft-eyed and oblivious, asking things like that, all polite, like they were friends. Like he wasn’t exactly the kind of soft, wired-up guy Nigel had spent his entire life keeping his distance from. Like he wasn’t everything Nigel had been taught to despise in himself.

His jaw clenched, breath sharp in his throat as his mood soured like milk. “No, I fucking can’t open a window, you little shit. I’ll spark up in my own fucking apartment if I wanna, alright? You don’t get to waltz in here flapping your mouth, telling me what the fuck to do.”

Adam blinked, startled, his face blanking in that particular way Nigel was starting to recognise. He shrank into the cushions slightly, fingers curling awkwardly against his laptop. “A-alright.”

Nigel slumped back onto the couch, tugging out a joint and sparking it up with a flick of his lighter. He took a long, deliberate drag, eyes never leaving Adam, then exhaled a slow stream of smoke in his direction. Petty? Maybe. But the little shit needed reminding of his place. Never get comfortable. Never start thinking you’ve got a shred of control here. He wasn’t crew. He wasn’t a friend. He was a hostage. A stray the lot of them were keeping on a short leash.

 

Adam sat huddled at the far end of the couch, his laptop balanced on his thighs, fingers tapping quietly at the keys. His movements were more rigid now, the rhythm off, little pauses breaking the steady pattern. Wisps of grey-blue smoke curled towards him, thickening the air. His eyes watered faintly. He coughed, barely more than a breath, but Nigel clocked it all the same.

The sudden blare of sound filled the apartment, rattling through the speakers as Nigel flicked the television off mute. The sports commentary barked through the room, sharp and jarring. Adam flinched, fingers pausing for a second over his keyboard.

He wasn’t good at reading unspoken signals, never had been. But even he could feel the shift in the air now. The tight coil beneath Nigel’s casual slouch. The pointed volume of the television. The sour twist in his voice. He’d done something wrong. He’d said something. Or maybe he hadn’t; maybe it was one of those things where not saying the right thing was the problem. It was impossible to tell.

They’d been laughing five minutes ago. Genuinely laughing, like for a moment, none of this mattered. Since then, he’d barely said a dozen words. He was working, like Nigel preferred. Sitting exactly where he was told to.

“I–I’m sorry,” Adam said softly, staring at his laptop screen, not sure what he was apologising for, only knowing he was supposed to.

Nigel shot him a look. “Good. Now shut the fuck up with the sorrys and get the fucking job done,” he barked.

Adam nodded and resumed typing, the apartment filled with smoke, the sound of the loud television, and a tension that Adam didn’t quite understand.

Chapter 6: Hard Lessons

Summary:

Nigel forces Adam to sit and watch while he teaches him something important. Something he’ll never forget.

Notes:

Content Warning: Please mind the tags. This chapter contains particularly vivid and graphic depictions of violence, torture, gore, and death. Dead dove, do not eat.

Adam kept his head down after that. Careful, quiet, barely speaking unless spoken to. He stayed out of Nigel’s way, kept his eyes on his work, and made sure every task was done quickly and without question. Nigel had him doing more jobs since that night. Destroying evidence, wiping surveillance footage, little digital clean-ups hidden safely behind the glow of a laptop screen. It was all distant, detached.

He’d asked Darko, cautiously, if they needed anything else delivered. The older man had just snorted, waving him off. Said no. Said Adam was doing fine. Keep your head down, keep working hard. Good kid, that’s what he called him. Said Nigel was just having one of his hissy fits.

But even so, Adam moved like the floorboards might crack beneath him, like every word might set Nigel off again.

He sat cross-legged on the bed in his room, the glow of his laptop screen casting pale light across his face. His fingers hovered over the keyboard as he typed out yet another message to his boss, explaining the extended absence. The replies came back quickly. Cheerful, oblivious. Good for you, they said. It’s about time you took a break. Don’t worry about remote work. Just relax. Enjoy the time off.

Adam stared at the words for a long moment, his jaw tight, before closing the laptop and setting it aside.

A sudden burst of noise echoed from the main room of the warehouse. Voices calling out, rough laughter spilling through the gaps in the door. Heavy footsteps scuffed across the floor. It wasn’t aggressive. Not yet. But the sound prickled along Adam’s spine all the same.

Curiosity got the better of him. Adam slipped out of his room, quiet as a mouse creeping from a crack in the skirting board, drawn out by the sound of laughter and clinking glasses. He crept along the hall and peeked his head around the corner.

The men were crowded around a battered table, half-empty bottles and mismatched glasses scattered across it. The air smelled faintly of cheap liquor and cigarette smoke. Gabriel spotted him immediately, eyes brightening like he’d grown a pair of twitchy ears and a tail.

“Adam! Oi, Adam, come on over, lad!”

The others turned at the sound of his name, their faces splitting into wide, easy grins. Voices called out, half-shouted welcomes echoing through the space as they waved him over.

A small, crooked smile tugged at Adam’s mouth and, without thinking, he scampered towards them, a lightness in his chest for the first time all evening. It was a relief, slipping out of that quiet, careful tip-toeing for a while.

“What’re you doing?” Adam asked, blinking at them, his voice light and curious, like he’d accidentally wandered into a book club instead of a gang of criminals getting rowdy in a warehouse.

“Gettin’ smashed, what the fuck does it look like?” Gabriel grinned, grabbing Adam by the arm and hauling him into the circle like he weighed nothing.

“You in or what?”

“Oh, um… I don’t drink,” Adam offered, awkwardly, like that might earn him a free pass.

“Then we’ll shove a fucking glass of water in your hand,” Darius cackled from the other side of him, raising his drink. “Stop being a fucking nun about it. It’s a game.”

“I probably wouldn’t be very good at it,” Adam mumbled, visibly shrinking under the sudden wave of attention, shoulders drawing in tight.

The whole table groaned in protest, a messy chorus of jeers and exaggerated sighs.

“It’s a numbers game, kid,” Darko winked, dragging his cigarette to the corner of his mouth, smoke curling lazily into the air. “You’ll wipe the floor with us.”

Adam’s eyes brightened, a flicker of quiet confidence breaking through his nerves.

“Right, listen up, it’s easy,” Darko said, tapping ash onto the floor with a flick of his fingers. “We go round the circle, countin’ numbers. One, two, three, all that shit. But if it’s a seven, got a seven in it, or a multiple of seven? You say ‘bolț’ instead. And when someone says ‘bolț’, the direction flips.” He twirled his finger through the air, indicating the imaginary circle. “Clockwise, counterclockwise, whatever. Keeps goin’ till the next ‘bolț’ flips it back.”

His finger jabbed towards Adam, sharp and deliberate. “If you fuck it up, you drink. If you hesitate like a goldfish on ket, you drink. Say the wrong thing? You drink. Say the number when it’s not your turn? Guess what? You drink.”

Darko’s grin widened, teeth flashing like a wolf’s. “And to make it even more difficult, sometimes we do it in English instead of Romanian. So even you can play, sunshine.”

“O-okay, I think I understand the rules.” Adam nodded.

“Then shut the fuck up and play,” Darko chuckled, tossing his cigarette aside. “One.”

“Two.”

“Three.”

“Four.”

“Five.”

“Six.”

“Bolț.”

“Eight.”

“Nine”

“Ten.”

Darko was right. Adam wiped the floor with them. He was the first to catch it every time someone slipped up, sharp eyes locking onto a missed multiple of seven, finger shooting out with quiet confidence. The moment he pointed, the rest followed, jeering and laughing, the whole table erupting with good-natured mocking as the unfortunate player was forced to drink.

The room got loud and hazy fast. Glasses clinked, the air thick with cigarette smoke and the sharp, bitter scent of cheap liquor. Warm hands clapped him on the back, fingers ruffled his hair in passing, elbows bumped gently against his sides. At first, he flinched at every unexpected touch, muscles tight with the instinct to recoil. But it didn’t take long for the tension to slip from his shoulders, replaced by something unfamiliar but welcome. He let himself lean into it. The noise, the laughter, the rough, brotherly affection that settled over him like a well-worn jacket.

Over the sharp, hyena-like laughter and shouting, the slam of the back door cut through the room like a gunshot. Every head turned. Harsh light poured in from the open doorway, silhouetting the figures standing there, their edges glowing like something torn straight out of a stained glass window.

Nigel stood at the centre of the doorway, shoulders squared, broad frame blocking the light. At his feet, crumpled on the concrete, was a bound, blindfolded, and bloodied man. His wrists were tied behind his back, a filthy cloth shoved between his teeth, blood staining his shirt in dark, uneven patches.

Without ceremony, Nigel grabbed him by the back of the collar and hauled him upright, dragging him across the floor with one hand like a mangled cat hit by a car. The man’s legs scraped uselessly along the concrete, leaving a trail of blood in his wake.

Adam’s eyes widened, his pulse quickening. It was Nigel standing over the man. His face was unreadable, jaw tight, eyes cold with dangerous purpose.

The room fell silent. Cigarettes smouldered between fingers, drinks sat forgotten on the table. Nobody moved.

“What’s this, then? Little fucking tea party?” Nigel snarled, stomping in with the dead weight of the body hanging from his fist like a sack of meat.

“Just drinking, mate,” Darko muttered, jaw tight, eyes locked on the limp, blood-smeared figure dangling from Nigel’s hand like a rag doll.

“Yeah? Just fucking drinkin’ while I’m out there tearing my fucking arms off, dragging bodies round like bin bags? While you lot sit here, playing games, suckin’ each other off?”

The room went dead silent. You could hear it now: the wet, sticky drip of blood hitting the floor, slow and rhythmic, pooling under the man’s slack jaw. His lip hung torn, blood matting his hair to his skull.

Nigel’s stare locked onto Adam, cold and sharp as a blade. “You. With me. Now.”

And with that, he yanked the body along behind him, the sound of flesh scraping the floor following him out the door.

Adam’s eyes flittered anxiously across the table, never settling, never meeting anyone’s gaze. The room had gone still, the weight of it pressing down like a storm about to break. The other men sat rigid, swallowing hard, their eyes fixed on their drinks or the floor, anywhere but the door Nigel had vanished through. The laughter and warmth from earlier had drained away, leaving behind only silence and tension.

His restless gaze darted to Darko, catching the older man’s profile. Darko’s jaw was tight, his expression unreadable, eyes fixed firmly on the door.

Without a word, Darko pushed his chair back and rose to his feet, jerking his head once in a silent command for Adam to follow.

Pulse pounding, Adam stood and padded after him, steps light but uneven, the weight of unspoken warning thick in the air between them.

“Just… stay behind me, alright?” Darko muttered, his voice low, steady, but edged with caution.

Adam nodded quickly, his gaze flickering to the floor, the knot of nerves twisting tighter in his chest.

The door creaked open, revealing a narrow staircase that disappeared downwards into the dark. The steps were metal, worn and rusted, the dull steel streaked here and there with faint, rusty smears of blood.

Darko took the lead, his expression hard, unreadable, as he started down the stairs. Adam trailed close behind, his eyes fixed on the steps, watching each one carefully, afraid of missing his footing.

The further they descended, the colder it grew. The floor at the bottom was bare concrete, the walls and ceiling the same, rough and grey, closing in like the inside of a bunker. There were no windows, no ventilation, just still, stale air that pressed against Adam’s lungs.

A single door stood at the far end of the hallway. As they approached it, the walls seemed to tilt, the floor swaying beneath Adam’s feet. His vision wobbled at the edges, the narrow, windowless corridor warping and spinning faintly, sending a wave of dizziness through him.

Darko stopped just outside the door, his hand gripping the handle. A loud thud was followed by a weak, pained yelp from inside the room.

“Adam?”

“Y-yes…?”

“If Nigel puts his hands on you—”

“He won’t,” Adam replied, voice steady with quiet certainty.

Darko glanced down at him, giving a short, tense nod before pushing the door open and stepping inside. Adam followed close behind, eyes fixed over Darko’s shoulder, heart hammering in his chest.

The room was dim, lit only by a single bare lightbulb hanging crooked from the ceiling like a noose. Its sickly glow cast long shadows across the concrete walls. Off to the side sat a battered metal table, cluttered with an unsettling collection of tools. A gun. A crowbar. A baseball bat. Pliers. Coils of rope. Scattered amongst them were a few bloodied rags, a basic first aid kit, and a half-empty bottle of whiskey.

The only other piece of furniture was a dented metal chair, now occupied by the bound, blindfolded stranger, wrists tied tight to the frame, his head slumped forward.

Adam’s eyes adjusted enough to make out the figure of Nigel hunched over the chair, his shoulders rising and falling with each heavy breath. In one sharp movement, Nigel drove his fist into the man’s jaw. The blow sent both the chair and its occupant crashing to the floor with a harsh crack and a dull thud.

Hearing them enter, Nigel’s head turned. His eyes caught the light, dark and burning, pupils swallowed in crimson reflections, as if the blood from the floor had bled straight into them.

“Just Adam,” Nigel said flatly, his voice disturbingly calm. The eye of a storm.

“Nigel—”

“He needs to fucking learn,” Nigel snapped, cutting Darko off before stalking towards the table, his gaze fixed on the mess of weapons spread out like an autopsy tray.

Darko’s eyes shifted briefly to Adam, who hovered behind him, wide-eyed and frozen, looking every bit like a lamb in the slaughterhouse. His gaze drifted to Nigel’s face, tracing the sharp curve of his brow, the cold, set line of his jaw.

“He’s just a kid,” Darko muttered.

Nigel’s hand landed heavy on the table, fingers spreading over cold steel. They drifted across the blade of a knife, a pair of pliers, the blood-stained cloth.

“I was ten the first time my old man made me watch,” he said, voice rough and flat as gravel. “Bet you weren’t much older.”

Darko’s jaw clenched. “…Twelve.”

Nigel snorted softly, a bitter, humourless sound through his nose, eyes never leaving the weapons.

“Then he’s overdue.”

Darko hesitated. His eyes flicked to Adam one last time before he turned towards the door, his footsteps slow and reluctant. He paused at the threshold, casting one final glance back.

Then he slipped out, the door closing with a dull click behind him, his steps echoing down the cold concrete hall.

Adam’s eyes drifted to the stranger slumped in the chair, his stomach twisting as he bit down on his trembling bottom lip. “Who…?”

“Bloke who used to do the computer jobs before you,” Nigel murmured, voice low and cold, fingers tightening around the crowbar resting on the table. “Funny thing. He vanished. Right after some of our shit landed in the feds' hands.”

Adam’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, his voice barely a whisper. “So… he had… my job…?”

Nigel looked up, steady, expression hard as the concrete walls. “Yeah.” His grip flexed on the crowbar, the metal groaning faintly under his hand. “He had your job.”

Nigel’s hand closed around the crowbar, lifting it from the table with a slow, deliberate motion. He turned it over, feeling the weight settle into his palm. His eyes flicked to Adam, making sure he was watching, before he crossed the room to the bound man.

Without a word, he knelt, fingers bunching the flimsy fabric of the man’s trousers until it tore. The material split with a soft rip, exposing the pale skin of his knee and shin beneath.

Nigel crouched low, the crowbar hanging loose and casual in his grip, as if it were nothing more than a spanner or screwdriver. His fingers found the hooked end, guiding it beneath the kneecap with clinical precision. Cold metal pressed into soft flesh, biting deep.

The man in the chair started to squirm, low, pitiful whimpers escaping behind the gag, his blindfold dark with sweat.

“See…” Nigel’s voice was steady, unnervingly conversational, as though explaining the workings of a car engine. The man writhed under his hands, the rope restraints creaking with each panicked jolt. “Kneecaps are delicate things. Floatin’ there… held on by sinew, a few bits o’ string. Not much more secure than a bottle cap, really.”

The crowbar shifted, grinding upwards, forcing its way beneath the patella. Skin split, taut ligaments stretched to their limits, trembling like guitar strings on the verge of snapping.

“Takes a bit of leverage…” Nigel muttered, adjusting his stance, rolling his shoulders with a slow ease, like this was nothing more than routine.

The sound that followed was anything but routine.

A wet, sickening pop-crack tore through the room. Cartilage gave way. Tendons snapped like frayed cables. The kneecap ripped free with a sharp jolt, dangling from the hooked end of the crowbar, slick with blood and dangling strips of flesh.

The man’s scream came half a second later. Raw, ragged, tearing out of him and echoing off the bare concrete walls. His leg sagged uselessly, blood pooling beneath the chair, running down onto the floor in a spreading red stain.

Nigel straightened slowly, holding up the crowbar. The patella dangled from the end, turning lazily as crimson dripped onto the concrete.

“See?” His voice remained calm, disturbingly matter-of-fact. “Comes off clean… if you know what you’re doin’.”

Adam’s stomach lurched again and again, like it was trying to twist itself inside out. His head spun, edges of the walls blurring and tilting at the corners of his vision, like everything was just barely holding together. The sharp, metallic stink of blood was everywhere, heavy and thick, scraping against the back of his throat and making him want to gag. The man’s screams bounced off the cold concrete all around him, echoing and echoing, louder and louder, like they were smashing into his brain from every direction.

This wasn’t what he wanted. Not like this. Not at all.

He had wanted the quiet, the nothingness, that weightless stillness that swallowed up everything like a black hole. The kind he’d felt before in the bank, where the air went dead and soft and calm. But this… this was something else. Blood, and flesh torn apart, and muffled begging through a gag. The worst sounds. The worst smells.

His pulse hammered in his ears, faster and faster, the screams twisting and folding into themselves, looping around and around, squeezing tighter until they were all he could think about. The lightbulb above him swung slowly, creaking with the brush of Nigel’s shoulder, throwing sick, spinning shadows across the walls that made his head swim even more.

The blood smell clung to everything, stuck to his skin and his clothes and pushed hard against his skull like a vice, trying to crush him, to break him right there. He felt it grinding inside his head, making everything worse, making him want to run or scream or just disappear.

His hands clenched tight against his chest, nails biting deep into the fabric of his shirt, but it did nothing to stop the shaking. His whole body trembled, small and uncontrolled, and his eyes went glossy and unfocused, like he wasn’t really there at all. Like he was somewhere far away, drowning in the noise and the smell and the pain.

“Stay with me.” Nigel’s voice sliced through the chaos, sharp and unyielding. Adam hadn’t even realised he’d stepped in front of him, standing far too close. His hand shot up and gripped Adam’s jaw firmly, no gentleness in the touch, more like a command than comfort.

Adam looked up, blinking and trembling. His eyes landed on the scar on Nigel’s head, the one Nigel had said came from being shot. The edges of the scar stretched out like an exploding star, jagged rays reaching endlessly outward, fracturing into sharp, uneven lines that vanished into the rough skin around it. It was cold and raw, impossible to ignore, like a map of some distant, violent cosmos carved into Nigel’s scalp.

“Good boy,” Nigel murmured, voice low and clipped. “You’ll keep watching, yeah?” His thumb pressed hard into Adam’s jaw, the pressure sharp and unrelenting. “And then, by the end, you’ll get what you want.”

Adam nodded slowly, dazed, desperate to hold on to Nigel’s voice, to the weight of that grip, anything to stop his mind from slipping away into the dark.

 

Nigel’s eyes locked on Adam’s nod, slow and almost vacant, like the younger man was moving through thick fog or under the influence of something stronger than fear. Nigel had braced himself for the opposite, for Adam to run, to scream at him, to spit words full of hatred and vow never to come back. It was the script everyone else had followed. People always left, walking away like a door slamming shut.

But Adam stayed. Quiet and still, his nod was as gentle and resigned as a whisper in a storm. That refusal to fight or run twisted something deep inside Nigel. It was a knot of anger mixed with a hollow, queasy ache he could not quite name. The feeling caught him off guard, raw and unsettling, like an old wound reopening just beneath the surface.

He swallowed, throat dry and scratchy. “Good. That’s… that’s good,” he muttered, finally letting go of Adam’s face.

A rough hand raked through the tangled mess of his greying hair as he tossed the crowbar onto the table. The metal clattered against the surface with a sharp, jarring clang that cut through the stale air. The hostage was a mess of cold, clammy skin, chest heaving with frantic, shallow breaths, limbs twitching with the tell-tale tremors of shock. His skin had taken on that waxy, sickly grey that Nigel had seen a thousand times before. He’d bleed plenty, sure, but not enough to drop dead yet. Not enough to slip away easily.

Not yet.

Nigel snatched the hunting knife from the table, the blade glinting under the low, flickering light as he turned, boots scraping against the concrete. He stalked towards the broken blood bag slumped in the chair, his steps slow, deliberate.

Adam would leave him. He had to. And if he didn’t? Well, Nigel would peel his eyes open and force him to watch until he ran. Force him to choke down every sickening second. He’d promised Adam the one thing he wanted: the void, the sweet, blank nothingness of death staring him in the eye. And he’d deliver. Christ, Adam had waited long enough. But he wasn’t handing it over for free. Not without making the poor bastard earn it.

The man sagged against the restraints, wrists tied tight to the armrests, ankles bound to the chair legs, one knee nothing but ruined pulp and bone. A strip of fabric pressed between his teeth, knotted tight behind his head, muffling the panicked sounds clawing at his throat. The blindfold across his eyes was soaked with sweat, dark patches spreading across the cloth.

He couldn’t see Nigel coming. But he could hear him. The scrape of boots. The low hum of breath. The soft, almost casual sound of the knife leaving its sheath.

Nigel didn’t waste time.

He grabbed a fistful of the man’s shirt, yanked it up, and drove the blade in just below the ribs. The knife punched through skin, fat, and muscle with a sickening, wet shlk, sinking deep into the soft underbelly.

The man’s whole body arched, a muffled, animal shriek bursting against the gag, the chair legs rattling as he convulsed.

Nigel wrenched the blade downward.

Flesh split like overripe fruit. A rush of hot blood spilled out, slick and dark, soaking the man’s lap and the floor beneath. Then came the guts. Pale coils of intestine bulged from the gaping wound, slick with bile and blood, spilling down his thighs, ropes of bowel slapping wetly onto the concrete.

The man thrashed, head jerking side to side, the blindfold soaked through, the gag twisted tight in his teeth. His fingers curled, nails scraping uselessly against the metal armrests, wrists flexing against the rope, tendons straining.

The blood kept coming. A thick, steady stream pooled beneath the chair, dark and steaming in the cold room. His breathing turned ragged, frantic, high-pitched wheezing leaking past the gag as shock swallowed him, skin draining pale, limbs trembling.

Nigel wiped the blade off on the man’s shredded shirt, boots slick with blood as he stepped back, watching the body slump forward, the mess of glistening entrails spilling onto the floor.

Nigel sliced through the restraints with the hunting knife, the frayed ropes falling limp around the man’s wrists and ankles. With a rough tug, he ripped the blindfold from the man’s face, revealing wide, glassy eyes, rimmed with red, darting aimlessly in terror.

The body was nothing but dead weight now.

Nigel shoved him forward.

The man toppled from the chair, but it wasn’t his body that hit the floor first.

His guts spilled out ahead of him, a glistening heap of slick, coiled intestine slapping wetly onto the concrete with a thick, meaty smack. Blood poured after them in sluggish streams, pooling fast across the floor. The man collapsed on top of the mess, his torso folding unnaturally over his own entrails.

His mouth worked uselessly, a weak, rattling gurgle bubbling in his throat as blood dripped from his lips. His eyes stared straight ahead, wide and glassy, unfocused, the pupils blown. Each gasping breath shuddered through his chest, weaker than the last, the rise and fall of his ribs uneven and shallow.

