Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Still unsure how to write chapters yet :3 Here are some of the major character descriptions.

Grace Liotta

Gender: Female(she/her) (3 years old)

Appearance: Hair: Soft, curly pitch black hair to her shoulders

Height: 3ft 2.2 inches

Skin: soft, mildly tanned skin.

Eyes: Large, Hooded eyelids, Brown, 

Face: Round, slightly chubby, button nose, looks like someone Enzo used to know.

Morgan "Megan" Liotta

Gender: Transgender Male (He/Him)  (26 years old)

Height: 5ft 10 inches 

Hair: Curly, light brown hair to the nape of his neck,

Skin: Dark Tan skin, C-section scar, faded Skin burn scars on neck, has stretch marks around the hips and stomach

Eyes: Round eyelids, Light brown, Slight eye bags

Face: slightly feminine face with soft angles, high cheekbones, and softer features

Build: Lean, with a somewhat delicate frame, old muscles turned softer. B cup chest

Lorenzo De Lu:

Gender: Male (he/him) (28 years old)

Height: 6ft 4 inches

Hair: Black, coarse hair, kept short for convenience

Skin: Fair complexion, slightly tanned, burn marks on his hands and chest from various origins

Face: Sharp, defined features, chiseled jawline, and high cheekbones

Eyes: Dark brown, Hooded eyelids

Build: Broad-shouldered, athletic build from his time in the mafia and his years of physical training, though he’s not overly bulky. 

Table of context

Chapters 1-7: Character introductions

Chapter 8: Beginning of the story

Chapter Text

“Tighten your ass fag….” Slap, “Stop crying slut!’ Punch, the sounds reverberated in Morgan's skull. They had been at this for hours; the drugs kept him from fighting back but not from feeling. It's so dark in here, no light. The guy who had just… finished… grabbed Morgan by the hair, yanking him up. "This bitch's asshole feels just like a girl’s—"

"Enough," a new voice cut through the filth. Low, bored, disgusted. "Let’s just get this over with." Footsteps approached. Slow. Deliberate. Morgan couldn't see him—not that he wanted to. He felt himself being flipped to the prone position and the cold feel of steel on his neck. Finally, it was all gonna be over. Then, a hand. On his chest. Squeezing.

No. No, no, no.

Fingers at his crotch. Groping. Feeling. Not there. Not there.

"Did someone cut off his dick?"

The fingers kept exploring until— God, not there. Not there, please.

"Turn on the lights." Then a Blinding white.

The fingers pulled away instantly. A sharp intake of breath. Then—

"Jesus Christ. He’s a women”

The man yelled, and Morgan couldn't lift his face, not like he wanted to. God, why didn't the guy just kill him? Distant voices argued. Then—darkness.  Morgan woke up again on a chair in an office, his lip still busted, patched up barely, still drugged out of his mind, but unfortunately lucid. Then the man on the desk spoke; it differed from the guy who touched him worse, his voice filled with rot and honey. “I'm so sorry for the misunderstanding, boy. I hope you understand. Here, sign this, and you'll be compensated, ok, boy.” The men in the background jeered. Morgan couldn't care. He didn't want to be here anymore, so he signed without looking. He looked up, and the man on the desk was smiling. A man was standing on his side, looking at Morgan with disgust and anger.

Why, why, why him…why…

“Papa” A little girl's voice awakened him.

Morgan shot up, gasping, and looked around. Oh, it was just another…memory. He turns his head downward to see two little hands grabbing his shoulder. “Oh, hi sweetie…did I fall asleep again…” the little girl answered, her voice quivering. “No, papa, you looked far away again and cried. Is Papa ok..” Morgan lifted his hand to his cheek. Oh, he was crying. “Oh, Grace, sweetie, I'm sorry. I just had a bad, bad memory. I'm happy to see you.” Morgan pulled his face into a wide, silly-looking, teeth-visible smile, making Grace, his precious daughter, laugh. “Ewww, papa, stop ugly smile! make it pretty.” Morgan smiled genuinely this time; seeing his daughter's face always lightened his mood.

Grace looked up again, her face filled with all the determination a three-year-old could muster. “Are we gonna find a job today, Papa?” Morgan chuckled, ruffling Grace’s curls. “I'm the one finding a job, sweetie. You're three; I’m finding you a daycare.” Grace huffed, still pouting as Morgan stood up from the couch, reaching for the pills on the living room table. “Nu-uh! Three-year-olds can have jobs! Like… like a princess!  Dutcor and, ummm….” Morgan pops the pill in his mouth, his antidepressant, swallowing it down with water before chuckling again.

“Baby daycare will be your job, ok?” Grace's pout left her face, replaced by her sunshine smile as she quickly put on her shoes. “YES, daycare IS my job. Are we ready, Papa?” Morgan put on his jacket, feeling his chest. His binder was tight but flat, so it didn't matter. He followed his daughter's lead and put on his shoes. “Yes, sweetie, we're ready. Let's have fun. We will have luck this time.” Morgan grabbed his keys and unlocked the door. The apartment hallway felt cold. Grace held onto Morgan’s hand, her warmth grounding him. No matter what happened today, it would be enough.

Chapter Text

Morgan didn’t know which he hated more: job hunting or daycare hunting. Who was he kidding? Job hunting was the worst. The day blurred together. He’d had two interviews, and each one had gone the same. He’d asked both if it was okay to bring Grace, and the AI chatbot on their website had said, “Yes, we love kids! We have an accepting and fun daycare!” But when he arrived, the receptionist looked at him like he was an idiot. He was probably right—he was an idiot.

He should’ve walked out the moment the receptionist called his name with a “ Miss" Liotta .” He didn’t bother correcting him. The interviews were not much better.

“Wow, Ma’am, your kid is so well-behaved…” the first interviewer said. Morgan had forced a smile, feeling his skin flush with discomfort.

The second interviewer looked at his resume and then back at him, his expression condescending. “Well, Miss, we see your resume, but we usually expect more employee experience,” the man said.

Still trying to keep the conversation professional but uncomfortable, the first lady hesitated before adding, “Oh, I see, I’m sorry… Sir, we need a college degree for this position—it’s policy.”

The second man leaned forward, eyes narrowing as they lingered on Morgan’s chest for an uncomfortable beat longer than necessary. His lips curled into a smug smile, and his voice lowered as if savoring the words. “Ugh, these young people with their liberal pronouns… You’re too pretty to be using those terms, Ma’am…”

Morgan’s skin crawled, and he instinctively shifted in his seat, hoping the uncomfortable silence would break. But the man’s gaze remained, and Morgan could practically feel its weight, which was heavy and suffocating.

Morgan left the first interview feeling disappointed, the lady’s judgmental stare still burning into the back of his neck. For the second interview, Morgan stormed out, dragging Grace behind him while the man’s disgusting comments echoed in his ears. If he didn't leave quickly, he would be in jail.

“Fuck those jobs,” he muttered under his breath. They’re both shitty anyway, but as he walked through the parking lot, dragging Grace along, the doubt crept in. He was the one seeking them out. What did that make him?

Daycare hunting was a little better, with a less condescending stare and more of Morgan's pickiness. God, Morgan knew he didn't have the luxury of being picky, but this was his daughter he was talking about. The first couple was decent but way too expensive, the others were cheaper but a lot more shitty. Literally, he walked into one home and saw a kid whose diaper looked like it'd been used for hours without being changed. No luck at daycare either; how would he pay if he doesn’t have a job anyway? By the late afternoon, Morgan was exhausted and slumped at a bench at the farthest corner of the park, not to be bothered by anyone as he watched Grace play. His chest ached both physically and mentally. The binder was too tight, but the day would be worse if he didn't wear it. And mentally, he was failing Grace so severely, and Grace didn't notice. Was it always this hard to get a job? At eighteen, people were begging Morgan to work for them. They weren't always good jobs, but they were well-paying enough to live off of, enough to pay for testosterone and save. Serving bottles, talking to clients, it was easy, it was fun…he looked different back then, more like himself, a man…that was his downfall. NO no no no Morgan wasn't gonna let his mind go there, not again. Grace already saw him cry this morning, not again, especially not in public. Morgan straightened himself up, drinking from the water bottle, which was another expense wasted on him, not grace. God, what's wrong with me, Morgan thought to himself. I used to be so social so easy going both of those crappy interview had me sweating and shuttering like they were a once in a life time opportunity. Morgan gulped another chug of water and thought. God fuck them how they stared at me like i was the creep i could see that bitches botched botox lines. That creeps beer belly call me too pretty…FUCK THEM FUCK THEM-. 

“PAPA!” Morgan was pulled out of his mind by the grace of his sunshine running towards him, panting from exhaustion. “WAWA WAWA!” Grace squealed, extending her arms as if she wanted to be picked up. Morgan chuckles, lifting Grace and putting the water bottle to her mouth. “WAT-ER sweetheart, say it right,” Morgan scolds, no real anger. Grace gasped, moisturized, and now pulled the water bottle away. “WAAAT-ERRR!” Grace enunciates loudly, making Morgan chuckle more, and the ache from his binder makes him slow down. 

Grace turns and looks up at Morgan, her face turned serious and confused. “Papa, at that man's office, why did you get mad when the sir called you pretty…You are pretty, Papa.” Morgan's smile faltered because his daughter was too observant for her good. Morgan let out a small sigh, pulling Grace closer so only she could hear. “Sweetie, I know, but that man wasn't saying pretty in a nice way…” Morgan pauses, thinking of a way to explain this to a three-year-old. “Imagine this, you're wearing gorgeous princess shoes, right?” Grace nodded her eye, curious for more. “...and someone walks up to you and tells you your princess shoes arent princess shoes theyre soccer shoes and youll look pretty if you just called your princess shoes soccer shoes and you should just accept theyre soccer shoes its not nice right sweetie.” grace let out a loud gasp her hand on her face exguratted. “That's no nice papa!” Grace gasped. “No its not…” morgan let out a sigh of relief thank god his daughter was a good listener. “...thats why i got mad.” grace let out a huff and crossed her arms looking as angry as a three year old can get. “Well than man is a meany a big big meanie!” Grace took a deep breath mimicking the mans stomach morgan chuckled again kissing grace on the cheek. “Good girl” morgan sighed looking up at the sky, moments like this made everything seem ok like everything is working out just fine.

Then Grace spoke again, her voice innocent. “Can I sleep over at Auntie Gia’s place again?” The name made Morgan's face grimace. “Auntie” Giovanna was Morgan's neighbor who greatly helped him during Grace’s earlier years. In Morgan's opinion, she was a sweet, condescending old hag but one of the nicer ones. She actually respects Morgan’s pronouns. Of course, she can’t help but comment on how weak the new generation is, commenting that Morgan has a nice figure. Why don’t you find yourself a husband?  “Your generation, men are into the 'tomboy' look.” God, Morgan loathed that bitch, but even then, she had her sweet moments. She was the one who called the ambulance when Morgan was in labor, but didn’t know yet. She was the one who knocked on Morgan's apartment when he was back from the hospital, and Morgan was drowning in dread and depression at being a new mo-no dad. Gave Grace some of her grandkids’ clothes, taught Morgan how to feed Grace properly, and comforted Morgan when he broke down during the first year. Maybe Morgan didn’t loathe her that much, just slightly dislikes some of her habits…Giovanna reminded Morgan of his biological mom if she were nicer and more understanding.  

Morgan groaned loudly, cupping Grace's face, trying to hide his irritation. “Why, sweetie..” Morgan forced out, trying hard to stop himself from yelling no outright. “Because Papa, she has the prettiest princess dresses and a nice soft couch and …” Morgan hushed Grace with a finger. “Shhh, sweetie, Auntie Gia is busy right now, you know that. I'll ask her another day, ok.” Grace sighed, defeated. “Ok, papa…” Morgan’s heart clenched at seeing Grace sad. “Ok…ok, how about we get ice cream?” Grace's face immediately lit up, and Grace stood. Grace's eyes sparkled as she bounced excitedly in Morgan’s arms.  

"ICE CREAM, ICE CREAM!"

Morgan shook his head, already anticipating the sugar high. It didn’t matter. As long as Grace was happy, he’d do whatever it took—even if it meant another hour of cleaning up sticky hands and dealing with her bouncing off the walls.

But just as he started to move, the sharp, sudden bang of a gunshot rang through the park. It was a sound that didn’t belong. It sliced through the otherwise calm afternoon, halting everyone in their tracks.

Grace turned her head, her brows furrowed in confusion. “Huh... firework?” she asked, her innocence clashing with the terror in the air.

Morgan froze, his heart pounding in his chest as the crowd around them began to scatter, some walking briskly, others breaking into a jog. He couldn’t look back. Not now.

He pulled Grace closer, clutching her as he swiftly moved toward the park’s exit, his footsteps quickening. His mind raced, still trying to process the explosion of fear in his chest. Was it just a firework? Or something worse?

The park was emptying fast, with people flooding out in a panic. Morgan didn’t dare slow down. With each step, he felt the weight of his fears—his past, his present, everything threatening to consume him. But right now, the only thing he could focus on was Grace in his arms, her trusting little face oblivious to the danger.

They made it to the parking lot, Morgan’s breath coming in short gasps, his grip on her tightening. He didn’t dare glance behind him.

As Morgan rushed ahead, he could feel Grace move her head to look behind him.

“Papa?” Grace’s tiny voice barely rose above the muffled city noises   

Morgan grabbed Grace's head and pushed it back to his chest, wincing at the pain. “Don’t look, sweetie, don’t look,” Morgan muttered in Grace's ear, his heart racing.

As Morgan rushed away, he could feel eyes at the back of his head, and he dared not look back. 

Not again.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3- Cracked Perceptions

Lorenzo was not a good man. He never was. From a young age, he was taught that you're either the beast or the feast, and he chose to be the beast. He didn’t like it, but he never hated it either; it was his way of life: collect, threaten, kill. Like all the De Lu men, he was cold-blooded and ruthless, but not sadistic—unlike his father, Andrew De Lu.

Andrew loved to watch his victims break, begging for mercy, giving them a little hope before taking it away in the slowest, most painful way possible. Enzo wasn’t like that. He had killed before, but he never liked seeing his victims beg, cry, shit, or piss themselves. The sounds were unbearable, like a buzzing in his ears, distracting, noisy, and irritating. All he wanted was the job done. A simple shot or a slice. Quick. Efficient. They could relax afterward.

He never cared if they were innocent. They should be lucky that Enzo was doing the job, not his father. He considered himself a grim reaper, inevitable, but always quick. That was his rule. A man’s death had to be swift and quiet afterwards, knowing it was coming.

It was easier that way. Easier for him. No long, drawn-out speeches about families or promises of money next week. He hated those. The 50th “I’ll have the money next week” made him want to snap their necks faster. Just get it over with. Quiet, simple, quick.

The job four years ago was usual. A family asked for their services. Said their heiress had been raped and impregnated by a bottle boy..hoster whatever. What was his name? How rude. How could he forget? Morgan. That’s right. Enzo had ordered his father’s men to catch the boy and bring him to the warehouse. Quick and easy.

Except this time, the family requested the boy get “special treatment.” Enzo assumed it meant roughing him up a little. But his men decided that drugging and violating the boy was appropriate punishment. Whatever. Not like Enzo cared. It was just another job. Another victim. Another corpse.

Enzo didn’t enjoy the violence like his father did. He needed a way to calm himself down before carrying out the final task. A tissue, some lotion, a car—just a little relief to center himself before he did the job. He had to keep it clean, keep the emotions out of it. Enzo was behind schedule that day, and it ached him that he couldn't finish, but oh well, it's just a quick slice after all.

He walked into the warehouse. Dark, just like he liked it. He didn’t need to see his victims in a sorry state. He always gave them that last bit of dignity—at least they deserved that.

One of his father’s goons, who had just “finished” with the boy, called out. His voice was disgustingly satisfied.

“Oh look, the little boss is here…”

Enzo heard a groan as the man lifted the boy’s hair.

“This bitches asshole feels just like a girl’s. Wanna try—”

“Enough,” Enzo cut the man off, his voice low, bored, disgusted. “Let’s just get this over with.”

He walked toward the boy, who was laid out on the floor, bleeding. God, what a horrible way to go. Hell, Enzo is giving him the mercy of a quick death.  Anyway, He pulled out his knife, flipping the boy over, ready to end his suffering.

But then something caught his attention. There was a lump on the boy’s chest. Not a bruise. Something bigger. Something tightly bound. Enzo’s hands went stiff, and his arms felt uncomfortably heavy.

The boy whimpered, not looking up, but Enzo’s fingers kept moving, feeling, trying to understand what he was touching. He went down lower and felt around the boy’s exposed groin. Wait. That didn’t make sense.

Isn’t there supposed to be a dick here?

Why was it so flat? So moist? So soft? So warm?

“Did you guys cut off his dick?” Enzo muttered, his fingers still tracing the strange contours of the boy’s body, confusion swirling in his mind. He felt something—a realization, but it didn’t make sense. His thoughts felt foggy, the sensations out of sync with what his brain was trying to process.

The boy started crying weakly, letting out a gasp when Enzo’s finger went deeper, unable to control his reaction.

“Turn on the lights!” Enzo ordered. His voice came out sharper, urgent now. Something was wrong. Something wasn’t right. He needed to see it. He needed clarity. His pulse was racing, an unfamiliar, intense, and overwhelming sensation. Enzo was no stranger to violence, but this… this felt different.

It took a moment for the lights to flicker on. The shadows receded. Enzo blinked, trying to focus on the scene in front of him.

And then, it hit him. The boy wasn’t a boy at all.

Enzo’s heart skipped, and his mind struggled to process the new information. It was as if a fog was lifting, but the truth wasn’t something his brain could immediately accept. Morgan. The name echoed in his mind, but he couldn’t fully understand it.

Morgan.

The softness— Morgan—wasn’t a boy at all.

Enzo had forgotten. In all his haste, in all his mental calculations, he hadn’t considered the possibility. The reality of it hit him harder than any punch.

At that moment, Enzo realized he had never really understood who he was dealing with.

Enzo turned yelled at the men and then men were shocked disgusted not for the obvious reasons that they got the wrong guy no…because they fucked a “tranny” so it wouldve been better if he was a man ugh whatever. Enzo turned around and saw that Morgan had already passed out. Good didn't have to hear this. He pulled out his phone and dialed his father's number.

His father was merciful for once and gave Morgan his life and a contract, and His father had the men who violated Morgan bring him to the office. God, they were loud, so disgusting, like they were the ones wronged, why were they speaking like that to Morgan…why did he care. His father, the worst of them all, heard a new voice from his father, rot and honey to the boy who sat across from him, broken head slumped still high from whatever drug the men gave to him, the bandaging sloppy as if his suffering was a prank gone wrong. Why weren't they more gentle? Why were they still so loud? Lorenzo’s face filled with disgust and anger.

What emotion was he feeling?

Lorenzo never had this emotion before, well, not in a long time

God, the boy looked beautiful.

Not just beautiful—radiant. Even wrecked and bloodied, he had the same bleached hair Enzo had seen. No, not seen—remembered. He looked like a fallen star.

A star who just got his star dimmed before its time.

The angel signed, and the men dragged out again. Why weren't they gentle? Why were they still so loud? Why were his eyes still locked on him?

Lorenzo confronted his father after the angel signed the contract. Why was it so poor and so little compensation? It was our fault, wasn’t it? Why was he talking like this to his father? Didn't he usually obey? Why was his mind still racing with that single star?

Lorenzo’s father just mocked, and a whiskey bottle was slammed on Lorenzo’s head when he tried to argue further. In his haze hearing, stars smeared his eyes, but his mind could only remain on that one. He could hear his father scoff, the words reverberating in his skull.

“That tranny’s lucky I let him live at all.”

“It’ll probably kill itself soon anyway.”

Enzo could only slightly register what his father said next—only the feeling.

Something breaking. His mind raced

How could his father talk about a star like that?

Something snapping.

An Angel so radiant talked off like a worm

Hate.

A Dammed angel

Not just hate—disgust

The man he grew up fearing, hiding, and then just numbness, Morgan, that angel awoken another emotion he never thought he could feel again. 

RAGE

And a familiar yet new feeling growing in his chest.

Chapter Text

The star never left Lorenzo's mind.

How could it? It brought him a warmth that he hadn't felt in a long time

His hair, his bronzed skin—everything about him cracked something open in Enzo, something warm.

It made it harder for him to focus and follow his rules. He felt himself becoming more sloppy. What was this feeling?

The newly ignited rage in Lorenzo’s heart was another gift from the angel.

Every order his father gave awakened a twitch, and every yell ignited a tidal wave of anger inside him. Was his father always so disgusting, so loud?

Two months after the angel's disgrace, something happened. Lorenzo’s father, the man who had ruled with an iron fist and tortured anyone who dared cross him, was dying.

Cancer.

The doctors gave him months—weeks, even—and the prognosis was terminal—Lorenzo wasn't surprised, he knew his father was sick in the way he acted and consumed, he had never cared for the man's health, just another day closer to inheritance. But still, the idea of watching him wither away, slowly rotting from the inside, filled Lorenzo with a strange, unexpected sense of dread.

He wasn’t ready for it. He needed him to atone.

The first few days after the diagnosis were marked with an eerie silence in the mansion. His father’s once-raging temper was now a weak rasp, his shouts reduced to coughing fits. There was something almost peaceful in it—something satisfying about watching the man who had destroyed so many people now become the one who was broken.

But it didn’t stop there. Lorenzo lingered by his father’s bedside more often than he cared to admit. He had always sworn he’d never care for the man, but now... now, a part of him reveled in the slow destruction of the beast.

Lorenzo broke one of his rules, a promise he lived by for years.

He let his father live, not only that, but he made sure his father received “care”, the same amount of care he showed to the world, Lorenzo assured it.

Lorenzo finally had an understanding of why his father liked seeing his victims suffer; it was vindicating, despite the noise and filth, watching a man so strong-willed go from cursing the devil to begging for mercy from that same devil. 

Watching a beast that once tore into the throats of deer now beg those same creatures for a scrap of grass—and be denied. 

Watching the beast's body change from firm, plump, and furious to sickly yellow, coughing up blood, its curses coated in its blood turning to please, smell of colon to blood, one can see how the beast's grip becomes weaker and weaker.

God, watching his father rot was exhilarating. A bullet to the temple would have been quicker, cleaner. But that wasn’t enough. No—he had to watch the beast decay, inch by inch, until there was nothing left but filth and silence, the ruthless beast's penance.

Unfortunately, the thrill only lasted seven months after Lorezno didn't even get to see it happen. The old man's heart gave out, so annoying, but at least it was quiet. No, it wasn't the star that was still on his mind. Morgan, where was he? Lorenzo still needed to atone to get on his knees and hope for the grace of an angel. Give him everything the angel was owed and more.

Then, in month five after the beast fell, his father’s men finally realized their king was dead. Haven't they noticed the silence?
And like roaches, they scattered.

Fools. Were they always this stupid?

Lorenzo was stronger and more cunning, but was still five against one.

They could’ve easily overpowered him—probably.

Instead, they panicked. Some tried to run. Some tried to carve out their power, gathering a few stragglers and claiming old territories.

It was laughable. They were rats scrambling on a sinking ship, pretending they were the new captains.

Annoying.

Lorenzo had to hunt them down, one by one.

And unlike with his father, there was no hesitation with them.

Their screams and begging were satisfying in a way he didn’t expect. There was something beautiful about it, even if it was loud or rang in his ears.

How could he forget?

The fingers that felt that warmth.

He could never use that hand to relieve himself again. No, he didn’t deserve that.

He didn’t need to dirty these fingers with his seed.

Not until he found his star. His Angel.

And atoned fully.

Lorenzo searched furiously for that radiance. The old workplace and all the businesses he had entertained all over the city still had nothing. Was his father right? Did the angel take that step and return to his kingdom of heaven? No, please, no, not again, but Lorenzo wouldn't blame the angel, not like he had the right to anyway. The name haunted his dreams and waking thoughts every day he ran his father's empire and hunted his father’s goons. Like a prayer, Morgan was embedded in his mind for years.

Present day, 4 years later

Lorenzo’s mind snapped back to the present. This rat was so annoying, running from city to city as if his very existence was already a stink enough. Lorenzo only needed a year to gather new, smarter men, a stronger hold on his father's empire, and then pest extermination. Four out of eight, to be more specific. Lorenzo and his men back the pest in an alleyway in a city. So much gas was wasted on this pest, it begged, it was disgusting “money” “territories” as if he had any real power in those places. He would have loved seeing the pest beg more, but he was in a new city in broad daylight and didn't want to dirty his trunk, so Lorenzo grabbed his gun.

BANG

Right in the head, silence for a moment, and then screams, buzzing, "Oh, he must be in a public area; it's so loud."

Lorenzo turned his head. The pest was slick, running to a park, thinking that would keep him safe. Lorenzo blankly watched as the people in the park rushed away, all grey and colorless. Good, they knew what was good for them. Lorenzo glanced at a little girl's face, her eyes wide with shock. Oh, great, that girl is curious. Lorenzo pitied the mother. The girl was probably going to have nightmares for months. Oh well.

Then, there was a blinding light, and the scene lit up with color.

Lorenzo's mind went blank. The scene, originally grey, suddenly lit up when the girl's mother? No, the girl's angel turned his face; it was him, his star, and his angel holding the child. God, the angel looked different. His hair was no longer bleached or buzzed, now brown, and to the nape of his neck. Yet he still shone. It was him, his angel. He didn't return to heaven; he was still on earth with a child. The child looked about three and a half. The angel pushed the child's head back. Lorenzo noticed the wince from his angel. Did it hurt? The angel began running like the others in the park.

But the light never left him, and the angel didn't look back. Lorenzo's eyes remained locked on the angel. Never mind; he should have been thanking the pest that lay dead on the alleyway floor. It brought him to his angel after years of looking. His angel was here.

Lorenzo wanted to chase after the angel, grab the angel, get on his knees, and pray to the angel, but no, it would be too rude. How could he come to someone so sacred without offering, without bread and wine, without even knowing if that child was Morgan's or someone else’s

Lorenzo's eyes never left the angel until it was out of view, the world muffling around him, and he snapped out of it. The world returned to its grey, uninteresting color, with the pest body rotting already. Was it just the garbage? It didn't matter.

Lorenzo's eyes snapped at the men he brought for the job, making both wince. He lifted his gloved hands, one pointing at the pest body and the other at his angel and the crowd he followed. The instructions were clear: dispose of the pest body and find all the information on all the people in that crowd, especially his angel. The men nodded, one going toward the alley and the other putting on a civilian jacket, running, pulling out his camera, following the crowd.

Lorenzo, however, walked towards the now-empty park and stood right next to the spot where the angel had stood before he ran. He could feel the warmth already, the image imprinting in his mind.

Finally, he found his angel again.

In one piece

Alive

And now he was ready to atone for himself.

Chapter Text

Morgan's heart pounded in his chest and rib, making his chest ache from both physical and mental Pain. How could he be so scared? It was just one gunshot. Why did it feel like that gunshot marked him like he was being hunted?

Grace clung onto Morgan's chest, making him shudder in Pain and almost drop Grace. No, Morgan thought, you're already failing her enough. Don't fail her more. Morgan finally made it to his apartment building, running up the stairs. His hand trembled as he picked up his key and quickly unlocked the door, pulling it back with a force that made his ribs push in further and then slamming the door shut with his back hyperventilating. 

Why was it so dark? Why was he so scared? It wasn't him getting shot at, right? he slid down the door. His chest felt so tight.

"Papa?" Grace spoke, her voice quiet and innocent. Morgan's eyes locked on her. Why was he being so selfish? His daughter was right here, confused and scared out of her mind. Morgan didn't have the mercy of being scared, not with her awake, at least.

Morgan put on a smile that didn't reach his eyes.  "Did you enjoy our run, sweetheart?" as he let go of Grace 

His sweet, innocent angel squealed, "Yes! It felt like being on a unicorn!" Grace body jumped up and down excitedly. 

Morgan took one small breath and another and painfully lifted himself off the floor, his chest still aching. Please let it go away so he can keep the rot in for a little longer.

Grace jumped up and down, still excited. "Can I have the ice cream now?" Morgan froze. What a lousy father he was. Morgan made a promise and broke it that same hour. He looked at the door. It was like darkness trying to creep inside, and Morgan instinctively moved to lock all the locks on the door, forgetting how much his chest felt like it was leaking rot. As he panted, he looked down at Grace, a guilty look written all over his face. "Sorry, sweetheart…Maybe tomorrow ." Morgan quickly backed away from the door as if it would eat him alive if he remained too close.

Morgan turned to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and pulled out a juice carton. He immediately moved to close the blinds, making the room a little darker. What if someone saw him? Morgan turned back to Grace with a smile and kneeled to her, handing her the juice. "I promise I'll get you the biggest ice cream ever tomorrow, okay?" Morgan felt his heart Ribs arch to his heart more. He wasn't sure if it was physical or mental. Grace, his understanding sunshine, took the juice with a smile. "Papa, you okay?" Grace questioned, looking at Morgan's chest instead of the distraction he had given her.

That alone made Morgan want to pull himself apart more."No, no, sweet sweetheart, I'm fine…"Morgan answered, his eyes shut."Just do Papa a favor, please." 

Grace nodded, jumping up again. "Get Papa his Big black shirt and sock ball…please, sweetie." Grace nodded and immediately rushed to, as told. Morgan finally let himself crumble on the couch, his chest pounding, begging for its release. He used to be able to do this for longer, keeping the ache away for days at a time; now, he can barely manage five hours without having the urge to unbind his chest to feel relief for 5 five minutes than the heaviness.

Grace quickly pranced over with both items in hand. She was such a sweet girl. Grace left them on the couch, looking up at Morgan expertly. Morgan lifted his body and smiled back at Grace. "Thank you so much, sweetie. You're so smart, you know…"

Morgan's eyes almost pricked with tears, hoping to keep this sweet moment forever, knowing that what came after this would feel worse. "Okay, sweetie, go to your room where you're going to play hide and seek. You hide, I seek, and you'll have to count to ten…" Morgan put his face to his chin, pretending to think, "You have been practicing, right…". Grace let out a huff, stomping her feet in protest. "Papa, I can count to fifteen now. Imma, a big girl now; I wanna count to fifteen!"

Morgan forced a smile. "Of course, sweetie, count as high as you like. I'll try my hardest to find you, okay? "Grace jumped up again, pleased, and immediately rushed to the bedroom and began loudly counting.

"ONE,"

Morgan forced himself at the word, his eyes downcast.

"TWO" 

Morgan forced himself to the bathroom, keeping the lights off. He couldn't bear to look at himself. 

"Thwee~"

Grace giggled. Morgan could slightly hear her shifting her bedsheets.

Morgan quickly unbuttoned his shirt, each button feeling like a slow death

"Four"

With his shirt off, Morgan reached for his chest and removed the damp, too-small sports bra.

"Um?"

Morgan felt around his chest until he found the loose end of the bandage, slowly undoing them. It was better to do it than rush. It would only prolong the feeling of rot after

"Ummm Fwive"

Finally, the badges came off. Morgan breathed a deep sigh of relief. The Pain was sharp, freeing, and almost comforting. 

"Seven!..." Grace's excited squeal went dull in Morgan's mind as he looked at the mirror.

The heaviness and rot began. His chest once felt tight, bound like a corpse's body, tight and numb. Now it was heavy like his ribs had been ripped open as well, exposing his insides.

Morgan quickly grabbed the shirt and put it over his head, not wanting to look any further down, not at his cursed stomach that somehow made a miracle.

The shirt was two times too big, put loose enough that it didn't immediately draw attention to his chest, and that was enough, at least while he was home.

Morgan looked at the dark bathroom mirror again. That wasn't him. That wasn't his face. Didn't he look different? Where did all his muscles go? Why did he have to bind himself up like this? Wasn't it just two tapes and done? Why did Morgan look like this?

"PAPA FIFITHEEN…FIthtween…Papa?!"

Morgan immediately snapped out of his daze. He didn't have time for a self-pity party; his daughter was waiting.

"I'M COMING, DEAR YOU BETTER HIDE WELL, IMMA GET YOU!" Morgan put on a raspy tone like a monster

"Nooooo, I hide well!" Grace giggles. Morgan could hear her feet kicking.

Morgan took off his pants, leaving himself in his boxers. Then he grabbed the sock and tucked it down his shorts enough for today, just a tiny comfort that didn't bring him physical Pain, unlike his chest.

Morgan scratched the wall slowly as he approached Grace's room, letting out wolf-like growls and making Grace giggle.

"I'm gonna get you…" Morgan growled in a low tone as he entered Grace's room, which was all yellow and bright, just like her.

"Shhhh, don't let Papa hear you…" Morgan heard Grace whisper. Grace was probably talking to one of her dolls.

"Are you here!" Morgan opened the closet doors

Grace squealed

"How about here?" Morgan checked behind the curtain, shuddering at the light, feeling like he was still being hunted, and shut the curtain. He felt his body tense up again. NO, NO, this isn't about him. He doesn't get to break down; he's done that enough.

"How about…" Morgan took slow steps, intentionally making the floor creak underneath him. He heard his daughter hold her breath and the bed sheets ruffle.

Morgan made loud, exaggerated sniffing noises as he put his hands underneath the blanket.

Then he pulled it open, revealing a little girl, his prey, clutching onto her doll, covering its mouth as if it would yell.

"FINALLY MY MEAL!" and then Morgan "devoured" his prey, in other words, blowing on Grace's stomach as she screamed and cried in fear and joy, her doll still clutched in her hand.

"NO PAPA AHHH"

Morgan then "snatched" the doll from his daughter's hand and made a swallowing sound. He dropped the doll into his shirt and made a pooping sound as the doll fell out.

"Ewww, papa nasty!" Grace pointed at the doll and covered her nose

Morgan giggled, his chest feeling freer now, distracting him from the heaviness.

"You should be lucky I only ate your stomach, darling. You need to find a better hiding spot."

Grace huffed as Morgan lifted her off the bed to the soft floor.

"Let's make dinner, sweetie. I must ensure my snack is big enough to fit in the oven." Morgan began leading Grace out of the room and into the kitchen.

"Okay…Next, I go seek, okay Papa!" Grace lifted her head, still looking defiant. She was so much stronger than he was, Morgan thought.

Morgan hummed in agreement, and then Grace spoke again. 

"Can we go outside tomorrow?" 

Then Morgan felt weak again. He turned his head and looked at the front door. It still felt like something was waiting to jump out and get him. How selfish of him to think like that! He thought, what if that thing took Grace, who cared about him?

Morgan's eyes remained locked on the door as he answered softly, fear creeping into his voice.

"Tomorrow… "

Morgan begged his mind and body, Please don't let it be another selfish lie.

"Tomorrow we'll go, sweetheart…" Morgan answered again, leading Grace to the kitchen to cook her dinner.

He couldn't bear to look her in the eye as he told himself that lie.

Chapter Text

The office was dark and muted, just how Lorenzo liked it, with no distraction, just a comfortable silence, the air conditioning at a perfect 70 degrees, and the television on but silent. Lorenzo sat in the office chair—one gloved hand on the armrest, the other bare, touching the pebbles where his angel once stood. The only warmth he allowed himself. It's been 5 days and 18 hours since Lorenzo last saw him, yet the memory of his face still burned as if it were only an hour ago. He told his men to make a report on his angel once he pointed him out from the picture of the crowd running away, and had it back to him before Sunday. After all, his star needed to be worshipped on the holy days.

There were two knocks at the door. Finally, if they delayed a moment longer, Lorenzo would have to find replacements —ones who understood urgency as devotion.

Lorenzo let the pebbles fall from his hands as he knocked on the wooden table, signaling they could enter.

Then the door opened with a squeak, shattering the silence. The man better have what Lorenzo asked for—or else.

The man walked in holding a stack of documents, clearly not enough. There has got to be more about his angel. He doesn't know yet; he can't visit with ignorance. Then the man's voice spoke squeakily and bothersomely.

“Good Evening, Godfather De Lu…” the man gulped, setting down the paper stack and picking the one on top. “We found all the information on the person you sent us to track.”

“Go on…” Lorenzo put his glove back on. He forced himself to lift his head to make eye contact with the man, focusing on his mouth.

The man shuddered, adjusted his glasses, and began reading from the paper, avoiding Lorenzo's gaze.

“The Woman’s name is Megan Liotta; she’s currently in her mid twe—”

“Stop,” Lorenzo's voice cut him off, low and threatening. “His name is Morgan, get it right.”

The man shivered, the paper fumbling in his arms. 

“Y-yes sir, um H-he is in his mid-twenties, currently unemployed …”

The man brought the sheet closer to his face, using it as a shield.

Coward.

Lorenzo didn’t blink.

He let the silence hang for a beat too long to watch the man squirm.

Then, finally, the man regained his composure.

“H-he has been living in Delle Rovine 112, 67104 2B for a total of 4 years. The apartment was a gift from the old Don as part of the compensation agreement. There is no monthly rent, but he has to pay utilities such as electricity.

The man coughed

“There is currently a total of 100,961 dollars in his account that has only been used, which we can infer is utilities and groceries only, and no debts from what we found…”

Lorenzo takes a deep breath and waits for more.

“About 3 years ago, Meg- I mean Morgan- was hospitalized and had given birth to a child named Grace Liotta, currently 3 years old and—…”

Lorenzo finally looked up at the man in his eyes.

“Did anyone sign off as the father of the child?”

Lorenzo's raised. His voice made the man jump.

How weak.

“N-no g-god father after h-his C-section surgery, he only signed off as the mother.”

Lorenzo sighed in relief; good, his angel didn't have a husband or ex-husband. Not like that would stop him but saved him the bloodshed

Or did that mean the possibility that one of those pests is the child's father?  Such an insignificant thing. Everything would go smoothly once he saw and spoke to his angel again.

The men finally put the paper down. How rude he must have blocked out the rest of his angel's divine details. It doesn't matter; Lorenzo would read these documents like the world's last piece of holy writing.

The man took a deep breath, straightening himself.

"Would you like us to send some men to capture her-HIM HIM!"

Lorenzo’s gaze snapped to the man with the cold finality of a blade drawn in a church. The man paled.

Lorenzo stood slowly from his desk. Deliberate. Controlled.

Each step toward the man was a death sentence written in leather soles and silence.

He couldn’t even bring himself to feel anger toward the misgendering anymore.

Not really.

It was the fact that this insignificant thing had the guts to suggest that his angel was in the presence of anyone else but him.

Lorenzo towered over the man, seeing each bead of sweat on his forehead. Then he clutched the man's hair, making the man look up at him. The man whimpered so loudly.

“You should learn to be quiet…”

“It’d be such a shame,” Lorenzo continued, tapping the knife gently against the man’s cheek, “if one of my informants forgot how to speak. Permanently.”

The man sobbed—loud and ugly. It echoed in the still room like a crack in stained glass.

Lorenzo let go of his hair, making a lazy flick of the same hand toward the door.

Dismissed.

The man didn’t wait. He bolted, the stench of fear trailing behind him like incense. Lorenzo wouldn’t have been surprised if the bastard pissed himself on the way out.

Disgusting.

Lorenzo, without a flicker of emotion, took the knife and sliced cleanly through the glove that had touched the man’s hair. The expensive fabric fell to the floor without ceremony, like shed skin.

He turned to the pile of documents on his desk.

To Lorenzo, they shimmered—more valuable than gold, more sacred than scripture.

With his bare hand, he reached out and gently caressed the paper as if afraid the ink might flake off under too much pressure. He swore he could feel the warmth radiating from it.

Soon, he thought, my sweet angel. I’ll come before you and beg for your Grace. You’ll see how much I’ve learned. How much I’ve changed, how you changed me.

His gaze lifted toward the silent television across the room. On-screen, a man knelt before his crying fiancée, holding a ring with trembling hands.

Lorenzo smiled, soft and certain.

Yes.

Everything would go exactly as planned.

Lorenzo reached for the remote and shut off the television. The scripture needed his full attention.

No distractions

Day 1

Morgan wasn’t able to keep his promise.

The fear was too palpable—thick in the air, under his skin.

He had never felt more useless in his life.

Grace didn't notice. She seemed to be so happy just being the somehow amazing seeker of Morgan all day.

I'll go tomorrow, Morgan thought to himself, knowing it was a lie

Day 3:

Grace asked if they could go to the park. She wanted to play with the birds

Morgan barely managed to open the blinds that day, only doing each with slow steps and the fear of making Grace as scared as he was.

“Sorry, sweetheart, maybe tomorrow…”

“But Papa, you said that yesterday!” Grace whined and pouted, crossing her arms.’

God, if Morgan ever felt more horrible

“I know, I know, sweetheart, but um, OH, we can’t because we’re on a secret mission, and we have to stay quiet in our base.”

“Wait, really?!” Grace asks, her pout disappearing.

“Yes, sweetheart, and we must make drawings  of pretty princesses to ensure our mission is completed.”

Grace immediately became excited, running to her room to get crayons and paper. Finally, Morgan had an excuse not to feel terrified when approaching the door.

Morgan turned off the lights that day; he didn't need any more reminders of his futility.

Day 5:

“Can we go outside now?” Grace asked again.

Morgan bit his lip.

He made an effort this time—he unlocked two locks on the door and even tried to open them fully.

But the dread curled in his stomach like a snake whenever he tried to approach the door.

His chest tightened.

His legs refused to move.

“I’m sorry, sweetie,” he said, forcing a smile. “It’s gonna rain later. Let’s

Play Dance Dance instead.”

A lie.

A coward’s lie.

His heart ached.

Morgan saw it in her eyes, the disappointment her sunshine dimmed

Morgan felt his chest feel more ripped open than before. And as punishment for Morgan's lie, his body started to punish him more

He bled that night, another ghastly reminder of what he was.

Day 6,

It's late afternoon, and the sun is setting. Grace is between Morgan's legs, playing pretend with her doll as Morgan combs through her damp hair from showering. The Beauty and the Beast end credits play in the background. He could only unlock the second-last lock on the door and felt dread again. How weak.

“Papa, I want my hair like Belle!” Grace exclaimed as she tied her doll's hair in a lopsided ponytail.

Morgan barely manages to comb Grace's hair without making her cry.

Morgan chuckles.

“Darling, you're going to bed in an hour…” Morgan finally manages to get a knot out of Grace's hair, with Grace making a yelping sound.

“Besides that, hair is not something I can do, you know…. I promise I'll take you to a salon once we find you a daycare.”

Grace huffed as she tried to do her doll's hair again. “Then I want my hair pretty brown like Belle’s and Papa’s!”

Morgan finally pulls Grace's hair back into a downward ponytail and lifts her from the floor to the couch.

“Sweetie, your hair is already stunning black. It suits your face.”

Grace kicks her feet on the couch as if her mind is thinking about something, and then it breaks.

“Papa, does my mama have black hair?” Grace asked, looking innocent, like that question had shattered Morgan.

Morgan stared at his daughter, his hands. “What do you mean, darling…” Morgan manages to choke out his chest, feeling heavier, not sure if it's just mental or physical.

Grace clasps her hand in determination. “I mean, my mama!” Grace points at Morgan's stomach. “Auntie told me I came from your belly, and you're my mama …”

Each word his sunshine spoke felt like a stab.

“...but that's not true! You're my Papa!…”

Then, the final words shattered Morgan.

“When can I meet my mama ?”

Mogan's mind dragged him back, unwillingly, to that night.

The floor.

The drug.

The jeers.

The turns.

The office.

Did any of them have black hair?

“Papa…Papa?”

Morgan's mind snaps back to the present, and he looks at Grace again

How rude of me... to compare my daughter to demons. My sunshine... born of night. Morgan thought.

Morgan took a deep breath, grasping his chest and scratching it to bring him back as he took a deep breath.

“You don’t have a mama, sweetheart,” Morgan manages to choke out, hating having to lie.

Grace tilted her head, her voice soft. "Then who gave me my black hair...'

Morgan felt his chest get heavier.

“Maybe when your older ill tell you” Morgan never felt more worthless in his life, having to sit down and tell his daughter one day that his whore of a father doesn't even know his angel other fa-NO monster identity.

“But I am a big girl now, I'm three!”

Morgan said if it were up to him, he would never tell Grace and keep it just the two of them forever, but unfortunately, dreams can't be reality. Morgan knows this.

“Are you three?” Morgan asks in a mock surprise tone.

“But just yesterday, you were crawling on the floor. Done tell me my princess is a liar,”

Grace jumped up, standing on the couch, her face filled with toddler-like anger.

“NO, I THREE PAPA!” Grace yelled, grabbing one of the couch pillows and hitting Morgan on the chest.

Morgan gasped as he instinctively covered his chest, ignoring the heaviness. 

Just for this moment

“NO, you are not. You were just a baby yesterday. You are MY BABY.”

Morgan picked up a pillow and hit Grace back in return.

Grace seemed to forget the question that would have shattered Morgan more, and they had a pillow war.

Moments like this made everything better. They made Morgan forget his failures and feel like the father his angel deserved.

“AHHH, MERCY, MERCY!” Morgan yelled as he covered his face, being attacked by his pillow weapon and Grace's pillow. Giggling left his daughters mouth.

A knock on the door abruptly ended the moment. A distinct knock

Two knocks and the bell

Morgan didn't order anything, not like he could

“Huh? Papa,” Grace looked at the door, tilting her head in confusion as she put the pillow down.

Two knocks and the bell rings.

Morgan felt his chest tighten with dread as he stood up and approached the door, his hands trembling.

Two knocks and the bell rings louder now as if the thing at the other end was getting impatient.

God, Morgan knew that ring was too familiar.

Despite dreading the door for the past week, Morgan approached it, his hand hovering over the lock.

Then time froze.

Chapter Text

Morgan's hand froze as it hovered over the lock.

Like it did for the past six days.

Morgan's hand couldn't make that one final step 

Then the knock came louder with a voice

A grating voice, Morgan knew too well

“MORGAN, I KNOW YOU'RE HOME. OPEN UP!” a woman's voice shouted through the door. Morgan could hear her bags jingling with jewelry.

“AUNTIE!!!” Grace squealed, jumped from the couch, dropped the pillow, and ran to the door.

“Grace, shhh-” Morgan was cut off by the voice again.

“MORGAN, IF YOU DON'T OPEN THE DOOR RIGHT NOW,” the woman said in a loud huff as if preparing to blow the door away.

“I will call you by your proper name…OPEN UP MEG-”

Morgan’s fear vanished in an instant. Morgan unlocked the door—

Only for a coat to be shoved into his chest with a huff.

“AUNTIE GIA!!!”  Grace squealed, lifting her hands.

“Men are so rude nowadays, keeping a lady waiting,” Gia huffed out, picking up Grace and walking to the couch like she owned the place. Slumping down, shopping bags lay next to her as Grace giggled.

“Good evening, Giovanna,” Morgan mumbled, getting his bearings. Morgan hung Gia's coat on the rack and immediately closed the doors like a demon would jump out if they remained open.

“Don't ‘Good evening’ me, Dear god, Morgan. Just because you insist you're a man doesn't mean you must behave like one.”

Morgan stared at her, pulse pounding. How many times had she said that line loud enough for Grace to hear?

Gia crosses her legs, digs into one of the shopping bags, and pulls out a princess dress. “I got this for you, princess.” Gia's voice immediately changes to sweetness when she talks to Grace and smiles sweetly.

“YAY, THANK YOU, AUNTIE!” Grace grabs the dress and tries to put it on. Morgan walks by and plucks the dress out of Grace's hands.

“C'mon, sweetie, you have bedtime in an hour. You’ll wear it tomorrow.” Morgan put distance between the overly glittered dress, which is already shedding glitter.

“Oh, come on, ‘papa. ' You can't deny your daughter a womanly activity, too,” Gia said, crossing her legs.

“Don't…” Morgan gritted his teeth, holding back anger as he folded the glittery dress.

Gia seemed to freeze momentarily and then quickly turned her head, avoiding eye contact with Morgan.

“Ugh, I didn't mean- never mind anyway, Grace, sweetheart, what did you eat today?” Gia immediately turned her face to Grace, smiling while petting Grace’s hair.

“Papa made me cheese sandwiches, yummy yumm,y” Grace spoke, cuddling into Gia.

“Cheese…” Gia deadpans, looking up at Morgan, her face filled with her judgmental stare

“Yes, cheese, Giovanna, I was going grocery shopping tomorrow…” Morgan responds, crossing his arms, “Besides, I made lentil soup, and Grace refused to eat it.”

“Lentil yucky!” Grace declared, sticking out her tongue.

Morgan and Gia locked eyes in a silent standoff.

Gia finally pulls her face away to cup Grace's cheek.

“My dear, you must be so hungry. Luckily, I have some lasagna in my bag from my trip.” Gia coowed

“She's going to sleep in an hour-” Morgan is cut off. “And she won't be going to sleep on an empty stomach, ‘Papa,’” Gia says, reaching into one of her bags and pulling out a lasagna container as Grace squeals.

Morgan grumbles under his breath, turning to Grace's room as he moves. Morgan hears Grace babbling with her mouth full about Gia's trip, and Gia scolding her about how it's rude for a ‘lady’ to chew with her mouth open.

As Morgan enters Grace's room, he kneels on the floor and folds the dress to put it in one of Grace's drawers. “Morgan’s mind drifted, unwillingly, back to that night.

Three years ago.~

Grace's room, or at the time, a bare room with no furniture, was just something Morgan would lie in in the dark when he got tired of rotting in bed. The apartment was barely furnished, just the preset furniture left when he arrived. Of course, the room was dark, all the blinds shut, and no trace of lights. Morgan didn't want to look at himself. Then he heard the doorbell ring, another delivery of food that Morgan barely managed to pick up without crying as he slumped up, his body heavy. When Morgan unlocked the door, a sudden pain engulfed him. It wasn't the normal body pain. It was worse in his lower abdomen. He unlocked the door and crumbled to the floor.

His knees hit the floor first.

Then, his palms.

He tried to stand, but—

Splash.

Warmth spread between his legs. Thick. Wet.

A sound.

A smell.

He blinked. Looked down.

Dark. Red. Brown.

Great, now I can't even use the bathroom correctly, Morgan thought. Another torturous shot of pain cut it off, and he collapsed to his side.

Morgan screamed.

White-hot pain shot up his spine. He curled on his side, clutching at his stomach, the muscles pulling tight in rhythmic spasms.

His mouth foamed with spit, his throat raw from screaming.

He couldn't breathe.

Morgan didn't know how long he was screaming. All he remembered was the blinding bathroom light being flipped on for the first time in months.

“JESUS CHRIST, DEAR, ARE YOU OK?” Gia's voice, Morgan's neighbor, Morgan barely acknowledged how she got in. Of course, Morgan left the door open.

'How dumb of him'

Gia was already crouching beside Morgan, eyes wide, grabbing his arm.

“Jesus Christ, dear, you're in labor. Don't worry. I'll get you to the hospital right away, dear.” Gia's voice sounded distant, as if she were saying it from a mile away. What did she mean by “labor?”

She hooked her arms under his and lifted. Morgan screamed again.

“I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” she said.

She half-dragged, half-cradled him up, pushing his back against the sink.

That’s when Morgan saw it.

The mirror.

For the first time in months

There he was, or at least it looked like him.

Hunched.

Slick with sweat.

Face sunken, eyes wide with panic.

Morgan's hair was wild and longer, his bleach-dyed hair having outgrown it.

