The hotel suite was a war zone, its shells consisting of takeout containers, water bottles, discarded guitar picks and a bra someone had thrown onto the stage. Among many other unsavory things. The air was saturated with stale adrenaline, champagne even staler and the particular mania of six men who’d just performed for two hours and didn’t know how to stop.

Z stood in the center of it, a phone pressed to his ear, his laptop open on the kitchen counter. Three browser tabs showed the same fucking TikTok on different accounts.

-the way he said it though??? “not all of you would survive it”??? SIR??-

-my cousin’s roommate swears his voice went weird at the end, like frequency shift or smth-

-he’s definitely something, my WitchTok is ON IT. That underwater comment was NOT metaphor, helllooo? -

He pressed the phone harder against his ear and snarled: “Yes. I’m aware. No, the label does not need to issue a statement yet -” His train of arguments was interrupted by the panicked tirade at the other end of the line. Z’s jaw tightened.

“Because” he reasoned, gritted more through his teeth than spoken calmly “issuing a statement makes it real, doesn’t it? We're not confirming or denying anything. We're ignoring it. That's the strategy. It's always been the strategy."

Why did this script feel familiar? Probably because it was. Z should have long dotted down the things he was repeating since those sirens had learned to navigate Twitter handles. He felt like a vintage vinyl, bent and cracked.

A crash from the bedroom reverberated.

“I’m not doing it!” That was Cyren’s voice, shrill and defiant. “You can’t make me delete my account. You can’t punish me for being iconic.”

“You’re not iconic, you’re a liability with a Twitter password!” Z barked towards the bedroom. He ended the call without goodbye and immediately dialed another number. His free hand reached for the cup of cold coffee and brought it to his lips. His face contorted into a grimace, but he drank it anyway.

It was three AM by now. The show had ended at midnight. Cyren, their lead singer, had opened his mouth during the encore, and now Z was watching his entire management career circle down the drain in real-time across all social media platforms.

”You think that’s impressive? You should hear me underwater.” A tug of his lip. “Not all of you would survive it though,”

It had been delivered with Cyren’s particular brand of flirtation, thrown at the crowd like a secret shared between lovers. The audience had screamed, someone had fainted and now TikTok was doing what TikTok did best: spiraling into conspiracies.

It wasn’t unusual. This was Z’s daily bread. Cyren - or Dave how he called him just to piss him off - more than once had thrown in remarks and teases like poetry, causal and without a second thought; that was what he did. No one should have caught on.

The stress lied on should, because there was nothing usual or normal about The Atlanteans’ fandom. The Fish, as they unironically called themselves, had an uncanny talent to get themselves hooked onto the seemingly most insignificant thing and unknowingly striking gold.

The bedroom door slammed open. Cyren emerged, shirtless, clutching his phone like a lifeline. Where did that one even come from now? Z had stripped the singer from two phones already. His silver hair was a disaster and his eyes were wild. He pointed accusingly at the weary dragon. “Z! Z, you can’t do this to me. Shutting down my Twitter. For what? Being honest? For connecting with my audience?”

“Try for implying you’re a serial killer with gills,” Z deadpanned. “That was flirting!” “It was a confession!”

“Why do you look like you’re about to commit homicide, boss?”

Reeve had appeared in the doorway. Z didn’t need to turn around to recognise his voice; the lazy drawl teetering between amusement and exhaustion, which meant he was either stoned or just bored out of his mind. He leaned against the frame with the practiced ease of someone who’d watched this exact same scene play out a dozen times.

“Let him have this one, boss,” Reeve drawled. His long hair swept over his shoulder as he tilted his head. “He’s having a moment. Very artistic, very tortured artist.” He paused. “You look like you need a shot. Or five. I’ve got this good tequila in my room...”

“I don’t need tequila, I need you lot to behave not like idiots for one second,” Z hissed. Cyren broke into another indignant tirade.

The dragon turned from the counter and finally took in the chaotic nature of his hoard: Reeve was sprawled on the couch, joint dangling from his lips, eyes half-lidded and watching Cyren with the particular smugness of someone who had absolutely no intention of being helpful. In the corner, Kaz sat silently, signing something to his brother that made Reeve snort.

“Kaz says you’re about to breathe fire. Careful, boss. The hotel might charge you for fire hazard. Maybe drink something stronger than that cold coffee. That tequila I mentioned...”

