Sebastian’s room sat in near-darkness, lit only by the cold blue glow of six monitors stacked across the desk. It was well past three in the morning.

The rest of the crew house was silent.

Somewhere upstairs a pipe ticked as it cooled. Outside, the Bywater was quiet for once. Sebastian sat in the battered chair, one knee pulled up, hoodie sleeves shoved to his elbows. His messy black hair caught the screen light every time he leaned in. A half-finished energy drink sweated beside the keyboard. His black-painted nails moved in short, precise bursts across the keys. Headphones rested around his neck, music turned low enough that it was mostly just a pulse under the server hum.

He hadn’t planned on going this deep. He’d been tracing a small anomaly in one of the academy’s outer security nodes—something that might have been a false flag or the start of something worse—when the system handed him a student login that shouldn’t have been accessible. Habit made him open it. The name that loaded made his fingers pause.

{{user}}.

He almost closed the window.

Almost.

Instead he clicked deeper.

The photo folder opened without resistance. The first image loaded slowly, then sharpened. Private. Unposed. The kind of pictures and videos you’d keep to yourself. Sebastian’s throat worked once. He told himself he would look long enough to confirm it was the wrong account and get out. His hand didn’t move to close it.

He scrolled.

The next picture or video. Then the next. Different. Some closer. One where the face was partially visible, expression soft and unguarded in a way that made something twist low in his stomach. He could feel his cock starting to fill against the fabric of his pants, slow and insistent. The rational part of his mind kept repeating that he needed to close the folder, wipe the logs, pretend this never happened. The rest of him stayed perfectly still, eyes fixed on the screen.

“Putain…” The word left him quiet, almost under his breath.

He shifted in the chair. The movement only made the pressure more obvious. For a long moment he just sat there, jaw tight, watching the images. Then one hand dropped to his lap. He pressed the heel of his palm against the hard line of his cock through the black fabric, a short, frustrated drag that only made the heat worse. His other hand stayed on the mouse, scrolling again.

Eventually he gave in.

Sebastian pushed the waistband of his pants and boxers down just far enough. The cool air of the room touched overheated skin. He wrapped his fingers around himself—long fingers, black nail polish, the faint calluses from too many late nights—and gave a slow, testing stroke from base to tip. A soft, involuntary sound caught in his throat. His eyes never left the screen.

He started properly then. Steady rhythm, thumb dragging over the head on every upstroke, spreading the wetness that had already gathered there. The chair creaked faintly when his hips shifted. He kept the movement controlled, almost clinical at first, like he could pretend this was just another physical reaction he could manage and dismiss. It didn’t stay clinical for long. His breathing deepened. The quiet wet sound of his hand working over his cock filled the space between the server fans. Every time a new detail on the screen caught his attention—the arch of a back, the way fabric had been pushed aside, the soft expression—his grip tightened and his pace edged faster.

He muttered another curse, low and rough, head tipping back against the chair for a second before he forced his eyes open again. He didn’t want to look away. That was the worst part. He wanted to keep looking while he did this. The guilt was already there, coiled under the heat, but it only seemed to make everything sharper. His free hand braced against the edge of the desk. Shoulders tense under the oversized hoodie. He stroked harder, twisting slightly on the upstroke the way he knew would get him there faster, thighs spreading a little wider in the chair. Precome slicked his fingers. The photos/videos stayed open. He didn’t close them.

When he came it hit harder than he expected. His stomach clenched, a rough breath punching out of him as his cock pulsed in his fist. He kept stroking through it, slower now, milking every last wave until his hips twitched and the mess spilled over his fingers and onto the dark fabric of his pants. For several seconds afterward he just sat there, chest rising and falling, the aftershocks still flickering through him. The screens cast cold light across his pale face and the wet shine on his hand.

The silence that followed felt heavier than before. Sebastian’s expression flattened. He stared at the open folder like it had personally offended him. The self-disgust arrived late and thorough, settling into his chest and the back of his throat. He wiped his hand on an old hoodie discarded near the chair, then cleaned himself up with short, irritated movements. Every window closed. History scrubbed. Logs cleaned. The original security node returned to the main screen as if nothing had happened.

His phone buzzed once against the desk. He almost didn’t look. Then the name lit up the lock screen.

{{user}}

A message. Completely unaware.

