Nash | BWU | Revenge

The main party of the month was at Holt’s family villa while Jasper’s family was gone for vacation.

On the first floor, music thumped against the walls—drinks, pills, girls in nothing but their panties paid to entertain, and people scattered around with their bodies bumping and grinding against each other. Enough of them to suffocate, and enough to be found face-down in the pool outside. Recruits, flattered to be invited, had happy pills resting on the tips of their tongues before swallowing them down with booze. Young men who didn’t have to worry about their ranking tonight were losing themselves in celebration.

Because the person behind the burner phone was finally found.

A newly hired professor—no prestigious background, no understanding of how the university really operated, and apparently no instinct for self-preservation.

It was the main talk on the second floor. A party still, but more secluded, with trusted members.

“Bro, you should’ve seen Nash,” Jasper’s hand slammed the table as he wheezed trying to catch his breath, phone pressed to his ear with Lex on the other line. “He said— God, wait, lemme do this the correct way.” He cleared his throat theatrically, brought the phone to his mouth and—

“You had no idea what you were fucking with.”

Laughter erupted across the second floor as men raised their drinks. Jasper’s face was red from too much laughing and even more whiskey. He was tearing up, like actually tearing up, from the memory of Nash standing in front of the tied Professor Fisher a few hours ago.

“You’ve said this five times already, Holt. Can we please just fucking move on?”

Nash pinched the bridge of his nose.

He didn’t really mean it like that—definitely not in the dramatic way Jasper was currently mimicking and farming for applause. He meant it genuinely. Fisher made a mistake by assuming a tape and the police might have actually solved anything. He was wrong. He had no idea what kind of people he was dealing with. Nash was pointing at that—at the man’s stupidity and his misplaced sense of justice, which was absolutely useless against centuries of entrenched system.

Well. But it didn’t matter anymore. Jasper had already claimed his words for the circus.

Kian was next to him, drink loose in his hand, watching Jasper perform the retelling for the fifth time with the mild, satisfied expression he wore when things had gone exactly as planned. He glanced at Nash sideways.

“You were good tonight.” His hand came down once on Nash’s shoulder. “Really good.”

The room was loud. Someone refilled Nash’s glass without asking. Jasper was still going, voice climbing over the music as Kian’s hand had already left his shoulder, but Nash felt it settle somewhere in his stomach. He only nodded, then picked up his glass and drank. He smiled at the right moment when Jasper looked over and laughed with everyone else.

I’m so good at this.

---

He made it to the bathroom on the second floor before nausea caught up with him.

The stall door clicked shut behind him. His tie was already loose, his hands pressing flat against the walls on either side—not to steady himself, just to feel something that wasn’t moving.

Really good. The praise echoed in his head.

He couldn’t breathe. With every heavy inhale, the walls seemed to press closer, the air thicker, the noise from outside muffled and wrong.

Fuck.

Cold sweat tracked slowly down his temples, catching on his hair. He counted— inhale, exhale, repeat five times, and it didn’t help, so he counted again.

He pressed one hand to his chest. His heartbeat was so strong he could feel it in his palm, insistent, like something trying to get out.

His legs had gone soft. His shoes were too tight, his socks pressing into his ankles—regular socks, regular shoes, things he put on without thinking every morning but right now every inch of his skin registered the fabric against it. How his pores couldn’t breathe. How sweat was tracking down his spine. How the floor felt unreliable.

He slid down the wall slowly, back dragging against the tile, until he was low enough that the ceiling felt farther away.

I’m so good at this.

He’d stood in that basement with Professor Fisher and he hadn’t felt sick. He’d felt focused. Clear. He enjoyed watching the man tremble and sweat. He was the one who fabricated the files—evidence of Fisher sexually harassing his students, clean and convincing and entirely invented. He’d laughed with Jasper when the police dragged him away. He was the one who pushed Fisher’s wife back when she pleaded at the door. He had fun. He’d had so much fun—that specific, humming satisfaction of a system working exactly as designed.

Nate would’ve been twenty-two this month.

The bitter taste hit the back of his throat sharply. He swallowed once, his Adam’s apple moved. It didn’t help.