His body was chubbier, his chest heavier.

And below that—

His stomach.

A round, swollen curve. Full and obvious.

So much rounder than he remembered.

Fleshy.

Soft.

Its shape was impossible to mistake.

Morgan’s eyes locked on it.

‘No… No, no, no.’

And then Morgan screamed again.

Not from pain this time.

From seeing.

Morgan screamed like something had died in him.~

Then Morgan was back.

Clutching onto the glittering dress that was already shedding onto Grace’s clothes.

His breath shook. His knuckles are white around the sequins. He could still feel it—

The floor.

The pain.

His reflection.

He shoved the dress in the drawer and slammed it shut harder than necessary, ready to crumble into himself. Maybe He let himself cry for a moment, but then he felt a tug on his shirt.

'Not now,' Morgan thought as he plastered a smile on his face. He turned his head, expecting to see Grace's curious face, only to see Gia playing with the fabric of his shirt, with a disappointed glare in her eyes and a bag on her side.

“You're still wearing these shirts, huh?” Gia asked, her voice filled with annoyance.

Morgan gritted his teeth, snatching the fabric from Gia's hand and standing up straight. Now, he towered over Gia.

“Listen, Gia. I have dealt with it for long enough. If you are going to act like this, you can LEA—” Morgan was cut off by the shopping bag being pushed to his chest, making him stumble back.

“You men don't know how to speak to a woman, do you? " Gia huffed out, her voice softer now.

“Now, if you let me finish on my trip, I found something I think you would like.”

Morgan's mouth pressed into a tight line as he reached into the now crumbled bag, pulling out a glitter-covered binder. Morgan's eyes widened in shock as he stared at Gia, her arms crossed.

“I still don't get why you insist on hiding your figure. You would look great if you tried, but… " Gia then made eye contact with Morgan's chest, making Morgan flinch. “But seeing you use those bandages to wrap your chest up like it's shameful, I know it's not comfortable or healthy. I see how you flinch during and after, so I got you this…” Gia then took a deep breath and began to pull up Morgan's shirt, making Morgan yelp.

“Relax, ‘papa’, I've held Grace for you while you breastfed her. I've seen everything already,” Gia scolded, lifting Morgan's oversized shirt. Morgan didn't resist afterward. His heavy chest felt distant as he felt the binder being pulled past his head, and then his chest didn't feel heavy anymore.

Morgan turned and looked at the mirror. The binder felt like a tank, but Morgan didn't feel like he was staring at a stranger's body in the mirror this time.

Morgan felt like himself.

Morgan's breath caught in his throat. He didn't hate the shape staring back at him for the first time in forever.

Gia appeared behind him in the mirror, her face a mix of relief and annoyance.

“Make sure you don't wear those ugly oversized shirts again, you hear me!-’ For once, Gia was cut off

“Thank you. Thank you, Gia!” Morgan cried out, tears flowing from his face as he hugged Gia harder as if she allowed him to breathe for the first time in years 

Gia let out a cough as she began banging on Morgan's back. “Let me go, you brute. Are you trying to kill me?!” Morgan immediately let go of Gia, wiping tears from his face with a smile

Gia backed up, catching her breath, and then gave Morgan a once-over 

“You do have the manners of a man, don't you?” Gia huffed out as she turned out of the grace room

“Well, I hope you like your gift. I expect to be hosted like a proper lady. I bought some wine, and I'll be on the couch; don't keep me waiting.” Gia then walked out of Grace’s room with less bite than normal

Morgan couldn't even get mad and turned back to the mirror, admiring the flatness on his chest, smiling like he had just received the greatest gift ever.

Because Morgan had

A few minutes later, Morgan walked in with a tray holding a wine bottle, two wine glasses, and a juice box. Morgan set down the tray and handed Grace the juice as she squealed. She dropped the napkin she was using to wipe her mouth with, immediately downing it as if it were her first drink of the day.

Morgan then grabbed the wine, poured both glasses, and slumped on the couch, a trashy telenovela playing on his TV.

“Close your legs, be polite,” Gia mumbled as she picked up the wine glass and sipped.

Morgan chuckled, doing as he was told and picking up his glass.

“So how's you fam-”  “Shut up, it’s starting.” Gia cut Morgan off

Sitting cross-legged on the floor with her juice box, Grace was immediately engrossed, eyes wide as the lead actress gasped and dramatically clutched her chest.

Morgan leaned back with a sigh, downing half his glass in one go.

The ranting started about ten minutes in.

Gia, already two glasses deep and tipsy, waved a hand toward the screen. “You see, this is why all men are trash!”

Morgan raised an eyebrow, swirling his wine. “Didn’t you try to set me up with a man last month?”

“That’s different. ” Gia huffed, taking another sip. “You need stability. But look at this bastard, lying to her face and pretending it’s love. And she believes him!” She threw up her hands. “So stupid!”

Grace let out a giggle. “YES, MEN, STUPID!”

“Don't curse, darling,” Morgan quickly hushed Grace as she giggled, her eyes fixed on the TV.

Great. Grace's sleep schedule is now ruined for tonight.

Gia’s eyes narrowed. “Don't hush my princess. Gia hiccuped, “I could tell you stories, but there is no gospel on how men are terrible.”

“And you will,” Morgan deadpanned. “Right now.”

And just like that, Gia was off, ranting about her long-dead ex-husband and every single bad relationship she had in her lifetime.

As the night went on, Gia's drunken ranting didn't stop, and Grace had long since collapsed on the floor, her slight snore muffled by the TV.

Yes, how could he forget this show? Gia has forced Morgan to watch it so many times.

The men and women have a relationship

Men ruin women's lives under the instruction of the "evil mother."

They break up, and the woman turns out pregnant and hides it

The man finds out and barges into the woman's home 

The woman's screams and arguing become cries of joy as the man proposes after seeing the child.

They live “happily ever after,” the man walking back into their life as if all the pain meant nothing and was just water under the bridge.

Just forgiveness. The man didn't even have to grovel for that long

What a stupid show.

Morgan shut off the TV after the show ended, and the night was relatively peaceful.

Gia was now almost blacked out drunk, heading towards Morgan's door, still ranting.

Morgan picked up a sleeping Grace and waved Gia off as she stumbled out the door to her apartment.

Morgan would put Grace to bed and wait

Gia probably wouldn't be able to open her door.

Chapter Text

Enzo followed his promise; He studied his angel's file. 

He studied every page of his angel’s file—read until the words blurred, until the facts became prayers.

Enzo stopped his filthy tears from touching the holy text

Still not enough.

Emergency C-section.

Unmedicated. Alone.

Blood loss.

Psychological trauma.

The sudden stop to therapy appointments one year ago.

A paper trail of pain—and silence.

How his angel suffered.

That child has wronged his angel so much,

Unknowingly. Selfishly. Just by existing.

But it wasn’t her fault.

It was his.

It was always his.

It doesn't matter, the child doesn't matter; all that matters is receiving forgiveness from his angel.

Every single cent of atonement.

Enzo reluctantly shut the file as soon as the sun began setting.

How could he keep his angel waiting? Enzo needed to see him.

Lorenzo rose from his desk, pulling on a new pair of leather gloves—the right way, slow and precise—before heading downstairs..

His men all bowed in acknowledgment as he left the building. One of them took the initiative to open his car door and hand him the key.

The man's attempt at flattery was so blatant that it was disgusting, but Lorenzo had more critical, divine matters to attend to.

After ten minutes of driving, Lorenzo finally let out a breath of relief 

Ten minutes into the drive, Enzo let out a long, shaky breath slowly, shoulders relaxing against the leather seat. No more bowing men. No more flattery. No more Lorenzo.

Just Enzo.

And silence.

Of course, that never lasted long.

As the stoplight turned red, making him stop

Then his mind wandered to the past.

Unfortunately, his mind didn’t go to his angel. It went back to the rot.

The memory was blurry, but there it was—a janitor's closet that Lorenzo had ordered to be repurposed as a hospital room.

Lorenzo walked in coldly, only to have a plastic cup thrown at him, but the beast missed

Lorenzo's eyes locked on the sickly,  half-dead man in front of him.

His father

The staff has been taking care of him just like he ordered 

The beast's body was covered in bed sores, his skin darkened with dirt

And his firm body smelled of rot and weakness

Just like he ordered

The beast spoke, his voice wet with phlegm, matching the rot curling from his gums.

“YOU USELESS WRETCH, DO YOU THINK THIS CHANGES ANYTHING? YOU'RE STILL JUST DIRT UNDER MY SHOE!” The beast screamed. Lorenzo could see how it pained the beast's chest. What a fool, even a wounded animal knows how to bow his head and beg. Lorenzo thought as he pulled out an old rickety chair and sat by his father's bedside as it continued to spit more bile.

His voice slithered from memory, thick with mucus and decay. “You think this makes you better than me, boy? Keeping me alive like a useless little nursemaid—for that tranny ? That hole with tits and a beard?”

Enzo flinched at his father's words. How dare he talk about that angel in such a way? If Lorenzo weren't already stressed enough that day, he would ensure he would stay longer than he intended just to give his father ‘personal care’

The beast finally slumped again, his body weakened by the bile he had just spat, tears falling down his face.

“You're just like her.”

Enzo's eyes locked on his father; his hand began to tremble as he reached for his pocket.

“Don’t look so shocked. You always were her child. Soft. Sniveling. Over-emotional…” The beast let out a series of coughs, tears still falling from its face.

Enzo heard a loud horn from the car behind him. With shaking hands, he pulled over to a corner, barely missing another vehicle, but his mind didn't come back.

“...are you even from my seed!” The beast yelled, tears streaming down its face, shaking in anticipation. Enzo, with a shaking hand, gripped his gun.

“You're just like your Mot-”

The gun that was in his hand moved before he even knew he’d reached for it.

He pressed the cold barrel to his temple—no, his father’s . In his mind, they were the same, just for a moment.

The trigger didn't move.

Neither did he.

He stared through the windshield, a pulse in his jaw ticking.

The beast looked up at him with a smug expression, but Enzo could see it in the beast's eyes - desperation begging Enzo to end its suffering.

But he didn't shoot the gun.

Not because the beast didn’t deserve it.
But because he had somewhere more important to be.

He lowered the gun and drove on.

To his angel.

Enzo finally arrived in his angel's neighborhood after half an hour 

It was so far beneath his angel. It should be lucky it even had the Grace of hosting him

But Lorenzo couldn't bring himself to open  his car door

All the apartment lights were off; they must be sleeping.

His angel must be resting.

And what right did he have to disturb such peace?

Enzo sat frozen, leather gloves still tight on his hands, his breath fogging the window.

The quiet made everything louder—his heartbeat, his shame, the memory of rot clinging to his clothes.
He could still smell his father.
He could still hear him.

‘You’re just like her.’
‘Over-emotional.’
‘Soft.’
‘Sniveling.’

Enzo’s hand drifted down, slow and shameful.

Maybe he could do it one more time after all these years. 

Enzo is going to see his angel again, maybe even have the chance to touch him.

Enzo gripped his crotch hard, as if punishing himself—half his mind trying to kill the shame, the other craving relief after years of abstinence.

He didn’t mean to.
It wasn’t about lust. Not really.
It was about relief .

Control
Maybe if he just—

Enzo hissed when he touched himself through his pants, the friction slow and pathetic.

He imagined his angel sleeping.
Peaceful.
Safe.

So beautiful.

Disgusting.

Enzo’s jaw tightened. He yanked his hand away, as if it had been burned.

He would not show up filthy.
He would not touch the divine with hands soiled by a lesser being.

Enzo took a breath, then another.

Enzo opened the car compartment, taking out a neat envelope and tucking it into his suit pocket.

Slowly, he removed just one glove—the left.

With that bare hand, he opened the car door.
A ritual. A show of respect.

Only then did he step out, the night air cold against his feverish skin.

The building loomed ahead, unworthy. But inside—inside was the only thing in this damned world that mattered.

Enzo entered the building through the main door, which had no lock, as if it weren't protecting anything divine.

As he entered and walked up the building, he couldn't help but be disgusted. 

The floors look like they're only cleaned twice a week, and the wallpaper is peeling at the edges.

And is that a penny on the stair handle?

Enzo gagged quickly, swatting it away with his gloved hand as he rushed up the uneven stairs.

Disgusting! It wasn't even a clean new one; it was one of those old, moldy ones.

Enzo stopped and had to take a breath as he reached the second floor, panting and gagging in disgust.

Once he saw his angel, all of this would be fine.

After a couple more seconds of dry heaving, Enzo finally stepped onto the second floor.

Apartment 2B

God, Enzo would have it tattooed on his body after today.

Only with his angel's permission after all.

As he walked through the hallway, divine thoughts coursing through his mind

Then he froze as he saw a figure.

An older woman in her 60s, drunkenly fiddling with her key, trying to get into her apartment.

Right next to his angels.

She was swaying like a clothesline in the wind, mumbling curses under her breath as she jammed her keys into the wrong part of the doorframe.

Apartment 2A.

Of course, she didn't matter; it's the fact that he couldn't worship his angel with someone less worthy of his angel's grace next to him.

Enzo reluctantly approached, trying to slip past the women, but unfortunately, she saw him first.

The woman turned her head, her eyes bleary and flushed. “H-Hey! Who the fuck—”

She squinted. Her eyes struggled to focus, and then her mouth curled into something like a smile.

“Oh. You're... tall,” she slurred. “Are you with the gas company? My heater hasn't been working for weeks.”

Enzo froze as the lady approached him, and he quickly put his mask back on.

He blinked. Then smiled.

Not the charming kind. The kind of smile Lorenzo gave when he was “flirting” with the wife of an associate who owed him money, just to get their guard down.

“Please allow me,” Lorenzo said, puffing out his chest as he used his gloved right hand to open the door.

As Enzo pulled the faulty key out of the door hole, he noticed something divine on it.

2B on its handle, this is his angel's key, so this woman must know his angel somehow

“Well, aren’t you a tall drink of water?” the woman slurred, patting Enzo's arm with a giggle. “Don’t tell me the gas company started sending charmers.”

Enzo forced a low chuckle. He didn’t like being touched. Not by anyone but—

No. Not now.

His fingers clutched onto the 2B key as he filed through the rest, finally finding the 2A key.

“I live nearby,” Lorenzo lied, voice slick and practiced. “You looked like you needed help.”

The door clicked open with a pathetic little groan.

“Here we are,” Lorenzo said, helping her inside, the scent of musty carpet and old lavender seeping into his coat.

“Such a gentleman,” she crooned, nearly falling onto a battered floral couch. She giggled like a little girl, eyes half-closed. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“Lorenzo,” Enzo spoke without thinking.

“Lorenzo~” she sighed, as if tasting the syllables. “Thank you. God, the men in this building never help anymore. Except for Morgan sometimes.” Her eyes fluttered. “He’s a sweetheart,” she murmured. “Y’know~...you look like his little girl.”

Enzo’s heart stopped, then thudded once.

So she knew him. Had spoken to him and touched his angel.

Enzo straightened the lady up. 

He knelt beside her on the floor, carefully lifting her hand.

She blinked, confused.

Enzo took her hand, turned it over, and pressed his lips to her knuckles.

A gesture of courtesy. Of old-world grace.

It tasted like cheap lotion, salt, and something human.

Enzo’s stomach turned.

Disgusting.

Enzo's lips had touched her hand. Not his angel. A stranger.

He drew back slowly, like retracting from poison.

But the gesture worked—her lips parted, dazed. She blushed

“Oh, you sly fox,” she said with a wheezy chuckle, trying to bat her lashes. “You’re dangerous, you know that?” The lady tilted to her side. Lorenzo caught her before she fell too fast and gently laid her on her cheap-looking couch.

Lorenzo smiled, jaw tight. “Sleep well, signora.”

The lady's head lolled to the side, and with one last hiccup, she passed out against the couch cushion.

He stood silently for a moment, watching her snore.

Then his eyes slid to the key ring still clutched in his gloved hand.

Labeled crudely in thick black marker: 2 B.

Enzo's chest rose.

‘Thank you, God. You've given me a gift that I shall cherish’ Enzo thought

Enzo unhooked the key with his bare hand, clutching it as if it would disappear

Enzo gently placed the now useless key ring on the table, not to wake the lady

She has given Enzo a gift that is so divine, she deserves a peaceful rest.

Enzo shut the lady's door slowly but firmly, ensuring the door wouldn't fly open due to the wind.

It was finally time to see his angel

The plan was simple, especially now 

Enzo would open the door, sit on the couch, and wait for his angel to rise

And once Enzo locked eyes on his angel, he would lay the envelope next to himself and kneel begging for forgiveness from his angel

Enzo's steps were slow, and he could feel himself sweating through his suit

Then, as if Enzo had teleported, he was in front of his angel's door. Enzo slowly gripped the door handle with his bare hand and clutched the key in position with his gloved hand.

But to Enzo's surprise, the door was unlocked

The heavens are merciful tonight

Enzo sucked in a breath putting the apartment key back in his coat pocket as and turned the door handle.

The room was dark, and it smelled of cheap wine and apple juice

Enzo walked in, closing the door behind him

He made his way to the living room couch, ready to sit and wait

Then Enzo heard shifting sounds from another room, the kitchen, then footsteps

Enzo froze, but his mind was immediately relaxed when he heard a voice

His angels voice

“Oh—Gia, you're here. I was just about to come outside to get you.”
His angel’s voice. Slurred, sweet, divine. Each syllable dragging like honey in the summer heat, footsteps soft behind it.

“Since I know you're drunk, I'm just gonna say it—thank you so much for the binder. I really, really appreciate it.”
Happy. Light. Unaware. Like nothing in the world was wrong.

That woman…she'd given his angel a gift before him.

Enzo’s gratitude twisted into jealousy, bitter and black. How dare she?

His angel’s footsteps paused. Still.
He knows. He must feel him here.

Enzo stood straighter. His bare fingers found the envelope, carefully folded, trembling in his grip.

He bent his knees. Lowered himself. Ready to kneel.
He thought he would have more time to practice. But the heavens had spoken.
He was worthy now.

“…Gia?”
The angel’s voice again. Confused now.

“Did you pass out already?”

Then a blinding light came, and his angel was no longer surrounded by darkness.

Now, in the light of the living room

The couch looked like it was set for someone to sleep on.

Someone unworthy of the angel's grace.

And there his angel stood.

Not draped in silk or framed in gold leaf, no. He wore a tank top and boxers. Ordinary. But nothing about the angel felt ordinary.

To Enzo, His angel looked divine.

His skin, olive and radiant, caught the light like wet stone. His legs bare, one hip cocked slightly under the tray he held—water, a glass. His hair was damp, messy, soft with curls. He looked like he’d just stepped out of a shower and into Enzo’s penance.

And his eyes.

His eyes widened as they met Enzo’s—like the sky opening up in an eclipse, wide and dark and full of something unfathomable.

The tray tilted.
The glass slipped.
Crash. Water and glass scattered like prayer beads snapped from a string.

But the angel didn’t move.
The angel stood still, like a statue, with a tight jaw and curled hands.

God, the angel looked beautiful 

To Enzo, the angel's appearance wasn’t frightening.
It was fate.

No time for mistakes.

No time to hesitate or second-guess.

He'd waited four years for this moment

Finally, it was happening.

It was time to atone.

Properly.
With his whole soul.

And finally, his angel moved.

Chapter Text

Morgan’s mind twisted

The man standing in front of him—he knew him.

No. He didn’t want to know him.

But he did.

His brain clawed backward, past the sound of Grace’s giggles, past the warmth of Gia’s home, past the walls he’d built so carefully, back to that chair.

That chair.

Polished wood. Too polished. Like it was proud of itself.

The scent of expensive alcohol burned in his nose, layered over with something sickly sweet. Cigar smoke. Sweat. Power.

And that voice.

Rot and honey.

“You’re going to sign this.”

Gentle. Patient. Like it cared.

Morgan twitched against the armrest, wrists aching with a phantom weight.

“In return, we’ll make sure you’re compensated fairly.”

Compensated.

Fairly?

The word was filthy.

Behind him, laughter. Footsteps. Breathing. Them.

The same ones. The same beasts that took turns as if it were a game.

Morgan’s fingers trembled as they reached for the pen. It was too heavy. It wasn’t a pen—it was a shovel—a coffin nail.

But Morgan signed.

He signed .

Because thinking hurts. Because feeling hurt.

He looked up.

Not at the honeyed beast .

Not at the monster smiling with honeyed rot.

No, the man next to him.

Quiet. Stiff. Watching.

He looked at Morgan like he was dirt. Like he didn’t belong in the same room.

That man. With the scars on his hands. The clenched jaw. The black hair.

Eyes are too dark. Too familiar.

Morgan's hand twitched on the tray, feeling the water reach his feet

Why did his face—

Morgan blinked.

That face. That nose, that mouth.

Her eyes. His eyes

Her nose slopes. The beast nose slope

Her hair. The beast's black hair

‘No. No no no no no—’

Why did this beast take his daughter's face?
Why was this beast wearing his daughter's face?

Morgan's body trembled as it looked at the beast, and Morgan's mind began pleading as it came back to the present.
“Take it off.”

Morgan's body moved as his mind caught up

Take it off, please.

The beast’s knees were bent.

Please, I beg you, give me back my daughter's face.

It was coming to attack. Morgan could see it—feel it.

That tension in its limbs. That slow, dangerous crouch.

Take it off, please. Make it stop. Make it not her face. Give it back

His mind was right about that door

TAKE IT OFF!

The moment it was left open, evil would come inside

TAKE IT OFF TAKE IT OFF TAKE IT OFF!

The tray was already in his hands.
Empty now. Cold. Metal. Real.

Morgan lifted it.
His breath hitched.
His vision tunneled.

And he slammed it into the beast’s neck.

A crack . A grunt. A fall.

The monster staggered sideways—stumbled—
Collapsed.

But it wasn’t done.
Beasts never die from the hit.

Morgan raised the tray again.
And again.
He swung it as hard as he could, blindly, until his arm throbbed.

The beast groaned. Rolled.
Then its hand, bare and cold, wrapped around Morgan’s ankle.

Morgan screamed .

Morgan kicked, thrashed.

The tray clattered to the floor with a deafening bang.

The beast’s fingers were cooled, too familiar

Morgan's brain forced him to remember.

The hands that touched him.

The fingers that invaded him.

The same hand that denied him the sweet release of death.

It was touching him.
Touching him again

The beast wanted to have his fill.

Morgan's foot jerked violently—tried to pull, but Morgan tore his leg free from that hand, scrambled backwards like a cornered animal. And stumbled back, his body landing on the water, and the glass tore at his skin.

It didn't matter that his lungs were already full of broken glass, his vision swimming in static.

The beast, now up from the floor, made a sound.

It was approaching

Its arms raised no, her eyes looked like he was concerned, scared for his daughter.

Of course, it was 

It wanted its prey to be aware of what it was going to do.

Morgan then lunged, ignoring the cuts from the glass, launching himself forward, fists now, swinging wildly, hitting the stolen face, the shoulder, whatever he could reach, clawing at the beast's face with his nails.

“TAKE IT OFF!”

The beast groaned, trying to block Morgan, its voice now honeyed with concern.

ROT

But Morgan drove his fist into its ribs, hard. Making the beast stumble back

“I’LL KILL YOU! I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU!”

Morgan was yelling. Now he could feel his body again

Tears fall from his face, his body trembling 

How bile crept into his throat

Morgan staggered backward as the beast groaned, slumping, gripping onto his couch.

Morgan's mind went to the kitchen and the knives

He could get his daughter's face back

Morgan turned—staggered—toward the kitchen.

The hallway was dark. The lights were off. Good. Let it be dark. Let the devil die in the dark.

Unfortunately, the beast regained its bearings fast 

Morgan felt the cold hands engulf his body again

It lifted him from safe ground

Then the beast seemed to plead.

Mint. Rot. Honey.

Goddamn honey.

The beast pulled Morgan's body closer. As Morgan screamed, and began elbowing the beast despite the pain of the glass in his skin.

Its arms are going from his chest to his abdomen

And then Morgan felt it and froze

Pressed against his back. Something Hard. Hard.

The beast was aroused.

It was getting off on this.

The beast was going to claim him here

In the dark

In his home, this

Not too far from his daughter's room 

Maybe once it's done, it will go to his daughter

It already stole her face

What more could it take

Morgan screamed desperately, kicking, elbowing, and flailing as the beast's grip seemed to tighten.

‘No no no NO NO NO!’

“DON’T TOUCH ME! DON’T TOUCH ME!”
Morgan screamed desperately

Ragged breaths and tears escaped him

The beast grip seems to loosen

This Morgans chance

Take back his daughter's stolen face

And slay the beast that denied him death that day

Enzo thought he was ready for anything

He knew his angel's first reaction would be panic

Maybe an angel would gracefully pass out

Begin crying

Perhaps even try to run
What Enzo didn't expect was for his angel to approach him slowly

His feet stepped on the shattered glass like it was nothing

God, his angel looked divine, his eyes wide 

Enzo bent his knees, ready to kneel at the angel's feet once he was in front of him

What Enzo didn't expect was his angel to lift the tray to its side

And then

Bam

Straight to his neck like a guillotine

Metal. Bone. Flesh.

Another blow—his temple rang. The world dimmed at the edges. A third strike sent him tumbling to the side, onto his back.

“M-morgan!” Enzo managed to choke out, his bare hand gripping Morgan's ankle to calm him down.

Enzo's voice made a mistake. That wasn’t his name to say.

As a punishment, his angel pulled his leg away and kicked Enzo in the ribs

But his angel fell backward, falling on the shattered glass

“Jesus, are you ok!” Enzo yells, managing to lift himself, and attempts to approach the angel

How dare he approach the divine without permission

His angel lunged at him first.

The tray was merciful, his angel fist was much more brutal, faster, and more divine like the rest of his body.

Morgan was screaming, clawing at him, yelling something— “ Take it off! ”

Enzo blinked, vision blurry, confused, heart hammering.

Why was he yelling that?

Take what off ?

Does his angel mean his other glove?

Then Morgan’s nails found his face, dug in like he was trying to tear something free. Something that didn’t belong.

Enzo saw red—his blood dripping down onto his shirt, his breath ragged. He began coughing up blood and spit.

How rude he dirtied his angel's clothes

“Morgan, please—!”

Another mistake, another sin

A fist slammed into his ribs. He doubled over. Okay. Fair. Deserved that one. 

This is his atonement after all.

His brain lagged a beat behind everything. He tried to grab Morgan’s wrists, tried to keep him from hurting himself more, but the second he touched him

“I’LL KILL YOU! I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU!”

Oh, his angel must be distressed.

“Please, my angel, calm down your hurt-”

Then another blessed punch by his angel

Enzo could see stars, and he gripped the now ruined couch, coughing up blood.

Then he saw his angel stagger back, tears flowing down his face

Then his angel turned and ran into the darkness

Enzo could see part of his angel's divine body bleeding

What if the angel gets hurt

Enzo does what he was told and removes his right-hand gloves and rushes to follow his angel.

To calm him down

Enzo took long strides and finally reached his angel. his angel was clearly in pai,n clutching the wall.

The angel turned, sensing him. Of course, he did; he was divine

The angel was about to run, but Enzo saw it, and he almost felt

He couldn't let that happen

He sinned again, he gripped the angel from behind, pulling him up

Oh, his chest was still tightly bound…just like that day

‘No, no, that's rude, you didn't earn it’

Enzo lowered his hands to his abdomen

And his angel let out a cry again, and Enzo held him close

But then his angel froze

Maybe he finally relaxed a little

“It's ok it's ok I got you,” Enzo whispered into his angels ear, trying to calm his angel down.

But Enzo realized that his angel was too stiff

He was crying again, the angel's elbows still hitting his sore ribs

“What's wrong, my Dea-”

“DON’T TOUCH ME! DON’T TOUCH ME!” the angel's voice cut him off

And then Enzo finally noticed.

His shame had the guts to show its face

And worse, it dared to touch his angel's lumbar region

Enzo loosens his grip flusred ‘

“I'm sorry IM SOR-” But Enzo was cut off his angel ripped out of his grip turned around and gave Enzo two painful kisses to his face.

And then a kick to the shame, making Enzo crumble as his angel ran off again.

‘I deserved that, my sweet,’ Enzo thought as he got his bearings

Then Enzo heard the unmistakable clinking of silverware. His angel must be in the kitchen

‘No…NO NO NO NO’ his angel must be terrified to the point he believes death is an escape

No, he can't let his angel dirty his divine hand

Enzo stood up straight despite the pain and ran to the kitchen

As he ran, Enzo's hand brushed the hallway light switch, illuminating himself

No, he was unworthy of this light; the only person who could give him this light was his angel

Enzo finally made it to the kitchen, his body aching. It was dark

Not worthy of his angel

“Please, calm down, I'm not here to hurt you.” Enzo raised his arm as he tried to approach his angel like a feral cat, but his angel just pointed the knife at him and made a circling motion as Enzo tried to approach.

“GET AWAY FROM ME YOU DEMON ILL KILL YOU ILL KILL YOU” his angel yelled, his grip on the blade tightening.

‘Think Enzo, you can't have your angel dirtying his hand, come on, think, think,’ Enzo thought as he circled his angel. The angel trembled, moving to the other side.

Now, Enzo was in the darkness.

And his angel was in the light.

His angel looked so divine.

Enzo's hands tapped on the kitchen sink

Cheap

‘Come on, Enzo, think about the files.’

‘Anything”

Enzo's eyes lit up when he finally pulled that memory

Of course, yes, that child

Enzo pulled himself straight, ignoring the pain in his body as he put on the most gentle yet firm voice he could muster

Just like Lorenzo would

“Please, my dear…Th-think about the child-”

Enzo barely managed to say as what seemed to be a knife was thrown at him

“DON'T TALK ABOUT MY DAUGHTER DEMON, I'LL KILL YOU. GIVE ME BACK MY BABY'S FACE!”

Enzo Angel screams, his voice now ragged

Despite the darkness, he could still see how his eyes sparkled

Beatiful

No, not now, Enzo needs to think. He can't let his angel dirty his hands

Enzo felt himself reach for his gun

Just a warning shot

That will calm his angel right

Enzo’s hand brushed the sink. Cold steel. Cheap. Familiar.

He didn’t want to do it. He begged himself not to do it.

But Morgan’s hand was trembling, and the knife was shining, and Enzo couldn’t watch him bleed. Not again.

His fingers moved on their own.

The gun was warm in his hand.

" No, " Enzo whimpered. " Not like this— "

But it wasn’t Enzo who spoke.

It was Lorenzo.

“This situation is volatile,” the other voice said—flat, deep, calm.

“Morgan. Think of your daughter.”

Enzo watched Morgan’s hands pause. The knife dropped half an inch.

“W-what…” The angel's voice was choked, lost, and ragged.

Don’t say it, Enzo begged.

But Lorenzo smiled, not cruelly, efficiently .

“I have the resources,” Lorenzo said. “I can make sure that child never sees this apartment again.”

Morgan twitched like he'd been shot.

“To the child, this place would be a distant memory.”

Enzo could taste bile in his mouth.

“I can make sure you never see her again.”

I’m sorry, Enzo wanted to scream. Please don’t listen to him. Please don’t look at me like that again.

“I just want to talk.” Enzo finally manages to choke out, reaching out his hand, not to approach but to say sorry for the filth he just spoke

What did the angel mean by ‘Give me my daughter's face’

Enzo could see his angel tremble as he spoke again, his voice a harmony of hurt and pain

"Why won't your family leave me alone?" he choked out, and his voice cracked at the edges—fragile, trembling.

To Enzo, it sounded divine.
Even in pain. Even broken. Still divine.

Morgan’s chest heaved, his breath stuttering.
"Haven't you done enough?" he whispered. "Haven't they done enough?"
His voice wasn’t loud—it didn’t need to be. It carved right through Enzo like a knife, clean and deep.
Each word sank into him like stones dropped into a still lake, the ripples dragging his thoughts under.

Enzo couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe. He just watched.
Watched Morgan’s hands curl around the knife so tightly his knuckles turned white.
Watched the light tremble across his tear-streaked face.
And then, he noticed.

The bruises.
Dark purple shadows blooming over the knuckles of his angel’s hands.
Enzo blinked. Once. Twice.
The ache in his ribs, the cuts on his cheek, the metallic taste of blood in his mouth—he deserved all of it. Every inch.
But his angel?

He should never have had to lift a hand.
His angel was never meant to be stained by violence.
Never meant to bleed for survival.
Enzo had dirtied him. Again.

"I’ll leave," Morgan said, his voice rising, cracked raw at the edges. "I’ll take her, and I’ll go."
He was shaking now, barely holding himself up.
"I swear to God, I’ll disappear if that’s what it takes—"

No.

No, no, no—please don’t go.
Please, I’m sorry. Please stop crying.
Enzo's mind screamed it over and over, but his mouth couldn’t move.
His body felt like it was underwater, as if every bone was made of cement.
Still, he forced one foot forward. Then another. Slowly. Carefully.

Enzo didn’t reach out.
He didn’t dare.

Morgan was backing away again, knife trembling in his hand, voice no longer rising—just collapsing, like a house losing its foundation.

"Just stop this," he whispered, like he was begging the universe.
His eyes weren’t even on Enzo anymore. They were looking through him. Past him.
"Give me back my daughter’s face."

The words hit like gunfire.
Enzo flinched like he'd been physically struck.

"Just let me go."

Enzo stood frozen, his throat tightening. He wanted to say something, anything—to reach out, to make this right—but what was there to say? What could possibly make up for the past?

A soft voice, groggy with sleep, broke through the heavy silence.

“Papa?”

A small figure stood in the lit hallway, rubbing her eyes with a tiny fist. Loose curls framed her round face, her delicate features eerily familiar. She blinked up at them, confused, her gaze darting between Morgan’s tear-streaked face.

“Papa, why are you crying?” the girl asked, her voice small, uncertain. Then her big, curious eyes landed on Enzo standing in the darkness, and she hesitated. Pointings

“What's that?”

Enzo's eyes snapped away from the child as he heard a knife clatter on the floor.

Then his angel moved despite his injurie,s it moved with such grace and knelt to the child.

“Hey, baby,” The angel murmured, reaching to brush back a stray curl from the girl's forehead.

It looked familiar

“Papa’s okay, just got a little—uh—caught up—”

The angel looked back up at him, his eyes still filled with terror

His angel held the child closer to his chest making himself wince

“Nobodys here darling i was just cleaning up and got hurt…”

The girl  blinked up her sleepy gaze, shifting to Enzo

Her eyes were familiar to his

Then back to Morgan. “Nobody?” she repeated, testing the word, her voice small.

“Yes, baby,” His angel assured the child, standing up and gently guiding her toward her room. His angel's eyes didn't leave his

“Nothing to worry about—But you gotta go back to sleep, okay? We've got a big day tomorrow—gotta find you a daycare.”

The girl yawned, looking at Enzo one last time as she was lifted up by his angel, and then snuggled into his bruised shoulder.

Enzo didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He just stood there, silent, as he heard his angel walk down the short hallway and open a door.

Enzo pushed his injured Body to walk each step, feeling like searing pain

His penance 

As Enzo reached the living room again, he could hear his angel's voice

This time, not screaming, not crying 

But gentle

Like a lullaby 

Something Enzo hasn't heard in years

Enzo's eyes caught the shattered glass on the floor, where water and blood were mixing. 

In the shard's surface, he caught his face

His eyes. The girls eyes

His nose slope. The girl's nose slope

Her hair. The girl's dark hair

Like his face 

No, not his completely

It looked like someone he used to know

Hers

Enzo removed his eyes from the shattered glass 

He couldn't think about her, not now

Enzo looked around the room 

He needed to confirm

If his filthy seed entered his angel

He would have to atone for a lifetime 

Enzo pushed his injured body forward, each step searing.
His penance.

In the living room, his angel's voice drifted through the silence.
Not screaming. Not crying.
It was like a lullaby of promise
Something he hadn’t heard in years.

His eyes caught the shattered glass on the floor—
blood and water, mingling.
And in the shards, his face stared back.
His eyes. Her eyes.
His nose. Her nose.
His hair. Her hair.
No—
Not just his.
A face he hadn’t seen in years.
Hers .

Enzo looked away.
He couldn’t think of her. Not now.

The brush caught his eye, tangled with strands of dark hair.
Not enough.

A spoon, still streaked with cheese.
A juice carton—half-drained.
That would do.

He picked up the brush with his fingertips and slid it into his jacket.
Used a glove to collect the rest.
Everything was stowed away, like a thief.
Or a priest gathering relics.

Enzo glanced at the door. He should leave.

No.
Not yet.
He still had to give it to him.

He crouched, body screaming, and retrieved the bloodied paper.
Set it on the table like an offering.

Then he stood.
And met his angel’s eyes.

Calmer.
Bruised.
Silent.
But eyes wide. Watching.

Morgan's hand trembled, and he held the knife tightly

The beast, his arms raised, circled him, ready to attack

Then Morgan heard the beast's voice for the first time

It sounded just like that honeyed beast in that office 

“Think of your daughter,” the demon spoke

Morgan barely choked out a response as it kept speaking its curses

“I can make sure that child never sees this apartment again.”

“To the child, this place would be a distant memory.”

“I can make sure you never see her again.”

Morgan's grip on the knife slipped as he felt the light of the hallway shine.

Morgan moved his mouth, but he couldn't hear the words; he only heard pleading.

“Please don't take my baby.”

The beast's smile faltered as it reached

“Give me back my baby's face” Morgan choked out

The beast froze

His eye lowered to the knife he was gripping, now loosened

Maybe if he just turned it around and plunged it into his chest, the nightmare would be real–

“Papa?”

Morgan's head quickly snapped downward to see a sleepy grace on his side. She looked up at him, confused.

“Why are you crying?... Whose that”

Morgan instantly dropped the knife. Who cared about him? No, his daughter was here, probably horrified.

“Hey, baby,” Morgan murmured, reaching to brush back a stray curl from Grace's forehead.

“Papa’s okay, just got a little—uh—caught up—” 

Morgan's eyes looked back up at him, his eyes still filled with terror

He held Grace closer, protecting her

“Nobody's here, darling. I was just cleaning up and got hurt…”

A lie 

But enough that the demon didn't lunge

Morgan lifted Grace up onto his body, winced, and closed his eyes, leaving the demons as he walked to the hallway.

Grace's head nuzzled into Morgan's neck.

Grace yawned, nodding sleepily as she let Morgan lead her back down the short hall.

The demon didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He just stood there, silent, watching.

Morgan reached his daughter's room and laid her back to bed

He pulled the blanket up to Grace’s chin, brushing her curls back again, his movements so careful despite the pain he felt all over his body 

Morgan could hear his baby chuckle but could see her face

“Can we get ice cream tomorrow?” Grace mumbled, already halfway back to sleep.

Morgan chuckled softly, pressing a light kiss to her forehead. “If we have time,” he whispered.

“In my new princess dress, Papa.” Grace hummed as she finally fell asleep again

Morgan smiled, brushing his baby's curls back again as he stood and shut the door

Maybe this was a hallucination 

Of course, his daughter was still here How could a beast steal her face

Morgan stumbled to the living room, ready to sit down

But then Morgan saw it the demon

Standing upright despite the beating its just received 

A bloody envelope was left in one of his hands, and his other hand was firmly in his pocket.

Morgan froze his eyes wide but he couldnt scream not with his angel, not to far

Morgan made himself stand up straight and stared into the demon's stolen face

Low and but Firm when Morgan spoke.

“You need to leave.”

The beast seemed to flinch at Morgan's words his hand trembling

Was it getting ready to attack

“You’re struggling,” the beast spoke, almost sounding concerned

Morgan’s entire body tensed, his fingers twitching at his sides.

“That’s none of your damn business.” Morgan lashed out with his body, moving but stopping himself from the ache and the glare from the beast

The demon looked down at the bloodied paper, his stolen eyes looking like his baby's

“Take this it will help you,” the beast spoke as it approached again his arms reaching for hi.m

Morgan froze in terror, his body too weak to fight again

Morgan shut his eyes, preparing himself

But the pain was slight and the beast hand quickly away

Morgan hysterically looked up and saw his daughter's face, no the beast's face, examining a glass shard that came from Morgan's shoulder

“You should get some rest,” it murmured, backing away at last.

Finally, Morgan could breathe.

But the moment didn’t last.

“I’ll be in touch in a few days.”

And then the beast opened the door and left—
Still wearing his daughter’s face.

Morgan just stared at the door.

He had been right.
Leave that door open, and a demon will come in.

How could he be so stupid?

He dropped to his knees.
Still staring.
Everything around him was muffled.

The demon.
Her face.

Why?
Why him?

Tiny footsteps approached from behind.

Sunlight stung his eyes, but he didn’t move.
Morgan didn’t dare.

A tiny hand touched his shoulder. He winced.

“Papa? Papa, you’re up! We can go now!”

Her voice.
His Grace.

But Morgan didn’t turn his head.
What if he was right?
What if the demon had stolen her?

“Papa? PAPA!”

Tiny hands gripped his face.

Gently, she turned him.

No. No, please—let me be wrong.

Messy curls.
A worried expression.

Her face.
The beast’s face.

Hold it together. Just hold it—

Then she smiled.
That honeyed smile.

‘DON’T.’

But he couldn’t help it.

Morgan broke.

He began sobbing—loud, wrecked, uncontrollable.

Grace let go, confused, her cries distant.
“PAPA! Why are you crying? Why are you bleeding?!”

His angel.

Wearing a demon’s face.

He crumpled inward, keening.

“WHY. WHY. WHY.”

Tiny hands pulled away.
Small feet darted to the door.

“AUNTIE! AUNTIE! PAPA CRY—PAPA CRY!”

He couldn’t move.

Couldn’t speak.
Could only sob.

Footsteps. Bigger ones this time.

The last thing Morgan heard before everything faded was a hiccuped voice turned horror:

“MORGAN ARE YOU OK!” An old, slurred voice yelled, followed by a toddler's sobs

The last thing Morgan felt was the bleeding, not from the cuts

From where the demon felt all those years ago

‘What a useless father’

Enzo stumbled down the uneven stairs of his angel home

His bare hands gripped the dirty stair railing

His mind twisted, 

Enzo wanted to pass out 

No not here

Not after making his angel cry

He didn't deserve rest

The bloodied glass shard stuck to his arm with a wince as he managed to open his car door.

He barely managed to shut the car door again as he collapsed on the seat

But his mind didn't rest, it couldn't

He failed his atonement

He made his angel cry

He threatened his angel with his child

The child

Enzo's mind raced as the child haunted his mind

Her face was familiar, like hers

How could such an unworthy thing come from his angel

And sin by carrying his face…no

Her face

The memory of her face threatened to slip through

Enzo managed to fight it back the whole night

His mind needed to remain on his angel

Not her

Even if the child carried her face

The morning sun shone in his eyes, then a ring

Enzo wanted to ignore it, but he knew better

Enzo picked up the phone with his hand, which still had the angel's glass shard implanted in it. 

“Boss, how did your mission go? Do you need reinforcement?”

Enzo could have laughed

‘Reinforcemnts’

No, they weren't worthy of his angelic divine grace

Lorenzo caught a glimpse of his appearance in the car's window

His angel's kisses were so beautiful

Purple, red, and even some black

His angel wasn't weak, no 

He was divine

“Boss, are you there?” The voice interrupted Enzo's praise

It should be punished

Maybe later 

Enzo, on the other hand, passed by his suit pocket

The hairbrush is still in place

He could finally confirm and maybe even

Attone in a different way

Lorenzo then spoke in a cold voice

“Set up a paternity test.”

Enzo took in a shaky breath, his lungs felt like glass shards

“Don't keep me waiting.”

Enzo hung up without another word.

He couldn't bear wasting words on something less than his angel

‘Don't worry, my precious, I shall atone’

As the light shifted, Lorenzo sat upright and started the car.

Chapter Text

Enzo stood across from his angel.

His clothes were disheveled now.

The tank top was pulled back, and the chest was slightly exposed.

Glass still clung to his skin.

God, the angel, looked divine.

“You need to leave,” the angel said, voice trembling and weak.

Enzo failed him.

The hairbrush had bitten into Enzo’s bruised skin.

His fingers trembled. Too much.

He was saying too much.

“You’re struggling,” Enzo choked out, throat tight.

Those beautiful eyes flared with anger.

His whole body tightened like a drawn bowstring.

Like an angel.

“That’s none of your damn business.”

Enzo didn’t move. Couldn’t.

If he did, something would break

the angel. The room. Himself.

The child who carried his face.

The blood-soaked envelope in Lorenzo’s hand.

Stupid. Enzo shouldn’t have bled on it.

This wasn’t how Lorenzo handled things.

Lorenzo was clean. Controlled.

Enzo’s vision blackened at the edges.

He forced a breath.

Not now.

“Take this,” he rasped.

“It will help you.”

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Of course, an angel would recognize a beast.

Of course, he ruined it. He would have to try again.

A shard of glass gleamed against his angel’s skin.

Bleeding.

No, no—he was the one meant to bleed, not him.

Despite the bruises on his body and mind,

Enzo stood tall.

Took one step forward. Morgan froze like prey.

Enzo’s body screamed to stop. But he reached out, gently pulling the shard free.

Skin brushed skin. Soft, so contrary to his angel’s fists.

He clutched the glass, unworthy as it was.

Another mark against him.

“You should get some rest,” Enzo murmured.

He backed away before he could break again.

Silence.

He watched Morgan breathe, watched him shake.

Failure.

Enzo turned, aching, to the door.

A ghost in the doorway.

“I’ll be in touch in a few days,” he said.

Not his voice. Lorenzo’s.

He opened the door.

Didn’t dare look back.

He didn’t deserve to.

Not yet.

His body hurt. His mind worsened.

“I’ll recover,” he whispered to himself.

“And try again.”

~

Lorenzo lied again 

Enzo told himself he would recover from his injuries for a few days and then return to his angel's side to try again.

But he unfortunately didn't take into account how holy his angel's fist were

He was barely able to stumble to his office

His men's filthy hands had to carry him to the emergency room

One even dared to suggest reinforcements

Like any man was worthy to face the angel

Once in the hospital, Enzo finally heard how far his angel's kisses went.

Bruised ribs, black eyes, swollen lip

A whole beautiful symphony of blessing, his angel gave him

Even the hit from the tray hasn't faded, despite it already being two weeks.

Enzo could finally move again by the second week, and the results of the paternity test arrived.

Fifty percent.

The child had dared to keep fifty percent of Enzo.

She should have been uninfected, purified entirely in his angel’s womb.

Instead, she carried him, too. Enzo’s blood spoiled her, soaked into her like a stain.

She should have been wiser and carried only his angel’s blood, face, and spirit entirely.

But she would atone for that sin in time.

Enzo lay in the hospital for weeks,  and the angel's blessings burned under his skin every night.

Then, finally discharged by week 3, Enzo found himself sitting stiffly in the lawyer’s office.

The paternity test was still crumpled in his hand, and a copy of that filthy contract lay on the table, freshly read.

He rubbed his bare fingers against the test, trying to scrub off the filth he'd read after so many years.

The clock ticked. Enzo tapped his foot in time with it, twitchy and impatient. 

Enzo could take a trick from his father's book and punish the lawyer for keeping him in suspense, pluck out a nail for every wasted hour.

But he couldn't bite here.

He needed this place to be calm, clean, and unthreatening, especially for his angel.

This place needed to remain clean, safe, and worthy of his angel's light.

A burning cigar sat untouched in the ashtray beside him, smoldering.

The smell was disgusting.

Rot. Decay.

It clung to the back of his throat like a ghost.

Of course, his father loved cigars—he loved anything that rotted you from the inside out.

Enzo stared at the smoke curling upward. The only thing cigars were good for was appearances.

And today, appearances mattered. They always did.

The lawyer needed to know he meant business.

Then Enzo heard the knock on the door; he was there.

Lorenzo crossed his legs swiftly and lit the cigar again.

“Come in,” he said, voice bored, as the lawyer entered.

He leaned back into the chair, body perfectly still. Controlled. Not intimidating—yet.

“Good morning, Mr. De Lu. How are you faring today?” the lawyer asked, adjusting his glasses.

“Fine,” Lorenzo said coolly. “Did you look into it?”

He puffed, letting the smoke rot on his tongue. It tasted like spoiled meat.

He didn’t inhale. He never did.

He needed his mind clean. His mouth could rot.

‘Please, speak faster.’

The lawyer cleared his throat. “Well, sir, our team reviewed the “Orgy” agreement the defendant signed four years ago.”

Lorenzo exhaled a thin, steady stream of smoke. His gaze didn’t waver.

The lawyer shifted under it. “While yes, she signed it—and technically hasn’t broken the terms—”

“He…” Enzo corrected, nearly choking on the smoke, his lip curled in disgust

‘Technically’

It had never been enough for his angel. It wasn’t enough now. Not ever

The smoke hung low like ugly fog.

The lawyer coughed. “However, with the child's existence, we can argue that the defendant violated one of the clauses. The non-disclosure terms are vague. It's enough to void the contract.”

Lorenzo glanced at the documents, stained with his father’s filth.

But the paternity test in his hand...

That paper was clean. Untouched.

The child was his.

Somehow, through a curse or miracle, the child was his.

His face was stolen and raised by his angel.

Lorenzo stared at the paper for a long, long moment.

The child would be useful.

He nodded slowly, taking another disgusting puff.

“And?”

“And if it’s voided, we can replace the old contract with something—”

The lawyer hesitated.

“more mutual.”

“More binding,” the lawyer corrected himself quickly. “Fair.”

Lorenzo didn’t answer. He just extinguished the cigar and turned his chair to face away from the man.

“Then it’s settled. Send a process server. Draft as many custody agreements as possible.”

The lawyer nodded, placing the documents down before starting toward the door.

He paused. “By the way, you know that if we void the contract, the defendant could retaliate... regarding the ‘incident’? You understand the risk?”

Lorenzo froze.

How dare he speak to me like that, he thought.

As if being graced by my angel’s presence isn't already a greater risk than anything else.

He answered with a cold, clipped voice, forcing himself to meet the lawyer’s eyes.

“I’m aware,” Lorenzo said coldly, forcing himself to meet the lawyer’s eyes.

His voice stayed level. His stomach churned.

“I have methods to guarantee that doesn't happen.”

The words tasted like sewage. But they were enough.

The lawyer nodded quickly and fled.

The door clicked shut —

Too loud. Lorenzo stared at the door for a long, long moment.

As if daring it to open again.

Lorenzo didn’t move.

But his grip on the chair tightened until the leather groaned under his hands.

Enzo began gagging as the rot still clung to his mouth.

With a shaking hand, Enzo fumbled a mint pack from his pocket and dumped the whole thing into his mouth.

The sting of mint burned down his throat.

Good. It meant he was still here—still himself.

Minutes dragged by before Enzo finally sat up straight, forcing himself to look around the room.

It was warm. Relaxed.

It was good enough.

This second meeting would be different.

This time, Enzo would heal his angel.

This time, Lorenzo would win.

Morgan continued to sob, even as Gia tried to comfort him, even as Grace cried nearby.

Through his breakdown, all he could feel was the glass shards being plucked from his back, one by one.

Gia kept asking, her voice tight, “Who did this? Who did this to you?”

And Grace, his little ray of sunshine,  wailed through her tears,

“Nobody hurt Papa! NOBODY DID IT!”