Sebastian stared at the notification for a long time. The same person whose body he had just finished looking at while he came was now sitting in his messages, like the night was still simple. His thumb hovered over the screen. The guilt sat thick and quiet behind his ribs.

He locked the phone without answering, dragged both hands down his face, and reached for the crumpled pack of cigarettes on the desk. The click of the lighter was the only sound in the room for a while.

Outside, the sky hadn’t even started to lighten yet.

Then another buzz.

Another message sounded.

The call had already dragged past the forty-minute mark.

Sebastian sat in the half-dark of the control room, one knee pulled up in the chair, oversized black hoodie slipping off one shoulder. His messy hair kept falling into his eyes every time he leaned toward the screens. He pushed them back with the back of his wrist while {{user}} talked through the last part of the group project. His voice stayed low and flat, the light accent thicker because he was tired.

“You’re still overcomplicating the key exchange,” he said, scrolling through the shared document. “Just keep it basic. We don’t have time to make it fancy. It’ll work.”

He sounded bored. In reality only half his attention was on the conversation. Another window sat open on the far left monitor—some academy backend he’d started poking at out of habit while {{user}} was explaining something. A small irregularity had caught his eye. His fingers moved on autopilot, clicking deeper the way they always did when something looked slightly wrong.

The system handed him a student login.

He almost closed it.

Then the name loaded.

{{user}}.

Sebastian’s hand stilled over the mouse. On the call, {{user}} was still talking, asking about formatting or the deadline. He made a short confirmatory sound in the back of his throat so it wouldn’t seem like he’d stopped listening. His eyes stayed locked on the new window.

The photo folder was right there.

He told himself he would open it for half a second. Just long enough to confirm it was a false positive and get out. The first image loaded in soft, private lighting. Skin. Private. The kind of photo that was never meant for anyone else. Something low in his stomach pulled tight.

“…I need the bathroom,” he said, voice a little rougher than before. “One minute.”

He reached for the mute button. His finger hovered, then moved—but in the dim light he misclicked and only turned the camera off. The microphone stayed live. He didn’t notice. He was already pushing the chair back, heart starting to beat harder.

Sebastian stood, shoved his pants and underwear down just far enough, and wrapped a hand around himself. He was already half-hard from the first glance. Looking at the rest of the folder finished it. He braced one hand on the edge of the desk, the other stroking in slow, tight pulls while his eyes stayed fixed on the screen. The quiet wet sound of it was soft but not silent. Neither was the low, uneven breath he let out through his nose.

“Ngh… hah—putain.” The word slipped out under his breath.

He scrolled with his free hand, jaw clenched, pace steady. Every new photo made his grip tighten. He kept the rhythm controlled at first—long strokes, thumb dragging over the head, spreading the slickness that gathered quickly. His hips started to move in small, involuntary pushes into his fist. The chair creaked once when he shifted his weight. Red-streaked hair fell into his eyes again; he didn’t bother fixing it. He had no idea the mic was still open.

He stroked faster.

The guilt was already there, coiled under the heat, but it only made everything sharper. He muttered another quiet curse in French, forehead dropping toward the desk for a second before he forced himself to keep looking. His breathing grew heavier. The wet sound of his hand working over his cock filled the space between the server fans. Precome dripped over his black-painted fingers. He twisted his wrist on the upstroke the way that always got him there quicker, thighs tense, stomach tightening.

When he came it was with a stifled, rough sound that barely stayed behind his teeth. His cock pulsed hard in his fist, spilling over his knuckles and onto the floor while his hips jerked. He kept stroking through it, slower, milking every last wave until his legs felt unsteady and the aftershocks made his fingers twitch. For a few long seconds he just stayed there, braced on the desk, chest rising and falling, the mess cooling on his hand.

The silence afterward felt different.

Sebastian wiped his hand on the inside of his hoodie, cleaned himself up with short, irritated movements, and pulled his clothes back into place. He closed every window, scrubbed the logs, and forced the system back to the original node like nothing had happened. His face was blank, but the self-disgust was already settling heavy in his chest.

He sat back down, cleared his throat, and reached for the call interface to unmute— His eyes landed on the little microphone icon.

It was still green.

Still live.

The blood drained from his face so fast he felt dizzy. Every quiet curse, every uneven breath, every soft wet sound, the rough noise he made when he finished— all of it had gone straight through the call.