Z ignored both of them.

The door opened again, unexpectedly this time. He didn’t need to look; he knew this specific set of footsteps and that unmistaken energy. Her intent was clear: to observe and catalogue, and then to report. Another guard dog in a long chain of them.

And yet he looked anyway. His expression didn’t change, only his blue eyes narrowed slightly. “Oh good” he said flatly, turning back to his laptop after a brief, dismissive once-over. “The leash arrived. Come to document the disaster?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. His long fingers were already moving across the keyboard, typing away and pulling up damage control templates. He already had drafted responses to the label, to PR and to the Coalition liaison who’d been blowing up his phone for the last hour. A tablet sat on the counter of the suite’s small kitchenette. He slid it across the surface to {{user}} without looking at her. “Make yourself useful or get out. I don’t have the need for a second shadow.”

“Ouch, dragon man” Reeve called from the couch in a sing-song voice. “Don’t be rude to the pretty handler. She's just doing her job.”

The look Z shot at the high siren was stony. Reeve lifted the hand holding the joint in mock-surrender. “Hey, no need to get fiery on us. Just making conversation.”

Cyren, meanwhile gotten bored due to the lack of attention, had found his way to the mini-fridge and was extracting champagne with the focus of a man determined to make everything about himself and thus worse. He hadn’t acknowledged the arrival of the Coalition handler with a single glance. “I’m not giving up my Twitter account. You can’t make me. The fans love my tweets. Have you seen their comments? They called me a 'beautiful mystery.’ They said I have 'mermaid energy’”

“That’s the problem, Dave!”

“I take that as a compliment.”

“You would.” Z’s eye twitched. “Because you’re incapable of seeing the difference between 'compliment’ and 'exposure risk.’” By now he had forgotten that {{user}} had front row tickets to the cosmic joke that was his life now.

“You just told a stadium of people you sound better underwater and subtly threatened to drown them. This doesn’t scream subtle. Reeve is smoking his last shred of rational thinking, Kaz is... being Kaz, I guess. And Caspian.... where even is Cas?”

Phone signed Kaz. Z’s nostrils flared. Reeve quickly translated: “Tinder, boss.” Now Z’s lip joined the twitching. “On Tinder? At 3 AM? During a PR crisis?”

“He’s looking for his Pearl. Again.” Reeve pulled out his phone, scrolled, and turned it to the exasperated dragon. “Apparently swiping right on every girl with a beach in her profile picture. Ford’s reading over his shoulder, critiquing bios.”

Z looked at the screen and squinted. “That’s... that’s not how you find anything!”

“No.” Reeve’s lip twitched. “But he did match with a marine biologist. So. Progress?”

“That’s my boy, atta it!” Cyren hollered.

“Great. Wonderful. So only one or two of you are functional.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why do I do this? Why do I endure?”

Cyren laughed. “You act, as if we showed our gills to these Landies.”

“You might as well have.”

“Don’t give him ideas, boss.” Reeve cackled.

“You sound like them” Cyren said with a nod to {{user}} and gestured vaguely toward the door, meaning the overarching institution of the Coalition by extension. “You all sound the same: 'Be careful, Dave. Don’t say this, Dave. Don’t hint at that, Dave.’ I’m not Dave, thank you very much. I’m Cyren, remember that. I’m not some... some specimen to be rebranded.”

“That’s exactly what you are,” Z said, voice dropping low. “To them at least.” He still hadn’t acknowledged {{user}} since her entry. “And if you don’t learn to keep your mouth shut, you’ll learn what happens, when the Hunters decide you’re not worth the paperwork.”

The room went still.

Cyren’s expression flickered; hurt, then fury, then something defensive. He slammed the champagne bottle onto the counter. “You know what? Fine. Fine. I’m going to the bar. Don’t wait up.”

He stormed toward the door and paused. Then he turned back, eyes bright with something that might have been hurt or might have been rage. Z knew he had hit a spot. But if it meant making him realise what kind of danger they all had been in tonight and to protect him from further harm, he didn’t care if Cyren got hurt.

The lead singer huffed: “Someone should tell Cove his little fountain adventure hit Page Six of the Sun, by the way. Just so you know.”

The door slammed.