A faint exhale slipped past his lips, almost like a sigh, and then... nothing.

His body sagged into the crimson pool, head lolling to one side, eyes fixed and empty, the torn mess of his abdomen still steaming in the cold air.

Nigel looked up, half expecting to hear retching, to see Adam hunched in the corner, losing his guts like the bastard on the floor. But he wasn’t.

Adam’s face was pale, tinged an ugly shade of green, his jaw clenched tight. His hands shook faintly at his sides, but his eyes… his eyes were locked on the corpse.

Not the blood. Not the mangled ruin of the man’s abdomen, the tangle of slick, glistening intestines steaming faintly in the cold air. His gaze was fixed, unwavering, on the dead man’s face.

And then, slowly, purposefully, Adam moved.

He lowered himself to the floor with quiet, mechanical precision, like every motion was considered, deliberate. His knees hit the concrete first, his palms pressing flat to the floor, but there was no stumbling, no panic. He crept forward, steady and intent, crawling through the slick smear of blood that stretched between him and the corpse.

The faintest trace of heat still radiated off the body. Adam stopped just short of it, settling back onto his heels, the pool of blood soaking into his jeans, his hands resting loose by his sides.

The shaking faded.

Still as stone, he stared down at the face of the dead man, his eyes wide, glassy, unreadable. No horror. No disgust. Just a quiet, unnatural stillness, like something inside him had gone dormant, or snapped loose entirely.

Nigel watched him, crouching down himself, elbows resting on his knees, the bloody knife still dangling loosely from one hand. His gaze stayed fixed on Adam, studying the strange, eerie calm bleeding off him in waves.

Their first conversation drifted back, sharp as broken glass.

"It was like the absence of everything. Just blank space. And it didn’t feel bad. It felt peaceful."

The room stank of blood and opened flesh. The corpse steamed faintly on the cold floor. And Adam… Adam just knelt there in it, quiet, unmoving, his eyes locked on the dead man's empty stare.

Nigel watched as Adam reached out, his slender fingers hovering for a moment before brushing against the corpse’s cooling skin. A quiet, shaky breath slipped from Adam’s lips, misting faintly in the stale air.

“Thank you…” Adam whispered, voice paper-thin, his wide, glassy eyes locked onto the lifeless stare of the dead man.

“Yeah… yeah…” Nigel mumbled, his own words fumbling out, useless. His gaze stayed fixed on Adam, lips parted slightly, unable to tear his eyes away. That feeling twisted in his gut again. Envy. Raw and sour. He wanted that. Whatever it was, Adam had. That void. That unbearable, beautiful emptiness.

“What does it feel like…?” Nigel breathed, barely hearing his own voice.

“It’s like… like a gravitational singularity,” Adam murmured, pupils blown wide, expression slack, unfocused. “Like a black hole collapsing everything in on itself. You don’t even get nothing left over. It’s just… absence. Space where there was something… but the coordinates don’t exist anymore.”

A shiver scraped down Nigel’s spine. His throat was dry. “That sounds… beautiful.”

“It is.”

Nigel stayed crouched there, knees stiff, eyes dragging from Adam to the corpse and back again. He stared, willing the emptiness to settle in. That quiet, hollow nothing he’d been envious of ever since Adam described it to him. But the corpse didn’t bring it. Didn’t make him feel nothing. It just made that ache worse. Heavy and sour in his chest.

And Adam… when he looked at him, he only got further away from nothing.

It curled under his skin. Unsettling. Familiar in a way he refused to pick apart. Whatever it was, it wasn’t the clean, blank void he wanted.

It wasn’t nothing. And that made him furious.

 

Nigel had left suddenly after that, disappearing without a word and leaving Adam alone with the body for as long as he wanted. Hours slipped by, stretching and folding strangely in the cold concrete basement where time lost all meaning. Adam stayed mostly still, kneeling on the hard floor until the pressure in his bladder forced him to shift, and the quiet rumble of his stomach reminded him he hadn’t eaten. Darko checked on him a few times, as did other gang members, their faces briefly appearing in the dim light before vanishing again. Each time, Adam responded with a low murmur, his mind elsewhere.

When he finally rose, muscles stiff but movements deliberate, he went to tend to himself, changing his clothes, relieving his bladder and reheating some microwaved mac and cheese that tasted faint and dull, but filled the gap. He ate slowly, eyes fixed on the warehouse walls until a few men appeared, carrying bone saws and dragging black plastic bags behind them. They disappeared into the basement, only to return after Adam finished his meal, heavy bags in hand and grim looks shadowing their faces.

“Darko?” Adam’s voice cut through the stillness.

“Yeah, what’s up?” Darko sounded quieter than usual, something cautious beneath his usual rough tone.

“Where’s Nigel?”

“Uh… went to the club, I think. Said he needed to think.”

Adam nodded once, softly. “Can I be excused? I want to go somewhere.”

Darko sighed, the sound low and reluctant. “Yeah, sure. You want me to drop you off?”

Adam shook his head.

“You’ve got my number on your burner, yeah? Call me if you need anything, Adam.”

“Thank you, Darko.”

Adam arrived at Nigel’s apartment with grocery bags tucked in his arms. He crouched by the doorway, fingers brushing aside the worn welcome mat to retrieve the copper key hidden beneath it. The lock clicked open with a familiar scrape. He slid the key back under the mat before stepping inside.

The apartment was empty, quiet except for the faint hum of the old refrigerator and the steady tick of a wall clock. A single lamp glowed in the corner of the living room, casting warm light over the space. It looked tidier than it had a few days ago, the clutter stripped back, surfaces wiped down. But on the coffee table, a freshly opened bottle of vodka sat amongst the quiet, nearly drained, the cap discarded beside it.

Adam carried the groceries through to the kitchen. The space was half-open, letting him see across the living room as he unpacked the plastic bags onto the counter. His movements were careful, methodical, each item placed down with quiet precision.

Since the last time he’d been here, curiosity had got the better of him. He’d looked up some of the food Nigel had mentioned his mother used to cook back in Romania. A few of the recipes were simple enough, cheap to make, nothing complicated. He had read through them in the evenings, thinking maybe, one day, he’d try making one or two.

But after everything that had happened tonight, the thought lingered with more purpose. It wasn’t just curiosity anymore. It was the need to repay Nigel, to offer something back, something small, but intimate.

Adam opened his laptop, pulling up the recipe he’d saved earlier. The instructions stared back at him, neat and uncomplicated. He moved through the kitchen, rummaging through cupboards until he’d gathered what he needed: a couple of pans, a pot, a bottle of oil, and the odd jar of seasoning shoved to the back of the shelf. It wasn’t much, but it would do.

Cooking wasn’t exactly his thing. His diet rarely strayed beyond All-Bran cereal, chicken, broccoli, and mac and cheese. But cooking, really, was just instructions. And if there was one thing Adam understood, it was how to follow instructions. He worked through the recipe with quiet concentration, every step measured, timers set, internal temperatures monitored with precise attention.

Before long, the small apartment was filled with a rich, surprisingly pleasant smell. Spices, meat, and vegetables simmering together into something warm and unfamiliar. Adam had braced himself to feel overwhelmed by the new smells, the unfamiliar weight of them clinging to the air, but it wasn’t so bad. He didn’t even have to crack a window.

He grabbed a pair of mismatched bowls from the cupboard and two battered spoons, setting them down with quiet finality.

A dull thud sounded against the front door, followed by the muffled scrape of keys and Nigel cursing under his breath as he bent down to retrieve them. Adam’s head lifted, his pulse quickening. He straightened his jumper with a swift tug and smoothed his hair down with one hand, stepping towards the front hall.

The door burst open, rattling on its hinges as Nigel stumbled inside, laughing.

Adam’s stomach sank.

Clinging to him, practically draped over his shoulders, was a woman. Her lipstick was smeared, mascara smudged at the corners of her eyes, hair tangled and wild from the wind or the club or both. Her fingers gripped at Nigel’s belt as she giggled, pressing against him.

Adam froze. Every muscle in his body locked tight, his eyes fixed to the scene like they were nailed there.

The pair of them barely noticed him at first, tangled in their jackets and each other, Nigel tugging his shirt halfway over his head before the woman finally caught sight of Adam standing there.

She let out a soft yelp that fizzled into a laugh. “You didn’t tell me you had a roommate, baby.”

Nigel paused, shirt still bunched awkwardly around his ribs. His eyes landed on Adam, and for a beat, everything slowed.

“Adam?”

Adam didn’t know what to say. His mouth opened, then closed again, his eyes fixed on Nigel.

“The fuck are you doing here?” Nigel slurred, swaying slightly in the doorway.

Adam tried to speak. His lips parted, but the words caught somewhere in his throat, stuck fast. He just stood there, useless, opening and closing his mouth like some stranded fish.

Nigel blinked slowly, dragging a breath in through his nose. His gaze drifted past Adam, brow furrowing. “Are you… cooking?” The question slurred out, lopsided and curious, as he stumbled further into the apartment, tugging his shirt down over his ribs.

Adam shifted to the side, giving him room. The woman followed close behind, still clutching at Nigel’s belt with drunken persistence, her heels clicking unevenly on the floor.

Nigel came to an unsteady halt by the kitchen counter. His eyes dropped to the pot resting there, steam curling lazily from its surface. The smell of broth and spices lingered in the air.

“Supă de tăiței…” Nigel muttered, his voice quieter now, the drunken edge faltering. His brow knitted as he stared down into the pot. “You made me chicken noodle soup…?”

Adam hovered awkwardly behind him, arms folding across his chest like a shield. “I… yes… I thought… I thought you’d like it,” he managed, the words tripping over each other on the way out.

Nigel’s eyes lifted slowly, locking onto Adam. For a long, strange moment, he just stared, mouth slightly parted, the surprise written clean across his face.

For a moment, it felt like the room had narrowed to just the two of them, the quiet stretch of space between Adam and Nigel thick with unsaid things. But the woman’s voice cut straight through it.

“Chicken noodle soup?” she repeated, giggling as she leaned against the counter. “Aww, your roomie’s so sweet, baby.” Her eyes slid over to Adam, lingering.

“And cute,” she added, her gaze dragging slowly up and down, bold and unbothered. She reached for him without hesitation, her manicured fingers brushing along the fabric of his sleeve, nails tapping lightly against the wool. “Maybe you could join us, honey…?”

Before Adam could recoil, Nigel’s hand shot out, gripping the opposite sleeve of his jumper and tugging him back with a sharp, possessive pull.

“Don’t touch him.” Nigel’s voice cut through the air, low and sudden, the drunken haze still clinging to his words, but the meaning behind them sharp as glass.

The apartment fell deathly quiet. Adam stood frozen beside Nigel, his arm still caught in the rough, calloused clamp of Nigel’s hand. Across the room, the woman wobbled unsteadily, her bleary eyes blinking with slow, sluggish confusion.

“He can speak for himself, baby,” she slurred at last, her voice syrupy with drink.

“I said, don’t fucking touch him,” Nigel snapped, his words slicing through the silence. The haze of booze peeled off him quickly, replaced with something leaner, nastier. His voice dipped low, steady, tight as a drawn wire. “In fact, why don’t you do us all a favour and drag your filthy, rat-faced arse the fuck out of my place?”

She scoffed, tossing her head, but the flicker of doubt in her eyes was impossible to miss.

“Out,” Nigel hissed, stepping in close, his breath sour with smoke and whisky, the stale heat of him curling between them. “Or I’ll throw you through that window teeth-first, and leave your bleeding carcass in the alley for the crackheads to skull-fuck and the dogs to rip apart.”

The blood drained from her face. Her lips curled into a sneer, but she didn’t argue. Instead, she turned sharply on her heels, snatched her coat from the back of the chair, and stormed out, heels clacking angrily across the floor. The door slammed behind her with a rattling crack, the sound ringing through the apartment like a gunshot.

Adam glanced up at Nigel, heat prickling beneath his jumper, the ghost of the woman’s touch still burning faintly against his skin like a welt. Nigel’s eyes were already on him, sharp and steady.

“You alright?” Nigel asked, voice quieter now, but still rough around the edges.

Adam nodded, shoulders curling in. “I’m sorry I ruined your night… I was trying to do something nice, and I ended up ruining your chance with your date.”

Nigel snorted, a dry puff of air through his nose. “Just some club slag. Probably saved me from catchin’ fucking clap… or worse.”

Adam blinked, frowning faintly. “You weren’t going to use protection?”

Nigel let out a bark of laughter, sharp and unkind, teeth flashing. “’Course I was, I’m not a complete fucking idiot.” His gaze swept over Adam with that familiar, teasing bite. “But Christ, Cosmo, you’re bloody clueless sometimes.”

His eyes drifted to the pot bubbling quietly on the stove. “C’mon. Let’s eat. See if you’ve finally managed to cook somethin’ that isn’t macaroni.”

“Well, actually… I swapped the egg noodles in the recipe for macaroni,” Adam mumbled, almost sheepishly.

Nigel let out a bark of laughter, sharp and surprised. “Of course you did…”

 

They ate quietly at the coffee table, the faint hum of the city leaking in through the grimy windows. It wasn’t perfect. The flavours were a little off, the broth thinner than it should have been, the spices dulled, probably cheap knock-offs from the corner shop. The chicken tasted more like factory-farmed misery than anything fresh. But when Adam looked at him with those wide, ridiculous eyes, all glassy and alien, Nigel just nodded and told him it was good.

Adam picked around the bowl, plucking out the noodles and bits of chicken like a neurotic little raccoon. Nigel rolled his eyes but said nothing, watching him. Watching the way Adam sat there, tucked up on the dining chair, eating like this was normal. Like any of this was normal.

It was fucked. Completely fucked. Nigel had dragged him into something brutal, something scarring enough to shatter most people, and Adam… he’d come back. Turned up at his place with groceries. Made him dinner. Like it was a favour.

Maybe it was. Maybe that was what Adam had wanted all along. A taste of something real. Ugly, but real. And maybe that was the worst part, because Nigel understood that craving more than he liked to admit.

He sighed, eyes drifting over Adam’s soft curls, the faint slope of his shoulders. He was here. He was really here, with Nigel, in this godforsaken apartment that stank of smoke and bad decisions.

It was wrong. No one stayed. No one ever fucking stayed.

He just had to push harder.

Chapter 7: Blow Me Away (Part 1)

Summary:

Some team bonding, a new friend for Adam, and his biggest job yet.

Gravel crunched beneath Adam’s shoes as he trailed after Darius and Gabriel down the narrow dirt track, his fingers fidgeting nervously at his sides. Darius had promised this wasn’t another job. Not really. “Just practice”, he’d said. “Bit of bonding,” apparently.

Turned out practice meant a makeshift shooting range in some overgrown lot near the warehouse. The place was littered with smashed bottles, crumpled beer cans, and the splintered remains of a wooden pallet slumped against a rusted oil drum. A graveyard of rubbish and poor decisions.

“Right,” Darius grunted, tipping his head toward the battered pistol in his hand. “You ever fucking shot one of these before?”

Adam shook his head, painfully aware of how out of place he looked. Knit jumper, neat dress shoes, collar peeking from under the wool, while the other two lounged about in ratty tank tops and faded jeans, cigarettes hanging from their lips like props from a film.

“Didn’t fucking think so,” Darius smirked, holding the gun out grip-first. “Time you learnt.”

Adam hesitated, glancing between them. Gabriel, leaning against a tower of discarded tires, lifted a lazy thumbs-up, smoke curling from the corner of his mouth.

Swallowing, Adam took the pistol, his pulse hammering in his throat.

“The safety ain’t even off yet, genius,” Darius snorted, flicking the safety on and off with an exaggerated flourish like it was some cheap toy. “Finger off the trigger ‘til I say, yeah? Try not to shoot your own fuckin’ dick off.”

Easier said than done. The gun was heavier than it looked, cold and unfamiliar, the oily metal slick under his palms as Darius loaded it for him.

“Alright, stand like this.” Darius shoved roughly at his shoulder, yanking him into position. “You ain’t holdin’ it like a fucking handbag. Straighten up.”

“I wasn’t holding it like a handbag,” Adam muttered.

“Yeah, you fucking were,” Gabriel wheezed from the car, grinning. “Looked like you were about to model it for the fucking catalogue. Summer edition.”

The jab was easy, the humour familiar. Adam wasn’t great with tone, but they’d explained enough times that the teasing wasn’t cruel. It meant they liked him.

“First shot’s always shit,” Darius shrugged, stepping back, that crooked grin still plastered across his face. “Don’t worry about hittin’ the bottle. Just try not to shoot your own fucking foot.”

Adam swallowed hard, lining up the pistol. The lot fell quiet. The teasing, the snickering, it all paused, the stillness sharpening around him.

“Breathe in,” came the low instruction behind him.

Adam squeezed the trigger.

The shot cracked through the lot, sharp as a whip. His arms jolted with the recoil, the air stung with the bite of burnt powder. The bottle stayed perfectly untouched.

“…Alright,” Gabriel drawled, dragging on his cigarette. “Guess we’re gonna be here a while.”

“No, you’re fucking not.” A voice snapped from behind them.

Adam spun around, gun raised like a paranoid maniac.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Adam!” Nigel barked, snatching his wrist in a bruising grip, ripping the gun out of his hand. He flicked the safety on with a sharp click, scowling. “What the fuck’s wrong with you?”

Adam looked mortified. “I’m s-so sorry, Nigel!” He stammered, eyes wide, face pale.

Nigel exhaled through gritted teeth, shaking his head. “Fuck… it’s fine, but don’t go fucking waving that thing about, yeah? You’ll blow some poor bastard’s brains all over the concrete.”

“Okay, Nigel…”

Nigel looked up, his glare cutting across the lot like a blade. Darius and Gabriel froze mid-step, looking for all the world like two teenage boys who’d just been caught giving their younger brother a cigarette. Guilty, twitchy, trying to look innocent but failing miserably.

“Come the fuck on, nemernicii,” Nigel snapped, sneering. “We’ve got a goddamn job and you lot are sat here playing fucking daycare, teaching spaceboy how to pop bottles like some acne-faced little prick trying to prove he’s a gangster.”

Darius and Gabriel exchanged a look, shoulders hitching in a shrug, then gave curt nods and wandered off across the empty lot, their footsteps scraping against cracked asphalt as they headed back towards the warehouse.

Nigel’s eyes dropped to Adam, still stiff with embarrassment, his face pinched tight like he was waiting to be chewed out again. The ghost of that accidental assassination attempt clung to him like smoke.

“Adam, I don’t want those dog-brained fuckwits teaching you how to shoot, alright?” Nigel muttered, lighting a cigarette with a flick of his thumb, the flame briefly catching in the light. His voice dropped, low and sharp, rough as gravel. “I’ll teach you eventually… maybe. But if someone’s puttin’ a gun in your hands, I’d prefer it was me.”

Adam nodded quickly. “Alright, Nigel… Sorry for almost shooting you.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re forgiven, you little shit.” Nigel gave him a shove between the shoulder blades, steering him out of the lot with an easy, familiar roughness. “Come on.”

Ahead, Darius and Gabriel walked a few paces in front, their bickering echoing faintly as they shoved at each other, still laughing like a pair of overgrown schoolboys. Nigel rolled his eyes, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he smoked, boots thumping on the pavement beside Adam’s quieter steps.

“Nigel?”

Nigel grunted, barely glancing over.

“If you teach me how to shoot, can I have my own gun?”

His eyes drifted to Adam, who was walking beside him, that fidgety, hopeful look plastered across his face like a stray dog begging for scraps.

“Your own gun, huh?”

Adam nodded, curls bouncing faintly with the motion.

Nigel let out a long, exhausted sigh, dragging a rough hand down his face like the sheer idiocy of this conversation was physically draining him. “Yeah… maybe one day. Y’know, when you’re technically not still our fucking hostage.”

“I can… get promoted from being a hostage?” Adam asked, completely deadpan, as serious as if he were discussing a real job interview.

“No― fuck― I dunno,” Nigel snapped, throwing his hands up. “But you’re somehow managing it, aren’t ya? Christ knows how. I don’t get it either.” He shook his head, huffing under his breath, like the entire situation was giving him a migraine.

“Hm.” Adam hummed, thoughtful, as they kept walking. He turned the idea over in his head, quietly wondering what his job title even was now. Intern? Assistant? Secretary? The possibilities circled like planets, faintly ridiculous but persistent.

“What’s the job? Am I coming?”

“‘Course you’re fucking coming,” Nigel sneered, taking a drag of his cigarette with the same casual venom he laced through his words. “This is your big debut, sunshine. Your opening fucking Broadway show.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Nigel snorted, smoke curling from the corner of his mouth as he shook his head. “It means this is important, yeah? Your chance to prove you’re not just some stray we dragged off the street. To show you actually fucking belong here.” His eyes narrowed, sharp and cutting. “You reckon you’re up to it?”

Adam’s mouth twitched into a lopsided smile. “I can do it, Nigel.”

“Atta boy.”

 

Once they were back in the warehouse, Nigel steered Adam upstairs towards the old manager’s offices, his boots echoing faintly on the worn metal steps. It was quieter up here, the low hum of voices and rough laughter bleeding up from below like distant static. Most of the men were still downstairs, chattering like hyenas tearing strips off a corpse.

Adam lingered by the railing for a moment, peering down at them from above. It felt oddly detached, like observing microorganisms under a microscope. The chaotic noise, the sharp gestures, and the jostling bodies all looked small from up here. Contained. Almost manageable.

“This little prick’s almost as fucking picky as you,” Nigel muttered beside him, exhaling smoke as they walked. “Needs a goddamn quiet office to work.”

“Do I get an office when I get promoted?” Adam asked, voice flat, entirely deadpan.

“Adam, shut the fuck up with the promotion shit, alright?” Nigel growled, smoke curling between his teeth as he spoke.

“Okay…” Adam replied simply, his eyes drifting past Nigel to the makeshift sign taped to one of the office doors in neat, slanted handwriting. Knock before entering. Dangerous material inside.

Nigel didn’t bother knocking. His hand went straight for the handle, only to find it locked. The door rattled uselessly beneath his grip. With a frustrated growl, he smacked his fist hard against the industrial door, the metal clanging under the impact.

“Just a moment.” A polite voice floated from inside, muffled but composed.

“Fucking open the door,” Nigel demanded, irritation flaring sharp in his voice.

There was a brief shuffle of movement inside, then the lock clicked. The door cracked open to reveal a young man, probably around Adam’s age, with crooked glasses perched precariously on his nose and dark circles stamped under his eyes like bruises earned from too many sleepless nights.

“Hello, Mister Banyai,” the man greeted, adjusting his glasses.

“Stop fucking calling me that. Makes me feel seventy,” Nigel snapped, shoving the door open fully as he strode inside. The man stumbled back, grabbing the doorframe for balance.

Adam followed quietly, slipping in behind him, offering the stranger a polite nod as they passed.

“Nerd, meet other nerd. Nerd, this is nerd,” Nigel drawled, flicking his cigarette away with a careless snap of his fingers as he gestured between them. “Go on, compare fuckin’ IQ scores or whatever it is you lot do.”

“It’s Nestor, actually,” the man corrected mildly, holding out a hand to Adam.

Adam took it, shaking once, efficient and quick, before letting go. “I’m Adam. Adam Raki.”

Nestor hurried across the room, stooping to snatch up the discarded cigarette Nigel had flicked onto the floor. His face pinched tight with quiet frustration.