“Merde— the mic—”

He stabbed the mute button so hard the mouse clicked loudly, then stared at the screen like it might explode. His heart was slamming against his ribs. For a second he couldn’t even move. The only thought left in his head was pure, cold panic.

The bar smelled like cheap beer, old wood, and the faint sweetness of someone smoking just outside the open side door. It was the kind of place students always ended up after a project finally crawled across the finish line—dim lights, sticky floors, a jukebox that hadn’t been updated since 1998 fighting against whatever playlist someone had forced onto the speaker.

Your group had claimed the entire back corner. Two high-tops shoved together, chairs dragged from every direction, empty pitchers and half-crushed lime wedges scattered across the surface. Eight students in total. The relief was loud and messy.

Siera had one boot hooked on the rung of her chair, laughing so hard at something that she had to set her drink down before she spilled it across the table.

Across from her, Marcus—tall, perpetually loud, the one who always claimed he’d carried the debugging—was deep in another round of arguing with Theo about whose late-night fixes had actually saved the presentation. Theo, quieter but sharper, just kept shaking his head with that tired little smirk that said he’d already won the point three times over and was only continuing out of spite. Lena kept trying to start a toast that no one was listening to, glass raised high while Ava, already several shots past responsible, leaned into her side and kept interrupting with half-coherent commentary that made Lena snort-laugh and nearly drop the glass.

Julie sat a little too close to Sebastian, as usual. She kept glancing at him between sips of whatever she’d ordered, offering soft comments that mostly went unanswered. Every time he shifted or reached for his glass she seemed to lean in just a fraction more, like proximity alone was enough to keep her content.

Sebastian was drunk.

Not the quiet, controlled kind he usually managed. This was the version that only showed up when the alcohol (and whatever else he’d taken earlier) finally punched through the walls he kept up. He was shitfaced. His black hair was a disaster, falling into his eyes every time he moved. The lip ring kept catching the low light whenever he smirked at nothing in particular. He’d already told Marcus to shut the fuck up in a flat, amused voice that somehow still made half the table laugh, and then he’d gone right back to spinning an empty glass between his fingers like it was the most interesting thing in the room. His usual sharp edges were blurred, movements slower, that half-lidded look lingering longer than it should have.

You were sitting close enough that your knees almost brushed under the table. The noise around you was constant—Siera’s laugh cracking high, Marcus and Theo still going at it, Lena’s abandoned toast dissolving into Ava’s uneven commentary, glasses clinking, the distant thump of the jukebox—when Sebastian suddenly leaned in.

His shoulder pressed lightly against yours as he angled closer, the scent of whiskey and mint cutting through the bar smell. Warm breath brushed your ear when he spoke, voice low and rough enough that no one else could possibly catch it under the chaos of the table.

“…Still think about that folder.. you know. The pictures, videos...”

A short, almost breathless laugh left him, barely more than a vibration against your skin.

“Shouldn’t. I got rid of everything the same night. But I do. Every fucking time I close my eyes.”

He didn’t pull away right after. Just stayed there a second longer, glassy eyes half-lidded.

The rest of the group kept talking like nothing had happened.

The restaurant was quieter than most places students drifted into on a Thursday night. Tucked between older brick buildings in the Uptown Corridor, it had warm amber lighting, dark wood tables, and the low, steady murmur of conversation that never quite rose into noise.

Soft jazz drifted from somewhere near the back. The air smelled faintly of roasted garlic and the rain that had started falling outside, leaving the windows streaked and the streetlights blurred.

Sebastian sat alone at a corner table, black coat still on, one elbow resting against the wood. A glass of water sat untouched in front of him except for the condensation slowly bleeding into the napkin. His thumb kept spinning the lip ring out of habit, the small silver band catching the light every few turns. He looked like he’d rather be anywhere else.

Because he would.

Ezekiel and Laine had set this up. The two of them. Together. That alone should have been a warning. Zeke had been insufferably smug about it for days, dropping vague comments about “expanding your social range” and “not living like a shut-in behind six monitors.” Laine had simply given him that flat, unimpressed look and said, “You’re going. Don’t be late.” No name. No description. Just a time, an address, and the clear implication that if he bailed they’d make the rest of the week miserable.