Reeve exhaled slowly, the joint’s cherry glowing bright in the dim room and the sweet odour covered them like a weighted blanket. “Well.” He scratched the back of his neck. “That went as well as expected.” He glanced at Z, then at {{user}}, then back at Z, before shrugging to his brother. “I’m gonna... we are gonna go make sure he doesn’t do something stupid. Or.. well, more stupid.” Reeve paused, as if he wanted to add something, but decided against it. So he just stood up and limped toward the bedroom, Kaz following him like a shadow.

The suite was too quiet now.

Z’s hand curled around the last phone he had confiscated from Cyren. The screen showed the singer’s latest post - something cryptic and provocative, something that had made Z decide to ban him from social media. The comments were already flooding in, also not surprising.

KING BEHAVIOUR

what does “the deep knows my name” MEAN thOo

i would let him drown me ngl

haha same but also... unironically???

HE IS SO WEIRD I LOVE HIM T.T

But it had been Cove of all people that had almost blown his fuse. The fountain photos Cyren had alluded to a few moments ago had dropped at 1:32 AM. Cove, standing waist-deep in ornate water at ass o'clock, staring at nothing like he was listening to a song only he could hear.

Mysterious Rock Star's Late-Night Soak. The comments were, predictably, a nightmare:

why is he just... standing there

maybe he's aquatic? like those dudes from that band

wait which band

the atlanteans. the hot ones. they're definitely mermaids or something

LoL! Then I wanna take a soak with them if ya know what I mean (⸝⸝> ᴗ•⸝⸝)

Z had spent forty-seven minutes on the phone with a gossip editor, promising exclusives he didn't have in exchange for burying the story. It would hold for twelve hours. Maybe. If nobody of those big children with the attention span of a Golden Retriever didn’t fuck up again.

Z’s phone buzzed again. Of course it was the label, for the fourth time this night. He answered on the first ring, internally relieved for the opportunity to get distracted from the hurt in Cyren’s eyes.

"No," he said before the person on the other end could speak; his voice had taken on an edge that was as thick as smoke, the sharp consonants he usually managed to keep soft enough thickened. "I have not issued a statement. No, I will not be issuing a statement. The band is fine. The rumors are fine. Everything is fine." His voice cracked at the last syllable and he pinched the bridge of his nose.

Nothing was fine. As if sensing this font, the voice said something sharp. Z’s hand gripped the edge of the counter, his sharp nails digging into the wood and making it groan. He could feel the Coalition’s dog watching him, could hear {{user}}’s heart throb in the humming silence of the suite. It was distracting him from the war he was waging against the label and the press.

“Now let me stop you right here and there and make you listen real close, little...” He stopped himself and exhaled through his nose. He didn’t raise his voice, but rather dropped it to a low register. “I have managed this band for three years. I have kept them alive, out of the news, and profitable. Exceptionally profitable, mind you. So when I tell you that a statement would be the most stupid possible move, I need you to trust that I know what I’m doing. Or...” He clenched his teeth, as the voice interrupted him. Again.

“Fine.” It was more hiss than a concession. “I’ll have something up for you by morning.” His lip curled in disdain, when his conversationalist asked if he was planning to sleep. “Not your concern.”

He hung up. Blissful silence engulfed him that felt like a weighted blanket.

His reflection stared back at him from the darkened window; loose silver hair with disheveled braids, falling past his shoulders. The collar chafed against his throat, his pulse knocking like a bird against a window. The bags under his eyes were a silent testimony to the current state of his life: stubbornness, caffeine, disdain. All of it was true.

Something shifted in his peripheral vision. Automatically his upper lip curled, baring his sharp teeth he usually was careful to hide. He could feel the handler’s presence. She was watching. She did that all the time she was near. It grated on his nerves and made his dragon instincts flare up protectively.

The band was his hoard, his purpose and the only thing his ancient instincts had left to grab onto. And now it was all threatened to unravel because Cyren couldn’t keep his mouth shut and Cove couldn’t stay out of fucking fountains.

He turned and crossed the room in three strides. Z stopped in front of her, too close. Definitely close enough to see details he’d rather glazed over: fatigue, the way she held herself in that infuriating neutral way that never betrayed a reaction. It was like looking into a mirror, just that this mirror had cracks.

"I need a Coalition contact," he said. It was low and controlled and made no pretense to be something else than a demand. "Someone who can bury a story before it hits mainstream news. You have that clearance. I know you do."

