Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The scrape of paper on wood is a faint, intrusive sound. It snags Alva’s attention, pulling his focus from the documentary’s quiet narration. On his TV, a diagram of a forgotten shipwreck glows in the dark. He pauses his documentary, the sudden, heavy silence of his house more unnerving than he’s used to.

A single envelope lies under his door.

Gently, Alva lifts his cat from the warm hollow of his lap and stands. He moves with a deliberate quiet, as if noise might provoke whatever has disturbed his peace. He kneels by the door, his gaze fixing on the stark white envelope. His first thought is a misdelivered bill or another takeout menu, an annoyance to be recycled. But then he sees the seal: a glossy, bubble-gum pink heart sticker.

Curious, he thinks, but the word feels thin, inadequate. The sticker is so childish, so jarringly intimate against the backdrop of his solitary life. There is no stamp, no return address, not even a name. This didn’t come through the mail. Someone stood on the other side of his door, just moments ago, and pushed this through.

He picks the envelope up, his hand trembling slightly. The heart sticker, the lack of any official marking… it points toward a conclusion so absurd it feels like a prank. A love letter?

But who would compose such a thing for him? No one in the neighborhood speaks to him, and his job is a fortress of remote logins. Alva, the man who accepted the nickname ‘Hermit’ on his first day because it’s true, has no friends to play a joke on him and certainly no love interests. The idea of a secret admirer feels less romantic and more like a logical fallacy. A variable in an equation that has no solution.

And yet, the envelope is in his hand, a solid, unnerving fact.

He should sit down and open it. Skim through the contents, assume that the person must have had the wrong address, and toss it away into recycling. But then, there’s just a small, inquisitive part of him that wants to know what lies beneath the expensive paper holding a mystery.

Alva returns to the sofa, settling back down. His heart hammers against his chest. It’s just a letter, he tells himself, but for some reason his logical mind does little to comfort his racing emotions. Alva receives lots of mail from advertisers, bills, and occasionally politics begging for his vote.

But this? It resembles a Valentine, something a schoolboy would give to his first crush, not a scientist working in the engineering department. Nevertheless, Alva carefully opens the seal, working around the childish sticker which glistens in the light, sparkling a reflection. He bites his bottom lip slightly as a the envelope reveals a torn page from a notebook, folded neatly. This must be the note.

When Alva takes the note from the envelope and unravels it, something slides onto his lap. It’s a single photograph. Heart unsteady, Alva lifts the photo up and turns it around. “My God.” The photograph is of Alva himself, in his bedroom. He’s wearing nothing but a simple white tank top and brief shorts hugging his waist, and his glasses are missing. His silver hair is loosened, the way it always is when he relaxes.

Alva drops the photo, clutching the note in his fist. He doesn’t dare read the letter.

Yet his logical mind urges him to. Maybe this is a puzzle, something to keep his mind busy where emotions do little to help ease his surprise. Unfolding the letter, Alva slowly reads the letter. It’s written in a beautiful cursive, so the author must have some background in arts or calligraphy.

You’re killing me.

You do this every night. You shed your armor, let that beautiful hair down, and walk around like that. So soft, so open.

It’s a test, isn’t it? To see how long I can wait. How long I can stand to just watch.

You’re practically begging for my hands on your waist. Your skin is longing for a touch that isn't just the air in your empty house. You’re not simply relaxing. You are aching.

Stop pretending you’re all alone in that lonely little bedroom. You’re not. ❤️

Alva’s hands tremble violently, the paper crinkling in his grasp. The emotions run wild in his mind, but the logic intervenes. It’s likely a prank, it has to be a prank. But who would sneak into Alva’s house, take a picture of him at his most vulnerable, and write such a twisted letter? They must either be very brave or very stupid.

He shakes his head, crumpling the letter and tossing it on the coffee table. Reaching for the remote, Alva shuts off his television, the silence even more unnerving than earlier. He tries to focus on something else — tinkering with his projects, preparing his students for an upcoming exam — but nothing brings him back to normal. His chest tightens as he steals another glance down to the photograph.

He gets up, heading to the front door to check on his locks. The deadbolt is secure, so no one can get in or out unless lifting the hatch. He checks the latch on the living room window — also locked.

But the simple, physical confirmation offers no comfort. It only makes it worse. A locked door means nothing to someone who has already been inside. He moves through his home, his own territory, now feeling like a trespasser.

He ends up standing at the threshold of his bedroom — the scene of the crime. The air feels colder in here, the space tainted. He can almost see it: an indentation in the carpet where they must have stood, a ghost of a presence in the corner of his eye, watching him sleep, watching him live.

Alva considers getting ready for work early, a quick shower and a change of clothes, and maybe a cup of decaffeinated coffee before bed. Yet, the thought of going about his daily routine sends waves of goosebumps throughout his body. He shouldn’t let a simple prank pause his life — that is the logical thing to do.

He takes a step further into his room and takes a look around. It’s chaotic, books stacked up to the ceiling and papers all over the ground. A couple of more books sit on his nightstand, sci-fi novels Alva has procrastinated on for the past few weeks. Over towards his bed is a messy Star Trek blanket, crumpled and covered in a bit of cat fur. And to the left of his bed is another door — the bathroom.

Alva takes a slow, deep breath. The logical thing to do would be to press on, keep his nightly ritual going and not worry about some nonsense letter. The photograph could have been fake, for all he knows. But Alva can’t possibly think of any other silver-haired scientist whose bedroom is of the same layout, consisting of the same furniture. It’s illogical. It's stupid.

Still, the shower awaits. Alva carefully places one foot in front of the other, heart pounding against its ribcage as he steps into the sterile bathroom. He shuts the door, clicking the lock, and presses his back against the door. There are no windows in the bathroom, so there’s likely no way this person could enter or find a hiding spot somewhere in here. With a sigh, Alva walks over to the large basin of the bathtub, turning on the shower.

He sheds out of his clothes, discarding them unceremoniously onto the floor, and he checks the water's temperature. Warm against frigid skin. He takes a step in and closes the shower curtains, focusing on rinsing his hair and body. It’s harder than usual, Alva’s eyes darting from the bottle of Head & Shoulders body wash to the locked door of his bathroom. What if this person is inside? They could have broken in with a crowbar or—

No. If someone broke in, surely Alva would’ve heard it.

Alva shuts the water off, the only sound in the room is the echoes of the faucet dripping water. He steps out, reaches for a towel and wraps it around his body. In the mirror’s reflection, Alva notices some heavy grey circles underneath his eyes, a telltale sign that he needs rest. Perhaps all of this — the love letter, the photograph — are nothing more than sleep related hallucinations. Alva has always suffered from insomnia, his mind a puzzle of its own itching for a solution. He always thinks, always plans. He rarely has time to allow his mind a break.

With a trembling hand, Alva unlocks the bathroom door, peering out slightly. His room is deserted, no bodies in sight. The only sign of life is one of his cats, a beautiful black-and-white tuxedo named Luke, sitting peacefully on the bed’s duvet, his round body blocking Mr. Spock’s face from view.

Alva sighs, a heavy weight plucked off his shoulders. Cats are the only creatures permitted entry to his humble abode. He takes a step toward the bed, intending to scoop up the warm, purring animal and hold onto the one thing in this house that still feels safe.

But soon the peace shatters.

There, lying on the Star Trek duvet right next to the cat’s peacefully curled body, is a single, long-stemmed white rose. It wasn’t there before. The cat doesn't even stir, suggesting the intruder placed it there with a gentleness that is more terrifying than any forced entry.

And tucked under the rose’s stem is a small, folded piece of paper, the exact same kind as the letter from earlier.

Alva rubs his eyes, a useless gesture. The floor gives way beneath him. Every theory he’d clung to — prank, hallucination — crumbles into dust, leaving only a cold, sharp-edged reality. He cautiously moves closer to his bed, where Luke, undisturbed, starts to purr softly. He picks up the note. The paper feels heavier this time, weighted with dread.

I love how your hands tremble. The way your beautiful golden eyes glimmer with fear in the dim light.

The way your heart pounds so heavily against your ribs.

I love watching you shower, dear heart.

Peach-scented shampoo. Head & Shoulders body wash.

They’re not my preference, but they’re yours.

And I wish to smell like you. 

A second photograph slips from the letter's folds, landing face down on the duvet. Alva’s head spins. He hesitates, his fingers refusing to obey, before finally snatching the image and turning it over.

“Christ.”

It’s another picture of him. In the shower. The photo itself is so terribly ordinary — a man’s back, slick with water, silver hair dark and dripping. But the context makes it an act of profound violence. He swore he locked the door. He knows he pulled the shower curtain shut. Yet there it is: undeniable proof that the curtain was open just enough, or worse, that the camera was inside the tub with him, silent and unseen.

His knees threaten to buckle. He stumbles back, catching himself on a towering stack of textbooks that sways precariously. The photograph is still in his hand, a cursed artifact. His mind, a well-oiled machine of logic and reason, sputters and stalls. It tries to run the data: an intruder, method of entry unknown, motive a twisted form of affection. It tries to formulate a response plan: call the police, secure the perimeter, document the evidence.

Yet the cold, hard process of deduction offers no warmth, no comfort. It feels like trying to chart a star system while your own ship is being torn apart from the inside. This isn’t a problem to be solved. He feels trapped in a Kobayashi Maru, the infamous no-win scenario designed not to be solved, but to test one’s character under impossible pressure.

But there’s no Captain Kirk here to cheat the system. The rules aren’t just bent; they are shattered, and the test isn't about character — it's about survival. The feeling, the raw and primal terror that logic scoffs at, is what’s real now. It’s the feeling of eyes on his skin even in an empty room. The feeling of being known, catalogued, and possessed by a ghost who leaves behind roses and Polaroids.

The words from the letter echo in the roaring silence of his mind — And I wish to smell like you — and a wave of nausea washes over him, so profound he has to brace himself against the wall.

Alva sinks to the edge of the bed, his body giving up. His trembling hand drops the photo. Luke, unbothered, lifts his head and lets out a soft, questioning meow before nudging his cold fingers. A moment later, a second, smaller weight lands on the mattress. Leia, a calico with mismatched socks, pads over and butts her head insistently against his arm, her purr a high-pitched, delicate motor. The sound cuts through the static in his brain.

The low, thrumming purr from Luke’s chest vibrates through the mattress, a steady, physical anchor in a world that has dissolved into paranoia. They don’t know about the rose. They can’t see the ghost. They just know their person is distressed, and their simple, animal response is to offer comfort.

Alva draws in a ragged breath, then another. He pulls them close, burying his face in Luke’s soft, black-and-white fur. The weight of them, solid and warm, is irrefutable. The sound of their purring is a force field against the silence. He is still terrified. He is still a prisoner in his own home.

But the adrenaline has burned away, leaving behind an exhaustion so profound it’s a physical weight, pulling his eyelids down. He can’t think anymore. He can’t plan. He lies down, still in his damp towel, and curls around his two anchors. He doesn’t fall asleep because he feels safe; he falls asleep because his body and mind have reached their absolute limit, surrendering to the one escape, however temporary, that remains.

Chapter Text

The next morning, a profound, bone-deep chill is the first thing to register. Alva’s eyes flutter open, his chest seizing in an echo of last night’s terror. He is still on his bed, still coiled in the damp, cold towel that clings unpleasantly to his skin. He sits up slowly, the room swimming in the hazy grey light of dawn.

For a blissful, disoriented second, his mind offers him a comforting lie: it was all a terrible dream. The slip of paper under the door, the cloying pink sticker, the photos, the rose... just the usual phantoms of his chronic insomnia, given form by an overactive imagination. He dreamt he took a shower, that he was watched, that he was terrorized into a state of exhaustion.

But the lie shatters as his gaze falls on the nightstand. The single white rose sits there in a glass of water he doesn't remember filling, its petals impossibly perfect. It’s real. He looks down. On the floor by his bed, where they were dropped, lie the two photographs, face up. They stare at him like vacant eyes. The crumpled letter rests on the coffee table in the other room, a visible monument to his fear. It was all real.

A groan escapes his lips as he pushes himself fully upright, the cold towel dropping into his lap. He needs to move, to think, to do something. But as his vision clears, a new and profound sense of wrongness settles over him. The room is too bright. Too open. He slowly scans the space, and the nature of the violation shifts from intrusion to a complete, systematic takeover.

The towering, chaotic stacks of books that had been his constant companions are gone. Every volume is now tucked neatly back into the shelves along the wall, organized not by subject or author, but by the color of their spines, forming an unnerving rainbow gradient. The scattered research papers and schematics that littered his floor have been gathered, sorted, and placed in a pristine stack on his desk, a paperweight he’s never seen before — a smooth, grey river stone — placed precisely in its center.

His breath hitches. His eyes dart to the corner of the room, to the overflowing laundry basket he had been studiously ignoring for two weeks. It is now empty. On top of his dresser, his shirts, socks, and shorts are all folded with a crisp, military precision he could never achieve. Every item he owns has been touched, handled, judged, and curated.

Whoever this was, they’re an archivist. A curator of his life, rearranging his world to fit a more pleasing aesthetic. And it must have taken hours. Hours, while he slept just a few feet away, defenseless.

The thought is more violating than any photograph.

A wave of vertigo hits him, and he runs a hand through his long, tangled hair. His mind, scrambling for purchase on the sheer cliff-face of this new reality, defaults to its oldest habit: it searches for a script. It tries to think of what the protagonists of his novels or TV shows would do. Captain Kirk, faced with a superior, unseen enemy, wouldn't panic; he’d find a third option, some brilliant, borderline-insane gambit to rewrite the rules of this impossible game. Obi-Wan Kenobi would be a pillar of serenity, sensing the currents of the conflict, trusting in a Force that Alva can only read about in dog-eared paperbacks. He would meditate and find a path.

But that doesn't help. A bitter, hollow laugh escapes him. He’s no Jedi Master, nor a starship captain. He’s just an engineering professor at a local university; no phasers, no lightsaber. His only tools are an old Windows laptop and a deep understanding of fluid dynamics, neither of which can protect him from a ghost who folds his laundry. He has no loyal crew to have his back, no Padawan to stand by his side.

It’s just him. Alva Lorenz. Alone in his meticulously organized prison, facing a presence that doesn't follow logic, that doesn't want a conversation.

A predator.

Sliding out of bed is an act of sheer, stubborn will. He pushes aside the fictional heroes and their impossible bravery, focusing instead on the tangible. He moves through the unnervingly tidy space — his own home, now feeling like a stranger's — and begins the ritual. It’s not a comfort today, but an incantation meant to ward off evil. His order, always precise, now feels like a desperate lifeline.

First, the bathroom. In the mirror, he sees a haunted man, not himself. He ignores it. Brush the hair, one hundred strokes, a frantic, steady rhythm to prove he is still in control. Apply just enough concealer under his eyes to mask the dark circles, to paint over the terror. Pull the silver hair back into its severe, professional knot — rebuilding the armor the letter mentioned. He puts on his clothes, freshly folded by an intruder’s hands, and tries not to think about it.

Then, the kitchen. He starts preparing his coffee, clinging to the familiar, grounding aroma as it fills the too-clean air. He turns on his audiobook, and the voice of Sir Patrick Stewart — a voice of unimpeachable calm and authority from a saner universe — begins to narrate a tale of distant galaxies. He constructs his fantasy brick by brick around this wall of sound and scent. This is my routine. This is my security. Nothing happened. No one was here. It's a fragile defense, but it's the only one he has.

His routine complete, Alva sits on the edge of his sofa, the same sofa where the first violation occurred. He takes a sip of his coffee, the familiar bitterness a small anchor in the churning sea of his thoughts. It's a test. He forces himself to look out the window, to observe the mundane morning traffic, the neighbor walking their dog, the world proceeding as if nothing has changed. He needs to see normalcy to believe in it again. It’s the same as providing evidence of a crime scene occurring.

That's when he spots a flicker of movement — or rather, a profound stillness where movement should be. Across the street, a figure stands by a neighbor's manicured hedge. Alva blinks hard once, twice. It's a man, tall and slender, with a slash of long, white hair that seems to drink the morning light. Even from this distance, his posture has an unnerving stillness, an effortless elegance that feels utterly alien to their quiet, suburban street. Alva's heart gives a painful lurch. Just a person. It's just a person.

But he can't stay there. The house, his newly-reclaimed fortress, suddenly feels like a glass cage. He needs to leave. He stands abruptly, grabbing his briefcase and the keys from the hook by the door. With a final, bracing breath, he unlocks the deadbolt and steps out into the crisp morning air, his knuckles white around the travel mug.

As he locks his door behind him, his eyes are drawn irresistibly across the street. The figure is still there, and now Alva can see him clearly. He is beautiful, almost unnervingly so, with the kind of sharp, aristocratic features one sees in old portraits. He's dressed in a long, dark grey coat with a high collar, the fabric looking like expensive wool, and tailored trousers that fall perfectly to his polished leather shoes. The entire ensemble screams of old money and a world away from here.

And then Alva sees it. The final, damning piece of the puzzle.

Hanging from a leather strap around the man's neck is a camera. It’s not a modern digital one, but a vintage model, its metallic body and large, dark lens looking both elegant and predatory. As Alva stares, frozen halfway to his dark silver Ford Escape, the man slowly lifts his head.

For a moment, their eyes meet. His are a striking, impossible blue — the color of a winter sky — and they hold no warmth. There's no surprise, no shame in being caught staring. There is only a cool, placid recognition.

Then, the corner of the man's perfect mouth quirks into a slight, knowing smile. It doesn't reach his eyes. It's not a greeting. It's a confirmation.

I see you.

Panic, cold and absolute, seizes him. Alva scrambles for his car, fumbling with the keys, his trembling fingers failing twice before the lock clicks open. He throws himself inside and slams the door, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet street. His breath comes in ragged gasps as he jams the key into the ignition and twists. The engine roars to life.

He can't help it. His eyes flick to the rearview mirror. The man is still standing there, unmoving, his faint, terrible smile unchanged. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he raises the camera. The dark, circular lens points directly at Alva, a black hole drinking in the morning light, aimed straight at his soul. Alva’s own golden eyes are reflected back at him in the mirror, wide with terror.

The man’s smile widens just a fraction. And then, he takes the picture. There's no flash, just a sense of a shutter clicking shut, capturing this moment of his pure, unadulterated fear forever.

A strangled noise escapes Alva’s throat. He stomps on the accelerator, and the car lurches backward out of the driveway before he throws it into drive and speeds down the road. He doesn’t dare look back again.

He forces his mind away, anywhere but here. It’s a desperate act of self-preservation, a childish defense, but it’s all he has. The world outside the windshield blurs, the quiet suburban streets dissolving into the vast, silent reaches of space. He isn’t Alva Lorenz right now, the terrified professor. He’s Captain Lorenz of the USS Escape, and he’s taking his ship to warp speed, leaving the predator and its terrible planet far behind.

The campus parking lot is crowded, cars parked together like sardines. Alva finds a spot near the back of the building, backing in with practiced ease. Then he shuts the car off.

The silence that rushes in is suffocating. The hum of the engine had been a shield, the fantasy of the "USS Escape" a desperate form of armor. Now, there is nothing. He is just Alva Lorenz once again, sitting in a stationary metal box, his heart hammering a frantic, uneven rhythm against his ribs. He grips the steering wheel, his knuckles white, and forces himself to scan his mirrors.

There are students walking, laughing, heads buried in their phones. No dark grey coat. No slash of white hair. No camera. The absence of the threat is somehow not a relief; it just means the predator is unseen, not gone.

Getting out of the car feels like stepping off a cliff. The open air is an exposure. Every face in the sea of students is a potential mask for striking blue eyes. The distant shout of a Frisbee game, the scrape of a skateboard on concrete — every normal sound is sharp and menacing, a potential signal of attack.

He keeps his head down, clutching his briefcase to his chest like a shield, and walks faster than he normally would. He can feel imaginary lenses on his back, documenting his every hurried step.

He finally reaches the engineering building, the familiar coolness of the air-conditioned hall doing little to calm his racing pulse. The long, echoing corridor stretches before him, another gauntlet to be run. He ignores the friendly nods from colleagues, his focus narrowed to a singular, desperate task: get to his classroom. That is his territory. His sanctuary. The one place where he is the authority, where the rules are his.

With a trembling hand, he pushes open the heavy wooden door to his lecture hall, bracing for the usual pre-class chatter. Instead, he’s met with near silence. The room is almost entirely empty, the rows of seats stretching up into the shadows. Only two figures are present in the front row. Luca, with his bright, eager face and perpetually messy notebook, gives him a small wave. Next to him, Andrew, quiet and diligent as always, offers a respectful nod, his MacBook already open. The quiet is a small mercy, but the emptiness of the room makes him feel all the more exposed.

It’s just Alva, Luca, and Andrew. The professor and two young boys who simply want to learn and get today’s lessons done and over with before retreating to the next class.

The performance must begin. Alva forces his shoulders back, places his briefcase on the lectern with a quiet click, and offers his two students a smile that feels like a brittle, cracking mask. “Good morning, gentlemen. Punctual as always.” He unpacks his laptop, the familiar routine a small island of stability.

As more students trickle in, filling the seats with the low murmur of chatter and the rustle of notebooks, the room begins to feel less like an empty stage and more like his classroom again. He can do this. He is Professor Lorenz. This is his domain.

He starts the lecture, his voice, thankfully, steady and authoritative. He moves through the principles of aerodynamic lift, his hands sketching diagrams on the Smart Board, his mind locking onto the comforting certainty of physics. For a precious forty-five minutes, the outside world ceases to exist. There is only the elegant dance of numbers and theories, the rapt attention of his students, and the familiar rhythm of teaching.

During a brief lull while the students work on a sample problem, Luca raises his hand. "Professor? I'm having trouble with the Bernoulli equation on page 87. The way the textbook explains the pressure differential is kinda confusing."

"Of course," Alva says, grateful for the distraction. He steps down from the lectern and walks over to Luca's desk, leaning over to look at the open textbook. He points to a specific diagram, his finger tracing the curve of an airfoil. "Forget the text for a moment. Think of it like this..." He speaks in a low, focused tone, his attention entirely on his student and the problem at hand. For a moment, he is just a teacher helping a student.

