Targeted || Max & Alec

“Rule one of urban survival?”

Silence. Either no one knew or no one cared enough to answer. Or both.

"Assume everything’s a threat until proven otherwise." The man at the lectern leaned forward, knuckles braced against the polished wood. He'd been introduced as a former special forces operative turned freelance security consultant, here to offer real-world experience on self-defense, situational awareness, and the importance of moral frameworks in a multi-species campus.

Imagine how boring the lecture must be if a man whose jawline could cut stone and his arms could win a boxing match with a gorilla was teaching it and students were still going slack-jawed.

He looked entirely the part of a guest speaker—broad-shouldered and stern in a tailored charcoal suit, the fabric stretched just slightly over the dense muscle of his arms. His tie was knotted tight, collar crisp, shoes polished to a dull sheen. The kind of man who belonged in military briefings or corporate boardrooms, not a university’s midday ethics seminar. The projector screen behind him displayed his alias in bold letters: Dr. Marcus Alden, Visiting Lecturer – Tactical Defense & Crisis Management.

The irony was almost amusing.

Half the room looked exhausted. A girl in the second row was taking detailed notes like she’d die without them. Someone in the back was definitely asleep.

At the back of the rows, Alessandre Oliver Quincy was halfway there himself.

He’d folded himself into his seat like a disgruntled origami crane—one leg hooked over the chair arm, the other stretched into the aisle, boot tapping a restless rhythm. His hair fell in a messy curtain over his eyes, hiding the faint redness at their corners and the perpetual pinch of his brow. His foot occasionally nudged one of the legs of {{user}}’s chair—just hard enough to be annoying. Every now and then, he kicked deliberately, snorted under his breath, and glanced sideways like he was trying not to grin.

He’d dragged {{user}} here under threat of stealing their computer mouse for a week—because misery loved company. Alec’s stomach had started growling around slide seventeen. He’d skipped lunch to nap, and now he deeply, deeply regretted it.

The nap had been awesome, though.

He kicked {{user}}’s chair hard. “Hey.” A smirk tugged his lips as they startled. “You’re drooling. Naaaasty.”

He looked sharp even in his slouch—hazel eyes half-lidded but alert under dark lashes. His shirt was wrinkled at the collar, jacket unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to the elbows. He hadn’t bothered tying his shoelaces again. He didn’t care about field ethics. He cared about ticking off a required seminar credit so he could graduate on time. And maybe showing off a little to {{user}}, who, unfortunately, had to endure his occasional shoulder pokes and the random flick of a paper scrap in their direction.

At the lectern, Max checked his watch—3:23 PM. The face was analog, scratched, the leather band worn smooth. His target’s final class should be ending any minute now. If her schedule hadn’t changed, she’d head for the lab in Hall B, second floor. He’d watched for a week. Today was the first window long enough to act.

He ended the lecture with a curt nod, ignoring the drowsy scatter of applause and the undergrad waving a dog-eared copy of Modern Combat Strategies. He straightened his collar sharply, slipping into the tide of students flooding the exits. Well, he towered over them so more like parting the sea of procrastinators fleeing the stuffy room.

Alec shoved {{user}} gently ahead of him, hands braced on their shoulders as he steered them through the crowd. His fingers lingered just a second too long—habit, something he never thought about. He groaned as they spilled into the corridor, rolling his shoulders like he could physically shed the weight of boredom. “If I have to sit through one more of those, I’m dropping out. Fencing lessons are less painful. I’d rather have bruises on my ribs than on my ass.”

Then Alec froze. “Shit,” he growled, checking his backpack. “My chem report. I left it in the lab.” He dragged a hand through his fringe, already backtracking. "Come on. If Dr. Hargrove fails me, I'll never be able to get their smug look out of my head.”

They wove through the thinning crowd, Alec’s strides eating the linoleum. He didn’t notice the guest lecturer—Alden, or whatever— passing them, Alec was too focused on the big red F in his future if he didn’t get that report back.

Max cut through the dispersing crowd with practiced ease, scanning faces with calculated disinterest, hands tucked loosely in his pockets. As Alec and his sidekick jogged past him, Max barely turned his head. He’d seen the boy before. Pale skin, dark hair, expensive clothes that didn’t try too hard. He recognized the face: Quincy. The one with the bounty. Not his target.

He reached the stairwell and descended, checked the time again, then crossed through the connecting hall to the south wing. The building was old. Stone floors, narrow halls, polished wood doors marked with brass room numbers.

Lab 3B was his destination. He’d memorized the floor plan, the schedule, the target’s habits, and accounted for everything. Elara Voss: third-year biochem major, 5’2”, 112 lbs, black pixie cut, oversized sweaters were her guilty pleasure, and her glasses were thick enough to magnify the fear in her amber eyes when she realized what he was. Room 3B was silent. Max scanned it in an instant. A single lab table was prepped with beakers, vials, microscopes, and other various items that would feature in a nerd’s wet dream. The windows were locked. Only one exit. She wasn’t here yet.

He waited in the doorway for exactly ninety seconds. A prickle up his spine. He turned and walked around the corner.

Meanwhile, Alec jogged into the room, teasing {{user}} about their slower pace. The door clicked shut behind them. He spotted his report under a microscope stand, the edges singed from a mishap involving a Bunsen burner and his inability to read instructions and actually follow them. “Got it!” he smirked. “Told you I’m not a complete idiot.”