“Mister Banyai, there are explosive materials in here,” Nestor scolded, voice clipped and precise. “Please do not just throw around lit cigarettes.”

“Explosive materials?” Adam asked, curiosity sparking, his mind drifting back to the crates of C4 he’d seen the men lugging around a few days ago.

“Yeah, Nessie here’s our bomb guy,” Nigel replied lazily, digging his hands into his jean pockets.

“Ordnance technician,” Nestor corrected with tired patience, stubbing the cigarette out in a nearby metal bin and disposing of it properly. He moved back to his desk, rolling his chair out just enough for Adam to get a proper look at what he was working on.

Adam leaned in slightly, eyes drifting over the cluttered tabletop.

Spread out across the scratched metal surface was a tangled mess of wires and circuit boards, a half-disassembled mobile phone sitting next to a brick of pale, putty-like material that looked unnervingly familiar. A timer was set into a small, black plastic casing, the digital display dark for now, but the implication was clear enough. The whole thing looked rough, makeshift, like something cobbled together in a garage with whatever spare parts were lying around.

“You’re building a bomb,” Adam observed.

“Yes,” Nestor responded.

Adam’s eyes lingered on the exposed wiring, the neat layout of components scattered across the desk. His brow furrowed slightly as he studied the device, head tilting.

“Is that… a mercury tilt switch?” he asked, nodding towards a small, sealed glass cylinder wired into the casing. His tone was mild, curious, like they were dissecting a faulty smoke alarm instead of a makeshift bomb.

Nestor blinked, visibly perking up. “Yeah,” he confirmed, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “For anti-tampering. If the angle shifts even a few degrees, it completes the circuit and…” He mimed a little explosion with his fingers, mouth popping exaggeratedly. “Boom.”

Adam nodded, inspecting the rest of the setup. “You’ve isolated the detonation circuit, right? You’re not running it all through a single line?”

Another pause.

Nestor lit up like Christmas had come early. “Obviously,” he said, turning slightly in his chair, suddenly animated. “Redundant circuit. Keeps the main trigger protected in case of signal interference. Running it all through one line? That’s amateur hour.”

Adam hummed softly, satisfied, eyes flicking back to the device. “Good. Otherwise, a faulty relay could trip it before it’s armed.”

Nigel, who’d been loitering nearby, watching with detached disinterest, finally frowned, his eyes narrowing faintly as the words sank in.

“I thought you were… you know, a coder,” he said, like the phrase only half made sense to him.

“I’m an electrical engineer.”

Nigel squinted. “Right. And that… includes bomb shit?”

“Circuits are circuits,” Adam replied simply, as if that explained everything.

“Mm, okay, I don’t like you two together,” Nigel said, crossing his arms tight over his chest. His eyes narrowed, sharp and suspicious, like he was weighing some unspoken threat. “Feels like you might… co-write a paper or some shit”, he muttered it low, almost like a warning.

Nestor let out a quiet, amused huff, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Would you like to stay, Adam? I could use some help.”

Adam smiled, a genuine flicker of something lighter in his expression. “I would love to. I’m missing my work at the observatory, and this is the closest I’ll probably get for a while.” He glanced over at Nigel. “If that’s alright.”

Nigel’s glare lingered long and hard, the silence stretching taut between them. Then, with a grunt, he turned sharply and stalked out of the room, the door slamming shut behind him with a final, echoing crack.

 

They were packed into one of the vans, rattling down some cracked back road on the way to the hit. Nigel sat up front with Darko, his boots braced against the dash, one hand idly picking at the seam of his jeans. Despite himself, his eyes kept drifting to the rear-view mirror, catching glimpses of Nestor and Adam in the back seats, heads tilted together, jabbering away about… circuits and shit.

Nigel grumbled under his breath and lit another cigarette, the tip flaring in the dim cabin.

“You’re burnin’ through those like a fat high school girl with a box of candy bars,” Darko muttered, eyes fixed on the road ahead.

Nigel didn’t bite. His eyes flicked to the mirror again. “What do you think of Nestor?”

There were two rows of seats and a low hum of static from the radio between them and the pair of chatting nerds. Safe enough to talk without being overheard.

“The bomb guy?” Darko shrugged, one hand loose on the wheel. “Nerdy. Like Adam, I guess. Not as awkward, though. Well… nah, he is, just in that smug, high-IQ, I’m-better-than-you way. Bet he never got invited to a fucking sleepover in his life.” He side-eyed Nigel with a smirk. “Why?”

“They… get along.” Nigel stared out the window, jaw tight enough that his teeth ached.

Darko snorted under his breath. “Yeah, no shit. Bet Adam’s been gagging to talk to another geek since he landed here. Shame Nestor’s only ‘round for odd jobs. They’d be thick as fucking thieves if he stuck around.”

Nigel’s jaw clenched so hard it creaked. His eyes stayed fixed on the dark stretch of road ahead, but his cigarette burned down fast between his fingers.

“You jealous?” Darko asked, voice dropping low, threaded with amusement.

“What? Fuck off, no.” Nigel snapped, the glare he shot him sharp enough to cut glass.

“Sure looks like it.”

“Shut the fuck up, tâmpit,” Nigel hissed back in Romanian, smoke curling from his nose like a warning.

“You’re jealous ‘cause you reckon Adam likes someone more than he likes you,” Darko sneered, cutting the corner a little too sharply.

“No, I…” Nigel’s jaw flexed. “I just think Adam’s losin’ focus, that’s all.”

Darko barked a laugh. “Biggest pile of fucking bullshit I’ve ever heard, mate.”

“Is not,” Nigel snapped, dragging half the cigarette into his lungs like it might shut him up.

“It is. You’re fucking spiralling ‘cause you think they’re gonna, I dunno… go stargazin’ or some shit, trade telescope facts, then blow each other behind the observatory.” Darko snickered.

“Shut the fuck up,” Nigel snarled. “Nestor might be a fucking poof, but Adam’s not a cocksucker. He told me he had a girlfriend.”

“Maybe he’s bi,” Darko shot back, grinning widely, watching Nigel’s expression sour like milk.

Nigel glared daggers at him, smoke curling from his nose.

Darko chuckled under his breath, tapping the wheel. “What, that idea make you nervous? You scared your little space cadet’s gonna figure out he likes dick and run off with Nestor?”

Nigel scoffed, shaking his head, but there was that tightness in his jaw again. “No. ‘Cause he doesn’t. He’s not… like that.”

Darko raised an eyebrow. “Like that,” he echoed, amused. “What’s that, exactly? Gay? Queer?”

Nigel’s lip curled, jaw tightening like a trap about to spring. “You know exactly what I fucking mean.”

“Yeah, I reckon I do,” Darko muttered, eyes back on the road, smirk lingering. “Just funny hearing it out loud. Guess we’ve all got our blind spots…”

Nigel didn’t respond, just sat there, fingers drumming sharp, agitated taps on his knee.

Darko let the quiet settle for a beat before adding, low, almost casual, “Nothin’ wrong with it though. If he was.”

Nigel’s head snapped around, eyes narrowing. “He’s not.”

Darko shrugged, unbothered. “Sure.”

Silence thickened between them, Nigel’s scowl aimed firmly at the window, cigarette burning down between clenched fingers.

Finally, Darko turned into the airport’s parking garage, the van rumbling over the concrete as they pulled onto one of the lower levels. The exposed structure stretched wide around them, open to the night on all sides. Steel barriers lined the edges, and beyond them, Adam could glimpse the distant glow of runway lights blinking steadily in the dark.

The convoy of cars trailing behind them rolled to a stop nearby, engines cutting out one by one.

“Darko, with Adam and me. You two, plant the bomb. Nestor, head into one of the getaway cars,” Nigel ordered, his voice sharp, already halfway out the door in his head.

The van’s side doors screeched open, hinges groaning as the cool air swept in. The two men dressed in security uniforms climbed out, the bomb tucked neatly inside a black backpack slung over one shoulder. They straightened their collars and drifted off into the car park like they belonged there, disappearing between rows of vehicles.

Nestor lingered in his seat, quick and quiet, shifting forward slightly from the back row, a faint grimace pinching his face. In his hand, he held a small detonator: rough, functional plastic, scuffed from use, with stubby buttons and a battered little screen.

“Right,” Nestor muttered, leaning towards Nigel. “It’s dead-man armed. As soon as they’re clear, the circuit’s closed. You hold this down…” He pressed his thumb firmly on the centre button. “When you release it, ten-second delay before detonation. If you need to disarm, both side switches, hold for three seconds.”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” Nigel huffed, snatching the device from him with little ceremony. He gave it a quick glance, then stuffed it into his jacket pocket, already moving on.

Nestor hesitated, his mouth twitching like he wanted to explain more, but Nigel was done listening. He nodded to Adam and Darko before stepping down from the van into the open air, the distant hum of aircraft carrying faintly across the lot.

Nigel hauled the door shut behind Nestor with a heavy thud, and the van rumbled back to life, pulling away from the getaway cars and climbing higher through the airport parking garage. The concrete structure curved around them, open to the night beyond the barriers, the distant roar of departing planes humming faintly through the gaps.

They finally parked a few levels up, the engine ticking as it cut off. Adam stared out the blacked-out windows, his stomach twisting faintly as he watched the glowing trail of aeroplanes lifting into the dark sky beyond the lot.

“So, what are you blowing up?” Adam asked nervously, eyes flicking to the crowds in the distance, people dragging suitcases, chatting on phones, oblivious.

“A car,” Nigel said flatly. “Specifically, some rival prick’s ride. Usually never leaves his fucking fortress. Always got a dozen meathead bodyguards crawling up his arse. Only window we’ve got to put him in the ground is between the airport and his base.”

Adam’s gaze shifted to the sea of travellers weaving through the car park, nerves gnawing at him. “Does it… have to be in such a public place?”

Nigel snorted, already fishing another cigarette from his carton, the corner of his mouth curling like the question physically amused him. “Relax. We’re just plantin’ the fucking bomb here. Soon as they’re on the freeway, boom. Nice and clean. Well…” He flicked ash out the window, eyes tracking their men dressed as rent-a-cops, weaving through the cars. “Clean enough.”

The walkie-talkie on the dashboard crackled with static, cutting through the silence. A garbled voice crackled through. “What’s the car we’re looking for again, boss?”

“Black SUV. Volvo XC60. Afanasy’s got a particular taste in cars,” Nigel replied into the radio.

“Roger that.” The line went quiet again, the faint hum of background noise lingering.

Adam sat back, watching the headlights slide across the lot, uncertainty coiled tight in his chest. “So… why am I here?”

“Well, Cosmo,” Nigel grunted, climbing over the centre console with a graceless shuffle to join him in the back, cigarette clenched between his teeth. “You’re pressing the detonator.”

Adam’s eyes snapped open, sharp and alert. So far, nothing he’d done had spilled blood. But this next step, this action, would change everything. It would end lives. Wives would become widows. Children left fatherless. He felt the pulse hammering in his neck, loud and relentless, like a drumbeat pressed against his skin. The noise in his head surged, a torrent of thoughts crashing in fast, but he clenched them back, gripping the cold, brutal facts.

“These cunts are bad men, Adam,” Nigel murmured low, voice rough like gravel scraping stone. “You’d be doin’ the world a fucking favour taking them out.”

Adam’s gaze locked onto Nigel, words caught deep in his throat, choking him silent.

“These bastards got no ethics, no fucking morals. They kill kids, traffic women like they’re goddamn cattle. They deserve to fucking die.”

“I… I don’t know if I deserve to be the one to kill them…” Adam whispered, voice barely more than a breath.

Nigel’s eyes flicked away for a heartbeat, then snapped back, sharp and unforgiving. “Nobody’s asking you to enjoy it, Adam. But sometimes, doing the right thing means getting your hands dirty. You think they’d hesitate if it were us?” His words spat out, venom thick and bitter. “They don’t care about lives, or pain, or mercy. Only power. Only fear.”

He leaned in closer, voice dropping to a rough whisper that seemed to press against Adam’s skin. “You’re not just pressing a button, you’re stopping them from hurtin’ more people. You’re saving lives. Kids who’ll grow up without broken homes. Women who’ll walk free. You’re giving ’em a chance to live without those bastards hanging over their heads.”

Adam’s breath hitched, fingers twitching as doubt wrestled with resolve.

Nigel’s hand settled heavy and steady on Adam’s wrist, anchoring him. “I’m not askin’ you to be a hero. Just to be the weapon they never saw comin’.”

Adam swallowed hard, the weight in his chest still heavy but shifting, from paralysing doubt to a flicker of resolve.

 

Nigel stared back at him, brow furrowed deep and eyes sharp with disbelief. Adam was actually going to do this? He’d blow up a fucking car for him? For him? The thought hit Nigel like a gut punch, twisting something raw and unspoken inside.

He wanted to laugh it off, to push him away with some cruel joke or a wild, impossible task that’d scare Adam off for good. That’s what normally happened. No one stayed. No one got close enough to stick around long enough to see the dark underbelly. Everyone ran when they glimpsed it.

The radio crackled, sharp and insistent. “Boss? Boss?” Nigel shook his head to clear the fog creeping in and snatched up the walkie.

“What?”

“There are four black SUVs…”

Nigel froze, eyes narrowing into slits. “...Four?”

“There’s four of ‘em. What the fuck do you want me to say?”

Nigel dropped the radio button, spinning on Darko, voice low and dangerous. “I thought your fucking snitch said there’d be just one. Low profile. You fucking said.”

“Yeah, well, that lying cunt did say that!” Darko spat, voice sharp as a blade.

“Yeah? Well, fuck me sideways, he was full of shit!” Nigel snarled, fists clenching till his knuckles cracked white.

“Fuck him, we’ll pay that prick a visit and smash his goddamn skull in—”

“Yeah, smashing his skull might feel fucking good, but it doesn’t fix this shitstorm right now, al naibii de idiot!”

Nigel and Darko snapped at each other in rapid-fire Romanian, their voices sharp and clipped, like two knives scraping against one another. Adam sat wedged between them, eyes wide and darting back and forth as if he were watching a tennis match, the tension bouncing off the air in tight, nervous pulses. After a few more hissed insults flew between the men, Nigel reached for the radio again, his fingers pressing the button with quiet authority.

“They parked in a line?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, plant it under one of the middle two.” He spoke slowly, his mind racing through the plan. “We’ll have to blow it after they get in the cars, but before they drive off, otherwise the cars will be too far apart to hit them all.”

“On it, boss.” The line fell silent once more.

“W-we’re setting it off in the p-parking lot?” Adam’s voice wavered, caught between disbelief and panic.

“You are.” Nigel’s correction was cold, sharp as a blade.

“N-no! I can’t do that! There are innocent people around! Families!” Adam’s words came faster now, breath growing shallow, dizziness pressing at the edges of his vision.

“There’s no one around, Adam.” Nigel tried to keep his tone steady, almost soothing, but with an edge beneath it.

“There is!” Adam insisted, his chest tightening, breaths coming quicker, shallow gasps filling the space between them.

“You’re not the one making the call here. You just press the button. You don’t have to think about it beyond that.”

Adam’s hands trembled, his breath a fragile whisper. “But—”

Nigel cut him off, voice slicing through the panic. “If you won’t do it, someone else will. Someone less careful. Someone who doesn’t care.”

The silence stretched and thickened, settling like a weight in the room. Nigel’s gaze bore into Adam, unyielding and dark, a promise hanging heavy in the air, a shadow neither could ignore.

“Adam.” Nigel’s voice softened, dropping low as he reached into his jacket pocket and drew out the detonator. The small device sat heavy in his palm, deceptively simple for the devastation it could unleash. “This might be the only chance we have to do this hit.”

“I… I can’t.”

“You can.” Nigel’s tone was steady, threaded with quiet certainty as he slipped the detonator into Adam’s trembling hands, curling Adam’s fingers around it with surprising care. His own hands were warm, rough with calluses, the dry drag of his skin grounding, steadying, despite everything.

Adam’s eyes flicked up, as they always did, drawn to the familiar slope of Nigel’s eyebrow, unable to meet his stare directly.

Nigel reached out, his thumb and forefinger catching Adam’s chin with gentle precision, tilting his face down until there was nowhere to look but into those sharp, unrelenting eyes.

“You can do this, Adam. For me… can’t you? I promise… everything will be okay.”

The walkie-talkie crackled, cutting through the moment. “The target is approaching the vehicles.”

Nigel’s thumb brushed along Adam’s chin, the rough pad tracing slow, steady strokes. “Adam…”

Static fizzed again. “Target entering vehicle. Detonate.”

“Press the button, Adam.” Nigel’s voice dropped to a low, rumbling whisper, each syllable vibrating through the tight space between them.

Adam’s eyes fluttered shut. The sound of Nigel’s voice filled his ears, low and deep, echoing through his skull until it drowned out every thought. It pulsed through him like the low hum of a distant star, steady and constant, impossible to ignore. The warmth of his skin lingered against Adam’s own, his breath ghosting over his cheek, close and inescapable, like gravity pulling him in.

Adam squeezed the button.

The explosion tore through the parking garage like a shockwave of thunder and fire. The blast ripped the air apart, a deafening, concussive roar that shook the concrete walls and sent chunks of debris raining from the ceiling. Flames billowed out from beneath the line of black SUVs, orange tongues licking greedily at the vehicles as they crumpled and split apart like tin cans.

The force hurled bodies like ragdolls. One of the bodyguards slammed into a pillar with a sickening crack, his skull splitting open like a dropped melon. Another vanished beneath the collapsing front end of an SUV as it flipped, glass and twisted metal shattering through the air in deadly arcs. Blood sprayed in slick, arterial ribbons, staining the concrete floor beneath the smoke.

A bystander, caught in the blast radius, crumpled in a heap of broken limbs, the side of their head caved in from flying debris.

Screams echoed off the walls, warped and distant beneath the dull ringing that filled Adam’s ears. Through the haze of smoke and flame, the target stumbled clear of the wreckage, staggering but alive, shielded by a surviving guard who hauled him towards the exit.

The garage reeked of burning fuel and scorched flesh. Sirens wailed faintly in the distance, growing louder.

“Fucking drive!” Nigel barked, his voice sharp with panic as he slammed a hand against the dashboard. Darko didn’t hesitate, tires screeching as he peeled out of the parking spot and tore towards the exit.

Adam’s gaze stayed fixed to the window, wide, unblinking. The wreckage blurred past in fragments of flame and twisted metal, but his eyes locked onto the bystander sprawled across the concrete. Blood pooled beneath the crumpled body, dark and spreading like oil, soaking into the cracks of the floor.

Adam’s stomach twisted. He felt sick. Sick with guilt, sick with the wrongness of what they’d done. But worse than that was the other feeling coiled low in his chest. The quiet, shameful urge to get out of the car. To walk back towards the carnage. To stand amongst the smoke and the shattered glass and see it all for himself.

The thought turned his stomach, bile burning at the back of his throat. He’d done something unforgivable. Something monstrous. And yet all he could think about was the silence. The stillness of those bodies scattered across the floor like discarded dolls.

If someone had told him a minute ago that pressing that button would leave an innocent man dead, sprawled on cold concrete, he would have thrown the detonator as far as he could and run from that garage without looking back.

But now, in the aftermath, all he could focus on were those eyes. Glassy, vacant, staring at nothing. The man’s mind empty of thought, stripped of fear, stripped of life.

Adam couldn’t look away.

Chapter 8: Blow Me Away (Part 2)

Summary:

Adam breaks down after the consequences of the bombing finally set in, and Nigel is left to comfort him.

Notes:

Early chapter this week since I’ll be too busy to post tomorrow. I’m so excited for this one — hehehehe...

“Adam?”

“H-huh…?”

“You with me?” Nigel was crouched in front of him, dark eyes steady, his weight balanced easily on the balls of his feet. Adam was slumped in the armchair, legs heavy, arms slack, the familiar walls of Nigel’s apartment pressing in around him like a fog.

“Y-yes… sorry, how did we get here?”

“We ditched the van and everyone scattered. Best way to keep a low profile, avoid the cops while this whole thing dies down.” Nigel straightened, padding towards the kitchen, his boots quiet against the floorboards.

Adam’s eyes tracked him sluggishly, grounding himself in the sudden, disjointed shift in environment. The last thing he remembered was the van, the hard, rattling seats beneath him. He didn’t even remember getting out.

“Did everyone else get out of the parking garage okay…?” The question left him weakly, his voice thin, like the words were being pulled from somewhere far away.

“Yeah, everyone’s fine.” Nigel returned, pressing a cool glass of water into Adam’s hands. His touch lingered for half a second longer than necessary. “Target got away, though. He got in the car furthest from the bomb. Didn’t hit him.”

“R-right…”

“Too many variables to control. We’re figuring out how to proceed, but we need something more mobile. Planting a bomb always leaves the risk that he won’t get close enough to it.”

Adam barely registered the words. They dissolved into the background, meaningless noise against the images crowding his mind. The explosion. The bodies. The silence.

Nigel’s eyes narrowed slightly, reading him with sharp, clinical ease. He recognised that look. The same distant, hollow stare Adam had worn after the bank manager. After the hostage in the chair. “What did it feel like this time?”

Adam’s eyes drifted, glassy and vacant, staring through the walls, through the city, beyond the atmosphere and out into the vast, cold dark.

Adam’s gaze drifted somewhere far beyond the room, pupils wide, a faint, wistful tilt to his mouth.

“It’s like a star running out of fuel,” he murmured, almost fondly. “It burns itself alive for so long… holding itself together through sheer force. And then, one day, it just… stops.”

His eyes unfocused, like he could see it happening in real time.

“Everything collapses in. No more heat. No more light. Just… nothing. Gravity takes care of the rest.” A pause, a slow, steady breath.

“And you can’t get it back. Once it’s gone, it’s gone forever.”

 

Nigel wasn’t entirely sure when it had happened, but at some point, Adam had nodded off in the armchair. Maybe the day had worn him out and he'd simply crashed. He looked ridiculous, slouched like that, half-fallen over the armrest with his head tilted at an unnatural angle. The chair was too small for it to be anything close to comfortable; the upholstery pressed into his ribs, creasing the front of his shirt.

It looked painfully uncomfortable. Nigel grimaced, picturing the knot that would be forming in Adam’s neck, the dull ache that would settle in his shoulders by morning. He was twenty years younger, sure, still in that indestructible window of youth where a blackout drunk in a field was something you could walk off by lunchtime, but even so, the sight left something uneasy gnawing in Nigel’s gut.

He bent down and gathered Adam into his arms, all limp limbs and slack weight, his head lolling against Nigel’s shoulder. A quiet grunt escaped him as his knees twinged and his back gave a muted crack in protest. Adam shifted slightly, making a small, bewildered sound.

“Just me, Adam,” Nigel said, voice low and rough, as if the gravel in his tone could balance out the gentleness of the act. He carried him down to the couch and eased him into the cushions, arranging his limbs with an awkward sort of care. The blanket and pillow were already there from nights Nigel had passed out here himself, so he made use of them, tucking Adam in with hands that moved too carefully, trying to pretend the whole thing was just what any decent person would do.

He lowered himself onto the edge of the couch, settling near Adam’s feet. One hand caught hold of them as he sat, lifting them just enough to make space before letting them drop gently across his thigh. A long breath spilled out of him as he leaned back into the cushions, rubbing a hand over his face as if he could wipe the weight of the night from his skin.

Then he looked down. Adam lay quiet beside him, face slack with sleep, breathing slow and steady. Nigel just stared. Let his eyes trace the shape of him without letting anything else in. No thoughts. No feelings. Just the quiet throb behind his eyes and the soft rise and fall of Adam’s chest.