It feels normal. Safe.

He finishes his explanation and straightens up, offering Luca a small, genuine smile. "Does that make more sense?"

"Yes, thank you, Professor! That's much clearer," Luca says, beaming.

As Alva returns to his lectern, he notices a new email notification glowing on his laptop screen. It’s not from a university address. The sender is listed as just a cyan heart emoji with no other information. Cyan, Alva looks over the emoji again. A cold, heavy dread returns, instantly dissolving the fragile peace he had built. His heart begins to hammer against his ribs again. He knows he shouldn't open it. Not here. Not now. But the compulsion is overwhelming, a magnetic pull he can't resist.

He clicks it open.

The subject line is blank. The body of the email is just three chilling lines of text.

It's very sweet of you to give the children your time.

But your attention is a finite resource.

Don't waste it on them. 🩵

Below the text is an attached image file. Alva's breath catches in his throat. He clicks it. The image loads instantly: a photograph, taken from the back of the lecture hall, looking down. It's a picture of him from just moments ago, leaning over Luca’s desk, his silver hair catching the overhead light, his hand pointing to the textbook.

The quality is sharp, the focus perfect. It captures the intimacy of the teaching moment, twisting it into something sinister. The predator isn't just outside anymore, lurking in the shadows of Alva’s home.

They’re inside. In this very room, right now.

A cold sweat breaks out across Alva's skin. But how can it be? His gaze, sharp and frantic, sweeps across the lecture hall. He’s no longer seeing students; he’s scanning for a threat. He searches for a dark grey coat, for aristocratic features, for a slash of impossible white hair. But there is nothing.

All he sees are tired young adults in simple clothes, their hoodies adorned with university crests, hockey logos, and the faces of beloved K-pop idols. No one has piercing blue eyes that rival a winter sky. There are no vintage cameras wrapped around their necks, no eerie smiles that scream Run. The predator is invisible, a ghost in the machine, and that is so much worse.

Somehow, he gets through the rest of the lecture. The words come out on autopilot, his mouth forming theories on thermodynamics while his mind screams. He dismisses the class, the sound of shuffling bags and scraping chairs a thunderous cacophony. The students file out, a river of oblivious youth flowing past him, and he has to fight the urge to scream at them, to ask if they saw anything, to confess his terror.

Soon, the room is quiet. The only two who remain are Andrew and Luca, who are packing their things at a leisurely pace. They typically spend all their time together, a quiet, symbiotic pair. One is rarely seen without the other, and watching them, a small, sad part of Alva’s mind thinks of his favorite duos: Kirk and Spock, C-3PO and R2-D2.

It reminds him of how much the "Hermit" nickname is more than just that — it’s who he is. The quiet professor who prefers to teach without disturbances, offering guidance only when requested. A man alone. And a man alone, he now realizes with chilling certainty, is the perfect target.

“See you on Wednesday, Professor Lorenz!” Luca says cheerfully, pulling Alva from his thoughts. Andrew gives a final nod, and then they are gone.

Alva is finally, truly alone. The silence in the vast room is absolute, and it offers no peace. The lectern, his laptop, the rows of empty seats — there’s no comfort in his daily ritual. He needs to get out. He packs his briefcase, movements stiff and jerky, rushing to the door and pulling it shut behind him.

He turns, intending to head for the exit, but freezes. Across the hall, the door to the classroom that has been empty all semester is propped wide open. A new course listing is taped to the wall beside it: ART-225: Introduction to Analogue Photography.

His blood runs cold. Through the open doorway, he can see the room being set up. Canvases are leaned against a wall, and studio lights are being positioned. And in the center of it all, adjusting the tripod for a large-format camera, is the man from this morning.

He moves with that same fluid, aristocratic grace, his long white hair tied back with a simple leather cord. He turns, as if sensing he’s being watched, and his gaze locks with Alva’s. The striking blue eyes hold a spark of amusement this time. He lifts a hand, not in a wave, but in a small, polite gesture of acknowledgment. The corner of his mouth quirks up into that same, perfect, knowing smile.

It’s the smile of a new colleague. A neighbor.

And it is the most terrifying thing Alva has ever seen.

Chapter Text

Alva stands in the hallway, unable to lift his feet off the ground. This… new co-worker, is setting up a classroom as if he belonged here. The dean never informed Alva or his co-workers of a new teacher. None of his own students ever whispered a foreign name amongst each other. No, this is… Alva shakes his head. When he glances back over towards the sign: ART-225: Introduction to Analogue Photography, it reads as nothing more than an insult. A personal threat.

The photography professor slowly blinks, as if his eyes are the shutters of a camera themselves. His smile still remains — the same one from the street — that says We are neighbors. We are colleagues. Alva breaks into a cold sweat, his usually comfortable Brook Brothers suit more like a prison made of cloth. He offers a short, if curd, nod in acknowledgement before turning to walk away. He needs to go somewhere, anywhere that isn’t his classroom or this haunted hallway. His logic has failed him, incapable of processing this brand new variable. This… new subject.

He lets his feet guide him down the hallway, making a left down a corridor and pushes open a heavy door leading into the last place he’d ever step foot into: The faculty lounge, a full contrast to his own meticulously organized, now-violated home. It’s a comfortable sort of mess — the jaunty tune of Funeral March for a Marionette playing on the old television, burnt coffee coming from the Mr. Coffee machine on the counter, some neglected sweets that have yet to be devoured.

Alva looks around the room, taking in the other sights — the other patrons. Frederick Kreiburg, the music professor, sits comfortably in a worn armchair, sketching in a notepad while humming Lewis Capaldi’s Someone You Loved. His voice is a siren’s call, the lyrics almost too hauntingly familiar.

Alva’s gaze shifts to the rest of the room, towards main table where Ada Mesmer sips her tea, flipping through the DSM-V while writing down notes for her psychology class. Next to her is Orpheus DeRoss, the English and ASL teacher whose fingers fly on the keyboard faster than the Millennium Falcon entering hyperspeed. And Luchino Diruse, the eccentric zoology professor, is carefully assembling a detailed model of a lizard skeleton.

For a moment Alva isn’t in some old university, but on the USS Enterprise, his mind defaulting to its old habit of daydreaming — Ada is the Chief Medical Officer, with Luchino by her side the dedicated Science Officer. For a moment, it’s a comforting fantasy: a landing party, a crew. A familiar scenery, free of Klingons with suspiciously bright blue eyes and snowy white hair.

His brief moment is shattered when a calm voice cuts through the room, and through the noise in his own head.

“Mr. Lorenz?” Ada says, placing her book down. She offers him a kind, if inquisitive, smile. “It’s unlike you to pay us a visit. Even for a Tuesday afternoon, you’re already exhibiting a remarkable amount of hypervigilance. Is something wrong?”

Alva flinches at the psychologist’s observation, so different from the letters, the emails. He’s being watched again, but this time there’s no threats, only a diagnosis. His first instinct is to deny, to retreat back to the perceived safety of his own territory, or to bolt back to his car and race on home. But his classroom — his home — is now enemy territory. An invasion of Klingons aboard his starship.

But that’s when he realizes: a man can’t face a threat alone. He needs a crew to back him up, allies by his side. Ada, Luchino, Frederick. They would understand, surely. Alva takes a hesitant step into the room, hand gripping the strap of his briefcase. “No, Mrs. Mesmer. Not exactly,” he replies, forcing himself to meet her gaze. The others soon perk up from their own activities, some with mild curiosity. “I simply… encountered a peculiar variable I can’t solve logically. It made me wonder.” He pauses, choosing his words carefully. “What is it like, having an admirer? The kind who are… more than dedicated?”

The room goes still. Orpheus loosens an AirPod. Luchino stops messing with a vertebra from his model. It’s then Frederick who breaks the silence, setting his notepad aside. “It’s tedious, Alva. They confuse admiration with possession. I had one fan, a violinist, who broke into my apartment. He stole something of mine, and left a… letter. Written in blood.”

Alva flinches.

Ada offers Frederick a reassuring gaze, “But you reported the theft to the local police, Mr. Kreiburg. And the crime did not go unpunished.” She closes her heavy textbook, hands folding onto her lap, her attention soon returning to Alva. “Is that what this is about, Mr. Lorenz? Did someone break into your home?”

Alva shakes his head, grip on his briefcase iron. “No, nothing like that. Nothing… tangible has been taken.” The word feels so wrong and heavy. Nothing was stolen from his home. Nothing but his security. Safety.

Luchino sets down a delicate piece of his lizard model. “Observation is an intrusion. A predator studies its prey from a distance before it strikes.” His gaze flickers around the room. “It is a violation of territory. These sorts of predators — they blend in.”

The analogy rings true. Alva isn’t dealing with a simple schoolboy crush. This is predatory. Criminal.

“Mr. Diruse is correct,” Ada says, her tone shifting to something more firm. “Even without a physical crime, a pattern of unwanted contact is textbook harassment. Have you considered documenting it? Has this person contacted you directly?”

Alva hesitates. He takes another look around the room where his co-workers — his crew — all stare at him, expecting their captain to give an answer so easily. Alva has only been working at this university for a few months now, so it’s no easy feat, opening up so casually about a potential stalker. Especially a stalker who’s also your new coworker. Alva clears his throat, deciding to take the dive and trust in his impromptu crew. “There have been… letters,” he admits slowly. “And an email. Today.”

“Letters?” Frederick echoes, sinking into the worn leather chair. “It always starts with letters.” He shudders, a flicker of fear in his violet eyes. “Do you know who it is? Have you seen this person?”

The air thins as Alva takes a slow, deep breath. “I think I know who it is.”

He pauses for a beat. Orpheus presses him, “Well, Lorenz?”

Alva’s gaze shifts from the rest of his peers, out towards the window overlooking the hallway of the building. “The university just hired a new professor. The one teaching… photography right across the hall from my class.”

A wave of silence crashes through the room save for the jaunty rhythm of the television. Everyone exchanges glances with one another, as if expecting somebody to speak up.

“I didn’t hear anything about a new hire,” Orpheus says, brows furrowing as he pauses his podcast. “Especially not in the arts department. They’ve had a hiring freeze for over a year ever since Professor Claude disappeared.”

Alva nearly chokes on the next breath. Disappeared?!

Ada confirms Orpheus’s statement with a sad, slow nod. “An excellent teacher. He took an indefinite leave last spring. We were told it was for… personal reasons.”

Frederick immediately sits up from the armchair, notepad sliding from his lap. “Wait a minute, Alva. What did this professor look like? The… photography professor?”

Alva’s throat tightens. “Tall,” he says, the image now seared into his mind, “slender, long hair… blue eyes.”

Orpheus leans forward, dropping to a whisper, “Jesus Christ. That’s Claude.”

“It can’t be,” Ada counters, though her own confidence seems shaken. “Claude was a painter, and he’s been absent for a year.”

“A form of aggressive mimicry,” Luchino finally speaks, speaking more to himself than to the rest of the room. “Some species evolve to resemble another, to fool their prey or usurp a territory. Or,” his gaze flickers right into Alva’s startled golden eyes, “it is something simpler. Sibling rivalry in the animal kingdom is often a fatal contest. One brother replaces another.”

“Get to the point, Dr. Dolittle,” Orpheus sighs.

Luchino simply stares at Orpheus, unfazed by the sarcasm. "The point, Mr. DeRoss," he says, his voice flat and clinical, "is that nature provides many examples of replacement. We may not be dealing with Claude returning. We may be dealing with his successor."

"Theories aside," Ada interjects, her voice calm but firm, eyes fixed on Alva's pale face. "Let's focus on the verifiable facts. A man physically identical to a missing professor is currently occupying his sealed classroom, and this same individual is harassing you." She pauses. "This is no longer a simple case of stalking. This has the potential to become a criminal investigation.”

"And a criminal investigation requires evidence," Frederick says, his voice tight with an impatient energy. He pushes himself fully to his feet, pacing once before stopping. "Right now, it's just Alva's word against a ghost. We need more than that. We need proof."

Orpheus shuts his laptop and stands as well. “Right. By the time we file a report and someone from campus security takes a statement, our new ‘professor’ could have vanished, and Ala will be left with a new ‘gift’ iin his pillow.”

“Your approach is impulsive,” Ada cuts in, though she directs her attention more towards Frederick. “But you are not wrong. We cannot act on theories alone. Direct observation is our most prudent step.” She gives a small, decisive sigh. “We will not let you face this alone, Mr. Lorenz—”

Just before anyone else can interject, the heavy faculty door opens. Alarm bells ring in the back of Alva’s mind as he turns. There he is: the new ‘professor’. The Klingon, invading the Enterprise. He stands there, long, white hair cascading down his back like angel feathers, icy blue eyes locked solely on his target of interest.

“Good afternoon,” he speaks slowly, his voice heavy in a Lyon accent. “Is this the staff meeting hall?”

The room collapses into silence. Frederick, who’d been ready to lead the charge, freezes stiff. Orpheus’s own cynical expression is wiped clean, replaced by sheer disbelief. There’s only the sound of the ominous music on the television and Alva’s racing heart.

He can’t move. Can’t breathe. Staring at the man in the doorway, whose question is the most threatening he has ever heard, Alva’s mouth parts as if to speak before Ada saves him the burden. She rises slowly from her chair, placing herself slightly between Alva and the newcomer. “No,” she says. “This is the faculty lounge. The meeting rooms are on the second floor.”

The young professor’s smile widens slightly, a small, polite acknowledgement of her help. His eyes, however, remain locked on Alva, pinning him in place. “My mistake,” he says slowly, the words more like a song with the way he speaks. “I am still learning the layout of this campus. Transfers are not easy.” He finally breaks his stare from Alva, adjusting his gaze over towards the rest of the faculty. “My name is Joseph.”

He soon takes a closer step inside, the door slamming shut behind him.

“I am the new photography instructor.” He extends a hand not to Ada, but to the empty space directly toward Alva. The gesture is a clear, deliberate invitation. A challenge. Alva can only stare, part of him admiring Joseph’s manicured nails, long and elegant. But like anything beautiful, it can also lead into a trap. Every rose has its thorn.

The silence in the room stretches, thick and suffocating. Alva’s body refuses to obey this simple social command. And yet, for some godforsaken reason, he does. He takes Joseph’s hand, his touch cold as ice. Joseph’s grip is firm, the pressure just a little too strong to be polite. A deep, unnatural cold seeps from his fingers into Alva’s skin, a stark contrast to the nervous heat Alva feels flushing his own body.

The polite smile on Joseph’s face transforms. It becomes possessive, triumphant, a look of pure ownership now that a physical connection has been made. “A pleasure,” Joseph murmurs, his voice low, meant only for Alva to hear clearly. “To finally meet you properly.”

He holds the handshake for a beat too long, his thumb brushing over Alva’s knuckles in a gesture that is far too intimate for a first meeting between colleagues. Alva’s mind screams at him to let go, to pull away or push him the opposite direction. But he doesn’t. He stays like this.

Finally, Joseph releases him.

Without another word, Joseph gives a final nod and turns to leave, the door clicking behind him. Alva’s chest tightens, hands beginning to sweat. The ghost of Joseph’s touch lingers for far too long. The way he spoke to Alva, so low and soft, like a lover’s whisper. The way he gazed into Alva’s eyes, how he brushed a thumb along his knuckles.

Frederick, seeing red, grits his teeth. “Who the hell does he think he is?”

“Alva? Are you all right?”

Alva stares down at his hand, now foreign and contaminated. The last of his strength, held together by adrenaline and fear, finally gives out. His other hand goes numb, briefcase slipping from his grip and falling to the worn carpet with a dull, heavy thud.

“What in God’s name was that?”

The room collapses into a total silence. Alva’s heart pounds against his chest, breath unsteady as he loses his balance, legs shaking. Frederick makes his way over to Alva, swiftly catching Alva by the shoulder. “Easy, Alva.”

“Orpheus, get him a glass of water,” Ada instructs, already moving to Alva’s other side. With Frederick’s help the two ease Alva into the worn armchair, and Orpheus comes over with a cold glass of ice water. When Alva plucks the glass from the novelist’s hand, it feels weightless, like something is missing. Alva’s entire universe has collapsed to a single point of focus: the hand Joseph had touched, contaminated. He can still feel the bitter frost chilling him to the bone.

“That was a predator marking his territory,” Luchino speaks up, still laser focused on his model. “A dominance of display for the rest of the pack. He wanted us to see, wanted Mr. Lorenz to know there is no sanctuary. Not even among his own kind.”

Frederick huffs, hands clenched at his sides. “We should have done something. I should have decked him.”

“And given him grounds to file a complaint against your assault?” Ada counters. She kneels in front of the chair, forcing herself into Alva’s line of sight. Her voice softens, “Alva, look at me.”

“He was so cold,” Alva says, avoiding Ada’s eyes. The words are choked out, raw, hardy audible.

“You are not going home alone,” Ada declares, her own professional detachment vanishing like a vessel going into hyperspeed. “And you are not staying at your house tonight.”

“Yeah,” Frederick agrees, softening his tone. “You can stay with me. My apartment is on the top-floor with extra security. There is only one way in, he won’t find you there.”

Alva’s gaze finally lifts from his frozen hand to his allies — his crew. Shaking off the fantasies of his sci-fi world, he realizes that even a hermit needs some form of protection. But to leave his home? His sanctuary, left to his two defenseless cats?

An image floods his mind: Luke’s solid, comforting weight on his chest in the dead of night; Leia’s mismatched paws kneading a soft blanket. Two small little heartbeats in a house that was no longer safe. A house a predator now knows intimately. The idea of them alone in that space, vulnerable to a man who felt entitled to Alva’s entire life, is a new and sharper kind of horror.

“My cats,” he breathes, the words small but solid, an anchor in the storm of his panic. He finally meets Ada’s gaze, his own eyes wild with a different, more primal fear. “Luke and Leia. I can’t just… leave them there.” The unspoken end of the sentence hangs heavy in the back of his throat: leave them with him.

Luchino immediately takes an interest. “Your cats,” he says, his tone shifting slightly, “are apex predators themselves. They can sense fear, they will know if something is amiss. If this outside predator claws his way into your territory, they will handle it with instinct.”

Orpheus stares at Luchino, his mouth slightly open in disbelief. "Are you serious? You think his two housecats are going to fend off a six-foot psycho? This isn't a NatGeo documentary, Luchino."

"He's right, Orpheus," Frederick cuts in, tight with impatience. "It doesn't matter if they can handle it. They're his cats. We're not leaving them. It's not up for debate." He gives Alva a sympathetic look. “My apartment complex does allow cats, so you have nothing to fear. It’s just for the night.”

Ada holds up her hand, silencing the brewing argument before it can begin. “Luchino’s point isn’t simply academic,” she points out, “it’s empathetic. Alva, your cats are family, and we do not leave family behind.” She stands, eyes assessing each member of the group like a Commanding Officer ordering her Starfleet. “Frederick, you’ll drive. Be sure to take any and all detours. Orpheus, you're on lookout. Luchino, your analytical skills might spot something we miss, you watch the perimeter with him.”

Her plan solidifies as she speaks, each word a step in a clear, logical sequence. "And Alva, we’ll drive to your house first," she says, her focus narrowing on him, "and you get the cats in their carrier, a change of clothes, and your laptop. Is that understood?"

Alva stares at his co-workers, the dizziness, the cold feelings from earlier slowly fading away. He has always been so used to the title of ‘hermit’, always used to sitting in his classroom during break hours, listening to John Williams or reading the latest works from R.A Salvatore. But today… today the hermit has forged an alliance.

An alliance he intends to save.

Alva gives a slow, sharp nod as he stands.

“Understood.”

Chapter Text

The plan is set into motion. And yet, something feels… off.

Alva, the hermit who’d originally retreated into the faculty lounge just to get away, now has a team. A group of peers who will stop at nothing to ensure his safety, the concept a foreign variable in the equation of his solitary lifestyle. He processes their concern as a new, complex data stream. It’s intense, different.

Frederick’s Porsche Panamera does its job well, gliding down the highway, shifting lanes in order to make a few detours. The car itself is a comfortable sort of shield, blocking Alva and the rest of the group from the outside world, its tinted windows blocking outsiders from peering in. Orpheus, who’s sat in the passenger seat, has his iPhone on him checking the GPS. “There,” he shows Frederick his phone screen. “Traffic’s backed up on Main Street. Take this detour,” he pinches the screen with two fingers.

Frederick obliges and swerves his car left, flicking his turn signal on before the car rolls down the hill.

Alva, who sits in the back in-between Luchino and Ada, feels a strange, unfamiliar sort of sensation pool from his chest. Comfort. Safety. He looks to his left where Luchino is on his Nintendo Switch, the soft music of Animal Crossing coming from the speakers. He’s lost in his own world, but it’s not a spaceship he’s on, but a tropical island where the only people there are kind animal friends. The cheerful, simple melody is out of touch given the grim situation.

“We’re almost there,” Ada says, voice cutting through the peaceful music. Luchino’s thumb hits a button, the island paradise vanishing into silence. The mood inside the Porsche instantly thickens. She turns to Alva, offering him a kind but firm gaze. “Make sure you bring only necessities, like we discussed. Your cats, any medication, your laptop.”

Alva nods once. This feels far too much for a simple discomfort related to the brand new university professor, but the safety is an unfamiliar yet warm welcome. Ada’s adamant determination, Luchino’s blunt but scientific realism. It’s brand new. A fresh breath of air.

Ada turns her attention to the rest of the group, “Frederick, park at the end of the street, and keep an eye out for anything unusual. Luchino and Orpheus will also stay in the car. I’ll stand outside, and you can go in, get what you need, and come out.”

The warmth instantly turns to ice, a breeze that isn’t the A/C brushing along Alva’s face. Alone? he thinks, biting the bottom of his lip. Alva has lived alone for over twenty years — this isn’t anything new. He’s been alone, save for the introduction of Luke and Leia into his life after a… painful incident between himself and a friend. They filled in the missing void.

Yet, Alva has always been alone. A Mr. Spock on the planet Vulcan, outcasted and treated as an oddity everywhere he walked.

“What?” Frederick snaps his head around, glaring into the rearview mirror. “Absolutely not, Ada. We cannot send him alone.”