Gia grumbled under her breath, more worried than angry, as she plucked out the last shard.

Morgan barely noticed her pulling his arm out of its curled position and lifting him to his feet. Morgan didn’t resist.

He didn’t want to be more of a bother than he already was.

Grace’s cries softened to hiccuping whimpers, still mumbling, “Nobody is so mean...”

Gia managed to walk Morgan out of the apartment, steadying him toward the stairs.

“God, you are insufferable," she muttered almost fondly. "We had a good night yesterday, too."

She huffed, patting her pocket. “I’ll call a cab. And once you calm yourself down at the hospital, you can explain yourself.”

Morgan froze.

Hospital.

No.

Not there.

Not the bed. Not the looks, His cries, not the hands holding him down, yelling at him to push.

Not the blade pressing into his stomach.

Not again.

Using his little strength, Morgan dropped to his knees, yanking Gia down with him.

“NO! NO! PLEASE, NOT THERE!” Morgan screamed, thrashing against her hold.

Gia tried to nudge him toward the stairs, pleading with him to move, but Morgan refused and dug himself into the floor.

Behind them, Grace wailed louder,

“NOBODY MEAN! NOBODY MEAN!”

Morgan couldn’t lift his head.

He couldn’t risk it, couldn’t risk seeing that monster’s face again superimposed on hers.

He stayed there, crumpled in the hallway, sobbing as Gia and Grace cried with him.

Eventually, Gia managed to drag Morgan to her apartment. She laid him down on her couch, which smelled lavender and wine. She started treating him there, muttering under her breath the whole time.

Grace clung to Morgan’s leg, crying so hard her little body shook.

Morgan couldn’t speak.

He couldn’t move.

He wouldn’t even open his eyes.

He stayed like that the entire first week, a breathing corpse on Gia’s couch.

The second week, Morgan forced himself to come back; his body felt like wet concrete.

Grace refused to let him out of her sight, sticking to him like glue, refusing even to go back to their apartment — not that Gia would have allowed it anyway.

Morgan finally managed to look his daughter in the eyes again.

He didn’t see the monster anymore.

He just saw her.

And for now, that was enough.

When Gia saw that Morgan was mostly upright again, she immediately returned to her usual tirades.

She scolded him for being reckless, throwing her hands in the air and swearing under her breath.

Muttering things like, "I thought you were over the smashing and crying phase," and "You owe me money for cleaning. I'm not your damn maid, Morgan."

Morgan didn’t fight her.

He took it in stride, silent, staring at the floor, letting Gia yell until she wore herself out or until Grace started crying again, which always made her stop cold.

Grace kept clutching her doll too tightly, dragging it everywhere.

She slept with it under the blanket, smuggled it to breakfast, and even hid it in her lap when they watched TV.

Morgan noticed that she never let it go, as if it were guarding something.

By the third week, Morgan was relatively back to normal.

He could look Grace in the eyes, play with her without crying, and even spar a little when Gia mouthed off too much.

The memory of the monster almost faded.

One evening, Morgan sat in the bathtub while Gia scrubbed him like a disapproving mother at Sunday Mass, muttering under her breath the whole time.

“Such an ugly thing,” Gia grumbled, power-spraying Morgan’s back, making him flinch.

“You know that’s not gonna come off, right?” Morgan choked out, trying to cover his back.

Gia clicked her tongue and grabbed a sponge, scrubbing under his chest in rough, impatient circles, making Morgan twitch from the sensitivity.

“Hmph. If you’ve got the money now, why don’t you invest in removing it, huh?" she snapped, shutting off the water with a huff.

Morgan rolled his eyes, yanking the towel from her hands before she could dry him herself.

"You know I wouldn't do that even if I had a million dollars today," he said, laughing under his breath as he rubbed his upper body dry.

He turned, flashing her a mischievous grin and slapping his ass where the faded tattoo still peeked through.

"Besides, it’s cute, right? Something to keep the boys entertained.”

Gia gasped and smacked him sharply on the shoulder, scandalized.

“So vulgar! How are you ever going to find a husband like this?!" she barked, snatching a bottle of over-scented lotion and aggressively rubbing it into his newly healed cuts, making Morgan wince.

Morgan yelped, dancing away from her reach, and grabbed fresh clothes from the laundry basket. He pulled his binder back on and covered the tattoo.

"Not planning on finding one, Gia," Morgan sang sweetly, hiding his irritation as he fished for clean underwear.

Gia opened her mouth to retort, probably something about ‘wasting God’s gifts’  but was interrupted by a knock from the living room.

Then Grace’s voice rang out, loud enough for the whole neighborhood to hear,

"Auntie! Your medication’s here!"

Morgan snickered behind his towel.

"Come on, Gia, open it quick! We wouldn't want your Crohn’s flaring up again," he teased, purposely butchering the pronunciation.

"So rude for a so-called gentleman!" Gia shouted, flustered, rolling down her sleeves and stomping toward the door.

Morgan chuckled, tugging on his boxers and finally feeling a little more human again.

His mind went through the motions of how tomorrow, Morgan would bring himself back to his apartment and how he would pay Gia some money for his overextended stay.

The following week, he would continue looking for a job

‘I’ll be in touch in a couple of days’

The words of the beast came back to Morgan's mind, making Morgan shiver 

No, no, not again. Morgan used up his tears for the month, not again

Then, a yell came from the living room

“I already told you, sir, I don't know anyone named 'Megan' Liotta. You need to leave!” Morgan heard Gia yell through the door, making his body shake.

Morgan quickly put on a shirt and some pajama pants and slowly walked out of the bathroom.

As Morgan walked out, the scene surprised him. The man was holding the door as Gia gritted her teeth, trying to shut it, with Grace gripping Gia's leg, trying to help her.

Morgan's steps faltered when he saw the man on the doorstep, the official-looking envelope in his hand.

The process server's eyes lit up like a vulture spotting fresh meat.

"Are you 'Megan' Liotta?" he asked, raising his voice slightly.

Morgan froze, every nerve screaming to run — but his traitorous body stood still.

Gia immediately stepped sideways, blocking Grace behind her, her face darkening.

Morgan sighed and stepped forward, pulling the towel to his shoulders.

"Yes," he said quietly, voice rough. "That's me."

The man puffed his chest, handing Morgan the envelope through the door's crack.

“Megan Liotta, you have been served.”

And then, without another word, the man turned on his heel and left, whistling as he descended the stairs.

Morgan stared at the thick envelope in his hands, its weight sinking into his bones.

Gia immediately cursed the man under her breath and slammed the door shut. Then she turned slowly to Morgan, Staring at him like a disappointed mother.

“What the hell is this, Morgan?" she snapped, not unkindly. “Don't tell me you turned to crime instead of finding a proper job.”

Morgan’s throat felt dry; he couldn't answer as he stared at the official seal, already making his stomach twist.

He ripped it open with a trembling hand.

Inside was a thick letter from a law firm.

Notice of Breach of Contract.

Mandatory  Summons will be held in two days to discuss damages.

Failure to appear will result in further legal action.

Morgan could barely breathe. His vision blurred at the edges. 

Why were they coming back? He didn't violate the contract

Grace tugged at Morgan's pant leg softly.

“Papa… what’s wrong?” she whispered.

Morgan took a deep breath, shoving the letter in his pocket

“It's nothing, just a littering charge. I'll pay it.”

Grace hugged Morgan's leg, and Gia gave him a suspicious look

“Are you sure I'm not going to house a criminal?”

Morgan gulped. He felt his hands trembling.

“OH! Look at the time, it's 7 o'clock already, right? Your favorite show is on now.” Morgan quickly changed the topic.

Gia glared at him briefly before huffing and going to her living room to turn on the TV.

Morgan let out a sigh of relief, his eyes darting to his pocket

He knew he had to go into that drawer, reread that filthy document, and fight for his life once again, but before he could do that, he felt a tiny hand tug on his pants

“Oh, what is it, sweetie?” Morgan asked, masking his trembling voice

Morgan looked down and saw Grace, her little hands fumbling with the zipper of her doll, the ratty old thing she had never let go of since they stayed at Gia's apartment this month.

Morgan blinked, confused, watching as she reached inside with trembling fingers.

She pulled out a crumpled, bloody envelope.

The same kind of envelope Morgan had seen in nightmares.

He is the same color and has the same ugly weight pressing into his ribs.

Grace held it out as if it were something precious.

"I took it," she said softly, her eyes big and shimmering with tears.

"Because it was from Nobody, Nobody made Papa cry."

Morgan's heart broke clean in two.

His hands shook as he took the envelope from her.

The paper was sticky, and the blood dried in patches along the seams, making it harder to open.

Morgan’s stomach twisted, bile rising in his throat as he peeled it open, half-expecting something monstrous inside.

Instead, a single check slid out into his palm.

Ten million dollars, it read.

Morgan stared at the number, the ink blurring as his vision burned with unshed tears.

He could barely breathe or think past the roaring in his ears.

Ten million dollars — a price tag, a collar, an apology?

Morgan sucked in a sharp breath and shoved the check back into the envelope, cramming it deep into his pocket like it might catch fire if he held it too long.

Morgan slumped on the wall, and Grace clung onto his leg tightly

"I kept it safe, Papa," she whispered fiercely, tiny hands clutching his shirt like he might vanish.

"Nobody’s ever gonna hurt you again."

Morgan sucked in a deep breath and kneeled.

Morgan pressed his face into her hair, hiding the shaking of his shoulders.

For now, he just held her tighter, letting the bloody envelope burn a hole through his pocket.

Morgan sucked in a breath, peeling Grace off his leg and kissing her hair

“Don't worry, darling, nobody's gonna hurt Papa, I promise.” 

Grace gave Morgan a peck on the cheek, wiping her unshed tears

Morgan let out a sad smile. “How about you wait on the couch with Gia? Papa needs to get something from home. I'll join you two soon, okay.”

Grace nodded, hugging Morgan tightly again before running to Gia's living room.

Morgan smiled at Grace’s retreating form, but his smile faltered as he forced himself to turn and open Gia’s door, making the slow, heavy walk toward his apartment.

Morgan pushed the door open. Gia hadn’t locked it.

The apartment was clean—too clean. No broken glass, no stains. It smelled faintly of lavender. Gia had cleaned everything.

But he couldn't think about that now.

He went to the bedroom and knelt in front of the old drawer. His hands hesitated before pulling it open.

Inside, dust bunnies and spiderwebs clung to forgotten things he’d hoped never to look at again.

Morgan pushed aside a stack of fake IDs and a few warped high school “memories” until he found it: a child’s drawing.

A little stick-figure version of himself and Grace, hand in hand, smiling with a bright red heart above their heads.

Morgan swallowed and carefully lifted the drawing, revealing the rot beneath it.

The contract.

Still there. Still untouched after all these years.

He never wanted to see it again. He had planned to burn it.

But now… he needed to see it.

Needed to remind himself.

Morgan pulled the bloody envelope and the summons from his pocket.

He set the summons to his side and, without hesitation, ripped the check in half, letting the torn pieces flutter down onto the filthy contract.

He stared at the mess blankly for a moment, then silently rearranged everything back to its original position and slammed the drawer shut.

"I'll read it tomorrow," Morgan muttered, grabbing the summons and setting it on the dresser before quietly slipping out.

He made his way back to Gia’s apartment.

Inside, the TV was on, humming a telenovela in the background. The characters shouted and cried dramatically, their problems feeling distant compared to his own.

Gia was sitting on her worn couch, arms crossed, Grace on her lap, giggling at the characters. Gia was glaring at him—not with anger, but something sharper, something knowing.

Morgan froze for a second, heart stuttering.

Gia sighed and reached out without a word, placing a heavy, firm hand on his shoulder.

A comfort. A reminder that he wasn’t alone.

Morgan sucked in a shallow breath and let it out slowly, murmuring to himself, "Everything's going to be okay."

Gia just gripped him tighter as the TV rang louder

In two days, everything will be fine.

Even if he didn’t believe it yet.

Chapter Text

Morgan slowly buttoned up his shirt. It was still warm from the heat of the iron.
He patted the fabric repeatedly before finally meeting his gaze in the bathroom mirror.
It was him. Hair combed. Concealer under his eyes. About to step into hell again.

Two folders sat on the closed toilet beside him, worn at the edges, papers bent into tired bunny ears.
Morgan had spent nights and hours rereading the contract.
Each page felt like hellfire under his fingers.
Each cursed page showed he hadn’t violated a single rule.

He had kept his mouth shut for years.
He had planned to keep it shut forever.

Morgan stared at the folders. He wanted to flush them down the toilet, burn them, or do anything.
But no.
He needed it.

It was evidence, proof of what happened to him, punishment for letting it happen.

Morgan took a deep breath, glanced at himself in the mirror, and shut off the bathroom lights.
Grabbing the folders, he closed the door behind him.

Squealing and laughter barreled toward him.
Grace clung to Morgan’s leg, giggling wildly.

Morgan’s dulled face softened into a smile for the first time that morning.

“Papa, pretty! Papa pretty! I wanna go too, Papa!” Grace squealed, nuzzling her face into his thigh like she wanted to fuse herself into him.

Morgan laughed, careful as he petted her overly styled hair so he wouldn’t ruin it and face Gia’s wrath.

“Aww, sweetie, you can’t,” Morgan said, voice syrupy with a lie he wished was the truth. “This is Papa’s interview. No kids allowed.”

Grace pouted.

“Besides,” Morgan added, brushing her hair again, “Gia’s taking you on a ‘girls' trip.’ You wouldn’t want me ruining your fun, would you?”

Grace let out a dramatic pout but nodded anyway.

Morgan smiled, peeled Grace off his leg, and knelt, meeting Grace at eye level.

“Don't give me that face, sweetheart, I'll meet you guys at the park after I'm done, ok?”

Grace’s pout vanished, replaced by pure excitement

“Okay, Papa, then I'll look like a real princess, Papa, buy ice cream!”

Morgan smiled, kissing Grace's forehead, “Papa buys ice cream.”

Then the door opened, and Gia's heels clicked as she approached, stopping before them.

Morgan and Grace looked up. Gia towered above them, tapping her heeled foot, arms crossed.

“You look decent for once, Morgan,” Gia muttered, and Morgan pulled himself from the floor. As Grace attached herself to Gia, tapping her foot, giggling as it didn't stop

“Oh, thank you so much, Gia, flattered really,” Morgan spoke sarcastically.

Gia huffed as she stopped tapping her foot, which made Grace whine, and moved closer to fix Morgan's button-up.

Gia frowned at how Morgan’s binder strained the shirt, then unbuttoned the top two buttons, exposing a bit of chest.

“Are you sure this is just a regular visit to pay a fine?” Gia whispered for Morgan to hear only.

Morgan rolled his eyes, slightly knelt, and tapped Grace's shoulder, making her run to her room squealing before answering.

“Yes, Gia, just a fine. It’s overdue—that’s why they sent someone,” Morgan lied, reaching to rebutton his shirt. Gia slapped his hands with a sharp tsk , tugging the fabric into place.

She stepped back, giving him a once-over before scoffing, “It better be just a fine. I’m traveling next week, and if I get a single call saying you’re in a holding cell, I swear to God—”

She grabbed Morgan by the ear and yanked him down, her voice low and biting.

“I’m not your damn safety net, Morgan. If you screw this up and land yourself in jail, don’t think for a second I’m picking up the pieces. I’ll march Grace right into that cell and leave her with you—diaper bag and all.”

Then she let go, muttering as she smoothed his collar again, “I'll only visit you on weekdays. Try not to make me prove it.”

Morgan rubbed his sore ear, grumbling, “Never planning on letting that happen.”

Gia huffed again and disappeared into Grace's room. Her voice floated back through the walls.

“Sweetie, pack your slippers! We’re getting our nails done first. And I’m not letting the women there sell me cheap shoes for ten dollars again.”

“Okay, Auntie!” Grace squealed, followed by the sounds of her rummaging.

Morgan looked down at the folders in his hand. They felt filthy.

Could he be behind this? The beast? The thief.

They weren’t calling him in to pay a fine. This is a leash check. A reminder to stay quiet

And Morgan would comply.

He didn’t have much of a choice.

He grabbed his coat and ID, then unlocked the door. The lock clicked open with a sound that sent a shiver down his spine.

“I’ll be done with this in an hour,” he muttered, then forced a smile onto his face and knocked on the apartment door.

“COME ON, LADIES! YOU’RE GONNA MISS YOUR BUS!”

Grace screamed in delight. Her room light snapped off, and she came running, a plastic bag in one hand, bouncing for her coat.

Gia followed more slowly, adjusting her jacket.

She huffed at Morgan but said nothing as she passed him.

Grace hugged his leg once more. “Have fun, Papa!”

“Be good, princess,” Morgan spoke softly.

She ran after Gia, their footsteps fading as they descended the stairs.

Morgan stood in the doorway, alone.

Then he stepped out.

~

The bus rumbled beneath Morgan’s feet. His hand gripped the handle. He stared out, and the city blurred—not from speed, just from how thick his thoughts had become.

As time passed, Morgan stared blankly ahead, vision dimming, and the memory crawled in—uninvited.

She cornered him behind the club, under those cheap neon lights, cheeks pink and lips trembling like she was embarrassed to breathe too loudly.

"I'm pregnant," she had said, voice breathy, almost dreamy.

Morgan had laughed.

Not in disbelief. Not out of shock. He laughed as if it were a bad joke someone had told him mid-makeout.

“Right,” Morgan scoffed, running a hand through his curls. “Congrats. Not mine. Try the guy from two nights ago. Or the one before that.”

Her face twisted, but she kept smiling, stepping closer, fingers reaching for his wrist. “We could go away—you and me. You don’t have to tell anyone. I’ll take care of everything for you. I love you.”

He stared at her like she was made of static.

“What the hell are you talking about?” he said, voice sharp now, no longer flirty. “We hooked up. Once. That’s it.”

Did he not clean it properly? Whatever, it didn't matter; it wasn't his either way.

The girl's smile faltered as she tried to grip Morgan's hand, but he pulled away. 

Morgan felt the girl grab his wrist. Morgan’s hand loosened from the bus rail.

She kept holding his wrist.

He yanked it away, and the girl fell on the floor. Morgan wanted to help her up, but decided against it. 

Better to get the idea out of her head sooner

The girl gasped, tears streaming down her face. She was crying about how much she “loved him” and “how can you say that?”

Then the girl's voice grew darker, rot clinging to it, spitting like a curse soaked in sugar.

"You'll regret this, I promise you."

The bus jolted, screeched, and came to an abrupt stop.

Morgan blinked, disoriented. The past slammed shut like a dropped book.

His balance failed him for a second, and he stumbled forward, colliding shoulder-first into a stranger standing by the exit.

“Shit—sorry,” Morgan muttered, steadying himself.

The woman didn’t answer, just gave a once-over and kept walking.

‘I wish I were nicer’

Morgan released a shaky breath, pressing a hand to his temple, gripping the handle tighter. He glanced out the window and froze.

There it was—the office.

Morgan quickly stepped off the bus. The building towered in front of him, old and cold and cruel-looking, 

Morgan clutched the folders tightly. The sky darkened above him, and light rain pattered his shoulders.

“Let’s get this over with…” he muttered before pushing through the building’s doors.

~~

Morgan tapped his foot in line. Finally, the person in front of him took a seat, leaving him alone at the counter.

“Good afternoon. Do you have an appointment with one of our attorneys?” the woman asked without looking up.

“Yeah, I got a summons—”

“ID and summons paper,” she cut in, tapping her nails on the counter.

Morgan sighed and slid both documents forward. He waited for the usual judgment.

The woman paused as she scanned his ID. Finally, she looked at him—really looked at him.

Here we go again, Morgan thought, bracing for some condescending comment.

But she didn’t smirk. She stood.

“Morgan Liotta?” she asked softly.

His stomach twisted. He hadn’t told her his name yet.

“Uh…yeah,” he said, voice uneven.

She stepped out from behind the desk and handed back his papers with care.

“Follow me, sir. The attorney is waiting for you,” she said quietly, not meeting his eyes again.

She turned toward the elevator, leaving Morgan to follow in silence.

As the elevator rose, his mind raced.
Why didn’t she call him Megan like most people did after seeing his ID?
Why did she seem so tense?
Why didn’t he have to wait like everyone else?

The elevator dinged.

The receptionist stepped out, and Morgan followed her down a quiet hallway. She opened a door to a sleek private office and gestured toward the far end of the table.

“Please, have a seat.”

Morgan hesitated, then complied, settling into the chair with a tight grip on his folder.

The receptionist poured a glass of sparkling water and set it in front of Morgan with a gentle clink.

“The Head Counsel will be with you shortly,” she spoke softly, then turned and left, the door clicking shut behind her.

Morgan stared at the water. Bubbles fizzed and popped at the surface like static, but all he could hear was the pounding in his ears. His foot tapped under the table, and he adjusted his folders like shields.

Everything about this felt... off. Too formal. Too personal. The silence pressed in, thick as fog. Why the private room? Why the rushed escort? Why no misgendering?

His thoughts were a storm of half-formed theories when the door opened again.

A man stepped in—sharp suit, measured steps, calm smile. He looked to be in his late forties, maybe early fifties.

“Morgan Liotta?” he asked, extending a hand across the table. “I’m Mr. Calderon. Thank you for coming in on such short notice.”

Morgan stood to shake his hand, but his fingers were trembling. Calderon noticed—but said nothing, offering a firm, practiced grip.

Morgan sat down quickly, his pulse spiking. There was something about Calderon’s calmness that made everything feel worse.

The man clasped his hands together, that professional, unreadable smile never slipping. “First off, how are you, Mr. Liotta?”

Morgan blinked, unsure how to respond. His throat felt dry, so he sipped the sparkling water. “I’m… fine.”

“Good,” Calderon nodded, his tone far too knowing. “I trust the receptionist treated you well, sir?”

The word 'sir' made Morgan's skin crawl for the first time.

He gave a stiff nod, eyes locked on the folders before him.

“Wonderful. As you already know, we’re here to discuss the contract.”

That word dropped like a pin in a silent room.

Morgan’s shoulders tensed. His fingers curled around the folder’s edge, knuckles whitening. He didn’t respond immediately—just nodded slowly, spiraling through worst-case scenarios.

Then, a single knock at the door.

“Ah,” Calderon said, barely glancing up. “Right on time.”

Morgan lifted his gaze to the door.

And froze.

It was him —the beast in a tailored suit, wearing his daughter’s face like a badge.

“Allow me to introduce you two—Morgan, this is—”

The beast cut Calderon off. “No. Allow me.”

He strode toward Morgan, too fast, too confident.

Morgan’s body screamed— run , fight , move —but he couldn’t. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t even blink.

The man stopped just in front of him.

“I apologize,” the beast said softly, voice low and deliberate. “I didn’t get to introduce myself properly the first time we met.”

Then, like a predator, the beast lifted Morgan’s frozen hand and brought it to his lips. The smell of mint and cologne filled Morgan’s lungs the air went cold

“Lorenzo,” he said, kissing Morgan’s knuckles. “Lorenzo De Lu. Charmed truly.”

So that’s what the beast called himself.

Morgan yanked his hand back, stumbling a step away, clutching the back of the chair for support. But his eyes never left him.

And the beast, no Lorenzo’s eyes didn’t leave him either.

They tracked Morgan’s face and chest, lingering a moment too long on the open part of his shirt. Morgan shivered.

Morgan quickly fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, his fingers clumsy as he fastened them up to his collar. He didn’t need a mirror to know Lorenzo had been staring.

From across the space, Lorenzo licked his lips—slowly, thoughtfully. Like he’d seen something he wanted to taste again.

A sharp cough broke the moment.

“If we could all take our seats,” Mr. Calderon expressed, voice clipped but composed.

“Of course,” Lorenzo said smoothly.

The beast stepped behind Morgan too fast, his hand brushing the back of Morgan’s chair. “Please, allow me,” it murmured, and pulled the chair out for him like a gentleman-no, like a predator playing polite.

Morgan hesitated, but sat stiffly, his hands gripping the chair handle.

Lorenzo walked around to the other side of the table and took his seat, all casual grace and silent menace.

Mr. Calderon sat beside the beast, pulling a pristine folder from his briefcase—its stark contrast to Morgan’s wrinkled stack didn’t go unnoticed.

“Alright, gentlemen,” Calderon began, his tone clipped and formal. “As stated in the summons, we’re here to address a breach of contract.”

He slid a copy of the document across the table toward Morgan. Morgan barely glanced at it. His eyes remained fixed on the beast seated beside the lawyer.

Lorenzo sat with his arms folded, smug, unblinking, watching Morgan like a cat might a bird with a broken wing.

Morgan swallowed hard and spoke, carefully masking the tremor in his voice.
“Yes, but I haven’t violated any terms in the contract. I’ve… complied fully.”
His hand tightened around his folder as if it were a shield.

Calderon exhaled slowly, almost regretfully. “Mr. Liotta… I’m aware of the condition you were in when this agreement was signed. Given the circumstances, it’s not surprising there might’ve been confusion or… omissions.”

Morgan’s eyes flicked up, narrowing. “Omissions?” he echoed, voice sharper now. “If you’re saying I broke the contract, I’d like to hear exactly what term I violated.”

There was a pause.

Calderon folded his hands neatly, expression unreadable.

“The non-disclosure clause,” he said evenly. “Specifically—the existence of the child.”

The words hit like a slap.

Morgan froze.

Morgan’s voice came out in a brittle whisper. “…What?”

Calderon’s gaze didn’t waver. “The existence of the child violates the confidentiality clause, Mr. Liotta. Regardless of intent, it constitutes a breach.”

“The… the child ?” he asked, his voice small, hoarse. “You’re saying my daughter violates the contract?”

Calderon didn’t answer right away. He adjusted the cuffs of his shirt, but his posture remained painfully calm.

“The agreement included a strict non-disclosure clause, Mr. Liotta. No public statements, no media attention, and most importantly…” He hesitated—his eyes flicked briefly toward Lorenzo, whose smug expression had finally begun to flicker. “…no mention or indication of any offspring that could link you… to the incident.”

Morgan’s gaze snapped to Lorenzo, who still hadn’t looked away, but the confidence- the smugness—was cracking now.

Morgan turned back to Calderon, eyes burning.

“So what?”  Morgan spoke, low and bitter. You’re telling me that I could never have children. How do you even know my daughter is connected?”

Mr. Calderon didn’t answer. He opened his folder again and neatly slid out a single page—paper thick and official, with a red stamp on the top corner.

“This contract,” Calderon began again, “is now… effectively void.”

The words hovered, too light for how heavy they felt. Calderon seemed almost hesitant now, his composure slipping at the edges.

Morgan stared. His mouth opened like he might speak, then closed again.

It was nothing more than a whisper when he finally found his voice.
“…How much do I owe you, then?”

Calderon looked at him for a beat. Then took in a deep breath, the kind that signaled a shift.

“That’s the problem,” he said, almost gently. “You don’t owe anything.”

Morgan blinked.

“In fact…” Calderon reached back into his briefcase and pulled out another folder—thicker, sealed with a red tab. He laid it on the table, then slid it toward Morgan. “You may want to brace yourself.”

Morgan reached for it with shaking hands, prying it open, and the first thing he saw was the heading:

PATERNITY TEST RESULTS – CONFIRMED

His vision tunneled.

His chest stopped rising.

The air had been knocked out of the room.

Everything froze—except for that one name printed neatly next to “Father”:
Lorenzo De Lu.

The beast took his daughter's blood, too. Morgan's eyes locked on the beast, its posture downcast with shame and disgust.

The same look from that night

Morgan remained frozen.

The letters on the page blurred, smearing behind his eyes. His breathing was shallow, tight, like he’d been plunged underwater and left to sink. The muffled sounds of voices swirled around him like static.

“…we understand this is very difficult to process,” Mr. Calderon said gently, his voice barely piercing the fog. “But please know, my client only wants what’s best for you and the child. Proper compensation will be—”

A soft shuffle of paper.

Another folder slid toward him, this one cream-colored with bold text stamped across the top:

CUSTODY AGREEMENT.

The lawyer kept speaking, but it was all underwater now. Words like shared custody , housing , visitation schedules , and comprehensive support floated around Morgan’s ears like debris after an explosion.

His fingers twitched.

His chest rose—and this time, didn’t fall.

And then, suddenly, his voice cracked the air:

“How much do I OWE YOU?!”

The room fell silent.

Calderon stopped mid-sentence, hands paused above the pages.

Morgan’s voice was raw, torn from his throat like it had been festering. His eyes were wide, glassy, locked on the lawyer with fury, fear, and disbelief. The kind of look an animal gives just before it bites.

Morgan stood, hands planted on the table, folders crumpling beneath his grip.
“You said I broke the contract. So how much?!”
His voice shook now, but it was loud. Too loud for the room.
“I’ll pay it! I’ll figure it out—I’ll work till I die if I have to,— just tell me how much I owe to make you both leave us alone!”

Morgan didn’t dare glance at the beast. He couldn’t.

Because if he did, he knew he would scream.

Mr. Calderon stood, both hands raised slightly in a placating gesture.

“Mr. Liotta—Morgan—if you disagree with the terms, we can go through mediation. We’re open to revising the—”

“NO!”

Morgan’s chair scraped violently back as he stood.

In a single motion, he ripped the paternity test in half. Then the custody agreement. Papers tore like skin beneath his fingers, fluttering to the floor.

“HOW MUCH DO I OWE?!”
His voice cracked as the words exploded from his chest. “TELL ME!”

Tears were running now. Hot. Unrelenting.
Morgan stomped the documents into the floor with the heel of his shoe, as if it would make it disappear. His fists clenched at his sides as he stared at Calderon, then—unwillingly—his eyes flicked to Lorenzo.

“He is not my baby’s father.”
Each word was jagged, splintered from the weight behind it.
“MY DAUGHTER is well cared for, and I already don't need anything!”

His chest heaved, the air tearing in and out of him as if it hurt to breathe.

“And if I don’t owe anything, then I don’t want anything! Not a cent!”

Morgan dry heaved, his whole body trembling as tears fell down his face unwillingly.

Mr. Calderon began to speak again, voice gentle, almost rehearsed—

And Morgan was just about to yell again, but stopped immediately when the beast raised a single hand.

No words. Just a slight, effortless motion.

He didn’t look at the lawyer. His gaze stayed fixed on nothing in particular, his expression unreadable—bored, maybe. Disgusted.

Calderon understood. He left his briefcase and bowed slightly as he turned to go.

Morgan didn’t calm down from relief.

It was fear.

Raw, gnawing fear set in the moment the lawyer backed away.

‘No. No, please. Come back.  Please don’t leave me with him. Please, not with him.’

The door shut with a final, deliberate click.

And then they were alone.

Lorenzo stood slowly. No rush. No threat in the movement. Morgan’s stomach wanted to cave in

He couldn't, not with what's at stake.

Lorenzo adjusted his collar for the third time, scowling at the smudge of foundation staining the edge of his shirt. The faint traces of his angel’s kisses still lingered on his neck—faint bruises hidden under careful makeup. They hadn’t entirely faded, not that Enzo wanted them to.

Enzo's foot tapped restlessly against the marble floor as he stared out the window. Why was time moving so goddamn slow? Of course, Morgan was offended—he knew he would be. He had explicitly told Calderon to ensure the summons used Morgan , his angel’s true name. But Calderon insisted it had to match the outdated records— Megan. Lorenzo’s jaw tightened. No doubt his angel had seen it and gone cold.

Still, Enzo had ensured that every last person would treat him with respect when Morgan stepped into that building. They all knew the consequences if they didn’t.

A soft pattering began to tap against the window—rain. His eyes narrowed. Was the star caught in it? Drenched and shivering and alone? The thought made something sour bloom in his gut. Maybe that’s why he hadn’t come in yet. Maybe—

Enzo clenched his fists, steadying himself. Soon. He would see him soon.

The clock ticked on, louder and louder, each second scraping against Lorenzo’s nerves. He was seconds away from storming down, ready to strangle that useless lawyer and make him pay for it.

Then, sharp, rushed knocking at the door.

Was everyone in this place stupid ?

The door creaked without permission before he could bark an order, revealing one of the receptionists. Lorenzo's hand twitched toward his holster, the urge to teach this girl a lesson for disrupting his fragile patience boiling up fast—but then she spoke.

“Mr. De Lu,” she squeaked, eyes wide, “Mr. Liotta is in the office with the head counselor.”

Just like that, the storm inside him cleared.

His angel had arrived.

Warmth bloomed in Lorenzo’s chest, melting through his tension like sunlight. A smile pulled at his mouth—genuine, almost boyish. He let out a quiet breath, adjusting his collar with slow precision.

Enzo muttered under his breath, “Thank you.”

With practiced grace in his step, Lorenzo walked out the door and went to the chief counselor’s office, his heart beating faster with every stride.

Finally, he reached the door.

He could hear Calderon’s voice droning on inside—slow, flat, irritating as ever. But then he listened to his angel’s voice. Not screaming, not crying. Just that beautiful tone, soft and steady, made something in Enzo’s chest twist.

He couldn’t contain himself.

A knock, sharp and deliberate, the pause that stretched like an eternity. Then he opened the door.

And there he was.

His angel was sitting down— God , he looked divine.

“Ah,” Calderon said, barely looking up. “Right on time.”

Morgan lifted his gaze—and then shot to his feet, the table rattling beneath him. It had only been a month since Enzo last saw him, but seeing Morgan like this— not sobbing, not broken—like a miracle.

Calderon cleared his throat, his voice static in the background. “Allow me to introduce you two—Morgan, this is—”

“No. Allow me.”

Lorenzo cut Calderon off without a second thought, already stepping forward. The room felt too small, dry, and still—but his angel was here, which changed everything.

He moved quickly. He couldn't help himself. Morgan stood there like a dream, eyes wide, lips parted slightly. Not crying, not trembling. Just… still. Calm.

It was a mercy. A blessing. A sign.

Lorenzo stopped a breath away, letting himself drink the moment in. God, he’d forgotten how small Morgan was, perfectly small. His eyes were even more striking up close, though Lorenzo could see shadows of fatigue under them, faint but real. His angel had suffered—he could see that—but right now, Morgan was steady. Still. Present.

He hadn’t run, didn't punch, didn't scratch.

“I apologize,” Lorenzo spoke gently, his voice quieter now. Reverent. “I didn’t get to introduce myself properly the first time we met.”

His hand moved on instinct. He took Morgan’s in his own—small, still, damp from the unworthy rain—and brought it to his lips. A kiss, just at the knuckles. It was old-fashioned but felt right, fitting for the angel's status .

“Lorenzo,” murmured against Morgan's skin, savoring the warmth. “Lorenzo De Lu. Charmed, truly.”

Morgan yanked his hand away. Still fought him,
Of course, he did. he was divine.

Lorenzo straightened, ribs flaring with dull pain as he rose. He caught the movement—how his angel’s chest lifted beneath that same tank top from their first meeting.

How strange, still wearing it.

Lorenzo’s tongue darted over his lips. Salt. A hint of lotion, Heavenly. That fabric didn’t deserve to cling to divine skin. Soon, Lorenzo would purchase something better, Something worthy.

Morgan’s hands moved, buttoning up his shirt. Ah. The room must be cold.
Lorenzo licked his lips again, savoring the lingering taste.

A sharp cough snapped in the air.

“If we could all take our seats,” Mr. Calderon said, voice clipped, composed.
Annoying. He’d punish him for that.

“Of course,” Lorenzo replied smoothly.

Enzo's eyes never left the angel as he moved behind him. He carefully pulled out the chair—his angel couldn’t afford to stumble, not with such precious legs.

Morgan’s eyes stayed on him, too. They burned. And when he sat, the warmth remained thick, almost unbearable between them.

Unfortunately, Enzo had to let go.

He circled the table slowly, with each step deliberate. Pain sparked through his side with every breath, his ribs screaming—but he would not let his angel see that.
Not yet.

He sat with a careful smile, folding his hands neatly in front of him. His gaze never strayed from the star across from him.

The rustling of papers broke the stillness, and Calderon began to speak like rehearsed.

Across the table, Morgan sat upright, stiff, but radiant. His mouth moved—arguing, maybe. Defending. Lorenzo couldn’t hear him. The sound blurred at the edges, like he was underwater.

But the shape of Morgan’s voice, the rhythm of it… that Lorenzo felt.

Every blink, every swallow, every twitch of his fingers on the folder—Lorenzo catalogued it without effort.

Enzo felt honored. Awed..

His ribs ached badly, but he kept still. Upright. Focused.

He didn’t blink.

He didn’t dare.

He just wanted to be here .

To witness, to atone.

Enzo’s eyes couldn’t stay still for long. Another paper slid across the table as Calderon discussed the contract and paternity test. Enzo barely registered it. Hopefully, his angel wouldn’t be too offended—there were other agreements, far more worthy, waiting for him.

But then the air split open with a scream—too familiar, too sharp.

“HOW MUCH DO I OWE YOU?!”

Enzo’s head snapped up. His angel was crying.

Enzo watched, stunned. Even his angel’s rage sounded divine, each word a hymn screaming through his ears, the sound of glass and water falling onto the floor. It hurt. He wanted to cover them, to block it out—not because it was ugly, but because witnessing it felt like a sin.

Calderon kept spouting useless words. Enzo saw it then—Morgan’s trembling hand curling into a fist, another divine outburst building on his lips. He was going to attack Calderon.

No. No, no, no.

Those fists weren’t meant for someone like Calderon. They weren’t meant for anyone else.

Those fists were meant for him, Him alone.

Lorenzo raised a single hand.

The gesture spoke volumes.

Silence.

Calderon faltered. Enzo could hear his mouth popping like a fish, and then a bow turned to leave, the briefcase forgotten.

Enzo’s jaw ticked as the door clicked shut behind him. He would deal with Calderon later. Thoroughly.

Only Morgan mattered.

Lorenzo rose slowly, biting down on the breath that wanted to hiss through his teeth. He reached into the filthy bag, pulling out the thick velvet folder.

One step forward. His breath held steady.

We’re doing this my way now.

Finally, he was close to the angel again.
Morgan was still staring up at him, jaw locked, chest rising and falling fast.

Enzo inhaled—breathing in the angel’s warm air—and sank to his knees before him, pain exploding behind his ribs—but he didn’t flinch, He deserved it.

“W-what are you doing—!” Morgan backed away a step, but Enzo didn’t follow.

“You look beautiful,” Enzo murmured to himself, voice unsteady, reverent.
It was the only thing he could think to say. The only truth that ever seemed to stay.

“This is what I wanted to do when I went to your home,” Enzo said, trembling in his smile. I apologize for that. I didn't mean to scare; I just wanted to apologize.”

Morgan flinched. His jaw tightened—just like that night. But this time, his eyes held something else. Defiance. Resolve.

“Listen,” he said, voice catching. “I haven’t told anyone about… what happened. I wasn’t planning to. Your business is safe.”

Business.
As if Enzo gave a single damn about that.

He forced a smile anyway, he felt himself  cracking “Morgan… this isn’t about business. It’s about making things right. This—” he raised the folder slightly, almost like an offering—“this is proper compensation.”

Morgan stared at it. His fists clenched tighter.

“That night,” Enzo spoke softly, voice fraying at the edges, “I knew that pen—that paper—it wasn’t enough. I was angry. I was weak back then. I should’ve done more.”

Enzo was sweating now, his heart pounding through his ribs, and each breath was a struggle.
“But when I saw the child…” He blinked, smiling like a sinner seeing God. “I knew she was mine. Isn’t it wonderful? That it wasn’t one of those pests?”
His voice dropped, reverent. “You’re still pure.”

Morgan’s shoulders tensed. His eyes widened—but he didn’t speak, He just stared down.

Enzo didn’t notice. He was lost in it now, the image of salvation he’d constructed. He reached into the folder, pulling out the paper he’d rewritten a dozen times.

“I want to atone,” he whispered, voice thick with something holy. “I want to give you proper compensation. You deserve this.”

He took Morgan’s hand—warm, trembling—and gently placed the document in his palm.
“A new house. Full support. A better life. Just read it over. It’s wonderful, I promise.”

Then, with trembling sincerity, Enzo leaned down and pressed his lips to Morgan’s knuckles.

Holy. Like a vow.

The angel didn’t move. Didn’t breathe, it saw his sincerity
But then—

CRACK.

Enzo’s head snapped sideways from the force of the punch.

“You sick bastard! ”  Morgan shouted, stumbling back, eyes wide and wild. His voice broke as he wiped his kissed hand on his pants again and again like it burned 

Enzo touched his face. He’d lost control again. He deserved it.

The sound of paper tearing made Enzo's eyes shoot up. Morgan tore the paper, its pieces falling to the ground.d

“I DON'T WANT ANYTHING! JUST TELL ME WHAT I OWE!” His voice was shrill. Divine.

The angel was, of course, offended. What else could it be? The angel didn’t owe anything.
He deserved everything.

But Enzo can't have his angel afraid or running like last time, not again, not that fear, not those tears. Enzo stood up again, and he could feel a bruise forming on his cheek—another gift.

Enzo spoke again, quieter this time, like approaching a sleeping bomb. “Morgan—”

“You're not my daughter’s father—I am! ”
Morgan snapped, his voice high and shaking, chest heaving with fury.

Enzo took a slow, careful step forward, palms slightly raised.
“I’m not taking that from you. I don’t want to replace you. I just want to compensate you properly—”

“I DON’T WANT YOUR ‘COMPENSATION!’ ”
Morgan’s scream cut through the room like glass, each word cracked and trembling.

The angel’s voice—so shrill, so broken—stabbed through Enzo’s ribs.

“I’ll leave if that’s what you want,” Morgan said again, breath catching. “I’ll never look back. Just leave us alone.”

Enzo flinched.

Leave. That word. That threat.

He stopped in place, his expression faltering.
“Morgan, please…”

And then the annoyance came, crawling up from his bones—hot, bitter. He swallowed it like ash.
‘ Keep it together.’

 You don’t get to fall apart. Not in front of something so divine.

“Do you think I'm scared of you? " Morgan panted. “I'll take this to court, and my daughter will make it out. I'm leaving!” 

Make it out

That word rang like a church bell in Enzo’s skull.
Louder. Louder. Until it wasn’t a word anymore, just memory.
Her blood on white linoleum. Her voice had gone hoarse from screaming. Her body folded wrong at the base of the stairs. Clutching her stomach instead of him  

How she didn't die even after that

Enzo's eyes snapped at Morgan’s hot look this time, making the angel freeze. Good, he needed to understand the filth he had just spoken.

“Make it out…” Enzo asked, walking closer to feel the angel's warmth

The angel stumbled back, dropping his folder into the forming puddle at his feet.

"On what grounds?" Enzo's voice cracked through the silence—his emotions fraying, rage rising from a place he thought he’d buried years ago. "You don’t have a job. No income. You’ve got money, sure—but not enough."

He wiped his hand across the table, collecting enough water to smear away the foundation on his neck. His fingers flinched at the contact, revealing the faint, bruised line.

And then the memory surfaced—from the angel’s documents.

"Patient, on February 23rd, 20XX, attempted homicide of daughter..."

Morgan froze. His eyes locked on Enzo.

“That was the last time the patient showed up for therapy,” Enzo finished, voice low and sharp with disdain.

Morgan swallowed. “So what? That was years ago. I’ll go to court—I’ll fight this.”

The angel trembled. He still didn’t understand what he’d just admitted to. That only fueled Enzo’s fury.

"You take it to court. Then what?" Enzo stepped forward.

The angel retreated.

“You broke the contract. Remember?”

Another step. Another retreat.

“Do you know my connections. Did you think I was lying that night?”

Morgan’s back hit the wall.

“I can make sure that child never sees you again. Who do you think the courts will believe?”

Enzo leaned in. His breath brushed Morgan’s ear, his voice colder than ever.

“Who do you think will win?”

For a moment, it didn’t sound like Enzo speaking.

It sounded like his father.

“The butcher or the useless brood mare .”

The word hit the air like a slap.

Enzo snapped out of his rage, stumbling back, a hand flying over his mouth.

‘Mare?’ What the hell did I say?’

Lorenzo glanced down at the angel’s face.

There it was—that dull, flat look. Tears flowing.

A familiar emptiness he hadn’t seen in years.

Damn it.

I should’ve kept my emotions in check, just like Cauldron said.

“I apologize. I lost control of myself,” Lorenzo said stiffly, the coldness returning to his voice like a bad habit. He didn’t notice the angel lowering his eyes.

I’ve ruined it again.

He stepped back, grabbed the velvet folder from the table, and returned—carefully this time, keeping his distance.

“Let’s take another look,” he offered, voice even. “We’ll start small… and build from there.”

He unfolded a page. One of the weaker terms. Not what he wanted. Not nearly enough. But after that slip? He couldn’t risk pushing.

The angel’s eyes stayed dull.
Too dull.
It reminded Enzo of her eyes.

Eyes that had stopped fighting—eyes he had helped dim.

“We can… mediate the change to that term—uhm—” Enzo’s voice cracked. He turned away, crossing the room to regain control, to stop those eyes from looking at him like that.

The angel finally looked up, slow and tired. Eyes still dull.

“I’ll sign it…” Morgan muttered, lowering his head. “Just don’t take my baby…”
He clutched his stomach.

Enzo froze.

He messed up. Really messed up.

It was supposed to be different. He was supposed to kneel. To atone.
So why did “victory” taste like ash?

But he couldn’t let the angel see that.
Not yet.

He’d apologize soon.

Lorenzo smiled—empty, practiced—and nodded.
“Okay. I’ll call back the lawyer.”

Lorenzo walked to the door and opened it.

Cauldron was waiting.

Without a word, Lorenzo motioned for him to come in.

~

Cauldron spoke for half an hour, outlining the terms of the custody agreement.

“Child support—fifteen thousand”.
‘Not enough.’
“Weekly, one-day visits supervised.”
 'Still not enough.'

Enzo wanted to protest, demand more for Morgan, and give him everything .
But every time he looked up, those dulled eyes stopped him cold.
So he said nothing.

The angel sat stiffly,  his nails digging into his palms. His leg bounced restlessly, betraying the stillness of his posture. The pen shook in his grasp before he pressed it to paper.

Like that night

The sound of the signature was far too loud in the quiet room.

Cauldron reached for the folder, replacing the one Morgan had brought in, and he shook his hand as Morgan stood. Morgan leaned toward Cauldron, his voice barely a breath.

Cauldron nodded toward the hallway.

Enzo didn’t hear the question—he was too busy staring at the signature and at the ink sealing, a moment that should’ve gone differently.

Morgan stood slowly, He didn’t look at either of them. His shoulders were tense, jaw clenched, like he was holding himself together by threads. As he left, his steps were quiet, almost rehearsed.

Enzo’s fists clenched.
It should’ve been him walking him out.
It should’ve been him hearing that whisper.

"That was fast. I expected this to take longer, Mr. De Lu," Cauldron said, breaking the silence.

Enzo didn’t know how to respond.

This wasn’t a victory.

It felt horrible, like reliving a long, disgusting memory.

"How long will it take to process?" Lorenzo asked, his eyes fixed on the empty folder Morgan had left behind.

"About two weeks, Mr. De Lu. I can expedite it, if you'd like."

Enzo stood from the chair and walked to the window.
It was raining hard now. Sheets of water hitting glass.

"No need," Lorenzo said in a clipped voice. He raised a hand, signaling that the meeting was over.
"Just tell me when to send the first payment."

Cauldron nodded, gathering the papers and leaving.
The door closed too loudly behind him.

Enzo let out a shaky breath, tears slipping down his face.

Why did I say that? Why am I so cruel?
This was supposed to be different—happier.
The path to redemption.
I always mess it up.

He stood at the window for a long while, searching through the rain to glimpse his angel.

And then he saw him—
Morgan held the velvet folder above his head like a shield. His soaked clothes clung to his frame as he boarded the bus.

“Thank God he’s doing better than me,” Enzo murmured.

He wiped his face with his hand, watching the bus pull away and disappear into the downpour.

I’ll apologize next time we meet.
The angel deserves this, and better.

The flickering light overhead hums like a gnat in Morgan’s ear.

His hands are braced on either side of the porcelain sink—white knuckled, trembling. The sound of gagging echoes off the cold tiles as he vomits again, barely managing to aim into the toilet behind him.

His stomach has been empty for a long time, but his body keeps wrenching forward, trying to rid itself of something worse than food.

The paper’s still clutched in his hand.

That paper.
Cream-colored. Smooth. Expensive.

It’s wet now—crumpled and streaked where his tears fell and bloomed into the ink like rot.

Covered with a velvet cage

Morgan staggered to the sink once more, washing the side of his face where the beast whispered his knuckles over and over again. 

Part of his mind could feel the phantom of the beast's fingers near his chest.

‘Brooding Mare’

The document is damp, spotted, and bleeding at the corners.
Some of the words have melted together.

But he can still see them.
Still read them.

“The Non-Custodial Parent (Father)…”
“Visitation supervised by both parties…”
“Failure to uphold any clause shall be considered a breach—”

His eyes skip, falter. The names change.
“Liotta,” a second ago—it said “Loser.” “Mother” “Baby maker”

“Mare”

Morgan blinks. It’s blurry. He wipes the tear from his cheek and sees the next one fall directly on “respectable occupation.”

The words smear like bruises. The page looks abused now—creased, ruined.

He turns to the mirror but doesn’t look. He can’t.

The ink bleeds.
The letters run.

But one phrase remains sharp.
Like it was carved, not typed.

“You deserve this.”

Morgan wants to tear the paper in half, beg for it to stop, and drown himself.

‘Bzzzt Bzzzt’

Morgan's head snaps to his pocket

‘Bzzt Bzzzt’

The ringing was getting louder, it was Gia probably she's made isn't she

BZZZT. BZZZT.

Morgan takes a deep breath and picks up the phone.

“H-Hello…” he answers, still tasting the beast’s breath on his lips.

“Morgan, don’t tell me you’re in jail. We waited hours! ”

Morgan looks down at the velvet folder.

Was he in jail?

“N-no, it just took a while to pay the fine… that’s all,” he mutters, hand shaking.

But the phrase still burns behind his eyes.

You deserve this.

He stares blankly at the mirror.

“Fine. Just come home quickly—I can’t find your key,” Gia sighs, rustling through papers.
“Don’t keep me waiting. You know I’m traveling next week.”

Morgan grips the phone tightly. Maybe Gia can save him.

“Oh no, I’m not sick… By the way, Gia—how long will your trip be?”

A pause. More rustling.

“Hmmm… about two months. Family situation. You know Bra—”

Her voice fades into the background.

Morgan freezes.

Two months.

Gia will be gone for two months.

Sixty nights.
Sixty mornings.
Sixty times waking up wondering if he will be at the door.

Lorenzo will be waiting.
The beast will keep torturing him.

His throat closes.
The paper slips from his hand and lands softly on the floor, curling like something ashamed.

His eyes drift to the toilet water—big enough. Wide enough.
'If I could just stay there long enough, everything would dis—'

“PAPAAAAA!”

A squeal cuts through the phone.

Morgan flinches.

“Papa! Papa! We had so much fun—Auntie argued with a lady, and the lady gave me pretty pink nails ! ”

Morgan claps a hand over his mouth. A sob escapes—silent, sharp.

But Grace is still talking. Rambling.
Alive.

Laughing.

Her little voice fills the room like sunlight bleeding through a crack in a boarded window.