He reached for his burner, the screen lighting up in the dark as he began the routine check-in. One by one, his crew had sent their codewords, confirming they’d made it out clean, dumped the vehicles, and scattered to whatever boltholes they could find; safehouses, crumbling flats, drug-stained dens. Anywhere they could vanish.

Everyone accounted for. That was something, at least. The only silver lining in the chaos. The hit had failed. Afanasy had slipped through, and the blast had gone off in broad daylight, drawing too many eyes to the scene.

A faint, broken sound stirred the quiet beside him, barely more than a breath. Nigel turned his head and saw the shape beneath the blanket trembling, shoulders rising and falling in uneven, shuddering movements.

“Adam?”

He reached over and drew the blanket back, slow and careful. Adam lay curled beneath it, shaking, his face turned to the pillow as silent tears tracked down his cheek, soaking into the fabric.

“Oh, Adam…”

Adam didn’t speak. Couldn’t. His breath hitched in silent gasps, chest rising too fast, too shallow. His hands were balled into fists against the pillow, his nails digging into his palms through the fabric. He looked like he was trying to fold in on himself, to disappear into the couch.

Nigel hovered there, hand still on the blanket, suddenly unsure what to do with it. His stomach twisted.

“Hey. Hey. Breathe, alright? Slow it down. You’re alright.”

Adam flinched at the sound of his voice but didn’t move, didn’t look at him. His mouth was open like he wanted to speak, but no words came. Just a wet, choking noise in his throat, followed by more tears.

Nigel scrubbed a hand over his face, then shifted closer, lowering himself until he was sitting on the floor beside the couch, at Adam’s level. “You’re not hurt, yeah? You’re safe. No one’s coming. Say something, for fuck’s sake.”

Adam shook his head, barely. Then, hoarsely, almost inaudibly: “There was a man.”

“What man?”

“There was… he was near the edge of the blast. He- he dropped something. A coat, maybe. He didn’t move after.”

Nigel swore under his breath, low and vicious. “Jesus Christ.”

Adam finally looked at him, eyes wide and glassy, mouth trembling. “Did I kill him?”

There was a long pause. Nigel didn’t answer straight away. He leaned his elbows on his knees and stared at the floor, jaw working.

“You did what I told you to,” he said eventually, voice flat. “Pressed the button when I said to. That’s on me. Not you.”

Adam gave a bitter little laugh, broken and airless. “I knew what it was going to do.”

“You didn’t fucking know what would happen,” Nigel shot back. “That’s different.”

“But I wanted to see it. That’s the worst part. I wanted to.”

His voice cracked again, and he pulled the blanket tighter around himself like it might hold the shame in. Nigel looked up at him, and something in his expression shifted. Less anger, more weariness. He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck.

“You’re not the first person who’s wanted to see dead bodies, Christ knows there are some seriously screwed up motherfuckers in this world. But you’re not looking for the wrong reasons. Not sadism or cruelty. You’re not a monster.”

Adam didn’t respond. He just stared, blankly, at the opposite wall.

“You looked. Fine, you looked. And yeah, it was fucked. But you’re still here, feelin’ it, crying your fucking eyes out. That ain’t nothing. Monsters don’t cry.”

Adam opened his mouth, then closed it again. His voice was thin when it came. “I keep hearing it, the explosion, the screaming… That’s not what I wanted…”

“I know.” Nigel’s tone had softened. Still gruff, still edged with gravel, but less clipped. “You’ll hear it for a long time.”

Adam blinked rapidly, a muscle twitching in his cheek. “I shouldn’t have done it.”

“Maybe not,” Nigel said. “But it’s done. So now you live with it, like the rest of us.”

He reached up and rested a hand on Adam’s arm, tentative but firm. “And I’ll help you. Alright? You’re not doing it alone.”

Adam looked down at the hand. Then at Nigel. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, but he gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.

Nigel sat there with him in silence, hand still resting lightly on Adam’s arm, as the last of the tremors began to ebb.

“I know you feel guilty as hell right now… but you shouldn’t. It’s my fault, okay?”

“I pressed the button—”

“And if you didn’t, I would’ve.” Nigel cut him off, voice firm but strained. “I made you do it. I killed those people. And worse than that, I’m the reason you’re feeling like this.”

“Worse than that…?”

Nigel exhaled hard, dragging both hands over his face like he could scrub the confession out before it settled. “I sound like a fucking sociopath, I know.” His voice was tight now, all the usual swagger stripped out of it. “But I feel… I feel bad that you’re feeling guilty. I feel bad that you’re crying.”

The words came clumsy, ill-fitting, like he was forcing them through a throat not used to this kind of shape. There was no rhythm to them, no polish, just raw, misshapen honesty.

“It’s not the blood. It’s not the bodies. It’s you. I’m sitting here, and I can’t stand the way your face looks when you cry. I can’t stand that I did that to you.”

He looked away, jaw clenched, like the admission had scraped something loose inside him. The silence stretched. Then, quieter;

“Adam… Cosmo.”

The name came softer than it ever had before, like something delicate he was afraid to break.

“I never want you to feel like this again,” Nigel said, barely above a whisper. “I’m really… I’m really sorry.”

It hung in the air, that apology, like it didn’t quite know where to land. Like, even the room didn’t believe it at first. But Nigel meant it. Meant every raw, inelegant syllable of it. And for a moment, he looked lost in the weight of what he’d just said, the vulnerability of it, the unfamiliar tenderness.

Adam didn’t speak. Just looked at him.

“Nigel?” Adam asked quietly, wiping his nose with the back of his hand.

“Yeah…?” Nigel replied, voice strained, pulse pounding.

“Can I hug you?”

Nigel’s stomach plummeted.

Every feeling he had been trying to crush back down had come spilling out in that apology, raw and exposed. He had hoped Adam would just nod, accept it, let it pass without comment. Move on. Pretend it hadn’t meant anything. Pretend it hadn’t shaken something loose.

But Adam didn’t look unsettled. He didn’t look confused or horrified. He looked calm. Tired, maybe, but steady. Like this didn’t scare him the way it scared Nigel.

Nigel wanted him to be afraid of it. Of him. Of this. He wanted Adam to frown and pull away and treat the whole thing like a misstep. That would have made it easier to forget. He could have blamed it on the stress, on the guilt, on anything except the truth.

Instead, Adam moved before Nigel could think of a way to shut it down. He leaned forward, arms coming up around Nigel’s back, face tucked in close against his neck.

Nigel froze. Completely rigid. His arms stayed locked at his sides, fists clenched.

It was overwhelming. The warmth of another body against his, the quiet breath on his skin, the way Adam just fit there without hesitation. It wasn’t threatening. It wasn’t loaded with expectations. It was just gentle. And Nigel didn’t know how to handle gentle.

His instincts screamed at him to push Adam away, to make a joke, to snarl something crude and mean and kill the moment before it buried itself any deeper. But he couldn’t get the words out. They caught somewhere in his throat, tangled up in that same place where guilt and affection were festering together like rot.

He sat there like stone, heart hammering, hatred blooming hot and sour beneath his ribs. Not hatred for Adam. For himself. For wanting this. For letting it happen.

And worst of all, for not pulling away.

His arms slowly lost their stiffness, easing into the embrace with a hesitant awkwardness. One hand came to rest against the small of Adam’s back, unsure and deliberate, the other lifting to thread through soft strands of brown hair, the texture unfamiliar beneath his calloused fingers.

“Does this… make you feel better…?” Nigel whispered, the words tasting strange in his mouth. He told himself it was for Adam’s sake, nothing more. Just comfort. Just support.

Adam nodded, face still tucked against his neck, his nose brushing lightly against Nigel’s skin. The warmth of his breath raised goosebumps along the side of Nigel’s throat.

“Do you wanna sit back down on the couch…?” Nigel asked, grasping for an exit, something that would let him step back without pushing.

“M’kay…” came the muffled reply, breath hot and steady against his neck.

Nigel let out a soft, shaky exhale and closed his eyes. “Alright then,” he said quietly, but he didn’t move. Not until Adam let go first.

When Adam pulled back and shuffled back onto the couch, Nigel followed a moment later, swallowing hard as he sat down beside him. Their thighs touched, and the contact was enough to send another jolt of tension through Nigel’s body.

Adam rested his head on Nigel’s shoulder like it was nothing, like it meant nothing. Nigel went still again, every muscle drawn tight beneath his skin.

He didn’t shrug him off. Didn’t snap. Just sat there, breathing through the heat crawling up his neck, trying not to think about how easy it had become to let Adam stay close.

Adam’s gaze dropped to the floor. His eyes looked slightly glassy, caught in thought, somewhere distant.

“You alright?”

“Yes. Sorry, just— you know.” Adam gave a small, tired smile.

Nigel studied him for a moment. That look. That tone. Something unreadable flickered behind Adam’s eyes.

“Adam,” Nigel started, cautious, weighing every word. “Can I ask a few questions about… what you feel during those moments? When you look at death. If it’s too much right now, we can do it later—”

“No. No, it’s okay.” Adam nodded, looking up again with quiet resolve.

Nigel let out a long breath. “At the bank… that the first time you’ve seen a dead body?”

“No. I found my father after he died.”

“Shit,” Nigel muttered. “That’s rough. I’m... sorry.”

“It’s alright. I’m glad he died at home; he hated hospitals.”

Nigel grunted. “Yeah… fair enough.” A pause. “And did… y’know, lookin’ at your dad, did it feel the same as the other bodies? Or different?”

Adam went quiet, thinking. “I think it felt the same. I just don’t think I fully understood it yet.”

Nigel nodded slowly. “So you felt it again after the blast. When you were starin’ at the bodies, yeah?”

Adam nodded too, gaze distant but open.

“And you feel like shit for killing some poor bastard… mostly ‘cause someone fucking died, but also ‘cause deep down all you wanted was to go back, look at the wreckage again. Like with the bank manager. Like the guy in the basement of the warehouse…?”

Adam nodded again, a flicker of shame tightening the corners of his mouth. “I feel awful…”

“I know you do, Adam,” Nigel said, his voice rough but steady, like he was trying to anchor them both. “None of us think you’re a bad person. Not one.”

Without thinking, his arm reached out, wrapping around the back of Adam’s shoulders. His hand found a slow rhythm, rubbing gently, reassuringly, the way you might calm a scared animal. It felt natural. Too natural.

And then Nigel realised what he was doing.

His muscles locked up, his stomach twisting with that old, familiar nausea. He dropped his arm like it had burned him, retreating from the contact as if anyone might have seen, even in the privacy of his own apartment.

The two of them sat in silence. Adam sniffled now and then, dabbing at his nose with the sleeve of his jumper. Nigel didn’t move. Just stared at the wall, eyes fixed, mind loud with self-directed venom. The self-hatred looped endlessly, ugly and repetitive, battering against the inside of his skull.

“Can I tell you something, Adam…?”

Adam looked over at him, eyes red-rimmed but attentive. Nigel didn’t meet his gaze. His jaw was tight, his eyes still pinned to the plaster in front of him.

“What is it?”

“I’m… jealous. I think.”

The words came out like he was spitting bile. Sour. Reluctant. Honest in a way that made his skin crawl.

“Jealous of how death hits you.”

He scratched at the stubble on his jaw, fingers restless. “See, when I think about death, it doesn’t scare me. Doesn’t even move me. It’s just… dull. Like I’m brushing against the edge of something I’m supposed to recognise, but I don’t. Like there’s a piece missing and I can’t name it, can’t reach it. Just this low ache that doesn’t mean anything.”

His hand lifted, gesturing vaguely in Adam’s direction, then dropped like the effort had been pointless.

“But you… you look at death like it’s some kind of phenomenon. Like it’s beautiful. Not pretty, but… fucking cosmic. And I hate that it makes sense to you.”

He gave a dry, bitter laugh that didn’t sound anything like humour.

“I want to feel nothing.”

His voice lowered.

“You called it a black hole before, yeah?” he muttered. “From what I remember, it’s a point where gravity pulls everything in. Light, matter, all of it. Crushes it down to dust and fucks it off into oblivion.”

Adam shifted slightly, like he might correct the phrasing, and Nigel caught it with a sharp glance and a scoff.

“Yeah, yeah, I know I’ve butchered the fucking physics. Doesn’t matter.”

He rubbed a hand down his face, dragging his palm over his mouth like he could shove the words back inside.

“Point is… I want that. I want the pull. I want to get dragged under till there’s nothing left. Because whatever’s in me now… it’s not whole. It’s not right. And feeling nothing would be easier than feeling that. Than trying to figure out why there’s this hollow fucking space where something should be.”

His voice went quiet after that. Not soft. Hollow. Like there was nothing left to scrape out.

Adam stared at him for a long moment, eyes searching his face.

“You make it sound sad.”

Nigel scoffed, quick and bitter. “How isn’t it sad?”

“It’s not sad. It’s not happy. It’s nothing. But that’s not necessarily a bad thing.” Adam’s voice was calm, almost gentle. “I don’t think you really understand what I feel. And I think you want to… for the wrong reasons.”

Nigel’s mouth twitched, a muscle jumping in his cheek. “The wrong reasons?”

“You’re trying to escape something,” Adam said, still quiet, still maddeningly calm. “I’m trying to find something.”

Nigel didn’t answer straight away. The words hit something raw and unprotected in him, scraping over nerves that had never healed right. He shifted where he sat, suddenly aware of the way his body was holding tension in too many places. Jaw clenched. Hands curled. Shoulders locked like he was waiting for a fight.

Something about the way Adam said it, not unkind, not judgmental, just true, made Nigel feel cornered. Seen in a way that didn’t feel like comfort. It felt like exposure.

He wanted to snap back. Say something sharp, something mocking. Call it pretentious. Cold. Weird. Anything to shake that quiet certainty out of Adam’s voice.

But he couldn’t. Because it wasn’t wrong.

Nigel looked away, his eyes finding a crack in the wall, as if that might offer some way out of the conversation. The silence between them grew heavier. He couldn’t even pretend it didn’t affect him. His chest felt tight, his thoughts messy, spiralling, and he hated that Adam’s words were still sitting there, untouched, impossible to argue with.

You’re trying to escape something. I’m trying to find something.

“So… you said that we have to try again? With the bomb…?” Adam asked.

“Uh, yeah. Something more portable. Something adaptable,” Nigel grunted, clearing his throat roughly. He clung to the subject change like a rope tossed to a drowning man, relieved to talk about something mechanical. Something impersonal. Something that didn’t feel like it might cut him open.

“Will Nestor come back to the warehouse if you have to build another bomb?”

Nigel went still.

His jaw tightened, eyes fixed ahead. “Uh, yeah. Probably. Little prick’s the only good bomb maker who’ll work with Romanians this side of the Atlantic.”

A pause.

“…I like Nestor.”

Nigel tensed again, sharper this time, like a wire pulled too tight.

“How so…?”

“He’s smart,” Adam said simply. “And I think he likes me, too. I think we’re friends.”

He looked down at his hands, fidgeting in his lap, fingers caught in restless little circles. “I don’t have friends.”

Nigel let out a short breath, almost a laugh, though it came out thinner than he meant it to. It scraped against something inside him. Something ugly and green and immediate.

“Don’t have friends? Fuck off with that. Adam, half the crew sees you as their younger brother. They fucking love having you around. If that ain’t friendship, I don’t know what the fuck is.”

Adam’s mouth curled into a crooked, hesitant smile. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Nigel nodded sharply. Too sharply. The corner of his mouth tugged upward like it had a mind of its own. “Darko likes you. Gabriel too. Even Darius, and that prick doesn’t like anyone. And me…”

He hesitated for a fraction of a second, not long enough to notice unless you were really listening. Then added, more bluntly, “I’m your fucking friend, aren’t I?”

“W-well, yes, I suppose so.”

“You suppose?” Nigel forced a grin, wide and careless, masking the way those words had already wormed their way in and started chewing.

“Yes— n-no, of course you are.” Adam corrected quickly, lifting his head from Nigel’s shoulder to look at him properly.

Nigel held the grin, kept it right where it was, even as something sour twisted deep in his gut. It was ridiculous. Pathetic, even. But there it was, the sting. The way Adam had said “I like Nestor” with ease, like it was nothing, and hesitated for him.

His chest felt tight again. Not from guilt this time. Not from shame. Just something low and cold curling around his ribs and pulling tight.

“I’m more of a friend to you than fucking Nestor,” Nigel muttered, the words slipping out rough and low, closer to a growl than a statement. He hadn’t meant to say it aloud.

“I guess.”

“You guess?” Nigel snapped, voice sharper now, more brittle. “You’ve hacked bank accounts, wiped evidence, torched surveillance, framed people. You’ve detonated a goddamn bomb. All for me.”

His tone dipped, dark and unsteady, something festering just beneath the surface.

“I don’t see you running around delivering boxes full of severed hands for him.”

“…Severed hands?” Adam blinked, visibly thrown. “That box I dropped off the other week…?”

“Yeah. Had a hand in it.”

Adam stared, stunned. His mouth opened, then closed again. Eyes wide. Silent.

Nigel turned to him, jaw tense, head tilted just slightly, eyes hard.

“You’d do anything for me… wouldn’t you?”

The question hung in the air like a challenge, sharp-edged and loaded. He said it low, like he was testing the shape of something in his mouth. Something he wasn’t ready to name.

And something in him buckled.

Not from confidence. Not from power. From fear. From the creeping dread that Adam might not be his, not completely. That his loyalty could split, bend, go somewhere else. Somewhere wrong.

With another man.

The thought was like acid in his throat. Jealousy, ugly and unfamiliar, tangled up with something else he didn’t have a word for, didn’t want to have a word for.

His heart was thudding, his palms clammy, and the silence made it worse.

And then it came out of him. Sudden. Blunt. Brutal.

“Blow me.”

 

Adam stared at Nigel, stunned into silence, sure his ears had betrayed him.

“Excuse me?”

“Blow me,” Nigel repeated, voice low, strained, cracking just slightly at the edges. Barely noticeable, but it was there. A fault line.

Then he moved. Fast. He grabbed Adam by the arm, his grip hard enough to bruise, and hauled him off the couch like he couldn't bear to hesitate.

Adam landed on his knees with a dull thud. The thin carpet did nothing to cushion the impact, and his knees throbbed quietly in protest. He blinked up at Nigel, bewildered, breath short, lips parted, stunned by the sudden change in tone, in posture, in everything.

Nigel stared down at him.

Not angry. Not lustful, either. Not exactly.

His eyes were dark, unreadable, but behind that hardness was something deeper. Something like fear. Longing, maybe. But twisted up so tightly with shame and fury that Adam couldn’t see it clearly.

This wasn’t about getting off.

This was about closeness. Control. The terrifying urge to be wanted, disguised as a demand to be obeyed.

“Y-you want me to perform oral sex on you?” Adam asked, his voice small but steady. Still too formal, too clinical, like he hadn’t registered the heat building in the room.

A flicker crossed Nigel’s face. The corner of his mouth lifted into a crooked smile, brief and bitter. Like he couldn’t decide if it was funny or pathetic that Adam said it like that, like he was asking a lab partner to clarify an equation.

Then the smile disappeared.

“Jesus. You talk to all the girls you’re fucking like that?” he muttered.

“Like what?”

“Like… you.”

His voice dropped on that last word, something softer curling around it. Not fondness, not quite. But close. Close enough to scare Nigel.

He gave a sharp tug on Adam’s sweater, dragging him forward. His knees fell apart, deliberately, legs spread in a posture that should’ve looked cocky, but didn’t. It looked defensive.

He positioned Adam between his thighs like he was daring himself not to feel anything.

Adam didn’t move. Just looked up at him, confused, uncertain. He hadn’t caught the shift. The flickers. The way Nigel’s fingers trembled slightly where they clutched the fabric.

He couldn’t see what was breaking beneath the surface.

But Nigel felt every crack.

“This is just how I talk,” Adam murmured, eyes flickering down to notice the start of a hardening bulge in Nigel’s jeans.

Nigel snorted. “Yeah. I know. Just—fuck, don’t you ever switch it up for the chicks?”

“Switch it up?”

“You know, lay it on thick. Bit of filth, bit of charm. Get their cunts drippin’.”

Adam swallowed dryly. “I– um, I just always talk the same.”

“Yeah. Figures.” Nigel grunted, dragging a hand over the front of his jeans, shifting the weight of the ache he didn’t want to name. The denim chafed, stiff and hot against skin that shouldn’t have been this responsive. He tried to smother the sick twist in his gut with something simpler, something base, let his mind wander to the thought of getting his dick wet rather than dwell on the deeper, filthier truth of why he was half-hard over that voice.

“I’ve never performed oral sex on a man before.”

That made Nigel preen slightly. His shoulders squared. The corner of his mouth twitched, smug.

“But you’ve had a broad suck you off, yeah?”

“Yes.”

The self-satisfaction drained from Nigel’s posture, replaced by something colder, something he didn’t want to look at too closely. It settled low in his chest and crept like mould around the edges of his thoughts.

“Why do you want me to give you fellatio?”

“Because getting your dick sucked feels fucking incredible,” Nigel snapped, the words quick and defensive, like stating a fact he didn’t want questioned.

“But why me? You are a heterosexual man who could get sex from any woman you wanted.”

“Any woman I wanted, huh? I’m that fucking good-looking?”

“You’re attractive, yes.”

Nigel’s heart pounded like a war drum, the pulse echoing in his ears and radiating down to where his cock twitched at the sound of Adam calling him attractive. The reaction was instant, traitorous. Heat flooded his gut, thick and gnawing.

“I want to prove to myself that you’re completely loyal to me. That you’d crawl over glass if I told you to.” Nigel spat the words like they were raw, jagged truth, but they weren’t. Not really. Not even close.

He leaned in, eyes dark with something knotted and unreadable. “So tell me, Adam, would you really do anything for me?”

Adam’s gaze dropped, fixating on the hard line straining against the denim of Nigel’s jeans. His fingers twitched, hesitant, then lifted to the place where Nigel had shifted the fabric. The barest brush of contact had Nigel hissing through his teeth, hand snapping around Adam’s wrist with a grip too tight to be casual.

“I probably won’t be very experienced compared to the women you have sex with,” Adam said, his voice steady, clinical. Nigel’s skin burned where it touched his.

“I know. It’s alright.”

“Can you tell me what to do?”

Nigel’s cock throbbed at the simple, obedient question. It was the tone that undid him. Eager, pliant, like Adam wanted to be shaped, guided, owned. It made him harder than he’d ever been with a woman, harder than any porn, any blowjob in a club bathroom. He told himself it was the power that turned him on. The control. Not Adam. Never Adam.

“Yeah. Yeah… I’ll tell you what to do,” he murmured, voice cracking as he let go of Adam’s wrist. Watched the slender fingers move towards his belt.

Nigel closed his eyes, trying to summon other images. Gabi, with her sharp eyeliner and sharper tongue. The woman from the club the other night, the one he’d dragged home before Adam had ruined the moment. He tried to conjure satin and perfume, the gloss of plump lips, the rhythmic click of stilettos on tile. Tried to picture tits, a tight cunt, soft moans in a woman’s voice.

His fantasy shattered in an instant, broken by the soft, undeniably male sound Adam made as he fumbled quietly with Nigel’s belt. The low noise sent a jolt straight through him, hardening him fully before Nigel had even opened his eyes again.