“It minimizes our collective exposure,” Ada counters softly. “One person moving quickly is a smaller, faster target than a group. It’s a more logical approach. And if this… person sees Alva enter his own house with another companion, I fear it could cause social reprecussions too.”

“Ada, he’s terrified,” Frederick bites back.

“She has a point,” Orpheus mutters, eyes still scanning the street. “Theatrics aside, going in mob-handed is a bad look.”

“It’s okay,” Alva hears himself say despite the tremor in his hands. He looks at his concerned group, these people who have chosen to insert themselves into his personal crisis. This is his house, his problem. The thought of them walking into that contaminated space, of Joseph seeing them and widening his circle of interest, is just a new specific kind of horror. “I’ll go.”

The argument dies. Soon, Frederick parks the Porsche out of plain sight.

Ada steps out of the car, Alva following with trembling knees. He takes the short walk to his front door, yet the walk feels like an eternity. When he unlocks the door and steps inside, the first thing he notices is the air carrying a faint scent of peach shampoo. The unnatural order of his living room, the chaos cleared after a storm, unnerves him. He tries not to think, just moves with a single purpose: his room.

Alva pushes the door open, and other than the cleanliness of his room, everything appears… normal. Luke is sound asleep on the color-coded bookshelf, and on the bed Leia sits perfectly still, her eyes fixed on her favorite human. They’re props, unmoving.

But then, chaos returns — not in the way Alva would like it.

Another folded note. Another photograph.

His heart pounds a frantic, uneven rhythm as he forces himself forward. He picks up the picture. This one is different, a selfie taken in his own bathroom mirror. And in the picture, Alva notices the familiar cascading white hair down petite shoulders, an old, worn-out Darth Vader hoodie hugging the person’s frame. The selfie has no face, just hints of who this invader could be.

Alva’s breath catches in his throat. He drops the photo, hands now rushing to unfold the envelope.

It smells like you. So soft.
It almost feels like you’re holding me.
Almost.

A wave of nausea, so profound it makes him dizzy, crashes over him. The thought of Joseph in his clothes, feeling them against his skin… the simulated intimacy. The obsession, so dangerous and delusional. This is more than just an invasion — it’s a violation. Unwanted chaos.

His mind falls into a blank, all fear and analysis shut down temporarily replaced by a single, primal directive: escape.

Alva rushes to grab his cat carrier, movements stiff and robotic, coaxing his cats inside. Luke has always loved car rides and walks in the park on a leash, while Leia enjoyed the comforts of a warm bed and a belly of food. However, neither cat protests — another unsettling detail. Alva gathers his laptop, charger, and medicine before stuffing them into his overnight bag. He doesn’t look back at the note, the photo, or the room that’s no longer his own private sanctuary.

As he hurries out of the bedroom, there’s a sticky note hanging from the kitchen, another photograph settled on a magnet on the refridgerator. Alva doesn’t even want to look. But something compels him to. Something draws him closer to the source of the fear.

He sets his luggage down gently, feet guiding him with heavy steps closer to the fridge.

Leaving so soon?

The photo is of Alva. Bent down, urging his cats into the carrier.

The logic in Alva’s mind shatters into a million useless pieces. The other photos were from the past: the shower, the living room. Even the selfie in his hoodie was a violation from a previous point in time.

This was from just moments ago.

He’s not alone. The intruder is here with him, silently watching from the shadows as Alva rushed around the house, packing his things and relocating his cats into the safety of their fabric prison. His breath hitches into a choked, silent scream. No more analysis, no more processing.

RUN.

He snatches his bags, the carrier handle digging into his palm as he bolts from the kitchen, fumbling with the lock on his front door. He bursts out into the cool night air, stumbling, a wild look in his eyes. Ada is there instantly. “Alva? What is it?”

He can’t form words. Just shakes his head, pushing past her, his only focus the reassuring light of the Porsche. The moment Avla bundles inside, Ada following suit, the door slams shut. The Porsche flies down the road, Frederick swerving around a corner, going just about twenty miles over the speed limit in a school zone.

“What the hell happened in there?” Orpheus demands, eyes flickering to Alva in the rearview mirror.

Alva shakes his head, struggling for air. “He… he was inside. Watching.”

Frederick’s cold and icy glare melts into something of sheer concern.

“How did he…”

“Duplicating the keys to the house,” Luchino speaks, Switch still in hand, but now he’s playing Three Houses, the sounds of the units filling the void. Alva’s gaze flickers to his screen as he watches Caspar deal a critical hit on an enemy unit in a single punch. The enemy is a dragon as white as snow. Eyes that aren’t blue, but still resemble Joseph in their own, haunting way.

Alva watches the screen, the animated violence a strange, distant echo of his own terror. The enemy character vanishes in a flash of light. A simple, clean victory. His own situation feels infinitely more complex.

“That’s the least helpful thing you could say right now.” Frederick heaves a sigh.

“It’s a logical deduction,” Luchino replies, not once looking up from his game. “The most efficient method of repeated, non-destructive entry.”

“He has a point,” Orpheus nods once, sharp. “A ghost doesn’t need a key, but a man does.”

The rest of the drive houses a thick and heavy silence, save for the sounds of Luchino’s game and the lulling sound of Jeon Jungkook on the radio. When they finally arrive, the apartment complex is uncharacteristically tall, beautiful, more like a luxurious hotel in some high-end city than a place of residence.

Frederick pulls into a private garage, the gate closing securely behind them. The journey to the twelfth floor involves an elevator that won’t even move without a specific key. Each layer of security is a small, reassuring weight against the crushing pressure in Alva’s chest.

The apartment itself is a fortress of glass and steel, a series of loud clicks filling the silence as Frederick fumbles with each lock. For a moment, it’s a sound of sanctuary. The door opens, and Alva steps in, gracious for the promise of safety worlds away from… that person. He still can’t shake off the feeling that somebody will leave him with a ‘gift’ or send him a letter declaring love or even war.

Alva sets the carrier down and opens the zipper. Neither cat explores; they immediately dart out to hide under an expensive leather sofa, a perfect mirror of Alva’s own shattered sense of security. “He can’t get you here, Alva,” Frederick says, pacing the length of the floor-to-ceiling window. “This place is a vault. I promise you.”

Ada guides Alva to an opposing sofa. “We’re safe now,” she says, a calm anchor in the storm of his panic. “Tomorrow, we’ll take all of this — all of it — to the Dean and the police. This ends tomorrow.”

Alva gives a slow, trembling nod. Ada’s words echo like a stone dropping into a cavern lake. Safe, he thinks, the word feels as heavy as a Vulcan’s personal name. Safe. I’m safe.

Ada’s phone rings. She glances down and swipes it. “Emil? I’m with a colleague… Yes, everything is well, dear heart.” When Ada silently excuses herself, the door clicking shut, Alva heaves a sigh. He gives himself a minute to ponder, to ground himself by asking logical questions: Who is Joseph? What does he want? And why is he pushing himself into Alva’s solitary life? The only way to answer those questions is to confront the source of them himself.

But that would mean approaching Joseph. Speaking to Joseph.

“I’m ordering Domino’s,” Frederick calls out from the safe confines of the master bedroom. “Not for me, though, heavens no. Anything you want?”

Alva snaps into attention. “Stuffed crust.”

Then comes the silence, save for the beating of Alva’s heart.

But like shattering glass, it comes without warning: Alva’s phone notification, a little R2-D2 beeping sound, along with the vibrations of the device. Alva flinches. He prays that it’s just Ada, or maybe one of his neighbors. Perhaps Luca sent an email asking for help on his homework. Alva doesn’t dare touch his phone.

Then it beeps again.

And again, and again. A rapid-fire assaults of beeps that fills the silent apartment. His navy blue iPhone on the glass coffee table is far from a tool, but a weapon. A phaser pointing directly at him. The cacophony stops as abruptly as it began, the silence rushing back into the room.

“Okay, that is not normal,” Orpheus says, lowering his copy of Les Liaisons Dangereuses. His gaze fixes on Alva’s rigid posture rather than the phone.

Luchino looks up from his Nintendo, expression a slightly detached curiosity. He doesn’t say anything directly to Alva, but he murmurs something about a ‘stimulus’ and ‘effective’.

Frederick emerges from the bedroom, a tight grip against his Samsung Galaxy phone. His expression shifts more from annoyance to genuine concern. “What in God’s name was that?” His eyes land on Alva, who hasn’t moved a muscle. Alva can only stare at the phone, a dark rectangle of potential horror on the table.

Orpheus sighs, leaning forward. With the careful precision of someone disarming a bomb, he picks up the phone and swipes the screen open. His cynical mask cracking. A subtle shift — a flicker of genuine alarm behind his monocle.

“What is it?” Frederick demands.

Orpheus doesn’t answer. He keeps scrolling through a long, unbroken stream of messages, thumb moving faster and faster. “Jesus Christ, Alva…”

He turns the phone so Frederick can see.

Are you comfortable?
Does he have a nice home?
Did he touch you?
You look so small on that big sofa.
I miss the warmth of your house.
This place is so cold, Alva. So very cold. ❄️
All glass.
So easy to see inside.
So easy to break.
Just like you, Alva.
So easy. 🩵

Frederick snatches the phone from Orpheus’s hand. As he glares at the screen, another R2-D2 beep sounds, once. A final message has arrived.

It’s a single photograph. A close-up of polish brass directory in the lobby of this very building. And there, a long, slender finger is pointing directly at one name on the list in particular.

F. KREIBURG - 12B

The fortress has been breached.

Chapter Text

Alva’s heart races, chest a tight and heavy weight suffocating him. There’s no sound. The notifications stopped. There’s nothing but silence in the void. This beautifully decorated, aristocratic void. Orpheus’s hand trembles slightly as he shuts off Alva’s phone, sliding it onto the coffee table. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t even gasp. But there’s a look of pure, sheer terror behind that usually stoic mask.

There’s a gentle knock on the door, to which Alva immediately jumps from. “It’s just me,” comes a low, familiar murmur, a voice that’s warm like a hug. Frederick sighs in relief and scurries to the door, fiddling with the complex locks before pulling the door open. Ada steps in slowly, taking in the scene. “My husband gave me some vital information about our new professor,” she says slowly, but when she looks over Alva’s way, her speaking falters. “What’s happened?”

As if on cue, the notification sounds off again. The comforting beeps of R2-D2 are no longer that of a beloved android, but a klaxon, a final warning before a reactor breach. Alva shudders, his hand moving on instinct, a moth drawn to a deadly flame. He reaches for his phone—

A gentle but ice-cold hand closes around his wrist, blocking his grasp. It’s Luchino. For the first time all evening, he’s back in the real world, the world outside his anthromorphic alligators and legendary dragons. He doesn’t say a word, his expression unreadable, but he gently guides Alva’s hand away from the phone and holds it there, a silent, chillingly dispassionate guardian.

Frederick strides back over, his face set in a grim line. He snatches the device from the table. As his eyes scan the screen, the color drains from his face. He stumbles back a step, nearly dropping the phone, his mouth falling open in silent disbelief.

“Frederick?” Ada presses, stepping further into the room. “What does it say?”

Frederick’s voice comes out as nearly choked, a shudder in the back of his throat. He flips the phone over and shows Ada the message:

I'm watching the light from that window catch the panicked flutter of your pulse in your throat, Alva. And all I can think about is how I'd rather feel it with my mouth.

Your friend has such lovely, talented fingers. I can imagine the sound they would make when they break, one by one. But I'd much rather hear the sounds you make.

Fuck. The thought of having you on your knees for me. Or pinned to a mattress, shuddering apart as I finally take what's mine. I want to taste the fear on your lips. I want to leave my marks all over that perfect and pretty skin, bruises like little blue thumbprints, so no one ever mistakes who you belong to again.

I am going to hear you cry my name, Alva. Whether in terror or pleasure, it will all be a song for me. A performance deserving of an eternal encore.

You've been a very bad little muse, Alva Lorenz, hiding and letting others put their hands on my property. Now it's time for your correction.

Get down here. I'm waiting in the lobby. You come alone, or I come up, and I will simply take you in front of them. Your choice, love. 🩵

Ada’s clinical mind, which could normally conjure up conclusions faster than igniting a lightsaber, is rendered useless. Theory is a shield; but this was the spear. Even Orpheus, who’s so used to reading dark material, looks physically ill.

Alva sits frozen, phantom sensations of the words branding his skin. He imagines the bruises, the pressure, marks of ownership. The violation is so total, it burns past fear into a state of cold, hollow shock.

He’s a canvas Joseph intends to paint with pain.

“The predator has cornered its chosen prey by threatening the herd,” Luchino states, looking at Alva’s vacant expression. “It's a classic isolation tactic. By making the group a liability, the target is forced into a choice: sacrifice itself for the perceived safety of the pack, or risk the destruction of everyone it has formed a bond with.”

“For God’s sake, Luchino, can you turn off the David Attenborough narration for one minute?” Frederick snaps, finally launching into motion. He begins to pace the length of the floor-to-ceiling windows, a caged tiger. “That’s it. I’m calling the police.”

“And say what, Frederick?” Ada counters, strained but still remaining logical. “That a man is in a public lobby sending threats through an anonymous number? They’ll come, take a statement, and leave. And then he’ll disappear as quickly as he came!”

“So are we going to sit here?” Orpheus demands, book tossed to the side. “The man said he’d drag Alva out of here, and after reading that I…” His voice trails off, glare softening. “I believe him.” The argument swirls around Alva, a chaotic vortex of voices. Police. Can’t wait. What do we do? 

He looks at them: Frederick, radiating a fierce, frustrated protectiveness; Ada, desperately trying to impose reason on pure chaos; Orpheus, his cynical armor shattered. He sees the naked fear in their eyes. Fear for him, yes, but also fear of what Joseph would do to them to get to him.

Luchino’s words echo in the roaring silence of his mind. Sacrifice itself, or risk the destruction of the group.

This was the Kobayashi Maru, the no-win scenario. But he had been looking at it all wrong. He wasn't Captain Kirk, tasked with finding a brilliant, third option to save his ship. He was the disposable redshirt ensign on the landing party. The one whose death was a footnote in the Captain's Log, a necessary loss to ensure the survival of the main characters.

Mr. Spock’s voice, from a film he had watched a dozen times, whispers in his memory: The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few… or the one.

He was the one.

A terrible, frigid clarity cuts through the fog of his shock. His mind, the logical machine that had been sputtering and failing, finally found a path. A dark, ugly, but mathematically sound path. Joseph’s equation had only one variable he truly wanted: Alva. If that variable was removed from the context of this apartment, from the context of this "herd," the immediate threat to them would be neutralized.

Slowly, like an old automaton, he pushes himself to his feet. Luchino's grip on his wrist loosens, and he lets go.

The argument stops instantly. All eyes snap to him.

“Alva?” Ada says, her voice soft.

“I need to rest,” Alva’s voice comes out as a suffocation. He can’t meet their eyes. He stares at a point on the far wall, focusing on it as if it’s the only anchor in the universe. “Please.”

The plea, so small and broken, does what no argument could. It silences them completely. The aggressive tension drains from the room, replaced by a wave of pity and sorrow. They see a man at his absolute breaking point.

“Of course,” Ada says immediately, her tone shifting from strategist to caregiver. She puts a gentle hand on Frederick’s arm. “He’s in shock. Frederick, the guest room.”

Frederick’s anger melts away, replaced by a deep, pained concern. He nods, his expression softening. “Right. This way, Alva.” He gestures down a short hallway. “It’s quiet. You can lock the door. No one can get to you in there.”

The irony of the statement is a physical blow, but Alva shows no reaction. He allows Frederick to guide him, his feet shuffling across the expensive rug. He feels their eyes on his back — eyes full of sympathy, not suspicion. The guilt of his deception is a cold, sharp stone in his gut, but the logic of his decision holds him steady. This is the way.

He’s led into a pristine but minimalist guest room. The bed is perfectly made, curtains drawn, and there’s a television. Hanging above the TV is a portrait of an aristocrat, whose cyan eyes pierce right through Alva’s soul, white hair cascading down his shoulders like a winter’s waterfall. His heart pounds against his ribcage.

It can't be.

His logical mind scrambles, trying to dismiss it as a coincidence, a trick of the dim lighting, a common artistic style from a bygone era. But the longer he stares, the more the impossible truth solidifies. It isn't a look-alike. The sharp, aristocratic cheekbones, the specific, cold curve of the lips, the piercing, impossible blue of the eyes — it is Joseph. Or a perfect, ancestral double.

The foundation of his reality, already fractured, shatters completely. What is a portrait of his tormentor — or his identical ancestor — doing in Frederick’s guest room? The questions spiral, each one more terrifying than the last. Is Frederick connected to him? Is this a family portrait? Is this fortress not a sanctuary, but the very heart of the trap?

The safe harbor was a lie. There is no one to trust. There is nowhere to run. There is only the predator, and his web is everywhere.

“I’ll get you a glass of water,” Frederick says, hovering in the doorway, unsure what else to do. “Just… try to breathe, Alva. We have you. You’re safe here.”

Safe. The word is a mockery. Alva gives a slow, mechanical nod, his eyes still fixed on the portrait. The man in the painting seems to be looking right at him, his expression one of timeless, possessive amusement. As if he knew Alva would end up here, in this room, standing before him.

Frederick hesitates for another moment, then backs out, pulling the door almost completely shut, leaving it cracked just a sliver to avoid the noise of the latch. "We'll be right outside," he adds softly. “And I’ll make sure to save you a slice of Domino’s.” His footsteps retreat.

The sound of his footsteps retreats, leaving Alva alone in the deafening silence of the guest room. Domino's. The word is an absurdity, a piece of a normal, functioning world that Alva no longer belongs to. The casual kindness of it feels like a deliberate, cruel mockery in the face of the portrait hanging on the wall. It’s the final confirmation. This isn't a sanctuary anymore but a theatre. A stage, and they are all actors in Joseph’s elaborate play.

He has to get out.

He moves without a sound, a ghost in his own life, a specter haunting the edges of a tragedy. He slips out of the guest room, his heart a frantic, silent drum against his ribs. He glides down the hallway, keeping to the shadows cast by the expensive, minimalist decor.

From the end of the hall, he can see them in the living room, huddled together, their backs to him, their voices a low murmur of frantic, worried planning. All plotting to save a man who is already lost, unaware that the walls of their fortress may be part of the cage.

He reaches the front door. His hands, trembling with a new, sharper terror born of betrayal, begin the delicate, reversed process of unlocking the fortress. Each click of a deadbolt is a thunderclap in his own ears, a gunshot in the silent apartment. He works with a desperate, silent precision, his breath held tight in his chest. Please don't hear. Please don't turn around.

With the final lock disengaged, he pauses, his hand on the cold metal of the doorknob. He risks one last look back at the scene in the living room. He doesn't see friends or a crew anymore. He sees a collection of variables he can no longer trust, potential extensions of the web he is caught in. The feeling of being utterly alone settles over him, a final, crushing weight.

He’s a hermit again. Lost in the voids of outer space.

A single, silent tear traces a path down his cheek. It’s not for them. It’s for himself, for the man who, just an hour ago, had dared to feel a flicker of hope.

He twists the knob, slips through the door, and pulls it shut behind him. The final, soft click of the latch is the sound of his fate being sealed, the severing of the last tether to any world but Joseph’s.

Alva walks to the elevator and presses the down button. The arrow lights up, a small, damning beacon, metal doors sliding open with an eerily pleasant ding! Alva steps inside.

The doors slide shut, hiding his reflection. The elevator gives a soft lurch and begins its smooth, silent descent.

The elevator slows to a halt, the doors sliding right open, revealing the bright, sterile, and empty marble lobby. Empty, except for the single figure standing directly before him, statuesque and unmoving, as if he had been waiting there for an eternity.

Joseph.

His long white hair is a slash of brilliance against his dark coat, a smile on his lips that is anything but warm and welcoming. His striking blue eyes, the same impossible cyan as the man in the portrait, hold a look of profound, chilling satisfaction. It’s the look of an artist seeing his completed masterpiece, a god watching his creation follow its predestined path.

He knew Alva would come.

Chapter Text

The hunt has ended.

For a long moment, the only sound in the vast lobby is the faint, electrical hum of the elevator. Alva stands frozen, caught between the false safety of the metal box, and the chilling finality of the man — the terror — waiting for him. Joseph’s smile is terrible beauty, a supreme kind of artistic satisfaction. The look of an art collector, unwrapping a priceless, long-sought-after artefact.

“There you are,” Joseph murmurs as he closes the distance between them in a few fluid strides. Before Alva can even process the movement, Joseph is pressing into his space, petite but strong arms wrapping around Alva’s waist, his body flush against the other man’s. He rests his head against Alva’s chest, a gesture of possessive, triumphant affection. “Right on time. I knew you wouldn’t disappoint me.”

Alva’s entire body goes rigid. The embrace is a cage of flesh and bone. The scent of him is overwhelming at this proximity—expensive cologne, the faint, clean tang of darkroom chemicals, and something else, something cold and sterile like winter air. Alva’s logical mind shuts down, leaving only the screaming, primal instinct to get away.

But he’s paralyzed, unmoving.

Joseph tightens his hold for a moment, savoring the rigid terror in Alva’s frame. “There it is,” he whispers against Alva's chest, drinking in Alva’s rapid heart beating. “That music. It’s so much prettier up close, don’t you think?” Slowly, he pulls back, but only just enough to look up at Alva. His hands slide from Alva's waist to his jaw, cupping his face with a touch that is both reverent and proprietary.

His thumbs gently stroke the sharp line of Alva’s cheekbones. The touch is still unnaturally cold. “Did you see?” Joseph asks, cyan eyes boring into Alva’s. “The painting in your little safe room. A family heirloom, a distant ancestor. Though my dear, departed brother always insisted it looked more like me.” His eyelashes flutter.

Departed brother? Alva thinks back to the mention of Claude, the missing professor at the university. From what he remembers, Orpheus had called Joseph ‘Claude’. Joseph manages to notice the subtle shift in Alva’s posture, a flicker of horror that passes through his golden eyes.