I should have been nicer, Morgan thinks, throat tight.

“That’s amazing, darling. I’ll come home soon to see it, okay?” he says with a forced smile, as if she could see him through the phone.

“Okay, Papa! Bye!!”

Morgan hears the patter of her feet as she runs away.

“…Bye, darling,” he whispers.

Gia comes back on the line, her voice softer now.

“Just come home quickly, okay, Morgan?”

“…Y-yeah. Bye, Gia.”

Morgan hangs up the phone, staring at it, its warmth gone, Then his knees buckle.

Morgan sinks to the bathroom floor, clutching the paper to his chest, hoping that holding it closer might prevent it from swallowing him whole.

He can’t breathe.

His voice is a rasp, a choke:

“I don’t… I didn’t… I didn’t do anything wrong.”

But the contract doesn’t care.

“I wish I were nicer to her…”

The contract only answers:

You deserve this.

Morgan takes a deep breath, stuffing the paper back into the velvet prison

His new lease, now wrapped around his body like a rope dangling over the beast's mouth, was ready for his fill.

Morgan staggers out of the bathroom. The receptionist from earlier waves at him, softly, awkwardly.

He doesn’t wave back. Doesn’t look.

He’s already at the exit.

‘I wish I were nicer that day… Maybe none of this would’ve happened.’

He looks up.

The rain outside is heavy and cold. But he can’t stay here, not with the beast still in the walls.

He lifts the velvet folder over his head like a veil. Like a funeral shroud.

And walks out.

Only one thought hums behind his eyes, louder than the rain, louder than Grace, louder than anything.

He whispers it now, to make it real:

“I deserve this.”

Chapter Text

The church bells rang throughout the chapel.

A hand fidgeted with the foreign, itchy white dress, somehow too big and too small all at once.

“Sweetheart, you look wonderful. Like a true lady,” a voice whispered in his ear, adjusting the hem of the skirt.

Megan could smell the lotion on his skin, how it burned through his skin.

“I can’t wait for your wedding day. You’d make such a beautiful bride, dear.”

The words grated against his skin.

Then the voice dragged him to the mirror in the dressing room.

And there he was. Megan, in full glory, with his mother beside him, smiling widely and excitedly.

“Don’t you see yourself, dear? I did a good job, right, Megan?”

The mother smiled as she pulled a comb and brushed through Megan's flaky hair. Her other hand applied more “lotion” to his neck, which burned but made Megan's skin lighter. 

More Pure

Megan just stared as the comb brushed through. It felt wrong. Maybe after today, he’d be corrected—virtuous, submissive…normal.

Then, the comb smacked against his head, sharp and sudden. Megan didn’t flinch; that only made it worse.

“Don’t you dare make that face at me, you'll never find a good husband with that ugly face of yours.” The voice growled, yanking the comb harder through his scalp, taking hair strands. “Do you have any idea how important this day is? Your coming of age, you'll finally be normal?”

The mother put down the “lotion” and picked up something else covered in towels. “You better behave from this day on. You hear no more crying and whining; this is your step into womanhood.” The mother spoke, cupping Megan's face, pinching his cheek, and placing a heavy bible into his hands wrapped in towels. “You understand, right, dear?”

Megan swallowed hard, wanting to tear his skin open, but smiled at the mirror, the best he could muster. The urges must go away today.

“Yes, Mama, thank you.”

The chapel hall was too warm.

The air was thick, like it had weight and knew something it wasn’t supposed to say out loud. The faint scent of mildew clung to the walls, soaked into the hymnals. 

He flinched.

His mother’s hand was on his back. A gentle push. The polished smile. “Go on, Dear, make Mama proud,” she whispered.

Megan looked down at his feet. The floor had water stains, but as he had been told, he had taken off his shoes, and the floor was dirty.

Megan stepped forward. One foot in front of the other, like sinking into a script someone else had written. The baptismal pool shimmered under the harsh lights above, too clear, too revealing. 

“WAAHHH WAHHHH”

Megan turned his head. Someone tried to shush a baby in the back pew, but it only made the cries sharper and higher. 

“WAAHHH WAHHHH”

The baby wailed again, loud and aching. Megan faltered, wanting to look longer but he could feel his mother eye’s behind him sucking her teeth in disapoinment, so megan continued walking to the pew, He looked down, , the bible, and the towel, felt heavier now. And the cries felt louder, like he was carrying something else.

It was crying again; She was so quiet in his stomach

People clapped softly as he stepped closer. The pastor was already in the water, smiling like this was something holy. The water sloshed, still running from the faucet.

“WAAHHH WAHHHH” she cried louder, Morgan pinched the bible, mumbling

“Shut up.” Morgan turned on the bathtub faucet

The Pool faucet came to a screeching halt as the pool filled. Megan made it on stage with the heavy book.

It won't shut up, Morgan pinched her, and she only got louder. The bible was kicked out of the towel.

Megan made it on stage, staring at the men before him. The pastor’s voice floated over him, gentle and rehearsed.

“Megan, today you declare your faith before God and your family. Do you believe that Jesus Christ is the Son of God?”

Megan nodded. He wasn’t sure why.

“Do you accept Him as your Lord and Savior?”

The bathtub water kept running, hitting the tiles.

“Y-Yes, I do,” Megan answered,  pit in his stomach, clutching the baby in his arms to make it shut up.

The baby's cries stopped in the church, but still rang in his ears.

Megan handed the book and the towel to the pastor and stepped into the batht-Pool…

The weight of it didn't leave him, like it was still in his stomach and hands all at once

“Then, by your profession of faith, I now baptize you in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit…”

The pastor placed a hand behind his neck and another on his back.

Morgan tensed. The baby in the audience and the baby in his arms didn't stop crying.

“…buried with Christ in death in his death…”

Morgan cupped his hand over her neck and back, the towel slipping from her body.

“The urges will go away today.” Megan thought to himself

The water swallowed Megan whole. Morgan stepped into the still-running bath

For a second, the world muted—the sting of chlorine in his nose. The fabric of his dress was swirling like seaweed around his legs. Silence—blessed silence.

Morgan's body refused to plunge her in—his baby, maybe. He wasn’t sure. He didn’t want to be sure.

Megan came up gasping. Water in his eyes, down his throat. Not reborn. Just wet.

The church clapped again. Megan turned to his mother, her smile was genuine now.

“…raised to walk in newness of life.”

‘Maybe now I'll be pure like she wanted.’ Megan thought

The baby's cries pierced his thinking; He looked down, tears dropping on it

“Please go away, please go away,” 

Morgan sobbed into her ear, kneeling in the bathtub. The water stung his wound, but the weight wouldn’t leave.

“You, Megan, have been reborn by the Grace of god.” 

Morgan's mind plunged into the water, yet his body remained still. Morgan could feel her hair damp like his own.

******

Grace giggled, came to his ear next, not the crying. Morgan wasn't there anymore.

“Papa, that tickles. Stop!” Grace laughed, still soapy, slapping Morgan's hand away from her hair.

Morgan snapped his hand away, shaking from memory, but he put a smile on his face.

“Come on, sweetheart, your hair is still dirty.” Morgan grabbed the bath hose and used it to wash her hair

Grace whined, kicking her feet in the tub, wetting the bathroom tiles.

Morgan wasn’t there anymore. He was not coming of age or at the end of one. His daughter was here in this moment of peace.

Morgan wished he could stay here forever. 

Finally, Morgan turned off the faucet, lifting a kicking Grace out of the tub. She shrieked with laughter, water streaming down her small body as she tried to wriggle free.

“Nooo! Papa, nooo!” she squealed, her voice sharp with giggles as he wrapped her tightly in a towel before she could bolt away naked.

“Come on, doll, stay still—you’ll have plenty of time to run later,” Morgan said, his voice light, though his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. Morgan began quickly lotioning her body; this one never would burn. Grace already had perfect skin color. Grace was still kicking like it did.

Morgan sight-grabbed a dress from the hamper, slid it over her damp body, pulled up her Pampers, and tugged on a pair of leggings. Grace twisted and pouted, trying to wriggle out of the outfit.

“Papa, we go park?” Grace asked, tugging her skirt. “I want pants, not dress! I wanna run!”

Morgan paused, his fingers briefly tightening on the fabric before relaxing again.

He wished he could run, too.

“No darling, we're not going to the park today,” Morgan whispered, wanting it to be a lie.

Grace tilted her head, confused. “Where we go then? Are we going to get a job?”

Morgan's hands trembled as he reached into his pocket, pulling out his phone. He didn’t need to look to know what it was—but he looked anyway.

The screen lit up: Deposit: +$15,000.

His breath caught.

The number above the message was still unsaved, but there was no mistaking who it was from. He opened the message slowly, the kind of slow that made time stretch.

“Good morning, I've made a reservation. 10 AM, Blue Haven Private Aquarium. 1432 Riverview Court. There will be food. No pressure. Please dress warm—it’s cold inside.”

Morgan read it twice.

It was a threat, an order to make sure he followed the contract or else

It had the Beast's fingerprints all over it. Clinical. Off.  Ready to strike at any moment

He stared at the message a moment longer, his thumb hovering over the screen, his mouth dry.

A $15,000 bribe. For Lunch with sharks.

Morgan shivered and smiled down at Grace.

“We're going to the aquarium, sweetheart…” he said softly. The following words nearly made him gag. “...We’ll be meeting a friend .”

Grace tilted her head, her curls bouncing. “But Auntie’s your friend. Did she go away again?” she asked, fiddling with the hem of her dress.

“I wanted to go too, Papa. But auntie said no!” Grace whined, stomping her feet on the puddled floor.

I wanted to go, too .

Morgan thought, a bitter pang hitting his chest. He smiled and picked Grace up, slipping his phone into his pocket.

“She’ll be back in two months, sweetie. Come on, let’s get your shoes…” Morgan murmured, hugging Grace close like he wanted to fold her into his body and keep her there forever.
“…We shouldn’t be late,” Morgan added, mostly to himself.

Grace squealed happily, lightening Morgan’s mood a little. Maybe today wouldn’t be so bad, as long as she was safe.

“Papa… is your new friend nice?”

Morgan nearly burst into tears but held it together with a brittle smile. He carried Grace into his bedroom, setting her on the bed as he changed his pants, hands trembling.

“He’ll be fine to you, okay darling? Just be good, alright?”

He pulled on a pair of baggy jeans, layered his new shirt over his binder, and finished with a button-up.
Maybe the beast wouldn’t stare again.

“Okay, Papa! I’ll be good. Can we eat the fishies there?” Grace giggled, sticking her tongue out playfully.

Morgan snapped his head toward her, caught between admiration and mock scolding.
“No, doll! Those fish are for seeing , not eating.”

He gently gathered her hair into a loose ponytail.

“But what if they’re yummy?” Grace whined, kicking her feet as Morgan knelt to put on her shoes.

“Then I’ll throw you in. You’ll taste very nice to the big fishies,” Morgan teased, tickling her bare foot.

“Nooo, Papa! That mean!” Grace giggled, falling back on the bed as he finished with her other shoe.

“Exactly. That’s why you’re going to behave, okay darling?”

Morgan stood up straight and scooped her into his arms.

“Okay, Papa! I can’t wait to meet your new friend!” She hugged him tightly.

“I can wait to see him,” Morgan muttered.

Morgan turned off the lights in the apartment and paused at the kitchen counter. Quietly, he opened the drawer, took out a small orange bottle, and shook out a single white pill. He swallowed it dry.

Just one more layer of armor.

Then he slipped on his shoes, grabbed both coats, and unlocked the door.

“Today will be okay,” Morgan whispered before stepping out.

~

Morgan only heard the bus drive away as he approached the aquarium entrance, Grace holding his hand and half-jumping excitedly beside him.

If only she knew this felt like a march to his death.

“Papa, this is so cool! I can’t wait to see the fishies here!” Grace laughed as they reached the gate.

“I can’t wait either,” Morgan said, smiling as they stopped at the front desk.

“HI! WE WANNA SEE FISH!” Grace squealed before Morgan could say anything, jumped to see the receptionist's face

“Hello dear, ID and tickets, please,” the receptionist chirped, smiling at Morgan and waving at Grace.

“Hello, uh, I don’t have a ticket... How much for one adult and a kid under four?” Morgan mumbled, digging into his pocket and handing over his ID.

“Oh, sorry, sir,” the man began, “the aquarium is reserved for the next three hours. Would you like to schedule a ticket for later to—”

He stopped midsentence, eyes flicking between the ID and Morgan’s face.

“You’re Meg—I mean, you’re Morgan Liotta, right?” the receptionist asked, voice lower now.

So the beast got here first.

“Yes, I am...” Morgan mumbled, his chest tightening.

The receptionist nodded quickly and handed the ID back. “Alright, sir. No ticket required—just head inside. I’ll let Mr. De Lu know you’ve arrived.”

Morgan’s body tensed with a shiver. He gave a stiff nod and walked forward. Beside him, Grace waved sweetly to the receptionist, her smile stretching from ear to ear.

Maybe today wouldn’t be so bad.

They made it inside. The air was cold, the lighting a washed-out blue, and the place was uncomfortably empty.
Grace shivered, hopping down to grab her coat from Morgan’s arms. He knelt and handed it to her, glancing around.

“Where Papa’s friend?” Grace asked as she zipped up her jacket.

“I don’t know, sweetheart,” Morgan murmured, shivering from fear as he put on his coat.

Grace giggles as she zips up her coat. “Papa, why didn't you say I two?”

Morgan rolled his eyes, pulling out his phone.

“You're too tall to be called two now,” Morgan smiled down at Grace, ruffling her hair, “Besides, I lied once to save you money for that balloon.”

Grace squealed, pulling Morgan's pant leg, “Liar, Liar pants fire.” Grace jumped, blowing air and spittle on Morgan's pant leg

Morgan smiled, ruffling his still-damp hair, and checked his phone

9:45 AM.

Morgan sighed. Maybe he’d have a few more moments of peace before the beast came to torment him.

But then, Grace's jumping stopped. Tiny hands dug into his thigh, making him flinch. He looked down.
Grace wasn’t smiling anymore. Her wide eyes were fixed ahead, her expression tense.

“Sweetheart, we’ll go inside soon. What’s wrong?” Morgan asked gently, trying to pry her fingers from his leg.

“Nobody here, Nobody here, Papa. I wanna go home.” Grace murmured into Morgan, her eyes still fixed ahead. Her voice was tight, trembling.

What does she mean, nobody? Grace never would want to go home this early. Morgan looked up—

—and froze.

It was him.

The honeyed beast. The thief. The butcher.
The one who sees him as Mare.

Lorenzo De Lu, standing across from them with a smile stretched over his face like a wolf spotting an injured rabbit and her kit.

Morgan clutched Grace’s hand tighter and pulled her in. His body screamed to run—but he couldn’t.

He would endure this humiliation.
He always has.

He would survive even if he didn’t.

And he would make sure Grace didn’t succumb.
Not again.

Enzo fiddled with his phone, eyes locked on his written message.

He’d spent thirty minutes typing and retyping it. It needed to be clean. Kind.
Worthy of the angel’s eyes.

Finally, he settled on one:

“Good morning. I’ve made a reservation. 10 AM, Blue Haven Private Aquarium. 1432 Riverview Court. There will be food. No pressure. Please dress warm—it’s cold inside.”

He hesitated a moment longer, then hit send.

Next, he opened his banking app and transferred money to the angel’s number.

+$15,000 sent

This part was easier— much easier.
He wished he could send more. Give Morgan more.

But he’d already messed up two weeks ago.

The look on his angel’s face still haunted him. That dull, distant glaze. The tears.

No. Not again.
He couldn’t bear it.
Enzo would spend whatever it took to erase the memory of his slip of the tongue.

His thumb hovered over Morgan’s contact.

He opened it.

Warmth seemed to hum off the screen. It wasn’t right, leaving the name so plain. It needed something better—
Something holy.
A name worthy of his angel.

Angel? No, too basic for him, Star, not enough. Enzo looked at the text message again, now saying read with no reply.

He wished the angel would grace him with a response, but no, he didn't deserve that yet.

Right. Grace.
The name of his angel’s child. Enzo child

Enzo reopened the contact and typed in the new name:
Grace Giver.

Yes—worthy, enough for now.

Enzo was finally going to meet the child properly. The one who had stolen years of his angel’s time. The one who had the gall to wear his face instead of his angel’s .

She looked like her.

No—no more useless thoughts. Not now.
This was Enzo’s first date, after all. He had to look the part.

‘Children liked aquariums, right? He had liked them when he was young.’

Enzo thought as he combed his hair, agitated fingers tugging through dark strands. His new suit jacket concealed the faded bruises his angel had left—a stain that hadn’t washed away.

He stared at himself in the mirror.
This was the beginning—the first step in his atonement.

Today, he’d show Morgan how sorry he was.
Today, and every day after.

Enzo popped a mint into his mouth, shut off the lights of his penthouse, and stepped out.

The sun was still rising.
He couldn’t keep his angel waiting.

~

Enzo tapped his foot. He wished he had arrived a little later. Maybe he wouldn’t feel this crawling annoyance in his gut.

He wasn’t worthy of feeling that, not with his angel, He, would be blessed if Morgan showed up at all

Enzo pulled out his phone

9:38 am

Enzo bit his nails. He might not have felt this way if he had said 9:30 instead of 10:00.

Enzo walks around the waiting area, stopping at a stack of brochures. He picks up one and opens it.

It's a picture of a little boy pointing at a fish with his mother smiling at him. Enzo stared at it for a long time, his mind returning to happier times.

Times with Her

*************

He was Five. His small hand wrapped in hers as she rushed forward, whispering, “We shouldn’t be here. We're late.”

But Enzo's foot stepped on a wet stain, and he let go of the woman's hand. He had to wipe his feet. He turned his face as he felt blue and orange on his skin.

In front of the tank, orange and white fish looped in lazy circles. One hovered over a patch of tiny, pinkish eggs.

The woman tried to take his arm, but Enzo flicked it away, pointing forward.

“What are those, Mama?”

She sighed but crouched beside him, blonde hair brushing his cheek.

“Those are clownfish, darling.” She pointed gently. “And those... those are their babies.”

“Is this one the mama or the papa?” Enzo pointed at the one hovering over the eggs

His mother chuckles and leans down, her long, blond hair brushing his cheek. Her voice is warm and smooth, like honey stirred into tea.

“They start as boys, Enzino. All of them. But if the mommy fish dies…”

His mother taps Enzo's nose

“...The strongest boy turns into a girl. Just like that.”

Enzo's eyes widened in shock. “Really, Mama!” Enzo spoke too loudly, and the other parents and children looked at him in confusion in the quiet space

“Mmhm. Nature doesn’t waste time. Somebody’s gotta take care of the babies.” 

The mother only smiled, picked up Enzo, and began walking again. “Let's get home now.”

As his mother walked, Enzo's eyes didn't leave the tank. Still smiling, he turned his body to face his mother.

“Mama, I wanna be a fish doctor when I grow up.” Enzo smiled at her. The mother returned the smile, but her eyes were tired.

“A marine biologist, darling,” the mother kissed Enzo's nose. She pauses, looking at him with a strange softness. 

“Just be good, darling. For me, let's get home.” She began walking again faster, and Enzo smiled.

*************

Enzo snapped out of the warm memory by the knocks on the door. He felt tears falling down his face, and he quickly wiped them, putting the brochure down.

Enzo quickly coughs and takes a deep breath. Tapping his nose, ‘don't think about Her’, Enzo muttered before facing the door.

“What is it?” Lorenzo asked, annoyed. The door opened, and Enzo's jaw ticked.

“Good morning, sir. Mr. Liotta and his daughter are in the waiting room. Would you like us to greet them?” The lady asked, holding some brochures and bags.

Enzo immediately looked back at his phone. 

9:44 am

His angel was here on record time, how rude of him to doubt his angel's graciousness.

Enzo smiled at the lady, making her flinch back. It didn't matter; he needed to greet his angel first and apologize for his slip of tongue two weeks ago.

“No need. I’ll greet them myself. You're just here to keep the child busy, understand?” Lorenzo spoke sharply, and the lady nodded 

Enzo couldn't hide his joy as he walked to the door. He could feel the angels' warmth through the cold room's door.

He opened the door and saw his angel standing on his phone, waiting for him, and the girl, tugging at his angel’s pants as he gently petted her hair.

She’s so loud. And lucky.

The child noticed him, face scrunching up, and then clung tighter to Morgan’s leg.

Morgan looked down as she whispered something into his thigh, her eyes still locked on Enzo. Then Morgan looked up—and stared too.

He was just as divine as ever. It’s not even cold in here. Why’s he wearing so many layers? Enzo thought, but it didn’t matter.

He had to greet the angel first. No mistakes. Not this time. Lorenzo couldn’t afford a slip of the tongue again.

Lorenzo crossed the room in a few strides. Morgan flinched but didn’t move the child, though she was pulling on him like she wanted him gone.

How rude.

“Good Morning, Morgan, I’m so glad you arrived on time,” Lorenzo said smoothly, lifting Morgan’s stiff hand and kissing his knuckles.

“I hope you’ve been well these past two weeks.”

He looked down from Morgan’s knuckles to Grace, who was staring up at him with... anger? How come? Enzo wondered.

Before he could say more, Morgan yanked his hand away and wiped it on his jacket.

Was I too forward? It didn’t matter. He should introduce himself to the child properly.

The angel took a deep breath, not looking at him directly, only at the child.

“Sweetheart, this is Papa Friend I was talking about Lor-”

Lorenzo knelt to face Grace with a soft smile, which made the angel jerk. 

‘It would be better if I introduce myself first,’ Enzo thought 

“Hello there, little one, what would your name be?” Lorenzo asked, voice gentle and low.

Grace said nothing. She tugged harder at Morgan’s pants, her glare unwavering. Her small eyes made Enzo want to shrink into himself. Her cheeks puffed.

She must be shy.

“I’m Lorenzo, little one, but you can call me Enzo. What’s your name?” Lorenzo reached for her hand—

But Enzo felt his hand being slapped away. It was sticky, and then

Spit, Wet, smelling of milk and cheap soap, directly on his nose

“YOU’RE NOBODY!” she shrieked.

“YOU MEAN! I HATE YOU! LEAVE ME ALONE!” She began swatting Enzo's face with her hands

Enzo recoiled, wiping his face as he stood up quickly, stunned.

“PAPA, I WANNA GO HOME! NOW, NOW!”

The child wailed, burying her face in Morgan’s leg as her cries echoed through the room.

“Grace, Sweetie, calm down, this is pap-” the child had the gall to cut his angel off. 

“NO, PAPA! NOBODY HURT YOU! YOU CRY—I WANNA GO HOME!” the child screamed, her face smeared with snot as she clung to Morgan’s leg, staining his pants.

The tour guide burst into the room with a gratingly cheerful voice and a forced smile.
“Welcome to the Blue Haven Private Aquarium! You must be Morgan and Grace—would you lik—”

Another piercing shriek cut her off from the women.

“I WANNA GO HOME! I WANNA GO HOME!”

The Brat threw herself onto the floor, kicking and sobbing, still clutching her father’s leg with trembling fists.

Morgan tried to soothe her, his voice low and angelic, but Enzo was already pulling out a handkerchief and wiping spit from his face with slow, deliberate strokes.

What a brat , Enzo thought bitterly.

The angel—his angel—finally took a deep breath and gave the tour guide a graceful, strained smile.

“Sorry about this, ma’am. Do you have a family bathroom nearby?” he asked through gritted teeth, not once looking in Enzo’s direction.

“Of course, sir. It’s down the hall, on the right,” the woman replied, her voice cracking slightly.

That smile should’ve been for me, Enzo thought, still dabbing at the vanished spit like it was a wound.

Morgan nodded, gathered the sobbing child into his arms, and walked toward the hallway without a glance backward.

As Enzo watched the departing figure of his angel carrying the screaming brat, his eyes snapped to the tour guide, making her flinch.

“Where’s the bathroom?” Lorenzo managed to choke out, still furiously wiping at his face.

The woman jumped, clearly regretting showing up to work today.
“It’s down the hall, on the left, Mr. De L—”

He didn’t let her finish. Enzo turned and stormed off, dead set on disinfecting every inch of his face.

~

It was 10:20 by the time Enzo finished scrubbing his face raw. He stared into the bathroom mirror. The cool porcelain beneath his fingers couldn’t douse the heat simmering in his chest.

He was annoyed. Annoyed that his angel hadn’t spoken to him directly.

Still mad, maybe. Still distant. Still... avoiding.

Enzo dropped the hand towel into the sink, jaw clenched. Should I apologize again? Would Morgan even care? Would that child?

His brows furrowed. That brat—calling him

His stomach twisted in something close to shame… or nausea. His tie suddenly felt too tight.

“You’re nobody.”
“You mean.”
“I HATE you.”

Nobody.

The word echoed louder than he wanted it to.

Emzo walked out of the bathroom and heard sniffling, each muffled hiccup across from him, in the family bathroom.

Enzo crept forward and pressed his ear to the door, silent as a shadow.

“Papa, I wanna go home. I don’t wanna be with Nobody, He Scary” the child sniffled. He could hear the soft rustle of tissues being pulled.

“Sweetheart, I know,” came Morgan’s gentle voice. “But you can’t behave like this. You promised, remember?”

“But Papa... Nobody is mean at the park. He made people run way!”

There was a pause.

“A-and he went into the kitchen... and made you cry on the floor. Papa, he’s mean!”

“You remember that…” Morgan took a breath. “I know, sweetheart, but you still need to behave. You’ll be seeing him once a week from now on.”

“ Every week?” Grace cried. Enzo could hear her little feet kicking against the floor—until the angel must’ve gently stopped her.

“Grace, behave. Please—for me. Remember what Gia taught you about being a lady?”

There was a slight pause before the brat finally spoke, her voice pouty and trembling.
“A lady's s’posed to be nice... not mean. Even to mean people…”

“Yes, exactly,” Morgan sighed, grabbing more tissues. “Just be nice, okay? And after this, we’ll go to the park and get some ice cream. Sound good?”

“Ok, yummy ice cream!”

Enzo pulled his ear from the door and returned to where the tour guide was waiting.

The child has a strong memory.

Enzo returned and spotted the tour guide lingering awkwardly near the entrance, unsure whether to stay or bolt.

“You,” Lorenzo spoke, voice low but firm as he walked toward her. The woman straightened immediately. “Once the tour begins, take the child to the gift shop.” Lorenzo took a deep breath. “Let her pick out something nice. Make sure Morgan doesn't follow”

The guide blinked. “Sir, I—”

“She’ll like it,” Enzo interrupted, looking back toward the family bathroom.

“We need a moment. Alone.”

The tour guide was about to protest but stopped herself, nodding

Good, she's smart, Enzo thought to himself

The sounds of footsteps stopped the silence. Enzo quickly turned

Morgan walked closer slowly, his eyes slightly red, Grace balanced on his hip, her little fists clutching the collar of his coat. Her face was pink and puffy from crying, her curls damp with sweat.

The tour guide smiled nervously and approached with forced cheer

“Hi there, Grace! Would you like to visit the gift shop with me during our tour? There are stuffed animals. You'll like it!”

Grace blinked at her, then peeked at Enzo. She hesitated, then whispered something into Morgan’s ear.

“Go on,” Morgan said softly, setting her down. “Be nice, remember?”

Grace turned to the lady and mumbled, “Sorry, I cried, lady...”

“That’s okay, sweetheart,” the tour guide said, already holding her hands.

But Grace didn’t take it yet. She looked back at Enzo, her brows furrowing.

“Sorry,” she muttered, then quickly shuffled behind Morgan, clinging to his coat like a shield as she reached up for his hand instead.

The tour guide smiled and looked at her watch. “Oh my, we're a bit off schedule. It's almost 10:30 now. We’ll start the tour now and get your gift during.” The lady pointed at Grace. “...and we will have lunch. Does that sound good, gentlemen?”

“Yes, that's fine,” Lorenzo spoke up and looked at Morgan

Morgan only nodded, walking past Enzo

~

The tour guide talked about the different fish in the aquarium. Enzo looked down at his watch.

11:30

Now he only has an hour and a half left to his angel. The child seemed to have calmed down, smiling at the woman, but her voice was loud and annoying.

The worst part is that his angel entertained it. Morgan knelt and talked to the child, smiling at her, and even spoke to the tour guide.

But the angel didn't even spare him a glance, as if he were not there.

Annoyance flared in Enzo's gut

Finally, they made it to the gift shop, but it was too bright.

“Come on, sweetie,” The lady stopped and coaxed, trying to keep her voice light. “The gift shop is just this way—you like toys, right? I think I saw a seahorse plushie.”

Grace didn’t respond. Her grip on Morgan only tightened, and her brows furrowed. It looked like she was about to scream again.

The Angel bent down to her level. “It’s just for a few minutes, baby. I’ll be right here, okay?” Morgan said gently, brushing a curl from her cheek. “Go see the toys. You earned it. Remember what we talked about?”

Grace shook her head fiercely at first, but Morgan seemed to give her hand a soft squeeze, settling something in her, and she let go.

She took a few steps toward the gift shop, then looked back. “Papa, stay. I'll get you a toy too.”

“I will,” Morgan smiled, waving gently. “Go ahead.”

Enzo watched her disappear with the tour guide.
How lucky she is, he thought bitterly.

Now it was just the two of them, standing outside the gift shop in awkward silence.

Enzo peeked at Morgan from the corner of his eye, hoping—maybe he’d speak first?

But no. The moment Grace disappeared inside, Morgan’s expression shut down. Blank. Cold. He stared straight ahead, arms loosely crossed.

Enzo cleared his throat, adjusted his collar, and fished a pack of mints from his coat pocket. He popped one into his mouth, chewing in silence.

“She really is a character,” he finally managed, the words dry on his tongue.

“Yeah…” Morgan muttered, not even looking at him

Enzo shifted his weight from one foot to the other, the silence grating. He cleared his throat again, softer this time.

“I like your jacket,” Lorezeo offered, voice just a bit too low. “It suits you.”

Morgan didn’t respond. Then, slowly, he brought his hand up and pressed it lightly over his chest, covering the fabric and himself.

Enzo quickly looked away, jaw tightening.
Too many layers.
He hated it. He wanted to see his angel, not all this armor.

Another long, painful pause stretched between them. Enzo cracked the mint between his teeth.

“…I’m sorry,” Enzo's voice was almost clipped. “For calling you a… broodmare.”

Morgan blinked once, slowly. “Okay,” he said flatly. Nothing in his tone shifted—just a dull, distant acknowledgment—like Enzo was nothing but a stranger.

Enzo bit down harder, his molars grinding together.
What more was he supposed to say?

Desperate to claw the silence into something functional, Enzo tried again.

“Did you ever cash that check I gave you?” he asked. “The ten million.”

Finally, that got a reaction out of Morgan. Enzo saw him shiver and lift his head to face Enzo,

But his eyes were still dull, more sunken

“I tore it up”, Morgan answered in a dry voice

“What?’ Enzo stopped chewing and looked down at Morgan

“I said I ripped it apart, I told you already I don’t want anything from you this…”

Morgan gestured around himself. 

“It's only for my daughter, nothing more. You follow your side of the contract…” Morgan covered his chest with his arms again and looked away 

“And I follow mine.” Morgan clutched his stomach. “Just don’t take her.” 

The words stuck with Enzo harder than they should. Was that what the angel thought it was, only for the child, and not to atone properly

Enzo was about to speak again, but was cut off by a happy scream barling towards the angel's feet.

“PAPA LOOK PAPA SEAHORSE AND BABY!” Grace screamed too loudly, annoying 

But the angel smiled immediately and took the adut seahorse from Grace's hand

“Thank you so much, sweetheart, I love it,” Morgan cooed, petting Grace's hair

Grace only glanced at Enzo, turning her face with a huff back to Morgan

That cheap thing isn't even worth his skin, Brat, Enzo thought, his jaw clenched

The tour guide walked out of the shop

“Well, look at the time. It's lunchtime, so let's head to the cafeteria, okay?” Her voice was clipped, exhausted 

“Me hungry!” Grace gritted as she dared to hit his angel's leg with the cheap toy. The angel only smiled, picked up Grace, and walked past Enzo, not sparing him a glance as the tour guide led them to the cafe.

Enzo's hand clenched onto the mint pack, making it crack.

~

12:00 pm

Grace was happily eating a peanut butter sandwich on the bench

She chose that instead of anything else, he had the staff made

Crusts were raining onto her lap as jelly smeared across her chin, her little fingers were sticky, and she thoughtlessly wiped them on her skirt and Morgan’s sleeve.

Enzo watched from the doorway in silent horror.

The stains bloomed across the soft fabric like bruises. His angel didn’t even flinch.

Morgan only chuckled softly, dabbing Grace’s face with a napkin, gently tilting her chin. “Messy girl,” he said, brushing a curl from her forehead.

Warm. Unbothered. For her.

Enzo’s stomach turned. That smile should have been his. That softness. That touch.

He wanted to tear down the whole wall and aquarium and start over, redoing everything the entire day. He wanted to clean it, rewind it, and own it.

But Morgan didn’t even notice him. Just Grace. Only the daughter who looked so much like her.

The tour guide returned, clapping her hands brightly. “Well! Ready to continue the tour, were almost done, gentlemen?”

Enzo stood slowly, brushing invisible dust off his coat. His jaw locked, his smile polite.

“Lead the way,” he said.

But his eyes never left Morgan. Or the jelly stain on his arm.

~

12:30 pm

The tour went on. His angel didn't look at him once as they entered the last exhibit. Enzo felt familiar with this place. It hadn't changed much; the carpet was still dirty, and her footsteps were still present.

The tour guide was ahead of them now talking about the history of this place, but wait, his angel wasn't next to the woman.

“Papa, look! Nemo fish!” Grace laughed, tapping excitedly on the glass.

Enzo turned and paused.

Morgan was crouched beside Grace, their shoulders touching. Both gently tapped at the tank as a clownfish darted through the coral. Morgan smiled again, holding both seahorse plushies, an unguarded smile not for Enzo.

This may be his chance.

Enzo walked back until he was standing beside them, keeping a respectful distance.

“What’s Nemo’s friend's name, Papa?” Grace asked, still pointing at a fish hovering over the eggs, her eyes wide and curious.

“Sweetheart, they’re, um…” Morgan looked around for a plaque, clearly stalling.

“ Amphiprioninae’s,” Enzo cut in, quickly.

Morgan’s head snapped up—his eyes meeting Enzo’s for the first time in a while.

Enzo smiled, pleased with himself. “Commonly known as clownfish. They’re sequential hermaphrodites, meaning all of them are born male.”

Morgan rose slowly, his stare flat. Enzo didn’t notice. He was already somewhere else, back with his mother.

Still locked in the past, he added:
“Fun fact—when the dominant female dies, the most dominant male changes sex to take her place. Complete biological transformation.”

He turned back to Morgan, hopeful. Waiting.

“They mate for life, you know,” Enzo added, still giddy

But Morgan's face didn't look null anymore; he looked angry

“Right. Because nothing’s more natural than a male forced to change against his will,” Morgan muttered under his breath, clutching onto the plushies

Enzo blinked, his smile faltering, he looked down, and Grace was staring up at him, confused, and quickly turned back to Morgan

“Papa, what’s ‘herma-frodit”

Enzo choked, coughing; maybe he spoke too fast. “Well, it's a,” Grace's voice cut him off.

“I wasn’t talking to you .” Grace snapped his head to Enzo before turning to Morgan, clutching his pants. “Papa, what is it?” The brat yelled, her eyes still locked on his angel

Morgan took Grace’s hand, voice cold now. “I'll tell you when we get home. Let's keep up with the Guide.”

And just like that, Morgan walked past him to the waiting tour guide, and the brat seemed to ask the lady a question.

But Enzo just stood there frozen, staring at the clownfish

“Today is a failure,” Lorenzo mumbled to himself, rubbing his hands before silently walking behind them

~

1:00 PM

“Thank you for coming to Blue Haven Aquarium! I hope you enjoyed the tour,” the guide said warmly, handing over two small gift bags.

Morgan accepted them with a polite nod, sliding both plush seahorses inside. “Thank you,” he murmured, voice tight but civil.

Grace bounced beside him, gripping his hand. “Papa! I wanna go to the park now!”

Morgan scooped her up with ease, kissing her cheek. “We’re going, sweetheart. Let’s catch the bus.”

He turned without once looking at Enzo.

Enzo stepped forward, the words catching in his throat. He forced them out, trying to level his voice, to keep it steady despite the tremble in his hands.

“Would you like me to drive you there?”

Morgan didn’t stop walking. Didn’t pause. He adjusted Grace on his hip and said over his shoulder, calm and cold:

“No.”

He stepped onto the bus without looking back.

Grace, however, turned in Morgan’s arms. Her little hand waved hesitantly goodbye, her brow furrowed in confusion. She said nothing but kept staring, even as the doors hissed shut and the bus pulled away.

Enzo stood still as the bus disappeared from view, the plastic gift bag crinkling in his fist.

“Did you enjoy the tour, Mr. De—?”

He didn’t let the guide finish. Just turned and walked to the parking lot without looking back.

Inside his car, Enzo slumped forward against the dashboard.

“Today was a disaster,” he muttered, scratching his jaw. 

The gift bag sat beside him—cheap, plastic, flimsy. This place was unworthy of his angel. Of Grace.

Grace. That child. He could still smell her spit on his nose. Enzo thought it would be easy: charm her, impress Morgan. But she was too bratty. Too stubborn. Too—

“Just be good, darling. For me.”

His mother’s voice slithered into his ear. Enzo clapped his hands over them, eyes shut.

Outside, more families arrived. Engines rumbled, children squealed.

Worse, his phone rang. He looked down at one of his men.

He took a long breath, popped a mint, and clenched the wheel.

“I’ll pick somewhere better next week,” he whispered.

Lorenzo's engine roared to life.

Chapter Text

Enzo drummed his fingers on the desk. The office, lit only by moonlight and a single lamp, felt like a tomb.

A man entered, disturbing the quiet with the sound of folders being slapped.  

The cigar in Enzo’s hand reeked. He hated it, but it was part of the image.

He loathed that the beast hadn’t put his affairs in order before dying.

His father always let people borrow absurd amounts of money, pretending it meant nothing, just another act in his little power game.
Then, when boredom struck, he’d go out and “collect,” like a cat playing with half-dead mice.

Enzo was left to clean up the mess, drowning in a financial hole. He didn’t dig.

“Don, we found ten more businesses that owe your father money.” The last folder hit the table with a dull thud.

“Five of them owe the family under one hundred thousand, the rest a little over that,” He continued, placing one folder in front of Lorenzo.

“Why are you telling me this? You already know the protocol?” Lorenzo didn’t even look up. His tone was cold, bored.

His fingers drummed harder against the wooden table.

“Look into each of their accounts…” With shaking fingers, Enzo took a deep puff and blew it out to make a point. 

“Those who owe 100K or under make it seem like they owe only fifteen percent.”

He sucked in a breath of smoke, barely tasting it, slowly letting the smoke curl around the moment.

“The rest… they dealt with a beast. Let them know this is mercy.”

The informant coughed. Enzo twitched, eyes narrowing. “Cover your damn mouth .” Lorenzo spat

“ Sorry, sir, but we have a problem with that.” The informant opened the folder in front of Lorenzo, and he looked down at the name, which was unfortunately familiar.

His hand went still. The silence rang louder than the tapping ever had.

“Not this place,” Enzo muttered.

Enzo remembered the man. His restaurant always smelled foul, and the waitresses' clothes seemed to disappear every time his father showed up. They were wearing nothing but skimpy maid uniforms. No matter what was served, it had the taste of rotting blood in it.

“We threatened him for weeks,” the informant said, scratching his head. “But the man insists he speak to you before he paid anything, even chasing us out.” 

His “Uncle”—charming, always laughing too loud, constantly calling his father “brother” like they’d bled for each other. Fake loyalty. The kind his father ate up like wine-soaked steak. 

“We would’ve just killed him. But he owes too much for that—not without your word.” The informant mumbled

He inhaled, letting the smoke burn the back of his throat, punishment in every breath.

“How much does he owe…?” Lorenzo nearly choked on the smoke.

“A little over a million, sir,” the informant coughed, this time covering his mouth.

Enzo clenched the edge of the table, nails biting into the wood. He didn’t scream. But he wanted to.

He wanted it to be less, just enough to pretend the family forgot.
But this wasn’t forgettable. This was a hook in his ribs.

“Fine,”

Lorenzo stubbed the cigar like crushing his father’s name beneath his thumb.

“Two weeks. Schedule it.” Lorenzo didn’t look up.

“You’re dismissed.”

The informant nodded, collecting all the folders, stopping at the one clutched in Lorenzo's hands. He let go reluctantly. The folder felt heavier than it should. The informant didn’t say a word—he didn’t have to.

The door clicked shut, and the office returned to its usual cold. Enzo collapsed, putting his hand to his face.

He was exhausted, not from this. He was used to collecting debts. No—it wasn’t the debts.

It was the Blank Angel. And the brat with his eyes.

How many weeks has it been, four?

The dates were a disaster—all of them.

Each one had been planned down to the last detail. Everything was spotless, the staff polite, and the lighting was soft enough to make Morgan look divine. But the angel stayed cold.

No, not cold—that would’ve given Enzo something to work with. Morgan was nothing. Blank. Null. No reaction at all.

Enzo opened his phone, opened Grace Giver, and scrolled up.

Good afternoon.

Again, my apologies for the introduction at the aquarium.

I noticed the child’s coat seems a size small—
I’ll be at Marcello & Sons Tailoring 

She'll be fitted for something proper tomorrow afternoon.

What do you think?

Read 2:14 PM.

Honestly, the tailor was for his Angel; it should have been nice. Get the Angel to wear clothes that matched his status.

But no

Morgan arrived and barely acknowledged him. The brat looked up at him and whined, utterly unimpressed. Worst, she began eating chips inside, and he had to stare down at his tailor to make sure he didn't peep a word at his angel.

The brat was in the corner, unraveling thread like a cat, ignoring every sharp look the tailor gave her.

The only reaction Enzo got from his angel was, “I can buy my daughter a better coat. " Not even to him, to the tailor, and left with the brat still playing with thread.

Enzo chewed on his mint and scrolled to the following message.

~Good morning.

I reserved the Orion wing at the planetarium for a

private viewing in two days—

A private show would be interesting for the child.

Let me know if there are any adjustments.

So, how are you and Grace today?

Read  8:07 PM

This should have been better. There would have been no annoying tour guides, just a quiet place where his angel might finally be open.

The angel arrived with eye bags, and the child also looked tired. It's good that she won't cause trouble.

The child fell asleep in Morgan’s arms—that should’ve been good. But the angel just stared ahead, hollow-eyed. At least when the brat was awake, the angel would bless the air with his voice.

When the show ended, the brat woke crying, drooling on the angel’s shoulder.

That was the only time the angel smiled as he walked away.

The mint snapped between his teeth as he scrolled to the following message.

~Good afternoon.
There’s a private library on 82nd—The Langford Collection.
They have an extensive selection of children’s books.
If the child has favorites, I can order them in advance . Let me know

Read 1:39 AM

He’d hoped this would be better, yet the child sniffed and sneezed. When did they arrive? Thankfully, not near him, was she sick? Maybe he could send them away early.

But despite her sickly appearance, she sprinted to some children's books, completely ignoring Enzo.

Enzo finally said something: “You look tired. Are you okay?” Finally, his angel responded, but it was blank, quiet fury.

“If it's not about MY daughter, don't talk to me.”

The angel grabbed an old book, undeserving of his attention, and slumped over a table. Enzo was given the rare privilege of seeing him at rest, divine and unguarded. He looked wonderful.

If only it weren't ruined

Enzo felt a book thrown at his leg as he was lost in his beautiful daydream. Grace was pointing, and Morgan was covering her nose; he could see the snot coming from her sleeve.

Grace stopped babbling and stomped as if he had done something wrong. She called over an unworthy attendant, sniffling, staring at him like he didn’t belong there, her eyes locked on his shoes.

Enzo sighed as he scrolled down again, the only warmth on his phone.

Good evening

I scheduled a ferry ride at the docks

I can drive the child there if you like

Let me know, is the child ok

~ My daughter is sick, so we can't come next week

10:48 AM

         Message Sent

Would you like a ride to the hospital? I can arrange a nurse, 

But more importantly, are you alright?
You looked tired last time. Let me know 

If you need anything

Read 10:50 PM

Enzo looked at the read receipt and sighed, "I should have done better and picked better. Better dates. Been a better version of himself. One of the angels could love. One, the child didn’t just stare at.”

“I’m running out of ideas ,” Enzo mumbled to himself

Enzo thought, burying his face in his hands. Only two options left: a ferry ride or a botanical garden.

He chewed another mint. He didn’t want to go anywhere near the ocean again. But that garden... it reeked. Too sweet, too strong. Still, it was the most child-friendly place he could think of.

Enzo glanced at his phone again and sighed. Skimming over the messages, this needs to be better.

Each message felt like he was beckoning Morgan to his side like a servant. Was that why his angel was so upset? He would jump in just to please him, even if it were to a sewer.

Enzo looked out at the window. The sky was dark, and the moon was shining in his office. He took a deep breath and typed a new message.

Good evening. Sorry for the late message,

Let's meet at the Botanical Garden this time .

Tomorrow at 11 a.m., only if Grace is ok 

Please dress lightly. It's hot inside.

Enzo pressed send with shaking fingers and shut off his phone, taking deep breaths. Tomorrow would be hard; he’ll have to wear his gloves and try not to pass out from the smell. Maybe this time his angel will grace him with a word. 

Maybe the child wouldn’t look at him as if he didn’t belong.

Enzo stood up from his desk, walked to his office door, and shut off the lights.

~~~~~~~~~~

The smells hit Enzo before he even stepped inside. Sickly sweet. Overripe flowers. Wet earth. He tapped his foot on the pavement, jaw tight, eyes flicking to the time.
11:20 am 

The angel was late.

Enzo rechecked his messages. 

He stared at the timestamp like it might change if he glared hard enough.

“It’s warmer inside, dude. You can just wait in here.”
Lorenzo’s eyes snapped to the man with red-rimmed eyes

Unfortunately, the man was too dense to take the hint.

“I’m fine,” Lorenzo muttered, pulling a handkerchief to rub his nose.

“The tour is just for one hour, " the guide grumbled under his breath, quickly putting on a customer service smile.

“What did you Jus-” Enzo reached for his holster but was cut off. “ Me and the plants will be waiting! ” The man chirped before disappearing again.

"This place isn't even in my territory," Enzo murmured, throwing the handkerchief away. 

Was this place too far?”

It had to be that child's fault she was still sick. Would he have to go to make sure she was okay?

Enzo's eyes flicked back at the garden, and he could still see the man pretending not to stare. God, he wished he could shoot him.

The memory of this place tormented him. It had changed, and the smell was more unbearable.

The smell of honey returned to him, dressed in pale linen and perfume that clung to him for days. 

The flowers still made his eyes itch, His mother took him to the sunflower Garden.

“Enzino, look at a bee that means good luck.” His mother smiled

The moment Enzo saw it on his shoulder, he forgot all his home training and fell to the ground, kicking and screaming.

His mother was adjusting her scarf with a flinch. “Enzino, you can't act like this.”

She tried swatting the bee away, and it stung his cheek; his face was swollen for days.

She never took him again.

Sometimes he wished she had—just once. Just to see her eyes light up again, 

Even if it meant another sting.

Enzo adjusted his gloves. For the first time, he wished this day would go fast so that immediately after this, he could wash this place out of his memory.

Once Enzo finished, he went to his pocket and popped another mint into his mouth. Enzo chewed slowly, wishing he could tear time apart for making his angel late.

Footsteps approached loudly, crunching over the gravel.

He didn’t bother to hide his scowl. Probably another staff member. Maybe the one with the rose-shaped mole and the cheery voice that hurt his teeth. He turned—

and stopped chewing.

There they were.

Grace ran ahead, her curly hair bouncing in the morning light, arms flailing as she spun in dizzy circles, shrieking something Enzo couldn’t hear over the rush of his heartbeat.

Grace didn't seem sick anymore. Good, she wouldn't be a burden to Morgan now.

The mint dissolved on his tongue.

Morgan followed behind her—divine as ever, in faded denim and a worn hoodie, both unworthy of touching his angel’s skin too much.

Morgan looked up, but the angel's face didn't look blank

The angel's eyes looked him in the eyes and he….

Smiled. Everything felt warm.

Enzo didn't remember how to breathe. It wasn’t cold, it wasn’t blank, Divine.

The mint remains on his tongue, turned sweet.

Grace skidded to a halt at the entrance to the garden and began staring at his feet once more.

Enzo swallowed quickly but then mints his hands and slowly readjusts his gloves.

Slowly approaching the angel, Enzo places his hand on the child's shoulder. The child smiles up at Enzo with a wave. She looks healthier now.

His angel and child are smiling. This place must be the turning point

Morgan stared at the door, tiny hands pulling away from his grip.

Morgan blew his nose into a tissue, composed, mentally prepared to be quiet, and even.

Too bad his tiny tornado had other plans.

“Papa, no!” Grace howled, ripping her hand from Morgan’s. She kicked off her shoes—again—like they were on fire and bolted to her room like a greased feral cat.

Morgan heard Grace's door slam shut, and he wanted to crumble, not because she was being difficult. 

No, because he wanted to do the same

“Sweetheart,” he groaned, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Come on, we're late.”

No answer. Just shuffling and silence.

Morgan shuffled down the hall, his socks barely making a sound as he approached the door. He knocked lightly.

“Gracie, please,” Morgan's voice strained. “Come out, baby.” 

Still silence.

Morgan sighed and turned the knob. “Okay. I’m coming in.”

He opened the door—and blinked.

“Oh. Wow.”

Grace’s bed looked like a raccoon had been trying to build a nest out of every piece of clothing she owned. Tiny socks. Dresses. Hoodies. Even some leftover cold medicine. All shoved under the blanket to resemble a very lumpy, oddly colorful child-shaped decoy. 

Morgan stared at it, unimpressed, blowing his nose once more.

“Very convincing.” Morgan sniffed, walking over to the bed and slapping the lump, clearly not Grace.

A soft rustling came from the closet.

Morgan turned his head slowly and narrowed his eyes.

“Sweetheart…”

More rustling.

He walked over and opened the closet door slowly.

Inside, Grace was mid-wrestle with her flower shirt, halfway in and halfway out of it, arms trapped above her head. 

Her hair stuck out in every direction, making little huffing noises of frustration.

"...I stuck," came the muffled voice of doom.

Morgan pinched the bridge of his nose again, sighed, and muttered to himself, "Yeah... me too, sweetheart."

He knelt, picked up the still-struggling Grace, and gently placed her on the bed. With practiced hands, he tugged the shirt back down over her head.

Grace gasped like she'd been underwater, only to immediately start squirming again as Morgan tried to fix her hair.

"Papa, I don't wanna go see your friend," she whined, kicking her feet.

Morgan sighed.

He didn’t want to go either.

Each week without fail, the beast would torment him with messages

“The child’s coat is a size small.” 

Is it just the child? She’s mine. Morgan spent Grace's nap crying over the message and reading it repeatedly.

“A private show would be interesting for the child.”

Grace doesn't even like planets,
Morgan looked at the message all night, not daring to leave Grace's side

“If she has any favorites, I can order them in advance.”

Morgan didn't know how he fell asleep; all he registered was Grace shaking him awake with a runny nose.

The only moment of respite he got was when Grace got sick, how Morgan hated how, for the first time in his life, he wished she had stayed like that a little longer.

“You look tired. Are you okay?”

That night, Grace slept on his chest, her breath warm against his skin. He held her close, blanket tucked to her chin. He didn’t move; he just stared into the dark.

Maybe the beast would let him go if his heart gave out after all those nights it beat against its will. Maybe Grace would forget him before she grew old enough to hate him.

He didn’t cry. He just closed his eyes and pretended for a while that he was already gone.

After reaching the torment message, he knelt before his drawer, rereading the curse.

He had read those words so many times that the ink had started to blur, stained with every tear he’d cried in the dark.

Why did I sign something like this again? Morgan thought as he tucked the last curl behind Grace’s ear and tried not to let his thoughts show on his face . 

“Papa?” Grace tilted her head, pulling on his shirt. Morgan snapped out of his daze, smiled, and readjusted her sweater.

“Grace, darling, Papa's friend is waiting,” Morgan sighed, stopping the tremble in his hands. Morgan was still terrified.

“Papa-friend weird , ” Grace grumbled, staring at the floor like it offended her.

Morgan raised a brow and deadpanned, “Oh yeah.”

“YEAH!” Grace shouted, “He walks funny. ” Grace hopped off the bed. “Like—lik this!”

Grace stiffened her knees, puffed out her chest, and tiptoed across the floor in an exaggerated march, arms floating out a little for balance. “Like a ballerina, Every time”

Morgan blinked. “Grace.”

“He does!” she insisted, spinning dramatically and plopping on the floor,

Morgan rubbed his temples. God , did he walk like that? Morgan was too busy trying not to lash out or break down to notice. He glanced at his phone, rechecking the time to avoid eye contact with his thoughts.

“Everywhere we go now is soooo booooring,” she whined, flailing an arm like a dying Victorian child.

“The clothes store smelled funny,” Grace huffed, “and all the dresses were brown and black!”

Morgan rolled his eyes and scoffed, remembering the tailor's condescending gaze. If he didn't know any better, the tailor would have a new carpet color: Red.

“The moon place made me sleepy.” Grace stared up at the ceiling 

“The planetarium?” Morgan said wearily, his finger hovering over the unnamed number with a new message.

“I felt sleepy before nap time!” She threw her arms in the air. “Papa, you said it would be beautiful, shiny, and full of stars, but it was dark like nighttime. I woke up with water in my mouth.”

“You drooled through my jeans, Sweetheart,” Morgan muttered.

“And then— then! —the big book house?” Grace whined, pulling herself onto the bed like she was climbing a mountain of injustice.

“Grace, I thought you liked libraries,” Morgan said, finally checking the time.

10:40 a.m.

For the first time, he genuinely hoped the beast picked somewhere close.

“I do, but Papa, you died! ” she cried, latching onto Morgan’s leg like a koala. “Your face was in the book and you had water in your mouth too, Papa!”

Morgan let out a chuckle. All he remembered was opening a dictionary—
—and then waking up to his shoulder being shaken by a library attendant, and Grace’s tiny voice hiccuping through tears.

“It was scary,” she mumbled. “And your friend looked at you like he wanted to eat you.”

Morgan froze.
The smile slipped from his face, just for a second.
He didn’t ask what she meant.
He didn’t need to ask.

He finally moved his thumb to open the message.

Good evening. Sorry for the late message. 

Botanical Garden. Tomorrow at 11 a.m. 

The child may enjoy it only if the child is ok

Please dress lightly. It's hot inside.

The beast wanted him in less clothing so that it could see its meal more properly.
Yeah. Does the beast want him seasoning, too?

“But a botanical garden didn’t sound too bad”, Morgan thought. “Maybe the beast might listen,” Morgan looked down at the pouting Grace.

Picking flowers was the one thing he could do that had ever been deemed normal by his mother.

Morgan took a deep breath and looked down at Grace.

“This time it won’t be boring, sweetheart,” he said, finally putting his phone away. “We’re going to a garden—a flower zoo. Like the park during spring.”

Grace squinted up at him suspiciously. “ Real flowers?”

“Yes, darling. Real.”

She lifted herself off his leg, still staring up. “...With real Bzzt Bzzt ?”

Morgan smiled wider, scooping her into his arms as she squealed with laughter.
“Yes, sweetie. With bees.”

He finally reached the door, set Grace down, and slipped her feet back into her shoes.

“Okay! Today’s gonna be fun, right, Papa?” Grace shrieked, bouncing in front of the door.

Morgan smiled and opened it, taking her hand as they stepped outside.

“Yes, dear. It will be…”

He lied to himself as they approached the stairs.

As they descended, Grace tugged on his sleeve.

“Papa…” she asked softly.

Morgan looked down. “Yeah, baby?”

Grace frowned, her brows scrunching, clutching Morgan's sleeve tighter

“Papa, don't look far away again,” Grace whispered

“Please, Papa, Promise, I don't like it.”

Morgan froze.
The world tilted a little. Just for a second.

He crouched down slowly until they were eye level, her tiny hand still holding the fabric of his sleeve.

“Ok, sweetie, I promise I won't be far away.”

Grace studied his face and pulled on Morgan's sleeve with a smile

It made everything better

“Ok, Papa, let's go to the flower zoo.”

Morgan smiled and hugged Grace deeply, picking Grace up and walking down the stairs.

“Ok, darling, you're cleaning your room when we get home.”

“Noooo!” Grace whined, pulling Morgan's sleeve

~~~~~~~~~~

As Morgan and Grace stepped off the bus, she immediately let go of his hand and ran ahead, her eyes lighting up at the first glimpse of flowers.

