Ellios did not drive directly to Blade Group.
He told himself it was practical—traffic would worsen closer to the business districts, and he hadn't eaten since dawn. That excuse satisfied the rational part of his mind. The other part, the quieter and more dangerous one, knew the truth.
He needed time.
Time to understand the man sitting beside him in silence.
The car slowed near a modest café perched along the coastal road, its windows fogged slightly from the warmth inside, the scent of coffee and bread drifting faintly into the street. Without fully deciding to, Ellios parked.
"Let's eat first," he said, unfastening his seatbelt. "We have time."
Hastur turned his head slightly, eyes settling on the café as though it were an unfamiliar object. He did not object.
Inside, the café was calm—soft music, muted conversation, the gentle clatter of cups and cutlery. Morning light filtered through wide windows, catching dust motes in the air. Ellios chose a corner table instinctively, one with a view of the street and enough space that no one would overhear too easily.
They ordered simply. Coffee for both. A light meal.
And then—
Silence.
Not the awkward kind Ellios was used to filling. Not the tense silence of boardrooms or negotiations. This silence stretched naturally, comfortably, like a held breath that did not demand release.
Ellios tried not to fidget.
Tried.
His fingers drummed softly against the table anyway. Once. Twice. He stopped, folded his hands, then unfolded them again. He forced a smile and glanced at Hastur, who sat perfectly still, posture relaxed yet precise, hands resting loosely as if the world had never rushed him once.
Ellios cleared his throat. "So… what are you good at?"
Hastur did not answer.
Ellios waited.
Nothing.
The quiet stretched further, and Ellios felt something strange tighten in his chest—not irritation, but awareness. He became acutely conscious of himself. Of the way he sat. Of the way his shoulders leaned forward slightly, as if trying to bridge a distance that did not exist.
Hastur was watching him.
Not rudely. But intensely.
Ellios noticed it in fragments at first.
The way Hastur's eyes seemed to glow faintly—not with light, but with focus—when Ellios ordered, as if cataloging each word, each inflection. The way Hastur's gaze lingered on his mouth when he smiled, studying how the expression tried too hard to remain natural.
Ellios smiled often. He knew that. It was a habit formed early, sharpened later—smile to disarm, smile to reassure, smile to survive.
And Hastur seemed to see straight through it.
Ellios shifted, attempting to reclaim control of the conversation. "Blade Group is large," he continued, voice smooth. "We have
departments across—"
"You are uncomfortable," Hastur said calmly.
The words landed like a dropped cup.
Ellios choked on his breath and coughed, hand flying to his mouth. "S-sorry," he muttered, grabbing his coffee too quickly. The heat startled him, and he set it down again, untouched.
"What do you mean?" Ellios asked, once he had regained composure.
Hastur tilted his head slightly. "Your body doesn't lie," he said. "Even when your mouth does."
Ellios laughed nervously. "That's… vague."
Hastur's eyes did not leave him. "Your fingers tap when the silence grows. Your shoulders tighten when you feel judged. You smile to soften discomfort, not because you feel joy." He paused. "You seek approval even now which makes me question, from whom."
Ellios's throat went dry.
And as if he knew he won't answer. Hastur continued, voice level. "You lean forward when you speak to me, as if trying to be closer—not physically, but emotionally."
Ellios stared at him.
No one had ever seen him like this.
Not his so called family. Not his advisors. Not even his sister, when she was lucid enough to speak honestly.
"You work very hard," Hastur said, "to prove yourself worthy of the space you occupy."
Ellios swallowed. "That's… everyone," he said weakly.
"Maybe," Hastur replied. "But now there's only you."
Heat bloomed beneath Ellios's skin, sudden and intense. His face flushed before he could stop it. He looked away, staring at the dark surface of his coffee as if it held answers.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he said.
Hastur leaned back slightly. "Then why does your pulse quicken when I speak plainly?" he asked. "Why does your breath shallow when you are seen?"
Ellios laughed again, quieter this time. "You sound like a therapist."
"I'm just observant."
Ellios felt something loosen inside his chest—something tight and old. A realization he had avoided for years brushed dangerously close to the surface.
He wasn't okay.
And somehow, impossibly, this man had noticed within minutes.
Ellios looked back at Hastur.
Up close, the man was even more striking. Not just handsome—though he was—but composed in a way that made the world around him feel hurried and foolish. His eyes were deep, unsettlingly calm, like still water that hid impossible depths. His expression did not waver. Nothing seemed to move him.
Ellios wondered—absurdly—what it would take to put expressions there.
Could he make Hastur blush?
The thought startled him.
Heat surged again, sharper this time, and Ellios ducked his head quickly, hiding his face behind his hand. Get a grip, he scolded himself. You're the CEO of Blade Group, not a teenager.
He cleared his throat. "Anyway," he said, voice a bit too quick, "let's talk about work."
Hastur raised an eyebrow, faintly amused.
"What kind of job would you like?" Ellios asked, staring pointedly at the table.
"I do not need a job," Hastur replied.
Ellios looked up, startled. "You don't?"
"No."
"Oh." Ellios blinked, then frowned. "I assumed—"
"That assumption was incorrect."
Ellios felt foolish. "Then… what do you do?"
Hastur did not answer immediately.
Instead, his gaze flicked to Ellios's phone, which lay face-up on the table, vibrating softly with a notification Ellios ignored. Hastur's eyes narrowed slightly.
Then his phone rang.
Hastur answered without looking away from Ellios.
"Yes," he said.
Ellios felt a strange pressure in his chest as Hastur listened, eyes still fixed on him, unblinking. It was deeply unsettling—being watched while someone else spoke through a device he could not hear.
Ellios's face warmed again. His heart sped up inexplicably. He wondered what more Hastur saw when he looked at him so intently.
"Mm," Hastur said into the phone. "No. Tonight."
Ellios shifted in his seat, suddenly hyper-aware of the space between them, of the table, of the warmth in the room.
Hastur continued. "I will be there."
He ended the call.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Hastur reached into his coat and placed a card on the table.
It was yellow written king's night club.
Not pale. Not subtle. A deep, deliberate yellow that seemed to draw the eye whether one wanted it to or not. Embossed in black lettering was the name of a nightclub Ellios didn't recognized.
"This is my club," Hastur said. "You should come tonight."
Ellios stared at the card. "Your… club?"
"You offered to help," Hastur continued. "Consider this my thanks."
Ellios opened his mouth, then closed it again. "Tonight?" he asked.
"Yes."
Before Ellios could respond, Hastur stood.
The movement was smooth, unhurried, final.
"I will see you later, benefactor," Hastur said.
And then he left.
Ellios remained seated, watching his back as Hastur exited the café, yellow coat catching the light, presence drawing attention even as he disappeared into the street.
The café noise slowly returned to Ellios's awareness—the hum of conversation, the hiss of steam, the clink of cups.
Hastur's coffee sat untouched.
Black.
Hot.
Cooling by the second.
Hastur did not drink it.
Ellios stared at the yellow card instead, heart still racing, face warm, mind unsteady.
For the first time in a very long while, Ellios Blade felt unbalanced.
This man seems to have power over him that scared him. Maybe he should stay away.
His closet door is being pried open after all.