“Ah, that name registered, didn’t it?” Joseph leans in closer. “Claude. My dear brother. You met his colleagues, I believe. They seemed quite fond of his… conventional work.”

“What,” Alva breathes out, his mouth moving faster than his mind, “did you do to Claude?”

Joseph’s smile doesn’t falter. In fact, it widens, a flicker of genuine, chilling delight sparking in his eyes. Alva has spoken to him. The sculpture is asking the sculptor about his tools.

“A direct question,” Joseph muses, his voice dropping into a low, intimate register. He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he poses a question of his own, his tone that of a patient teacher guiding a star pupil. “What does an artist do, Alva, when he finds a true masterpiece, but it’s in the hands of someone who only sees it as a pretty picture? Someone who wants to flatten it, cage it on a canvas, and steal its life?”

He pulls back, his gaze sweeping over Alva’s face, savoring the confusion and dawning horror.

“He was a painter,” Joseph says, the word dripping with a contempt so profound it’s almost reverent. “My brother saw you once, you know. On campus. He came home talking about a 'hermit professor with hair like spun silver and the haunted eyes of a fallen star.' He wanted to paint you. To sit you in a stuffy room and have you hold still for hours. Can you imagine?”

He lets out a soft, airy laugh, utterly devoid of humor. “To take all this… this beautiful, frantic energy, this exquisite terror…” His free hand gestures to Alva’s trembling form, hand lowering from his waist to his clothed thigh. “…and trap it in oil and linen? It would have been a crime. A sacrilege. He wouldn't have understood you. He wouldn't have appreciated the way your heart hammers when you’re afraid, or the way your mind races to find a logical escape that doesn’t exist. I knew, instantly, that he was unworthy of his subject.”

Alva stands, frozen stiff. His mind struggling to connect the dots. Joseph, this madman, this beautiful, sick artist, killed off his brother… for Alva? A memory flickers before him, as he recalls a beautiful man with hair as graceful as silk, stumbling around the faculty lounge, one hand carrying a glass of wine, the other a sketchbook tucked under his arm. He’d bumped into Alva that night, staining Alva’s favorite Sartorio Napoli suit, but instead of losing his temper, Alva had simply apologized for being in the way. That night, Claude had unbuttoned Alva’s suit, wiping his bare chest with a washcloth.

Joseph’s smile turns sharp, predatory. He sees the flicker of memory in Alva’s distant golden eyes, the subtle shift as a specific moment comes into focus. He knows exactly what Alva is remembering.

“I remember that night,” Joseph says, his voice a low, venomous purr. “The clumsy spill. The cheap wine staining your beautiful suit.”

Alva flinches. Joseph was there. Watching.

“And then,” Joseph continues, his voice dropping further, filled with a chilling, possessive disgust, “his fumbling, drunken hands on your skin. I saw the way he unbuttoned your shirt, hands inching lower, lower.” He mirrors the way Claude had touched Alva that night in a drunken stupour. “The way he dared to put his hands on what already belonged to me.”

His grip on Alva’s jaw tightens, not enough to cause real pain, but enough to be an undeniable command, forcing Alva’s attention back to him, away from the memory.

“That was the precise moment I knew he had to be removed,” Joseph says, his cyan eyes burning with a righteous, artistic fury. “An artist must protect his muse from lesser talents. He didn’t just want to paint you. He wanted to touch you. To possess you. And only I am allowed that privilege. So, I corrected the situation. I relieved him of his duties. His indefinite leave… was just that. Indefinite.”

The finality in his tone is absolute, a death sentence delivered with the casual air of a curator retiring a piece from a collection.

“The university position, the photography studio across from your classroom… they were simply tools I required to get closer. To study you properly, in your natural state, before beginning my real work,” he murmurs. “Everything, from the first note under your door to the very last lock you turned tonight, has been a part of the composition, Alva. A carefully crafted prelude to our masterpiece.”

“Why?” Alva chokes out. “Why me?”

Joseph’s smile, which had been sharp and predatory, softens into something else entirely. It’s a look of profound, almost tender amusement, the way one might look at a child who has just asked a deeply naive but earnest question. He lets out a soft, breathy chuckle, the sound shockingly gentle in the cold lobby.

“Why you?” he repeats, his voice a low, intimate murmur. He brings his free hand up to once again cup the other side of Alva’s face, holding him with a delicate, inescapable reverence. “My dear, beautiful Alva. That’s like a star asking why it shines, or a sonnet asking why it was written. The question itself is the answer.”

He leans in, their foreheads nearly touching. Alva can see the intricate flecks of silver in his impossible cyan eyes, a universe of cold, beautiful madness.

“Because you are a perfect, beautiful paradox,” Joseph whispers, his voice hypnotic. “You build these impenetrable walls of logic and routine around yourself. You call yourself a hermit. You pretend you want nothing more than the quiet hum of your machines and the cold comfort of your books.”

His thumb traces the dark circle under Alva’s eye, a gesture of almost loving concern.

“But your eyes… your beautiful, golden eyes… they scream with a terror so pure it’s intoxicating. Your hands tremble with a frantic energy that begs to be held down. You surround yourself with silence, but your heart beats a rhythm so desperate it could shatter glass. You think you want solitude, Alva, but what you truly ache for is to be seen. To be solved. To be possessed so completely that you no longer have to bear the weight of your own lonely existence.”

He pulls back just enough to look Alva fully in the face, his expression one of absolute, terrifying certainty.

“I am the only one who sees the masterpiece cowering inside the man. My brother wanted to paint a still life. I want to set the real you free.” He smiles again, that soft, terrible smile. “And to do that, I first have to break the frame.”

The confession is complete, a declaration of intent so twisted it defies all logic. It’s not about love. It’s not even about simple possession. It’s a violent, artistic crusade to remake Alva in the image Joseph has created for him. With a final, gentle stroke of his thumb across Alva's cheek, Joseph lets go. The sudden absence of his cold touch leaves Alva feeling unmoored, swaying slightly on his feet.

“Come,” Joseph says, his tone shifting to one of simple, polite instruction. He gestures toward the glass doors of the lobby.

A sleek, black Bugatti Chiron, so dark it seems to absorb the surrounding city lights, is sat silently at the curb. Alva moves on autopilot, his legs stiff and unfeeling, a marionette whose strings are now held by its master. Joseph walks beside him, not touching, but close enough that Alva can feel the cold radiating from him.

Joseph gently guides him into the plush leather interior before sliding in beside him. The door closes with a solid, definitive thud, sealing them in an envelope of silence and the scent of expensive leather. The Bugatti pulls away from the curb with a smooth, silent grace.

Alva stares out the window as the city lights begin to blur. The world outside, the world of Domino’s and concerned crew members and the rule of law, is already receding, becoming a distant memory. He’s no longer Captain Lorenz, but an alien specimen in a jar, being transported from one sterile environment to another.

“We’re almost home, Alva,” Joseph says, his voice once again gentle, almost soothing. He reaches for the radio and turns it on, a familiar voice filling the void. The voice of Dustin Bates, the lyrics to the cover so haunting, it makes Alva shiver.

I made a fire and watching it burn
Thought of your future
It's hard to be a man when there's a gun in your hand
Oh, I feel so…

“Soon,” Joseph murmurs with a cold smile, “the correction can begin. The real art.”

Alva leans his head against the cool glass of the window and closes his eyes, surrendering to the crushing gravity of the black hole he has fallen into.

The capture was just the beginning.

Chapter Text

Joseph stares lovingly at Alva, his eyes tracing the line of his jaw in the dim light. His hands move from the steering wheel to Alva’s wrist, his grip a manacle of unnaturally cold skin. Alva flinches but doesn't pull away. He’s a statue, his will eroded by terror and resignation. He tries to rationalize the situation. Maybe this will be okay. Maybe Joseph is just a brilliant actor pulling a horrible prank, maybe—

“We’re home, Alva,” Joseph murmurs, breaking Alva’s focus, his thumb stroking the fluttering pulse point inside Alva’s wrist. He cups Alva’s hand into his own, frigid to the touch, like swimming in the Arctic. “The prelude is over. The performance is just beginning.”

He lets go and steps out, circling around the Bugatti and opens the passenger door with smooth rhythm. He extends a hand again, and even through the dim garage light, Alva can just see how flushed Joseph is, from the rosy blooming in his cheeks to the way his eyes flicker from Alva’s down to where his thighs meet. Alva’s body obeys, taking Joseph’s hand and he rises.

Joseph leads Alva to the back of the apartment complex, a private elevator to what must be a penthouse. “I have everything you could ever need,” Joseph says, and Alva can just hear the badump, badump in Joseph’s own heart. He’s so much more than just an obsessive lover, but he’s a curator, a director in a one-man saga.

When the elevator reaches the top floor, Joseph guides Alva closer. When he opens the door, Alva’s head spins. The apartment is three storeys with floor-to-ceiling windows that feel more like glass prison bars. The floors are polished, the furniture Rococo styled. And all over the walls, displayed with museum-quality lighting, are photographs.

Dozens, and dozens, of photographs.

Alva’s mind short-circuits. There’s a picture of him asleep, Leia curled by his side. There’s one of him reading in his armchair; one of him sitting on the sofa, binge-watching The Next Generation. And there, a horrifyingly intimate close-up of Alva engaging in a private, personal moment, hand wrapped around himself.

“Don’t you love them?” Joseph asks, although Alva knows not to answer truthfully. “Think of this as a house of mirrors, dear Alva. Everywhere you look, there it is: You. Your beautiful face,” he steps closer, his hand caressing Alva’s cheek, “your gorgeous body,” his hand trails lower, lower, resting against Alva’s waist with a possessive firmness that makes the breath catch in Alva’s throat.

"My private collection," Joseph purrs, his voice a low vibration against Alva's side. "Sketches. Studies. The work I did before I could acquire the proper materials." He leans in, his lips brushing the shell of Alva’s ear, his cold breath a horrifying intimacy. "But now... now I have the original."

He guides Alva past the gallery of his own stolen life. The sheer number of photos is dizzying, a thousand captured moments that make Alva feel like a ghost observing a man who no longer exists. They stop before a heavy, soundproofed door, stark and modern against the ornate Rococo style of the apartment.

“Welcome to the studio,” Joseph says, his voice taking on a new, fervent energy. “Our studio.”

He opens the door and pushes Alva forward into the cold darkness. The door shuts behind them with a heavy, final thud, and for a moment, there is only absolute black and the smell of clean chemicals and ozone. Then, a single, harsh studio light clicks on, illuminating a severe-looking stool in the center of the vast room. Predatory shapes of tripods, light boxes, and cameras lurk just beyond the circle of light.

“Sit,” Joseph commands from the shadows.

Alva’s legs, numb and disconnected from his mind, obey. He perches on the edge of the stool. The light is blinding, uncomfortably hot on his skin. He feels utterly exposed, a specimen pinned to a slide for dissection.

“You were a very bad muse,” Joseph whispers, his voice seeming to come from all directions at once as he circles the perimeter of the light. “Hiding. Running. Forcing me to accelerate the schedule.” He finally steps into the light, his flushed cheeks from the car now gone, replaced by a pale, predatory focus. His cyan eyes blaze with a cold, possessive fire. “It’s time for your correction. The first one. A reminder of who you belong to now.”

Alva’s breath hitches. He tries to pull back, a last, futile instinct, but Joseph’s hand shoots out, gripping his jaw with a bruising force that makes stars pop in his vision, holding him in place on the stool.

“Please…” Alva chokes out, the word raw and useless, a puff of air.

Joseph’s smile is slow and cruel. His eyes are not on Alva’s face, but lower, fixated on the pale, vulnerable skin of his neck and collarbone. “Oh, I am going to hear you make such beautiful music for me, Alva.”

He leans in. With his free hand, he doesn’t unbutton Alva’s shirt. He hooks his fingers into the collar and rips it open. The sound of tearing fabric is sharp and violent in the quiet studio, a sound of profound violation. Before Alva can react, Joseph brings his mouth down to the juncture of his neck and shoulder. He doesn’t just bite. He sucks, pulling the skin taut in a horrifyingly intimate act of possession, and then his teeth sink in.

A sharp, searing pain explodes through Alva’s shocked senses, so intense it whites out his vision. He cries out, a thin, wounded sound he doesn't recognize as his own, his back arching in a spasm of agony. Joseph holds him there, his grip on Alva's jaw unrelenting, the pressure of his mouth immense. Alva can feel the scrape of his teeth, the wet heat of his tongue against the wound he’s creating.

Finally, he pulls back. His lips are stained faintly red. A vicious, blooming constellation of purple and red is already forming on Alva’s pale skin, and from the center, a single, perfect drop of blood wells up. Joseph looks at it, then at Alva’s tear-streaked, pain-filled face, and his expression is one of pure, ecstatic triumph. This is his art.

He brings a thumb up and gently, almost reverently, smears the drop of blood across the rapidly forming bruise. “There,” he breathes, his voice thick with an artist's satisfaction. He leans in close, his lips brushing Alva's ear again. “The first brushstroke on my canvas. A splash of color. See how much more alive you look already?”

He steps back and retrieves a vintage camera from a nearby table, raising it to his eye with practiced grace. The lens focuses, not on Alva's face, but on the brutal, bloody mark against his pale skin.

Click.

The shutter sounds like a guillotine falling.

Joseph lowers the camera, his eyes gleaming behind the viewfinder, a predator that has finally tasted blood.

“Now,” he says, his voice a silken promise of more to come.

“The real art begins.”

He sets the camera down with care, moving towards Alva, who’s frozen on the stool, the searing pain from the bite a universal shock. The torn edges of his shirt hang limply, framing the possessive mark. “My dear Alva,” Joseph says simply, “let’s begin the rest.”

Alva’s mind goes blank. His fingers tremble violently as he moves to unbutton his trousers, each a slow, agonizing act of self-betrayal. The sound of his zipper is obscenely loud in the vast, silent studio. He pushes his trousers and briefs down to his legs, legging them pool around his ankles. Exposed, a single tear traces a silent path down his cheek and drips onto his knee.

“Pretty,” Joseph breathes out, circling around the stool like a cat stalking prey. “A masterpiece of trembling lines and pale, perfect skin. My brother wanted to cover you with paint. I prefer to see the raw material.” He stops in front of Alva and kneels, bringing his face level with Alva’s lap. Alva flinches, trying to press his thighs together, but Joseph’s cold hand prevents him from moving. The grip on his thigh is steel.

“Don't hide from me,” Joseph chides softly. “I need to see every part of this fine display.”

His gaze is analytical, yet his breath is coming faster now. The flush has returned to his cheeks as he reaches out with his free hand, his long, elegant fingers tracing the line of Alva’s hip. Then he moves inward, his touch sending a jolt of pure, unadulterated terror through Alva’s system.

“So responsive,” Joseph murmurs as Alva’s body reacts involuntarily to the intimate touch. “You see? You pretend to be a man of cold, stone logic, but your body betrays you. It sings its own song.” His touch becomes more purposeful, fingers wrapping around Alva’s cock, hard and flushed. “Let’s see what other music you can make for me,” Joseph whispers. His movements are practiced, devoid of warmth. His eyes never leave Alva’s face, watching every tear, every shudder. Documenting the reaction.

Alva’s mind shatters, his consciousness fleeting to a distant, empty point in space, a hermit lost in the void. He’s vaguely aware of his own body arching, of a guttural sound ripping from his throat, the hot, shameful release that spills over Joseph’s cold fingers. In the immediate silence that follows, Alva’s body slumps forward. Joseph doesn’t move for a long moment, simply looks from his hand back to Alva’s devastated form.

“You did so beautifully for me,” Joseph’s praises are cold yet gentle. He stands up, walks to a small, marble basin in the corner of the studio, and washes his hands with a detached, methodical precision. He doesn’t use soap, just rinses his fingers under a stream of cool water, his movements economical and graceful. He dries them on a pristine white towel without looking back at Alva.

“A good first session,” he says, voice once again calm and conversational, as if he were a scientist noting the results of an experiment. “We’ve established a baseline. A control.”

He walks back to Alva, who is still hunched over on the stool, trembling uncontrollably, a sheen of cold sweat on his skin. His mind is a white static of shame and pain. He doesn’t offer a blanket, a towel, or a word of comfort. Instead, he picks up a different camera from a nearby table, a Polaroid this time, its boxy shape a grotesque contrast to the scene.

He circles Alva again, a predator assessing the aftermath of his first strike. He stops, his shadow falling over Alva’s slumped form.

“Look at me.” The command is soft, but it cuts through the static in Alva’s head with the sharpness of a blade.

Slowly, through a thick veil of unshed tears, Alva lifts his head. His eyes are vacant, shattered, his face a mask of devastation. He sees Joseph’s impassive, beautiful face behind the camera lens.

Click.

The Polaroid spits out a photograph with a mechanical rasp. Joseph plucks it from the camera and holds it by the edges, watching the colors bloom and solidify in his hand. He smiles, a small, satisfied curve of his lips. He then turns the photo so Alva can see it.

It’s a picture of him. Naked, tear-streaked, and utterly broken on the stool, the vicious, bloody mark on his collarbone a dark blotch against his pale skin. His own come a shameful slick on his thigh. A portrait of complete and total ruin.

“See?” Joseph says softly. He tucks the photograph into his coat pocket like a treasured keepsake, “The masterpiece is already beginning to emerge from the marble.”

He turns and walks back towards the door of the studio, leaving Alva shivering and exposed in the harsh light. “Get dressed, love,” Joseph calls over his shoulder. “There is a robe on the back of the door. Then, we can go out together.”

The image floods Alva’s shattered mind: being led through a restaurant, through the university hallways, with this brutal, blooming mark on his neck for all to see. A walking trophy. A piece of art on display. The thought, so utterly insane, so profoundly humiliating, snaps something deep within him. The dissociative fog of pain and shame is burned away by a sudden, primal surge of pure adrenaline.

No.

The logical mind is gone. The hermit is gone. All that remains is an animal, cornered and wounded, making one last, suicidal lunge for freedom. Before he can even form a coherent thought, his body is moving. He scrambles off the stool, his bare feet slapping against the cold concrete. He runs. He runs for the heavy studio door, for the darkness, for the impossible chance of escape.

He doesn't even make it three steps.

Joseph doesn't seem to rush. There is no sound of hurried footsteps, only a fluid, impossible blur of motion. One moment he’s by the door, and the next he is in front of Alva, an immovable object. An arm like an iron bar slams across Alva’s chest, the impact throwing him backward.

His head cracks against the hard concrete floor with a sickening thud that makes his vision explode into a universe of black spots and flashing lights. Pain, white-hot and absolute, radiates from the back of his skull. He lies there, gasping for air, the world tilting and swimming around him.

Through the haze, he sees Joseph standing over him. His expression is not one of anger, but of cold, profound disappointment. It’s the look a master gives a prized instrument that has produced a sour note. “No,” Joseph says, his voice dangerously quiet, flat with disapproval. He crouches down beside Alva, his movements fluid and graceful. He grabs a fistful of Alva’s silver hair, yanking his head back at a painful angle, forcing Alva to look up into his icy cyan eyes. “We don’t run. The subject does not leave the studio until the artist is finished.”

Tears of pain and terror stream from Alva’s eyes. “Let… me… go…” he rasps, his throat raw.

“I told you,” Joseph says, his voice taking on the patient tone of a teacher explaining a simple concept for the third time. “Bad muses must be corrected.” He shifts his weight, pinning Alva’s shoulder to the floor with his knee. He takes Alva’s left hand, spreading his trembling fingers out flat against the cold concrete.

“You have such beautiful hands,” Joseph murmurs, tracing the line of Alva’s index finger with his own. “So elegant. So clever. The hands of a scientist. I wonder what they sound like when they break.”

Alva’s blood runs cold. He tries to pull his hand away, but Joseph’s grip is absolute.

“Just a small correction,” Joseph whispers, his gaze locked with Alva’s. “A reminder of the consequences of disobedience.”

He applies pressure. A small, sharp snap echoes in the studio.

A scream is torn from Alva’s throat, raw and agonizing, a sound of pure, unadulterated animal pain. The world dissolves into a searing, blinding agony that radiates from his finger up his entire arm. Blackness claws at the edges of his vision.

Through the roaring in his ears, he hears Joseph’s soft, sighing voice, filled with disappointment. “There now. See what you made me do? You’ve damaged the composition, and we’ll now have to incorporate this into the piece.”

He releases Alva’s hand. Alva curls in on himself, clutching his broken finger to his chest, sobbing uncontrollably, yet the pain is a physical anchor, dragging him down into an ocean of misery.

Joseph stands up and walks into the shadows. He returns a moment later, holding something in his hands. It’s a collar. A simple, elegant band of black leather with a small, silver ring at the front. He kneels down again. “Since you cannot be trusted to stay still for the artist,” he says, his voice devoid of all emotion, “you will have to be secured.”

He works with a calm, detached efficiency, buckling the collar around Alva’s neck. The leather is cold against his skin, a final, definitive brand of ownership. A leash for a disobedient pet.

He tugs it once, a gentle but firm gesture of absolute control.

“Now,” Joseph says, looking down at the broken, crying man at his feet.

“Let’s try this again.”

Chapter Text

The pain from Alva’s broken finger makes Alva’s head spin. Joseph stands, pulling Alva up from the floor by his collar, as if he weighs nothing. Alva stumbles up, legs refusing to cooperate, but Joseph’s grip is steel. He leads Alva through the apartment, this time the destination is a bathroom suite. It’s far too exquisite to call it a bathroom, a cavern of Italian marble and gold fixtures, a massive tub in the centre.

“First,” Joseph says, his voice losing its dangerous edge, a tone now soft, “we should clean my canvas.”

His movements are efficient as he removes the robe and the remainders of Alva’s tattered clothing. Joseph guides Alva to the bath, the hot water a searing shock against his cold skin. Joseph kneels by the side of the tub, simply watching for a moment before picking up a sponge and a bar of soap, expensive, homemade, and the aroma of roses.

Alva shudders as the sponge makes contact with his skin. “Relax, my love,” Joseph murmurs, touch no longer violent, but is disturbingly intimate. His hands glide over Alva’s skin, tracing the lines of his muscles, the curve of his ribs. Alva sits frozen. “Your body,” Joseph says, more like sighs out, “is a beautiful thing. It sings of fear, and yet, there’s a deeper music. An animalistic desire. You can try all you like to cage it, but it’s there.” Joseph’s hand travels lower, fingers brushing against Alva’s hardened cock.