When he did, he looked down to find that halo of soft, chocolate waves framed between his legs. His belt was unbuckled, and Adam’s fingers worked at the button and fly of his jeans. The sight tightened the strain in Nigel’s boxers until it almost hurt.

As Adam tugged gently on the denim, Nigel grunted softly, shifting his weight. One hand reached behind to retrieve the solid, cold weight pressing into his back. He slid his gun free from its place tucked in the waistband of his jeans and placed it on a nearby cushion, the metal dull against the couch’s soft fabric.

Adam stopped pulling for a moment, eyes fixed on the weapon resting against Nigel’s strong thighs, the denim bunched around him.

“That bother you?” Nigel grunted, unbuttoning his shirt, pushing the fabric away so it no longer hung over his crotch.

Adam’s eyes lingered on the gun a moment longer, the very pistol that had blown the bank manager’s head clean off the first time he met Nigel. The cold weight of it seemed to echo in the room, a sharp reminder beneath the growing heat between them.

“It’s alright,” Adam said, shifting his gaze back to Nigel’s light grey boxers, where the bulge pressed boldly against the fabric. Nigel had undone the buttons of his shirt and let it fall open, revealing a plain white undershirt. The skin of his midriff peeked out between the shirt and the waistband of his boxers, softened by one too many beers and takeaways eaten late into the night. His tanned skin was crossed by a trail of dark hair that disappeared into the fabric below, the sight making Adam’s mouth go dry.

Adam had only ever been with women before. Only a couple, really. Beth, and a college girlfriend. They hadn’t always shaved, but the hair was usually neat, kept trimmed and tidy. He’d never minded it; it was natural, after all.

But with Nigel, it wasn’t just about tolerating it. It was something else entirely.

Adam’s fingers reached up slowly, tracing the dark body hair with a careful, almost hesitant stroke. His tongue flicked out to wet his lips, unconscious but telling.

The soft touch caught Nigel off guard. This was meant to be about control, wasn’t it? A transaction of power and loyalty.

Nigel leaned forward, his rough, calloused fingers tangling in Adam’s hair. He gave a firm tug upwards, forcing the younger man’s eyes to meet his own. A low grunt escaped Nigel’s throat.

“You’re not out here wine and dining me, Adam. I’m fucking hard and need to cum, got it?” He tried to sound detached, as if this was purely business.

“Mmm.” Adam nodded, waiting patiently until Nigel loosened his grip.

The moment Nigel’s hold slackened, Adam reached for the waistband of Nigel’s boxers, his heart hammering wildly in his chest. His breath came fast and shallow, nervous excitement threading through every inhale.

He pulled the grey fabric down over Nigel’s thick thighs, breath hitching as Nigel’s heavy, leaking cock fell free between his legs. Nigel’s balls dragged against the soft material of the couch beneath them.

Adam felt light-headed, the edges of his vision shimmering faintly. “Wh-what do I do…?”

“Just–” Nigel’s throat caught. “Just… do what you’ve seen girls do.”

Adam’s mind pulled up fragmented memories, pornography, awkward fumblings in dim rooms, the way past partners had moved, what they’d touched, how they’d looked up. “Do you have lube?”

Nigel let out a short, breathy huff. “In my bedroom. But you don’t need lube, Adam, it’s just a blowie. Use your spit.”

“My saliva… right,” Adam murmured, bringing his hand to his mouth. He licked his palm slowly, deliberately, until the skin gleamed with moisture.

A soft groan slipped from Nigel’s mouth, low and involuntary. Adam glanced up and caught the older man turning his head, one arm raised as if to shield his face.

Looking back down, Adam let his gaze settle on Nigel’s cock. He reached forward and wrapped his slick palm around the thick shaft, feeling the heat radiate through the skin, the subtle twitch of the pulse beneath his fingers. It was heavy, warm, alive.

“Fuck– Adam, are you trying to torture me?” Nigel growled, his voice breaking on the words. His arm dropped from his face at last, revealing flushed cheeks and a red-stained throat, his breath coming in ragged bursts.

Adam thought it was the most incredible colour he’d ever seen. Deep and flushed, almost angry. It reminded him of Mars, or the Great Red Spot on Jupiter. Vast, relentless, as powerful and all-consuming as the storm itself. “Sorry.”

He dropped his gaze again, his thumb sliding along the underside of Nigel’s cock. It twitched in his grasp, and the sudden motion made Adam pause, just for a breath, before continuing. The low growl, the soft groans, and the way Nigel’s hips shifted restlessly all seemed like good signs. Encouragement.

He let his thumb roam higher, brushing over the glistening slit at the tip, smearing the clear fluid across warm skin. Precum coated the pad of his thumb, sticky and slick.

Nigel’s hips jerked, almost thrusting into the touch. “Sfinte rahat,” he hissed, voice strained and guttural.

Adam kept rubbing over the head, circling gently, his other fingers tightening slightly in a careful squeeze.

“You sure you haven’t done this before…?” Nigel grunted.

“I’m certain,” Adam replied, soft and precise, his eyes locked on the bead of precum that dribbled down the side of Nigel’s cock like mercury, glinting faintly in the light.

Nigel let out a breath that was half laugh, half moan. “Spit on your palm,” he said. The words might have sounded like a command in any other scenario, but they came out wrecked, fraying at the edges with need.

Adam let go, leaned forward, and spat into his palm. He returned to the shaft, wrapping slick fingers around it again, beginning to stroke slowly, deliberately.

Nigel cursed again in Romanian, his body twisting gently beneath the attention. One arm was back across his face, as if shielding himself from the intimacy of it, but the other reached for Adam, tangling tightly in his hair, pulling him down, closer, towards his desperate, waiting cock.

“Mouth… use your mouth…”

Adam looked up at Nigel, his gaze steady beneath the dark fringe of his lashes. He leaned in slowly, one hand reaching out to brace himself against Nigel’s thigh, fingers splayed across the warm, flexing muscle.

He parted his lips and gave an experimental lick along the shaft. The reaction was immediate, Nigel let out a sharp, high keen.

“Now. Now.”

Adam swallowed hard and nodded, inching forward. His lips closed around the tip, the swollen head of Nigel’s cock settling heavy and warm on his tongue. The taste of precum hit him instantly, sharp and salty, coating his taste buds.

He began to bob his head, tentative and soft, taking only the head into his mouth. He pulled back until the tip nearly slipped free, then moved forward again, slowly engulfing it once more. The rhythm was shallow, unsure, but earnest.

 

Nigel felt like a bloody teenager, ready to blow in five seconds flat. Even with Adam’s limited depth, even with those modest, awkward bobs, there was something unbearably hot about the effort. About how cute the inexperience was.

When he was with women, they’d usually put on a show, loud and messy, choking theatrically on his cock, moaning like they were getting paid for it. If he was drunk or high enough, he could let it slide. But when he was sober, it pissed him off. All that noise, all that fake enthusiasm. It was empty.

But this, Adam, silent and sincere, not doing it for show, not hamming it up for Nigel’s ego, this was better than anything he’d ever had. No performance. Just quiet, awkward focus. Real.

Nigel’s fingers tightened in Adam’s hair, pulling his head back, just in time. His orgasm was clawing too close.

“Just… wait a second…” he panted, his voice rough with restraint.

Adam looked up at him, his hand still wrapped around Nigel’s cock, slick and twitching. Nigel’s other hand flew down, wrapping tight around the base, squeezing until the pressure eased the edge off.

Adam let go, patient and still, waiting as Nigel caught his breath.

“Am I doing it wrong?”

“Wrong?” Nigel barked a breathless, ragged laugh. “Fuck, no. You’re—” He stopped himself before the filth slipped out. Something he couldn’t take back. “You’re good. Real fucking good.”

Adam smiled. Lopsided, awkward, and strangely proud. His lips were wet with spit, flushed and shining.

Nigel tipped his head back, breathing deep, trying to will his heartbeat down. “Okay…”

He released his cock and let his hand fall, not over his face this time, but down onto the couch cushion beside him, resting limply on the cold metal of his pistol.

One hand tangled in Adam’s hair, the other on a weapon. That was the balance he told himself he needed. That this was about control. Power. Ownership. Loyalty. But the soft squirming of his hips, the flushed skin, the undignified noises breaking out of him said otherwise.

In his mind, the voices clashed. Ugly, violent.

One of them was his father. Loud and cruel, burned into his memory like cigarette ash on skin.

“You fucking like that, do you? Like eyeing up blokes? Like the thought of choking on cock?” His father’s voice snarled through the memory. “Jesus fucking Christ, Nigel, I should’ve drowned you in the goddamn bath when you were a baby.”

He could still hear the slam of fists on walls, on doors, the way his father’s breath stank of vodka and spit as he leaned in, voice full of venom.

“You gonna grow up sucking dicks behind bins like some cheap little rentboy? Gonna mince around in a fucking dress next, you pathetic little fairy? Swear to God, you look at another man like that again, I’ll beat the fucking sickness out of you. I’ll pound it out of your ribs till you’re nothing but regret. You hear me, boy? I’ll make you beg to be dead.”

Slurs hissed in his head like steam — fag, poof, cocksucker, little cum-stained bitch — all of them delivered with the exact same guttural rage.

The other voice was his own, the part of him that still needed to believe this wasn’t softness. That this was just a show of dominance, that he was proving something. That none of this had to mean anything more than power.

His fingers curled tightly around the pistol, clinging to it like it was the only thing tethering him to his heterosexuality. Cold metal beneath his palm, warm breath ghosting over his cock. That was the balance. That was the lie.

Then Adam leaned back down and took the tip of Nigel’s dick into his mouth again, and all the voices in Nigel’s head vanished. No slurs, no threats, no echoes of spit-flecked rage. Just the sharp, dizzying spike of pleasure, blank and clean.

“Adam, baby–” he moaned, the word slipping out before he could stop it. His grip in Adam’s hair tightened, fingers curling with need. He pushed down, guiding Adam’s mouth further, forcing him to swallow more of his length.

Adam spluttered, gagged around him, the sound wet and frantic. His hands latched onto Nigel’s thighs, pushing, trying to ease off. But Nigel was too far gone. When Adam pulled back, desperate for air, Nigel chased the heat of his mouth, thrusting up into it again.

Adam gagged loudly, the noise hitting Nigel like an electric shock.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck–!”

He came without warning. Adam jerked back just in time, half of the hot, pulsing release spilling into his open mouth, the rest landing in thick streaks across the pale skin of his face. His lips were parted, gasping. His skin glistened with it.

Nigel could barely breathe.

Adam sat back on his heels, swallowing the release that had landed in his mouth. His hands moved up to wipe the rest from his face, smearing streaks of sticky residue across his cheeks, his jaw, even catching in his lashes. He made a soft, frustrated whine, the sensation setting his nerves on edge, the tackiness clinging stubbornly to his skin.

Nigel sat there, catching his breath in the lingering heat of it all. After a moment, he leaned over to the side table and grabbed a couple of tissues, then bent forward and began gently wiping his cum off Adam’s pale skin, his fingers slower than they needed to be.

He was still drunk on the afterglow, hazy and floaty, caught on the image of Adam, knelt in front of him like that. All flushed cheeks and swollen lips, streaked with his release. He looked wrecked. He looked beautiful.

“You did really fucking good, Starry-eyes,” Nigel murmured, voice low and hoarse.

“I did?”

“Yeah, yeah, you did.”

“I liked it.”

Nigel swallowed hard, the words “me too” pushing at the back of his throat like a confession. The heat was fading now, the clarity seeping back in. He remembered calling Adam “baby,” remembered the way he praised him without thinking, how easily he’d fallen apart at the sound of Adam gagging, at the look on his face.

He looked down again, meeting Adam’s gaze.

That face. Smudged and messy and far too pleased with himself, like some smug little raccoon who’d just run off with a whole pie from someone’s windowsill.

Nigel snorted softly, the tension cracking just a little. “Yeah?”

“Yes.”

Chapter 9: Take Two

Summary:

Things are going well for Nigel, Adam has proven his loyalty beyond doubt, and Nigel no longer feels threatened by his growing rapport with the crew. But when Nestor’s true feelings come to light, Nigel is blindsided.

“People always think Jupiter is the most interesting just because it’s the biggest, but Saturn is way more complex. Its ring system isn’t just pretty; it’s made of countless particles that each follow their own orbit, and studying them can tell us about disk formation and gravitational interactions. Saturn itself is mostly hydrogen and helium, which means it doesn’t have a solid surface like Earth does. And this is the particularly fascinating part. If you had a body of water big enough to hold it, Saturn would float. Its average density is about 0.69 grams per cubic centimetre, and water's is approximately 1.”

“Ha. Sixty-nine.” Nigel snickered. He was sprawled upside down on the couch, legs dangling over the back, his head hanging off the front edge of the cushions. Blood had rushed to his face, turning it a blotchy pink.

Adam sat beside him, hunched over his cracked laptop, fingers moving with quiet focus.

Nigel tipped his head, trying to peer up at him through the upside-down haze. “That’s a sex position, you know. Mutual head. Face full of cock and cunt. Romantic as fuck.”

“I’m aware of that, Nigel.”

With a smirk, Nigel swung his legs down and twisted upright. The motion made the room tilt, and he chuckled under his breath as he steadied himself, then slumped sideways, letting his shoulder press lazily into Adam’s. He leaned in, peering at the screen.

“Pretty.” His voice had softened slightly. He tilted his head at the swirling images of Saturn, its rings glowing faintly in false colour. “Looks like a glow-in-the-dark cock ring for God.”

“What’s that?”

“What’s what? A cock ring?”

“Yes.”

“Ask Darko.”

“Okay.”

They were back in the warehouse, lounging amongst gangsters with cigarettes smouldering between their fingers and drinks sweating in their hands. The air was thick with the scent of smoke, beer, and cheap aftershave. Adam had come to think of the high-ceilinged storehouse as a second home.

He knew its quirks intimately now. Which steps on the metal staircase rattled under too much weight. Which pipes groaned late at night when the temperature dropped. He’d learned that he had to briefly unplug the fridge in the grimy little kitchen before turning on the microwave, or the outlet would spark and sizzle like it was about to catch fire.

He’d grown close to the people, too. Most of them merely tolerated him, but in a way that felt oddly affectionate, enjoying the challenge of pushing his buttons just to see him flustered. Others, like Darko, Gabriel, Darius, and Nestor, had started treating him like family. They put up with his odd habits, asked after his work, and brought him food when he forgot to eat. They made room for him. Made him feel wanted.

And then there was Nigel.

Nigel, who hovered closest of all. Adam knew he’d been jealous, particularly when it came to Nestor. There’d been a quiet resentment there, simmering beneath the surface. But something had changed after that night in his apartment. Nigel had gone quiet, almost subdued. Tamed.

And clingy.

Nigel knew he’d grown clingy. It was obvious. But at least he didn’t feel threatened anymore. He no longer bristled at Adam’s friendships with other men, didn’t tense up when Adam spent time alone with them. That sharp, ugly panic had settled into something steadier. He felt secure in Adam’s loyalty. In his affections.

And that felt good.

Still, he knew the jealousy wasn’t gone. Just sleeping. He could feel it lurking, waiting for an excuse to rear its head again. Sometimes, when he was alone, Nigel found himself daydreaming. He imagined strangers hitting on Adam, imagined one of them brushing their fingers along his arm, leaning in too close.

In his mind, he broke their noses. No hesitation. Blood and bone and Adam watching with that lopsided little smile before drifting back to Nigel’s side. Obedient. Submissive.

“Nigel?”

“Yeah, Star, what d’you need?” he replied, instantly, like a dog waiting for scraps.

“Can we go to my apartment today? I want to show Nestor my first edition, signed copy of Skunk Works by Ben Rich.”

“Fuck yeah, we can. Whatever gets your little engine revvin’.”

Yeah. Submissive.

 

They were soon in the car, heading into the city. Adam sat up front beside Nigel, posture stiff but composed, while Nestor lounged in the backseat, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose and buried in a thick, self-important book.

“So, I get to see where the magic happens?” Nigel said as they turned a corner, his voice playful.

“Hm?” Adam blinked.

“He means your apartment,” Nestor murmured without looking up.

“Yeah, your place.” Nigel grinned, throwing a sideways glance at Adam. “Been dying to see where you keep your porn.”

Nestor laughed in the backseat.

Adam nodded, hands fidgeting slightly in his lap. “I probably should clean. I need to dust. Vacuum. Take out the rubbish. Maybe do a load of laundry.”

“‘Course you do.” Nigel sighed, the sound bordering on fond.

He let his mind drift, already picturing the bedroom. Space-themed sheets pulled tight with military precision. Glow-in-the-dark planets scattered across the ceiling like a personal galaxy. Maybe even a model spacesuit standing in the corner, stiff and pristine, watching over the room like a sentry.

It made him smile.

Adam instructed Nigel to pull up outside a well-kept apartment building on the outskirts of Pasadena. It was comfortably close to the Mount Wilson Observatory, where he worked, and near enough to Los Angeles that a quick trip into the city was never out of reach.

The neighbourhood had a quiet charm to it. None of the buildings were especially tall, just modest, neat little apartments with brick façades and flower boxes nestled on windowsills, blooms spilling out in bursts of colour.

Nigel parked at the curb and stepped out into the dry heat, the sunlight sharp against the pavement. He tugged his sunglasses down, squinting up at the building. It looked tidy, respectable. Predictable in a way that felt very Adam.

Adam led them up the front steps and into the building, the foyer clean and faintly scented with polish. They climbed a few flights of stairs until they reached his floor, the corridor quiet except for the low hum of someone’s television behind a closed door.

Adam unlocked the door and stepped inside, holding it open for Nestor and Nigel to follow. As soon as they were in, Adam led Nestor over to the large oak bookcase that spanned nearly an entire wall of the living room. The two of them immediately launched into an intense, nerdy back-and-forth about a signed engineering memoir, voices overlapping as they pulled books off the shelves and started dissecting footnotes.

Nigel, meanwhile, let his attention wander. He drifted slowly through the flat, almost entranced. There was something strangely intimate about being here, in Adam’s personal space. The apartment felt quiet and lived-in, like a snapshot of who Adam really was when no one else was looking.

He moved through the room with deliberate care, running his fingers along framed photographs and odd little knick-knacks. A clay solar system with misshapen planets. A faded Polaroid of a telescope at dusk. The furniture was modest and practical, every piece chosen for function rather than style. Nigel even cracked open the fridge and snorted at the contents: frozen broccoli, some grilled chicken in plastic containers, and two boxes of microwave mac and cheese.

He smiled softly at the predictability of it all.

Wandering further, he began opening doors, peeking into the bathroom, then what looked like a spare room stacked with boxes. Eventually, he found the bedroom.

It was exactly what he’d imagined. Tidy. Measured. Controlled. The sheets were a crisp navy, tucked in with military precision. Adam’s pyjamas were folded neatly at the foot of the bed. The colours were restrained. White. Blue.

Nigel’s gaze landed on something in the corner, and he let out a soft breath of laughter. There it was. The spacesuit. Standing proud on a metal frame, like some odd little astronaut guardian angel, watching over Adam while he slept. He wandered over, reaching out to lift one of the gloves. His rough fingers pressed into the padded fabric, thumb stroking the seam. He couldn’t help the smile that pulled at the corners of his mouth.

His gaze moved to the shelves along one wall, scanning over books, spacecraft models, a few battered toys from childhood. One soft, stuffed bear was missing an eye. A model of Voyager had a bent antenna. Nigel touched each item like it might crumble beneath his fingers.

He opened the wardrobe, browsing slowly through the clothing. Folded jumpers, buttoned shirts, slacks ironed to perfection.

He reached up, pulling a box down from the top shelf, and opened the lid.

Inside were VHS tapes. The labels were hand-written in Adam’s neat, scrawling print. Nigel flipped one over, read the title, and gave a soft, disbelieving laugh. Porn. Of course it was. Organised, categorised, and stashed with the same level of care as the rest of his life.

He shook his head, smiling to himself.

Of fucking course.

He returned the box to the top shelf just as the door creaked open behind him. Adam stood in the doorway, looking slightly timid, like he was waiting for Nigel to call him neurotic or a control freak. People had called him worse for less.

Nigel just looked at him, then asked, “Where’s Nessie?”

“Nestor’s on the couch, reading. He likes my book collection.”

“Yeah, well, it’s probably worth more than my entire fucking place. Books and brains, you posh little spaceman.”

Adam’s lips twitched faintly. “Do you… like my apartment?”

Instead of answering right away, Nigel smiled and motioned for him to come inside. Adam stepped in, closing the door quietly behind him. Nigel moved to sit down on the edge of the bed, patting the spot next to him. Adam joined him, posture stiff, his fingers fidgeting in his lap, eyes flickering nervously.

Nigel noticed. He reached over and wrapped his hand around Adam’s, grounding him with the contact, remembering the last time he’d done this, when Adam had been holding the detonator, hands shaking just the same.

“I love it,” Nigel said quietly.

“Really?”

“Yeah. Really.” Nigel let out a slow breath. “I’m sorry I kept you away so long. You can…” He hesitated, his free hand twitching slightly before reaching up to brush a stray curl off Adam’s forehead. “You can come back here. If you want. Commute to the warehouse. I know you don’t drive, but I could swing by and pick you up like some sad bastard cabbie.”

“No, that’s okay, Nigel. I like living with you. Maybe I can just come home for the weekends,” Adam replied.

The words made Nigel exhale like he’d been holding his breath for days. Relief softened his shoulders.

“Yeah. Sounds good. Real good. Maybe we could take a trip to that fancy observatory of yours, fuck around with some telescopes, pretend like I’m cultured.”

Adam lit up. “Yes! I could show you my favourite exhibits. I could give you a tour, like I do when I’m at work!” His hands fidgeted again, but it was different this time. Eager. Energised.

Nigel chuckled, bumping his shoulder gently against Adam’s before leaning back on the bed. He tipped his head towards the ceiling.

“Surprised you don’t have any of those glow-in-the-dark star stickers up there.”

Adam followed his gaze. “I had them as a child. I loved them.”

Nigel scratched the back of his neck, already wincing internally at what he was about to say. “Maybe I could get you some. For here. And the warehouse, too. Stick ’em up next to all your weird science shit. I dunno. Is that something you’d actually want, or am I being a total fucking moron?”

Adam’s lips curved, small and genuine. “That’s very nice.”

“Good…” Nigel murmured, letting himself fall back onto the mattress.

He felt the slight shift beside him as Adam flopped down too, arms sprawled in an uncoordinated, boyish sprawl.

There was something unnervingly normal about it. Calm. The kind of calm Nigel hadn’t felt in a long time. It itched at him in the wrong places, rubbed his instincts raw. Because every time that feeling showed up, it was always tied to Adam.

And he was certain he hated that.

He’d spent so long trying to erase the hole inside him. Not patch it. Not mend it. Just scrub it out of existence. Wipe away the ache, numb the sharp edges, silence whatever part of him kept needing. Feel nothing, so that the thing missing couldn’t be missed.

But Adam wasn’t erasing it. He was filling it.

Bit by bit, with star facts and soft questions, with awkward smiles and warm silence. He was putting something in the place Nigel had tried to hollow out completely.

And Nigel hated it.

Didn’t he?

“Am I interrupting?” a voice asked from the doorway.

Nigel shot upright, already on his feet before Adam could even lift his head.

Nestor stood leaning against the frame, one brow arched with passive amusement.

“No. You’re not interrupting, obviously,” Nigel snapped, tone defensive and bristling. “Now what the fuck do you want?”