Morgan smiled softly, trailing behind her.

“Papa, Papa, look! Pretty!” she called out, spinning in delight.

The sun was warm on his skin, the moment soft and golden—

Until everything turned cold.

Because that’s when he saw him.

Lorenzo.
He stood a few yards away, scowling down at his phone like it had personally offended him.

Morgan felt his stomach drop. He braced himself, tried to go numb.

But then he looked down at Grace—
And her words from earlier echoed in his mind.

"Papa, don't look far away again."

His heart stuttered.

And then the beast lifted his head. Their eyes met.

Morgan froze in place, his breath caught in his throat.
He only did what he could think of—he smiled and waved.

The smile was tight, thin, barely there.
The wave? Stiff. Awkward.

Lorenzo’s scowl had vanished.

Now, he just stared.
Still. Intense. Unblinking.

Like a predator watching its prey.

The same look he always gave.

The beast adjusted his gloves and approached too slowly

Morgan shuddered, gripping Grace’s shoulder to ground himself

“Um, Hello, you're late.” The beast coughed into his glove, his voice filled with irritation and something else.

Morgan jolted, gripping Grace harder. ‘The bus was late,’ he lied, his voice thin. He could feel himself trembling as he lowered his gaze.

Lorenzo reached out, but his hand hovered midair before retreating. He sighed, then offered Morgan a smile—too sharp, too forced, like he was bracing for impact.

“Okay, um… Are you ok, child?” The beast looked down at Grace. Morgan flinched

Grace smiled at the beast. “I'm okay now, Papa friend. I want to see the flowers.” “Okay, good. We should head inside now,” Enzo said, coughing lightly.

Morgan forced a smile in return and nodded, loosening his grip on Grace’s shoulder. He reached for her hand, eager to move, to escape—

But Grace slipped just out of reach and pointed up at Lorenzo.
“Why does your face look like that?”

Morgan nearly blacked out on the spot. His head snapped up toward Lorenzo, who was staring down at Grace with a dangerous expression.

“What do you mean?” the beast asked lowly.

Morgan wanted to bolt immediately, but unbothered Grace kept going.

“Your nose is red,” she pointed out, still innocent. “Are you gonna achoo like me?”

She mimicked a sneeze with genuine snot.
Morgan quickly bent to scoop her up, holding her tightly to his chest, keeping his eyes anywhere but on the beast.

Morgan pulled a napkin from his pocket, wiping Grace's nose as she giggled and kicked.

“Papa nooo, itchy!” Grace whined, then let out a dramatic, fake sneeze against Morgan’s shoulder, giggling.

“Sweetheart, let’s go,” Morgan muttered, throwing the napkin to the garbage but missing, forcing himself not to bolt. 

One step. Then another. Breathe.

Then Morgan felt the faintest cold brush against his shoulder,

He turned, heartbeat skipping.

Grace was holding something out behind him.
A small handkerchief.

Velvet. It looked soft; it smelled like mint 

A breath caught in Morgan’s throat.

“I, um…” Lorenzo stuttered with a crooked smile, “Just in case you need it. ”

Morgan didn’t answer. The beast was undermining him again.

“Thank you, Nobody.” Grace grinned, fake sneezing into the handkerchief. Lorenzo's jaw twitched.

Morgan turned, adjusting Grace in his arms, and walked past him, quick, firm steps.

Only to be interpreted by a cheerful young man smelling herbs, his eyes red-rimmed.

“Heyy guys, right on time!” the man beamed, adjusting the strap on his satchel. “I’m Chazwell—but you can call me Chaz!”

Morgan jumped back in surprise; Grace giggled, “Hi Chaz!”

The beast's jaw clicked, and it walked ahead of them. 

“Let's start our tour!” Chaz made a flowing motion and began walking

Morgan watched Lorenzo walk forward and nodded, following the tour guide 

It smelled sweet in here.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Don't lag, dudes,” Chaz strides through the next flower-covered corridor, looking at his watch.

Chazwell blinked slowly, like he’d just realized something profound. “Did you know plants can talk to each other through their root systems?”

Chazwell, smiling at Grace. “It’s ‘Wood Wide Web.”

Then a belly laugh and the smell of herbs escaping his mouth

Grace burst into giggles, kicking her feet with glee. Morgan managed a strained smile. The guide looked pleased and moved on.

“Papa, Chazy funny,” Grace whispered in amusement.

Morgan’s smile softened as he sat down at her. “Look at the flowers, sweetie. Aren’t they pretty?”

He pointed at the flower beds lining the path—bright clusters blooming in purples, pinks, and pale yellows.

Grace squealed. “Papa, look! Blue—your color!”

Her finger shot toward a cluster of blue flowers.

Morgan chuckled. “Yes, my color. And look—yellow, your color.”

He pointed at a sunny patch of yellow flowers, and one patch caught his eye. Grace giggled.

“Flower pretty, Papa!” she squeaked.

Morgan smiled and kept walking.

“And here are the... hmm, succulents,” Chaz drawled, still giggling, lazily gesturing to the flower beds. “They store water like gold.”

“Papa, look—pretty!” Grace giggled, grabbing a flower and shoving it into Morgan’s hand before squealing to grab more.

“Oh wait, don’t grab too many—” Chaz started, but his phone alarm went off. He blinked, then smiled, casually picking it up as he wandered toward the door.

“Never mind.” He fumbled in his pocket, pulled out a lighter, and grinned. “ Take as many as you like, dudes. Exit that way.”

And with that, Chaz strolled out the door, probably waiting—or maybe just vibing.

Morgan lingered before one of the flower beds, watching Grace pluck flowers and press them to her nose, humming with delight.

Slowly, he stepped forward. His eyes skimmed the blooms—soft petals, gentle curves—everything breathing with life.

His fingers hovered over a white flower, then carefully plucked it from its stem.

Taking a sniff

So this is what chyrasmitisms smell like

~~~~~~~~~~

Small hands scooped dandelions into a tight fist—yellow suns and fluff-headed wishes crushed between dirt-smudged fingers. Among them, a rare bloom: white with streaks of purple. Beautiful.

Megan ran up the steps of the apartment, his black dress flapping around his knees, stained from the sidewalk where he’d scraped them.

“Mama! Look!” he called brightly, holding out the little bouquet. “To make you feel better!”

His mother didn’t look. She sat on the porch, Bible clenched in her lap, the pages fluttering like they were trying to escape. Her eyes were distant. Red-rimmed.

“Megan, those are weeds!” she snapped, slamming the Bible onto the stairs.
“Are you trying to torment me, too?”

He flinched.
“But… Dad made you—”

“Throw that garbage away!”

The creak of the apartment door stopped her mid-sentence. She froze. Megan turned, hopeful—maybe Dad would calm her down.

When she spoke again, her voice had changed. High. Hollow.

“Megan, honey,” she cooed, too sweet to be real, “how about you get me some real flowers?”

She plucked the dandelions from his hand with two fingers, sneering, and tossed them aside.

“Go on. Get something normal. Like chrysanthemums.”

Megan walked back down the steps. A few crushed petals clung to his palm. He looked at them for a long time.

Then, he smiled. Just a little. To keep the tears in.

Dad is right, he thought.
Women are overemotional.

~~~~~~~~~~

Morgan sniffed the chrysanthemum again. Footsteps scuffled softly around him—probably Grace.
They smelled the same as they did back then. Clean. Bitter.
Comforting, in a way that made his stomach ache.

Then—
A hand landed on his shoulder.

He jerked away with a sharp inhale, the flower slipping from his fingers. His peace was shattered like glass.

His heart surged up like bile.

The beast stood beside him. Too close. His hand was still awkwardly raised, like he hadn’t decided what to do with it. Like he didn’t understand what he'd just done.

“Um—sorry, but uhh—” Lorenzo stammered, quickly pulling his hand back and dabbing it with a handkerchief like it burned.

Morgan's eyes narrowed, his body coiled with rising heat.
Does he think I’m disgusting?

Morgan’s fingers twitched into a fist. “What the hell do you want?”

Lorenzo blinked, pulling the wrinkled handkerchief back to his pocket. “Sorry, I just.

“Are you trying to torment me more?” Morgan's eyes burned into the beast despite his fear

The beast's mouth twitched, and his eyes darted around. “Do you—”

“I told you—if it’s not about my daughter, don’t talk to m—”

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” Loreeno cut in hastily, voice too quick, bowing his head. “Do you know where the tour guide is…?”

The question fell out like a lifeline, thrown before Morgan could explode. Before he could say whatever was bubbling up in his throat.

Morgan just stared at him. His chest rose and fell, shallow and tense.
The flower lay crumpled at his feet.

Morgan looked around, no Chaz anywhere, only Grace happily talking to flowers.

“No…” Morgan answered, confused, his voice barely above a whisper.

He glanced around again, as if the tour guide might materialize between the hedges or step out from behind the row of tulips.

But it was just them—just Morgan, Grace, and the beast

Grace knelt in the flowerbed, still chatting to the blooms as if they were her classmates, her little hands brushing each petal with reverence. 

How lucky she is, Morgan thought.

Lorenzo shifted his weight, the gravel crunching beneath his shoes, looking at his phone.

The beast’s expression twisted in anger as he muttered, “Shit.” His phone clicked shut, making Morgan flinch.

"What type of place is this that bastard didn't even see you out?" Lorenzo grumbled as he paced, wiping his nose with a handkerchief. "Once I get my hands on him, I'll—"

The rest of his words faded into a dull hum in Morgan's ears. So this place isn't under the beast's control, Morgan thought.

He moved quickly and quietly. Grace was now babbling to the flowers, "Can you guys dance?" as Morgan scooped her up and headed for the exit.

"Papa, I was talking to them," Grace pouted.

Morgan smiled, adjusting her on his hip while pulling out his phone.
12:15 PM.
He just needed to find the exit, then this day could end faster.

"We'll see more pretty colors on the way out, sweetheart," he said, going through the first corridor.

For the first time all day, Morgan felt free—maybe even happy they came—no suffocatingly “polite” host.
He might even bring Grace back here again. Morgan smiled, not noticing the footsteps following him.

“Nobody…” Grace whispered over Morgan’s shoulder.

He barely registered it, assuming she was pointing at another flower.

“Lori…” she said louder, lifting her head.

Morgan adjusted her on his hip, frowning. “Sweetheart, who are you talking to?’

“LORI! NOBODY! You’re still ignoring me!” she shouted, her voice echoing.

Morgan followed her finger.

Oh. Of course, he was following.

Lorenzo stood at the edge of the hallway, handkerchief to his nose, eyes darting like a trapped animal.

“Me?” he asked, pointing to himself as Grace beamed.

Morgan instinctively held her tighter. Grace kicked in protest.

“Yes, Lori!” she squealed. You're Papa’s friend. Friends get nicknames!”

She squirmed until Morgan set her down. He took her hand, never looking away from Enzo.

“My friends at the park call me Gracie,” she declared. “Shop, man called you Don. So you’re Papa’s friend. So you, Lori.”

Lori? God help me.

Enzo just stared. Morgan’s stomach turned. Don't get overemotional, Morgan thought, clutching Grace's shoulder tighter.

Grace looked up, wide-eyed. “Lori, what’s your fav-rit color?”

“…Black,” he muttered.

“But that's boring! Grace scrunched her nose. “Pick a pretty one.”

“…Brown?”

Grace stomped her foot. “But brown is dirt color, pick a pretty one!”

Morgan tugged gently on her hand, his gaze snapped to Grace.  “Grace, we should get home.”

“…Yellow?” Lorenzo said suddenly.

“But that’s my color!” Grace pouted. Morgan felt bile rise in his throat, pulling Grace.

“That means  we’re color friends!”

Lorenzo's eyes twitched, and Morgan flinched, refusing to look at him.

“Yellow is mine. Black is yours,” she giggled. “Like a bzzt butt!”

Morgan latched onto the voice. “Let’s go,” he said quickly, pulling her along before the beast could speak.

Grace skipped beside him, humming, completely content.

Footsteps followed, and Morgan didn't dare look behind him

The exit must be somewhere, right?

This place has changed too much. The horrible smell of leaves, the long corridors, and even the staff worsened the last time he was here. At least the staff led him out and walked more slowly.

That high bastard just pranced off without any acknowledgement and was more running than walking; he almost lost track of his angel.

Enzo rubbed his palm and smiled. He would keep this glove; it could touch his angel. Unfortunately, the angel flinched.

“Are you trying to torment me more?!” 

The words reverberated in his skull as he walked behind the angel and the child.

Morgan stopped before the forked path, and Lorenzo followed suit, trying to pull from his memories.

~~~~~~~~~~

The wail that ripped out of Enzo’s throat startled even the birds from the rafters of the greenhouse ceiling.

He clutched his red, swelling palm and cried openly, noisily, his cheeks blotchy with heat. His mother crouched beside him in her long dress, scarf, and sunglasses.

“Enizo people are watching. It was just a bee—let me see—” she whispered, gently pulling at his hand.

But he jerked away, nearly toppling into the flowerbed. “No!” he sobbed. “Don’t touch it!”

She froze, eyes darting toward the other guests nearby. The buzz of conversation and the faint hum of insects mingled in the air.

“Shh, Enzo, people are looking. Don’t you remember what Father said?”

Enzo wiped his nose on his sleeve, sniffled, then whispered, trembling lips rot seeping into his words:

“Crying is only for weak-willed women like your mother.”

His mother flinched. Enzo managed to open his eyes slowly, and he saw the bruise on her eye, but she quickly adjusted it.

She gave a slow, mechanical nod, her face pale and unreadable, and pulled him gently toward a side path, the outside light shining.

~~~~~~~~~~ 

Enzo clicked his tongue at this memory, staring at the forked path. This place was the same.

“I think the exit is this way…” Lorenzo pointed to one side

The child looked at his arm. Enzo flinched. The child's eyes were still piercing

Lori, now that my nickname for the child Enzo, thought whatever it didn't matter what she called him, only the angel did

A scoff left the angel's lips as he turned to the opposite direction where he was pointing

Enzo stood there, stunned for a moment, and sighed. The angel is still angry, still refusing to talk. 

Enzo turned to the other side to find the exit.

The gravel crunched beneath his feet as he wandered, lost in thought.
This place was supposed to be the turning point—
Where maybe the angel would finally speak to him.
But the smile he got when he arrived was the only grace he’d been gifted.

Had it all been a mistake from the start?
Was this blank, frozen silence all there would ever be?

Enzo dug into his pocket, pulled out a mint, and started chewing.
He just needed to find the exit.
Get out of this place—
This glorified cemetery disguised as a garden—

A soft humming pulled Enzo from his thoughts.
He looked down—
And there she was, walking beside him on her toes, humming some light, aimless tune.

Grace stuffed her hands into her pants pockets, eyes fixed on his feet, and a wide grin stretched across her face.

Enzo stopped in his tracks.
Grace stopped, too, still balanced delicately on her toes.

“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice tinged with confusion.

“I'm walking like you, Lori,” Grace giggled, losing balance and returning to a usual stance.

Enzo's jaw twitched as he looked back. He’d still be walking the other way if the angel weren't behind her.

Great, now I'm left with this brat, Enzo thought as he continued walking, tiny footsteps followed.

“Lori, why do you walk like that?” Grace asked, rushing in front of him, stretching out her hands

Lorenzo blinked down at her. Stopping in his tracks, the “Like what?”

“Like a ballerina,” she scratched, making Enzo want to cover his ears. He pointed at her toes, “On your tippy toes.”

Enzo side-stepped her, continuing to walk forward, intentionally setting his foot down. He continued to walk down the corridor, nearly tripping on the third step.

“LORI YOU IGNORING ME AGAIN!” The brat screeched, walking and blocking his path

God, how does his angel deal with this brat every day?

Lorenzo's jaw twitched, and the mint dissolved before he could enjoy it

“I don’t walk like that,” Enzo mumbled

“You do! I watched the whole time!” She pointed down, standing on her toes to mimic him again.

Enzo looked away, His legs just felt better that way. His calves didn’t ache, his knees didn’t snap—and the ground didn’t feel so close.

I was a ballerina once , his mother’s voice hissed through his ears like perfume laced with ammonia.

Enzo cleared his throat. “It’s tactical,” he muttered. “Harder to sneak up on me.”

“What’s ta-tic-cul?” Grace skipped up beside him.

Lorenzo fidgeted with the pack of mints in his pocket, struggling with the crinkly foil. “It means no one can sneak up on me,” he said, glancing sideways. Where the hell was Morgan?

“Oh.” Grace nodded solemnly.

Finally.

He popped another mint into his mouth—
RAM.

A sudden force slammed into his calf, nearly sending him sideways. A few minutes flew from his hand, hitting the gravel path like bullets.

“Hey!” Enzo snapped, stumbling, and instinctively grabbed the brat by the back of her shirt.

Grace dangled there, giggling like a goblin. “You’re a ta-tic-cul !” she squealed, kicking her legs midair.

“Don’t do that,” Enzo growled, his fingers twitching—but Grace only giggled harder.

“You’re faster than Papa, Lori.”

His eye twitched. There wasn’t a shred of fear on her face. None. Just wide, delighted eyes that looked exactly like hers.

God. How could something this bratty come from something so divine?

Lorenzo sighed, adjusted her like a sack of flour under one arm—he wasn’t about to let her ram into his leg again—and started walking.

“No, Lori! That’s not how Papa holds me!” she whined, squirming. “Papa carries me on his stomach.”

His fingers twitched again. Stuffing his mints in his pocket and adjusting Grace into a sitting position under his arm

“This is fun.”

Enzo ignored her and kept walking.

Enzo could hear people talking as they walked, meaning they were close to the exit.

“Lori!”
Grace tugged on his shirt—he could feel her sticky little fingers, and his every instinct screamed to recoil.

“What?” he muttered, already bracing for chaos.

“I’m sorry for spitting on you at the fish zoo,” she said, head tilted down, fingers twirling together.

Enzo blinked.
She was... apologizing?

“And sorry for throwing the book at you,” she added, her pout deepening. “That wasn’t nice. I’m sorry.”

Enzo stopped walking, looking down at her.
Was this... a genuine apology?

“Oh. Um. It’s... okay,” he stammered, glancing at the walls like they might give him an escape route.

Grace’s eyes locked onto his.
“Okay, your turn.”

“What?” Lorenzo looked around, confused.

“You have to say sorry for making Papa cry,” she said, poking him dead center in the chest. “And for ignoring me at the bookstore.”

Never mind. This kid was still the worst.

But the flash of the angel’s tears crept into his brain, uninvited.
Enzo sighed.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

“For?” Grace pressed, arms crossed now, full interrogation mode.

“Huh?”

“You’re sorry for what?” she demanded, eyes burning into him like little lasers.

Enzo bit into his mint, silently cursing everything.
“For making Papa cry,” he muttered.

“Annnnnd?”

The mint turned bitter on his tongue.
“And for ignoring you at the... book house.”

Grace beamed.

“Ok, now we can be friends.”

Lorenzo rolled his eyes and stared ahead.
The exit wasn’t far. They should probably just wait here.

He knelt, letting Grace slip out of his grasp, and stayed crouched, eyes scanning the path for any sign of the angel.

“Thank you, Lori,” she chirped.

“Yeah…” he muttered, pulling out his mints again. He popped one into his mouth as he settled in to wait.

“Ooh! Lori, can I have candy too?” Grace squealed, bouncing on her heels.

Enzo glanced down at the nearly empty container and sighed. With a grumble, he pulled out two and handed one over.

“Here,” he said, kneeling so she could reach it.

“Thank you!” she beamed, stuffing the mint into her mouth—

—and immediately spit it out onto the floor with dramatic flair.

Enzo recoiled, nearly choking on his mint.
Of course

“Ew! Yucky!” Grace gaged rasping her tongue, “Lori, get nicer candy next time.”

Lorenzo scoffed and pulled out his phone

12:40

His angel will be here in a couple of minutes
Lorenzo began tapping his foot, hoping time would go faster. The brat stopped rasping.

“Lori, do you hear that…” Grace tilted herself forward and began walking to a room

Enzo’s eyes snapped up from his phone—
Just in time to see the toddler dart around a corner and vanish from sight.

“Hey! Stay here!” he shouted, but was only met with fading giggles.

He whipped his head around—still no sign of the angel. His stomach twisted as he bolted after her.

“Grace, come back here!”

He rounded the corner.
Only one open door.

“I’m in here, Lori!” Grace's voice chimed from inside.

Enzo groaned and stomped toward the door—then stopped cold.

Bees.
Bee posters. Bee plushies. Bee hives. Bee-shaped trinkets. A whole cursed shrine to buzzing death.

His blood ran cold.

Inside, Grace was happily chatting with the woman at the little honey stand, utterly at home in the insect apocalypse.

The woman looked up and smiled warmly. “Oh, is this your papa?”

“No, that’s Lori,” Grace chirped. “My papa’s still walking.”

The woman chuckled and handed Grace a bee plushie and a tiny honey jar.

Enzo stood paralyzed, heart thudding in horror.

“Grace, c-come out now.” Enzo barely managed to hide the tremor in his voice,

“Come on in, sir. The bees don’t sting,” the woman called cheerfully as she stepped out from behind the booth, adjusting one of the nearby hives.

A few bees slipped free, swirling lazily through the air.

“Well… mostly,” she added with a smile.

This place was cursed. It had to be.

Enzo’s eyes locked on the escapees, watching them drift too close, far too close.
His knees bent slightly, fight-or-flight screaming flight.
He needed to leave.

But a tiny hand grabbed his own and tugged him deeper into hell.

“Lori, look! Bzzt bzzt!” Grace grinned, dragging him forward with enthusiasm that should’ve been illegal.

And just like that, he was surrounded.
In the center of a honey-drenched nightmare.
Trapped with a toddler who had no idea she’d just doomed them both.

Grace ran up to one of the hives, peering inside with wide eyes.

“Try not to make too much noise, sweetie,” the woman behind the stand laughed. “They’re sensitive to sound.”

“Oka—” Grace started, then caught herself. “I mean… okay,” she whispered, gently tapping the glass and watching the bees buzz.

Enzo tried not to scream.

“She’s such a darling…” the woman chuckled, resting a hand on his shoulder.

He was too petrified to care.

“So,” she continued casually, “who’s the lucky lady? Must have gorgeous skin—just like your little girl’s.”

“He…” Enzo muttered, flinching as a bee buzzed too close to his ear, eyes twitching.

The woman blinked, then sighed, and finally removed her hand.

“Another loss for the girls,” she said, shaking her head wistfully.

Enzo glanced around, stiff as stone. “Why did our tour guide leave?” he asked, voice tight.

The woman smiled. “Oh, we run on a thirty-minute tour and a one-hour self-guided model. It gives patrons a more personal experience.”

Personal experience. Enzo nearly swallowed his tongue whole.

She looked him up and down and sighed. “Your partner is probably looking for you. Stay here for a while, our bees love eye candy.”

And just like that, she turned and walked back to her stand, leaving Enzo frozen in a swarm-filled hell.

Enzo stared intently at the slightly ajar door, hoping the angel would come in and rescue him.

Unfortunately, a buzzing sound from his shoulder cut off his plea.

His eyes slowly shifted to his shoulder, only to see a yellow and black demon sitting there, ready to sting.

Enzo lost all reason in his head and lifted his hand to squish it, but the voice stopped his hand.

“Lori, don’t hit the Bzzzt! That mean!” Grace whined, rushing up to him, attempting to jump to pull down his

“But—” Enzo choked out, his hand trembling, only to hear a soft voice from below.

“Lori, don’t hurt Bzzt. Please… if you do, I’ll be sad,” Grace pouted, staring at the ground like she might cry.

Lorenzo’s gaze softened for some reason. Slowly, he lowered his hand, still staring at Grace.

“Okay… I won’t,” he muttered, eyes locking on the bee rubbing its tiny legs in delight.

The woman at the stand let out a laugh.

Grace wrapped her arms around Enzo’s legs. “Thank you, Lori.”

For some reason, the hug felt warm. Calming, even.

“Just stand like a ballerina!” Grace giggled, pulling away and skipping back to her spot.

“Or a tac-ti-cal,” she added proudly, striking a little pose.

Enzo's eyes remained locked on the horrifying thing. It was teasing him, prancing around his shoulder, rubbing its arms, probably ready to strike. 

The swelling in his chest, the threat of tears, his mother’s voice echoing in his head—he remembered all of it. But the small hug wrapped around his leg… for some reason, it kept him grounded.

The squeak of shoes echoed from the hallway, pulling Enzo’s gaze upward. Light spilled into the room, golden and soft.

Morgan—his angel—stood in the doorway, forehead damp with sweat, panting.

Thank God. He’s here. I’m saved.

Morgan looked furious, stomping toward him as the bee finally buzzed away to torment someone else.

Enzo let out a shaky breath of relief.

Maybe today wasn’t a failure after all.

Morgan wondered how many corridors there were in this garden. He felt the shirt under his sweater was damp with sweat.

Morgan grimaced, taking another turn as Grace giggled at the sharp turn.

The beast followed closely behind; Morgan could smell him — mint and smoke, thick and cloying.

Don’t focus on him, Morgan thought, eyes fixed on the forked hallway ahead.

“I think the exit is this way…” Lorenzo pointed to one side

Morgan's jaw twitched as he walked in the opposite direction, 

He wasn’t taking directions from a beast. Morgan sighed. Another dead end. He turned around, rubbing his eyes. “This place is cursed,” he mumbled.

“Come on, Sweetie, let's try again—” Morgan froze as he opened his eyes. His stomach flipped as he turned, and panic rose.

“Sweetie!” Morgan shouted, looking around the empty hallway.

The beast wasn't here either. Morgan's heartbeat quickened. A horrifying thought seized him.

His heartbeat quickened. A horrifying thought struck him.

What if the beast took her?

“Grace!”

Morgan raced down the corridor, breath clipped and shallow. He burst back into the forked hallway.

Voices—faint, somewhere down one path.
Maybe she went this way.

He ran toward the sound, wiping away tears before they could fully form.

“Grace!” he shouted, frantically scanning the hedges and doors.

A buzzing sound came from one of the doors. Morgan passed it, barely noticing—

Then a small voice behind it:

“Lori, don’t hit the bees! That mean!”

Morgan froze, the voice catching in his chest like a breath he forgot to take.

He spun on his heel and rushed back, shoes pounding against the stone path. He skidded to a stop at the open doorway and nearly tripped as he stumbled inside.

There she was.

Grace sat cross-legged in a patch of sunlight, oblivious to the panic that had choked the air moments before. Bees buzzed lazily around the cluster of pale flowers she held between her fingers. Her smile was soft.

“Grace…” Morgan exhaled.

Near her, Lorenzo stood stiffly, arms at his sides, shoulders tense, jaw locked tight, his eyes locked on a bee on his shoulder,

Morgan's eyes snapped in him as he stomped forward. The bee flew off

“Where the hell did you take my daughter?”

Lorenzo didn’t answer.

“I asked you—”

“She followed me,” Lorenzo said quietly. “And then she saw this place and wanted to stay.”

Morgan didn’t move. He couldn't believe it, Grace wanted to follow the beats instead of him.

His face turned to see that Grace was unharmed. Laughing, holding a bee plushie and a honey jar

“The exit is straight ahead,” the beast pointed forward, stuffing his hand in his pocket.

Morgan's jaw twitched as she walked to Grace, only to be stopped by a lady

“You must be her papa,” she said warmly. “She’s been nothing but sweet.”

Morgan looked to his side, wary. “Yeah. Sorry if she was bothering anyone—”

“Oh, not at all.” The woman waved it off. “She’s a sweethaer. Your ‘ friend~’, though…” She chuckled. “Bit of a stiff one, huh?”

Morgan's heart sank, friend~

Morgan’s brow twitched. “You mean… him? " His eyes unwillingly moved to the beast, and he saw him dusting off his shoulders.

“Mm. That’s what he said. Stood like a statue the whole time.” She giggled. Her following words stabbed at him, “But you picked well, he's a looker and probably a shower if you get what I mean.”

Morgan felt bile rise in his throat. He wanted to yell, scream, and cry, but his eyes turned to the side to see,

Grace giggled from the corner as a bee landed on her wrist.

“You got a good one, keep an eye on him, toodles,” the lady retired to her stand. Morgan stood dazed before forcing himself to walk to his daughter.

“They like me, papa,” she said without looking up.

Morgan stepped forward, crouching beside her. “Grace… you scared me.”

“Why?” Grace tilted her head, confused

Morgan's throat closed before he could finish. “You…Never mind, sweetheart, let's go home.”

“Ok, papa.” Morgan reached for her hand, but Grace walked forward to the beast, stinging him with the bee plushie.

“Here you go, Lori.” Grace handed Lorenzo the plushie. “See bzzt bzzt don't hurt you.”

Grace skipped over to Morgan's side. Morgan's eyes remained locked on the plushie in the beast's hand.

Why didn't she keep it? Why is the beast holding Grace's things

“Papa,” Grace lifted her arms, expecting to hold, making Morgan snap out of his daze

“Can we go to the park next time? I wanna show Lori something!”

Morgan knelt to pick Grace up, but a voice froze him in place

“Can you text me the addresses?” the beast spoke, his voice sounding sly 

Morgan twitched, mumbling “Ok” before he could keep walking, cutting his thoughts 

“Ok, Lori, see you next week,” Grace jumped up and down

The bees kept buzzing like Morgan's mind.

Morgan scooped her up. “Let’s go home…”

As they turned, Grace waved behind her. “Bye, Lori!”

Maybe I am being overemotional, Morgan thought, clutching Grace tighter,

But he could feel it, the beast was still watching hungrily.

“Next time,” he whispered, not sure if he meant it for her or himself, “stay with me.”

Grace hummed, playing with the honey jar, the outside light shining.

Chapter Text

Fingers twitched, the dark room illuminated only by the phone screen.

Morgan sat beside Grace's bed, the sunshine asleep after a day of play.

Eyes locked on the number, he began typing. Each keystroke felt heavy

Another piece of his life was stolen by the beast

Here's the park address: Elmbridge Park

1475 Juniper Loop

Sent 8:37 pm

With a clap, the lights blinked off as Enzo walked to bed

The light from his phone screen illuminated the room

Enzo lifted the phone and smiled, warmth blooming in his chest.

Enzo sat on his bed and rubbed his calf

Grace really was a blessing. Even when she stung.

“She deserves a reward,” he muttered to himself, smiling.

Lorenzo quickly began typing each keystroke lightly

Hopefully, I'm blessed again, Enzo thought.

Good Evening, that's great.

I think it would be great if we could get something to eat first 

To make up for the missed custody meeting two weeks ago

Sent 8:40 pm

Morgan’s eye twitched as he stared at the message.

The beast wanted to make up time, More time to torment him

His eyes flicked to Grace's sleeping figure

She was so peaceful—if only she knew.

Whatever Morgan thought, Grace deserved to eat before his torment.

Okay, just send me the address.

Sent 8:50

Joy enveloped Enzo as he saw the three dots turn into words

They were finally having a conversation

The child and his angel should be chauffeured to lunch.

Actually, I think it’s better if

 I'll drive you two there

It's my treat

Sent 8:52 pm

Morgan's breath quickened, fingers tightening until the phone creaked in his hand.

He wanted to drive them. Of course, he was trying to drive him mad.

That must be why the beast is doing this

Tears welled in Morgan’s eyes, His mind sprawling

The beast's finger, how it ripped away from his body with disgust

The rumbling of a car as he lay half-conscious

Jeers, taunts, and laughs until he passed out again

Morgan began furiously typing

WHY WOULD I LET YOU TRAP ME IN A CAR JUST TO TORTURE ME—WITH MY DAUGHTER THERE

(…)

Morgan's tears began falling on the phone

fingers twitching over the send button

But shifting on the bed made Morgan stop his noise

Grace was here, safe, beautiful, mumbling something in her sleep

“I can't afford to break down,” Morgan mumbled, wiping away his

Even the phone’s glow couldn’t match Grace’s warmth

Morgan sighed and slipped into bed, letting her warmth dull the panic..

Morgan stared at his message, slowly deleting each letter. 

Ok fine, where are you going to pick us up

Sent 9:02 pm

Enzo smiled as the three dots turned to words

His legs felt like clouds as he collapsed into bed, quickly responding,

adjusting his blanket with a contented sigh.

Okay, don't worry, I'll pick you up.

From your apartment

Sent 9:03 pm

Morgan stared at the message,

How could he forget that he knew where they lived

Grace shifted again tiny hand gripped to his side

It grounded him. He typed, put his phone on the 

dresser and hugged Grace Back

Okay

Sent 9:07

Enzo clutched the phone close to his chest, wanting

To fuse its warmth into his body, he lifted the phone

And typed back

Ok, that's great, I'll pick you up by 11

See you then

Read 9:08

Morgan trembled as the phone dinged once more. 

Grace groaned, her fingers tapping weakly at his side. 

“Papa…” she murmured, groggy. 

Morgan shut his eyes and hugged her tighter.

“Go to sleep, baby,” he whispered. 

Grace let out a soft sigh and wrapped her arms tighter around him.

Read 9:08 pm

Enzo adjusted his blanket, eyes flicking to the time 

9:20 pm

Of course. The angel must be sleeping. 

“I can't be too greedy,” he murmured, setting his phone down. 

He popped two sleeping pills from the bottle on the dresser

He stared at the ceiling, a smile settling on his face.

"This is good. The angel is finally giving me grace,"

Enzo murmured. He shut his eyes and, for once, slept peacefully.

~~~~~~

The city blurred past as Enzo’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel.

His eyes flicked to the phone mounted on the dashboard.

10:43 a.m.

Lorenzo’s heart eased—he was almost there.

To his angel.

He hadn’t been cold or distant in the messages. He’d even responded like a real person. That had to count for something.

The child wouldn’t be much trouble either. Just a quick bite to eat, then she could run off to her park.

Easy. Simple.

Maybe—just maybe—he could sit and talk with Morgan.

With one last turn, he stopped in front of the unworthy apartment building

Looking at it from a distance, it appeared old, almost abandoned.

The only sign of life in the building was a single light from the second floor.

Of course, it must be from his angel.

Enzo adjusted himself in the seat, spraying a light mist of cologne through the car.
It needed to smell nice for his angel. He reached over and carefully wiped down the passenger seat, fingers gliding over the leather. It needed to be perfect, no mistakes. His mind drifted, sweet and slow, painting the day in soft colors.                                            

~~~

Morgan would settle Grace inside, just like that. No resistance. No fear.

And then—God—Enzo would open the passenger door.

The angel would sit beside him.

The car drive will be smooth and quiet; Grace may say a thing or two. His angel would probably be distracted, staring out the window.

And Lorenzo would admire the view even as they reached their destination.

Morgan would be across from him, ordering food and eating with him.

Grace would laugh, eating neatly, her legs swinging back and forth. 

Enzo would offer Grace a napkin, then provide his angel a napkin as well.

They’d talk about nothing and everything. The weather, even apologizing again.

The angel would nod and accept it with a warm smile. 

Then, when the meal was done and Grace had skipped ahead, they’d stroll to the car. 

Enzo would drive them to the park. Grace would run off doing whatever kids do at parks. 

The most wonderful part would be that the angel would sit on the bench, and Lorenzo would follow.

Enzo would glance at him—just once more—long enough to catch the soft curve of Morgan’s mouth as he said, “Thanks for lunch.”

And Enzo would say, “Anything for you.”

~~~

The wipe in Enzo’s hand dried as he snapped out of his daze.
He turned back to the window, dark now. Morgan must be coming down.

Enzo leaned toward the rearview mirror, smoothing a few stubborn strands of hair. Then he stepped out of the car, brushing off his suit jacket.
And when he looked up again, he saw it was Grace, running toward the car, radiant with laughter,

“Hi Lori, Hi!” She squealed, and just behind her, the angel. 

Soft, radiant, perfect

A smile curled on his lips as his hand landed on the backseat door.

Ok, that's great, I'll pick you up by 11

See you then

The message burned on Morgan’s phone screen as he combed his hair.
Lunch with the devil now , he thought, tugging the comb through a stubborn knot.

It snagged, then snapped from his grip, clattering against the bathroom sink.
Morgan grimaced, staring at the comb before sighing.

“Forget it,” he muttered, running his fingers through the rest instead.

Once he was done, Morgan stared at himself; it was himself staring back

“I should really cut this,” he muttered, pulling his hair back.
Morgan grimaced at how feminine the style looked, yanking his hand away like it burned.

With a sigh, he smoothed the strands again, forcing a smile.
“Grace, sweetie, what time is it?” he called out.

Grace's voice floated through the hallway, turning the forced smile into a real one.

“It’s ten four-five, Papa!” Grace giggled, followed by the clatter of a few toys.

Morgan took one last glance at himself and zipped his hoodie up higher before turning off the light.

“Okay, sweetie, we should get going now,” he called, walking down the hall to Grace’s room.

He knocked twice before stepping inside.

Grace was lining up her toys on the now slightly wrinkled bed, giving each one a goodbye kiss.

“Bye, Pink Princess,” kiss   “Bye-bye, Dinosaurs,” kiss kiss.
She gently tucked one of them under the blanket like it was going to sleep.

Morgan couldn’t help but smile as he stepped closer, picking up his phone from Grace's dresser.
“Come on, sweetie. You can kiss them later,” he said, scooping Grace up and setting her down on the floor.

"Okay, Papa!" Grace beamed before sucking in a deep breath and blowing a big kiss toward her bed.

Morgan rolled his eyes fondly as he dusted off her clothes and led her toward the door, and began to set his alarm.

“WAIT!” Grace shouted, yanking her hand from his and darting back to her dresser.

Morgan blinked in confusion, watching as she yanked open a drawer, pulled out a handkerchief, and jumped back onto the bed.

“Sweetie, what are you doing?” Morgan asked, walking over.

Grace grinned as she carefully laid the handkerchief down.
“I’m letting the seahorses sleep with Lori’s blanket,” she giggled.

Morgan tilted his head and froze.

That velvet handkerchief. The one he gave. Draped over the two plush seahorses labeled “Papa” and “Baby.”

She kept them. She kept his gifts.

Those things-that— beast’s filth —were resting on her bed.

“Bye-bye, horses,” Grace giggled, kissing each plush. “We’re going to see Lori!”

With that, she jumped down from the bed and ran out into the hallway.

Morgan stayed where he was, stiff and silent, eyes locked on the handkerchief.

How dare the beast leave his stain on Grace?

Morgan’s jaw clenched, steam rising under his skin, his fists curling tight.

“Papa, come on!” Grace’s voice floated down the hall, snapping him out of his simmering rage.

“Coming, sweetheart,” he called back, his voice calm, though his eyes remained fixed on the cloth.

Morgan ste his alarm o 1:00 pm to ground himself letting the day end quicker then with two fingers, he lifted the handkerchief. On the other hand, he shoved the two plushies to the far edge of the bed away from the others.

He turned, flicking off the bedroom light, detouring to the kitchen to throw the filth in the trash. 

Where it belonged

Morgan finally reached the front door. Grace was bouncing, trying to get the knob.

Morgan’s smile returned. He stepped forward, unlocked the door, and opened it. Grace bolted out with a giggle, her tiny footsteps echoing down the hall.

He quickly locked up behind her, then followed, each step slower than the last.

After lunch, get out of the car immediately. Sit at the shaded corner to watch Grace, ignoring the beast that Morgan reminded himself of.

He reached the main floor just in time to see Grace dart outside, her joy drawing another small smile from him. He quickened his pace slightly, keeping her in sight.

But as he stepped into the light, his smile faded.

“Hi, Lori! Hi!” Grace squealed, as if she wasn’t walking straight toward the devil.

There he was.

Lorenzo.

That cruel smile split his face as he leaned casually against the car like a man who owned the world.

“Lori, is that your car?” Grace gasped, pointing with excitement.

Morgan grimaced as his eyes landed on the vehicle—sleek, pitch black, its windows heavily tinted. The kind of car that looked soundproof.

No witnesses.

"Yeah, um… do you like it?" Lorenzo asked, his eyes locked on Morgan’s face.
The intensity made Morgan shiver.

Grace rocked back and forth on her heels, humming thoughtfully.
“It’s okay,” she said at last with a little shrug.
“It’d be prettier in yellow,” she added with a giggle.

It’d be better if he weren’t here, Morgan thought, his fingers curling into a fist.

Without warning, Grace darted forward and reached the car handle.
“Okay, Papa! I wanna go! I wanna show Lori the park!”

Lorenzo flinched as Grace reached for the handle. He gently pushed her away from the car, only for Morgan to lurch forward and pull her back.

The beast dared touch grace with his filth?

Lorenzo cleared his throat and opened the car door. “We’re going to lunch first,” he said. The inside of the car smelled faintly of cinnamon. “Then the park.”

Morgan stared into the car. The interior was dark. The seats too big, and there is no car seat in sight.

A squeal escaped Morgan's grasp before he could pull away.

“Yay! Lunch!” Grace giggled, bouncing onto the seat. “This feels like my bed, Papa!”

Morgan allowed the faintest smile to touch his lips as he forced his body to bend and enter the car, only for the door to suddenly swing shut, nearly catching him.

He flinched.

“What the fuck,” Morgan whispered, locking eyes with the beast.

Lorenzo raised his hands in mock surrender, like the gesture meant anything.
“Oh—sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you, but, uh…”
The beast circled to the other side and popped open the passenger door.
“The back’s a little cramped with her,” he lied easily. “You should  sit up here.”

Morgan just stared at him. And then back at the passenger seat, where Grace is sitting, he can't even hear her from this side.

“Why do the seats look fine in the back?” Morgan grumbled.

The beast flinched at his tone.
“Um… well, the grace might wanna play by herself, we can give her room..,” Lorenzo offered, scratching the back of his neck.

Morgan yanked open the back door. Grace’s giggle spilled out as she slipped from the car, and he crouched down for a better look.

“Lori, your car is big!” she giggled, kicking her feet.

She was far too small for the seats—lying on her back, she barely filled one.

Morgan’s fingers twitched as he forced himself to look up at Lorenzo again.
“Your car doesn't have a car seat. I'm sitting with my daughter.”

Without another word, he leaned in and stepped into the car. It was too big, too clean. The thick leather brushed against his skin, cold and unfamiliar.

The front passenger door clicked shut behind him, to Morgan’s relief. He knelt over, pulling Grace gently onto his lap. The seatbelt fought him as he adjusted it, carefully threading it over both their bodies.

Grace tilted her head up, smiling.

“Papa, Lori's car smells like Auntie’s cupcakes,” Grace giggled—her joy tainted as the front door clicked open and the beast climbed in, starting the engine.

Morgan slowly huffed through his nose, pulling Grace closer like he could fuse her to his chest.
“Yeah… it does.”

From the driver’s seat, Lorenzo glanced at them in the rearview mirror. He said nothing. His eyes flicked from Morgan and Grace back to the road.

“Okay, Lori! Let’s go now! now!” Grace shouted, kicking her feet with impatience.

Morgan shut his eyes. Maybe the ride would pass faster this way.

“Alright. Let’s go,” Lorenzo muttered, and the car began to move.

~~~

The steady hum of the engine blurred into a haunting lullaby beneath Morgan’s ear. His eyes remained closed, cheek resting against Grace’s soft curls. She, however, was still wide awake, happily humming some tuneless melody.

“Papa, you sleeping?” Grace poked at Morgan’s face again.

He sighed, shaking his head slightly.

“No, sweetie, I’m awake,” he murmured, cracking one eye open before shutting it again.

Grace giggled and kept poking. “Good! Papa, no sleeping until nap time!”

Morgan snorted, pulling her closer just as the car jolted over what felt like a pothole.
“Sweetheart, you don’t even wanna sleep during nap time.”

“Yes, I do, Papa!” Grace whined, voice full of stubborn conviction.

Morgan only smiled, hugging her tighter.
“Lori,” Grace called toward the front, “do you have nap time?”

Morgan flinched, eyes snapping open as he followed Grace’s gaze to the beast behind the wheel.
Lorenzo’s grip on the steering wheel tightened, his head shifting just slightly to glance back at Grace.
Morgan wanted to reach out to pull her attention away, but his body remained locked in place.

“I don’t have naps,” Lorenzo said evenly, eyes returning to the road.

Grace gasped, scandalized.

“You don’t have naps?!” she shouted.

Morgan winced at the volume, instinctively tightening his arms around her.

“No,” Lorenzo replied, turning a corner with quiet control.

“Wow!” Grace gasped in astonishment, kicking her feet.  “But how? Papa gets sleepy all the time!”

Morgan fliched slightly, hushing her, but the beast cut him off. “I don't know, I just don't,” Lorenzo added.

Grace tilted her head then giggled, “That's so cool, do you have snack time?”

A pause.

Grace kicked her leg out straight. “Auntie makes yummy cupcakes, you should come and see.”

Morgan trembled, pulling her closer. “Grace, hush now.”

The beast let out a cruel laugh. “Maybe I will.”

Morgan trembled in anger at those words. The beast wanted another piece of his life to taint

Suddenly, a horn blared
The car jolted.

Morgan gasped, eyes flying open, arms tightening protectively around Grace. He stared down at the floor, heart pounding, breath caught in his throat.

Then Morgan was back in that car—the blur of jeers and taunts, the loose restraints, the way he barely stayed upright in the cargo hold.

“Shi—Sorry, are you okay?” Lorenzo twisted around in his seat to check on them.

Morgan's body trembled, but Grace let out a delighted giggle.

“Papa, we flew,” she laughed. “That was fun!”

Anger flared in Morgan's chest. His eyes snapped to the beast behind the wheel.

“Keep your eyes on the road,” Morgan muttered, adjusting himself upright. He kept his gaze locked on Grace, refusing to look away again.