“You do want this, don’t you?” Joseph smiles, cold and calm. “You ache for a touch that isn’t just the air in your empty house. You fantasize about being taken, surrendering control.” Alva’s body betrays him, his cock twitching involuntarily. “See? The body never lies. It always confesses.”

When it’s over, Joseph rinses him, then helps him from the basin. He wraps a soft towel around the shaken scientist’s body, guiding him to a walk-in closet, one that’s likely twice the size of Alva’s own bedroom. His blood runs cold. It’s full of his own clothing — or rather, a curated, upgrade version of it. He sees his Sartorio Napoli suit, the very same one Claude spilled wine on. It’s perfectly cleaned and pressed, the sins of the past washed away. He sees rows of other expensive brands he would never dream of affording with his salary.

And there, at the very centre, it’s a suit of immaculate white. It’s a fabric that shimmers like moonlight on silk. It’s less like a suit and more like a ceremonial garment. A wedding gown.

“I had it commissioned for you,” Joseph says, proud, “for our first official outing. The debut of my masterpiece.” He takes it down. “Put it on for me, won’t you?” Alva dresses himself under Joseph’s watchful eye, the silk cool against his still-sensitive skin. The suit fits perfectly, of course.

As a final touch, Joseph presents him with a small, velvet box. Inside is a wristwatch. It’s a vintage, beautifully crafted timepiece, and the face of it is a detailed rendering of Mr. Spock, his hand raised in the Vulcan salute.

“A gift,” Joseph says. “To replace the ones you lost. I took the liberty of studying your… special interests. The logic is appealing, is it not? The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. That is my brand new favorite quote.” His smile is sharp. “But sometimes, the artist must be selfish for his art.”

He fastens the watch onto Alva’s wrist.

They walk to the private elevator, Joseph's hand a possessive weight on the small of Alva’s back. “Spock was a paradox, wasn't he? Half human, half Vulcan. A constant war between emotion and logic. It made him fascinating.” He looks at Alva. “Sound familiar?”

When they walk to the Bugatti, Joseph opens the passenger door for Alva. Alva hesitates, before his body moves on instinct, sliding into the expensive car, and the door shutting gently is more of a gunshot. Joseph walks around the car, sliding into the driver’s seat before starting the car. He backs out of the garage driveway, and drives down the road.

The same song on the radio plays, Dustin Bates’s voice a lulling hypnosis.

You keep your distance with the system of touch
And gentle persuasion
I'm lost in admiration, could I need you this much?

Alva leans his head against the cool glass of the window. The song, with its eerie lyrics, makes him shiver slightly. Joseph flicks on his turn signal. “Tell me,” Joseph says over the music as he eases on the gas pedal, stopping at a redlight. “I want to hear you, Alva. You are not a programmed computer, my dear. Speak.”

Alva’s throat tightens at the simple command. What could he possibly say? What words exist for this level of horror? His logical mind, the part that forms sentences and constructs lessons, is a shattered shipwreck.

The silence stretches, the redlight lasting an eternity. Joseph doesn’t even look at him, focused on the road in front of him. It’s one of the very, very few things he focuses on that isn’t Alva. “I…” Alva’s voice comes out a broken, dry rasp. He has to clear his throat, a jolt of pain shoots through the skin of his neck. He tries again. “I… want to go home.”

“You are home,” Joseph says, gaze not once breaking from the road. “This is your home, Alva. Why return to Tatooine when you can spend your life in the luxuries of Naboo?”

Alva’s stomach churns. He’s… using my interests again. It was more than that. It was a colonization of his inner world, taking the fictional universes he flees to for safety and repurposing them as architecture for his prison.

“Naboo is beautiful,” Joseph continues, his voice conversational as the Bugatti glides forward, the light having turned green. “A planet of art, philosophy, and elegance. Tatooine is a desolate wasteland, fit only for scavengers and hermits hiding from their past. You’ve outgrown it, Alva. I am simply providing you with an environment suitable for your new station.”

“My… station?” Alva whispers, the words tasting like ash.

“As my muse, of course,” Joseph says, finally glancing at him. “A masterpiece should not stay kept in a cluttered little box. It should be displayed. Cherished. That is what I am doing for you.” His attention turns back to the road, the lyrics from STARSET’s song cover growing more and more distorted.

Oh, you're wasting my time
You're just, just wasting time

“Now, another question.” Joseph floors the Bugatti forward, slowing down to yield for other cars. “How does your finger feel?”

“It… hurts.”

“Good.” Joseph eases on the pedal. “You know, Anakin needed to feel fear in order to protect Padme. Is that right, dear Alva?”

“That’s…” Alva attempts to start a debate, but bites his bottom lip as he remembers who he’s speaking to. This isn’t wide-eyed Luca, who adores Alva’s geeky references in each lesson. This is a man, a predator, using Alva’s own interests to tighten the collar choking his neck.

The Bugatti parks behind the restaraunt.

Inside, the decor is an opulent Italian place so exclusive it doesn't have a sign. Joseph, playing the part of a doting partner, guides Alva to a secluded corner booth. He orders a simple glass of wine for himself and an absurdly expensive pizza for Alva — truffle, prosciutto, gold leaf. A decadent mockery of stuffed crust.

Alva stares at it, the throbbing pain in his crudely splinted finger a nauseating metronome. It’s then that he sees him. Alone at the bar, nursing a whiskey, is Emil. Ada’s husband. He looks tired, hunched over his drink, lost in a world of his own.

Hope — a stupid, suicidal, illogical thing — ignites a spark in Alva’s chest. He could get his attention. He glances at his watch, the face of Mr. Spock staring back at him, as if wordlessly saying, This is a logical plan.

“I need to use the restroom,” Alva says, his voice a dry rasp.

Joseph’s eyes narrow, but he nods. “Of course.”

As Alva stands, his legs trembling, he prepares himself. The watch. It's unique. Ada would know it. But as he takes a step, Joseph stands with him. “You look a little unsteady on your feet, dear heart. I’ll accompany you.”

Panic seizes Alva. The plan is ruined. Joseph’s hand is a brand on his back, propelling him forward, not towards the main restrooms by the bar, but toward a single, private one at the back of the dining room. They are walking directly past Emil’s stool. It’s now or never.

As they draw level with the bar, Alva does the only thing he can. He uses the forward momentum Joseph is forcing on him and pretends to stumble, his body lurching to the side. In the split second of chaotic motion, his good hand flies to his other wrist. He fumbles with the clasp of the Spock watch, his heart hammering against his ribs. The clasp gives. He lets his arm swing down.

The watch falls, a silent prayer cast into the abyss. It lands without a sound on the carpet, sliding to a stop directly beneath the stool where Emil sits, oblivious.

Joseph’s grip tightens, fingers digging into the muscles of Alva’s back, but he doesn’t stop. He propels Alva forward, pace unhurried. The hope that had flared in Alva’s chest dies instantly, smothered by the cold certainty of Joseph’s eerie omniscience. He knows. Of course he knows.

He steers Alva away from the main restrooms, right by the bar and towards a single, discreet door at the back of the dining room. It’s a private bathroom. The moment they enter the opulent space — dark marble and gold fixtures — the heavy door is suddenly locked behind them, the soft click of the bolt a death knell.

In an instant, Joseph’s cultured demeanor evaporates. He shoves Alva hard, and he stumbles forward, catching him on the edge of the marble vanity. Alva’s reflection stares back at him — a pale, terrified ghost in a ridiculous white suit. Before he can even regain his balance, Joseph slams him back against the cold wall, forearm pressing against Alva’s throat, cutting off his air supply.

“Clumsy little trick,” Joseph murmurs, beautiful face inches from Alva’s. “The watch. Did you really think I wouldn’t feel the shift in weight on your wrist? Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

“N-No,” Alva gasps, hands clawing uselessly at the arm crushing him.

“You are so disobedient,” Joseph snaps, other hand slipping downward, fingers digging cruelly into the agonizing bite mark on Alva’s collarbone. A raw scream of pain tears from Alva’s throat, muffled by the pressure on his neck. “I see I haven’t been clear enough about the terms of our agreement,” Joseph says, voice dangerously low.

With a brutal shove, he forces Alva down onto his knees, the impact jarring his entire body. The cold of the marble floor seeps through the thin fabric of his trousers. “You wanted to make a scene. You wanted an audience. Fine.”

The sharp, metallic sound of Joseph's belt buckle being undone echoes in the small room. Alva’s mind, a shattered shipwreck, can only register the finality of it. This is the “correction”.

Joseph grabs a fistful of his silver hair, yanking his head back at a painful angle. “You will perform for me. Here. Now. Open your mouth.”

Alva’s body obeys what his mind can no longer process. It’s rough, demeaning, and swift, an assertion of power meant to scour away the last vestiges of defiance. Joseph’s hips piston with a punishing rhythm, his hand tangled in Alva’s hair, forcing his head back and forth until his jaw aches and he can’t breathe.

Alva chokes, gagging, tears of pain and humiliation streaming down his face, blurring the image of Joseph’s cold, dominant expression in the polished marble wall opposite him. “Look at you,” Joseph pants, his voice a high and airy, yet cruel. “So beautiful when you’re broken. Such a pretty mouth, all for me.”

His release soon comes, but he doesn’t pull away, forcing Alva to take all of him. Joseph lets out more soft moans, as if a lover and not a cruel entity. “Swallow,” he says through a shaky gasp, “my art does not go to waste.” Sobbing, a gut-wrenching sound of utter defeat, Alva does as he’s told. Joseph pulls away, zipping his trousers with a cool indifference, as if he’s just finished a mundane task.

Alva stays on the floor, a trembling, ruined heap in his ridiculous white suit, his own fluids a cold, sticky shame on his chin and staining the pristine white silk.

“That is your place now, Alva,” Joseph says, his voice cold and flat. He looks down at him, his gaze sweeping over his collapsed form with the detached air of a critic. “On your knees for me. That is all you are good for, besides looking pretty in my photographs.” He nudges Alva’s shoulder with the toe of his expensive, polished shoe. “Get up. Fix yourself.”

He unlocks the door and leaves without another word.

Chapter Text

He’s alone.

The silence is absolute, save for his own ragged, broken sobs. It takes every ounce of his remaining strength to pull himself to his feet, using the vanity for support. He stares at his ghostly reflection in the mirror. The man looking back is a stranger. His golden eyes are vacant, shattered. His face is pale and tear-streaked. The pristine white suit is wrinkled and stained, and a dark, vicious mark, his owner’s brand, peeks out from above the high collar.

He is a shell. A beautifully dressed corpse. The hope, the last stupid, illogical spark, is gone. Extinguished.

His hands shaking, he turns on the golden faucet and splashes cold water on his face, the simple act feeling like an insurmountable effort. He wipes his mouth, trying to erase the taste of his own humiliation. He tries to fix the collar of his suit, to hide the evidence, to piece back together the shattered illusion of a man. But it’s no use. The frame is broken.

When Alva finally stumbles out of the restroom, head bowed in defeat, he expects to walk back to an empty table. He expects Joseph to be waiting, impatient, ready to leave.

What he doesn’t expect is Joseph, standing at the bar.

Speaking to Emil.

Joseph sees Alva emerge and his smile widens, a subtle shift that feels like a spotlight being thrown on him. He gestures for him to approach. "Ah, there he is. My love, I was just conversing with this gentleman."

Emil offers a polite, but weary, nod in Alva's direction. His eyes are tired, scanning Alva with a polite disinterest that confirms Alva’s worst fears. He doesn't see. He doesn't know.

"A pleasure," Joseph says smoothly, extending a hand to Emil. "Joseph Desaulnier."

Emil takes the hand, his grip firm. "Emil Mesmer."

The name slams into Alva with the force of a physical blow. Mesmer. Ada's husband. The man she was speaking to on the phone. The "vital information" she was supposed to get. He's here. It's really him. The chaotic variables in Alva's mind begin to spin, trying to form an equation.

"Mesmer," Joseph repeats, his tone light and conversational. "Any relation to our dear Dr. Mesmer at the university?"

"She's my wife," Emil confirms, flat but soft.

"Oh, what a small world!" Joseph exclaims with practiced charm. "Ada is a wonderful colleague. So dedicated." He turns his gaze back to Alva, a silent warning in his eyes. "My own husbamd and I were just celebrating a... new creative breakthrough."

And then it happens.

Emil, with a slow, deliberate movement, lifts his other hand from the bar. In his palm, resting against his skin, is the Spock watch.

Alva’s breath catches in his throat. His entire body goes cold.

Thank God Joseph doesn’t notice. His focus is entirely on his own performance, on the public claiming of his new "husband."

Emil doesn't offer the watch or ask who it belongs to. He simply holds it, angled just enough for Alva to see clearly. His eyes, still directed at Joseph, are completely neutral, but the gesture is a thunderclap in the silent, screaming space of Alva's mind. It's not a question. It is a direct, unmistakable signal.

I see you, Alva. I know. I got your message.

A single, impossible spark ignites in the black, empty void of Alva's mind. It's not the bright, foolish flame of hope he felt before. It’s smaller, colder, and far more dangerous. It’s a new variable. It’s a piece on the board that has just moved on its own. Emil slowly closes his hand around the watch, concealing it, and slides it into his pocket with a movement so natural it’s invisible. The secret has been passed. The connection has been made.

Joseph, basking in the glow of his public performance, decides the conversation is over. He gives Emil a charming, dismissive nod. "A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Mesmer. Do give my regards to your wife."

"I will," Emil says, his expression unreadable. He turns back to his whiskey as if the interaction was a fleeting annoyance. He doesn't look at Alva again. He plays his part perfectly.

"Come, my love," Joseph murmurs, his hand returning to the small of Alva’s back. The touch is just as possessive, the unspoken threat just as potent. Alva allows himself to be guided away, his head bowed, his body a perfect portrait of submission.

He plays his part, too.

For the first time since this nightmare began, Alva Lorenz has found an ally on this foreign planet.

And Joseph has no idea.

The Bugatti glides through the city’s sleeping streets. The radio is playing something new. Instead of the powerful vocals of STARSET, there’s a more haunting melody. A symphony, Beethoven’s or Mozart’s, Alva wouldn’t know. For a change, Alva’s mind is no longer the blank, hollow thing it was. Now, it’s processing a brand new variable: Emil Mesmer. The watch, the secret acknowledgement.

It’s an impossible, illogical piece of data that doesn't fit the equation of his despair. For the first time since his capture, a part of his old self—the analyst, the problem-solver—stirs from its terrified slumber. He has an ally. The thought is a dangerous, fragile thing, a single flickering candle in an infinite darkness.

They return to the penthouse. The gallery of his stolen moments seems to watch him as Joseph leads him into the main living area, where it feels less like a final tomb and more like a temporary problem to be solved. “Go sit,” Joseph says gently, hand leaving Alva’s back. “I’ll make you some tea. Earl Grey.”

Alva obeys, sinking into the plush sofa, but his mind is whirring. He thinks of his friends. Ada, her sharp, worried eyes. Frederick, his fierce, misguided protectiveness. Orpheus’s dawning horror. Luchino’s cold, clinical predictions. Are they still at Frederick's apartment? Are they worried? Has Emil called them yet? He clings to the image of the watch in Emil's hand, the single most important piece of evidence in the universe.

Joseph returns with two porcelain cups, handing one of them to Alva’s. He then picks a remote up and the massive wall opposite the sofa, which Alva had assumed was just a wall, flickers to life, revealing a state-of-the-art home theater system.

The familiar, whimsical theme music of Doctor Who fills the room. “I thought you might enjoy this,” Joseph says, settling onto the sofa beside him. He doesn’t just sit next to Alva; he closes the space entirely, sliding in so their thighs are pressed together.

He drapes an arm around Alva’s shoulders, pulling him into a lover’s embrace. The gesture is possessive, sickeningly intimate, but Alva forces himself to remain still, to not flinch. Analyze. Observe. Gather data. The tea does little to ease the frantic terror in his chest, but his mind is clearer than it has been all night.

On the screen is Jodie Whittaker, taking her role as the Thirteenth Doctor brilliantly.

“I have learned so much about you over these past few months, Alva,” Joseph says. “Your interests. Your hobbies, routine, the way you talk in your sleep. The way your dream world is a spaceship, drifting through the final frontier.” He sighs softly. "I have spent most of my free time studying these. Learning everything there is to know about the planets in your little galaxy, the characters you envision yourself as. From their names — Obi-Wan, Kirk — to even the actors who portray your beloved stories."

His hand begins to move, fingers gently stroking the silk of the suit, then the sensitive skin of Alva’s neck. Alva fights the urge to recoil.

“I’ve always been drawn to the arts,” Joseph murmurs, his voice a low vibration against Alva’s ear. He speaks as if they are on a first date, sharing trivial personal details. “Photography, of course. But fencing, as well. The precision. The dance of attack and parry. It’s beautiful.”

He sips his tea.

“I was a champion in my youth, back in France. My father insisted on it. Discipline, he called it. I called it performance. Our home in Lyon was much like this,” he continues, his voice hypnotic, a stark contrast to the whimsical chaos of the Doctor on the screen. “Full of art. History. Secrets. But it was cold. So very cold.”

He sighs softly, a performative sound of melancholy. “I will take you there one day, Alva. We will walk through the halls, and I will replace all the old, dusty portraits with photographs of you. My beautiful, living masterpiece.”

The caress becomes more purposeful. He turns his head, his lips brushing against Alva’s temple. He smells of roses and something metallic, like old blood, a scent that seems to cling to him.

“Have you ever been in love, Alva?” he asks, his voice a whisper.

The question is a physical jolt, a direct inquiry into the one part of his life he thought was truly, utterly his own. Alva’s mind flashes, unbidden, to a memory he keeps locked away in the deepest vault. A man named Herman. Luca’s father. His former friend, before the "painful incident." Before the arguments, the accusations, the final, bitter retreat into total solitude.

He remembers a shared laugh over a flawed schematic, a brief, warm touch on his arm that lingered for hours, a feeling he’d never had before and had ruthlessly crushed ever since. He did have feelings for Herman. For a time. A small, terrifying, illogical variable in his otherwise ordered life.

He gives a slow, deliberate shake of his head. The lie is not just a shield anymore; it’s a strategy. Give the predator nothing. Don't reveal any more data points for him to exploit.

Joseph lets out another one of his soft, knowing chuckles. “Of course not. You live in a fantasy realm,” he says, his voice a gentle caress that feels like sandpaper on Alva’s raw nerves. “A world of dreams, lost in the vast reaches of your imagination. Here, with me…” His hand slides from Alva's neck down his chest, the touch light as a feather, yet heavy as a stone. “…you can live in those worlds forever. You never have to face the real one again.”

His hand moves lower, resting on Alva’s thigh, his fingers beginning a slow, insidious journey upward. The touch is no longer just possessive; a quiet promise of what the night holds. Alva’s body goes rigid, but his mind is a separate entity now, an observer in a control room, watching the dials spin into the red, cataloging the predator's every move.

“Here,” Joseph whispers, his lips now at the corner of Alva’s mouth, “I will be your Captain. Your Doctor. Your Jedi master. And you will be my entire universe.”

And then, he kisses him.

It’s not the brutal, punishing assault from the bathroom. It’s gentle, it’s too soft. It’s technically perfect. And that, Alva realizes as his mind compartmentalizes the physical sensation, is the most terrifying, depraved violation of all. It is a lie performed with absolute sincerity.

Joseph pulls back, his eyes half-lidded, a look of serene bliss on his face. “You are so beautiful, Alva. So perfect.”

Alva says nothing. He doesn’t cry. He doesn’t tremble. He simply stares ahead at the television, at the image of the TARDIS spinning through the vortex of time and space, and for the first time, he doesn't wish he could escape into it.

The equation has changed. Joseph may be the artist, but Alva has just become a part of the composition.

A secret, silent, and very dangerous part.

Chapter Text

This is all a dream. Isn’t it?

I should wake back up where I originally was. That Monday evening, on the sofa, the sound of Laurence Fishburne on the television, narrating over footage of the Titanic and her tragic voyage. I’m there. I should be there.

Except the dream shatters.

Alva forces his eyes open, the sensation beneath him an unfamiliar high-thread-count silk of sheets. He doesn’t hear the smooth voice of his documentary, but instead a brutal silence save for the hums of city traffic, a siren wailing in the distance, and the hectic rhtyhm of Alva’s heart beating. This isn’t his small but cozy little house in a rural neighborhood. And this room… it lacks familiarity: No posters, no pictures of his heroes autographed by the actors who wore their faces.

A fresh wave of pain pulses from his left hand, dragging him back to where he truly is: A gilded prison. This room is elegant, polished flooring and pristine mirror reflecting off the sunlight flooding through the high floor-to-ceiling windows. When Alva runs a hand through his silver hair, he feels something else.

Warm, silk pyjamas. And they’re, of course, Star Wars themed.

The sight of the cheerful X-wings and TIE fighters patterned on the fabric makes his stomach churn. It’s a violation, a happy memory twisted into a uniform for his captivity. He has to get them off. He has to get out of this room.

He swings his legs over the side of the bed, his feet meeting the frigid marble of the floor. The leather collar is a cold, constant pressure against his throat. He pads out of the soulless bedroom, driven by a desperate need for... something else. Anything else.

He finds it in the main living area. Or rather, he finds him.

Joseph is nestled on the vast sofa, looking small and almost serene, a sketchbook open in his lap. His focus is absolute, hand moving with a fluid grace as he adds lines to a drawing. He doesn't acknowledge Alva's presence, yet the entire room feels arranged around him, a stage for his quiet concentration.

On the screen, a woman in a flapper dress weeps silently. A title card flashes: "I cannot live this lie any longer!" The film's melodrama is a grotesque pantomime of Alva's own silent screams.

He understands, then. This is a deliberate choice. A message. His life is a silent film now. He is the weeping star, and Joseph is the sole director, the only one who decides what the cards will say.