“Just asking Adam if I could borrow this,” Nestor replied, holding up the book in his hand.

Adam sat up slowly. “That’s alright. You can borrow anything from the bookshelf in the living room. I know you won’t damage them, and you’ll return them in a timely manner, in good condition.”

“Thank you,” Nestor said, casting Nigel one last, mildly curious look before disappearing back down the hall.

Nigel huffed and dragged a hand through his hair. Christ, he needed a smoke.

“Can I light up on your balcony, Adam?”

Adam gave him that look: calm, firm, unimpressed. Entirely him.

Nigel cracked a crooked grin. “Alright, alright. I’ll go poison myself out front like a good little delinquent. Don’t miss me too much.”

Nigel sat on the front steps of the apartment, cigarette between his fingers, watching the street stretch quiet and golden in the early evening light. The brick walls of the buildings across the road were bathed in streaks of amber and burnt orange, the whole street softened by the warmth of the setting sun.

The door creaked open behind him.

He glanced over his shoulder and saw Nestor stepping out.

“Hey.”

“Hello.”

Nestor dropped down beside him on the step, still holding the book. “We should head back to the warehouse. This gave me an idea for the next prototype.”

“We only just got here,” Nigel muttered. “Adam wants to tidy up a bit. Place has been empty for weeks.”

“He doesn’t have time to play house, Mister Banyai. We’ve got a job to do.”

Nigel sighed, exhaling smoke through his nose. “We can give him a couple of hours, Jesus. It won’t kill us.”

Nestor stared at him, unreadable, that flat expression carved in stone.

“Come on,” Nigel added. “I’ll even help him scrub the place down, alright? We’ll be done before you’ve finished jerking off to the next chapter of that book.”

Nestor’s lips twitched ever so slightly. “I suppose an hour or so couldn’t hurt.”

“There ya fucking go.”

Nigel wasn’t the house-cleaning type. He needed Adam to tell him which cloths were for the kitchen and which were for the bathroom. He didn’t even know you were supposed to dust. Thought it was some kind of inside joke people made to wind him up.

Adam had to stop him when he nearly created chlorine gas by mixing the wrong cleaning products.

After an hour, most of which Adam spent quietly redoing everything Nigel had touched, the apartment was clean enough to leave for another week or so. Rubbish taken out, food packed away into the freezer, laundry moved from the dryer to the closet with practised efficiency.

Adam packed a suitcase with a few more changes of clothes, a couple of books, even his weighted blanket. Nigel insisted on rolling it out to the car himself, chatting the whole way about what else they could get for Adam’s room at the warehouse now that he’d seen his flat. He rattled off ideas, clearly trying to replicate the comfort, make it all a bit more like home.

The conversation carried on during the drive back. Talk of new sheets, a proper duvet, and a space heater for the colder nights. A dresser for Adam’s clothes. A sturdier desk and a better chair so he could work more comfortably. Even the idea of getting a real bed frame, maybe a new mattress.

In the back seat, Nestor stayed quiet, his book closed in his lap.

 

When they got back to the warehouse, chaos met them at the door.

Darko had both hands in Adam’s hair, ruffling it so thoroughly it looked like he was trying to give him whiplash. Darius and Gabriel were in a full-blown tug-of-war over Adam’s suitcase, both claiming they just wanted to “see what kind of sex toys the little fucker” packed.

Nestor appeared at Nigel’s side and gripped his arm.

“My office.”

“Uh, yeah, just a sec.” Nigel turned back to Adam. “I’ll come find you later, alright? Get your room sorted, and then I figured I could finally teach you how to shoot a gun.”

“Really?” Adam’s eyes lit up.

“Yeah, if you behave yourself,” Nigel smirked. “Now go on, fuck off. Go make your little nest or whatever.”

Adam smiled back and took the case from the floor, not that it was hard, since Gabriel and Darius were now wrestling each other instead of the luggage.

“Come on,” Nestor said again, already moving towards the stairs that led up to his office.

The door clicked shut behind them. Nigel lit a cigarette as Nestor took his seat, dropping the thick book onto his desk before flipping open his laptop.

“There’s been chatter on the forums lately.”

“Oh yeah?” Nigel muttered, exhaling a slow stream of smoke through his nose. It curled past the scar on his cheek as he leaned back against the edge of the desk. “What are the nerds bitching about this time?”

“A gala. Diplomatic fundraiser, black tie. Your man Afanasy’s on the guest list. Supposed to be the guest of honour.”

Nestor tapped through tabs, fingers moving fast and deliberate.

Nigel raised an eyebrow. “You’re thinking of hitting him there? That’s a hell of a public fucking stage.”

“Exactly. But it’s not just politicians and diplomats. Everyone in that room is dirty. Arms dealers. Corporate thugs. Half the private security world. Take out Afanasy, and you might wipe a few other names off the board at the same time.”

“I’d piss off half the planet in one go.”

“You’d also sleep a lot easier.”

Nigel didn’t respond straight away. He flicked ash to the floor, brow furrowed, the cigarette burning slowly between his fingers. “We’re not waltzing in with a Glock. Place’ll be tighter than a nun’s arsehole. Guards, scanners, maybe even facial recognition. No way we’re strolling in with a bomb in a lunchbox.”

“Not the front,” Nestor said, eyes on the screen. “Loading dock. Security’s thinner. Guards, yes, but no detectors, no scanners. Just ID checks.”

“So what, we roll up in disguise? Dress like a fucking waiter?”

“Something like that. Catering, bottle service. Lots of movement, new faces. Easy in, easy out.”

Nigel scoffed and gestured down at himself; the tattoos, the fading bruises, the street-hardened edge that clung to him like smoke. “Right. ‘Scuse me, sir, can I top up your wine while I look like I’ve just crawled out of a fucking knife fight? They’ll toss me before I make it through the kitchen.”

“Then you don’t go in.”

Nigel’s eyes narrowed. “What, you want us to chuck a bomb in blind? That didn’t go so well last time.”

Nestor leaned forward, voice low, steady.

“We don’t plant it. We send it in.”

Nigel stared. “What the fuck are you saying?”

“A body. No bag. No briefcase. Just someone who walks in, gets close… and stays there.”

There was a beat of silence. Nigel blinked. “Jesus. You’re talking a suicide bomber.”

“Controlled detonation,” Nestor said coolly. “No margin for error. No nerves at the last second. If Afanasy moves, the package moves. We track him. We give the signal. No chance to run.”

“What poor fucker are we going to trick into doing that?”

“We don’t necessarily have to trick anyone.”

Nigel stared at him, silent. He didn’t know what Nestor was getting at, but something curdled low in his gut. A bad feeling, rising fast.

“What do you mean…?”

“You know what I mean.”

“I don’t.”

Nestor didn’t answer. He stepped past Nigel and walked to the window overlooking the main hall of the warehouse. Nigel followed, each step heavier than the last. He looked down through the glass.

The gang was gathered below, half-drunk and roaring with laughter. Gabriel was balancing a cigarette between his lips while trying to stack a tower of beer cans. Darius was shouting about the rules of some made-up drinking game.

And in the middle of it all—Adam.

Smiling. Laughing. His fingers tapped absently against his thigh, keeping a beat no one else heard.

Nigel’s heart dropped like a stone.

He turned slowly to Nestor, the realisation blooming behind his eyes, hot and sharp. His cigarette slipped from his mouth and hit the floor.

In the next second, he had Nestor by the collar and slammed him hard against the glass. The window rattled in its frame, a loud crack echoing through the office. Nestor yelped, the breath knocked out of him.

“If you ever say shit like that again,” Nigel growled, voice low and feral, “I’ll fucking kill you. You hear me? I’ll put you in the ground so deep they’ll need sonar to find the pieces.”

His grip crushed down on Nestor’s throat, fingers like a vice. Nestor choked, gasping for air, his hands scrabbling at Nigel’s wrists in blind panic.

Nestor clawed at Nigel’s wrists, legs kicking against the filing cabinet behind him. His face was going red fast.

“Let go— let—!”

Nigel didn’t loosen his grip until Nestor’s eyes started to roll. Only then did he throw him back against the window and step away, chest heaving, knuckles white.

“You ever say something like that again…” Nigel spat, pacing, dragging a hand through his hair.

Nestor dropped to his knees, coughing and swearing under his breath. He pulled himself up slowly, leaning on the desk, face twisted in pain.

“Finished with your tantrum?” he rasped, voice hoarse.

“Don’t push it.”

Nestor held up both hands, palms open. “I’m not trying to mess with you, alright? I’m just stating facts. You want Afanasy dead, and this is the cleanest way it happens.”

Nigel glared at him, jaw twitching. “You think Adam’s the cleanest way?”

“He’s smart, sure. Useful. But he’s not irreplaceable. I know a dozen guys who could write better code in half the time. Adam’s a liability.”

“He’s not a liability,” Nigel growled. “He’s— he’s just inexperienced.”

“No, he’s naïve. Still thinks there’s a good side to this work. That we’re just ridding the world of worse people than us.” Nestor wiped a smear of spit from his chin. “That idealism? It’s going to get him killed eventually.”

Nigel didn’t answer. His fists were clenched at his sides.

“I thought you liked him,” he said after a long moment. His voice sounded different now. Strained. “I thought you two were friends. He thinks of you as his friend.”

Nestor looked at him, unimpressed. “He’s alright. I don’t dislike him.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I don’t need to be his best friend to see what he’d do for you,” Nestor said calmly. “He’d do it, Nigel. Without coercion. He trusts you. He’d walk in smiling if you told him it mattered.”

Nigel flinched. Actually flinched.

“No.”

“Yes,” Nestor said. “And deep down, you know it.”

Nigel shook his head. “No. Fuck off. There’s gotta be someone else. Someone who deserves it.”

Nestor took a step forward, eyes hard now. “You care about him.”

Nigel’s silence was deafening.

“Don’t you?” Nestor pressed. “You care about him. And caring is a fucking liability. How many people have you killed without blinking? How many bodies are on your hands? And now one soft-eyed little nerd’s got you shaking?”

“I’m not—” Nigel started, but the words cracked in his throat.

“You’re compromised,” Nestor said. “And if you really want to protect him, the best thing you can do is get rid of the temptation altogether.”

“Don’t,” Nigel warned.

But Nestor wasn’t finished.

“Let him go out a martyr. Not a pawn. Give him something to believe in. Make it clean. Make it meaningful. Isn’t that better than him sticking around, getting softer, more attached to you until one day he dies screaming because you were too selfish to let him go?”

“Shut the fuck up—”

“You want to fuck him, don’t you?” Nestor said plainly. “That’s what this is.”

Nigel’s eyes snapped wide.

“You think no one’s noticed? Jesus, Nigel. You’ve got it bad. The touching, the nicknames, the fucking puppy eyes. It’s pathetic. You walk around like some cold-blooded killer, but one compliment from that boy and you melt.”

Nigel grabbed the edge of the desk like he was going to throw it.

Nestor didn’t stop. “He’s a weakness. You don’t just want him in your bed. You want him to worship you. You want him to look at you like you’re God.”

“That’s not fucking true! You don’t know anything about us!”

“You can’t stand what it means. That you’ve built your whole life on violence and control, and this one soft thing, this man, makes you feel like a person again. Maybe for the first time”

“Shut up, shut up—”

“So kill it,” Nestor hissed. “You want to be clean? You want to go back to not feeling anything? Then kill the part of you that wants him. Use him and let him die useful.”

Nigel stood there, frozen.

Chest rising and falling. Eyes glassy.

The silence stretched between them, thick and bitter.

Nestor walked past him, back toward the desk. “You can scream and cry about it later. But you know I’m right. He’s the only one who’ll go willingly.”

He sat down again, opening his laptop with a soft click.

“I’ll start planning the insert route,” he said, without looking up. “Let me know when you’ve grown the nerve to do what you know you have to.”

Nigel stood frozen, chest heaving, fury still simmering in his clenched jaw. But beneath it, something more volatile twisted through him. Something raw. He stared at Nestor’s back, waiting, wanting a reason to finish what he’d started.

“...He’s your friend.”

Nestor didn’t turn around. Didn’t speak.

The silence hit harder than any insult. Nigel’s lip curled, and without another word, he stormed out. The office door slammed behind him, the sound reverberating through the warehouse, shaking the cheap walls.

He took the stairs two at a time, knuckles white as his fists stayed clenched by his sides. By the time he reached the floor, his boots were hitting the concrete with enough force to echo.

He spotted the group straight away. Still laughing. Still relaxed. Like nothing had happened.

Adam sat on the edge of a table, legs swinging slightly, tapping his fingers against his knee in that quiet, absent way he always did.

He looked up as Nigel approached, the smile faltering at the sight of his expression.

“Can you—” Nigel stopped, throat tight. His jaw flexed as he forced the anger down, forced something else out instead. “Just… come with me. Fuck. Please.”

The last word slipped out like a reflex, soft and reluctant. An apology buried in static.

“O-okay.” Adam nodded quickly, slipping off the table and falling into step beside him without hesitation.

Nigel pulled him aside into a quieter corner, eyes darting like he couldn’t help himself. “Adam? Did that smug little fuck say anything while you two were talkin’ in your apartment?”

“Can you be more specific?” Adam tilted his head.

“Yeah, about the bomb. The new design. His big fucking plan.”

“Oh. No, we just talked about some of my novels and textbooks. Why?”

Nigel nodded too quickly, licking his lips, trying to play it cool and failing. “No reason. Just… makin’ sure he’s not feeding you any shit he shouldn’t.” He cleared his throat, looking away like the floor had suddenly become fascinating.

“Okay…” Adam said, confused, brow furrowed slightly.

“Oi, can you go do a coffee run for me?”

“At this time?”

“Yeah, I know it’s late, but we’ve got a long fucking night ahead and I’m running on fumes.”

“Sure, Nigel.” Adam nodded, still unsure but not questioning him further.

“Cheers.” Nigel dug into his wallet, rifling past a mess of crumpled bills, coins, and tattered receipts. He shoved a wad of notes into Adam’s hand without counting them.

“I’ll get you a scovergi,” Adam said, folding the cash with neat precision and tucking it safely into his pocket.

“Mhm. Yeah, thanks.” Nigel barely registered the words, his eyes already distant, lost somewhere behind a storm cloud of thoughts he couldn’t untangle.

Adam left without another word, slipping into the evening’s quiet, retracing the route he knew well. The warehouse door shut gently behind him.

And just like that, Nigel had time. Time to find the others. Time to put a bullet through the very idea Nestor had dared to voice.

Time to remind them all that Adam wasn’t fucking disposable. Not to him.

Nigel stalked towards the back of the warehouse, where he'd last seen most of the gang gathered. But as he stepped into the space, he realised they were already assembled. All of them.

His boots scraped against the concrete as he moved through the crowd, elbowing past shoulders and chests until he reached the front.

There, across the table, stood Nestor.

The hair on the back of Nigel’s neck prickled like a live wire.

“What the fuck’s going on in here?”

“Nestor just laid out his plan,” Darko said, voice clipped and simmering. He looked like he was one wrong word away from flipping the entire table over. “Didn’t run it past either of us.”

Nigel scoffed, gaze drilling into Nestor like a loaded weapon. “You sneaking around behind my back now, yeah?”

“I’m not sneaking,” Nestor replied, infuriatingly calm. “I’m consulting the crew.”

“Consulting them on your dumb-as-shit plan,” Nigel snapped, slamming both hands on the table hard enough to rattle the glasses on it. “Big fucking difference.”

“It’s not a bad plan,” Gabriel said, stepping in cautiously. “It’s just a shit idea to make Adam do it.”

Nigel pointed at him without looking, the gesture sharp and immediate, agreeing.

Around them, the others nodded. The tension in the room shifted, thick with anger and disbelief, the air bristling with the weight of silent judgment.

Nigel didn’t need to say a word. Not yet. The crew already knew where he stood.

“I know what this sounds like. I’m not pretending this is easy. But we need to stop pretending there’s a better option waiting around the corner.”

The room quieted. Chairs shifted.

“We want Afanasy removed. Cleanly. Permanently. Not just him, but the people who fund him. The people who keep him protected. This gala is our opportunity to do exactly that.”

He let that settle before continuing, tone even.

“If any of us go in, it falls apart. We’ve all got records. Flags. Faces that security’s seen before. We get stopped at the door. Or worse.”

“But Adam? Adam doesn’t set off alarms. No history. No known associations. He could walk in, and no one would think twice. And he’s already proven himself. He’s stayed loyal through worse than most of us could stomach. He doesn’t flinch.”

Darius frowned, uneasy. Nestor noticed.

“I understand how this sounds,” Nestor said, quieter now. “But this isn’t about heart. It’s about what works. Adam is capable. More than capable. And this plan needs someone precise, calm under pressure, willing to follow through. You’ve all seen that in him.”

Darko muttered, “You’re asking us to send him in knowing he won’t walk out.”

“I’m asking us to choose the path that saves our lives,” Nestor replied calmly. “Because if Afanasy survives another month, he will strike back. Harder. Against all of us.”

He turned, letting his gaze move across the crew.

“We have one clear chance. One. If we miss it, we don’t get another.”

He paused.

“If anyone has a better plan, I’m listening.”

No one spoke.

Gabriel shifted in his seat, jaw tense.

“If we’re serious about winning this fight, then we take this opportunity,” Nestor said. “But we vote. That’s how we do things here.”

He raised a hand.

After a long moment, one by one, most of the others followed suit. Hesitant, but unanimous.

Except Nigel, Darko, Gabriel, and Darius.

Nigel didn’t speak. His hands remained on the table, fists clenched. His jaw was set, his eyes locked on Nestor like he was already calculating how to make him regret this.

But the rest of the room had made its decision.

And Nigel could feel the weight of it settling in his chest like concrete.

Just then, the door creaked open, letting in a spill of orange streetlight. Framed by it like some reluctant angel was Adam, the white paper coffee trays in his hands glowing faintly in the glow.

He stepped inside, eyes scanning the room, confused by the tension in the air. The laughter from earlier was gone. The silence was thick.

His gaze moved across the stiff postures and drawn faces, then landed on Nigel.

Nigel swallowed hard.

“Hey, Star.”

Notes:

Exciting news! I've technically finished writing the fic! Now I'm just waiting for my upload day each week to update it with each new chapter. I'm really excited for you guys to see where this goes, muhahahaha

Chapter 10: Martyr

Summary:

The news is broken to Adam that he’s been chosen to be their suicide bomber, a decision he’ll only accept if Nigel says that this is what he really wants. Will Nigel push down his feelings and send Adam to his death, or will emotions get the best of him?

Notes:

Just a quick heads-up before this chapter: it’s a little shorter than usual since chapters ten and eleven were originally one, but I decided to split them, so this one comes in just under the usual 5k. Also, please check the updated tags — I’ve added past child abuse specifically for this chapter, so read with care.

Adam sat stiffly on the edge of the bed in his makeshift bedroom, eyes fixed on Nestor as the bomb-maker launched into his explanation. But his words were little more than shapes in the air. A sharp, relentless ringing had taken up residence in Adam’s ears, a high-pitched shriek that cut through the room like feedback from a microphone. It drowned everything else out. Only one word pierced the fog, slicing through the noise with surgical clarity: “martyr.”

He knew what that meant. A soft euphemism to make it all more palatable. They wanted him to blow himself up. Nigel wanted it.

But Nigel wasn’t here.

Only Nestor sat in the chair that usually belonged under the table, his posture unbothered, expression unreadable. Behind him, Darko lingered by the doorway, arms folded tightly across his chest, his gaze glued to the floor. His brow was furrowed, mouth pressed into a thin, uneasy line. He looked like he wanted to be anywhere else.

“Where’s Nigel?” Adam asked, cutting across Nestor’s words.

Nestor glanced over his shoulder at Darko.

“He’s… busy, Adam,” Darko said, jaw clenched so tightly it looked like the words had been dragged out by force.

“I want to talk to Nigel.”

Nestor’s face twitched with irritation. “You’re talking to me right now, Adam.”

Adam narrowed his eyes. “Just because I have Asperger's, it doesn’t mean you have to speak down to me like a child. I want to speak to Nigel.”

“I know you’re not a child, Adam. But you are our hostage, remember?” Nestor offered a tight, humourless smile.

“I’m Nigel’s hostage, not yours.”

Adam turned his gaze on Darko. Now, both of them were looking at the older Romanian.

Darko swallowed hard, throat bobbing. “Nestor, fuck off for a minute, won’t you? Gonna talk to Adam.”

With a tense movement, Nestor rose from the chair and left the room, his footsteps sharp and clipped.

Darko shut the door a little too hard behind Nestor, the bang sharp in the silence that followed. He let out a heavy breath, dragging a hand down his face before crossing the room and crouching beside Adam. His joints cracked faintly as he sank down, shoulders hunched like the weight of the conversation was already pressing on him.

“You want me to blow myself up?” Adam asked, voice quiet but unwavering.

“No, God, no. I fucking voted no.”

“Who else voted no?”

“Darius and Gabriel. And Nigel, obviously.”

“But… most people voted yes?”

Darko’s face twisted. “Nestor made some convincing points,” he said with a curl of his lip. “But he’s also a manipulative little cunt.”

A flicker of amusement tugged at Adam’s mouth. He tried not to laugh, but it bled into the corners of his smile.

“So… where is Nigel?”

He watched the question hit Darko like a slap. “He… fuck knows. Soon as the vote was done, he stormed off like he was ready to stick a knife in someone.”

“I don’t… I don’t want to blow myself up.”

“I know. I don’t fucking want you to either.”

“Neither does Nigel?” Adam asked, tilting his head slightly, searching his face.

“Course he fuckin’ doesn’t,” Darko muttered. “He’d rather shoot himself in the cock than let you go out like that.”

“I really don’t think Nigel would enjoy that.”

Darko snorted. “Yeah, no shit. Bastard’d rather lose a limb than anything that gets between him and his next fuck.”

He glanced at Adam again, something flickering in his expression, like a thought he didn’t want to admit to.

“What?”

“Nothin’, just…” A slow, wicked smirk curled across his face. “He probably needs it to rub one out thinkin’ about gettin’ his cock in you.”

“Having intercourse with me?”

Darko let out a sharp, barking laugh. “Yeah. That.”

“I’ve already performed oral sex on him.”

Darko froze, eyes going wide. Then his whole face lit up in a wolfish grin. “No fuckin’ way. You sucked him off? Jesus Christ. Never figured that emotionally constipated fuckwit had the spine to go through with it. Good on you.”

A flush crept up Adam’s neck, soft and unmistakable.

Darko clapped him on the back with a grin. “Thought I’d have to drag Nigel’s sorry arse across the line so you two could finally fuck before you go out in a fireball, but turns out you’ve already done the deed. Good on ya.”

The mention of the bomb wiped the smile from Adam’s face.

“Shit. Sorry…” Darko muttered, suddenly sober.

“Last time I tried to blow someone up, I killed a bystander…”

Darko exhaled hard through his nose. “I remember. I was there. But if it means anything, I swear on my fucking life, every prick at this event deserves what’s coming. The guests, the chefs, even the poor bastard cleanin’ the shitters have a sheet longer than my arm.”

Adam nodded softly.

“Nestor showed me the specs. Blast’ll be tight. Small. It’ll only take out anyone within six feet of you.” He paused, eyes steady. “No innocents. Just scum.”

“I really want to talk to Nigel…” Adam whispered.