Lorenzo swallowed hard, nodded, and turned back. The rest of the ride was silent until they finally pulled into the restaurant's lot. Once parked, the engine went quiet.

Morgan quickly unbuckled the cursed seatbelt and swung the door open before the beast could reach for it. He stormed toward the restaurant entrance, setting Grace down beside him with a quiet huff.

Let’s get this over with, he thought.

“Papa, look! Pretty!” Grace pointed excitedly at the restaurant’s warm, glowing interior.

Morgan allowed himself a small smile. “Yeah… sure it is.”

Behind them, the sound of heavy footsteps approached, followed by the creak of the door opening.

“After you,” Lorenzo said, holding it open and gesturing them inside.

“Thank you, Lori,” Grace said with a bright smile before running inside. Morgan followed behind, keeping his eyes low.

“Welcome, Mr. De Lu. Your table is ready,” the hostess greeted with a forced smile.

The beast smiled politely. “Yes, thank you,” he replied, striding toward the table.

Morgan rolled his eyes and scooped Grace into his arms, following after him.

“Oh!” the hostess suddenly exclaimed.

Morgan’s eye twitched. He turned back to her with a sigh. “What is it?”

His gaze swept over her coldly, already bracing for a condescending remark.

“N-nothing, sir. It’s just that, um—” The hostess pointed at Grace, then gestured toward Lorenzo. “We were just… expecting the child to be a bit, uh, older.”

“What?” Lorenzo and Morgan said in unison, confused.

The hostess swallowed hard and quickly adjusted her posture, pasting on an awkward smile.

“It’s not a problem, sirs. Just give us a moment,” the hostess said, her smile tight.

She turned and leaned toward a nearby waiter, whispering something hurriedly. The waiter nodded and rushed to the back of the restaurant.

An awkward beat passed.

Then the waiter returned, whispered something back, and the hostess straightened with a strained smile. “Right this way, sirs.”

Grace giggled, happily skipping alongside the hostess. Morgan followed, confused but suspicious.

When they reached the table, everything fell into place.

This asshole booked a luxury restaurant that isn’t made for kids, Morgan thought, clenching his fist.

At their table—draped in pristine white linen—were three chairs. One of them was a pair of stacked seats.

“Papa, look! The chair is tall!” Grace ran ahead and tugged on the white linen, trying to climb onto the makeshift seat.

Morgan sighed, stepping in to steady the chair and adjust the linen. “Yeah, it is.”

He lifted her, settling her carefully on the stacked chairs, then pushed her in.

Grace giggled, her feet now kicking against the table. “Papa, look! I’m tall!”

Morgan smiled softly, ruffling her hair before finally glancing up.

Lorenzo was pulling out a chair for him, wearing that usual cruel smile. Morgan scoffed at the gesture, ignored it, and moved to the other side of the table to take the opposite seat instead.

The beast froze for a second, hand still on the chair, before quietly following suit. He sat down with a twitch of his fingers.

A waiter appeared moments later with their menus, eager to cut through the awkward silence.

She quickly set the menus down and hurried off. Morgan picked one up—it was made of fabric, mocking him with its luxury.

Grace ran her fingers over hers, giggling. “Lori, it feels funny.”

The beast dared to smile at Grace. Then his gaze shifted to Morgan, making him freeze.

“So, what would you like to eat?” Lorenzo asked, his smile sharp.

Morgan grumbled under his breath, his body tense, jaw tightening, but before a single word could leave his lips, Grace cut in with a giggle, “I want a burger! No—two burgers!”

Morgan blinked, thrown off, Lorenzo seemed to be stunned to

“Grace,” Lorenzo began, his tone overly ‘patient’, “this place has a lot of really great options—”

Morgan's head snapped toward him with a sharp glare. He turned back to Grace with a quick smile, his voice much softer. “That sounds wonderful, sweetheart. But maybe just one burger is enough, okay?”

Grace huffed, crossing her arms, but her pout didn't last long. “Okay! One for me and one for you, Papa.”

Morgan chuckled, ruffling her hair. “That sounds perfect.”

Just then, the waiter returned with a tray of water, setting down the glasses with practiced ease.

“All right, what will you all be having today?” he asked, collecting the menus.

“Me and my D—” Morgan started, but Lorenzo cut in smoothly.

“Two burgers—one with smoked gouda and honey pepper bacon, the other with caramelized onions and truffle aioli. And a medium-rare steak, seasoned with rosemary and a garlic-honey glaze,”  Lorenzo ordered, handing back the menu. Snapping his fingers

The waiter smiled, then nodded. “Of course, sir, right away.”

Morgan’s hand tightened around the water glass. Of course, he thought bitterly. Even this place is part of the beast’s torment.

Grace waved cheerfully at the retreating waiter. “Can I have juice too, lady?”

The waiter paused mid-step and turned back with a smile. “Of course, little lady.” Then she disappeared again, leaving behind a silence broken only by Grace’s shifting feet and occasional giggle.

Morgan brought the glass to his lips and took a long gulp, his fingers trembling.

Please, he thought, staring down at the tablecloth, just let this nightmare end quickly.  

Enzo’s fingers tapped against the table, uneven and twitchy. He stared down at the floor like it might give him answers.

Grace kicked her legs against her chair rhythmically, humming to herself, blissfully unaware of how Lorenzo was spiraling in thought.

No high chair.

No booster seat.

No stupid booster seat

God, how can I be so stupid? Enzo thought, jaw tight as he stared at the linen-draped table. He’d failed again. First, nearly losing control on the drive over, and now this—no car seat, no highchair, no clue.

Lorenzo looked up, his fingers tightening around the nearly empty glass of water. Across the table, Morgan still wouldn’t meet his eyes. He wasn’t angry—he was unimpressed. Cold. Detached. It was worse.

Grace’s voice broke the tension.

“Lori, the cups are so fancy?” she asked, pointing at his drink.

Lorenzo coughed, caught off guard. He straightened in his chair, shoulders pulled tight with awkward formality.

“Yes, that’s because,” he began, carefully enunciating every syllable, “this is a fine dining establishment. They serve beverages in—ah—crystal glassware.”

Grace tilted her head. “Crystal? Like my friend at the park?”

Lorenzo blinked. “No, crystal is… a kind of glass. But not just any glass.” He cleared his throat. The sound of glass clinking on the table made him continue, “It’s led. It’s clearer. Heavier. Reflects light better. Very delicate. Very expensive.”

Grace blinked, still confused, and turned toward Morgan. “Papa, my friend is heavy?”

Morgan set his cup down, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips, still not once looking at Enzo. “No, darling. Crystal is just a fancy cup,” he said gently, adjusting Grace’s seat. “Like your sparkly ball.”

Grace’s eyes lit up. “Ohhh! Like unicorns!”

“Like unicorns,” Morgan echoed with a chuckle, taking another sip of water.

God, how is it so easy for him? Enzo thought, swallowing a sip of his own. Morgan was… amazing. Truly.

Just then, the food arrived. A burger was placed in front of both Morgan and Grace, while a steak was placed in front of Enzo.

“Wowww, pretty!” Grace squealed, immediately reaching for the burger with both hands.

But Morgan moved first, grabbed a napkin, tucked it around her neck, and started cutting her burger into bite-sized pieces. 

Lorenzo stared at the scene for a beat as Grace took the first bite, then quietly began cutting into his steak. The steak oozed blood; then he was back there.

~~~

A woman laughed too loudly. A server in a tight blouse leaned against his father’s shoulder, red nails brushing over the rim of his glass as she refilled it. Across the table, "Uncle" Dario chuckled, already red in the face. 

“I'm telling Ya, Andrew. They all act holy until the right hand touches ’em,” Dario said, slapping the table. “Chastity, pff, biggest hoax in history. They all feel the same once inside.”

His father chuckled low. “Boy,” he muttered, elbowing Lorenzo hard in the side. “Pay attention, your girl is pouring you a drink?”

Enzo looked up and saw another server bent over holding a wine bottle; he gulped and raised his glass. “Sorry, Sir. Thank you, ma'am.”

As the server poured the wine, laughs erupted from Andrew and Dario, “Don, I didn't know your boy was such a softy.” Dario chuckled, hiccuping, pulling the server forward way too close, and the server yelped

“Come, boy, you gotta take not just stare,” another disgusting hiccup. “I can arrange a room for you two.” Dario winked.

Enzo didn't dare look up again, staring at the bloody steak, the scent of iron thick in his nose.

“Lorenzo.”

His father’s voice cut sharply and low. “You’re a man now. Time to stop acting like some... sissy.”

Enzo twitched but didn’t speak. The server gave a strained giggle and slipped away.

Andrew clicked his tongue. Enzo flinched at the familiar sound—he knew what came after that.

“Come on, brother. The boy’s young. He’s probably just shy,” Dario said, cracking open another bottle.

His father let out a disappointed tsk, draining his glass. Enzo’s trembling fingers gripped his knife and fork. He quietly began cutting the bloody steak, holding back tears.

~~~

Lorenzo blinked.
The steak was no longer bloody, yet the tears still sat stubbornly in his throat.

His plate was nearly finished. Across from him, Morgan was still feeding Grace, his burger untouched.

Did he not like it?
A sudden burp broke the silence, followed by a squeaky giggle.

“All done!” Grace chirped, kicking her feet under the table.

Lorenzo glanced at her. She looked up at him, eyes wide and bright.

“Oh! Lori, that looks yummy!” she gasped, pointing at his plate. “Can I have some? Pleaaaase?”

Enzo coughed, blinking away phantom tears. “Um… yeah, sure.” He glanced around the table, searching for a spare fork.

But before he could find one, a tiny hand darted out and grabbed his fork.

Before he could react, it was already in her mouth—and the makeshift chair tilted dangerously.

“Grace!” both Morgan and Enzo shouted in unison.

Morgan moved fast, grabbing the chair to steady it, while Enzo, disgust written all over his face, reached for the fork.

He pinched it between two fingers and gently pulled it from Grace’s mouth with a soft pop , dropping the now toddler-slick fork onto his plate.

“Mmm, yummy! Tastes like honey, Papa!” Grace giggled as Morgan righted the chair.

Enzo turned to look at him—at the angel—and froze. Morgan’s face was tight with restrained fury as he stood up, scooping Grace into his arms.

“All done! Let’s go to the park now!” she chirped happily, nestled in his grasp.

Morgan didn’t even glance at Enzo as he turned toward the bathroom. His voice was soft but sharp-edged. “Okay, sweetheart. Let’s wash up first.”

Then he walked off, the bathroom door clicking shut behind them.

The women’s restroom? Enzo wondered for a split second before the thought fizzled.

His eyes drifted back to the now saliva-glazed fork resting on his plate.

At least Grace liked the steak.

Somehow, that made him smile as he rose to pay the bill.

Enzo walked to the front, writing a check and leaving one on the table and the other on the hostess stand.
“Thank you, sir, for your patronage. We hope to see you again soon,” the hostess said with a smile. Enzo gave her a dismissive wave and stepped outside, unlocking his car.

A moment later, Morgan and Grace emerged. Morgan didn’t even glance at him—he walked straight past, opened the back door, and climbed in with Grace in tow. Enzo sighed, followed, and slid into the driver’s seat.

The ride was quiet. Grace seemed too full to babble—good. No distractions.
What was so special about this park, anyway?

When they arrived, Enzo squinted out the window. It was unimpressive. The equipment looked old—rusted metal slides, chipped paint.
A few kids ran around screaming while tired-looking parents slumped on benches, watching.

“Yay! We’re here, Lori! Come on, come on!” Grace’s energy had returned full force—Enzo could feel her little feet kicking the back of his seat.

He pulled over and parked in a random spot. The moment the engine shut off, Grace burst out of the car giggling, with Morgan close behind, slamming the door shut behind him.

Lorenzo sat still for a second, exhaled deeply, then stepped out to follow them. He glanced down and noticed a meter next to the curb.

This dump has meters? Enzo scoffed internally and kept walking.

Whatever. I’ll pay the fine if the city tickets me, Enzo thought, though the moment was cut short by the heavenly voice.

Morgan ushered Grace forward to the park with a smile, and Enzo could help but smile. Finally, a moment alone, the benches don't look so bad, they could sit and watch, maybe even apologize properly.

But Grace dashed away from Morgan, and her fingers intertwined with his own

Her hand was sticky. Enzo instinctively wanted to recoil, but he forced himself to be dragged forward.

“Hold on, Papa Lori needs to do something!” Grace giggled, tugging him toward a quiet corner of the park where a row of benches sat nestled under the trees.

If it weren’t so dirty, it might’ve been beautiful, Enzo thought, just as Grace stopped in front of a narrow pebble path. Footsteps followed behind them.

“Say sorry, Lori.”

“Huh?” Lorenzo blinked, staring down at the scattered pebbles, confused. This looked… familiar.

Grace stomped her foot and gave him a look like he was the biggest idiot in the world. “You made Papa run away scared here,” she pouted.

Then the memory hit him. He turned his head and spotted the alley not far off, the remnants of old police tape still hanging, cut and faded.

Of course. This was the place the pest had run to. The place where he’d found his angel again—radiant even then. The same pebbles still lay scattered, the same ones once touched by those frantic, fleeing steps.

“Right, Papa?” Grace whined, snapping Enzo back to the present. His gaze flicked to Morgan, who flinched under it.

“Uh… yeah,” Morgan muttered, his fingers fidgeting nervously.
Did the gunshot scare him that badly? Enzo wondered.

Grace bounced on her toes, tugging at Enzo’s arm. “Come on, Lori! Say sorry to Papa! He’s your friend, right?”

Enzo cleared his throat, awkwardly shifting his weight. “Sorry,” he muttered, eyes flicking away.

Morgan gave a tight nod, arms crossed. “Okay,” he grumbled, barely looking at him.

Grace lit up instantly, throwing her arms in the air. “Yay!”

“Come on, sweetie, go play. I can push you on the swing…” Morgan knelt, pulling Grace away from Enzo's grip 

“No, Papa, I wanna play with Lori today.” Grace pulled Lorenzo forward, and Enzo froze

The child wanted to play with him.

Lorenzo’s eyes dropped to Grace, who was giggling and tugging at his hand, pulling him toward the play area. His gaze flicked back to Morgan, and Enzo flinched when their eyes met. Morgan looked… sad.

“Sweetheart, are you sure…” Morgan cleared his throat and knelt, forcing a smile. “Lorenzo must be tired, right?” His eyes darted toward the bench, jaw tight.

I’m not tired, Lorenzo thought, confused, but his lips stayed shut.

“No, he’s not, Papa! Please? Please? I wanna show Lori something!” Grace insisted, bouncing on her heels.

Morgan’s eye twitched, but he stood up, his posture slumped in quiet defeat.

“Okay,” he said slowly, then locked eyes with Enzo—cold and sharp.

Lorenzo nodded, letting Grace pull him forward, her giggles bubbling with excitement. He glanced back—Morgan’s eyes were still locked on Grace as he quietly backed into the secluded bench in the corner.

Sitting there, he looked beautiful—like the only light in this damned place.

“Lori! Up, up!” Grace bounced, raising her arms toward the swing. Enzo froze, staring at the swing. He adjusted his glove and dusted the swing off.

After a moment, he knelt, gently grabbed her sides, and lifted her into the dirty swing.

Grace squealed with delight.
“Okay! Now push me like Papa does!”

Enzo hesitated, his hands hovering behind the swing. He glanced back at Morgan, still watching from the bench, unreadable.

“Lori, come on!” Grace giggled, kicking her feet eagerly. “Push me!”

Enzo took a deep breath and gave the swing a slight nudge.

“Lori Higher,” Grace laughed, funny, she sounds just like her when she laughd

I need to do better—for her, and for my angel, Enzo thought, giving Grace a gentle push.

She’s my daughter, after all.

Grace’s laughter carried to the bench, her legs kicking wildly. “Higher, Lori!”

Morgan swallowed hard, his eyes locked on the beast pushing his daughter as if it were a natural act.

His mind raced. Why did Grace keep the handkerchief so close? Why did she talk to him like it was normal, like she’d known him forever? She’d used his silverware without flinching.

Of course.
His blood ran through her instead of Morgan’s.
The beast’s DNA had seeped into her… and she didn’t even know it.

“Lori, higher! Those are baby pushes—I’m not a baby!” Grace squealed as Lorenzo gently pushed her higher.

The beast’s lips twitched into a smile, then broke into a laugh.
Morgan’s eye twitched at the sound—laugh, loud and familiar.

~~~

His laugh rang louder as he pushed Megan higher, Megan's grip slipped, and she hit the ground hard, the wind knocked clean from his chest. Dust clung to his lips as he gasped, staring up at the swing still swaying above him.

“Shit!” His father was at his side in an instant, lifting him by both arms before Megan could react, and he was on his feet.

“You alright, sweetheart?” he asked, voice tight with concern that sounded almost like anger. “Jesus, you gotta pay attention.”

Megan blinked away tears, lip trembling. “I’m fine, Dad,” he forced out with a smile.

His father crouched and wiped Morgan’s face with his rough thumb.
“Good,” his father said, settling beside him with a grunt.
“You wouldn’t want to end up like your mother now, would you?”

Megan snickered. “No, Dad.”

His father chuckled, brushing dirt off his knees.
“Besides, boys don’t like girls who whine every time they scrape a knee. You want someone to love you, don’t you?”

Megan’s throat tightened. He nodded.

“You’ll understand one day. You’ll find a good man, someone strong, who’ll tell you what’s right and make you feel safe.”
He ruffled Megan’s hair.
“And unlike your mother, you’ll listen. Right?”

He handed him a soda and began walking away.

Megan stared at the can in his hands, ignoring the sting in his knees.
Strong girls don’t cry.
He stood quickly and followed behind.

~~~

An alarm rang in Morgan’s ears, snapping him out of his daze. He glanced at the time.
1:03 p.m.
Custody time was over. The beast could finally leave him and his daughter in peace.

Grace’s laughter floated toward him as Enzo approached.
“Okay, Lori! I want Papa to push me now!” Grace giggled, reaching for Morgan.

Morgan smiled gently as he caught the swing. “Alright, Grace. Lori’s very tired and needs to go home now.”

Grace blinked up at him, her voice sweet and pleading. “Awww, but Papa… can Lori stay longer?”

Morgan flinched back, causing Grace’s swing to wobble as he felt the beast’s hand brush against his own. Their eyes locked. The beast’s cruel smile faltered as he quickly raised his hands in surrender.

“No, sweetheart. It’s one o’clock now—Lori needs to nap, right?” Morgan said through gritted teeth, forcing himself to meet his gaze.

“Um…right,” Lorenzo finally replied, slowly backing away.

“Awwwh,” Grace whined. “Okay. Bye-bye, Lori!”

“Bye. See you next week,” Lorenzo said, waving with a smile.

Morgan froze. That smile—it had been stolen from Grace’s face. Then, without another word, Lorenzo turned and walked toward his car.

Morgan stood still until Lorenzo disappeared from view. Then he moved behind Grace and gently pushed the swing, her laughter rising again with the motion.

She’s mine, he thought, pushing Grace again, jaw tight.

My daughter. Not his.

Morgan only felt himself relax as he heard a car drive off, he needs to yea talk with Gia.

Chapter Text

“Ok, Lori, see you next week,” Her voice echoed in Enzo's ears once more. “Okay. Bye-bye, Lori!” Enzo covered his ears and stared at his desk, somehow sweating in the cold room.

This wasn’t right.

Everything, from the dates to the trips and the car rides, was supposed to be for Morgan to repent, to atone, and erase the broken angel back to his former radiance.

Enzo wiped the sweat from his brow, his eyes locked on the desk as if it owed him money.

Then why the hell was the only thing on his mind Grace? That child wasn't even worthy of being an obstacle, not with that face. But why now? Enzo is looking forward to Grace's face instead of his angel's

Maybe because, despite it being two months, Morgan is still cold, yes, there are flickers of light within him, but never toward him, only to the child.

 Lorenzo took a breath and took out his phone. A calendar notification popped up and was immediately wiped away by Enzo's finger.

And there it was again—that blessed contact.
“Grace Giver.”

He tapped it open. No responses, Enzo scrolled up to the last read message.

Good Evening.
Today's park visit was wonderful — I had a great time.
Where would you like to go next? Anywhere’s fine. Just let me know.

Sent: Saturday, 9:45 p.m.

My daughter wants to go to the park again

Sent Sunday 5:30 pm

Ok, that's great. Hope to see you then.

Read Sunday 5:45 pm

That was the last read message Enzo scrolled down

Good Afternoon 

I was wondering what size booster seat Grace will need

Text me her size when you're available 

Sent Monday 12:45 pm

No responses—not even a read receipt. Enzo ended up buying three different booster seats, all of which were yellow. Grace’s favorite color.

Why did he remember that? he thought, scrolling back through the thread, each message blurring together into one long, desperate plea.

Sent Monday – 3:45 a.m.

Hope your week started okay. Let me know if Grace needs anything. Or her measurements

 Still no response.

 Sent: Tuesday, 10:45 a.m.

Good afternoon. I walked by the bookstore and saw a book about bees. I'm sure Grace would like it. Can I bring it on my next visit? Let me know.

Still no response. Enzo's jaw clicked as he opened today's messages

Sent Wednesday 11:24 am

Hey. I just wanted to let you know that my banking app is experiencing an issue. So it might be late, I'm sorry.

Sent Wednesday 12:36 pm

If you need it, I can send it through a different channel, which maintenance says will take a day to fix.

Still nothing.

Enzo’s thumb hovered over the screen. His own reflection ghosted in the black glass, grinning back at him like it was in on the joke. He sighed, reached into his pocket, and popped a mint into his mouth, chewing hard.

Why wasn’t the angel responding?
He wasn’t even reading the messages anymore.

The mint clicked between his molars as Enzo stared at the screen, eyes dry and unfocused.

What if I needed to ask Morgan something important? he thought, jaw tensing. He can’t just go silent every time we meet. We need to talk—for Morgan’s sake.

"For my... sack," Enzo muttered, then winced.

No— for Grace.

The mint snapped and dissolved on his tongue as frustration finally flared in his chest. He couldn’t keep talking to himself through the screen. This wasn’t sustainable.

He needed to talk to Morgan face-to-face.

Enzo yanked open the drawer, pushing aside the bee plushie. He grabbed his checkbook, scrawled out the $15,000 check, signed it, and tore it out. He shut the drawer once more.

He quickly opened the second one, pulling a dusty old folder that he didn't flinch from. Then Enzo stood fast. Adjusted his suit with one sharp motion and stormed out of the office, ignoring the stares from his men.

The car door slammed behind him as he dropped into the driver’s seat, jaw clenched, breath shallow.

He gently placed the folder and check on the seat beside him and drove off, his mind locked on one goal.

A conversation had to happen today.

After nearly an hour of circling the block, Enzo finally pulled up in front of the angel’s apartment—still as unworthy as ever. The building loomed, quiet and indifferent.

He parked. Slumped forward. Let his forehead rest against the steering wheel like it could give him answers.

"What do I do?" he muttered, voice hoarse, breath fogging the leather wheel.

His eyes flicked to the passenger seat. The folder. The check.

With trembling fingers, Enzo reached over, carefully folding the check and slipping it into his inner pocket. Then he opened the folder.

A puff of stale, blessed dust floated down onto his pant leg.

Inside, the neatly tabbed custody agreement waited. God, Enzo wished this was better, but this was the one that Angel signed; therefore, it was holy

 His eyes skimmed over highlighted lines until one caught him:

"Consistent communication is essential for healthy co-parenting."

He stared. Reread it. 

“Failure to comply could cause harm to child development. Both parties must comply.

And then, something dark clicked into place—justification.

Healthy. Required. Stated. Legal.

“See?” Enzo whispered to no one. “He’s supposed to respond. This is for Grace.”

He swallowed hard, jaw tightening as he shoved the agreement back into the folder and snapped it shut.

"I'm going to drop off the check. And talk to Morgan. Talk. That’s all," Enzo muttered, running his hand through his hair, running through possible lines.

Good afternoon, Morgan. Here’s this month’s check.

Enzo’s thoughts flared and scattered as his eyes drifted up toward Morgan’s apartment window. His breath caught—just imagining Morgan standing there, radiant and untouchable, made his face flush with heat.

“We need to talk about communication,” he whispered to himself, clenching the folder tighter. “We need to—”

His gaze dropped from the window as he tried to find the following words. Then he froze.

A woman stepped out of a taxi, already embroiled in an argument with the driver. She yanked her suitcase from the trunk and slammed it shut, the cab peeling off with a squeal of tires.

She looked… familiar.

The woman scoffed, muttering under her breath as she rolled her bag toward the main door of the angel’s building. Enzo’s eyes tracked her until she disappeared around the side.

Does she live here too? he wondered, eyes narrowing. But after a beat, he shook the thought off.

Forget it, Lorenzo told himself, as he carefully placed the folder on the passenger seat. He brushed a speck of lint from his suit and exhaled sharply.

“I’m just here to talk,” he murmured, clearing his throat and straightening his jacket. One hand gripped the door handle.

Then, slowly, Enzo stepped out. The car creaked as he straightened, his back popping with the motion. He winced but didn’t stop staring at the building ahead.

The door shut behind him with a soft beep as he patted his pocket—still there. The check.

He began walking, each footstep clicking against the cheap marble of the walkway.

“Maybe I’ll see Grace too. Just for a moment.” Enzo told himself, like a promise.

Sleepy giggles drifted into Morgan’s ears as he gently pushed Grace’s head back down onto the pillow.

“Nooo, Papa, no nap, no nap,” she whined, only to be interrupted by a yawn. She tried to lift her head again but failed, flopping weakly around on the bed, limbs flailing as a few of her plushies tumbled to the floor in an unceremonious heap.

Morgan let out a soft chuckle, smoothing the sheet over her once more and kissing her forehead.

“Sweetie, you’re winning this fight.”

Grace let out a sleepy pout. “But what if Auntie comes back and I can't see her?” she whined, scrunching her face like tears alone could keep her awake.

Morgan sighed, exhausted but gentle, as he picked the fallen plushies off the floor and placed them back on the bed.

“Sweetie, when Gia comes back, I’ll make sure you’re the first person she sees, okay?”

He finished arranging the plushies and then placed a princess doll beside Grace.

“So just nap for a little bit. Dinner will be ready when you wake up.”

A sleepy hum escaped Grace’s lips as she blinked up at the plushie, her eyelids heavy.

“Okay,” she groaned, rolling to her side. “Papa, I want Lori’s plushie.”

Morgan's heart dropped as he stared at Grace's sleepy eyes, meeting his

“What?” he managed to choke out.

“I want Seahorse the papa one,” Grace whined, stretching her hands toward the edge of the bed in a sleepy, grabbing motion.

Morgan’s eyes followed her hands until he spotted the seahorse plushie, half-buried beneath a pile of toys.
His body moved slowly, almost unwillingly, as he pushed aside a few of the plushies and pinched the seahorse out with two fingers, laying it next to Grace like it might infect him.

Grace let out a soft yawn, her small arms wrapping around the plushie, followed by a contented sigh.

“Nap nap, Papa,” she mumbled with a sleepy smile before drifting off.

But Morgan's eyes stayed wide open, locked on the filthy thing clutched in her arms.

Lori. Lorenzo. The Beast.
Morgan’s mind raced.

Grace liked his gift more than the one Morgan gave her.

He stared at his hands that had just touched the Beast’s filth.

Grace’s soft snores pulled him out of his spiral. He glanced at her again, still curled up with that damn seahorse, holding it tight like it meant safety.

Morgan let out a quiet sigh and stood up, only to wince as a sharp pain stabbed through his chest.

“Shit,” he muttered, clutching his side.

“I need to take this off,” he gritted through his teeth, the ache twisting deeper as he turned. With slow, cautious steps, he slipped out of the room, gently pulling the door shut behind him. Then he made his way toward the bathroom.

Morgan didn’t bother turning on the lights.

He sat on the toilet lid, exhaling shakily as he slowly peeled his binder over his head. The fabric clung to his skin before releasing with a soft snap, and immediately, his chest felt heavier, exposed, but at least he could breathe without the dull, crushing ache.

Why is this happening? Morgan buried his face in the binder, gripping it tightly in his lap.

Each sentence in that custody agreement was another link in the chain. Another lash disguised as fairness. Each word that came out of Lorenzo’s mouth, laced with that sickening softness, felt like poison taint dressed as Softness.

“Softness,” Morgan scoffed bitterly. He knew what that was. It was what high-society people did when they found a novelty, something rare, something different. They cooed over it. Admired it. Then they become greedy, wanting to own it if they can't have it, so they discard it. Or destroyed it.

Please, just let the Beast get bored, Morgan begged silently, wiping his face before tossing the binder to the side.

He reached for the hamper and pulled out a fresh shirt. As he lifted it over his head, he paused—his ears catching the faint sound of suitcase wheels rolling across the hall… followed by the metallic jingle of keys.

Morgan froze mid-motion as he heard the familiar tired panting through the wall.

Gia

Thank God Gia's back.

A small smile returned to Morgan’s face as he moved to lift his shirt, reaching for the binder to put it back on.

Two quick knocks tapped against the front door.

“You’re fast for an old lady,” Morgan muttered with an annoyed laugh, though his smile stayed soft. He tugged his shirt down. Gia’s seen everything already. No point in stalling.

He stood, ignoring the heaviness that settled in his chest like a bruise, and walked toward the door.

Finally, he thought. Finally, I can talk to Gia. Hug her. Cry. Tell her the truth. Beg her for some way out of this. Or at least a word of comfort. She’d know what to do. She always knew she’d been through worse and survived.

Morgan crossed the living room, picking up his phone from the table and stuffing it into his pocket. A strange tension itched at the back of his neck. Funny, he thought, Gia would usually be banging by now, yelling about forgetting her key or asking if Grace ate too many cookies again.

A ring followed by another two knocks. This time, slightly harder.

Of course, Morgan thought to himself. 

“Coming~,” he sighed theatrically, dragging his feet toward the door and bracing himself for her usual scolding. He shut his eyes as his hand reached the lock.

“Gia, it’s good to see you. How was the family trip?” he said, reaching his hand out, expecting something to be shoved at him, a box, a bag, a joke.

Nothing.

He exhaled softly. “Gia, please. I need to talk—”

Morgan opened his eyes.

His voice died in his throat.

A chest. Broad. Towering. Wrong.

His gaze lifted slowly.

And there he was.

Lorenzo.

Staring down at him with those cold, beastly eyes, Morgan snatched his hand away, hitting his chest with a wince.

Despite the cold gaze, Morgan felt his blood begin to boil; his fist clenched as he stared at the intruder.

“Coming~” the angel's voice echoed through the door before Enzo could knock again, the warmth seeping through the doorway

His hand trembled as he heard the lock click open, followed by the slow creak of the door. Morgan stood there, eyes closed, one hand extended like a gentle blessing.

“Gia, it’s good to see you. How was the family trip?”
Morgan’s voice was light. Calm. Happy.

Gia. That name again.
Jealousy slithered through Enzo’s thoughts like smoke.
Why does she get the angel’s calmness?

A soft, breathy exhale escaped Morgan’s lips.
“Gia, please. I need to talk—”

But his voice cut off as his eyes opened. His head snapped up, gaze locking directly onto Enzo.

Enzo shivered.

He managed a small smile, how could he not, after hearing such a beautiful voice?

But the angel’s gaze shifted in an instant.
Warmth turned to steel.
Recognition. Disgust. Anger

Morgan’s outstretched hand snapped back to his side, curling into a tight fist.
“What are you doing here?” he asked through gritted teeth, his voice low and warning.

Enzo startled, coughing awkwardly as he fumbled for composure.
“Good afternoon, Morgan. I’m here to talk.”

The angel’s eye twitched.

“There’s nothing for us to talk about. Leave.”
Morgan pointed sharply down the hall behind him. Enzo followed the gesture and winced. It was still filthy, too dim, not fit for someone like Morgan.

Lorenzo straightened his posture, forcing his gaze to stay locked on Morgan.
“No, we do,” he said firmly, reaching into his coat pocket. “I texted you multiple times about the banking issue.”

With deliberate slowness, Enzo pulled out the folded check and extended it toward him.
“So I decided to come in person to give you this month’s child support.”

Morgan’s eyes locked on the check, his fists slowly beginning to unclench.
Please don’t rip it, Enzo pleaded silently, holding his breath as Morgan’s hand inched forward.

Then, snatch.
Morgan yanked the check from his grasp, their hands brushing for the briefest moment.
Enzo’s breath hitched. He wished that second could stretch into forever.

“Okay, cool. Now leave,” Morgan said quickly, already stepping back and reaching to shut the door.

No, Lorenzo thought, panic rising in his throat. He couldn’t let it end like this.

With a swift motion, he threw his arm out, blocking the door before it could slam shut.

“No, we need to talk. Properly.”

~~~~~~~~~

The door halted mid-motion, caught by the beast’s hand.
Morgan didn’t care; he pulled harder, trying to force it shut, but it didn’t budge.

“No. We need to talk. Properly.”
The beast’s low voice reverberated in his ears. Morgan’s jaw clenched.

“Talk about what?” he muttered. “Today’s not your custody day. I read it.”
He lifted his hand to shove Lorenzo’s arm off the door.

“It says you're only allowed to see my daughter once a week. Now leave.”
But Lorenzo’s hand didn’t move.

Morgan finally gave up on trying to shut the door.
He looked up, meeting Enzo’s eyes with quiet fury.
“So leave. Like I texted you, we’ll meet at the park next Saturday.”

The beast let out a sigh and finally removed his hand from the door.
Morgan immediately tried to slam it, only for a booted foot to stop it mid-swing.

Lorenzo hissed, “No, you haven’t. The custody agreement states we need proper communication.”
He continued, the cursed words sliding off his tongue with venom.
“To ensure the primary caregiver’s compliance and mental stability.”

Morgan’s fist clenched, biting back a scream.

“And what the hell is that supposed to mean?” Morgan hissed. “I’ve been going where you tell me to. What more do you want?”

Lorenzo dug into his pocket so fast that Morgan flinched.
He pulled out his phone and thrust it in Morgan’s face.

“You haven’t responded to my messages; therefore, you're violating one of the terms.”

Morgan stared at the messages on the screen, his stomach turning. He vaguely remembered silencing that cursed number last Saturday evening.

Car booster seat? Measurements? Bookstore?
Why the hell was he texting about this? Morgan scrolled, anger bubbling under his skin.

Did he think I couldn’t take care of her?

His gaze snapped to the contact name, and that’s when the fury truly hit him, sharp and blinding.

“Grace Giver.”

Without thinking, Morgan slapped Lorenzo’s phone away from his face, barely reining in his temper.
“ OK, fine, ” he growled. “I’ll respond to your stupid little texts like that fucking contract says. So, go?”

He ignored the heavy tightness in his chest as he looked down, foot twitching with the urge to kick the beast’s leg away from the door.

No, not kick. Stomp.
But he held back. Just twitched.

Lorenzo slid his phone back into his pocket, lips pressed tight before forcing a slight nod.
“Okay… good. That’s great.”
He exhaled, voice softening with a hint of nervous hope.
“Can I… say hi to Grace before I go?”

Morgan’s last thread of patience snapped. He didn’t care that Grace was sleeping. He didn’t care that Gia might be here. He just needed this beast out of his apartment.

How dare he claim to want to see his daughter, like he wasn’t filthy, like he hadn’t ruined everything.

“NO! You can see my daughter on Saturday. Leave!”

Morgan stomped hard on Lorenzo’s foot, finally forcing him to jerk back with a grunt.

He moved to slam the door, but it was pushed right back open.

The beast looked angry now.

Morgan didn’t care.

The check slipped from his hand to the floor as he shoved back, struggling with him to close the door.

“Why won’t you just let me have peace?” Morgan snarled, voice cracking as he pushed harder. “You’ve taken everything, what more do you want from me?”

Morgan yanked harder on the door, his body trembling with effort. “You don’t get to take my daughter, too!”

The beast only clicked his tongue, steady against the pressure. Then his voice came, low, cold, slipping past the crack in the door and straight into Morgan’s mind, freezing him in place as the poison took hold.

“Well,” The beast spoke in a tone dripping with anger, “I’m her father. I have the right to see her, don’t I?”

Morgan froze mid-motion, no longer pulling at the door. The words echoed in his skull like a curse.

I’m her father. I’m her father. I’m her father.

“What?” His gaze snapped upward, eyes blazing with wrath.

“Oh, um, well, I mean…” the beast stammered, his grip on the door faltering.

Morgan didn’t care. Rage enveloped him like smoke in his lungs.

He shoved the door open and stepped forward. The beast instinctively stepped back.

With a calm, deliberate motion, Morgan shut the door behind him, knuckles cracking as he flexed his fingers. His chest felt heavier with every breath.

“What did you just say?”

~~~~~~~~~~

Enzo winced as Morgan’s foot came down hard on his own, stomping again and again, relentlessly, brutally. Why was it so forceful? So strong? He just wanted to talk. He just wanted to see Grace.

Annoyance sparked in his chest, flaring hot and fast, and before he could stop himself, it spilled out through gritted teeth.

“Well,” Lorenzo choked out, each word jagged and desperate, “I’m her father. I have the right to see her… don’t I?”

Morgan stopped mid-stomp. His head turned slowly, eyes locking onto Enzo. His face was calm, eerily so, but his eyes burned with a fury that made Enzo’s blood run cold.

“What,” the angel whispered, the single word sharp enough to slice through bone.

Enzo’s breath caught. He instantly regretted speaking.

“Oh, um, well, I mean…” he stammered, cursing himself internally. Why the hell had he said that? Why hadn’t he thought it through?

Morgan stepped forward, calm, but with a force that made Enzo instinctively retreat a step.
Why am I shaking? Enzo thought, heart hammering.

Without breaking eye contact, Morgan reached back and gently clicked the door shut.
The soft sound was followed by the sharp, deliberate crack of his knuckles.

“What did you just say?” he asked, voice low, furious in its quiet.

Enzo stammered, his voice trembling as he scrambled for the right words.
“I mean—” he managed, forcing his shaking hands to still. “I mean, Grace is my daughter, too.”

Morgan’s eye twitched. He stepped forward once more, and Enzo instinctively took a step back.

“Like, she’s our daugh—”

“Stop.”
Morgan raised a single finger, his voice low and furious, yet somehow still divine.
The air went still.

“I genuinely don’t give a fuck what you’re trying to pull here,” Morgan said, his voice cold and razor-sharp. “But let’s get one thing clear…”

His words sliced through the air as he raised a finger, aiming it like a blade at Enzo.

“You,” Morgan continued, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, “are not my baby’s father.”

Enzo flinched—but Morgan didn’t stop.

“You’re a filthy rapist with some money.”

The words struck like a slap. Enzo stood frozen, stunned. But the angel wasn’t finished.

“And I promise you.. my daughter’s niceness is only temporary.” Morgan’s finger tapped hard against Enzo’s chest. “Once she’s old enough, I’ll make sure she knows exactly what kind of beast you are.”

Morgan’s words hit harder than fists. And then, with deadly calm, he pointed toward the staircase.

“Now leave.” Morgan's eyes didn't leave Lorenzo for the first time since seeing him, he wished it did

Enzo didn’t move.

His ears rang with Morgan’s words. Filthy rapist. Not her father. Monster.

They echoed like gunshots. His hand trembled

But I didn't. No, wouldn't engage in the filth his father called mean, who dirtied his angel. Enzo thought to himself, Enzo's left hand turned into a fist, squeezing his fingers.

Right?

“I—” his voice cracked, barely above a whisper.

“Morgan, please… I didn’t mean for any of it to happen. If I’d known—if I’d understood—”

He took one small step forward, his hands raised in surrender.

“But I didn’t… I didn’t r—”

“GET OUT!”

Morgan’s voice exploded, filling the hallway like a thunderclap. His palms slammed into Enzo’s chest with such force that Enzo stumbled back, breath catching in his throat.

“Don’t you dare,” Morgan spat, eyes blazing. “Don’t you dare try to twist this into a misunderstanding.”

Enzo’s mouth opened, but no words came. He forced himself to stay still, even as Morgan shoved him again and again, each hit landing like a slap to the soul.

“You knew enough,” Morgan spat, voice fraying. “You people always know.”

Enzo flinched at the words but lifted his hand, catching Morgan’s wrist mid-shove—just to stop him, not hurt him. Morgan thrashed against the hold, breath growing harsher.

“I’m sorry,” Enzo whispered, shoulders slumped, heart pounding against his ribs like it was trying to escape. “I didn’t know what to do. I—”

Then he froze.

His gaze dropped—something was wrong.

Morgan’s chest was rising too fast, trembling in uneven rhythm. The fabric of his shirt clung to his motion, the movement jagged and unsteady. Not like before.

“Wait… Morgan—what’s–?” Enzo’s voice faltered, eyes narrowing in concern as he raised his free hand, pointing down toward his chest.

“Let me go and LEAVE!” Morgan screamed.

His shirt shifted with the motion, loose, unbound. Enzo’s fingers brushed against the fabric by accident, and he recoiled like he’d been burned.

“What happened to your ch—”

The question died in his throat.

A sharp crack rang out, Morgan’s fist colliding hard with Enzo’s cheek. His head whipped to the side, the sting blooming instantly. His grip faltered, hand rising instinctively to cradle the pain.

But the assault didn’t stop.

Morgan shoved him again, harder this time, all the fury in his body erupting at once.

The second shove nearly sent Enzo stumbling backward, but he caught himself. His cheek still throbbed from the slap, his mind spinning, his chest hollow with guilt—but Morgan kept coming.

“Morgan, stop please—” Enzo barely got the words out before another blow landed, a fist to his shoulder, then to his chest. Wild. Furious.

“Get OUT!” Morgan screamed, his voice breaking.

Enzo flinched. That same scream from the first night they met again, this one was worse. Not trembling, not crying, but enraged. Explosive

Morgan raised his leg, kicking Enzo down the hall leading to the staircase. Enzo panicked. 

He couldn't let the angel dirty his hands.

In a split second, Enzo moved forward and grabbed Morgan by the waist. “Stop—Morgan, stop!” he begged, lifting him slightly and pinning him to the nearest wall

Just to stop the chaos before it spilling into something worse.

But it didn’t work.

Morgan thrashed in his grip like a wildfire, his breast ragged as the punches continued. Enzo tried to dodge, but Morgan was faster.

“Dont fucking touch me! ” His foot slammed against Enzo’s shin, then a fist collided with his jaw. “ Put me down!”

“Just listen—!” Enzo choked out, shocked at the strength in Morgan’s frame.

He couldn’t even get a good grip. Morgan was everywhere swinging, struggling.

Then

BANG 

Followed by a familiar older woman's voice, “MORGAN, WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON!”

It echoed through the hall, followed by a smell of cinnamon, but the angel's punches stopped as well as he tilted his head. Enzo followed

There she was, in front of apartment 2A, wearing a mix of old, worn-down luxury and fake items. Oh, now Enzo remembered the old woman who had once held Morgan's key in her grasp, now brandishing a knife. Her posture shifted as he looked at both of them.

“Morgan?” she spoke, looking over at Morgan. Enzo immediately dropped his grip and straightened his posture.

The woman gave Lorenzo a once-over as he dusted himself off and coughed.

“Oh…” she said, her tone curling into something almost amused.
“I think I know you.”

With an audible clink , she bent down and calmly set the knife on the hallway floor.

Morgan’s fists kept flying, each punch landing as he was pinned to the wall by the beast. His breath came in ragged gasps, but he didn’t stop—blow after blow after blow.

“Don’t fucking touch me!”

He slammed his foot into the beast’s shin, then drove a fist into his jaw. “Put me down!”

The beast growled something in words Morgan couldn’t make out, didn’t care to. Probably something disgusting. He raised his fist again, ready to strike—

BANG!

The sound shattered through the hallway, sharp and sudden. Morgan froze mid-swing.

“MORGAN, WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?”

Gia’s voice cracked through the air like a whip.

Morgan slowly lowered his fist and turned. There she was, Gia, standing at the end of the hall, a kitchen knife in hand.

The beast turned to look too.

Yes, Gia. My savior. You’re home, Morgan thought, chest heaving. Please stab this bastard. End my torment.

But his body wouldn’t move. He couldn’t even speak.

Then, something shifted. Gia’s posture stiffened. She met the beast’s eyes and stilled.

Lorenzo let him go, just like that. He stepped back and dusted off his coat, as if Morgan had dirtied him.

“Morgan?” Gia asked again, voice softer now, gaze flicking between them, still fixed on Lorenzo.

Morgan tried to respond, but nothing came out. His eyes dropped down, and his clothes were rumpled, slightly pulled out of place. Hastily, he adjusted himself.

“Oh…” Gia breathed.

To Morgan’s horror, she slowly knelt and set the knife on the floor with a faint clink .

“I think I know you…”

She stood and walked toward the beast, her brows knitting as she peered closely at his face.

No. No, Gia, please, Morgan begged in his mind, frozen. Get away from the monster.

But Gia just hummed softly, squinting as she examined Lorenzo like a painting she half-remembered.

Lorenzo cleared his throat and extended that filthy hand of his. “Um... good afternoon, ma’am.”

Gia looked down at the hand, tilting her head. Then she made a quiet, surprised noise and took it.

“Oh! Now I remember.”

Gia turned to Morgan with a soft smile. “He helped me home, which was like four months ago.”

Morgan’s blood ran cold. The beast let out an awkward cough. “Um, yes, it's nice to see you again.”

Gia snapped back to Lorenzo, “You're still with the gas company, right…” she continued laughing to herself, “funny they still haven't fixed it.”

Morgan’s stomach sank, dread coiling in his throat.

Then Gia paused. Her gaze lowered to the floor; Morgan's eyes followed theirs. It was the child support check that had flown from his hand during the struggle.

“Huh, what's this?”

She bent down slowly and picked it up.

Her eyes scanned it, and then they widened; quickly snapping, she looked between Morgan and Lorenzo. Once. Then again.

Her fingers tightened slightly around the paper.

“Oh~,” she murmured, a long, drawn-out note of dawning realization. Her eyes glimmered with something like understanding; she was laughing.

Gia’s eyes drifted from Morgan to Lorenzo, then back again. She gave Morgan a sly smile, arms crossed.

“Well, Morgan, aren’t you going to introduce me to your little friend?”

Morgan choked on his breath. “W-What…?” His body trembled, his throat suddenly too tight to speak.

Gia scoffed. “Don’t play coy with me, Morgan.” She gave Lorenzo another once-over, her gaze sharp and amused. “I thought you said you don’t play with exes.”

“ Exes? ” Morgan’s voice cracked as his eyes widened in horror, snapping toward her.

Before he could say more, the beast cut in smoothly.

“Lorenzo—” he coughed, clearing his throat and stepping forward, gently reclaiming the check from Gia’s hand. “Lorenzo De Lu.”

Gia blinked and looked up at him, taking in the name.

“Oh. So that’s your real name.”

Lorenzo flinched at her comment, but Morgan's eyes remained fixed on Gia. What does she mean?

Gia scoffed, tossing Morgan a look. “Since Morgan here doesn’t want to introduce me, I’ll do it myself.”

She casually folded the check and, without hesitation, stuffed it down her shirt. “My name is Giovanna Bellucci, one of Grace’s guardians. And you must be her biological father, correct?”

Biological father.
The words echoed in Morgan’s ears like a gunshot.

Then came the beast’s answer, hesitant but audible: “Um... Y-Yes.”

Morgan’s eyes snapped to Lorenzo. Their gazes met. Lorenzo was staring at him like he expected Morgan to say something to explain. Morgan’s fists clenched at his sides, trembling.

Before the tension could erupt, a soft cough interrupted, followed by the creak of a door opening.

“Well, we should all have a chat, don’t you think?” Gia’s voice called sweetly.

She emerged from her apartment holding a tray stacked with warm cinnamon rolls, a box of tea, and three cups, one of them tiny and plastic. Without waiting, she turned, opened Morgan’s apartment door, and stepped inside like she owned the place.

Morgan stood frozen, stunned by her composure.

Why is she so calm? His mind buzzed. Why isn’t she panicking?

Then it hit him.

I never told Gia the full story... did I?

Dread began to crawl up his spine as his body started trembling.

From inside the apartment, Gia’s hums rang out loud and unbothered:

Morgan’s gaze snapped to Lorenzo one last time, seething. He wanted to scream. To cry. To tell him: Leave. Just leave.
But instead, he sighed under his breath, turned sharply, and stormed into his apartment.

The heavy sound of footsteps followed close behind.

Enzo stared down at the woman, his lip curling as she stuffed the check down her shirt. Disgust twisted in his gut.
How dare she dirty something meant for the angel? He wanted to snatch it back. Take it out.

But the woman kept talking, unbothered.
“My name is Giovanna Bellucci, one of Grace’s guardians. And you must be her biological father, correct?” she said coolly, giving Enzo another sharp once-over.

Enzo’s body tensed. He swallowed hard and choked out, “Um... Y-Yes.”

Giovanna gave him a cold smirk, eyes never leaving his face. Then she turned and disappeared into her apartment, only to return a moment later carrying a tray of cinnamon rolls, a battered tea box, two mismatched mugs, and a tiny plastic cup meant for a child.

“Well, we should all have a chat, don’t you think?” she said sweetly, as if hosting a brunch instead of confronting a man who’d just brawled in her hallway.

She knelt and picked up the knife from the floor.

Without waiting, she stepped over to Morgan’s apartment door, popped it open, and walked inside like she owned the place.

Enzo stared after her, stunned.
Was she inviting him into the angel’s home?

He took a cautious step forward, the scent of cinnamon curling around him like bait. His gaze dropped to Morgan.

Can I go in? he thought, but the words never left his lips.

Morgan looked up at him, not with fury, not even anger anymore. Just... dull, flat, hollow. Then, without a word, Morgan turned and stepped toward his door, pushing it open.

Enzo followed quickly, hesitating only for a moment on the threshold before stepping inside and stopping, awestruck.

It looked different in the light.

The walls were worn, the paint chipped in places, and the furniture mismatched. But to Enzo, it was divine. The couch, the scattered books, the little decorations, Grace's toys, lived-in, touched. Everything felt like Morgan. Everything felt sacred.

His gaze snapped up as Morgan silently lowered himself onto the living room couch, eyes fixed on the hallway. The smell of cinnamon rolls lingered warmly in the air.

Lorenzo moved cautiously, reverently, taking a breath before settling on the far edge of the couch, not too close.

The cushion sank slightly beneath him, but he kept himself upright, tense. His gaze slid toward Morgan once more.

Morgan immediately scooted further away, his eyes still locked on the hallway.

What is he looking at? Enzo wondered. Where’s Grace?

Then that grating voice returned.

“Okay, gentlemen, I brought the water,” Giovanna announced cheerfully, entering with a clunky electric kettle and an extra cup.

She opened the tea box, casually dropping a bag into each cup—except the plastic one. After a minute of pouring, the water turned a faint yellowish tint. With a sigh, she set the kettle down, picked up one of the mugs, and with zero ceremony, plopped herself right between Lorenzo and Morgan, crossing her legs.

Enzo’s jaw tightened. First, she stuffed the angel’s check down her shirt. Now she was a barrier between them.

“Well,” Giovanna gestured at the tray with exaggerated flair, “ladies went first. Gentlemen, help yourselves.”

Lorenzo’s eyes drifted to the cups. The tea smelled faintly of ginseng, store-bought, clearly, but it wasn’t the tea that caught his attention. It was the cup—the one Giovanna brought in separately.