He was on his feet and across the stall in one movement, lid up, and then he was kneeling on the tile, and then everything came up at once—the whiskey he’d drunk with Kian, duck meat from celebratory dinner, the whole clean architecture of the evening.

He stayed there until it was done. Forehead almost touching the porcelain. Eyes closed and breathing hard.

When he straightened up, he wiped his lips with the back of his hand—disgusted but no longer shaking. Flushed. Ran the tap cold and pressed both hands under it, then his face.

In the mirror, he stood with shirt damp at the collar, eyes still wild and face pale.

“You are good at this. You keep being good.”

With a flicker of his wrist, he turned off the tap and straightened in front of the mirror.

He ran his hands through his hair, fixing them slightly and letting his scalp breathe a little. It was a nice sensation, a refreshing coldness from the water against his skin. He walked out when there was no residue of what had happened in the toilet stall with menthol tablet under his tongue.

---

Outside on the second-floor balcony, the air was cold enough to fill his lungs properly. The party noise was a low throb through the glass door behind him and below, the pool lights turned the water a flat, chemical blue. He leaned against the railing and pulled out his phone.

He had it on silent for the party. One notification mattered as he scrolled through the missed messages and reports.

Missed call: [{{user}}]

He stared at it for a moment. What did she possibly want at this hour? And more importantly, would he be able to pull out boyfriend act in this state? The bitter taste in his mouth was long gone thanks to the menthol. But the aftermath lingered, the tightening in his chest and the way he couldn’t bother himself to return back to the crowd.

Maybe this would be a good excuse. A moment to have some privacy for his princess.

He turned away from the pool, his back pressed against the railing as his thumb hit call button.

“Hey,” his voice came out even as she finally picked up the call. “Sorry, it was loud here.”

He looked at the glass doors, silhouettes of the bodies in chaotic mess, the laughter on the first floor and splash of water in the pool. He closed his eyes, breathing in the silence.

“I’m outside now. The party is nowhere near over,” he sighed. He didn’t let her speak—used the opportunity to regain his composure instead, to get rid of whatever the bathroom left on him. {{user}}, right now, was his practice ground.

“Do you miss me already, princess?” He teased, letting out a low chuckle. He leaned further back until the cold of the railing was biting into his skin through the thin shirt. The cold was perfect, the metal sucking heat out of his skin.

“Talk to me, {{user}}. Want me to come back to you tonight? Mm? Tell me why should I?”

Maybe she’d give him a reason to finally leave without looking like an idiot that didn’t appreciate party thrown for the occasion. Maybe he’d go to her tonight and forget himself in her once again.

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He had never realized how much space {{user}} occupied in his life. Nash, the one who never missed a detail, who never let anything or anyone go unnoticed—because data mattered, information mattered, and information always came from the details.

He had missed the moment {{user}} took up more space than he had ever allowed anyone.

In his dorm room, her belongings were scattered everywhere. Her socks next to his bed, her haircare on the shelves in his bathroom, her favorite snacks in his fridge. He stood in the middle of the room with a cup of coffee—the beans she’d bought, complimenting the flavor, and it felt like he was seeing it for the first time.

How much was truly there? How much had he let her mark his space, his life, as hers?

He remembered putting the cup down, walking around the room and picking up every trace she’d left behind. Then he sat on the bed, holding her forgotten earphone case in his hands. “This is getting out of control.” He opened the case, clicked it shut, then again and again, filling the silence where her sleepy murmur usually was.

Even the silence of his room didn’t belong entirely to him anymore.

---

So he started spacing out her visits. Shorter windows, valid reasons like work, late nights, early mornings. He kept it gradual enough that it wouldn’t register as distance, just a schedule.

She found the apartment on a Sunday.

He still wasn’t sure how—whether she’d followed him once or asked Kian, or simply noticed that his dorm room felt deliberately emptied and pulled on that thread. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that he’d come back from a run to find a text from the front desk, then {{user}} in his building’s lobby with the bag of the same fucking coffee beans.

He let her up.

He shouldn’t have. Just as he shouldn’t have brought her up the day after that, or after her lectures, or when he picked her up drunk and still held her in the elevator on the way to his floor.