Darko actually looked… affected. As close to heartbroken as a bastard like him could get. “I’ll find him for you. But I probably can’t stop Nestor slitherin’ in here while I’m gone.”

Adam nodded. “That’s alright. I should probably know the plan…”

Darko leaned in, voice dropping. “Don’t go getting’ your hopes up too high, but… Nigel’s a stubborn fuck when he wants to be. I reckon he’s out there now, leanin’ on people, twisting arms, tryin’ to get them to change their minds.”

He gave Adam’s knee a rough pat.

“Thank you, Darko.”

 

The words pounded through Nigel’s skull like a war drum, relentless and punishing.

“Isn’t that better than him sticking around, getting softer, more attached to you until one day he dies screaming because you were too selfish to let him go?”

“You want to be clean? You want to go back to not feeling anything? Then kill the part of you that wants him. Use him and let him die useful.”

“The best thing you can do is get rid of the temptation altogether.”

Nestor’s voice warped in his head, stretching into something monstrous, each word distorted and thick with venom. It twisted, became deeper, meaner, until it was no longer Nestor speaking at all. It was his father.

And then it came flooding back.

He’d been ten. Just a kid when his father had dragged him through the heart of Bucharest, one hand clenched around the collar of his shirt like a leash. Nigel’s feet had scraped uselessly across the ground, legs buckling every few steps. Each time he tried to plant them, to stand properly, his father would yank him forward again. He stumbled and fell, knees smacking hard against a floor that stank of alcohol and old sweat, sticky with something he didn’t want to identify.

They pushed through a noisy club pulsing with music and heat, air thick with the sting of ţuica and the bitter tang of cocaine. Bodies swayed and shouted around them, faces smeared with makeup and intoxication. Nobody looked twice.

He was hauled out the back, past two towering security guards whose eyes gave nothing away, through a door marked staff only. The corridor beyond was narrow and dim, the walls stained with time and cigarette smoke. They passed rooms with doors ajar, laughter spilling out, loud, coarse, almost manic. Then the moans, exaggerated and grating, echoed like bad theatre. Finally, they reached the one door that was shut tight.

Behind it: screaming. Raw, guttural, bloodcurdling.

His father knocked hard on the door, the sound sharp against the din of the corridor. He muttered something low and guttural in Romanian to the man inside, who cracked the door open just wide enough to peer out. His gaze dropped to Nigel, taking in the sight of him, a scrawny boy with dirt on his cheeks and a black eye faded to a yellowish smudge across one temple. Just a snot-nosed kid

The man stepped aside without a word and slipped away down the corridor, leaving the door to close behind them with a dull, final-sounding thunk.

The room stank of rust, blood and old sweat. The air was close, the walls stained with something that looked like mould and something that probably wasn’t. Nigel’s eyes adjusted slowly to the dim light.

A man was tied to a pipe jutting out from the concrete wall, wrists bound tightly above his head. His face was a swollen mess of bruises and blood, his shirt torn and soaked through. His eyes darted frantically between Nigel and his father, mouth moving in desperate bursts of a language Nigel didn’t know. The pleading was unmistakable, though, a helpless, breathless rush of panic that seemed to bounce off the walls.

On the floor lay a rusted length of metal piping. His father bent to pick it up, fingers curling around it with quiet, deliberate force, like he meant to crush it in his fist. The man’s begging turned to sobbing now, sharp and stuttering.

Then his father turned to Nigel, the pipe dangling from his grip like a promise.

“Look at this filth,” he spat, voice sharp and ugly in Romanian. “I want your fucking eyes open. You watch what happens to little cock-sucking faggots like this one. You think you can grow up and prance around like that? You think it’s a joke?”

He lifted the pipe just slightly, enough to show the weight of it. His jaw was locked, lips drawn thin with rage. “You need to learn what happens to men who stop being men.”

Young Nigel had nodded, wordless and pale, throat tight with fear. His eyes stayed locked on the floor, even as they burned, even as every instinct screamed to look away. He tried not to flinch.

Then all he remembered was the sound.

A sickening, meaty crack as the pipe collided with bone. A scream that tore through the room like a blade. The kind of scream that made his stomach twist, that stayed lodged in the chest like a swallowed stone. He’d felt like he was going to be sick.

Nigel’s eyes flew open as if torn from sleep, his body lurching forward before he hit the ground hard on his knees. He didn’t even have time to catch himself. His stomach turned violently, and he vomited onto the rooftop, the retching loud in the quiet night air. Acid burned the back of his throat as everything inside him spilled out, not just the bile, but the fear too. The weakness. The shame. All of it crashing over him in a sick tidal wave from the past.

When the spasms finally stopped, he slumped back onto his heels, chest heaving. There was a strange, burning heat climbing up the back of his throat, raw and bitter. His hands were shaking.

Something wet clung to his cheeks.

He reached up with slow fingers, half-hoping it was rain, but it wasn’t. It was warm.

He was crying.

He was actually fucking crying.

A rough sob clawed its way out of him, cracked and broken and pathetic. He folded in on himself without thinking, shoulders curling down like he could shrink himself smaller, disappear into the ground. The noise that escaped him wasn’t anything he recognised. It didn’t sound like him at all.

And for a moment, he didn’t feel like a man.

Just that ten-year-old boy again. Alone. Filthy. Watching.

The sob caught in his throat and died there, swallowed by the tightness in his chest. He sat hunched on the rooftop, shivering in the night air, sweat cooling on his skin, bile still sour on his tongue. His hands were curled into fists against the ground.

He had cried. Not out of fear. Not even for himself.

For Adam.

The realisation made something sour rise in him again. Not grief. Not guilt.

Disgust.

Not at Adam. At himself.

His father’s voice lingered in his ears like smoke, cloying and inescapable. That same venom, rotted and old, still lived somewhere in him. Had always lived there, beneath the violence and bravado, the fuck-you grin and the bottle of vodka.

“You watch what happens to little cock-sucking faggots like this one.”

He had watched. Had stood still and watched.

He dragged his hand over his mouth, breathing hard, trying to scrape the feeling out of his skin. He had spent years building himself into something hard, something dangerous. A man no one could break. And then Adam had looked at him with those steady eyes and undid it all.

Made him feel things he wasn’t supposed to feel. Made him want.

And now look where it got them.

He could not protect Adam. He could not keep him safe. The moment he started thinking like that, he’d already lost. Nestor was right. Maybe not in the way he said it, not in the tone or the cruelty, but in the core of it.

Adam was temptation. A softness Nigel could not afford.

If he stepped in now, if he stopped this, the crew would see it for what it was. Not leadership. Not principle.

Attachment.

Weakness.

And worse, he would see it in himself. That part of him he had spent so long stamping out, burying, denying. That part his father had tried to beat into the floor.

Letting Adam go. Letting him do this. It would mean something. It would be a line drawn in blood.

It would prove Nigel still knew how to be ruthless. That he could put the cause first. That Adam was not a distraction. Not a weakness. Not anything.

He would not feel this again. Not for anyone. He would not cry. He would not be… one of those.

Better to cut the wound clean now, before it festered. Before it made him soft. Before it killed them both.

He swallowed hard, eyes fixed on the horizon, jaw clenched so tightly it hurt. Letting Adam go was the only choice left that made sense.

It was the only way to survive.

“Oi, Nigel?” Darko’s voice rang out across the roof.

Nigel wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, spat over the edge, and cleared his throat as he stood. He trudged towards the voice, jaw set.

“Yeah?”

“Adam’s lookin’ for ya… You alright? You look like ten miles of dogshit.”

“Charming. I’m fucking peachy. I have to talk to Nestor first.”

“Come again?”

“The bomb, Darko. I can’t exactly turn Afanasy into red mist without the fucking C4, can I?”

Darko stared at him, dumbfounded. “What the actual fuck are you saying?”

Nigel rolled his eyes, voice flat. “Bomb. Target. Boom.”

“You fucking thick-headed twat. You’ve properly lost it, haven’t you? We’re meant to be stopping this shit!”

“We voted.”

“Are you off your fucking meds?!” Darko snapped, storming up to him. “You’re really gonna go through with it? Put Adam in a vest and light the fucking fuse?”

He lunged, grabbing at Nigel’s jacket like he meant to shake the madness out of him, but Nigel shoved him back hard and kept walking, heading into the warehouse with a grim, dead-eyed stare.

 

Nigel hadn’t spoken to him in days.

Whenever Adam caught sight of him across the warehouse, it was the same routine. Nigel would freeze for a breath, then turn sharply and vanish down the nearest corridor before Adam could call his name. Always just out of reach. Always avoiding his eyes.

Darko tried to reassure him. Said Nigel was just busy. Just confused. That he needed time to think things through. He promised he would talk to him before the gala. Promised he would do his best.

But each time Adam asked how it was going, Darko’s expression faltered. He would glance away, jaw tight, and offer a helpless shrug. Or a quiet look that said more than any excuse could.

He only saw Nigel once in those few days.

It was in the hallway outside the back storeroom. Adam turned the corner and nearly walked right into him. Nigel pulled back like he had been caught doing something wrong. For a second, they just stood there.

Adam’s hand lifted slightly, uncertain, like he meant to reach out. Or maybe just anchor himself to the moment.

Nigel flinched.

He looked like he was about to speak. His mouth opened, barely, a breath caught on something unsayable.

Adam waited, breath held.

Nigel dropped his gaze and stepped aside.

Adam let his hand fall.

Neither of them said a word. The silence between them felt thick enough to drown in.

 

Hope began to fray at the edges, pulling loose thread by thread.

Then the evening of the gala arrived.

And Nigel had not changed his mind.

Darko had not been able to sway him.

Now he stood in his makeshift bedroom, dressed from the waist down in tuxedo trousers and polished black shoes, a crisp white undershirt clinging neatly to his chest. His waistcoat, jacket, and bowtie were draped over the back of the nearby chair, waiting. He couldn’t put them on yet. Not until they’d fitted the bomb.

The room felt strangely still, weighed down by anticipation. A brittle kind of quiet.

There was a knock at the door, soft and measured, before it creaked open.

Nigel stepped inside.

He didn’t look at Adam. Just moved across the room with stiff, deliberate strides, carrying a large, unmarked box like it might explode in his hands. He set it down on the desk with careful precision, as though he wanted to be anywhere else.

“Nigel,” Adam said quietly, surprise blooming in his voice.

“Hey.” Nigel kicked the door shut behind him with the heel of his shoe, then folded his arms tightly across his chest. “Darko reckons I’ve gotta be the one to strap the bomb to you. No fucking clue why.” He gave a bitter little scoff. “Probably thinks I’ll be gentler or some shit.”

He looked sharp. Dressed head to toe in a sleek black suit that hugged his frame too well to be casual, hair combed back neatly, skin clean-shaven. It made him look almost refined. Almost untouchable.

“I think you look very handsome in your suit,” Adam said.

Nigel went still. His jaw locked, shoulders tightening as if the words had struck him somewhere unguarded.

His face hardened. “Thanks.”

Nigel turned to the box and peeled the lid off with slow, methodical movements. The hinges creaked faintly. “So. You ready to get strapped up?”

Adam shifted where he stood, his weight rocking nervously from heel to toe. His hands fidgeted at his sides. “I don’t think so… I mean, I’m going to die.” His voice was quiet, but it clung to the air like smoke. He glanced up at Nigel, gaze catching on the scar above his eyebrow, the one shaped like a dying star.

Nigel didn’t look back at him.

“Dyin’s not the scary bit,” he muttered. “What’s scary is screamin’ your fucking lungs out while your guts slide outta you.” He paused, swallowing hard, like the image was too easy to conjure. “You won’t feel a thing, Adam. It'll be clean.”

Adam nodded slowly, though the tension in his shoulders didn’t ease. He still looked like something was rattling loose inside him.

“Darko said you changed your mind. You voted no. But then you… you sided with Nestor?” he asked, voice barely above a murmur.

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

Nigel’s jaw locked. He didn’t answer at first. Just stared down into the box as if it might bite him.

“Because Nestor was right. It's the best way to get the job done. Quick. Loud. Final.” His voice was flat now, clipped. He risked a glance at Adam, but it was brief, like it hurt. “It’s what needs to fucking happen.”

Adam worried his lip between his teeth, chewing gently, lost in thought.

Then he asked, softly, “...Do you want me to die for you, Nigel?”

Nigel froze, hands hovering over the bomb still nestled in its foam casing.

The silence stretched out between them, thick and suffocating.

“Yes.”

Adam’s eyes fluttered closed for a moment.

“...If that’s what you want, I’ll do it,” he whispered.

“Don’t get all fuckin’ weepy now. This is what you wanted, yeah? You’ve been sniffin’ around death like a goddamn bloodhound since the day I met you. Chasing that numb little void like it’s the only thing that ever made you feel safe. Well, congrats. You finally get to disappear into it. Forever. Or not. Who the fuck knows.”

The words lingered in the air, sharp and sour. Smoke after a fire. Acrid. Bitter. Already starting to fade.

Then Nigel dropped his gaze.

He reached into the box with stiff hands, his movements rigid, detached. It was like his body had taken over for him, some rote mechanism kicking into gear, keeping him moving without thought. He lifted the bomb with both hands, slow and deliberate, as if it might detonate at the slightest misstep. He held it like something fragile. Something sacred.

The device was small, brutal in its efficiency. Wires coiled with clinical precision. The casing matte and unremarkable. Nothing about it looked deadly until you knew what it was.

Adam didn’t look away.

Nigel crouched and began unpacking the harness, thick black nylon pre-threaded and waiting. He moved quickly, checking buckles, tugging straps into place, all with the quiet urgency of someone trying not to feel. The room filled with the faint jingle of metal and the soft hiss of fabric sliding through his fingers.

“Arms up,” he muttered.

Adam lifted them, slow, obedient.

Nigel stepped closer.

Closer than he had been in days. Close enough for Adam to catch the scent of aftershave and the faint, chemical tang of the device between them. There was warmth in his breath. A subtle shift in his posture. Like something bracing.

He looped the harness around Adam’s torso, locking the device tight against his chest. It sat there like a final sentence, silent and undeniable, pressing down on him with quiet authority.

One by one, Nigel secured the straps. His fingers worked with practised speed, but they trembled slightly when they brushed Adam’s ribs. His knuckles skimmed the curve of a shoulder, a brief contact, all but accidental.

He didn’t meet his eyes.

Didn’t speak.

Just kept working. Fast. Efficient. Like speed could save him. Like if he didn’t stop, if he didn’t let the silence settle, he could outrun the truth of what he was doing.

“How’s that feel?” Nigel murmured. “Snug?”

Adam nodded faintly, eyes unfocused. His hands twitched slightly at his sides, fingers brushing against the edge of the harness.

He was still thinking about Nigel’s words. About disappearing. About being swallowed by the silence he had spent so long chasing. Maybe this was it. That cold, final nothing he had always been drawn to. He could have it now. All of it. All he had to do was surrender.

“Thank you,” he said softly. Then paused. “Nigel?”

“Hm?”

“Do you think I could… have something?”

Nigel didn’t look up right away. “What do you need? Food? Water? Bit fucking late for comfort snacks.”

Adam’s fingers tapped restlessly against his thighs, a soft, uneven rhythm. “No, uh... I mean a keepsake.”

Nigel froze mid-strap, one hand hovering near the final buckle. His brow twitched.

“A keepsake? The fuck kind of Hallmark request is that?”

“I mean, I know I’ll be dead. But I would feel more comfortable and relaxed before the bomb goes off if I had something to hold onto.”

Nigel scoffed, the sound sharp and disbelieving. “What, like your little fidget cube?”

Adam swallowed, his gaze fixed somewhere just past Nigel’s shoulder. “I think it would draw attention if I were fidgeting with something in my pocket.”

“Yeah. Might tip ’em off the guy in the itchy vest is about to redecorate the building in blood and teeth.”

“Just something to have in my pocket,” Adam said softly, “to run my fingers over to calm me.”

There was a pause. Adam clearly had something in mind. It was all over his face, the way his mouth pressed tight, the way his fingers stilled. But he couldn’t bring himself to say it outright.

Nigel narrowed his eyes. “What is it? Spit it out.”

“I want something of yours.”

Nigel blinked. The words didn’t seem to register at first.

“Mine?”

“Yes... like your watch or a lighter or something…” Adam said, voice low, almost sheepish.

Nigel stared at him for a beat too long, jaw set, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. Then he scoffed again, but it sounded weaker this time. Like muscle memory more than feeling.

He turned away abruptly, muttering under his breath. “Fucking hell…”

Adam didn’t move. Just stood there in his bomb vest, waiting.

Nigel reached under the collar of his shirt, fingers brushing against his own skin as he unclasped the thin gold chain around his neck. It caught slightly, tangled in a few dark strands of chest hair, and he yanked it free with a quiet grunt.

He stared at it for a moment. His thumb rubbed over the worn metal like he was trying to summon a reason not to give it up.

Then he stepped closer.

Too close.

Adam looked up at him, wide-eyed and quiet.

Nigel didn’t speak. He reached out and slipped the chain around Adam’s neck with careful hands, lifting it over his ears, letting it settle just above the collar of the vest. His knuckles grazed Adam’s jaw. His fingers lingered at the clasp a second too long.

It was wordless. Deliberate. Strange in its softness.

When he stepped back, he didn’t meet Adam’s eyes.

He cleared his throat and turned away slightly, like the gesture had embarrassed him. Like it had exposed something raw.

“Don’t fucking lose it,” he muttered.

Then he crouched again, quietly resumed his work, and did up the final buckle.

“Can I tell you something?” Adam whispered, fingers reaching up to feel the weight of the chain around his throat.

Nigel gave a noncommittal grunt, eyes still fixed on the buckle.

“If I’m going to die, I don’t think I really regret anything,” Adam began, his voice calm but distant, like he was reading from a page only he could see. “I lived the way I wanted. Mostly. I kept to myself. I avoided people. It made things easier.”

A breath.

“But… if I do have a regret, I think it’s not spending more time with you.”

Nigel stilled, his hand resting against Adam’s side.

Adam looked at him, his expression open in a way it never had been before. Like something was finally unravelling inside him, and he had chosen not to fight it.

“I’ll miss you,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “I know, logically, I can’t miss anything once I’m dead. But sentimentally speaking, I’ll miss you.”

Nigel didn’t answer.

There was a long silence, thick with something unsaid.

Adam swallowed. Then, quietly, “I think I might be in love with you.”

Nigel’s head jerked slightly, as if he might look up. As if he might say something.

But Adam cut him off, eyes already dropping back to the floor.

“Don’t say anything. It doesn’t matter now. I just… I wanted you to know.”

Another beat passed. The bomb sat heavy on his chest, but the weight of his words felt heavier.

And then Adam smiled, just faintly. Just for a moment.

“I’m ready.”

Notes:

Think of ten-year-old Nigel as a young Ennis Del Mar, standing there while his father forces him to witness the mutilated body of a man accused of being gay… :((

Chapter 11: Detonation

Summary:

The gala night: laughter, luxury… and a boy with a bomb.

Adam sat hunched in the back of one of the so-called “bottle service” vans, clad in the crisp black-and-white uniform of a waiter. The fabric clung a little too tightly over the bomb vest strapped beneath, each breath making the seams strain ever so slightly. He stared down at the floor, eyes fixed but unseeing, fingers absently twisting the chain around his neck. The metal was cold against his skin, and he clung to the sensation like a lifeline, something sharp and grounding in the fog of mounting dread.

Darius and Gabriel flanked him on either side, their voices soft and deliberate, offering reassurance as they recited the plan in calm, measured tones. Adam barely registered the sound. It washed over him like a dull breeze, meaningless in the face of what waited ahead. He already knew the plan inside out. Knew what came next. The words were just noise. Polite distractions dressed up as comfort. It didn’t matter.

He was going to die.

That was the point of all this, wasn’t it? When everything was stripped back, when the layers were peeled away, wasn’t this what he’d always wanted?

Silence. Stillness. That final, quiet nothing.

Nigel and Darko were up in the van ahead, out of reach. Adam couldn’t ask Nigel to walk him through it again, to untangle the chaos in his head and lay it out neatly for him. Couldn’t hear that voice explaining, calm and ruthless, why this was the right choice. Why it made sense. Why it was what Adam wanted.

Gabriel held something out to him, a small black object nestled in his palm. Adam caught the word “earpiece” through the thick, numbing fog in his head and took it without comment, pressing the slick bit of tech into his ear until it nestled flush against the skin. Deep enough to stay hidden. No real need to worry about comfort or retrieval. He wasn’t exactly planning on making it out in one piece.

“Alright, shut the fuck up and act normal. Security checkpoint up ahead,” the gangster in the front muttered, eyes flicking to the rear-view mirror, voice low and clipped. “Everyone, get in position and look like you serve drinks for a fucking living. We’re wait-staff, yeah? Just regular-ass, tray-carryin’, minimum-wage motherfuckers. Don’t fucking twitch.”

The van slowed to a halt, tires crunching over gravel. The front window squeaked down on stiff runners. A uniformed guard stepped into view, peering in at the driver before angling his head to look past him, towards the back of the van.

Adam kept still, surrounded by bodies in pressed shirts and clip-on ties, the back crammed with crates of champagne, tubs of ice, and carefully stacked glasses. Props for the role. A costume for the night’s performance.

“ID.” The guard's voice was flat, uninterested.

They all moved at once, reaching into jacket pockets and pulling out their falsified passes. Laminated plastic flashed in the dim interior light. Gala credentials, printed and punched.

The guard barely glanced at them. His eyes skimmed across the cards with a minimum wage amount of effort. A bored flicker of attention, nothing more.

“Whatever,” the guard muttered, waving them through with a jerk of his chin. “Dock entrance. You’re late.”

The driver said nothing. He rolled the window back up with a mechanical whir and eased the van forward, tires grinding over loose gravel as they veered off the main road. The service lane behind the venue was narrow and shadowed, tucked out of sight behind marble facades and manicured hedges. As they crept along it, the throb of bass pulsed faintly through the thick stone walls. Laughter floated on the air, sharp and brittle. The clink of champagne flutes. Low conversation, silken and moneyed. The gala was already underway.

Inside the van, the silence thickened.

Adam could feel sweat collecting beneath his collar, soaking into the crisp edge of the shirt. His skin prickled under the starched fabric, heat pooling at the base of his neck. The air stank of cheap cologne and nerves, and beneath it all, something sour and artificial, like burnt almonds. The scent of explosives, masked but not hidden. The crates beside him shuddered with every pothole, glass clinking softly like wind chimes in a storm.

He didn’t look down. Didn’t dare. The bomb vest beneath his waistcoat pressed close to his ribs, unmoving but impossible to ignore. He’d checked it four times back at the warehouse, fingers tracing every strap and wire, every seam. He knew the trigger was hidden in the stem of the tray he’d carry. Knew Nigel would set it off himself if Adam faltered.

The van jolted to a stop.

“Alright,” the driver growled, yanking the handbrake and twisting around in his seat. “Unload fast. No pissin’ about.”

The crew moved instantly, their motions precise and practised. One of them threw the back doors open, and the night spilled in, cool and cloying, thick with car exhaust and the heavy perfume of roses from the gardens. They filed out with silent efficiency, lifting crates, balancing trays, buckets of champagne tucked under their arms. The performance had begun. Smiles were pasted on like theatre makeup. Movements smooth, familiar. To the casual observer, they were nothing but hospitality staff running late.

Adam stepped out last. His polished shoes clicked against the stone, sharp and hollow. The tray in his hands felt wrong. Weighted. His fingers curled tighter around the stem, knuckles taut, a faint tremble betraying him.