It had to be Morgan’s.

God, it was beautiful. Faded, a little worn, but still holding warmth, as if it remembered every hand that touched it. The angel must have used it.

Before he could stop himself, Enzo reached out and snatched it, clutching it with both hands like a sacred object. It was warm. Delicate. Lived-in.

Across from him, Morgan let out a sharp scoff and grabbed the chipped faux-china mug without a word.

Enzo twitched. Maybe he should’ve left the cup for Morgan. Maybe—

But the second he brought it to his lips, the guilt vanished.

The tea itself was average, flat, and faintly bitter, but the cup made it taste divine.

If he could’ve gotten away with it, Enzo would’ve licked the rim.

Giovanna let out a light cough as she settled the cup onto her lap.
“So, Morgan,” she said, nudging him with her elbow, “where’s my favorite lady of the house?”

Enzo’s eyes dropped to Morgan, whose tea remained untouched. Of course. The fake China wasn’t worthy of his lips.

“My daughter is napping, Gia…” Morgan muttered, barely above a whisper. His hand tightened around the cup.

Giovanna chuckled, then turned her attention to Enzo, just in time to catch him taking another quick sip of tea.

“I see,” she said lightly. “So, how long have you two been… reacquainted?”

Lorenzo shifted in his seat. “Three months, ma’am.”

Beside him, Morgan’s fingers clenched harder on the mug.

“Oh, I see ,” Giovanna drawled, her grin widening as she turned back to Morgan. “So that’s why you’ve been dodging every date I try to set you up on, huh?”

Giovanna took a sip of her tea, smirking behind the rim before setting it down again.

“Well,” she said, eyeing Enzo’s sleek jacket and immaculate posture, “you look like money, Mr. De Lu. Money that looks like you like to show off”

Enzo stiffened, offering a tight, restrained smile. “Yeah, I guess… I just buy things in my style.”
His eyes flicked—unwillingly—to Giovanna’s chest. Take the angel’s check out of your filthy shirt, woman, he seethed silently, lifting the teacup again to disguise his disgust.

“Mmhmm.” Giovanna didn’t press further. Her smirk only deepened as she turned her attention back to Morgan. “So… you two dated back in the day?”
She gestured lazily toward Enzo’s chest, her tone light and teasing. “And you played the mysterious tycoon role, huh? Showed up with—”

Her ramble screeched to a halt at the sharp hiss that escaped Morgan’s lips.

He’d slipped—hot tea sloshed over the rim of his cup, spilling across his thigh.

“Ah—shit!” he snapped, jolting upright and fumbling to set the cup on the table with a clatter. The dark stain bloomed quickly against his shorts.

“You okay, honey?” Giovanna leaned in, her hand brushing Morgan’s thigh with casual familiarity.

Enzo twitched, the urge to reach out rising fast in his chest. But he stopped himself.

I haven’t earned that, he reminded himself bitterly.

Morgan gave a curt nod, wiping at the soaked denim. The motion was small, unconscious—but it made Enzo’s chest tighten.

His heart fluttered.

“Actually,” Giovanna took Morgan's cup and set it on the table, “I need you to get some papers from my trip.” 

She continued gesturing to the door, “Their ointment is in one of the drawers, you can use that.”

Morgan froze. His eyes darted between her and Lorenzo, then back to her.

“Gia…”

“You’ll survive two minutes,” she said, already waving him off like an errand boy. “Go on.”

Morgan hesitated. His jaw clenched, but he rose to his feet, a tea stain spreading along his thigh.

“Fine,” Morgan muttered, casting one last look toward the hallway—unreadable, reluctant—before slipping out the door.

The soft click of it shutting behind him echoed.

Giovanna shifted slightly, putting a bit more space between herself and Enzo, to his relief.

Then she spoke again. “Lorenzo…”

Her hand dipped into her shirt, and Enzo stiffened as she finally pulled out the check, slightly damp, creased. She unfolded it with care and squinted at the writing.

“Lorenzo De Lu,” she read aloud, lips curling. “Sounds fancy.”

Enzo grimaced at the sight of the soggy paper. His fingers twitched. He wanted to run back to his office and write a new one just for his angel.

The sharp clatter of a cup hitting the table snapped him out of his thoughts. Giovanna was now towering over him, eyes narrowed.

“So,” she said, voice like a whip, “what name did you give the other girl you’re seeing, huh? Was it the same Sandro you gave Morgan? Or was it something else—Marco, Luca, maybe even Antonio?”

“What…?” Enzo choked out, carefully setting down Morgan’s precious cup like it might shatter under his guilt.

“Don’t play dumb with me,” Giovanna snapped, eyes blazing. “You played the poor lover with Morgan swept him up, spun your story, then ran off the second you got bored.”

What followed was a tirade—sharp, relentless—each word landing like a slap. She ranted about how he and Morgan had once shared an apartment? How had they’d worked together at a bar? On and on.

As Enzo sat there, staring up at her, a scowl crept across his thoughts.

So this is where all of Grace’s unsavory traits came from, he mused bitterly. Of course, the angel couldn’t be the source. No—those habits had to be learned.

“Did you even bother to check on your ‘flings’ after you were done?” Giovanna spat. “Do you have any idea how much Morgan suffered because of you?”

Enzo snapped out of his daze, a slow realization dawning on him.
No… this is good.
This woman didn’t know the shameful truth.

She could be useful. A tool. A force to help nudge his angel to open his wings to redemption, toward him.

With a soft sigh, he rose to his feet, brushed himself off, and forced himself to take Giovanna’s hand.

He clasped her hand gently, his voice low but steady.
“I’ve made mistakes in the past…”

Enzo’s eyes met Giovanna’s—her cheap foundation smudged, eyes unreadable—but he continued anyway.

“I know that. But I’m genuinely trying now to make things right.”

His grip tightened slightly, just enough to be felt, his voice thick with emotion, genuine, raw, and unmistakably from the soul.

“For Morgan… for our daughter.”

Enzo shut his eyes tight, lifting Giovanna’s hand to his lips.

“Please, Mrs. Bellucci,” he whispered, “I’ve truly reflected on my past. I just want to make it right.”

He pressed a reverent kiss to her knuckles, wincing faintly at the overpowering scent of cheap lavender.

As if on cue, his phone began to ring.

But Enzo didn’t move. He stayed frozen in that moment, eyes locked on Giovanna’s, the phone buzzing unanswered between them.

Giovanna gave Enzo a sharp once-over, eyes drifting up and down as she gently pulled her hands free from his. Lorenzo lowered his own hands, biting back the curse that threatened to escape his lips.

She scoffed, then slumped back onto the couch.
“That’s Miss Bellucci to you,” she said, grabbing a cinnamon roll from the tray and popping it into her mouth.

“You seem genuine,” Giovanna added, glancing up at him again. Lorenzo exhaled sharply, his hands trembling slightly.

With a dismissive scoff, she made a shooing motion with her hand. “I see. Well, only time will tell about that.”

Then, nodding toward the cinnamon roll on the table, she said, “Take one on your way out. The person on your phone seems important.” She took another bite, eyes fixed elsewhere.

Enzo grimaced at the grey edges of her dyed hair but quickly bowed, seizing any excuse to leave this tense situation behind.

“Thank you, Miss Bellucci,” Lorenzo said, dipping into a slight bow as he grabbed a tissue from the angel’s table and snagged a sticky cinnamon roll from the tray.
“I hope to see you around,” Giovanna added, lifting her cup and sipping her tea once more.

Enzo nodded, stepping back toward the door. “Yes, of course. Thank you, ma’am.”

Giovanna let out another scoff, taking another sip of tea, a small smile curling at the corner of her lips.

Enzo approached the door with a smile. Another step forward.
He hadn’t gotten to see Grace, but this wasn’t a loss.
Someone had heard him. Someone knew his vow to make things right with Morgan. That had to count for something.

He turned the doorknob and stepped out, only to stop short.

The angel stood directly in front of the door, arms crossed, thigh bandaged, a stack of papers clenched tightly in one hand.

Enzo forced an awkward smile and sidestepped into the hallway, never breaking eye contact as their shoulders brushed.

“See you Saturda—”

The sentence was cut short by the sharp slam of the door behind him, followed by the unmistakable click of multiple locks sliding into place.

Of course.

Enzo grimaced and stared at the door for a moment—maybe hoping it would open again. It didn’t.

With a quiet sigh, he turned and made his way toward the staircase.

Then his phone rang again.

Lorenzo descended the stairs, each step slower than the last, the tension from the slammed door still clinging to his back like a weight.

His phone rang again.

He yanked it from his pocket and pressed it to his ear without looking.

“What?” The word came sharply.

A voice on the other end answered quickly, careful not to provoke him.
“Good afternoon, Don. Just confirming—the meeting with Dario is still on. Friday. 3:00 PM. He’ll be there.”

Enzo exhaled through his nose, stepping out into the open air. The sky had dulled to a soft, blue hue. He blinked up at it before responding.

“Yeah,” he muttered, already lowering the phone. “I’ll be there.”

He hung up, tossed the phone into his jacket pocket, and pulled the uneaten cinnamon bun from his other hand. It was cold now, the sweetness souring his nose. With a grimace, he tossed it into the nearest trash bin.

But the napkin—the one he took from his angel —he kept.

Enzo folded it once, then again, pressing it into his pocket like a keepsake; he wished he could take the cup too.

Then he made his way to his car, the hush of the quiet street swallowing his footsteps, as he clicked his car open.

Morgan stood in front of the door, his hand clenched tightly around the stack of papers. Inside, he could still hear murmurs of conversation in his apartment.
Grace was still asleep.
How could Gia let that beast in?
His jaw tensed as the dull ache in his thigh pulsed back to life.

“Yes, of course. Thank you, ma’am.”
The beast’s voice was getting closer. Morgan instinctively brought his arm across his chest, bracing himself.

The door creaked open.

And there he was.
Lorenzo.
Smiling that smug, self-satisfied smile.

His eyes didn’t leave Morgan’s as he stepped into the hallway. Their shoulders brushed. Morgan flinched.

“See you Saturda—”

SLAM.

Morgan didn’t care about the noise. He moved on instinct, slamming the door shut and locking each bolt in quick succession—one, two, three. Then, with a shaky breath, he wiped his palm against his shirt like the contact had burned him.

He stood there for a moment, listening. Footsteps faded down the hall.

Only then did he allow himself to breathe. But not for long.

His jaw locked again.
He needed answers.

He turned on his heel and stormed toward the living room.

Gia had some explaining to do.

Morgan stormed into the living room, the sound of his bare feet slapping against the floor sharp and fast.

Gia was already seated again, casually biting into another cinnamon roll like she hadn’t just opened his sanctuary to a monster.
She glanced up, unbothered. “Well, that’s rude.”

Snap.

The stack of papers slammed against the table, scattering a few crumbs. Morgan’s eyes burned.
“Why the hell did you let him in?”

Gia blinked, then reached for her tea. “I thought you said Grace’s biological father pulled the disappearing act on you.”

Morgan’s breath caught.

“That’s why you’re raising Grace alone,” she added, setting her fork down gently.

His mouth opened—then closed.

The truth swelled at the back of his throat, thick and bitter. He could say it. He could finally say it out loud. He could tell her everything.

Gia stood from the chair and stepped closer, her hand brushing against his thigh. Morgan flinched.

The pain.
The betrayal.
The blood.
Grace.

“Hey, listen—it’s okay. Trust me, I know that kind of pain,” Gia said softly. “But I looked into that man’s eyes. He looked sincere.”
Her warm hand wrapped around his, grounding him. “And besides, he’s not exactly broke. Fifteen thousand dollars just for Grace? Oh, honey, you have to take us shopping one day.”

Morgan forced his throat to move, to push the words out. He could feel the heat of tears building behind his eyes.

“Gia, that’s not what—”

But his confession was cut short by the sound of soft, eager footsteps and a familiar, joyful squeal.

“AUNTIE! AUNTIE, YOU’RE BACK!” Grace shouted, hair a wild mess, barreling into the room with a squeaky hop and a hug that could melt steel.

“There’s my lady of the house,” Gia laughed, petting  Grace’s hair into place affectionately.

Grace let out a contented sigh—only for her eyes to widen the moment she spotted the cinnamon buns on the table.

“CUPCAKES!”

Before anyone could stop her, Grace darted forward, grabbing a handful of buns and stuffing them into her mouth with triumphant glee.

Gia let out a sharp gasp, scrambling after her. “Grace—no! That’s not how a lady eats!”

But Grace didn’t listen. She kept happily chewing, cheeks full, crumbs falling everywhere like confetti.

Morgan’s words died in his throat.

He looked at Grace—sticky fingers, wild hair, pure joy—and then at Gia.

Gia, tired and kind. Familiar. Clueless.

Still here.

His fingers twitched at his side.

Gia let out an exhausted sigh and turned to Morgan. “Anyway, I don’t know if this will be necessary now, but…” She gestured toward the stack of papers on the table.
“They’re all potential jobs in the area. Decent pay, flexible hours,  and a couple of good daycares, but looking at that check—” she tilted her head, “—maybe you don’t need them anymore.”

Morgan’s eyes snapped to the crumpled check, then quickly moved to the papers, some now stained with cinnamon and sweat. He reached out and began gathering them with trembling fingers.

“No, Gia. I need this. Thank you,” he said softly, eyes scanning the pages. One ad caught his attention:

Il Ritrovo di Dario — Hostess Wanted.

Gia shrugged, pulling Grace away from the platter of now-squashed cinnamon buns as the child whined.

“Nooo!”

Gia flopped back onto the couch, grabbing a tissue to wipe Grace’s face gently. “Okay, you can look at those later. Now, you will not believe what Brandon’s wife had me doing last month—”

But Morgan wasn’t listening. His eyes remained fixed on the job listing as he turned toward the hallway, papers still gripped tightly in one hand.

“No, Gia, I need to change my shirt,” he muttered, heading toward the bathroom, chest heavy.

Gia glanced after him with a hum. “Alright, don’t take too long.”

Then she turned back to Grace.

“So, how were you while I was gone, sweetie?”

Grace’s laughter rang down the hallway. “It was great! Papa has a new friend—Lori! He walks funny, and he’s scared of bees! And—and—”

Her voice cut off as the bathroom door clicked shut.

Morgan leaned against it for a breath. The papers were still clutched tightly in his hand, the job listing now slightly crumpled at the corners.

He moved quickly, peeling off his shirt and tossing it into the hamper. From beneath the laundry, he pulled out his binder. He slipped it on with practiced hands, adjusting it around his ribs as his breath hitched.

The mirror fogged slightly from the warmth of the room, but he caught his reflection anyway—his eyes red, his lips parted in disbelief. A single tear slid down his cheek. Then another.

He looked down at the job posting again, the words blurry through tears.

“Why is this happening?” he whispered, a bitter breath escaping his throat.

But there was no time to sit in it.

With a trembling hand, Morgan wiped his face, forced the tears back, and grabbed his phone from his pocket. He stared at the number beneath Il Ritrovo di Dario .

He tapped the screen.

It rang then  again

Then a click.

“Buongiorno, Il Ritrovo di Dario. How can I help you?” a woman’s voice chimed, smooth

Morgan swallowed hard, pressing the paper tighter against his chest.

“Hi,” he said, voice steadying. “I was calling to ask if the hostess position is still available?”

There was a pause—papers rustling faintly on the other end.

“Yes,” the woman replied. “Are you interested in applying?”

Morgan closed his eyes, steadied his breath, and nodded even though she couldn’t see him.

“Yes. Yes, I am.”

Chapter Text

“This is Corwrow Street, next stop—” The bus announcement cut off as Morgan stepped out, the doors hissing shut behind him.

Grace giggled, quickly took over, followed by Gia snickering, “Tell me more, Grace.” Gia snickered, pulling and tugging Grace back from running ahead

“Ok,” Grace beamed, jumping. “When I went to the fish zoo, I thought Lori was nobody, but no.” Morgan grimaced as Grace continued 

“But Lori is nice. He was weird, but I told him to say sorry ‘cause Papa cried.” She looked up at Morgan, proud. “Right, Papa?”

Morgan forced a smile, shifting his folders to his other arm as he took Grace’s hand.

“Yeah… he did,” Morgan said through clenched teeth. He hated how easily the beast name came from her lips now.

“See, Auntie? Lori’s nice now!”

Gia smirked. “Yeah, Lori seems real nice~” she said, bumping Morgan’s tense shoulder. “Does Papa have something to add about Lori?”

Morgan’s gaze snapped to her, cold and furious.

“Don’t,” he said low and sharp.

Gia backed off slightly, but the grin stayed. “Just joking, Morgan. I won’t tell~” she added with a giggle.

“Tell what, Papa?” Grace tugged on his pants, looking up with wide eyes.

Morgan's eyes lowered with a genuine smile. “Nothing, sweetie, we can finally get you a daycare.”

Grace beamed and tried to bolt toward the building. “YAY! Daycare, daycare!” she squealed, only to be gently caught by Morgan.

Gia cleared her throat, making him turn. “Well, you aren't planning on leaving me here to fend for myself.” She extended her hand with a raised brow. “You gave me a list; you have to give me the means to purchase them.”

Morgan rolled his eyes, pulling his debit card from his back pocket, and slapping it into her waiting palm.

“Hmph. Rude—just like a man,” Gia sniffed, but tucked the card into her purse all the same. “Just makeup, correct?” she added, already turning away.

“Papa, papa! I wanna go now, now!” Grace whined, straining against Morgan’s arm.

Morgan let himself be pulled forward toward the daycare building, calling back, “Yeah, Gia, buy those—and whatever else you need, okay?”

Grace puffed with effort, her face scrunching as she kept pulling. Morgan gently tugged her back upright. “Sweetie, we’re going in. Remember—behave, okay?”

“Okay, Papa!” Grace giggled, bouncing as she pulled him toward the entrance again. Morgan let her drag him.

Gia’s laugh cut through the noise. “Giving me some pocket money? My, my—Lori must be spoiling you now.”

Morgan stopped in his tracks, jaw tightening, his voice sharp and low. “Gia, don’t start.”

But she was already turned, sauntering off toward the store with a smirk that didn’t reach her eyes. “I’ll be waiting for you two when I’m done. Don’t take too long,” 

She called breezily, disappearing into the crowd just as Grace pulled Morgan through the daycare doors. The blast of air conditioning cooled his nerves as they stepped inside.

But it did little to cool the heat simmering under his skin. Lorenzo spoiling me? More like tormenting. No—I can’t think like this, Morgan reminded himself, clamping down on the spiral just as Grace tugged him toward the empty front desk.

He glanced around, frowning. Where was the woman he’d spoken to on the phone? He remembered her from last year—this had been the first daycare he’d visited, and it had been perfect except for one thing: the price. He exhaled quietly and rang the little bell on the counter.

“Papa, look at my toys!” Grace squealed, pointing toward a colorful pile in the waiting area.

Morgan smiled and gently ruffled her hair. “No, sweetheart, those are the daycare’s toys—not yours,” he cooed, steering her gently toward them. “But you can play with them while we wait, okay?”

Grace let out another happy squeal and darted off. The sound of clattering plastic followed immediately, then one of the toys burst into a tinny, upbeat tune that echoed through the room.

“Coming!” a voice boomed through the closed door, followed by shushing noises as the sound of a fax machine echoed

A moment later, the door gently clicked open. A woman stepped out, a redhead with grey strands, probably only a few years younger than Gia, holding a fax paper in one hand and adjusting her glasses with the other. She looked up with a warm smile.

“Morgan Megan Liotta!” she called out brightly.

Morgan grimaced but managed a polite smile. “Just Morgan Liotta, ma’am,” he corrected, gesturing for Grace to come back to his side.

Grace immediately dropped the toy and ran up to him, bouncing on her feet. “HI LADY, I’M GRACE! WHAT’S YOUR NAME?” she shouted.

Both the woman and Morgan shushed her.

“Easy, darlin', inside voices. It’s nap time,” the woman said gently, then stood up straight again, glancing down at the fax. 

“Welcome, Morgan Liotta—and little Gracie. I’m Mrs. Darlene Whitaker. It’s really nice to meet y’all.” Darlene extended her hand with a warm smile.

Morgan returned the smile and gave her a polite handshake. “It’s nice to meet you, ma’am—”

A tiny hand suddenly gripped Morgan’s leg.

“I wanna hug Whit-Snack hand too, Please!” Grace whined, extending her arm.

Darlene let out a soft chuckle, released Morgan’s hand, and knelt to Grace’s level. “The kids here call me that too, sweetheart,” she said, gently taking Grace’s hand and giving it a playful shake. “I can already tell you’re gonna fit right in, Gracie.”

Grace giggled, adding her other hand to the handshake. “My park friends calls me Gracie, too. Are you my friend now?”

Darlene finally ended the playful handshake and straightened up with a chuckle. “Of course, sweetheart. All the kiddos here are my friends.” She looked up at Morgan with a kind smile. “You’ve raised a real sweetheart. Come on—let’s get started with the interview.”

She beamed as she walked behind the desk and opened the door.

Morgan smiled, took Grace’s hand, and followed her to the back room. The space was cheerfully decorated, with photos of graduating classes and kids’ drawings hanging proudly on the walls. Darlene took a seat at a small table.

Grace, already distracted, spotted a toy near the desk and rushed to it, humming to herself as she settled into a child-sized chair next to a bigger one. Morgan sat beside her, adjusting the folders in his hands.

“Well, once again, welcome to Little Lanterns Daycare ,” Darlene said warmly. “It’s always such a joy to see new faces.”

She adjusted her glasses once more and glanced down at the fax. “Sooo, you must be Gracie’s mother?”

Morgan’s heart froze.

His eyes dropped to the now-open folder on her desk—Grace’s birth certificate lay out, the word “ Mother ” printed in bold beside his name. The father section remained blank

Good, that's better, Morgan thought, keeping paper in the folder.

He inhaled sharply, ready to correct her, to shut down the fact once again—but Grace beat him to it.

“I don’t have a mama,” she said brightly, kicking her legs on the chair, pointing at Morgan.
“Papa here!”

Darlene looked down at Grace, then up at Morgan, then back to the fax. “Huh? What do you mean, sweetheart?” she asked gently, eyes flicking over the paperwork. “On the paper—” She stopped short.

Morgan could see the subtle shift in the way her expression tightened, the sweat beginning to bead near her hairline. Her gaze snapped up, a flash of panic behind her glasses.

“I’m so sorry, sir. The fax must’ve scrambled the text,” she said quickly, folding the paper and waving her hand as if to shoo the moment away. “Completely my mistake.”

Morgan exhaled, the tension in his chest easing slightly. God, I won’t have to explain this again, he thought. He gave her a small, awkward smile. “It’s okay, ma’am. It… happens. Sorry for the confusion.”

Darlene shook her head, looking indignant. “No, no, I should be the one apologizin’. I’ll have you know, this daycare opens its doors to all kinds of families—L, B, T, G, and Q, and so on,” she added with a nod.

She sounds like reading off a menu,” Morgan thought, amused but too tired to correct her.

Grace giggled, still playing with the toy. “It’s okay, lady.”

Morgan offered a small smile. “Really, it’s fine. I’m just glad we didn’t have to make it a big deal.” 

I’m definitely making sure Grace gets in here, he thought, adjusting his seat.

Darlene let out a relieved little phew and settled back in her chair. “Well, that’s a weight off. You know, my daughter is part of the community too, always to me and their father  that they don’t like bein’ called she or her .” She waved vaguely toward a framed photo on her desk. “I try to remember. They’re sweet, just... particular. Their wife is a darling, though.”

Morgan bit back a chuckle and nodded. “Good to know.”

Darlene adjusted herself, taking a deep breath. “Now that we’ve cleared up that little mix-up, let’s start the interview. Shall we”

Morgan nodded, not looking down, as he took the birth certificate and some more of Grace's documents. “Yes, we should.” Grace moved from the chair to the floor, humming as she picked up more dolls and began making them dance.

Darlene clicked her pen, leaned slightly over the intake form, and took the documents from Morgan, but did not look at them.

“Alrighty then,  Grace Liotta  is such a sweet name—her birthday is February 17, right?”

Morgan blinked. “No, it’s February 2—”
He caught himself, clearing his throat as he quickly corrected, “Yes, February 17.”

Darlene didn’t seem to notice, just smiled and scribbled the date down. “Three and a half now and already this tall? Lord help us when she turns five.” She winked at Morgan.

“Now, is she fully potty-trained?”

Morgan coughed, brushing past his earlier slip. “Yes, mostly. There are accidents from time to time, usually when she’s too excited or distracted. But she’ll let you know when she needs to go.”

“Great, that’s common at her age,” Darlene said kindly. “We’ll keep an eye on her, no worries. Any allergies or medical conditions we should know about?”

“No allergies,” Morgan replied. “Healthy as an ox—just gets a little rashy when it’s too hot out. Nothing serious.”

Darlene nodded as she jotted that down. “Alright. Any food restrictions or preferences?”

Morgan shook his head. “No, ma’am. She’ll eat just about anything. The only thing she hates lentils.”

“Lentils yucky!” Grace chimed in indignantly, then turned right back to her dolls.

“Noted,” Darlene chuckled. “Good news—we’ve got three kitchens here, and not one of ’em serves lentils. What about naps? How does she do with those?”

“She still needs one around noon,” Morgan answered. “She’ll put up a fight, but once she’s down, she’s out cold. All she needs is a blanket and a doll.”

“Blankets—toddlers’ best friends,” Darlene said fondly, jotting it down. “We can provide both here. If you’d like, we can keep a blanket and a comfort doll on-site just for her?”

“Okay,” Darlene continued, flipping the form over and resting her elbow on the desk. “Final—and most important—question.”

Morgan tensed, straightening in his seat and letting out a slight cough.
“Yes, go ahead.”

Darlene adjusted her glasses. “How social is Grace? Does she get anxious when you’re not around? Does she play well with others?”

Morgan relaxed a little.
Oh. I thought it was going to be something hard.
He gave a silent thanks and began to think.

Grace had always been outgoing—she played well with kids, with new people, and even with strangers. But then the thought returned like poison.

She’d been talking about him more and more lately.

Morgan pushed the filth from his mind and smiled at Darlene.
“She talks a lot,” he said dryly. “If she gets overwhelmed, she might get whiny or start crying, but she’s never lashed out. Outside, especially around new kids—she’s very social.”

“Got it. So verbal, emotional, but nonviolent. Correct?” Darlene clarified, nodding along.

“Correct,” Morgan confirmed, firmer now.

Darlene lifted her hands slightly, pleased. “That’s wonderful. We keep a one-to-five staff-to-child ratio, so the kids have plenty of room to socialize without feeling overwhelmed.”

She clicked her pen shut and gave the form one last look-over.

Morgan’s shoulders eased, and behind him, Grace let out a loud yawn.

“Well,” Darlene said with a bright smile, “from everything I’m hearing… Grace seems like the perfect fit.”

Morgan blinked. “Really?”

“Really,” Darlene confirmed. “We’d be lucky to have her.”

Morgan let out a quiet, relieved breath as Darlene stood and reached out to shake his hand.

“I’ll go ahead and fax the paperwork you brought in,” she said warmly. “Grace should be all set to start on Monday.”

Morgan nodded, letting go of her hand, a small but genuine smile forming on his face.

As Morgan pulled his hand back, Darlene turned and reached into a file organizer behind the desk. She thumbed through a few color-coded folders, muttering softly to herself.

“Ah—here we go.” She pulled out a small stack of forms and clipped them neatly together. “Just a few things for you to fill out before Monday,” she said, handing them to Morgan. “Nothing too crazy—just emergency contacts, pick-up authorizations, and a short preference sheet for Grace. Write quickly and drop it off before you leave.” Morgan nodded, taking the pen from the desk and beginning to write.

“I can’t wait to see you Monday, Gracie,” Darlene said warmly, extending her hand.

Grace paused her soft humming and took it, her grip sleepy and loose.
“Thank you, Whit-Snack Lady,” she yawned, her gaze drifting back toward the toys.

The door clicked shut behind them as Morgan continued filling out the form. Most of it was easy—nicknames, phone numbers, the daycare’s preferred learning method. Payments were listed clearly: $3,500 a month. Once, that number would’ve made his stomach turn. Now… it barely felt like anything.

But one section made him pause: Emergency Contacts.
His pen hovered above the line as he stared at the space.

With a firm final stroke, he wrote down Gia’s name and phone number.

Just then, Darlene reentered the room, smiling as she placed a small folder back onto the table, Grace’s documents, along with a few extra forms and a printed supply list for the year.

“Here you go,” she chirped. “This covers everything she’ll need by her first week. Nothing too fancy, just the basics and a change of clothes or two. We like to keep things simple.”

Morgan nodded, gently tucking the papers into the same folder as the rest of the documents.
“Thank you, it was nice meeting you, ma’am.”

He knelt and scooped Grace up from the floor, her little body nearly half-asleep in his arms.

“The pleasure’s all mine,” Darlene said warmly as she opened the door for them. “We’re always happy to welcome all kinds of families.”

Morgan stepped out into the sun, the warmth hitting his skin as Grace mumbled sleepily against his shoulder.

“Bye-bye, lady,” she whispered, waving lazily.

Morgan felt her tiny fingers flutter in the air as the door clicked shut behind them.

Outside the daycare, the sun had shifted higher, warming the sidewalk and lighting up some of Grace’s remaining energy; she bounced in Morgan’s arms.

“I can’t wait for us to go to daycare!” she chirped, her arms flung up in excitement.

Morgan huffed a soft laugh as he adjusted her on his hip.  “Me too, sweetheart.”

A sharp whistle called out from the crowd ahead, and they both turned. Gia was approaching with a grocery bag in one hand and a garment bag draped over the other.

“Well, well, look relaxed for once,” Goia spoke, adjusting her glasses. “How’d it go?”

“Better than expected,” Morgan replied, setting Grace down carefully. “She starts Monday.”

“Good,” Gia said with a satisfied nod. Hand the bag and Morgan card back to him, “Now for the second interview that you don't seem to need.”

Morgan rolled his eyes, ignoring the annoyance flaring up, and handed Grace to Gia.

“Welp, I’m off. Take Grace home, please, Gia.”

Morgan handed her the folder with Grace’s documents, but Gia caught his wrist before he could pull away.

“Wait—Morgan, I need your key,” she said, her freshly done nails digging lightly into his skin.

He tilted his head, confused. “Why don’t you have my spare?”

Gia looked around nervously, then sighed. “I think I lost it. I looked everywhere, I swear.”

Morgan exhaled sharply through his nose, reaching into his pocket. He pulled out the key and dropped it into her palm.

Grace, still sleepy, tilted her head up at him. “Papa, where are you going?”

He looked down at the bag in his hand with quiet dread, then stuffed a second folder inside.

“Job interview, sweetie. Now that you’ve got daycare, Papa needs a job.”

Gia released his wrist with an exaggerated roll of her eyes. “Yeah, sure you do.”

Before Morgan could respond, Gia continued.

“I hope this isn’t some excuse for a date. I’ll be making dinner—don’t take more than two hours!”

His stomach twisted at the word date , but Grace’s squeal brought him back.

“Bye, Papa! See you later!” she called, waving as she trotted toward the bus now pulling up.

Morgan softened, raising a hand. “Bye, sweetie.”

She disappeared into the crowd with Gia, their laughter already blending into the buzz of the street.

A different bus pulled up. The doors hissed open. Morgan stepped on, the blast of cold air hitting him like a slap.

He paid and moved down the aisle, gripping the bag tighter as the items inside clattered.

He sat, staring down at it.

Then he closed his eyes as the engine rumbled beneath him.

The bus began to move.

He braced himself.

The bus rushed past him in silence, its wake rustling Morgan’s hair. He turned and began walking toward a nearby park, his eyes fixed on the bag clutched in his hand.

The park was quiet, a few vendors scattered near the edges, a couple of people walking dogs for a place so fancy it was empty, no, this is good, Morgan thought.

He glanced around at the scattered stalls—no family bathrooms in sight. With shaky hands, he approached the women’s restroom, already feeling like an intruder.

Please let it be a single stall, he thought. Relief fluttered through him when it was. He stepped inside and turned the lock, sealing himself inside this tiny, miserable hell.

Morgan quickly slapped his folder down on the counter and flipped the bag over, dumping out a clutter of items. A small black over-the-shoulder bag slid out, followed by scattered makeup that clattered across the counter.

He gagged, immediately tossing the plastic packaging into the trash. He wanted to throw the rest of this junk in after it, but he knew what he had to do.

With shaking hands, he reached for the primer. Then the foundation. Let this be quick, he thought grimly. If I prep too much, I’ll cry.

He picked up the sponge and moved to wet it, jaw tight with dread.

Morgan dabbed the sponge quickly, dragging the foundation over his face with practiced detachment. He kept his eyes low, barely glancing at the mirror.

Just skin, he told himself—just coverage.

But then, his mother’s voice slid into his ears like oil.

“Concealer, then blend. Hide the parts the lotion can’t reach.”

Concealer next. He moved fast, mechanically. No flourishes. He blended with as much care as he could manage.

“Lift your head, Megan. You already have your father’s ugly eyes.”

The mascara wand smacked into his eye, back then. He remembered blinking against the sting.

Now, Morgan forced his head up. He stared at his almost-finished face. It was too feminine—too soft. But at least the blending was clean.

It was always this part.

“Hold still, Megan!”

Tears welled in his eyes as the memory bled in: his mother pinching his cheeks, pulling the wand over his lashes like punishment.

Morgan braced his elbow on the counter, pulled the mascara from the tube, and tilted his chin, just enough to see his lashes. That meant seeing his eyes. His face.

The wand dragged through the first set of lashes.

“There. Finally done. Just some lip gloss.”

She’d pulled out an old, cloudy container, smeared it across his mouth like she was cleaning something dirty, and turned him toward the mirror.

There he was—fourteen, maybe thirteen—suffocating in a stiff black dress, his chest aching.

“Finally,” she sighed, “Your father was enough trouble. Now we can say goodbye, and you can start being proper.” She’d gone in again, adding more mascara to make as tears streamed down his face, looking at the memorial photo covered with a black veil

Funeral for Mr. Rivera, Father, husband, may he rest in peace.

Morgan’s body trembled.

He moved to his other eye, pulling the wand up with shaky fingers. Almost done, he thought—then he saw his face.

No— Megan’s face. Not his.

He gagged.

Turning sharply from the mirror, he doubled over the sink, dry heaving. His stomach clawed toward his throat, but nothing came. Only air. Pain. Tears.

“What am I doing?” Morgan whispered, voice ragged, as black streaks ran down his cheeks and dripped onto the tile.

A faint rustle came from his pocket.

He reached for it, hands trembling, and pulled out the crumpled flyer, the job listing , and the notes he’d jotted down during the phone call. His eyes scanned the page as he fell to his knees.

“Offers flexible hours... hourly pay: forty dollars,” Morgan recited quietly, wiping his face with the back of his hand. “Bonus pay of ten thousand after first shift... looking for hostesses.”

His breath caught. His jaw clenched.

He folded the paper again—deliberately, tightly—and shoved it back into his pocket, then forced himself to stand up and face the stranger in the mirror.

Thank God the makeup didn’t smudge too much, Morgan thought as he grabbed the sponge and carefully blended the foundation again.

Megan looked decent enough.

Morgan forced himself to finish with a touch of lip gloss, then grabbed the small handbag from the counter, tearing off the price tag before slinging it over his shoulder.

He took a deep breath and pulled his lips into a smile—it twisted his features unnaturally, but it would have to do.

“Hi, my name is Megan Liotta. It’s nice to meet you,” Morgan said in an overly cheerful voice.

But Morgan couldn’t hold the smile for long. His hand dropped back to the sink as he took a deep, shaky breath.

“This is temporary, Morgan,” he muttered, forcing his head up. “I’ll work here for a couple of months…”

He adjusted the slightly smeared makeup with steady fingers, the routine soothing in its familiarity.

“Find some fraud to make some fake IDs, birth certificates, maybe even restart so I never have to see this face again,” he continued, voice flat. The lip gloss felt heavy and overly sweet.

“And I'll find a way to disappear. You did it once.” he took a breath and wiped the suffocating smear off his lip, breaths coming easier.

Megan straightened his posture, took a pack of makeup remover wipes, and shoved them into his bag.

“You can do it twice.”

With one swift motion, he swept the rest of the makeup off the counter and into the trash—some of it clattering to the floor, loud in the quiet room.

Megan took a deep breath and flashed one last smile at the mirror, picking up the folder, his other hand on the door handle.

"Morgan doesn’t get jobs anymore," he muttered, adjusting the strap of his bag as sunlight poured in through the cracks.

He opened the door to the burning sun.

"Megan does."

Then he stepped onto the pavement and began the slow walk toward a “promising” temporary solution.

~~~

Morgan's feet tapped on the marble as he stopped in front of the entrance of Il Ritrovo di Dario . 

It's quiet for a Friday afternoon, Morgan thought as he tucked his folder underneath his arm and gently pulled the door open.

A rush of artificial coolness hit him first, followed by a dense, cloying mix of garlic butter, burnt oil, and too-sweet wine.

Morgan looked around nervously as the door swung behind him with a heavy whoosh. There were staff members here, but no one at the front. Some were cleaning, some were sweeping, and others were wiping tables.

Cleaning for a rush, Morgan thought as he forced himself to walk forward

“Done the hall to the left,” He muttered to himself, avoiding eye contact with the staff, as he trudged forward. Finally, he reached the door

“What are you doing?!” a voice screeched, slicing through Morgan’s haze.

He startled and quickly straightened up, nearly knocking his folder loose. A woman marched toward him dressed in a white button-up that gaped slightly at the chest, a compact mirror clutched in one manicured hand.

“Oh—I’m sorry,” Morgan stammered, clearing his throat. “I’m here for an interview.”

He instantly cursed himself. His voice had dropped too low.

“Huh?” the woman said, squinting and cupping a hand to her ear. “I can’t hear you.”

Morgan opened his mouth again, forcing a higher pitch this time, more cheerful.

“I’m sorry,” Megan said in a high-pitched voice. “My name is Megan Liotta. I'm here for the interview—I called,” he continued, wanting to rip his vocal cords out.

The woman looked up, giving him a once-over. Morgan began to sweat, but he recognized that voice—it was the same woman from the phone call.

“I called Wednesday—I think we spoke.” Megan smiled, his eyes flicking to her chest, trying to find the woman’s name.

Morgan froze when he saw her name tag. “You must be…” The name came out like poison. “Cassandra. It's… nice to meet you.”

Morgan forced himself to extend his hand, keeping the smile on his face. Cassandra glanced down, then back up at Morgan, and scoffed.

“It’s Cassie to you,” she replied, opening the compact mirror and fixing her lashes.

That isn’t much better, Morgan thought, eye twitching at the nickname he gave her as he lowered his hand.

Cassie clicked the mirror shut and looked at him once more. “I thought I repeated that the boss is looking for girls who fit the requirements. Not—” her eyes dragged down Morgan’s frame with smug disdain, “—giants.”

Morgan’s eye twitched as he stared her down, forcing himself to remain polite. “I don’t understand.”

Cassie tilted her head, the smirk on her glossed lips widening just slightly. “Sweetie, this is a place for hostesses. Charm. Delicates, not a giant hovering over them,”  she waved vaguely at his torso, “especially one with no assets, you understand.”

Morgan flinched his hand instinctively, covering his chest. He was concerned about taking it off before he walked out of the house, but couldn't bear the heaviness.

Morgan’s jaw clenched. He could feel his hands tighten around the folder under his arm.

God, this woman has the name he hates and the attitude, Ava, he thought, ground his molars. Just a few minutes longer.

Megan managed a thin smile. “I’m sure the boss can decide that for himself.”

Cassie scoffed again, stepping forward, almost toe-to-toe with him now. “You think showing up like this is gonna get you any tips for a single shift, please?”

Morgan’s throat burned. The makeup made his jaw itch. He looked Cassie over and scoffed.

“I’m sure you take a lot of tips— even the dirty ones, ” he said, crossing his arms over his chest.

“What did you just say?” Cassie snapped, stepping closer until they were nearly nose to nose.

“I said~ ,” Megan leaned in, his voice suddenly dropping low and sharp, “Let your boss decide.” He then pointed to a hickey on Cassie's neck 

“You might even start losing tips, slut.”

Cassie’s mouth dropped open, “ You Bloated!— ”

But the sharp click of a door interrupted her.

From the far end of the restaurant, a heavy wooden door creaked open. A man stepped out—short, chubby, greasy, but dressed in a suit that still smelled new.

“Ladies, ladies, what’s going on here?” he said, his breath thick with cigars and fish.

Morgan’s eyes twitched at the word ladies, but he forced a faltering smile. Cassie immediately stepped back, letting out a similarly shaky grin.

“Sorry, boss, we were just having a little chat, right?” Cassie said in a sickly sweet, fawning voice.

Morgan’s hand twitched.

The man’s eyes landed on him next, crawling across Morgan’s skin like grease.

“Is this the one?” the boss asked, nodding toward Morgan. His voice was low, cool, unreadable.

Cassie hesitated. “Yes, This is... Megan,” she said finally, her tone coated with sugar and spite. “ She just arrived.”

Morggan felt bile rise as he heard she ,

 The man’s gaze stayed fixed, heavy and unmoving, like wax.

Morgan smiled—bright and fake.

“Hi,” Megan said, lips sticking from the gloss, extending his hand. “It’s nice to meet you, sir.”

The man let out a greasy smile and extended his hand, gripping Morgan’s in a tight shake.

“Ahhh, overheard the phone call. You look prettier than you sound,” he said, eyeing Morgan up and down.

Morgan gave an awkward giggle, trying to pull his hand away, but the man’s grip stayed firm.

“Mr. Ritrovo,” he continued, finally releasing Morgan’s hand, “but my girls call me Dario—or Boss.”

Morgan smiled thinly and wiped the back of his hand on his pants. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Ritrovo.”

Dario let out a hearty laugh, his arm suddenly wrapping around Morgan’s waist, pulling him toward the back room.

“Let’s start with the interview, Meggy,” Dario said as he led Morgan forward.

“But Boss, the guest—” Cassie started, but Dario cut her off with a turn of his head.

“He’s not gonna be here for another thirty minutes. Besides…” Dario squeezed Morgan’s waist tightly, and Morgan had to physically restrain himself from swinging. “He’s the son of an old brother. Real understanding. Just a few words and he’ll be quiet.”

Dario snapped his fingers. “You and the girls get yourselves ready. We might even have a new girl to train after.”

Morgan shivered at those words, immediately regretting ever coming here. Cassie opened her mouth, then quickly shut it, shooting Morgan a resentful glare before turning away.

Morgan dragged his feet as he was led into the back room.

Dario’s hand never left Morgan’s waist as they turned a narrow corner, the muffled noise of the restaurant fading behind them. The hallway was dim, with outdated wallpaper. It smelled faintly of mildew, cheap cologne, and whatever meat had been burning in the back kitchen.

Just like his old place, it was just more suffocating, he thought as his breaths grew shallower.

“C’mon in, sweetheart,” he said, giving Morgan’s side one last squeeze before letting go.

Morgan stepped inside, clutching the folder tighter against his chest like it might shield him. The room was suffocating. A fake Persian rug covered most of the floor, and the walls were plastered with photos: Dario shaking hands with men in tuxedos, women in glitzy dresses draped across his arm, 

 A mini-fridge buzzed quietly in the corner, next to an open cabinet full of liquors and cups.

“Sit, sit,” Dario said, waving toward the chair in front of his desk. The air in the office was colder than outside, but somehow, Morgan still felt sweat gathering at the base of his neck.

He sat down stiffly, keeping his folder in his lap, fingers white-knuckled around the edges.

Dario shut the door behind them with a soft click, then turned the lock.

Morgan’s body went cold.

I don’t want this job anymore, he thought.

Dario moved slowly around the desk, the wood creaking beneath his weight as he sank into the padded chair opposite Morgan. He leaned back, folded his hands, and let his eyes roam lazily over him.

“So… Meggy.” He smiled, lips wet and too pink. “Tell me a little about yourself.”

Morgan tightened his grip on the folder, the edges biting into his palms. The room felt too warm. The Virgin Mary stared down at him from the wall, glassy-eyed and expressionless.

He cleared his throat, forcing his voice into something almost cheerful. “I’m good with people... I have experience in food service.”

His gaze flicked around the office before he added, “I’m adaptable.”

Dario stood from the desk, his eyes never leaving Morgan’s body as he crossed the room to the cabinet.

“You look adaptable,” he said, grabbing two cups and a bottle of wine.

The folder suddenly felt like a shield, and Morgan pressed it tighter against his chest.

“I don’t like my girls tense,” Dario said, uncorking the bottle. “Let’s drink.”

Dario hummed a low, off-key tune as he came to the desk, placing the cups down and pouring the wine.

Then Morgan saw it—easy to miss, but not to him. A subtle flick of Dario’s finger as the wine flowed, the pill dissolving instantly. When he poured his own glass, the gesture was the same, minus the pill.

Morgan scoffed under his breath.

An old method.

His hand clenched around the folder, but he forced himself to relax.

 Sloppy.

Play it safe, Morgan reminded himself. You know how aggressive these people become when they think their 'clever trap' has been caught.

Once Dario finished pouring, he pushed the drugged cup forward with a greasy smile. The smell of paint cleaner hit Morgan immediately.

This guy is really stupid.
Morgan clenched his jaw. Mickey Finn? In broad daylight? He must be running out of money.

“Come on, Meggy,” Dario said, making a show of gulping his own cup. “You know it's rude not to drink with your elder.”

Morgan forced a smile as he took the glass. Fuck this, he thought, closing his eyes.

Remember what you used to do, he reminded himself with a grimace, lifting the cup to his mouth. He could feel Dario’s eyes locked on him, eager.

A memory flickered.

“Do you not want the job?” Dario spoke, tapping his finger on the desk impatiently

Morgan stood slowly, letting the cup fall from his lips with a breathy sigh. Thankfully, not a drop had touched his tongue.

“Mr. Dario, sir~” Morgan purred, his voice syrupy sweet as he walked around the desk, fingers tracing over the wood, making a scratching sound. He forced his hands to be gentle as he grabbed the back of Dario’s chair and slowly spun it to face him, turning the greasy man to face him. Dario's face, once mildly annoyed, snapped into stunned alertness.

“I’m a good fit, I promise,” Morgan said, nearly choking on the words. “But—”

Morgan tilted the cup—white flakes still floated near the bottom. “You get a better performance from me when I’m awake for it~”

Then, with a calm hand, he tilted the glass further and let the wine spill into his palm, a few droplets flicking onto Dario’s pants.

“I can assure you I’d be a good asset to you... just not like this.” His eyes flicked to the door, then down to the key tucked in Dario’s pocket.

Leaning in, Morgan let his voice drip with sweetness. “Don’t you have a guest...?”

He brought his palm to his mouth, licking it slowly, never breaking eye contact. Dario's face changed from shock to disgusting arousal. “You should tend to them first. Then, on my first day, you won’t have to drug me to have fun.”

Morgan kept the wine-slicked saliva on his tongue, forcing it under his tongue. “Doesn't that sound more fun, Boss~”

Dario coughed, staring at the wine puddle on the floor, his face flushed, then let out a hearty, wheezing laugh. Before Morgan could react, he yanked him closer. Morgan barely stopped himself from falling into that rank cloud of laughter.

“You’re hired…” Dario chuckled, standing and stepping right into the puddle, wrapping his clammy arm around Morgan’s waist as he guided him toward the door.

“Y’know, I always had a thing for smart girls. You’ll fit right in.”

Morgan twitched at the greasy words.

Yeah right. You’re just too cheap to pay someone. He thought as the lock finally clicked open.

But then he only slinkily hummed, trying to subtly pull away from Dario’s grip as he was led toward the front, only to stop short just before the exit.

Without warning, Dario’s hand darted out and snatched the folder from Morgan’s grip.

“Now that you’re officially one of my girls,” he said, grinning, “we need your information.”

Morgan tensed as Dario sauntered toward what looked like a janitor’s closet. “I’ll be quick, sweetheart. Just need to file it,” he tossed over his shoulder.

Morgan’s hand twitched—he almost reached for him, but Dario disappeared inside the closet, the door clicking shut behind him.

Left alone, Morgan scanned the area, spotted a nearby trash bin, and immediately leaned and spat the drug out. His stomach twisted as he wiped his tongue furiously with the back of his unsoaked hand, his breaths short.

Morgan wiped his mouth one more time, trying not to gag on the lingering chemical aftertaste. His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths as he stepped back from the trash can, the corners of his mouth tight with fury.

$10,000 sign-on bonus? I should have known better. This place is a glorified strip club that lures in desperate women and disgusting men, Morgan’s makeup smeared on his sleeve as he stared at the door.

I need to get out of here fast. I'll think of something better—something slower. The end goal is to escape, that’s all.

His eyes swept across the room. It looked cleaner now—the guest must be important. In the back corner of the lounge, he caught sight of some of the women who had been cleaning earlier, now in completely different clothes.

Black slacks and button-ups were gone, replaced with a mix of heels, tight mesh outfits, red dresses, and some more perverted costumes.

God, this client must be a freak, Morgan thought, glancing around until his eyes landed on Cassie. She must be the bottom bitch.

His thoughts were interrupted by a greasy hand guiding him to the exit.

“All done, Meggy,” Dario muttered, pushing the folder back into his chest—his hand lingering for too long.

God, I hate that nickname, Morgan thought, but he forced a smile. “Thank you... Boss.”

Dario hummed, satisfied. “Let me walk you to the bus, and I’ll explain what you’ll be doing.”

The sun shone as they walked out. Morgan raised his hand to shield his eyes, then turned to see an alley.

Cassie stood near the corner now, barely recognizable in a red satin corset and thigh-high boots, her lips painted darker than before.

In front of her, a younger girl knelt on the concrete, head bowed. Cassie was talking low but fast, her tone sharp—scolding. The girl stayed frozen, eyes on the floor, hands curled in her lap like she'd been through this before.

Dario kept rambling beside Morgan about training days and client preferences, but Morgan's ears began to ring.

His eyes didn’t leave the scene.

Cassie stepped closer to the girl, whispering something that made the girl flinch.

Then the cursed memory returned as he was led forward; Dario's sleazy words rang like static, as music replaced them.

Neon lights flickered through the club as giggling women and hearty male laughter filled the air. In a back corner, Morgan balanced an empty tray in one hand, clicking furiously through his flip phone with the other.

“Are you serious right now? I just worked three damn tables, Mo. I've made my money tonight?” Ava snapped, marching up with her nails flashing like claws.

Morgan didn’t look up, scowling as he pressed each button on his phone with aggressive force.

Morgan didn’t look up. “Because you’ve been half-assing for weeks, and the table asked for women. You’re the only one here who qualifies.”

“Oh, please .” Ava pointed her finger at Morgan's crotch. “Why not, Sarah? Amber? Gem? Hell, maybe if you tuck you could pass as a half-decent girl.”

Morgan slapped her hand away, anger welling up. “Try Antonio. If your mouth’s not tired, He’s not responding to me either.”

Ava rubbed her wrist with a dramatic sigh. “Aww, your boyfriend mad at you again? He kicked you out?”

Morgan’s jaw flexed, but she didn’t stop.

“Just because Daddy isn’t answering your booty calls doesn’t mean you get to play boss.” She flipped him off with a vicious smile. “Go cry into your flip phone, pillow prince.”

Morgan calmly flipped his phone open again, scrolling through his photos with one thumb.

“I’m leaving,  hope you find Andy soon-”

Morgan cut off Ava's grating voice with a low chuckle. “Actually… which boyfriend should I send this to?”

Ava froze mid-step and slowly turned back around.

“Should I text your first love? Or the current one with the boat? You think he’d be interested in a little clinic souvenir ?”

He held the phone up, turning the screen toward her.

A medical report. Positive. Chlamydia.

“Or maybe to Andy, you'll be fired for sure, shame you won't be able to pay for treatment.”

Her face drained of color.

“How did you get that?” she whispered, voice barely audible.

Morgan just smiled, eyes cold. “You really should be more careful with what you leave lying around backstage.”

Ava’s breath hitched as she slowly shrugged off her jacket and hung it up. A part of Morgan softened slightly, but his voice stayed firm.

“Why do you think I didn’t say anything when I saw you snagging tips from other tables?” he said, snapping his phone shut with a crisp click . He looked her up and down before handing her the tray.
“You entertain that table for a bit. Amber will be here in an hour. Got it?”

Ava snatched the tray from his hand, her fear quickly curdling into annoyance.
“Fine, whatever,” she scoffed, unbuttoning her shirt a little more as she turned to walk past him.

But Morgan caught her by the arm, then dug into his pocket and dropped a few pills into her palm.

“Ambien. Just in case the guests get handsy.” He let go of her wrist.
“And you still owe me for that Xanax pack you stole.”

Ava slapped his hand away but stuffed the Ambien into her pocket all the same.
“You’re a fucking asshole , Mo,” she hissed—before instantly switching to a syrupy, excited tone.
“Heeyyy boys~! What can I get you tonight?”

Morgan rolled his eyes, dusting his hands off.
“And you’re a slut,,” he muttered, turning to head toward the other side of the club.

Morgan walked through the halls—different rooms bred different music—yet his eyes remained locked on his screen.
No new messages.
30 missed calls.
No Antonio.

“Motherfucker,” Morgan muttered, thumb already hammering buttons.
WHERE THE FUCK R U

He waited a couple of seconds. Still no response. He kept typing as he turned the corner, music and money spilling out of one room. Sandro’s laugh rang out as Morgan caught sight of him getting rubbed down by some greasy businessman.

Just Bcas I broke the TV, Pls respond.

He stared at the screen. Still no reply. The bright green envelope icon blinked mockingly. Morgan sighed, leaned his head back against the wall, eyes burning, then pushed himself toward the main hall.

Pls respond
He deleted it. To Desperate

If you’re with that cokehead bitch,  I hope you OD in her kitchen.

Morgan huffed, staring at his phone, guilt eating at him. He typed again:

I'm sorry I punched you k. Pls just pick me up after my shift

His texting was interrupted by someone grabbing his arm and yanking him back.

“Heyyy, pretty boy,” a woman slurred, her hand sliding down Morgan’s chest, “you’re not gonna serve us?”

The woman’s perfume hit Morgan like a thick cloud of gardenia and cheap gin as she leaned in, running her acrylic nails along his bare collarbone, dragging down his shirt, her nails brushed against his tape.

“Ooooh, I love this look on you,” she purred, fingers ghosting over the bleached-blond buzzcut. “You look like you bite.”

Morgan smirked I need money he thought, leaning into her greedy touch

“I do,” he said, low and amused. “Two-drink minimum. Then I'm all yours tonight.”

She giggled and tried to press closer, one hand sliding down toward his waistband. He gripped her wrist and tilted her head up.

“Nuh uh uh,” Morgan said, pushing her gently back into the chair. The other girls cooed.

“Hold up, sweetheart.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes. His hand reached into his back pocket, fingers closing around two pills—ready, just in case.

“We need to get to know each other first, right?” the lady chuckled, then ordered drinks for the table.

Morgan’s gaze wandered around the club as he lit a cigarette, the women laughing around him.
Tonight was too busy but dull. No fights. No chaos. Nothing , Morgan thought, taking a long drag as his eyes drifted toward the window.

Then he saw it—
A figure peering through the glass.

They were rubbing themself, eyes locked on Ava, now sitting on one of the men’s laps, laughing.

I knew she wouldn’t mind , Morgan smirked, standing from his seat and flashing the ladies a smile that didn’t touch his eyes.

“Sorry, girls. Looks like we’ve got a peeper enjoying your private show.”

He stubbed out the cigarette on his tongue and tossed it behind him, already heading for the stairs.

“I’ll be right back, ladies,” he called out, his smile vanishing the moment he turned.

“Fuck, I should’ve kept the cigarette,” Morgan growled, flipping open his phone. Still no response from Antonio.

Fuck. He’s not gonna talk until I pay.
How much did that TV cost again? he thought, opening his camera.

Whatever. Doesn’t matter.
I could take that anger out on the creep.

Morgan chuckled to himself as he turned the corner into the alley, cracking his knuckles.

Morgan smirked and turned on the flashlight on his phone, ready to catch the creep in the act and humiliate them on camera. He swung the beam across the alley, looking for a can head to use as a weapon.

“Heyyy creep, forgot to pay.” But he paused.

A flicker of confusion replaced the grin when the light hit—not some sweaty pervert or some down-and-out businessman—but a woman.

She was young, pretty, bare-faced, with long brown hair, rosy cheeks, and Designer clothes. Knees pressed together, trembling. Her eyes were wide, looking like a deer caught halfway between fear and lust.

Her mouth opened quickly, standing up, covering her crotch, his cheeks flushed as her eyes.

Morgan lowered the flashlight slightly, his brow furrowing.

"...What the fuck are you doing?" he said, voice flat.

She jolted, trying to straighten her skirt as if that would fix the damage. "I-I'm sorry, I didn’t mean to—it’s just, I was walking past and—and—"

Her eyes darted back to the window, and her body shook

Morgan looked at her once again. Her clothes looked expensive, and she looked like one of those rich college girls. Why was she here? More importantly, if she wanted to watch, why didn't she pay

The girl waved her hand frantically. “P—please don't call anyone, I'll leave—”

“You do realize you gotta pay if you're gonna watch, right?” Morgan cut her off with a roll of his eyes, deadpan.

The girl’s face flushed scarlet. “I—I wasn’t—”

“You weren’t? Then what’s that on your pants?” he said coolly, nodding toward the dark, wet stain smeared across the front of her designer skirt.

She froze, utterly mortified. Morgan stared at her a beat longer, then sighed and pulled off his button-up, leaving him in his wife-beater.

“Jesus. Here.” He walked over and tied it over her waist, her eyes never leaving him She smelled like almonds. “Come inside, pay up, and I’ll see if I can get you some new pants.”

The girl blinked in disbelief, clutching the coat as if it were a lifeline. “Thank you… Thank you so much, sir.”

Morgan rolled his eyes, his hand patting his chest, his tape still in place as he gripped the woman's hand and pulled her to the entrance so she couldn't run.

“Get your wallet ready, the entrance fee is 50 dollars,” he muttered, a lie, opening his phone when it dinged. 

“Thank you again, sir,” She spoke, her other hand digging into he purse, pulling out a wallet.

 “I’m Cassandra. Cassandra Rosenthal . Let me pay you for your trouble.”

“Whatever, “Morgan muttered, opening the message

“What’s your name?” she asked as they reached the door

Morgan turned to her again, getting a good look at her face, god, she's easy to blackmail, he thought, but answered slowly

“Mo”

Cassandra let out an awkward smile, pulling some money from her pocket, a stack way too much to be carrying around at night.

“I mean your full name, sir.” Morgan looked back down at her phone as he walked inside. Cassandra followed.

The TV you broke cost 200 dollars. Get the money, then I'll pick you up.

Andy<3 1:45 am

Morgan looked back up at Cassandra, her smile was  way too wide from what she hadn't been caught doing, almost fawning.

“Morgan Rivera,” he answered, eying the cash in her hand

Cassandra's eyes lit up wide, a coy smile forming on her lips. “It's nice to meet you, Mr Rivera-”

Slap .