“I made you some coffee,” Joseph says, not even looking up from his art. The statement is so simple, so domestic, the room starts to spin. Alva’s eyes dart from Joseph’s form on the sofa, to the doors leading to his freedom. Then to the coffee sat on the counter of the pristine kitchenette.

The doors are a mirage, a cruel illusion of choice. He remembers the feeling of the concrete floor against the back of his skull, the sharp, sickening snap of his own bone. The Observer — the cold, analytical part of him that is now in control — overrides the animal instinct to flee. Running failed. Defiance failed. Logic dictates a new strategy: compliance. Performance.

He turns away from the door and walks toward the kitchenette, each step deliberate, a calculated move in a game he’s only just beginning to understand. The scent of the coffee itself is rich and dark, a perfect, comforting aroma that feels like another violation. Alva hesitates but reaches for it.

It’s a heavy weight in his hand, a burden that once upon a time provided comfort and stimuli. Now, it’s like downing acid. As Alva puts one foot in front of the other, Joseph finally glimpses up from his sketchbook, right at the TV. From where Alva is, he can see what Joseph is working on. It’s a meticulous sketch of Captain Kirk, a perfect replica from William Shatner’s youthful acting days.

The sight steals the air from Alva’s lungs. Kirk. The hero who always found a third option, who broke the rules to win the unwinnable. And here he is, captured in charcoal by the man who designed this very trap, a trophy displayed alongside the silent film.

It's a calculated cruelty.

Joseph's eyes finally lift from his sketchbook, not to Alva, but to the screen, as if admiring the composition of the whole scene. Then, slowly, he gazes right over to Alva, who stands frozen between the counter and the sofa. A serene, satisfied smile touches Joseph's lips. He pats the cushion beside him, a silent, non-negotiable invitation.

Alva's feet move. He crosses the vast, empty space — the longest walk of his life — and sits, placing the cup on the table. He can feel the heat of Joseph’s body next to him, a warmth that makes his skin prickle. Joseph sets the sketch down, deliberately angling it so Alva can see his own hero, trapped in a prison of paper and charcoal.

"I have a surprise for you," Joseph says, his voice a soft murmur as he gently reaches to grip Alva’s face, turning him slowly forward, their eyes meeting. “I think you’ll enjoy it. I promise.” He leans in closer, placing a chaste kiss against Alva’s lips, the same way he’d kissed him last night. A kiss saved for the finale of a movie, yet there seems to be no ending here.

Just the rising action.

Joseph presses further into the kiss, a soft little moan escaping from him. Alva reciprocates with full hesitation, unconsciously parting his lips. Joseph, clearly ecstatic, shoves his tongue inside Alva’s mouth, turning fully to pin him down on the sofa. Alva lets him. If this is how to stay on Joseph’s good side for now, so be it.

His body betrays him as Alva arches his back slightly, pressing against Joseph’s smaller one. Joseph takes the false hint, hands reaching to pin Alva’s wrists above his head. He pulls from the kiss briefly, panting softly, cyan eyes dazed from lust.

“Good boy,” Joseph muses, his kisses soon going from Alva’s mouth down to his neck, where Joseph presses softly against the wound he’d left from the first night this terror began. Alva shivers, fighting off the urge to give Joseph any further reason to continue, but his body gives out.

Joseph gently licks the spot he’d bitten, the mark still purple and tender. When he pulls away, he runs a hand through Alva’s messy silver locks. “My good boy. So well behaved.”

Alva begrudgingly accepts the praise.

“We’ll have plenty of time later to indulge, dear heart,” Joseph murmurs into the crook of Alva’s neck. Alva doesn't respond. He can't. He simply stares into the impossible cyan of Joseph's eyes, his mind a cold, whirring machine cataloging the micro-expressions, the predatory confidence.

Joseph lets go, his smile unwavering. "Get dressed, my love," he says, his tone shifting to one of bright, cheerful command. "Something casual. We're going to a library of sorts."

In the walk-in closet — a museum to a life Alva never lived — clothes are already laid out for him. Expensive, dark-wash jeans. A soft cashmere turtleneck, a practical choice to hide the brand on his neck. A stylish leather jacket. It is another costume for another performance.

The drive is tense. Inside the Bugatti, Joseph puts on something new. It’s not the galactic vocals of STARSET, nor a grand, sweeping symphony. The car fills with the melancholic guitars and grieving vocals of a band called Of Mice & Men. The song's title is a piece of brutal, poetic irony: If We Were Ghosts. Alva vaguely remembers Andrew listening to this piece during classes.

The lyrics about memory and absence feel utterly at odds with the cold, solid knot of dread in Alva’s stomach. He stares out the window, not seeing the city, but replaying the encounter with the Kirk sketch, analyzing its purpose, its calculated cruelty.

The song fades, replaced by another from the album Defy, as the Bugatti glides to a stop. They haven't arrived at a library or a museum, but a storefront. On the outside there are pictures of older gaming devices, from the SuperNintendo itself to the GameCube, Sega Genesis. Alva's heart hammers against his ribs. The music, Andrew's music, playing just before arriving at a place catering to youth... it can't be a coincidence.

“Did you notice?” Joseph asks, gesturing to the radio, where the album’s artwork and the next song, Sunflower plays. “I’m not only observing my muse. I am observing the scenery it lives within. I find art in more than just still images. It’s here,” he points to one of the pictures on the storefront.

The Observer files the data point away, a cold knot of certainty forming in his gut. This isn't just an outing. It's a stage.

And the other actors are about to arrive.

Chapter Text

The Bugatti’s engine is a low, predatory hum. Joseph puts on music. It’s Arvo Pärt’s Spiegel im Spiegel this time. The "mirror in the mirror" effect of the piano and violin creates a soundscape of infinite, desolate beauty. Alva recognizes it from a documentary about deep space, a score for the loneliness between stars. Now, it is the soundtrack for his own private abyss.

Joseph's hand rests on Alva's thigh, a casual, constant pressure of ownership. He does not speak, seemingly content to let the music and the memory of the game store settle between them. Alva, the Observer, sits perfectly still. He catalogs the weight of Joseph's hand, the melancholic loop of the music, the rhythmic pulse of the city lights outside. Each is a data point. Joseph’s chilling words about Luca — how bright things can be… right before they burn out — hang in the air, a variable whose terrifying value he cannot yet calculate.

"Art requires a pure canvas," Joseph says finally, his voice a soft counterpoint to the sparse melody. He turns from the road, his eyes sweeping over Alva with a clinical, appraising look. "It was good to get you out, to see you in a new setting. But contact with the mundane world… it leaves a residue. A film. It must be cleansed."

Alva’s blood runs cold. The Observer inside him processes the word ‘cleansed’ and retrieves the associated data: the studio, the pain, the collar. Another ‘correction.’ He forces himself to give a slight, submissive nod. Any other reaction is a deviation from the performance, and he has learned, with searing clarity, how deviations are punished. "I’m glad you understand," Joseph murmurs, turning his attention back to the road.

The car glides into the private garage. The journey to the penthouse is a silent ascent into hell. A new, frantic thought runs beneath the terror: The note is delivered. They have the address. Buy them time.

Inside the penthouse, the silence is thick and heavy. Joseph leads him to the main living area. He gestures to the vast white sofa. Alva sits, his movements stiff. He needs to get on Joseph's 'good side.' A paradoxical, insane thought, but the only logical path forward. Defiance led to a broken finger. Submission led to humiliation. A new strategy is required: proactive surrender. A performance so convincing it might create an opportunity.

His heart hammering, Alva makes his move. It is a terrifying gamble. With a hand that trembles violently, he reaches out and rests it on Joseph's arm. The touch is feather-light, a question.

Joseph freezes, his entire focus shifting to the point of contact. He looks from Alva's trembling hand to his face. A slow, deeply pleased smile spreads across his features. He has interpreted the gesture as capitulation. As desire.

Emboldened by the success of his first move, Alva leans in. It is the hardest thing he has ever done. He presses his lips against Joseph’s. The kiss is clumsy, chaste, and born of pure terror, but it is an act of initiation. He performs the role of the broken muse who now craves the artist's touch.

"Oh, Alva," Joseph breathes against his mouth, his voice thick with triumph. "You're finally learning."

Joseph takes control, deepening the kiss, his body pressing Alva back into the plush cushions of the sofa. His hands are everywhere, not with the brutal efficiency of the studio, but with a possessive, almost reverent exploration. Alva’s mind detaches, the Observer retreating to a cold, distant control room, monitoring the scene with clinical horror.

He feels Joseph's fingers tracing the leather of the collar, his lips moving from his mouth to the tender, bruised skin of his neck. His body, a traitorous machine, shivers.

Joseph pulls back, his cyan eyes alight with a feverish glow. Alva, forcing the performance, reaches for the hem of Joseph's shirt, pulling it upward. The act is mechanical, devoid of feeling, but Joseph gasps, a sharp intake of air. Alva’s hands move over the pale, smooth skin of Joseph’s torso, the Observer noting the wiry strength beneath. Joseph pushes him down fully, straddling his hips, pinning him. The weight is suffocating.

"You want this," Joseph whispers, a statement of fact, not a question. "You ache for it."

Alva’s own hands, as if moving on their own volition, slide down from Joseph's waist to the waistband of the tight black leggings he wears. He hooks his fingers into the fabric. The air crackles with tension. He is about to perform the ultimate act of surrender, pulling them down, exposing the last layer of his captor, when a sharp chime cuts through the air. It’s the Imperial March theme that saves Alva from this. Of all the ringtones Joseph had to pick—

Joseph groans, a sound of pure frustration, and looks toward the end table. The screen of his phone glows, displaying a single line: UNIVERSITY DEAN.

"Damn it," Joseph hisses. He looks from the phone back down at Alva, his hips still grinding slowly, a promise of what’s to come. A flicker of intense annoyance crosses his face. "Business. The mundane world intrudes." He rolls off of Alva and stands, straightening his clothes. "I need to take this. Don't move. We will continue this when I am done."

He walks toward the grand staircase that leads to the upper levels of the penthouse, phone pressed to his ear. "This is Joseph Desaulnier..." His voice fades as he ascends.

The moment he is out of sight, the performance drops. Adrenaline, sharp and clean, floods Alva's system. This is it. The window. He scrambles off the sofa, the pain in his crudely splinted finger a sharp, focusing sting. The laptop. Where is the laptop?

He spots a study off the main living area, a room he has not noticed before. He slips inside. It is a minimalist space, dominated by a large mahogany desk. And there it is, a sleek, black laptop, closed.

He rushes to it, pushing the large leather chair out of the way before flipping it open. A password screen greets him. His mind races. It would not be his own name; that’s too obvious for a man who enjoys games. It would be something arrogant, something symbolic of his triumph. The obsession with replacing his brother, of usurping his life, his art, his muse…

Alva’s fingers fly over the keyboard, typing with his good hand.

C-L-A-U-D-E.

He hits enter.

Incorrect.

Shit.

He tries again. God, how old is Joseph? This has to be an easy guess, it has to be—

C-L-A-U-D-E_1987.

The screen unlocks.

A wave of dizzying relief washes over him, immediately replaced by frantic urgency. The email client is open. He clicks, composes a new message. The recipient: [email protected]. Frederick. Impulsive. Protective. He will act, not just analyze.

His fingers shake as he types. The message is short, a desperate burst of data.

He has me.
Address from note.
Police not good.
Tell Ada.
He is Claude’s brother.
Joseph.
Not safe.
My only hope.

He slams his finger on the ‘Send’ button. The email vanishes. A third message, a third hope, cast out into the void. Pretty soon, his Obi-Wan Kenobi — and the rest of the Rebellion — will rush to the Death Star.

He hears a footstep on the stairs.

Panic seizes him. He can’t just close the laptop; the sent email might be cached for all he knows! He needs a plausible distraction. A new tab. What would a broken, submissive Alva be doing? Retreating. Retreating into his fantasies.

His hand darts to the trackpad. New browser tab. No, two. One is a clip from The Wrath of Khan, where Kirk shouts “KHAAAN!” in typical cheesy 1982 fashion. The second tab, he types "Star Wars Theory" into the YouTube search bar, ignoring the typos, clicking the first result. It’s a video titled "Vader's FULL Story - What REALLY Happened After Mustafar”, and the familiar synthesized voice of the narrator fills the silent study.

The door opens. Joseph stands there, his phone lowered. The call is over. His eyes fall on Alva, sitting at his desk, staring at the screen.

Alva forces his expression to be blank, his posture slumped, a man lost in a childish fantasy.

Joseph walks slowly into the room, his gaze moving from Alva to the YouTube video, then back to Alva. He doesn’t even look angry. Instead, a slow, deeply satisfied smile spreads across his face. He sees a pet, fully domesticated, so comfortable in its gilded cage that it has wandered over to its master's computer to play with its favorite toys. He sees the ultimate, final victory.

"There you are," Joseph says, his voice a soft, triumphant murmur. "So comfortable in your new home."

He steps behind Alva, placing his hands on his shoulders, his chin resting near the crown of Alva’s head as they watch the video together. The touch is proprietary, a final brand of ownership.

"He was a masterpiece of rage and pain, wasn't he?" Joseph whispers, his voice full of artistic appreciation as the video discusses Vader's torment. "Trapped in a suit, a prisoner of his own making. Beautiful." He doesn’t even question how Alva logged into his laptop.

Alva says nothing. He stares at the screen, at the tragic story of a fallen hero, and feels the pressure of his captor's hands on his shoulders. Joseph is utterly convinced. He believes he has broken his muse, that the man of logic has dissolved completely into a passive creature of fantasy.

He does not see the engineer, frantically rewiring the machine from the inside. He does not see the scientist who just ran a successful, high-risk experiment.

Joseph thinks he’s finished.

But Alva is just beginning to tinker his way out.

Joseph saunters over, arms wrapping around Alva’s waist. He pulls Alva back from the desk, from the glowing screen, turning him around with an unnerving, fluid strength. The scent of him — roses and the faint, clean tang of darkroom chemicals — is suffocating. "Enough of these old tragedies," Joseph murmurs, his lips brushing against Alva's temple.

"Let us create our own."

Alva forces himself to remain pliant, his mind retreating into the cold, distant control room of the Observer. He catalogs the pressure of Joseph’s mouth, the invasive dart of his tongue. It is data. Nothing more. Joseph’s hands slide up from Alva's waist, his thumbs tracing the line of the leather collar before moving to cup his jaw, holding him in place.

"So lovely," Joseph whispers against his lips. "So responsive."

The performance must continue. It’s the only variable Alva can control. He raises his good hand, the movement stiff and robotic, and places it on Joseph's chest. Joseph shudders at the touch, a low sound of approval rumbling in his throat. He sees surrender. He sees devotion. He doesn’t even seem to notice the frantic calculations whirring behind Alva's vacant eyes.

"More," Joseph commands softly, his voice thick.

Alva’s hand moves, tracing the line of Joseph's torso, his fingers fumbling with the button of his trousers. The act feels profane, a violation performed by his own traitorous hands. Joseph's breath hitches. He guides Alva’s hand, his own movements sure and practiced.

"On your knees," Joseph commands, his voice dropping an octave.

The Observer logs the command. It echoes the scene in the restaurant bathroom. A pattern is emerging. This is his "place." Alva’s legs, disconnected from his will, obey. The cold marble floor is a shock against his knees. The pain from his splinted finger lances up his arm as he places his hand on the floor to steady himself. He focuses on the pain. A real, physical anchor in this sea of performative horror.

Joseph stands before him, unzipping his trousers. He frees himself, semi-hard and flushed. Alva stares at a point on the wall just past him, his gaze unfocused.

"Look at me, Alva," Joseph says, his voice soft but laced with steel.

Alva’s eyes travel slowly, unwillingly, upward. Joseph’s expression is one of ecstatic, artistic focus. He is not seeing a man; he is seeing a sculpture, a final composition. He reaches down, grabbing a fistful of Alva’s silver hair, forcing his head forward.

"You wanted this," Joseph breathes, a lie Alva is now forced to embody. "You’re so pretty like this, too."

He pushes his cock into Alva’s mouth. Alva gags, the taste of him acrid and foreign. Tears of humiliation spring to his eyes, but he forces himself to take him, his throat working mechanically. The Observer detaches completely, noting the pressure, the tempo, the sounds. Joseph’s hips move in a steady, punishing rhythm, his free hand stroking Alva's cheek in a grotesque parody of affection.

Alva’s mind flees, seeking refuge in the abstract. He thinks of fluid dynamics, of pressures and vacuums, of systems reaching a breaking point.

His own body is such a system. A traitorous machine. Despite the cold terror, the humiliation, the searing pain in his hand, his body begins to react. His own cock, trapped in his jeans, hardens in a shameful, involuntary response. It is the ultimate betrayal.

Joseph feels the shift and lets out a low, triumphant laugh against Alva’s lips. "There. You see? The body never lies. It always confesses."

The knowledge of his body’s treason is a fresh wave of horror. He is not just performing; his very physiology is validating the predator’s twisted narrative. The thought shatters the last of his control. A guttural sound, half-sob, half-choke, rips from his throat as his own release floods the confines of his jeans, hot and shameful. A system failure. A complete loss of control.

In the same moment, Joseph shudders, his own release hot and heavy at the back of Alva’s throat. He doesn't pull away, his hand still tangled in Alva’s hair, forcing him to remain there for a long, suffocating moment. "Swallow," he pants, the command a final act of degradation. "My art does not go to waste."

Shaking, sobbing, Alva does as he is told.

Finally, Joseph pulls away. He looks down at Alva, a trembling, ruined heap on the floor, with the cool, detached satisfaction of an artist who has just applied a particularly difficult layer of paint. He adjusts himself and zips his trousers with a crisp, final sound.

"Good," he says, his voice devoid of all the earlier passion. "You’re learning your purpose."

He turns and walks out of the study without a backward glance, leaving Alva on his knees on the cold marble floor. "I will fetch us a drink," he calls from the other room, his tone casual, as if discussing the weather. "You have earned it.”

He remains on the floor for a long, timeless moment, the cold marble a brutal reality against his knees. The only sounds are his own ragged, broken breaths and the distant, cheerful voice of the YouTube narrator still explaining the tragic fall of Anakin Skywalker.

The irony is a physical weight.

Alva stumbles out of the study, leaking and humiliated. Joseph is at the kitchenette, pouring two glasses of what looks like an expensive whiskey. He turns, a serene smile on his face, and hands a glass to Alva.

"A reward for a lovely performance," Joseph says. He gestures to the sofa. "Come. Let's relax." Alva obeys. He sits, the glass a cold, heavy weight in his trembling hands. Joseph picks up the remote and the YouTube video vanishes, replaced by the familiar bridge of a starship. Star Trek: The Original Series. The colors are garish, the sets simple, but it was always his sanctuary.

Tonight, it’s just more scenery for his prison.

Joseph settles beside him, not just next to him, but pressing into his space, an arm draping around his shoulders. The episode is "The Corbomite Maneuver,” and on screen, Kirk is engaged in a high-stakes bluff against a vastly superior, unseen enemy. Alva stares at the screen, but the confident voices of Kirk, Spock, and McCoy are just a low, meaningless murmur. He can’t escape into the fantasy. The reality is too present, too heavy.

Joseph’s free hand begins to move. It slides from Alva’s shoulder down his chest, the touch light, exploratory. Alva forces himself not to flinch. The performance must be maintained. The hand continues its journey, unbuttoning his jeans with a slow, deliberate purpose. Alva’s mind goes numb, bracing for another violation, another forced confession from his traitorous body. Joseph's fingers slip inside, cold and demanding, and begin a slow, clinical rhythm.

Alva closes his eyes, trying to focus on Kirk’s voice, trying to retreat into the logic of the episode, but it’s impossible. All he can feel is the rhythmic, invasive touch and the warm weight of Joseph’s head as he rests it on Alva’s shoulder, sighing contentedly as if they are any other couple enjoying a quiet night.

Then, a sound cuts through the haze.

A sharp, authoritative knock at the penthouse door.

Joseph freezes. His hand stops moving. In the sudden, absolute silence, the sound of the knocking comes again, louder this time, more insistent.

Alva's heart seizes. His mind, which had been a numb, static-filled void, ignites. The email. Frederick. Ada.

The Rebellion.

"Stay here," Joseph hisses, his voice a low, dangerous whisper. He extracts his hand and stands, his face a mask of cold fury. He strides to the door, his movements silent and predatory. "Who is it?"

A woman's voice, muffled but firm, comes through the door. "Police. We've received a wellness check request for an Alva Lorenz at this address."

Police. The word is both a prayer and a death sentence.

Joseph turns, and his eyes lock on Alva. The look in them is not just anger; it is the cold, calculating fury of a god whose creation has been interrupted. With three quick strides, he is back at the sofa. He grabs Alva’s arm, his grip like iron, and yanks him to his feet. "Not a word," he snarls, dragging him past the study and toward a large, ornate bookshelf that dominates one wall of the living area. He presses a discrete section of the molding. With a faint pneumatic hiss, a section of the bookshelf swings inward, revealing a dark, narrow space. A hidden room.

He shoves Alva inside. "You will be silent, or the next masterpiece I create will be with your friends' blood. Do you understand?"

Alva stumbles into the darkness, the bookshelf swinging shut behind him with a solid, final click. He is plunged into absolute blackness, the only sound the frantic hammering of his own heart. He can hear the muffled voices from the other side.

"...no one by that name here," Joseph is saying, his voice a smooth, polite baritone. "I believe you have the wrong address, officer."

"The report was specific to this unit," the officer's voice replies. For a brief, insane moment, in the frantic, hopeful landscape of Alva's imagination, her calm, authoritative tone sounds like Lieutenant Uhura, the unshakable voice of the Enterprise, opening hailing frequencies. Hope, stupid and stubborn, flares in his chest. She's here. I'm saved.

"My apologies, but there must be a mistake," Joseph insists. "As you can see, I am alone. But please, feel free to look around if it will set your mind at ease. I have nothing to hide." Alva presses his ear to the cold wood of the bookshelf, his breath held tight. He hears footsteps. The officer is investigating. She is feet away from him, separated only by a wall of books and an overreactive imagination, his only coping mechanism.

Find me. Please, find me.