The van ahead of them groaned as its doors slid open, metal rattling on the tracks. Adam’s head turned at the sound, just in time to see Nigel and Darko stepping out, Nestor trailing close behind, snivelling something into their ears.

Nigel still wore that fitted black suit, sharp lines hugging his broad, muscular frame. The fabric caught the light as he moved, smooth and expensive. But his neck looked bare. The chain he usually wore was gone, leaving his skin exposed and strangely empty, save for the faded tattoo of a pin-up girl inked into his sun-warmed flesh. It looked stark without the metal glinting above it. Incomplete.

Adam’s hand drifted to his own neck, fingers brushing against Nigel’s chain there. Cool metal against hot skin. Familiar. Reassuring. Heavy.

Across the space, Nigel’s eyes flicked to Adam. Just for a second. Then he looked away, quick and deliberate, jaw tight. His hand came up to the back of his neck, rubbing the skin there, rough fingers restless. Like he could still feel the chain that wasn’t there.

Darko and Nestor approached, their footsteps crunching softly on the gravel as they joined Adam and the rest of the crew. Nigel lingered a short distance away, silent, already lighting a cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating his face before the ember took over.

“How you feelin’, kid?” Darko asked, voice gruff but not unkind.

“I don’t know,” Adam murmured, his eyes flicking past him, trying to catch another glimpse of Nigel through the haze of smoke and moonlight.

Darko continued. “I’ve got a mic stitched into my sleeve. Same with Nigel. We’ll feed you intel as we move. Where Afanasy is, who to steer clear of, who you can talk to without getting your teeth kicked in.”

Adam gave a short nod.

“You don’t have a mic. Just the earpiece. So keep your mouth shut, no muttering, no whispering, no fucking commentary. You talk to yourself, you blow the whole goddamn op. Got it?”

Nestor stepped in then, voice calculated. “Nigel and I will be on the mezzanine overlooking the main hall, disguised as guests. We’ll keep watch from there, and I can talk to you through his microphone if you need instructions.”

Darko rolled his eyes as Nestor cut in. “And I’ll act as a guest in the foyer,” he added, adjusting his cuff, “to keep an eye on comings and goings.”

“Alright.”

Darko looked at him, eyes softer now, voice low with something close to sympathy. “So, you ready?”

Adam opened his mouth, then closed it again. What was he meant to say?

He just nodded.

Darko gave a faint smile, more grim than reassuring. “Let’s do this shit.”

They moved in formation, slipping through the kitchen loading bay without hesitation. Past sous-chefs hunched over steaming pots, past dishwashers laughing behind gloved hands, past wait-staff flicking ash out the side door. No one spared them a glance.

The uniform was armour. It made them invisible. And that was the point.

The uniform only did so much. Fabric could hide a lot, but not everything. The rest of the crew still looked like what they were, rough-edged, coiled with violence, their shaved heads gleaming under harsh lighting, skin marked with crude tattoos and old, knotted scars. They stood like men used to brawls, not banquets.

Adam was the exception. He looked polished. Presentable. Professional.

Clean lines, composed face, posture that said he belonged. He could pass.

Which was exactly why he was the one being sent in.

The others had their roles: posted at exits, lingering near entryways, and stationed discreetly on the mezzanine to keep the floor in view. Watching the guests. Watching the staff. Making sure the net stayed tight around the room.

But Adam? Adam was the bait. The face. The one meant to walk straight into the lion’s den and smile like he belonged there.

Another gang member dressed as a waiter held open the staff door for Adam, and he stepped through into the glare of the main hall.

The chandeliers hit him like a wall of light, blinding and sharp, throwing every surface into glinting gold and shadow. The heat from the crowd pressed in immediately, bodies crammed into tailored suits and tight dresses, the sharp clink of glasses, the high, brittle laughter of the rich. The thick perfume of cigar smoke and cologne hung in the air like fog, cloying and inescapable. Adam’s breath caught. His grip on the drinks tray tightened.

Then a whisper hissed through his earpiece, low and grounding. “I know it’s crowded… Breathe, Adam,” Nigel said. His voice was quiet, but it cut through the noise like a knife. Adam’s muscles eased slightly, the tremble in his limbs steadying enough to let him move.

He began weaving through the crowd, head down, eyes alert. The uniform helped him pass, just another waiter ferrying drinks to people who wouldn’t look twice.

“Afanasy’s the guest of honour,” Nigel continued, calm but slightly shaky in his ear. “He’ll make an appearance soon. Our intel says he’s giving a speech after the orchestra finishes the next piece.”

Adam’s eyes flicked to the stage. The musicians were already seated, tuning strings and shifting in their chairs, the air around them tense with anticipation.

Just then, someone brushed against him and snatched a champagne flute from his tray. The sudden contact jolted him; his shoulders snapped tight, the glasses clinking too loudly for comfort. He sucked in a sharp breath, teeth clenched.

But he didn’t stop. He couldn’t.

He’d known what this would feel like, the heat, the noise, the press of people, and still he’d said yes. Still, he said he’d do it. He wanted it. Not just the mission. The detonation. The finale. Something clean to cut through the noise and leave no more waiting.

His grip on the tray adjusted, steady now. He kept walking.

 

The gala guests on the mezzanine began to shuffle downstairs, murmuring with polite excitement as they moved to get a better view of the orchestra.

Nigel didn’t move.

He stayed rooted to the spot, hands clenched around the railing like it was the only thing keeping him upright. His eyes locked on Adam, who drifted through the crowd with quiet focus, the tray steady in his hands despite the faint tightness in his jaw.

Nigel’s heart thundered. Not fast, but irregular. Stuttering. Each beat landed hard and wrong, like a misfire. His vision narrowed. The lights below blurred at the edges. He couldn’t take a full breath. His chest felt tight, lungs fluttering and useless, pulling in too little air.

He felt sick. Like the lining of his stomach had turned to acid. Like something foul and hot was clawing its way up his throat.

I think I might be in love with you.

The words hit him again. Crisp and quiet and unbearable. Nigel hadn’t replied. Hadn’t even moved. Hadn’t even looked at him. Frozen.

Now, Adam was down there. With a bomb strapped to his chest. Walking with a steady rhythm, just enough tension in his frame to show he knew exactly what he was doing.

Nigel’s mouth flooded with spit, thick and metallic. He swallowed hard, but it didn’t help. His fingers were starting to go numb around the railing.

Beside him, Nestor clicked his tongue in irritation. “He’s twitchy,” he muttered. “He’s going to screw this up.”

“He’s about to blow himself up, of course he’s fucking twitchy,” Nigel hissed. His voice sounded wrong, like it came from someone else. He pressed one hand to the inside pocket of his jacket. The detonator was there. Heavy. Cold. It felt obscene.

“You have the second detonator, yes?”

“Yeah.” The word scraped out low and raw.

“Then you press it if he freezes. He seemed compliant when you spoke to him earlier, no?”

Nigel didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His eyes stayed fixed on Adam, who moved with quiet determination, just a hint of tension in his shoulders betraying the weight he carried.

“Then keep feeding him those soft, little whispers,” Nestor said. “Keep him calm. Steady. Like a lamb going to the slaughter. No need to let the thing bleat before you slit its throat.”

Nigel’s grip on the railing tightened. His knuckles were bone-white. He couldn’t feel his hands anymore. His whole body felt distant, vibrating at some strange, high frequency he couldn’t come down from.

“Eyes front,” Nestor said sharply, nudging his shoulder. “There. By the stage.”

Nigel blinked, his eyes stinging.

Afanasy had appeared beside the orchestra, smiling, hands clasped behind his back. The target. Right where he was supposed to be.

“We’re close,” Nestor murmured. “Say something calming.”

Nigel opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

His throat locked. His chest ached. He couldn’t seem to make the breath travel far enough to speak.

All he could see was Adam, who had locked onto Afanasy. The orchestra began to play, loud and blaring. But Adam walked forward anyway, his movements certain, shoulders braced, like someone who'd made peace with what was coming.

Like he welcomed it. Like this, this final walk, this one clean purpose, was the only thing that had ever made sense.

I think I might be in love with you.

Nigel blinked hard, but it didn’t stop the sting. Didn’t stop the way everything inside him was collapsing, slow and soundless.

“A–Adam…?” Nigel’s voice cracked, ragged, muffled by the cold metal of the microphone shoved deep inside his jacket sleeve. It trembled like he was trying to squeeze sound out through a storm of chaos.

“Fuck, I know you can’t answer me. Just—please. For the love of God, turn the fuck around.”

Adam paused under the mezzanine, tray clenched so tight his knuckles blanched, frozen for a breath, a heartbeat, but not enough.

Nigel’s chest convulsed. Breath hitched sharp and jagged, like he’d swallowed a razor blade.

Then Adam moved.

And kept moving.

The world snapped inside Nigel’s skull, and panic surged like a freight train smashing through his veins. “Adam! Fucking Adam! Turn the fuck around! We’re pulling out! This isn’t how it’s meant to end, back the fuck down! Back the fuck down!”

But Adam didn’t stop.

Nigel’s voice shattered, ragged and desperate, a raw scream swallowed by the thunder of impending disaster.

“Adam! Please— please don’t do this! Come the fuck back!”

Still, Adam walked on.

“What the hell are you doing!?” Nestor hissed, lunging forward like a rabid animal, claws out, desperate to snatch the detonator from Nigel’s grasp.

Nigel was faster. With a brutal twist of his wrist, he jerked the detonator away.

“You’re weak!” Nestor spat venomously. “Soft as fuck, wrapped around that loser Adam’s finger like a little puppy. Always pussyfooting around, pretending you’re some hard bastard, but everyone knows you’re just a lovesick fag. You’ve got no backbone, Nigel! Just a spineless coward too scared to face real power!”

Rage bubbled up like molten steel inside Nigel. His fingers shot out, clamping down hard on the back of Nestor’s head, crushing bone and flesh beneath his grip. His calloused nails tangled viciously in the wiry strands of Nestor’s hair, ripping out tufts as Nestor’s mouth opened for a scream, but only a strangled yelp escaped.

Without hesitation, Nigel spun him around and slammed his face into the cold metal railing of the mezzanine. The impact exploded like a grenade. A sickening crunch of bone shattered beneath brittle flesh. Blood sprayed in a violent arc, flecking Nigel’s cheek with dark crimson droplets that glistened under the harsh fluorescent light.

Nestor’s head lolled forward, but Nigel dragged him back sharply, again and again, bashing that fragile skull against the unforgiving steel. Each strike drove shards of bone and splinters of teeth into the railing, the sickening wet thuds ringing out in the cramped space. The railing, streaked now with gore and clumps of brain matter, was slick with the oily slickness of crushed tissue.

Nestor’s screams twisted into a gurgle, thick with blood pouring from his nose and shattered jaw. His eyes fluttered, glassy and unfocused, brain matter pulsing grotesquely through the cracks Nigel had carved into his skull.

By the fifth blow, Nigel’s breath was ragged, but his grip never faltered. Blood soaked his sleeve, warm and sticky, but the taste of it was nothing compared to the roaring satisfaction in his veins. When Nestor finally went limp, Nigel released him and watched the lifeless body slump, a gruesome heap of torn flesh and shattered bone.

The only sound left was the slow drip, drip of blood pooling on the floor beneath the railing, the last witness to the reckoning Nigel had delivered.

The orchestra roared below, their thunderous crescendo drowning out the sickening sounds of brutal murder ripping through the floor above. The conductor’s hands shot up in a final, victorious flourish as the horns blared like a war cry.

Polite applause rippled through the crowd, hollow and oblivious. Nigel’s eyes darted frantically, scanning the sea of faces with panicked urgency.

There, Adam was, threading his way through the crowd toward Afanasy, dangerously close, closer than Nigel dared to let him get.

With a jolt, Nigel yanked the back of his suit jacket and pulled his pistol free from the waistband of his dress pants. His hand trembled as he raised it, finger tightening on the trigger.

He fired, sharp and controlled, into the crowd, deliberately avoiding Adam but igniting chaos.

Screams erupted, yells shattered the grand gala. Guests scattered in a wave of panic, stampeding in every direction, confusion and terror flooding the hall like a tidal wave.

 

Adam’s eyes flew wide, chest heaving as chaos erupted around him. Guests scattered in all directions, heels clattering against marble, sequins flashing in the low light, screams slicing through the sound of gunfire. He spun frantically, searching, heart hammering in his throat.

There, Afanasy. Surrounded by a wall of burly security, all stone-faced and armed, herded quickly out of sight. Adam took off after them, weaving through overturned chairs and abandoned glasses, but they disappeared into a side room before he could close the distance.

He skidded to a stop, grabbing at the door handle. It didn’t budge.

He yanked it again, harder this time, the metal biting into his palm. Locked. Solid.

Then Nigel’s voice burst through the earpiece, sharp with fury, thick with static.

“Cover’s fucking blown, Adam! Get the fuck out! Fall back to the van. I repeat, haul your skinny arse to the fucking van, now!”

“No!” Adam screamed out loud, voice cracking as he stared down the unyielding door. “No! I was meant to do this! It’s my job! It’s my job!” He shouted, wrenching the handle over and over, as if sheer desperation could force it open, as if willpower alone could tear through the lock.

His hands trembled. The noise was deafening. But still he clung to the handle, refusing to let go.

“Adam!” Nigel’s voice rang out, no longer crackling through the earpiece but thundering from above, shouted over the edge of the mezzanine.

Adam’s head snapped up, eyes locking onto him through the haze of chaos. Just behind Nigel, a body lay crumpled in a twisted sprawl, unmoving. Blood dripped steadily from the steel railing, fat red drops pattering onto the floor below. Nigel’s hands were slick. His face was grim. Maybe he’d taken the shooter down himself.

“Please! I– I have to do this!” Adam cried, voice breaking as he shouted up at him.

For a moment, Nigel looked stricken, caught off-guard, as if something in Adam’s voice had pierced straight through him. But then he swallowed, jaw clenched, and managed to force the words out, stumbling over them.

“You can… catch them around the back, they’ll be leaving via the service entrance!”

Adam sucked in a breath, sharp and ragged, then nodded hard, legs already moving before his mind caught up. He turned and bolted, retracing their path, feet pounding against the tile, back towards the way they’d come.

Adam tore through the back halls of the estate, feet slipping on polished floors as he ran. The champagne glasses on his tray had long since shattered, their stems and shards scattered somewhere behind him. He still clutched the tray to his chest like a shield, arms locked tight around it. It was more than just a prop now. It was the trigger. The key to everything. He might still need it.

He slammed through the back door, lungs burning, finger hovering just above the hidden button beneath the tray’s stem. He was braced for it, ready to face Afanasy, to end it all.

But the courtyard was empty.

Silent.

A single van sat idling in the gloom, the other gone. Twin trails of tire marks curved away into the night, carved into the gravel by urgency.

No people. No guards. No target. Nothing but the hum of the van engine and the chirring of crickets in the dark and the sound of panicked guests around the opposite side of the estate.

Adam froze, chest heaving, eyes wide and unfocused. His heart pounded against the inside of his ribs like it was trying to claw its way out.

Then the door behind him slammed open with a violent bang.

Adam spun, fist clenched tighter around the tray’s stem, ready to press the button.

Ready to detonate.

 

Nigel’s eyes flew open the moment he saw him. Adam stood frozen, legs trembling, eyes wide and glassy, chest rising and falling in frantic bursts. His fingers hovered over the button embedded in the stem of the tray, just a breath away from detonation.

Nigel surged forward, heart in his throat, and yanked the tray from Adam’s hands. The sudden movement pulled a small, broken sound from Adam’s throat, a pitiful yelp, raw and cracked. “P–please, I have to…” Adam croaked, voice splintering. His eyes filled with tears, hot and blinding.

“No, no, you don’t. No, you don’t, baby,” Nigel said, voice thick and shaking. His own eyes were wet now, the emotion striking him as he crouched, placing the detonator carefully on the ground. Then his hands were on Adam in an instant, tugging at his clothes with desperate urgency.

He stripped away the suit jacket, the waistcoat, and the stiff bow tie. The dress shirt came next, buttons scattering as he tore it open. Then his hands went for the bomb vest, clawing at the straps, the buckles straining before they gave way under the force of his grip.

Nigel tore the vest from Adam’s body and flung it aside, the straps flapping as it skidded across the gravel and landed with a dull thud. Without pausing, he pulled Adam into his arms, clutching him in a fierce, desperate embrace. Adam shook in his grasp, shoulders trembling, breath hitching with every sob. His cheeks were wet. So were Nigel’s. He buried his face in the thick mess of Adam’s soft brunette curls, gripping him like something fragile and irreplaceable.

At first, Adam remained stiff in his arms, frozen and brittle. But after a long, breathless moment, his arms lifted and slowly wrapped around Nigel in return. The tension in his body gave way to something looser, something weary and surrendering. Together they stood in the dark, tangled in each other, sniffling and sobbing, holding on like the world might fall apart if they let go.

“I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.” Nigel’s voice cracked under the weight of the words, each one sounding torn from his throat. “I never should’ve dragged you into this shit. Never should’ve had you running jobs for me like some dumb fucking errand boy. Never should’ve let that cunt Nestor twist me around like a puppet. And I sure as shit never should’ve let my own fucked-up, brainrotted bigotry steer the wheel–”

Adam looked up at him, eyes rimmed with red, and reached for the back of Nigel’s head. He pulled him down sharply, closing the space between them.

Nigel’s eyes flew open as their faces collided, Adam’s lips landing clumsily at the corner of his mouth. But then Nigel smiled, the tension easing just a little. His eyes fluttered shut as he tilted his face, adjusting, pressing a proper kiss to Adam’s lips. Soft, uncertain, and trembling. His mouth moulded gently to Adam’s, lips curling around his like something precious.

The two of them kissed quietly beneath the moonlight, lips brushing with a reverence that neither had expected. It was slow. Careful. Chaste. Nigel had never kissed like this before.

Kissing, for him, had always been something else entirely. With Gabi, it had been about obsession to the point of mania. With hookups, it was hunger, heat, a means to an end. Quick, greedy, forgettable.

But this was different.

Here, now, with Adam pressed against him, Nigel had no desire to prove anything. He wasn’t trying to stake a claim or chase pleasure. All he wanted was for Adam to feel it. To feel every ounce of affection Nigel had never known how to express. To know, without a shred of doubt, how deeply he was loved.

So he kissed him gently. Softer than he’d ever kissed anyone in his life.

Softer than he thought he was capable of being.

Adam clung to him like he would fall apart without him. Fingers digging into his shoulders, pulling him closer, closer still. Like Nigel was air. Like he was the only thing keeping him alive.

They kissed like that for what felt like hours, lost in the quiet rhythm of each other. Their hands moved slowly, reverently, tracing the curves of arms, the backs of necks, the lines of shoulders and spines. Fingers ghosted over cheekbones and tangled in hair, memorising the feel of skin and bone as if neither of them would ever get the chance again.

Then, from somewhere in the distance, the sound of sirens began to rise. A low wail at first, then louder, sharper, slicing through the night.

Nigel broke the kiss, breath ragged, and rested his forehead against Adam’s. Their chests rose and fell together, steam curling between them in the cold night air. It felt too quiet after the chaos. Too fragile.

“We gotta go, baby. Come on.” His voice dropped, gravelly but soft, a rough whisper of urgency and care. “Had the boys leave us a van. Just you and me now, yeah? Let’s get the fuck outta here before this place burns.”

Adam nodded faintly, movements slow, dazed. His eyes were half-lidded, unfocused, still red and swollen from crying. But he heard him. He trusted him.

Nigel grabbed Adam’s hand and pulled him urgently toward the waiting van. He wrenched the door open, helped Adam climb inside with shaking hands, then sprinted around to the driver’s side. He flung himself in, slammed the door shut, and jammed the key into the ignition. The engine roared to life, tyres spitting gravel as they tore down the narrow service lane.

He didn’t head straight for the exit. Instead, he veered off-road, bumping down a rough dirt path that snaked through the trees. Dust rose in their wake as the estate lights faded behind them, swallowed by darkness.

Only when they were far enough away, far enough not to be followed, did Nigel finally exhale.

He glanced sideways.

Adam was already looking at him.

The sight hit Nigel like a punch to the chest. His heart gave a wild jolt, and before he could stop himself, he leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to Adam’s lips. Just once. Just to feel it again. Adam lifted a hand to Nigel’s cheek, his touch feather-light, and their mouths met in another brief, aching kiss.

Nigel’s eyes flicked to the road. The wail of sirens grew louder behind them, then faded again as a fleet of police cars hurtled past in the opposite direction, lights strobing blue and red.

He turned onto the main road.

For a while, they drove in silence.

Adam was still watching him. Nigel could feel the weight of his gaze like warmth against his skin. His hand rested on Adam’s thigh, firm and protective, grounding himself in the reality that Adam was still here. Still alive.

“Fuck. Adam.” His voice cracked, brittle and broken. “I’m such a fucking prick. I can’t believe— Christ, I can’t believe I nearly let you fucking blow yourself to pieces.”

He sucked in a breath, jagged and uneven, like it scraped on the way in.

“I can’t lose you. You hear me? I can’t. Fuck. I’m so fucking sorry. I’m so goddamn sorry.”

“Pull over,” Adam said, voice low but firm.

“Adam, please–”

“Pull over.”

Nigel eased the van off the road, tires crunching onto the gravel shoulder. He braced himself, expecting an explosion, a furious tirade, a shove, a meltdown, screams of hatred hurled in his direction.

But Adam leaned forward instead, pressing a soft kiss to Nigel’s lips. Nigel’s heart slammed against his ribs, skipping a beat in disbelief. He kissed back, trembling with a storm of fear and relief crashing through him all at once. His fingers found the chain resting against Adam’s neck, his chain. His Adam.

When Adam pulled away, he sighed deeply, the sound heavy with exhaustion and something like gratitude. “Thank you.”

“For what?” Nigel asked, breathless, voice rough with emotion.

“For stopping me.”

Nigel spat the words, harsh and bitter. “Fuck, Adam, you shouldn’t be thanking me. I’m the fucking reason you ended up in that shitshow in the first place.”

Adam’s voice stayed calm, steady as a whisper. “Not entirely. And you were the one who stopped me.”

Nigel let out a soft, bitter huff, the weight of guilt pressing down. “Still… I’ll never fucking forgive myself.”

A crooked, awkward smile tugged at Adam’s lips. “Well, we can always blame Nestor.”

Nigel’s jaw clenched tight, muscles working under the skin. “Yeah, about that… I kinda already took it out on him.”

Adam tilted his head, eyes wide like a confused puppy.

Nigel’s voice dropped low, sharp as ice. “I, uh… never mind. He’s done. He won’t fuck with us anymore. Got it?”

Adam just nodded, slow and quiet, reading the weight in Nigel’s voice. He knew better than to push. Some things didn’t need explaining. Not yet.

“Alright. Can we go now?” His voice was soft, almost small, but steady.

Nigel gave a single nod, his gaze fixed on Adam like he was something precious.

“Yeah, Star. We can go. We can go wherever you want.”

Notes:

First base: oral. Second base: one-sided love confession. Third base: killing the man who kept you apart. Fourth base: first kiss. That’s the order, right? Sounds normal to me.

Also! I will be posting Chapters 12 AND 13 next week, since 12 is the final chapter, and 13 is more of a fluff-filled epilogue. So, get ready for the fic to be completed next weekend!