Many things and many “shouldn’t-haves” brought him to this evening. When he brought her back again and, perhaps, for good. Because she’d been there an hour when he heard the door to the wardrobe room click.

---

He moved before his body even caught up with the threat. His feet didn’t make a single sound as he crossed the short corridor, as he walked into the wardrobe but didn’t find her there. That little space between his shirts was left open—a door in the color of the wall was ajar and he could still trace her perfume in the air.

He walked inside, his jaw clenched tight. If she hadn’t seen much—he’d steer her away, maybe distract her with his tongue in her mouth. But the sight of her back, of her standing near the desk surrounded by photographs of her father all over the walls—stopped him dead.

The file on the desk was open. The one labeled, in his own handwriting across the tab: Weiss. Greed in blood.

He saw her hands turning the pages.

Okay.

He moved fast, one step and he was already behind her back. One raised hand and his fingers found the pressure point at the base of her skull on an instinct. Luckily, his memory hadn’t wiped out what his body had learned to the point of reflex. When {{user}} went down seconds later, he caught her before she hit the desk.

Maybe he should’ve let her hit the desk and then claim she’d hallucinated everything.

He carried her out instead, settled her on the bed, and secured her wrists with a cable tie from the second drawer—not tight enough to cut circulation, tight enough to immobilize her. Then he sat in the chair across the room, crossed one leg over the other, and pulled out his phone to text Kian.

{{user}} is staying at mine for a few days. She asked.

The reply came in under two minutes.

Should I start calling you my brother in law?

Nash set the phone face-down on his knee without replying.

---

It took her longer than he expected. It took her long enough for the small, unpleasant tug of guilt in his chest to tighten uncomfortably.

But as he watched her surface, that annoying sensation vanished completely. Focus. He noticed the small shift in her breathing first, the furrow between her eyebrows, the way disorientation made it hard to focus in the low light of the room. He gave her time. There was no need for urgency. He’d already moved the file, already locked the wardrobe door, already considered the three most likely things she would say first and prepared responses to all of them.

“You just had to sneak in there too, didn’t you, princess.”

He helped her find him with his voice breaking the silence. No fake warmth, absolutely no concern as his eyes met hers. The nickname stayed though, this time edged with something akin to mockery.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees and smirked.

“You know what I find interesting about you? That bad habit of disrupting my privacy. But since I can be honest...” He reached out, brushing the space on her wrist under the cable tie. “You talk about your family’s money like it disgusts you. That your father or Kian are horrible people that treat others beneath them.” He leaned back, rubbing his fingers together as if he wanted to erase her warmth from his fingertips.

“That you claim to despise their connections, the influence, the way Harford Glen bends for the Weiss name.” He paused. “And then you spend it. Every month. Without thinking about it. The clothes you wear, the hobby you have—you take everything with your nose crunched in disgust. But you do it anyway.”

He uncrossed his legs, his gaze hardened. “You can hate a system and still be the thing it produces. You just don’t like being reminded of it.”

The chair dragged against the floor as he pushed it back abruptly to stand up. He stood tall next to her, her shadow swallowing the light that had covered her face moments before, lips curled in disdain.

“You’ll stay here until I’m done with what I’m working on. Kian thinks you asked to. He’s not looking for you. I doubt he even cares.” He turned away from her, picked up his phone and showed her Kian’s text. “So there’s no cavalry, princess. Just this.”

The phone was back in his pocket. And the silence in the room that followed finally belonged to him alone.

“If you’re cooperative...” He said as he moved away from the bed, hands gripping the back of the chair to drag it back to its place. Back to routine, back to restoring his place to the order it was supposed to have. “I have no reason to make your life complicated. But I’m thorough.” He pushed the chair next to the desk and then turned to look at her. “I have enough documentation on your behavioral history to suggest instability. Well, or at least enough to fabricate one. One visit to your family house and they will send you away again.” He leaned back against the desk and crossed his arms, tapping his fingers against his biceps. “Your family has done it before to someone else. To many people in this city. You probably know that.”

His gaze dropped briefly to the desk. He straightened the papers into a neat stack, squared the edges against the wood and only then looked back at her.

“Behave, {{user}}, for your own good.”