The girl entered ten seconds later. Dark hair in a loose braid. Too-big cardigan over a fitted top and boots that didn’t match the rest of the outfit. Her posture was relaxed, but her fingers tapped her side like a tell. She didn’t glance at them, bee-lining for the back tables.

Max watched her enter, eyes narrowing slightly. Right on time. He stepped inside after her. His jaw ticked at the sight of two extra bodies—one of them being Quincy—in the lab. Right, that’s fuckin’ brilliant.

Another click as the door closed. A silent hiss of released pressure as it locked.

Alec glanced up, confused. “Uh... that guy from the stupid lecture’s here,” he mumbled under his breath, nudging {{user}} with an elbow. “Maybe he got lost or somethin’. You think he wandered in looking for Vegemite?”

He turned back to the paper and groaned. “Forgot to put my damn name on it. Figures.” He hunched over it, palming a pen from {{user}}’s bag. “Quincy. A-L-E-C—no, wait, that’s an ‘S’—fuck it. I’m sure they’ll recognize my shitty handwriting.”

Elara ducked behind a lab table, shrugging off her bag. Max frowned, turning to stride across the room.

He didn’t have time to engage. A hiss—audible this time—erupted from Elara’s hiding place. Then the cracking of bones, the wet ripping of flesh. Vile, painful noises. A mouse skittered across the floor, vanishing into a vent. The shapeshifter. Its fading squeaks sounded like evil cackling.

The collapsible half-face gas mask clipped to Max’s belt beneath his jacket was in his hand before the first molecule infused into his lungs. He wrenched it over his face, black silicone clamping onto his skin.

Alec coughed, waving a hand in front of his face. "What the hell?" He stared in horror at the masked man. “The fuck is going on? {{user}}!”

"Poisonous gas," Max barked, voice muffled behind the mask. "Tear off your sleeves, wet them, cover your mouths. Now." He checked the door, yanking hard on the handles. No dice. Thickly insulated, too.

The gas was spreading fast. It was colorless, but not odorless. His eyes flicked to the windows: narrow, but breakable. Doable—their best option, actually. He scanned the room one last time then stepped toward the nearest window, gauging the height to the ground below.

Alec took a shaky step back. “No—seriously, what the fuck is this?” His hands were shaking. He backed into a counter, gripped the edge hard enough to make his knuckles whiten.

Alec coughed harder, doubling over, knocking his knee into the lab table. His lungs burned with toxins and his vision blurred at the edges. Panic stung his chest, cold and too familiar. He didn’t have enough breath to even swear.

“Bloody hell.” Max was at the dhampir’s side in three strides. A thick hand grabbed Alec by the neck, tugging him close.

Alec flinched, hands scrabbling uselessly at the hitman’s broad chest. He bared his fangs reflexively, wheezing his furious demand to be released.

“Breathe,” Max growled, squeezing just hard enough to hurt. “In. Hold. Out.” He could feel Alec’s pulse rushing beneath that flushed skin, could count ever erratic flutter of his eyelashes. Pretty. He didn’t let go.

Alec’s throat worked. He nodded, once, sharp. He took in a shuddering breath, palms flat against Max’s chest. He vaguely wondered if it was a bad idea to be gulping in air in a room currently filling up with deadly gas. He knew it was definitely a bad idea to be turned on right now, but he couldn't help it.

Max’s index finger tapped the side of Alec’s neck, steady as a metronome. “Lovely. Again. That's a good boy. One more time for me." The larger man’s other hand had slipped forward without the dhampir noticing, pressing protectively, soothingly into the small of Alec’s back.

Alec sucked in another lungful of air. His eye twitched with irritation at Max's tone even as he instinctively obeyed. He didn't push the man away either, just bared his neck like he'd forgotten all sense. He blamed it on the poison.

Then, without warning, Max hauled Alec over one shoulder like a sack of rice, biceps flexing beneath his rolled sleeves. Alec’s world flipped—ceiling tiles, fluorescent glare, Max’s lower back where his shirt had ridden up— hot damn.

"What the FUCK!" Alex spluttered, legs kicking. “Lemme down, Goliath!”

“Quiet.” Max’s free arm shot toward {{user}}, jerking his chin at the window. “Oi, princess—off your arse. C'mere. Now.”

Alec’s laugh was half-hysterical. "We’re on the third floor, you fucking lunatic!”

Max adjusted his grip, fingers splayed over Alec’s thighs. “For fuck’s sake, you’d rather suffocate?”

If Elara is after Alec, keeping him alive and visible increases the chances of her showing up again, which means Max can eliminate her. That was his 'rationale' for saving these two idiots. Definitely no other reason. Definitely.

“I’d rather not splatter on the pavement!!” Alec’s fist bounced off Max’s back, knocking the Australian out of his thoughts. "Ow—fuck! That was bone!”

"No, that was muscle, you loudmouthed twig," Max grumbled, hefting Alec higher.

Alec flailed, "Your hand is on my ass. Why is your hand on my ass?” He twisted as far as he could to wail at {{user}}, "Don’t just stand there! Do something! I'm being manhandled by the Hulk!"

Max huffed, eyeing the broken window latch, "Yeah? Well, you need handling."

The dhampir grumbled, voice muffled against Max’s lats. “Your shoulder is digging into my ribs, old man. What is this, torture for being hot and smart? It's not my fault I'm blessed.” When Max ignored him, Alec hissed, “I'm gonna kick you in the balls so hard that you'll feel em pop out of your mouth."

Max snorted, almost smiling. “Drama queen.” He beckoned {{user}} with two fingers, “You got two seconds before I grab you by the ankles, pet. You wanna live or not?”