Hastur turned slowly.
The movement was deliberate, controlled—almost ceremonial. As he shifted, the torn fabric at the back of his yellow shirt pulled away, revealing a thin line of blood seeping through the cloth. Glass had cut him, shallow but real.
Ellios's breath caught.
Hastur did not look at Ellios.
Instead, he faced Victor.
The club seemed to quiet around them, the laughter thinning into uneasy murmurs. Even the music felt distant, as though the space itself recognized a change in authority.
"Violence," Hastur said calmly, his voice low and steady, "is strictly prohibited in The King's Night Club."
Victor scoffed, rolling his shoulders as if unimpressed. "And who the hell are you supposed to be?"
Before Ellios could fully process the scene—before he could even understand how Hastur had appeared at exactly the right moment—his body moved on instinct.
He stepped forward.
"Apologize," Ellios said.
The word rang sharper than he expected.
Victor turned, eyes widening slightly. "What did you say?"
Ellios swallowed, heart hammering, but did not retreat. "You heard me. Apologize. To him."
Victor barked out a laugh. "You're kidding."
Ellios's hands curled into fists at his sides. "I'm not."
Victor leaned closer, voice dripping with mockery. "Or what?"
Ellios met his gaze, something hard and unyielding rising in his chest. "Or you say goodbye to your position as head of Blade Entertainment."
The booth erupted in murmurs.
Victor stared at him, stunned—then laughed louder. "You think you have that power?"
Ellios smiled.
It wasn't the polite smile he wore in meetings.
It was sharp.
"Not alone," Ellios said quietly. "But Marcus Blade does."
Victor's laughter died instantly.
Ellios continued, voice calm but merciless. "Your affairs with the company stars. private dealings with rival stars. The contracts you buried. The money you siphoned."
He tilted his head. "You really think the patriarch would forgive that?"
Victor's face paled.
The name Marcus Blade was the one thing that haunted every member of their family. The old man did not forgive. He erased all mistakes. Each member of the Blade family knew to steer clear from the old man.
They might seem untouchable but the saying is true.
The summit peak of someone might be a stepping stone for others
And Marcus Blade is a danger they live with. They don't even know how much blood and corpses the old man caused inorder to climb to the position he has today.
Victor clenched his jaw, eyes flicking between Ellios and Hastur.
"Tch," he muttered. "Fine. Sorry."
The word was spat like poison.
Victor waved a dismissive hand. "Now get out of my sight."
Ellios didn't wait for a second invitation.
He turned, guiding Dan gently away, but Hastur stopped him with a subtle hand on his wrist.
"Let them handle him," Hastur said gesturing to attendants.
Reluctantly, Ellios nodded and watched as Hastur returned to his booth, the crowd parting instinctively. Dan was led away by staff, wrapped in a jacket, shaking but safe.
Only when they were alone did Ellios finally exhale.
Ellios hesitated. "You're injured."
"It is nothing."
"Let me see," Ellios said, stepping closer to Hastur. "Your back."
Hastur shook his head. "That's unnecessary."
Ellios frowned. "You were hurt because of me."
Hastur's eyes flicked to him. "I was hurt because my guest was about to get hurt in my club."
"Please," Ellios said. "Just—let me check."
Hastur studied him for a long moment, something unreadable passing through his gaze.
Then he sighed. "Very well."
He reached for the hem of his shirt.
Ellios froze.
Hastur pulled the fabric upward slowly, deliberately, as though aware of every second of silence stretching between them. Aware of the power he had over Ellios. The yellow shirt slipped over his head and was set aside.
Ellios forgot how to breathe.
Hastur's body was… unreal.
Broad shoulders, defined and powerful, tapering down into a sculpted pale chest marked with a strange tatoo telling stories Ellios could not imagine. His abs were sharply defined, muscle layered over muscle, leading down to the subtle V of his mermaid line, where a faint trail of dark hair disappeared beneath his trousers.
Ellios stared.
His face burned.
"Eyes up here," Hastur said dryly.
Ellios jolted, mortified. "S-sorry."
Hastur smirked faintly as he turned around, presenting his back.
Ellios sucked in another breath.
Hastur's back was just as striking—smooth, strong, every muscle moving fluidly beneath his white skin. The cut was shallow, a thin red line near his shoulder blade where glass had struck.
"Come," Hastur said calmly. "Apply the medicine."
Ellios felt like a puppet as he stepped closer.
Hastur handed him a small tube of medical gel. Ellios took it with trembling fingers, squeezed a little onto his hand, and hesitated.
Get it together.
He touched Hastur's back.
The contact sent a shock through him.
Warm.
Smooth.
His fingers moved carefully, spreading the gel along the wound, but he couldn't help the way his touch lingered, the way his hand traced muscle unconsciously. Hastur's skin felt impossibly real, solid and alive beneath his fingertips.
Ellios lost track of time.
Of the club.
Of everything.
"Are you finished?" Hastur asked quietly.
Ellios blinked. "Y-yes," he said weakly.
Hastur turned.
Slowly.
Ellios found himself face-to-face with him, close enough to feel his breath, close enough to see every detail—the intensity of his eyes, the faint curve of his lips, the calmness that never seemed to break.
Hastur stepped closer.
Ellios's heart slammed against his ribs.
Closer.
An inch apart.
Ellios closed his eyes.
He didn't know why.
Only that for once, he didn't want to analyze, to calculate, to protect himself. He wanted—just for a moment—to be still.
To be wanted.
To be chosen.
He stood there, defenseless, breath shallow, waiting.
And Hastur smiled.
Not cruelly.
Not kindly.
But with something dangerous and knowing.
It seems this is going to be easy than expected.