He hears the footsteps recede. "Everything appears to be in order. Sorry to have disturbed you, sir."

"Not at all, officer. Thank you for your diligence."

The sound of the penthouse door opening, and then closing. The click of the deadbolt sliding back into place.

Silence.

The hope that had flared so brightly collapses into a black hole of despair. It was all for nothing. The note. The watch. The email. The Rebellion has been turned away at the gates.

He is alone again. Utterly.

A moment later, the hiss of the mechanism. The bookshelf swings open, flooding the small space with light. Joseph stands there, his expression unreadable, a statue carved from ice. He looks at Alva's devastated face, at the visible proof that his masterpiece still harbors some rebellious spark. He doesn't rage. He doesn't punish. He simply looks at Alva with a profound, chilling disappointment, the way one might look at a flawed diamond that must be re-cut.

"It seems this gallery is no longer secure," Joseph says, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. "The local audience is becoming... intrusive."

He steps aside, gesturing for Alva to exit the cramped space.

"Pack a bag," Joseph commands, his voice as cold and final as a death sentence. "Just the essentials. We're leaving."

Alva stares at him, uncomprehending. "Leaving?" he whispers, the word a dry rasp.

"They have tainted this studio. This city is no longer suitable for my work." Joseph turns and begins walking toward the bedroom. "We're flying to California. A new canvas awaits."

California. The words don't register. It's an abstract concept, a place on a map. Three thousand miles away. A distance so vast it feels like another galaxy. He’s not just a prisoner in a penthouse anymore.

He is being taken off-world.

To Mustafar.

Chapter Text

California.

Joseph says nothing more. He simply waits for Alva to respond.

And Alva does. His body, a machine running on the last dregs of adrenaline, carries him to the cavernous walk-in closet. He pulls a small, dark suitcase from a shelf, packing for his own kidnapping.

He bypasses the rows of expensive, curated clothes Joseph has provided. His hands, driven by a ghost of his former self, seek out the familiar. He finds a few of his old, worn turtlenecks and a single pair of his own jeans, items that must have been brought from his house. They feel like artifacts from a buried civilization.

His eyes scan the nightstand. Next to a pristine copy of The Phantom Menace by Terry Brooks — a book Alva owned, now replaced with this unnervingly perfect edition — sits a small, chibi-style C-3PO plushie. Its large, embroidered eyes stare up at him, a caricature of worry. Another of Joseph's "gifts," a piece of his own soul curated and presented back to him.

But then an idea, cold and desperate, forms in the Observer's mind. He snatches the book and the plushie, stuffing them into the suitcase. Another breadcrumb for the trail.

"Ready, my love?" Joseph's voice calls from the living room, smooth and impatient.

The drive begins. They are back in the Bugatti, a black arrow slicing through the sleeping suburbs of Pennsylvania. Joseph is a silhouette of focused control behind the wheel, the dashboard lights glinting in his cyan eyes. He’s taken Alva's phone, but he offers a different distraction. He places a small Legend of Zelda bag on Alva's lap, inside is a galaxy colored Nintendo 3DS and a vintage Game Boy Color, alongside a collection of cartridges.

"For your entertainment," Joseph says, his tone gentle. "I took the liberty of procuring them. The self-contained worlds you so admire."

Alva's hand, the one with the splinted finger, aches. He picks up the 3DS. The shell is a familiar, comforting blue. He slots in a cartridge: Animal Crossing: New Leaf, with the cheerful, looping music filling the silent car. On the screen, a small town populated by talking animals awakens. And there, Alva finds himself outside of a little house where a name flashes on the screen: Claude, from Lyon.

He is in the twin brother's world. A digital ghost town. Alva's stomach churns.

Hours pass. The sky begins to lighten from black to a bruised purple as they cross the Ohio state line. Alva has been silent, his focus entirely on the small screen, a perfect portrait of a captured, docile muse. Joseph glances over at the DS, a faint, nostalgic smile touching his lips.

"Isabelle is my favorite," Joseph murmurs, his voice soft. "So helpful. So eager to please." Of course she is. She’s the perfect, smiling assistant to the mayor, the ultimate authority.

That’s when Alva sees an opening, a sign advertising a fast food restaraunt he knows Joseph would disapprove of, but he can’t say no to his precious muse. An appeal to a weakness he is just now discovering: a carefully curated nostalgia.

"I'm hungry," Alva says, his voice a dry rasp. He has not eaten since the mockery of a pizza at the restaurant.

Joseph's smile tightens. "We can stop at a proper restaurant in the next city."

"No," Alva says, his gaze not leaving the game screen. "I want McDonald's."

The request is so mundane, so jarringly out of place with the Bugatti and the silent, cross-country abduction, that Joseph is thrown off balance. "McDonald's?" he repeats, the name a foul taste in his mouth.

"I haven't eaten," Alva says flatly, finally looking at him, expression carefully blank. "If you want the 'subject' to remain viable, it requires fuel. Even a simple machine does."

The cold, logical statement, combined with Alva's apparent regression into docile fantasy, works. A flicker of irritation crosses Joseph's face, but he concedes. "Fine. The drive-thru. And be quick about it."

They pull off the highway, and those golden arches are a garish, alien beacon in the dawn light.

"I need to use the restroom," Alva says as they approach the speaker.

"I'll go with you," Joseph replies instantly, his eyes narrowed. He knows Alva is planning something. The Observer logs Joseph's suspicion but proceeds with the plan.

Inside, the restaurant is nearly empty, smelling of stale coffee and disinfectant. Alva’s eyes immediately find it, a relic from a forgotten era mounted on the wall near the restrooms: a payphone. For a moment he doubts it works, especially in the era of phones the size of a large Domino’s pizza box.

But maybe, just maybe it’ll work at his most desperate hour.

Joseph orders a Sprite with an expression of profound disgust. Alva orders a McFlurry. And while Joseph is distracted by the sheer vulgarity of the establishment, Alva takes the change from his order. His heart pounds a frantic, deafening rhythm.

He walks towards the restrooms, Joseph a shadow behind him. "One moment," Alva says, gesturing to the payphone. "I need to confirm something." The lie is thin, absurd, but Joseph is momentarily intrigued by the audacity of it.

Alva’s fingers, slick with nervous sweat, punch in the numbers for Frederick's cell phone, a number he has memorized from the faculty contact sheet. It rings once. Twice.

"Hello?" Frederick says. He sounds like he just woke up from the best sleep of his life.

"California," Alva breathes into the receiver, his back to Joseph. "Likely San Francisco or Los Angeles. PossiblyHollywood. No time to explain."

"Alva?! You're alive?!" Frederick's voice explodes with shock and relief.

Alva risks a glance over his shoulder. Joseph is watching him, his arms crossed, a look of cold amusement on his face. He thinks this is another pathetic, futile gesture.

"Look for something yellow under the left table in the far back," Alva says, his voice a low, urgent whisper. He shoves the C-3PO plushie, which he had palmed from his suitcase, deep under the designated table with his foot. Inside the plushie's zippered back compartment, where the sound box would be, is a folded piece of paper with the address of Joseph’s new cliffside prison — an address Alva glimpsed on a piece of mail on the penthouse coffee table before they left.

"Wait, what are you—"

Alva hangs up. He turns, his face a mask of placid defeat, and walks to the counter to collect his McFlurry. Joseph falls into step beside him, his hand a heavy, proprietary weight on Alva's back.

They return to the Bugatti, the sun now fully risen. Joseph merges back onto the highway, a silent, smug victor. He has allowed his pet a small, futile act of rebellion, like a cat owner watching their kitten bat at a string. It means nothing.

Alva stares out the window, slowly eating his McFlurry with a trembling hand. The cold, sweet taste is the most real thing he has felt in days. He has laid another breadcrumb. He has sent another signal.

He is not just a masterpiece anymore. He is a saboteur in the heart of the enemy's machine.

And the machine is now heading west.

Alva wakes up to the car jerking slightly.

“Springfield,” Joseph muses as he parks the Bugatti in a parking lot outside of the Hotel Vandivort. “I wonder what it’s like. We’ll stay here for the night, then we move.”

Had Joseph really driven over twelve hours, minus the break at the McDonald’s? He doesn’t sleep, Alva realizes. Either that, or he’s hardly a human being.

The hotel lobby is a jarring mix of historic brick and modern, minimalist art. It is another curated space, another gallery. Joseph, using his brother’s alias of course, secures a room with a casual ease that speaks of a life lived in transit and under false pretenses. The elevator ride is silent. Alva stares at his own reflection in the polished brass doors, a pale, haunted man in a dark turtleneck, the collar a constant, choking pressure.

The room is spacious, impersonal, and overlooks the city. A king-sized bed dominates the space, a silent, imposing stage. Joseph drops his own bag by the door and turns to Alva, his eyes alight with a predatory, proprietary glow. The earlier annoyance is gone, replaced by the smug satisfaction of a collector who has just successfully transported a priceless, fragile artifact.

"You have been so well-behaved today, my love," Joseph says, his voice a low purr. He closes the distance between them, his hands coming up to cup Alva's face. "Your little performance at the payphone was... adorable. A final, futile flutter of the wings before settling into the cage."

Alva doesn’t answer. He keeps his expression blank, his eyes fixed on a point over Joseph's shoulder.

"Such obedience deserves a reward," Joseph whispers, his thumbs stroking the sharp line of Alva's jaw. "A reward for my good little muse."

He pushes Alva gently backwards until the backs of his knees hit the edge of the bed. Alva sits, his body moving on autopilot. Joseph kneels before him, a parody of a supplicant. He looks up at Alva, his cyan eyes half-lidded with a look of manufactured devotion that makes Alva's skin crawl.

"Allow me," Joseph murmurs. His hands move to the button of Alva's jeans, his movements slow, deliberate, savoring the moment. The sound of the zipper is obscenely loud in the quiet room. He peels the denim down Alva's legs, his cold fingers brushing against Alva's skin, sending a jolt of revulsion through him.

He pulls Alva's briefs down next, exposing him to the cool air of the room. Joseph's gaze is reverent, the look of an artist admiring his raw materials. He leans forward, his lips brushing the sensitive skin of Alva's inner thigh. Alva flinches, an involuntary tremor that makes Joseph smile.

"So responsive," he breathes against Alva's skin. "The body always confesses what the mind tries to deny."

His mouth closes over the head of Alva's cock. Alva's mind shatters. He throws his head back, his good hand gripping the hotel bedspread, knuckles white. The Observer retreats, leaving only the raw, sensory input of the violation. It’s far from passionate; it’s a calculated act of consumption, a tasting. Joseph's movements are technically perfect, clinical, designed for a specific result.

A low, wounded sound escapes Alva's throat. His hips arch involuntarily, a traitorous response to the expert manipulation. He is being played like an instrument, and the music he is making is a symphony of his own degradation.

He can feel the breaking point approaching, the system overload that his body mistakes for pleasure. He bites his lip, drawing blood, trying to anchor himself in pain, but it's no use. The release comes, a hot, shameful torrent, and Joseph accepts it with a low, satisfied hum, swallowing with a finality that claims the act, and Alva himself, as his own.

He pulls back slowly, a faint sheen on his lips. He looks up at Alva, at his tear-streaked face and trembling body, and his smile is one of pure, triumphant ownership.

"See?" he whispers, as if sharing a beautiful secret. "So much prettier when you just let go."

He stands, walking into the bathroom with a casual grace. The sound of the faucet running is a harsh, clinical punctuation mark to the entire ordeal. Alva remains on the bed, a ruined statue, the cold shame a heavier weight than any physical touch. He has performed his part. He received his "reward."

And with every act of submission, he feels another piece of Alva Lorenz — the professor, the hermit, the man — being chipped away, leaving only the cold, blank marble of Joseph's masterpiece.

Joseph threads his fingers through Alva’s silver hair. “I love you,” he murmurs softly, as if confessing a deadly secret. The three words strike Alva with more force than any physical blow. They are the most obscene violation yet. Love. The word is a foreign object, a piece of shrapnel lodging itself in the hollow space where Alva Lorenz used to be.

The Observer inside him attempts to process it, to file it away as data, but the term is illogical, its variables undefined. It is a bug in the system, a catastrophic error. But he doesn’t respond. He just can’t. He simply stares at the wall, at a bland, generic print of a lakeside scene, a world away from the suffocating intimacy of this room.

Joseph's hand tightens in his hair, not painfully, but with a demanding pressure. "Did you hear me, my love?" he asks, his voice losing its soft edge, now tinged with an impatient, possessive hiss. "I said, I love you."

He is demanding a response. This is a new test. A new performance. Alva’s mind scrambles for a script, for the correct sequence of words that will satisfy the predator and ensure his own survival. What does one say to the monster who claims to love you?

Before he can formulate a reply, the silence is broken by a new sound. A cheerful, chiming jingle, the Doctor Who theme. Joseph’s phone, left on the nightstand.

Joseph lets out a sigh of pure frustration, the manufactured moment of intimacy shattered. He releases Alva and snatches the phone. His expression darkens as he looks at the screen. "Work," he spits out, the word an epithet. "Another one of my... lesser projects requires my attention."

He stands and walks to the small desk by the window, turning his back on Alva. His voice drops into a clipped, professional tone, a completely different persona from the one he just performed. "Yes?... No, the acquisition is proceeding, but the Q3 projections are unacceptable... Liquidate the holdings in Zurich. All of them. I want it done by morning."

Alva lies still on the bed, his mind whirring. Holdings. Acquisition. Projections. The words are a lifeline. This is not just an artist; this is a businessman. A man with a complex, international life. And a complex life has more variables. More potential points of failure. He begins to build a new profile, adding data points: ruthless, wealthy, involved in high-stakes finance.

He listens as Joseph continues the call, his voice a cold staccato of commands. Alva's eyes drift to the open suitcase by the door. His gaze falls on the copy of The Phantom Menace. An idea sparks, a desperate, long-shot calculation. The book. It's his, yet not his. It's a pristine copy, a replacement. Hell, it even has the signatures of Liam Neeson and Samuel L. Jackson! But… What if it's more than that? What if it's a tool?

He waits. The call seems to stretch for an eternity. Finally, Joseph hangs up, his shoulders tense with annoyance. He turns back to the room, back to Alva, and the cold businessman vanishes, replaced once again by the possessive artist.

"The mundane world is so tedious," he sighs, walking back toward the bed. "Now, where were we?"

"I'm tired," Alva says. The words are quiet but firm. It is a gamble, a test of his new theory. A priceless artifact must be handled with care. A masterpiece must be allowed its rest.

Joseph stops. He studies Alva for a long, silent moment as the Observer inside notes the subtle tightening of his jaw, the flicker of frustration in his eyes. He wants to continue, to reassert his control. But Alva’s performance of placid exhaustion is perfect. He is not defiant; he is simply spent. A canvas that has been worked too hard.

"Very well," Joseph says finally, his voice tight. "Rest. We have a long drive tomorrow." He gestures to the bed. "I will sleep here. You will take the floor."

It is a petty assertion of dominance, a punishment for being denied his prize. But for Alva, it’s a victory. He has successfully manipulated the outcome. He slides off the bed without a word and pulls a thin blanket from the closet.

He lies on the floor, the rough carpet a grounding, physical sensation. He curls up, facing away from the bed, his back to Joseph, who in his mind has changed into Emperor Palpatine… no, he’s too pretty. Kylo Ren. That’s better.

He listens to the sounds of Joseph settling into the bed, the rustle of the sheets, the soft sigh.

Alva doesn’t sleep. He waits.

Hours pass.

The rhythm of Joseph's breathing deepens, evens out into the steady cadence of sleep. He murmurs something about Claude, about Lyon, but Alva doesn’t care. No time for that. He needs to act.

Now.

Silently, Alva rises. He moves with a deliberate, practiced quiet, a ghost in his own nightmare. He retrieves the copy of The Phantom Menace from his suitcase, takes it into the bathroom, closing the door until only a sliver of light cuts through the darkness.

His heart pounds. His splinted finger throbs. With his good hand, he carefully begins to tear a page from the very back of the book — a blank flyleaf. He then opens the book to the middle, to a dense section of prose, probably something about Jar Jar Binks. Using a pen from the hotel desk that he had pocketed, he begins the painstaking process.

He works on creating a key. He circles individual letters within the text of the novel. An 'F' here. An 'R' there. An 'E'. He is spelling a name, a location, a warning, all hidden in plain sight within the text itself. It is a simple substitution cipher, a kind of code he once taught a group of gifted students in a summer program.

F-R-E-D-E-R-I-C-K.

H-E-A-D-I-N-G W-E-S-T.

N-O P-O-L-I-C-E.

T-R-A-C-K C-A-R.

On the torn flyleaf, he draws a crude but recognizable map of the United States, placing a dot in Pennsylvania and drawing a long, westward arrow.

The plan is insane, a shot in the absolute dark. But it is a plan. He folds the paper with the map and tucks it deep within the pages of the book, near his coded message.

He returns the book to his suitcase, zipping it shut. He lies back down on the floor, his mind racing. He has planted another seed. The next step is finding a way to get the book out of his possession and into the world. He has no idea how.

But for the first time in a long time, the Observer isn’t just cataloging the horrors of the present.

It is calculating the possibilities of the future.

Chapter Text

The hum of the Bugatti's tires on the asphalt is a monotonous, unending sound. They have crossed into Kansas. The world outside the window has flattened into an endless expanse of brown plains under a vast, empty sky. It is a landscape that mirrors the state of Alva's own mind: a desolate, featureless plain where he is utterly alone with his captor.

Joseph drives, his earlier satisfaction from the hotel having curdled into a tense silence. He keeps glancing at Alva, who sits perfectly still in the passenger seat, staring out the window, the Animal Crossing game abandoned on his lap. Alva is performing his new role: the broken, placid object. He offers no conversation, no reaction, no fear. He is simply… present. And it is clearly starting to unnerve Joseph.

"Let's talk about your heroes," Joseph says suddenly, his voice smooth, attempting a tone of intellectual curiosity. It is a deliberate shift in tactics.

Alva turns his head slowly. "My heroes?"

"Yes. Captain Kirk, for instance," Joseph says, a faint, condescending smile on his lips. "The charismatic womanizer. The cowboy diplomat. You admire his ability to 'break the rules' to win, don't you? The Kobayashi Maru, right? The third option."

Alva slowly processes the question. This isn’t just a casual, geeky conversation between two fellow Trekkies, but is an interrogation disguised as a debate.

A dissection.

"It represents a triumph of ingenuity over impossible odds," Alva replies, his voice steady, academic.

"Does it?" Joseph counters, his tone dripping with mock sincerity. "Or does it represent the brute force of a man who cannot accept limitations? He doesn't find a clever solution; he cheats. He reprograms the system to suit his own ego. There is no artistry in that. It's vandalism. A child throwing a tantrum because he cannot solve a puzzle. He smashes the puzzle box instead."

He glances at Alva, seeking a reaction. "An artist, a true artist, understands that limitations are the very essence of creation. He works within the rules of his medium—the marble, the canvas, the flesh—to create something beautiful. He does not cheat the test; he redefines the meaning of victory."

The argument is a chilling parallel to his own actions. Joseph sees himself as the true artist, working within the 'limitations' of Alva's will to create his masterpiece. Kirk is a fraud.

"And Obi-Wan," Joseph continues, seamlessly shifting his attack. "The noble hermit. The patient mentor. You see him as a paragon of virtue, hiding in the desert, protecting the 'New Hope'."

He lets out a soft, pitying laugh.

"I see a failure. A man so broken by his own sentimentality that he retreats from the galaxy. He watches his enemy build an empire from the safety of a sand dune. He had the opportunity to shape the galaxy's greatest power — Anakin — and he failed.”

The car stops at a redlight. Joseph continues, “His 'love' for his student was a weakness, a flaw in the marble that allowed it to crack."

The words are scalpels, methodically dissecting the foundational myths of Alva's inner world. Joseph is making an attempt to ‘prove’ that Alva's entire moral and intellectual framework is built on flawed, sentimental heroes.

"Now, Palpatine," Joseph says, his voice dropping into a tone of genuine, chilling admiration. "There was an artist. He didn't smash the puzzle box; he owned the company that built it. He saw the entire galaxy as his canvas.”

Joseph flicks his turn signal, swerving off of the highway.

“He spent decades meticulously positioning every piece, manipulating senates, engineering wars, cultivating his apprentice. Every move was a brushstroke in a grand, galactic composition. The creation of the Empire wasn't an act of brute force; it was a symphony of political manipulation. The ultimate performance."

He turns to Alva, his cyan eyes glowing with a feverish light. "He saw the 'Chosen One' not as a friend to be loved, but as a tool to be sharpened. A magnificent, furious weapon to be aimed. He understood that true art, true power, requires absolute control. No messy emotions. No sentimental attachments. Just the cold, perfect execution of a singular vision."

Alva says nothing. He feels the pillars of his mental sanctuary begin to crumble under the weight of Joseph's terrifying, persuasive logic. He is reframing evil as artistic vision, and heroism as sentimental failure.

"You see, Alva," Joseph concludes, his voice a soft, hypnotic purr, "you have been admiring the wrong characters. You are not a Kirk or an Obi-Wan. You have the potential for so much more. You are my Vader. A being of immense power and passion, trapped by a flawed, sentimental code. I am simply... correcting your education."

The world outside the Bugatti has transformed again. The flat, brown plains of the Midwest have bled into the stark, ochre deserts of New Mexico. The sky is a vast, merciless blue. Joseph has been silent for the last hundred miles, the silence a taut, expectant thing. He is waiting for Alva to break, to react to his philosophical deconstructions. Alva offers him nothing but a blank, placid stare out the window.

"Roswell," Joseph says, breaking the silence as they approach the city. "How fitting. A town built on a fantasy. The perfect pilgrimage site for a man who lives in the stars."

He pulls into the parking lot of another sleek, impersonal hotel. "We'll rest here," he says. "The final leg of the journey begins tomorrow."

In the hotel room, the tension is a physical presence. Joseph paces, a predator whose prey is refusing to give him the thrill of the chase. Alva knows he has to do something. The passive resistance has made Joseph agitated, unpredictable. A new performance is required. One of total capitulation.