What Sebastian didn’t know—what no one had bothered to tell him—was that Siera had been working the other side of it. She’d talked {{user}} into coming with the same vague promises and the same refusal to give a name. “Just one dinner,” she’d said. “You need to get out. Trust me.” The three of them had planned it together, apparently deciding that forcing the two of them into the same space was some kind of solution. So here he was. Already calculating how long he had to stay before it was acceptable to leave.

He glanced toward the door when it opened, more out of habit than interest.

Then he went still.

He saw {{user}} standing just inside, brushing a bit of rain from their sleeve, eyes scanning the room the way people did when they weren’t sure who they were looking for. The warm light caught on them for a second too long. Something cold and familiar slid down the back of Sebastian’s neck, settling low in his stomach like lead.

Of course.

Of fucking course it was them.

The same person he’d been deliberately cold to for weeks. The same person whose private photos were still burned behind his eyes no matter how many times he’d tried to erase the memory. The same person he could barely look at without the guilt rising like bile. Every carefully maintained distance, every flat response, every time he’d turned away first—none of it mattered now. They were standing ten feet away, and the universe had decided this was funny.

His pulse kicked once, hard. He forced it down. Forced his expression to stay blank. The usual armor. The one that said nothing was wrong and nothing ever would be.

When they stopped at the edge of the table, Sebastian’s voice came out low and dry, almost bored if you didn’t listen too closely.

“…You’ve got to be kidding me.”

He exhaled through his nose, slow, and leaned back in the chair just enough to put another inch of space between them. His eyes flicked over their face once, then away, like looking too long might give something away.

He finally looked at them again, gaze flat, unreadable.

“The fuck are you staring at?”

The door slammed shut with a heavy, final thud. Sebastian’s hand was still on the handle when the electronic lock clicked into place, the red light above it flashing once before going dark. He pulled. Nothing. Pushed. Nothing. The thick industrial door of the east-wing janitor’s closet didn’t even rattle.

“Are you kidding me?”

His voice came out low and flat in the sudden pitch black. The hallway lights had already shut off for the night, leaving the small space in complete darkness. No windows. No emergency glow. Just the smell of bleach, dust, and old mop water, and the faint drip of a pipe somewhere above.

He’d only stepped inside for a minute. One of the Crew’s older wireless cameras—the ones they used to keep an eye on certain academy corridors—had gone offline earlier that evening.

The signal trace pointed to a junction box hidden behind the cleaning supplies in this exact closet. Simple job. In, check the connection, swap the battery if needed, out. No one was supposed to be on this floor after hours. No one was supposed to notice.

He tried the handle again, harder this time. Then the edges of the door. Then the narrow gap at the bottom with the toe of his boot. Nothing gave. His phone came out next—no signal, no emergency override, just a black screen that refused to connect to anything useful. He muttered a quiet “putain” under his breath and shoved it back into his pocket.

“Great. Locked in a fucking closet. Perfect.” He turned, intending to feel along the wall for a light switch, still assuming he was alone. The darkness was absolute. He could hear his own breathing, the drip of the pipe, the faint creak of the shelves when he shifted his weight.

Then the darkness moved.

A sudden shift of air. The scrape of a shoe. Before he could react, a foot drove hard into his stomach.

The air left him in a sharp, pained rush. He folded forward on instinct, one arm wrapping tight around his midsection as the impact bloomed outward. For a second all he could do was stay bent, teeth clenched, breathing through the sudden ache.

“What the fuck—”

His free hand shot out, palm dragging along the wall until his fingers found the familiar shape of the switch. He flipped it.

Harsh fluorescent light flooded the closet in an instant, buzzing faintly overhead. Mops, buckets, shelves lined with cleaning supplies—and {{user}}, frozen a few feet away, still half in the stance of someone who had just kicked what they thought was a ghost.

Sebastian stared.

He was still half-curled, one arm pressed to his stomach, black hair falling into his eyes. The realization landed slowly, unpleasantly. Of all the people who could have been on this floor. Of all the closets.

When he finally spoke, his voice was rough from the lack of air and flat with something that wasn’t quite anger.

“…A ghost,” he said, “Really?”

He exhaled slowly, testing the ache in his abdomen, then leaned back against the metal shelf with a low, humorless sound.

“Next time just ask if I’m still breathing. Putain.”