~~~

Morgan flinched with a hiss as someone grabbed his ass from behind.
“The fuck—”

Dario stood there, grinning like the devil, twirling his keys.
“We’re at your bus stop, Meggy. I’d love to play with you more, but I’ve a special guest to attend to. You start work on Monday, Cutie, you can entertain me then.”

“Yeah, right…” Morgan muttered under his breath, slapping Dario’s hand away as the bus pulled up.

“Don’t get soft on me now, baby.”

Morgan nearly gagged but forced what barely passed as a smile before stepping onto the bus.
“Bye, Mr. Ritrovo.”

Dario winked, already sauntering back toward the restaurant.

I hope you drop dead, Morgan thought as he found his seat.

For some reason, he could still feel eyes locked on him. Even as he sat down, that invisible weight lingered.

He placed the folder beside him, reached into his bag, and pulled out a pack of makeup wipes.
Without hesitation, he tore it open and began furiously scrubbing his face clean.

The bus groaned and jerked forward, the city’s neon lights blurring against the windows. Morgan stared down at his reflection in the compact mirror—skin raw, flushed, eyes tired.

But it was his face again.

Finally.

He snapped the mirror shut with a sharp click.

“I’ll find a different one,” he muttered to himself. “A better one, for myself.”

“For grace”

He stared out the window, and Cassandra's breathless voice echoed in his mind again.

“Thank you so much, Mr. Rivera.”

Morgan slumped his forehead on the window and closed his eyes

“I should have been nicer.”

The bus began to move.

Morgan’s heels clicked against the stairs as he wiped his face one last time with the makeup wipe, tossing the empty packet into a nearby trash bin.

The warm, heavy scent of lasagna hit his nose as he reached the second floor.

The door stood ajar, television blaring at full volume

Morgan stepped inside with a tired sigh, shutting the door behind him.

He was ready to crumble onto the couch and disappear into sleep.

But a small body launched at his legs.

“Papa!”

Grace barreled into him, her tiny arms wrapping tight around his thighs, her curls bouncing with the force of her hug.

Morgan blinked in surprise, nearly stumbling. He looked down—she was beaming up at him, cheeks flushed from excitement.

“Did you get a job too?” she asked, eyes wide and hopeful.

For a moment, Morgan just stared at her. The exhaustion weighing down his body seemed to evaporate, burned away by the warmth in her voice.

He let out a breathless chuckle, crouching down to her level and ruffling her hair.

“No, baby,” he lied gently, peeling off his shirt with one hand and tossing it aside. “But you got a daycare now. That’s gonna make things easier, yeah?”

Grace giggled and nodded, burying her face against his chest.

“There you are,” Gia called out from the kitchen, her hair tied in a loose bun. “Still no luck?”

Morgan let out a tired shrug, scooping Grace up as she giggled. He laid her back on the couch, then peeled off his suffocating pants, leaving himself in just his boxers.

Gia gasped, covering her eyes. “Do you have no shame, Morgan? At least do it out of view from the ladies!”

Morgan rolled his eyes as Grace burst into giggles, her eyes glued to the TV.

“But Papa does this all the time,” she chirped.

“Yeah, Gia, I do,” Morgan said, walking toward Gia, taking the ladle from her hand. “Besides, it’s nothing you haven’t seen before.”

Gia scoffed, waving him away before walking to the couch and plopping down, crossing her legs.

“I've cooked for you all day, brute, you better  be a gentleman and serve the ladies of the house.”

Grace giggled and lay herself on top of Gia.

“Serve ladies, Serve Ladies,” Grace squealed, kicking her legs as Gia petted her hair, humming a tune,

Morgan walked into the kitchen, tossing his shirt and pants toward the hamper—it missed. He didn’t care.

Morgan's phone rang again. He grimaced thinking about having to take on that creep again, and ignored it.

He walked into the kitchen, setting the plate on the counter and turning on the faucet. Warm water rushed over his hands as he began rinsing the bowls,  letting the quiet hum of Gia and Grace’s laughter fill the space behind him.

The phone rang a second time, disturbing his peace.

He flinched but didn’t look. He focused on scraping off burnt cheese for himself as he filled Gia's and Grace's bowls.

Then silence, the phone blared again, quicker than the last one

Morgan froze, the serving spoon hovering mid-air.

His jaw tensed.

He wasn’t stupid. He couldn’t keep ducking Dario forever; might as well pick up and block this creep and forget the memory. 

“I'm already dealing with one creep already,” Morgan muttered, taking the phone from the counter, waiting a moment before answering.

“Hello, um, how can I help you?” He answered, gritting his teeth, ready to hang up if it was an attempted booty call

“MEGGY1” the sound of clicking followed “I-I Mean Megan, I'm sorry but you can't come to work, money, I'm sorry”

Morgan blinked, standing up straight at Dario, now in a panicked tone, “What?” he asked into the phone, 

I was planning to ghost why I am being fired, he thought, as a bang sound made him flinch, nearly dropping one of the bowls in a panic.

“I’m sorry, Sir—please, sorry for my disrespect to you for this job.”

A pause followed by another click.

“I swear on my mother—just don’t—don’t come here.”

The line went dead.

Morgan stared down at the screen. Silent.
The soft hum of the kitchen, the warmth of food, Grace’s squealing laughter—it all blurred at the edges of his vision.

Mogan's expression was unreadable, and with a quick finger, he blocked Dario's number.

This is good, he thought as he turned to the fridge, wiping his face. Some of the flyers still hung on the refrigerator: laundry mat, secretary, babysitter, and so on.

Morgan let out a low, humorless breath.

“I’ll find something better,” he muttered to himself as he picked up the plates and walked them to the dining table with a faint smile.

"Alright, ladies. Dinner is served."

“Yayy hungry hungry!” Grace cheered, he footsteps running to the dining table, Gia followed and lifted her to her hair chair. Morgan smiled and took his seat, and began picking at his phone.

His phone pinged with a message. He looked down and frowned

An unmarked number lit up the screen.

But Morgan knew it too well now.
Lorenzo’s.

He chewed slowly, opened the message with a thumb smudged in oil.

Good afternoon. 

Just to confirm

Is it the same park as last week's visit for tomorrow's visit, correct?
Sent 3:47 PM

Morgan looked up. Grace was abandoning her spoon, eating with her hands again as Gia scolded her in mock outrage.

Their voices blurred in his ears.

He looked back down.

Typed.

Yes.

Then he shut off the phone, shoved another bite of lasagna into his mouth,
And forced himself to swallow.

Chapter Text

The office was bathed in dim afternoon light, the air filled with the soft clatter of keys and the buzz of half-written messages.
Enzo paced the floor, one hand gripping his phone, the other pressing an ice pack to his bruised cheek.
The pain wasn’t what lingered—it was the words. 

He stopped mid-step, thumbs hovering over the screen.
Good afternoon, Morgan,
Is everything o—
He stared. Deleted it.

Exhaling sharply, he sat on the edge of the table, pressing the ice harder into his skin, hoping it would give him the right words.

Hi Morgan, I was just wondering if 

I could take you and Grace to a restaurant b-

He deleted it again, his eye twitching in frustration

Enzo lowered the ice pack, revealing the now faint but still purple bruise on his cheek, which reflected on his phone screen.

The angel's cold word pierced him more than gunshots ever had

“You're not my baby's father.”

“Filthy rapist”

“My daughter’s niceness is only temporary.” 

Enzo could still feel the Morgan finger stabbing at his chest

“I’ll make sure she knows exactly what kind of beast you are.”

Enzo pressed on the bruise with his bare finger as those words echoed in his skull.

I didn’t rape him, Enzo thought. But the words couldn’t leave his lips. I would never hurt that Morgan, everything I'm doing is for my atonement and his comfort.

His forgiveness

Enzo pressed down harder, trying to get himself to scream to say something out loud, but no sound came, even as tears threatened to fall due to the pain of the bruise

Enzo pulled his hand away, only for a sigh to escape his lips. He looked at the time,

2:00 pm

He needed some fresh air. Something to loosen his jaw, slow his thoughts.
Enzo pressed his finger against the numb bruise, lingering on the dull ache before finally standing.

He moved to the drawer.

Kneeling, his hand reached unconsciously for the top one—maybe to see the little bee Grace had given him, or to reread his angel’s file and make more corrections. But he stopped himself.

That wouldn’t help. Not now.

Instead, he reached for the bottom drawer, his other hand already digging into his pocket for the key. As the lock clicked open, his body tensed like it always did.

Inside sat a single object, coated in a fine layer of dust: an old, worn compact mirror.
Curated. Preserved.
The only thing he had left of her.

His hand gently reached out, picking up the mirror as if it were fragile,

It was
Enzo stared at it for a beat longer than it took to click it open; the mirror was smudged, with little foundation remaining, but it was enough.

He could add more later.

His other hand dropped the key on the floor, making a slight clanging sound on the marble. Still, Enzo didn't care as he grabbed the pad, collected a small amount of foundation, and began tapping it on his cheek, his eyes never leaving the mirror as he flinched at the lingering pain.

As Enzo tapped the silent room filled with his mother's humming 

~~~

The room glowed with the soft light of the vanity as Enzo’s mother tapped on her foundation, humming a rhythmless tune only she seemed to know.

Eight-year-old Enzo stood nearby, his tiny frame trembling with muffled sniffles. He clutched his knee, face streaked with tears. The moment his father had slammed the door, Enzo had bolted through the house excited, only to catch his cheek on the sharp edge of the kitchen counter.

The humming stopped. His mother turned at once, her eyes softening as she took in the sight of her crying boy.

“Oh, Enzo,” she murmured, gently pulling him closer.
“What happened?”

She tilted his tear-streaked face up to hers. His lip quivered. He opened his mouth to explain—but no sound came out—just another quiet sniffle.

Her expression didn’t change. She cupped his bruised cheek, thumb brushing just shy of the scrape.

“Sweetheart… we can’t go outside like this, hmm?” she whispered with a small, sad smile, reaching for the compact in her hand. “Let’s fix you up first.”

She reached for the compact mirror, gently tapped the sponge three times, and moved to dab it on Enzo's cheek.

Enzo flinched away, covering his cheek not because of the pain, but because of something worse.

“Enzo, come on, it will only hurt for a moment,” She coaxed gently, kneeling from the chair to the floor to reach for Enzo again.

But Lorenzo recoiled again, wiping at his cheek with the back of his hand, smudging the makeup. His voice finally came, shaky but clear.

“No Makeup Girl!,” he cried. “Makeup for girls!”

He twisted in her grasp, not from pain—this time, from shame.

His mother let out a giggle, making Enzo stop his struggling just to stare.

“Sweetie, who told you that?” she continued to laugh

Enzo's hand lowered from his face as he answered, “Father..”

Enzo’s mother’s laugh dimmed, but a small smile lingered as she pulled him gently into her arms, her voice softening to a whisper.

“Sweetie… can you keep a secret?”

Enzo blinked, confused, his tears slowing. He glanced around the room as if someone might be watching. Then, still sniffling, he nodded.

“Yes,” he whispered.

She leaned in closer, her breath warm against his ear.

“Your father wears makeup like me.”

Enzo’s head jerked back in disbelief, his eyes wide. “Huh?”

She nodded, her expression turning playful, conspiratorial. “Mmhmm. Just a little, when he's going on a meeting, especially after a night of him”

Enzo's mother paused for a beat. “Working, he even said he’ll be promoted, Enzino.”

She continued with a smile, a giggle escaping her lips, 

“Your father uses it to make him look less tired, more importantly… more handsome.”

Enzo’s mouth opened slightly in awe. “Father…makeup?”

“Yes, Enzino. Men wear makeup too. To look sharp, strong, and put-together. Don’t you want to look handsome?

Enzo hesitated, then gave a slight nod, bracing himself

“There’s my boy,” she whispered.

She lifted the sponge again and dabbed it gently on his cheek. This time, Enzo didn’t flinch. He sat still, eyes locked on her calm expression as she worked. When she finished, he reached for the compact’s mirror and turned it toward him.

“Look at how handsome you are.”

Enzo stared. The scrape was still visible under the light layer of foundation, but somehow… he didn’t mind. His mother smiled behind him in the reflection.

And Enzo smiled back at the mirror.

~~~

Enzo finished tapping the foundation on his face and looked down in the mirror. His face, the bruise was now not visible, but it didn't soften his nerves; his jaw was still tight.

He snapped the mirror shut and took in a breath. 

I need a different way, Enzo thought to himself as his body moved and he knelt at the drawer, gently placing the mirror back in its rightful spot before closing it.

He picked up the key from the floor and quickly locked it away

Enzo sighed, tried to make sounds come out, but still nothing came out. Then, in a quick motion, he stood up, grabbed his coat and his gloves from the door rack, and stormed out of the office, his steps clinking on the steps, each sound felt like it was tightening his jaw more

The moment Enzo stepped into view, the noise died. The men stood at once, posture snapping to attention.

Enzo walked past them without a word, the silence held like a pause. That was, until one voice broke the fragile stillness.

“Don De Lu,” one of the men called out, bowing slightly. His voice was rough. “Do we move to Riverto place now?”

The smell penetrated Enzo's nose. Did he say no smoking inside

Enzo stopped in his tracks.

He didn’t speak.

Instead, he turned his head, slowly, just enough for his gaze to fall on the man. A single glance. Cold. Heavy.

The man immediately stiffened. “I—I mean, just checking, boss. Thought we were waiting for your call, but—sorry, boss.”

Still, Enzo said nothing. His jaw flexed once.

Then, with a final look, he turned and walked out the front doors.

Only after they closed behind him did the remaining men he could hear begin murmuring conversation again, all seeming to scold the man who had spoken.

Good, he thought, taking long strides to his car.

Once inside, he stared at the rear view mirror. The foundation work was slightly smudged, but still hid the bruise well.

Enzo's finger twisted as he reached for his phone, clicking it open to see the last unsent message he had typed to his angel.

I’m Sorry

He quickly deleted the message, opened the group chat, and typed the message.

Start moving, Armed wait at the front, don't move until I arrive

Sent

Enzo clicked off his phone, throwing it at the passenger seat, and started the car.

The engine hummed low in Enzo's ears as he turned the final corner, pulling into a secluded nook of the park.

For a moment, he sat there, staring blankly ahead, surrounded by the stillness of trees and wind. No horns. No voices. Just quiet.

His hands tightened on the steering wheel until his knuckles went white, and then—slowly—his head slumped forward, resting against the cool leather.

He stayed there, breathing through his nose, jaw clenched hard enough to hurt. His throat bobbed as if forcing something down. Words. A sound. Anything.

But nothing came.

Enzo opened his mouth.

No voice followed.

He tried again, his body trembling with tension and frustration. His shoulders rose with the strain of breath, his chest tight.

Still nothing.

Why does this keep happening, Enzo thought as he slumped his head on the steering wheel.

Then, in a sudden movement, he slammed his head on the steering wheel, a sharp thud breaking the quiet. The horn honked once, sharp and short, startling a few birds from the nearby trees.

Still, nothing came from him. Only his ears were ringing, and he had another headache.

And, raw, agonizing silence.

Enzo slumped back against the seat, his hand dragging down his face. His other curled into a fist on top of the console.

He looked toward the mirror.

The foundation was smudged now, and the bruise peeked through. Still, his hand kept going down, like it might coax something out of him.

His mind wandered again.

To Morgan.

To Morgan’s rage—his fist flying, his chest rising and falling, it was looser, unbound.

His hand continued going down.

Morgan’s sitting, his glaring, how the cheap tea flowed down his thigh, his gasp

Enzo's hand landed on his crotch as his mind continued to fixate,

The memory deepened.
Bandages wrapped tightly around Morgan’s thigh.
Arms folded protectively across his chest.
That face—cold, scorned—as he passed Enzo and slammed the door shut.

Enzo’s hand tightened.

Morgan was cute like that, his fist, his fury, his voice, his lips, his eyes, how his nose scruched like a fox’s. 

That gasp Morgan made echoed in Enzo’s skull.

Such a divine sound.

Enzo gripped tighter. A sharp gasp escaped him.

His hand jerked away like it had touched fire. He slapped it over his mouth, eyes wide. A sound. He had made a sound.

But the relief was short-lived.

He looked down.

His crotch strained against the fabric of his slacks, an obvious tent forming.

Enzo groaned quietly, face burning, staring down at the erection like it betrayed him.

I shouldn’t, Enzo thought, his hand twitching unconsciously, moving back to his crotch.

I can't, this is what ruined my angel.

He pleaded with himself, but his hand moved down, clutching his crotch, eliciting another gasp, louder this time.

But I can’t just stay silent with Dario…

 He rubbed again, the friction sparking heat that flushed across his face.

I’ve found my angel, though.  

Enzo continued to think, his other hand fumbling toward the cup holder.
Empty. No lotion.

Of course, he hadn’t done this in years.

I'm atoning the best I can

Click.
His fingers popped open the console latch, and he rummaged through it.

I’ve already found my angel,  

Enzo repeated in his mind, breath stuttering, glancing at the time

2:30 pm

I should punish myself for not getting his forgiveness yet …

The quiet car was now filled with the rustle of rummaging—then a slow, deliberate zip.

Enzo finally pulled out a box of tissues, followed by a small full container of hand lotion.

Lorenzo set the tissues aside, pulling out a few as he read the label on one of them.

Now he remembered why this one remained full. But it's fitting,

“It doesn't deserve to feel good,” Enzo Mouthed

He stared at the label, expression unreadable—a pause—then a soft, bitter laugh under his breath.

Fitting, Enzo thought, unscrewing the cap and splatting the lotion in his palm,

His other hand reached underneath his boxer until he grasped the shameful warmth and gently pulled it out.

Enzo's shaft shot up in full attention, pleading to be touched. He stared down at it, his finger twitching in anticipation.

He sucked in a breath, rubbed the lotion into his palm until his hand was covered, and then moved his hand to begin lubricating its length.

Enzo bit back a hiss, but relaxed slightly and rubbed more. The lpha hydroxy must have expired.

A breathy gasp escaped Eno's lips as he reached the tip; it burned, but didn't stop the building heat.

With his other free hand, Enzo reached for the tissues and wrapped them around his shaft,

Enzo took a breath and, with the last bit of air, he looked out the window. Still, no people. Well, not like it mattered; his glass was private, after all.

The last worry gone Enzo began to engage his hand began stroking his cock, elciting moans to escape Enzo’s lips.

Enzo's hands pumped continuously, gripping the seat as His fingers curled tighter, pulling and pressing, the rhythm gaining confidence. His jaw clenched, the sting of the bruise forgotten as the heat spread through his body. A sudden shudder rolled through him, a tension building deep and fierce.

“Fuck,” he whispered, voice raw and ragged, but no one could hear.

The world narrowed to the slick glide of his skin beneath his hand, the racing pulse in his neck, then release with a gasp, it burned nicely.

Enzo panted to the car ceiling, his eyes hazy. He sat still for thirty seconds, his grip grew tight as he began stroking again. 

Enzo’s breath hitched as his fingers faltered for a moment, quickly tightened, the ache deepening, but his body craving more. He steadied himself, increasing the pace, savoring the burn and pulse with every stroke.

A low groan slipped past his lips, barely audible, raw and desperate. His eyes fluttered open, glazed, and his hand moved with renewed purpose—more urgent, more reckless.

The second climax came quicker, less spent coated the tissue. Enzo's body was satisfied, but Enzo wasn't

“I need to feel nothing,” he muttered as he moved his cock again, slightly aching now for overuse, but Enzo didn't care. He continued to move this time more roughly than he had in the last two.

A sharp cramp twisted through Enzo’s stomach, tightening with each movement. He bit down hard on his lip during every stroke, ragged and shallow. 

A tear he hadn’t noticed traced down his temple, cool against the heat of his flushed skin.

His jaw clenched so tight it ached. The pressure wasn’t easing—it was shifting, growing heavier, driving deeper, sharper, like a storm pressing down from the inside out. 

Every pulse felt like fire beneath his skin, relentless and unforgiving. Enzo gritted his teeth as Another Orgasm was forced out of his body.

This time Enzo didn't take a break. he knew if he did, his body would give out. He needed to see this through. His hips bucked against his tightly clenched hand as his strokes grew more punishing, more torturous.

His knuckles whitened as he gripped tighter, muscles locking in relentless tension. The ache twisted sharper and sharper, until it finally tore through him—a brutal scrape deep inside his pelvis, like broken glass dragging across raw skin.

His throat clenched tight, swallowing back a scream that threatened to shatter the silence. Tears streamed freely now, blurring his vision, but he didn’t dare stop. The pain was fierce, unbearable—and yet it still wasn’t enough to quiet the storm inside.

Enzo Chest heaved, but nothing came but the suffocating squeeze of his own body wringing itself dry, nerves firing in cruel, raw agony. His breath hitched raggedly; he almost bit through his lip to keep from crying out.

The release—when it finally arrived—was no salvation. Punishment, sharp and burning, as if every nerve and fiber in his flesh recoiled, rejecting his desperate need to try again.

But still, he kept going.

He was barely present, a ghost drifting through the motion. A faint pulse throbbed between his legs, muffled beneath the roaring, ringing in his ears. 

The sharp sting of pain in his thigh spasmed violently, and he realized his whole body was trembling. His vision went white as his other hand slammed on the door, but the pain did register; he continued as tears continued to fall.

The last one hit him like a seizure. His spine arched involuntarily, breath snagged in his throat, and his trembling hand clenched as if trying to force something broken out of him.

But nothing came.

Only sweat slicked his skin, a shiver rattled through his frame, and the bitter taste of metal flooded his mouth.

No pleasure.
No Pain.
Just static.

And then—
His mind flooded, relentless and vivid—Morgan’s skin, soft and warm, when the lights turned on, it was painted purple and black.

Disgusting, Enzo twitched, stroking more intensely to wipe out the memory, but persisted.

How, when he carried the angel to the car, their skin brushed against his clothes.

His nails began scratching; he could feel a small bead of blood forming, burning with the lotion.

The thoughts turned heavenly, his finger tapping his chest, Morgan smiling in the sun, bending his body to pick up grace, his scrucjed face, his smile, those lips.

Enzo could almost see it, Morgan smiling up at him in awe, laughing with him, lifting himself with his toes in nothing but his shorts and that shirt.

Enzo gripped and forced his body down as  his hips bucked

Morgan's hands gripping his shoulders, his face coming closer as Morgan attaches himself in a different way

That fragile touch, that silent promise

With a cry,  tears flowing freely, Enzo's body gave up as Dry orgasm overtook him, and nothing came out except a strangled moan as his whole body collapsed into the seat.

Enzo sat there, his body limp, his mind static, and he could even feel drool at the corners of his mouth.

After about five minutes Enzo gathered enough strength to unclench his fist from his cock allowing it to fall limp along side the ruined tissues.

Enzo blinked up at the ceiling of the car.

His hands hung limp. His mouth finally closed its gape as he took a deep breath, eyes twitching downward toward his softening length.

“Disgusting,” Enzo spat, his breath still hitching

The punishments used to last longer

With effort, he forced his body upright, every muscle aching. His gaze stayed fixed on his now-flaccid shaft. With two fingers, he peeled the crumpled tissues away, crushing them into a tight ball. He ripped a small bag from the side compartment, shoved the mess inside, and tied it shut.

“I told myself I’d never do this again…” Enzo muttered, flinching as his hand grazed the oversensitive flesh.

But he didn’t hesitate long. With a sharp hiss, he grabbed it, stuffed himself back into his pants, and sealed it with a zip, burying evidence of the shame.

A ding from Enzo’s phone snapped him out of his daze. He glanced down at the screen.

2:50 PM.

“Great. Now I’m late,” Enzo groaned.

He looked up at the rearview mirror and winced at his reflection. His hair clung to his forehead in damp strands, and the foundation had all but melted off, leaving a blotchy, uneven mess.

With a sigh, he reached for the side compartment and pulled out a wipe, scrubbing his hands clean. Then, with a few quick swipes, he wiped the sweat from his brow, smoothed down his hair in the mirror, and clicked the car door open.

Enzo stepped out into the afternoon sun, the breeze brushing against his sweat-slick face.

His body ached, and the soreness between his legs made every step feel heavier than it should. He walked stiffly to the nearby trash can, the tied bag of tissues clenched in his fist like it weighed a hundred pounds.

Each footfall echoed the same phrase in his head.

Disgusting.

He couldn’t even look at the bag. Couldn’t even let himself feel the breeze. He was numb—cored out. Just hollow skin, shame stretching across his chest like a bruise.

I told myself I wouldn’t—
I wasn’t—
I’m supposed to be—

Slap.

The sharp crack of skin on skin snapped through the quiet park.

Then
A yelp. Familiar. Small.

Enzo’s head snapped toward the sound, his head unconsciously reaching for his holster. 

What greeted his eyes was something worse.

Somewhere past the hedges and benches, toward the bus stop at the edge of the lot, he saw them.

Enzo didn't recognize it at first, the face covered in foundation, the bag, until the face turned fully,

Morgan.
His angel.

Talking to a short, greedy man.

Enzo squinted, and the numbness that had blanketed his body dissolved into burning rage.

Dario.
Using his filthy tongue to speak to his angel.

Enzo’s fingers twitched toward the holster under his coat, brushing against the grip of his gun.

I should run him over. Shoot that bastard’s tongue out of his mouth.

The world narrowed to a pinpoint. The rest of the park blurred into meaningless shapes.

His hand clenched tighter around the trash bag.

A bus pulled up. Dario’s disgusting hand finally lifted from Morgan’s lower back as Morgan stepped onto the bus. Dario smirked to himself, like he hadn’t just touched something sacred, and turned to walk away, phone already in hand.

A loud, dark part of Enzo screamed to follow. To put a few new holes in that greasy body. But his eyes remained fixed on Morgan inside the bus.

Morgan paused just inside the doors, face unreadable. He looked tired. Deflated. Maybe even… disgusted.

Then, slowly, Morgan reached into his bag, pulled something out, and began wiping the makeup from his face.

The light caught him.

Radiant.

Real.

Enzo stared, breath caught in his throat. He wanted to run to the bus, to reach through the glass and hold Morgan’s face in his hands—but then he remembered.

“I’m here for debt collection,” Enzo muttered, eyes glued to the bus.

The engine roared softly as it began to pull away, carrying the only thing that mattered.

“I’m here for debt collection,” he repeated, but now his voice was lower, sharper. His eyes flicked to Dario, still walking down the street, greasy and smug, voice chirping into his phone.

Enzo’s lip curled.

“I’m here for pest control.”

With that final sentence, he tossed the filthy trash bag into the garbage with no ceremony. His hands were already curling into fists.

Enzo turned on his heel without looking back.
The world returned to no color. No weight. Just a purpose.

Each step to his car was silent thunder, his jaw locked so tight it ached. He didn’t feel the ache in his legs, the stiffness in his shoulders, the sweat still clinging to his back. All he could hear was one phrase:

Pest control.
Pest control.
Pest control.

The second his hand touched the car door, he ripped it open and dropped into the driver’s seat. His fingers moved instinctively, the keys turned, and the engine roared to life.

The hum of the motor almost drowned out the sound.

Almost.

Pest control.

He slammed the gear into drive.
And without hesitation, without breath, he pressed the gas.

The car screeched to a halt, tires skidding against the asphalt as Enzo gripped the steering wheel. Rage still pulsed through his veins, even as the ache in his body began to dull.

His eyes locked onto the scene outside—what he had just witnessed burned into his skull.

Why was he there?
Why did that pest have the gall to touch no, speak to his angel?
Why was Morgan in makeup?
Why did Morgan… smile at that pest?

Enzo’s palms slammed against the wheel with a sharp crack. His fingers dug into the leather as he forced himself to take long, slow breaths, chest rising with restraint.

“Not now,” he muttered, voice shaking. “This is business. Debt collection.”

He raised his head, meeting his reflection in the mirror, cold, unforgiving.

The Mask

“Collect,” Lorenzo continued, his voice now steady.

His hand moved to the door handle, knuckles white from the grip, and his other hand reached for his coat and gloves. The voice that followed wasn’t Enzo’s anymore, not now

.“…And correct.”

The car door clicked open with mechanical precision. Lorenzo stepped out, towering, composed, adjusting his suit jacket with a single sharp tug. Across the lot, his men stood at full attention.

Good, they’re ready.

Lorenzo clicked his car door shut and cleared his throat, his eye roaming through the men.

“Are all of you dressed?” he said coldly.

“Yes, Don,” the men spoke in unison, revealing their guns from beneath their clothes with practiced ease.

Lorenzo’s eyes flicked coldly to their weapons, calculating, unshaken. He gave a subtle nod, his gaze shifting to his own bare hands.

Without a word, he reached down and slipped on one glove. The soft creak of leather echoed in the quiet.

Then the second.

A hush settled over the space as he smoothed the glove over his fingers, the material swallowing any trace of filth left on his skin.

“Good,” Lorenzo said at last, voice low and firm. His eyes lifted—sharp, commanding.

“Here’s what’s gonna happen.”

Lorenzo adjusted his cuffs, eyes scanning the building in front of them. Rivertos barely changed; it looked dirtier than before, but it didn't matter.

Then, without turning to his men, he began to speak—each word deliberate, slicing through the air like a blade.

“Scatter. Cover every exit—back door, kitchen, roof access. I don’t want a single pest slipping through.”

He stepped forward, the gravel crunching beneath his shoes like a countdown.

“You two.” Lorenzo pointed with a tilt of his chin to the pair nearest the entrance. “Hold the front. This is an event now. No one goes in or out unless I say.”

The men shifted uneasily and nodded.

Lorenzo's tone dropped colder.

“Don’t come inside unless you hear my gunshots. And even then, you wait until the second one.”

There was a pause. 

One of the men spoke the same smoke-smelling one from earlier, “What if they start shooting first?”

Lorenzo turned his head slowly, the full weight of his stare landing on the man.

“You don’t shoot anyone unless I say.”

The man's eyes darted, but he nodded in understanding

Lorenzo’s smile was thin and humorless. “You all can handle that, correct?”

The tension held for a moment, but then it broke

“Yes, Don.”

Without another word, the men broke off, melting into the shadows and slipping behind alleys, doorways, and back corners.

The front door loomed in front of Lorenzo now.

Lorenzo reached beneath his coat, drew his gun with quiet precision, and checked the magazine—fully loaded.

“This meeting will be quick,” Lorenzo muttered as he removed his silencer without hesitation, slipped it back into place, and stepped through the door.

The bell rang too loudly as his foot met the wooden floor,

Damp and Dirty

Followed by ear-grating “classical music” 

“Welcome, Mr. De Lu.” 

A chorus of voices followed.
Enzo lifted his head up and shuddered—
A group of women greeted him, heavily made up in varying arrays of revealing clothing.

Enzo involuntarily flinched, lowering his gaze immediately as he walked toward the table in the center of the restaurant.

“Would you like some wine, sir?” a blonde woman in a red dress asked, her tone overly flattering as she reached to take Enzo’s jacket off.

Enzo gagged as he felt the scent of cherry blossoms coming from her and her nail lingering on his suit. Lorenzo waved his hand, and the woman immediately backed away.

“Oh, Sorry, Sir,” She pulled on her hair nervously as the other girls stiffened.

Enzo cleared his throat, wiping his suit from the places her nails lingered. 

“No need,” He adjusted his cuffs, lifting his head again

“Where is Dario?”
Lorenzo spat the name with disgust, eyes scanning the room—still no sign of him.

The blonde woman giggled nervously, her eyes darting to the others in the room, who gave her the same uneasy glance.

“Sorry, Mr. De Lu. Mr. Riverto was interviewing a girl just now and insisted on walking her out,” she murmured, eyes flicking toward the back doors.

Rage bellowed in Enzo’s soul. Interview… girl.

“What did you say?”
Lorenzo stared her down.

The woman flinched. “I-I mean he’ll be here right away, sir.”

Lorenzo’s anger didn’t subside.
“Three fifteen,  He’s supposed to be here. Now.”

The other women in the room began to look around uneasily, one of them quickly placing a wine bottle on the table.
“Of course, sir—right away. Can you take a seat?” she asked, her voice tight.

Lorenzo’s thin patience cracked. He snapped his fingers, his hand brushing against the gun holster with quiet intent.

“Bring your boss in. Right now.”

The woman shuddered, her face going pale as she pulled out her phone with trembling fingers and dialed.
A ringtone echoed from the hallway—then came the sound of heavy footsteps, uneven and wheezing.

And then… the pest.

Dario emerged, looming in the doorway like a roach dragged from the past. Time hadn’t been kind—his once-slick black hair had thinned and slicked to his scalp with sweat, his face bloated, jowls drooping, a yellow tint beneath his eyes. His suit strained against his gut, the fabric damp at the pits, and smelled of cologne that barely masked a sour scent.

But his grin? As greasy as ever.

“NEPHEW! ” Dario beamed, arms opening wide as he stumbled forward, breath wheezing. “ You’ve grown so tall!”

Before Enzo could recoil, Dario dragged him into an embrace—clammy arms squeezing, the scent of old wine and cheaper soap clinging to him.

“So strong, too,”  Dario wheezed, pulling back just enough to slap both of Enzo’s arms. “You’ve grown so tall! Just like your father—God rest him.”

Enzo twitched, pushing Dario away, dusting himself off, feeling the pest filth on his skin.

Dario's grin faltered for a beat, then he attempted to pat Enzo’s chest, Lorenzo slapped it away, his glare piercing, but Dario's grin returned full force. “Come, come, my boy, let’s sit. Like old times, huh? You hungry? I had my girls whip something up—your favorite!”

Enzo gave no response as Dario led him to the center booth, full of excitement. The place held unpleasant memories, blood, laughter, and rot.

Filth

Lorenzo stiffened as he forced himself to sit in the rotten chair. He could feel the dampness and the scent of the air freshener.

The girls stepped away quickly, their eyes darting to each other. The tension thickened with every footstep.

As they sat, Dario wiped the sweat from his brow with a napkin and leaned back, spreading his arms over the chair, snapping his fingers. Two of the ladies rushed forward, setting two cups down, and the other poured in the red wine, pushing the cup towards Enzo.

“I missed you, kid. The last time I saw you, you still had baby teeth!”  He picked up a wine glass, swirling it. “Shame I couldn’t come to your father’s funeral—never got the invite”

Lorenzo's eye twitched, hearing the words, but he forced a smile,

 “My father wanted a private burial.”

Dario smirked and sipped the wine, making a disgusting slurping sound. Enzo's finger twitched.

If he did have a funeral, you'd be buried with him

Lorenzo tapped the glass of wine, the pungent smell stabbing his lungs. His voice came out flat, cold.

“You owe my father one point three million.”

Dario blinked. Then he laughed.

“Oh-ho-ho! Straight to business, huh?” He took another gulp, gesturing to the nearby girl to pour it full. “That’s just like your old man. Always sharp. Always deadly.”

He took a sip. “But don't worry, I know why you're here. Your men were persistent these past weeks, but come on, we’re family.”

Lorenzo pushes the cup away, staring at Dario. “The debt needs to be paid now.”

Dario chuckled, leaning back and taking another gulp. Enzo’s eye twitched.

“Don't worry, my boy, I understand money is money.”

He sat up, resting his head on his hands. “That's why I insisted you'd be here, you see, I came across some abandoned land left behind by the Rosenthals—may they rot in peace.”

Enzo straightened up at the name Morgan spilling into his mind once more

“We can come to an arrangement, I acquired some  land, it can be used to pay my debt-”

Enzo leaned forward slightly, cutting Dario's useless deal off.

“One of your girls said you were interviewing someone?” Enzo spoke without thinking, Morgan's face caked in makeup, flooding his mind.

Dario paused, his smile tightening. “And which of my girls said that?”

Enzo's head flicked to the blonde girl, who let out a nervous giggle, backing away, but His eyes never left Dario’s eyes.

“What did I tell you about babbling, Cassie?” Dario snerred

Cassie backed away from Enzo, side flicking her hair back. “Sorry, sir, it won't happen again, sorry, Mr. De Lu.”

Lorenzo didn’t even blink. His gaze never left Dario.. “Why were you talking to him ?”

Dario blinked and looked into Lorenzo's eyes, and laughed, taking another gulp of wine.

“Him? Figures, she does look like one of those lesbians.”   He chuckled. “She's Meggy, my new girl.”

“New girl…” Enzo gritted his teeth, his gloved hand tightening in his lap.

“Yep. Spicy-skinned—usually don’t hire those, but she impressed me.”

Lorenzo’s hand slowly lowered to his thigh, Dario continued.

“Thinks she’s sooo smart. Figured I’d take her in—teach the little bitch some respect. Like the old days. Andrew and I were good at that.”

Dario kept talking—laughing—smacking his lips like his words weren’t poison.

“She’ll come in still sassing, she refused my drink, so I'll make sure she's wide awake for the stall.”

Lorenzo’s ears were ringing. His thumb unfastened the safety strap with a practiced flick.

“Call a couple of friends homeless men whatever reeducate the slut then she’ll learn”

 Dario rambled, unbothered. Oblivious. Talking about Morgan as if he were furniture. 

Like, Morgan didn't already belong to someone

The rage in Lorenzo’s throat nearly choked him.

He pulled free the gun, gripping it tightly.

“Monday, I’m gonna break her in. Bathroom duty first, so she knows her place.”

A smooth, measured motion, like drawing breath. Like lighting a match.

His finger hovered near the trigger. His eyes locked on Dario’s mouth.

Still talking.

Still filthy.

“Can maybe get a few thousand from her, ykno, paying a little bonus for you”

Lorenzo’s jaw tightened, teeth grinding behind a deceptively blank expression.

One more word, his mind hissed.

Just one more.

A low buzz began crawling through Lorenzo’s ears.

Dario kept laughing, kept talking, kept using that name.
Morgan’s name.
Turning it into something cheap. Something dirty.

“...if you’d like, you can have a turn with the lesbo. Just come in on Monday. I’ll make sure she’s—”

“Ready.”

That was the last word Lorenzo heard.

The world blurred.

There was no more table, no more wine, no more filthy girls in plastic dresses. Just red.

Red, and that voice.

That voice.

“A dead man can’t pay his debts.”

The Beast voice 

The one lesson Lorenzo actually remembered.

The one warning that kept him from killing unless necessary.

But this time?

It didn’t work.

His hand moved before his mind did.

The safety was flicked off.

BOOM.

Glass shattered. Screams erupted.

One of the wine glasses exploded beside a girl’s hand—she dropped the bottle and ran.

BOOM.

Dario screamed, clutching his shoulder as blood soaked into the white linen of his suit. He collapsed sideways against the booth, breath stuttering, voice cracking into a shriek.

“AHHH—WHAT THE FUCK—NEPHEW!”

More glass shattered—another shot slammed into a nearby wall, splinters flying. The girls scattered, and Enzo blinked.

The world swam back into focus.

The table flipped, Dario slumped on the floor, one hand over his arm, covered in blood, panting like a dog, eyes filled with terror.

Dammit i missed

“Nephew, I didn't mean to offend you. I'll make sure to find you a cleaner gir-AHHH”
Another cleaner shot to the shoulder as the pest writhed in pain

 Doors  kicked open from all sides as his men approached, clicking their guns

“Where's the money?” Enzo spoke, reloading his gun and pointing it at Dario's head

Dead men can’t pay debts.

Dead men can’t fix what they ruined.

Dead men can’t touch again.

Those words repeated in Enzo's head as his finger played with the trigger 

“Stay put,” one of his men barked. Lorenzo turned, seeing two of his men backing the women in a corner of the restaurant, all of them shaking with fear

I should compensate them, Enzo thought, was cut off by the pest sniffling

“Please, Nephew, I don't have the money right now. I'll pay it by next week, I swear.”

The words Enzo hated most, Enzo's finger lay on the trigger, but his eyes locked on the blonde girl, shielding the other girls behind her, but still looking panicked.

She must know a lot about this place.

Lorenzo turned his step slow and deliberate as he walked towards the group. His men moved aside as Enzo stopped in front of them.

Then, pushed the barrel of the Gun on Cassandra's forehead. The other women began to cry and hyperventilate. The sound of water dripping could be heard.

Cassandra looked up at him in terror, but Enzo flashed a calm smile. “Cassandra, isn't it”

She nodded—barely—eyes glassy, her lips quivering like they couldn’t decide between words or a scream. Her throat bobbed.
“Yes, sir,” she whispered, voice cracked with tears.

“Good.” Lorenzo crouched just slightly, lowering himself enough that their eyes met level, the barrel still resting softly against her forehead.

“You don’t want to die here, do you?” he continued quietly, flicking his gun to safety.

Cassandra flinched, tears flowing down her red dress.
“NO, SIR! PLEASE!”

Enzo continued coldly, removing the gun from her forehead.
“You don’t want your friends to die either.”

The other girls behind Cassandra let out a symphony of cries and pleas, too loud for Enzo’s ears, ringing sharply.

“NO!” Cassandra yelled.

“Good. So you’ll tell me where your boss keeps all his money, correct?”

“CASSIE, DON’T YOU DARE!” A gurgled shout followed.

Enzo snapped his head back, seeing Dario attempt to sit up.

“Stay down,” one of the men barked, shoving the pest back to the ground as he writhed in pain.

Cassie immediately spoke, snapping her attention back to Enzo.

“Janitor’s closet! He keeps all of our information there—so we can’t quit, can’t hide, he made us—”

“YOU STUPID BITCH!” Dario roared from the floor, struggling to push himself up.

Enzo was done. He got what he wanted. he unclipped the safety and shot at Dario, sharp and merciless.

“I’m sorry… we’re all just trying to survive. Please don’t kill me.” Cassie cried, her hands clasped together

The bullet struck just inches from Dario’s face, shattering the wine glass beside him. He screamed, falling back with a cry, the bloodied sleeve of his suit sticking to the tile.

The girls screamed again, covering their ears as one of the men kicked open the hallway door.

“You heard her!” Lorenzo snapped, stepping back toward the middle of the room. “Get the closet open. Every file. Every cent.”

His men stormed down the hallway with brutal efficiency—boots hitting floorboards like a war drum. Drawers slammed. Paper fluttered. A shout came down the hall:
“Found it!”

Lorenzo’s eyes never left Dario.

Cassie dropped to her knees, sobbing quietly, and the girls behind her wrapped their arms around each other, terrified, but no longer frozen.

Footsteps pounded back into the room.

One by one, Enzo’s men returned, their arms stacked high with files, folders, loose bills, and a few money bands that had come undone mid-grab. Some folders were stained, while others appeared to have never been touched.

The first man stepped forward, holding a thinner, newer-looking file—sleek, uncreased, like it had only just been added to the system.

Without a word, Enzo snatched it from his hands.

His eyes scanned the name on the tab—just one glance—and he felt something coil inside him. Familiar handwriting. Fresh ink. A sick pit twisted in his gut.

Enzo shut it with a snap before anyone else could see. He slid it into the inner pocket of his coat.

Lorenzo turned back to the huddle of sobbing women, lowering his gun and flashing a smile to the group.

“I’m so sorry for my rudeness, ladies, but you understand—this is just business, correct?”

The huddled women cried out softly and nodded their heads, trembling.

Enzo reached into his coat pocket, narrowing his eyes as he counted—one, two, three... seven girls.

He pulled out a checkbook and pen, flipping it open with calm precision, and began signing.

The women stopped crying, glancing at one another in confusion, then slowly looked up at Enzo, staring.