He waits until Joseph stops pacing and turns to him, his eyes narrowed with frustration.

"You were right," Alva says, his voice quiet, directed at the floor. "About my heroes. Their logic was... sentimental. Flawed." He lifts his head, his expression a carefully crafted mask of dawning realization. "Your analysis of Palpatine... it was a valid interpretation of power dynamics. It was... logical."

The words hang in the air. Joseph stares, momentarily stunned. Then, a slow, deeply triumphant smile spreads across his face. "Ah," he breathes. "The clay begins to take shape."

But Alva knows words are not enough. He has to prove it. With movements that feel both robotic and sacrilegious, he crosses the room and kneels before Joseph. It is a calculated act of ultimate submission, echoing his degradation in the study, but this time, he is the one initiating it.

"I apologize," Alva murmurs, his gaze fixed on the floor, "for my... attachment to flawed narratives." He reaches out with a trembling hand, his fingers brushing against the button of Joseph's trousers. "Allow me to... demonstrate my understanding."

Joseph lets out a sharp, shuddering breath. He is utterly captivated. This is beyond his expectations. His muse is not just submitting; he is offering himself. He places a hand on the back of Alva's head, his fingers tangling in his silver hair, a gesture not of force, but of acceptance.

What follows is a demeaning, hollow performance. Alva’s mind detaches, the Observer retreating to its cold control room as he takes Joseph into his mouth. He moves with a mechanical proficiency born of terrified observation, his own body a tool to achieve a specific outcome. He can feel Joseph’s entire body go taut, his breath catching in his throat. This is working.

With his free hand, Alva reaches up, his touch ghosting over Joseph's abdomen before his fingers close around the base of his hardening cock. The combination of the two touches is too much. Joseph moans softly, his hips beginning to move in a frantic, demanding rhythm. He is high on the adrenaline of total, absolute victory. Alva has not only accepted his philosophy; he is worshipping at its altar.

The climax is swift and violent. Joseph cries out, his body seizing, his hand tightening in Alva's hair. He collapses back onto the edge of the bed, panting, a look of dazed, ecstatic bliss on his face. He has never looked more dangerously triumphant.

Alva remains on the floor for a moment before slowly getting to his feet, his face a perfect mask of subservience.

Joseph, still catching his breath, looks up at him, his cyan eyes glowing. "My beautiful, brilliant boy," he gasps. "You see it. You finally see." He is utterly convinced. The conversion is complete.

Now. While he is high on his own perceived power, Alva makes his move.

"As a final... indulgence," Alva says, his voice quiet but steady. "Before we purge my old fantasies completely... could we visit the UFO museum? It seems appropriate. A monument to illogical belief. I wish to see it through your eyes. To dissect it with your... superior logic."

The request is perfect. Coming after such a total act of submission, it feels like a student asking his master for one final, illustrative lesson.

"An excellent idea," Joseph declares, his voice booming with magnanimity. He is a benevolent god granting a prayer. "A field trip! We will go and tear down their foolish little stories together. A final lesson before your graduation."

The International UFO Museum is a cathedral of kitsch. Joseph walks through the exhibits with an air of profound amusement, pointing out inconsistencies and laughing softly. Alva follows, a step behind, playing the part of the attentive, converted student. But his eyes are scanning, searching.

And then he sees him.

Standing in front of a display about the alleged alien autopsy is a young man with a familiar shock of bright pink hair. Mike Morton. A former student. Next to him, his arm linked through Mike's, is his boyfriend, Norton Campbell.

Alva's heart gives a single, violent thud. A new variable.

"I need to use the restroom," Alva says, his voice quiet.

Joseph, still basking in his victory and lost in his own critique of the exhibits, waves a dismissive hand. "Go. Don't be long."

The trust, bought and paid for with his own degradation, grants him a few moments of freedom. He turns and walks briskly to the gift shop. He retrieves The Phantom Menace from his shoulder bag and slips it onto a shelf between a book on Area 51 and another on cattle mutilation. A desperate, insane act.

He turns to leave and nearly collides with Mike and Norton.

"Whoa, Professor Lorenz?" Mike says, his eyes widening. "Holy crap! What are you doing in Roswell?" He glances at Alva's face. "Dude, are you okay? You look pale."

"I'm fine," Alva lies, forcing a smile. He can feel the seconds ticking away. "Listen to me," he whispers, his voice barely audible, his eyes locked on Mike's. "I need you to do something. No questions."

Mike's grin fades, replaced by concern.

"In the book section," Alva continues, his voice a low, frantic whisper. "A Star Wars book. Phantom Menace. Buy it. Don't let anyone touch it. There are names of our colleagues inside, circled. Ada Mesmer. Frederick Kreiburg. Get the book to them. Tell them to track the car. Tell them... tell them BB-8 has the map."

BB-8. Not R2-D2. A new signal.

A new New Hope.

"Professor, what are you—"

"No time," Alva says, spotting Joseph emerging from the main exhibit hall. "Just do it. Please."

He turns and walks quickly back toward Joseph, his face a mask of calm.

"There you are," Joseph says, his eyes narrowing. "You were talking to someone."

"A former student," Alva replies, his tone dismissive. "He was admiring a t-shirt. More primitive art. It's all this place is."

Joseph studies him, then a slow, satisfied smile spreads across his face. The conversion is total. His muse is now applying his philosophy independently. "Excellent," Joseph says, placing a hand on the small of Alva's back. "You see? A new lens changes everything."

Alva allows himself to be guided away. He does not look back. He does not know if Mike will follow his instructions. He has cast his final, most complex breadcrumb into the world. He has given the map to a new, round, rolling droid and sent it on its way.

All he can do now is continue the performance, and pray the message is received.

The sun is a merciless, white-hot disc in the sky. The vibrant reds of New Mexico have bleached into the pale, sun-scorched tan of Nevada.

The landscape outside the Bugatti has become a hypnotic, unending blur of sand and scrub brush. Joseph is quiet, but it is not the tense, agitated silence of the previous day. It is the smug, satisfied quiet of a victor. He is buoyed by a current of energy, a man high on his own power, convinced of Alva’s complete and total conversion.

He drums his fingers on the steering wheel, humming softly along to a classical piece on the radio. He’s so lost in his own victorious narrative that he misses the turnoff for I-15.

He doesn’t notice for another twenty miles, when the road signs begin pointing toward places like Tonopah and Fallon instead of Las Vegas. "A minor detour," Joseph says with a dismissive wave when he finally realizes his mistake. "A chance to see more of this desolate, beautiful canvas."

The Observer inside Alva logs the error. The artist, so consumed by his masterpiece, is becoming careless. His focus is entirely on the internal narrative of his success, not the external reality of the journey. For the first time, Joseph’s control is not absolute; it is compromised by his own ego.

They’re on a desolate stretch of US-95 when it happens.

A sudden, violent shudder rocks the car, followed by a high-pitched metallic scream from the engine. The dashboard explodes in a cacophony of angry red warning lights. The Bugatti, a monument to perfect engineering, sputters and rolls to a dead stop on the shoulder of the empty highway.

The silence that rushes in is absolute, broken only by the frantic ticking of the cooling engine and the oppressive hum of the desert.

"Damn it," Joseph whispers with shocked disbelief. He turns the key again. Nothing. He slams his fist against the steering wheel, a sharp, violent crack that makes Alva flinch. The perfect machine has failed. The artist's flawless tool has broken.

Joseph throws the door open and gets out, stalking around to the back of the car as if he can intimidate the engine back to life. He pulls out his phone, his face a mask of cold fury as he paces along the shoulder, trying to find a signal.

This is the moment.

Alva’s heart pounds. The Captain Kirk, the one Joseph had dsmissed as weak, takes control. He glances at Joseph, whose back is turned, then his eyes dart to the glove compartment. Joseph had taken his phone and tossed it in there yesterday, a forgotten piece of contraband.

His movements are swift and precise. He leans over, his splinted finger sending a sharp protest of pain as he fumbles with the latch. It clicks open. There it is. His phone.

He snatches it, the cool, smooth case a foreign object in his hand after days without it. He shoves it deep into the pocket of his jeans just as Joseph turns back toward the car, his face a thundercloud.

"Nothing," Joseph snarls, getting back in and slamming the door. "No service. Absolutely nothing." He sees the open glove compartment. "What are you doing?"

The lie comes instantly, a product of pure, calculated survival. "I was looking for a manual. Perhaps there's a roadside assistance number."

The logic of the statement placates Joseph slightly. His anger is still simmering, but it's now directed at the situation, not at Alva. "Useless. We need a signal." He runs a hand through his hair in pure frustration.

Alva pulls out his own phone, his face a mask of calm helpfulness. "Perhaps my phone has a different carrier. It might pick up something yours can't." He turns it on. The screen flickers to life, a wallpaper of Mr. Spock holding up the Vulcan salute comes into view. He holds it up, showing Joseph the empty signal bar in the top corner. "No. Nothing."

It looks like a dead end. The plan has failed before it even began. But then, as he’s about to put the phone away, he sees it. A single, faint, glorious bar of Wi-Fi.

His eyes scan the horizon. In the shimmering heat down the road, he can just make out a faded blue sign: REST AREA - 1 MILE. Some state-run rest stops, he knew, were now equipped with public Wi-Fi hotspots.

"There," Alva says, pointing. "There's a rest stop. It might have a landline. Or a Wi-Fi network we can connect to." He turns to Joseph, his performance flawless. "I might be able to use a roadside assistance app if I can get online."

The logic is sound. Joseph, desperate to get his perfect machine moving again, nods curtly. "Fine. We can walk."

The walk along the highway shoulder is surreal. The sun beats down, and the heat rising from the asphalt is a physical presence. Joseph is silent, his fury a palpable force field around him. Alva walks beside him, his phone clutched in his hand, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs.

The rest stop is small, almost abandoned, with a few sun-bleached picnic tables and a small, squat building for the restrooms. As they get closer, the Wi-Fi signal on his phone strengthens.

"Find the app," Joseph commands, stopping under the meager shade of the building's overhang. "Get it done."

Alva nods. He keeps his head down, his thumb moving over the screen, pretending to search the app store. But he is not in the app store. He is in his messaging client. His fingers fly, slick with sweat. He pulls up Ada’s contact information. The message has to be short. Precise. Actionable.

Bugatti broken. HWY 95 NV. N of Vegas. Rest stop wifi. Track car VIN ###... PA license plate. Bugatti. He is unstable. Moving fast. A.

He mashes the send button. A small progress bar appears under the message bubble. It hangs, agonizingly, at 90%.

"Find it yet?" Joseph asks, his voice sharp with impatience.

"It's a large file. The connection is slow," Alva lies, his eyes glued to the screen.

The progress bar inches forward. 95%. 99%...

Message Sent.

Alva’s entire body sags with relief. He quickly navigates to the app store, finds a generic AAA app, and begins the performative "download." "Found it," he says, his voice miraculously steady. "It's downloading now."

Just then, the sound of a heavy engine approaches. A large, rusty tow truck pulls into the rest area, the driver leaning out the window. "You folks the ones with the fancy black sports car down the road?" she asks.

Joseph’s head snaps up. The mask of the charming, powerful man slips back into place instantly. "That's us," he says, his voice smooth as silk. "Engine trouble." He walks toward the driver, pulling a thick wad of cash from his pocket.

Alva watches him go. He looks down at his phone, at the sent message, a single, desperate digital flare shot out from the middle of nowhere. He has won another battle. He has alerted the Rebellion to his exact location and his direction of travel.

He gets into the cab of the tow truck beside a silent Joseph. The truck smells of oil and stale cigarettes. As they pull away, leaving the dead Bugatti to be hoisted onto the flatbed, Alva stares out at the endless, indifferent desert.

He is still a prisoner, now in a stranger's truck, being taken to an unknown mechanic in an unknown town. But he is a prisoner who has just successfully passed the coordinates of his cage to the outside world.

The game has changed once again.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

The descent into Las Vegas is a jarring spectacle. After hours of staring into the profound, empty blackness of the night sky, the sudden explosion of light is an assault on the senses. The city spreads out below them, a sprawling, luminous grid of pure, unrelenting energy—a city that never sleeps, completely oblivious to the quiet desperation of their mission.

Frederick watches the Strip come into focus, a gaudy, glittering spine of impossible architecture and frantic light, and the sheer, overwhelming indifference of it all makes his stomach clench.

He can't shake the image of Tonopah from his mind, the desolate mining town Orpheus had pulled up on the map. It’s a world away from this. Alva is in a place of dust and silence, while they are descending into the capital of noise and distraction. The contrast is a sickening, discordant chord.

The plane touches down with a jolt that yanks Frederick from his thoughts. The moment the seatbelt sign chimes off, he is on his feet, an anxious, kinetic energy thrumming through him. He pulls his carry-on from the overhead bin, his movements sharp and impatient. Every second wasted in the deplaning process, every moment stuck behind a slow-moving tourist, feels like a personal failure.

"Patience, Frederick," Orpheus murmurs, moving with his usual unhurried, observant grace. "Our part in this symphony requires a precise entrance, not a frantic one."

"I'm not feeling particularly symphonic right now," Frederick grits out, his knuckles white as he grips the handle of his bag.

The air that hits them as they step out of the jet bridge and into the terminal is a strange, sterile blend of recycled air conditioning, faint cigarette smoke, and the cloying scent of some industrial cleaner. The airport is a cacophony. The constant, cheerful chiming of slot machines, a sound Frederick has always found deeply depressing, now feels like a taunt. People are laughing, dragging suitcases, drinking oversized novelty cocktails at 10 PM. They are in a different reality.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. A text from Ada.

The agent confirms tactical team is en route. Local sheriff has established a soft perimeter around Tonopah. No sign of Joseph’s vehicle entering any of the town’s three auto repair shops. They are widening the search to motels. Be safe. Keep me updated. 🙏

No sign of the car. The knot in Frederick's stomach tightens. It means Joseph and Alva are holed up somewhere, waiting. A predator, cornered and furious, with his prey. The two-hour ETA for the tactical team suddenly feels impossibly long.

They navigate the terminal, Orpheus leading the way with the calm assurance of a seasoned traveler while Frederick fights the urge to shove people out of his path. At the rental car shuttle, the wait is agonizing. He bounces his leg, a frantic, percussive rhythm of impatience. He catches his reflection in the glass of the bus shelter—a wild-eyed, disheveled man who looks nothing like the composed, elegant musician he purports to be. He looks like a man on the edge of a breakdown.

Maybe he is.

The Lincoln Navigator is, as Orpheus promised, large and unassuming. Frederick throws his bag in the back and slides behind the wheel, the unfamiliar controls a fresh source of irritation. He grips the steering wheel, his hands aching to be on his own Porsche, a machine that understands his urgency.

"GPS is set for Tonopah," Orpheus says, buckling his seatbelt. "It's a two-hundred-mile drive. Roughly three hours, if we don't hit any unforeseen variables."

"We're going to make it in two," Frederick declares, pulling out of the rental lot with a lurch that makes the tires squeal.

He merges onto the freeway, the dazzling lights of the Las Vegas Strip a mocking, festive backdrop to their grim journey. He pushes the large vehicle faster than it’s meant to go, the engine protesting with a low, guttural complaint. He doesn’t care. All he can think about is Alva, waiting in the dark.

"You're driving like a composer trying to outrun a bad review," Orpheus observes dryly, one hand braced on the dashboard.

"I'm driving like a man whose friend is in a room with a monster," Frederick snaps back, his eyes locked on the ribbon of highway stretching out into the dark desert ahead.

The glittering lights of Vegas recede in the rearview mirror with shocking speed, replaced by an oppressive, absolute darkness. The highway becomes a lonely strip of asphalt cutting through an ocean of black. There are no other cars, no signs of life. Just the relentless hum of their engine and the stark, white lines of the road, hypnotically spooling out before them under the high beams.

This is it. The real Nevada.

The silence in the car stretches, thick and heavy. Frederick’s anger begins to cool, the adrenaline of the flight and the frantic start to their drive ebbing away, leaving behind the cold, hard stone of dread. Two hours. They are two hours away. He is driving into a situation controlled by the FBI, with a man he barely knows, to save a friend he feels he has already failed. The sheer, insane reality of it presses down on him.

He is just a music professor. A composer. His world is one of manuscript paper, concert halls, and the precise, mathematical beauty of a well-structured fugue. What is he doing here, racing through the desert toward a tactical police operation? The thought is so absurd, a hysterical laugh bubbles in his chest.

He glances at Orpheus. The novelist is staring out at the impenetrable darkness, his expression thoughtful, distant. He seems utterly unfazed, a chronicler observing the story as it unfolds, even as he is a character within it.

"He called him Kylo Ren," Frederick says quietly, the words dropping into the silence.

Orpheus turns his head. "Who did?"

"Mike. On the phone. He said Alva called Joseph 'Kylo Ren'. The obsessive villain with the… ‘cool ship’, as he put it." Frederick shakes his head, a wry, pained smile touching his lips. "Even now, he's filtering it all through his stories. It's how he's surviving, how he gets through the living hell he’s facing. He's not Alva Lorenz, terrified and alone. He's Poe Dameron, or Captain Kirk. Heck, he could be the 13th Doctor. He's a hero in a story, sending signals to his allies."

"Then we have a narrative duty to see it through," Orpheus replies, his voice calm and even. "The heroes must answer the call."

Frederick nods, gripping the wheel. Yeah. That's what this is. A story. A terrible, terrifying story, but one with heroes and villains, with signals and rebellions. And right now, he is a hero, driving through the darkness, answering his captain's call. The thought doesn't make the fear go away, but it gives it a shape, a purpose.

He presses his foot down harder on the accelerator. He presses his foot down harder on the accelerator. The Navigator surges forward, its powerful engine devouring the dark, empty miles. The speedometer needle creeps past ninety. The world outside is a featureless void, and for a while, the only reality is the hum of the engine, the glow of the dashboard, and the burning, singular focus of their mission.

An hour bleeds into the next. The initial adrenaline has long since burned away, leaving Frederick with a wired, jittery exhaustion. He’s running on fumes, fueled by little more than coffee, guilt, and a desperate, clinging hope. He keeps glancing at his phone, mounted on the dash, waiting for another text from Ada, another sign of progress. Nothing. The silence is a crushing weight.

"Pull over here," Orpheus says suddenly, his voice cutting through the hypnotic drone of the drive.

Frederick’s head snaps toward him. "What? Why? We can't stop."

"There's a gas station ahead," Orpheus says, pointing to a faint, lonely cluster of lights shimmering in the distant darkness. "We need fuel. And so do you." He gestures to a thermos he must have filled at the airport. "My private stock of coffee is depleted, and I refuse to face a potential hostage situation uncaffeinated. Besides," he adds, his voice taking on a more serious tone, "you're starting to drift into the shoulder. Pushing yourself to the point of exhaustion won't help him."

Frederick’s first instinct is to argue, to insist that every second counts. But he knows Orpheus is right. His hands ache from gripping the steering wheel, and his eyes are burning. A crash would be the ultimate failure. With a frustrated sigh, he eases his foot off the accelerator, flicking on the turn signal as they approach the exit for the isolated gas station.

The place is a lonely island of fluorescent light in a sea of black. A single, rusty sedan is parked by one of the pumps. As Frederick fills the Navigator's massive tank, the cold desert air bites at his skin, a stark, sobering slap. He leans against the side of the car, the silence of the desert immense and humbling. He can see the stars here, a brilliant, unobscured canopy of distant, indifferent light. He wonders if Alva is looking at the same sky.

Orpheus returns from the convenience store with two steaming cups of coffee and a bag of pretzels. He hands a cup to Frederick. "Drink. We still have an hour to go."

The coffee is bitter, burnt, and possibly the most welcome thing Frederick has ever tasted. He takes a long swallow, the heat a welcome jolt to his system.

"You're blaming yourself," Orpheus says. It's not a question.

Frederick stares out into the darkness. "I told him he was safe. I gave him my word."

"Joseph is a master of psychological manipulation," Orpheus counters, his voice calm and analytical. "He would have found a way. He didn't just break into Alva's house; he broke into his mind. He isolated him long before he ever laid a hand on him. Your apartment wasn't a failure of security, Frederick. It was simply the final act of a play Joseph had been writing for months."

The novelist’s perspective is strangely comforting. It reframes Frederick’s failure as an unavoidable plot point in a narrative orchestrated by a madman. It doesn't erase the guilt, but it lessens its crushing weight.

"What about you?" Frederick asks, turning to him. "What's your part in this story? You didn't have to come."

Orpheus takes a slow sip of his coffee, his gaze distant. "Every writer is, at their core, a frustrated god. We create worlds, we shape fates, we pull strings. But it's all an illusion, contained on the page." He looks at Frederick, a rare flicker of something raw and genuine in his eyes. "This… this is real. The stakes are absolute. And a character I have come to care about is in peril. I am here because, for the first time in a very long time, the story has spilled off the page and into the real world. And I find I have a moral obligation to see how it ends."

Before Frederick can process the confession, his phone buzzes. His heart leaps into his throat. He snatches it, the screen glowing with another text from Ada.

They found the tow truck driver. She dropped Joseph & Alva at the 'Mizpah Hotel' in Tonopah two hours ago. Told the sheriff the tall one in the white suit looked 'scarred'. Tactical team is converging on the hotel now. They're going in. 🖖

"They've found them," Frederick breathes, his voice tight, smiling at the Vulcan salute emoji. "Mizpah Hotel. They're going in now."

The dregs of his coffee are forgotten. He throws the cup into a nearby trash can and slides back behind the wheel, Orpheus a second behind him. The engine roars to life.

"Get me there, Orpheus," Frederick says, his voice a low growl. "Fastest route. Now."

"Already on it," Orpheus replies, his own phone out, the GPS rerouting.

Frederick pulls out of the gas station, tires spitting gravel, and merges back onto the dark, empty highway. The final act has begun. The raid is happening right now. The last hour of their drive will not be a race to a location, but a race toward a conclusion that has already been set in motion.

He pushes the Navigator to its absolute limit, the engine screaming in protest. The white lines of the road are a frantic, percussive blur. All he can see in his mind is the face of the hotel, the tactical team moving in, the shattering of a door. He prays they are in time.