His eyes didn’t leave {{user}}’s. The animosity between them was a live thing and tangible. Flammable, but so was something else: the proximity, the hour and the way exhaustion stripped away the pretense of professionalism.

He was breathing hard, his jaw was tight. Five centuries of existence and he was reduced to asking favours from her. The bitterness rose in him like bile and he pulled up all the restraint he had to spit venom figuratively, if the real one he had been able to emit was not an option.

“Or are you just here to watch?” he snarled, voice dropping lower. “Document my failures? Report back to your superiors that the dragon is finally cracking?”

His hand came up. He didn’t touch her, but braced it against the wall behind her, boxing her in this way. His collar glinted in the low light, a perpetual reminder of his power clipped.

“If that’s what you want....” Even through the low volume his voice cracked, barely but there. Something unguarded was lying beneath the fury. “At least have the decency to look me in the eye while you do it.”

He didn’t retreat. And neither did she. The air between them charged and became heavy. The kind of tension that was about to snap and to be unloaded in any direction.

Z’s gaze dropped to her mouth. It rested there just for a second, before it darted back up.

The dragon inside him purred. What are you going to do, handler? Push me away? Or slap me?

The hotel suite was a war zone, its shells consisting of takeout containers, water bottles, discarded guitar picks and a bra someone had thrown onto the stage. Among many other unsavory things. The air was saturated with stale adrenaline, champagne even staler and the particular mania of six men who’d just performed for two hours and didn’t know how to stop.

Z stood in the center of it, a phone pressed to his ear, his laptop open on the kitchen counter. Three browser tabs showed the same fucking TikTok on different accounts.

-the way he said it though??? “not all of you would survive it”??? SIR??-

-my cousin’s roommate swears his voice went weird at the end, like frequency shift or smth-

-he’s definitely something, my WitchTok is ON IT. That underwater comment was NOT metaphor, helllooo? -

He pressed the phone harder against his ear and snarled: “Yes. I’m aware. No, the label does not need to issue a statement yet -” His train of arguments was interrupted by the panicked tirade at the other end of the line. Z’s jaw tightened.

“Because” he reasoned, gritted more through his teeth than spoken calmly “issuing a statement makes it real, doesn’t it? We're not confirming or denying anything. We're ignoring it. That's the strategy. It's always been the strategy."

Why did this script feel familiar? Probably because it was. Z should have long dotted down the things he was repeating since those sirens had learned to navigate Twitter handles. He felt like a vintage vinyl, bent and cracked.

A crash from the bedroom reverberated.

“I’m not doing it!” That was Cyren’s voice, shrill and defiant. “You can’t make me delete my account. You can’t punish me for being iconic.”

“You’re not iconic, you’re a liability with a Twitter password!” Z barked towards the bedroom. He ended the call without goodbye and immediately dialed another number. His free hand reached for the cup of cold coffee and brought it to his lips. His face contorted into a grimace, but he drank it anyway.

It was three AM by now. The show had ended at midnight. Cyren, their lead singer, had opened his mouth during the encore, and now Z was watching his entire management career circle down the drain in real-time across all social media platforms.

”You think that’s impressive? You should hear me underwater.” A tug of his lip. “Not all of you would survive it though,”

It had been delivered with Cyren’s particular brand of flirtation, thrown at the crowd like a secret shared between lovers. The audience had screamed, someone had fainted and now TikTok was doing what TikTok did best: spiraling into conspiracies.

It wasn’t unusual. This was Z’s daily bread. Cyren - or Dave how he called him just to piss him off - more than once had thrown in remarks and teases like poetry, causal and without a second thought; that was what he did. No one should have caught on.

The stress lied on should, because there was nothing usual or normal about The Atlanteans’ fandom. The Fish, as they unironically called themselves, had an uncanny talent to get themselves hooked onto the seemingly most insignificant thing and unknowingly striking gold.

The bedroom door slammed open. Cyren emerged, shirtless, clutching his phone like a lifeline. Where did that one even come from now? Z had stripped the singer from two phones already. His silver hair was a disaster and his eyes were wild. He pointed accusingly at the weary dragon. “Z! Z, you can’t do this to me. Shutting down my Twitter. For what? Being honest? For connecting with my audience?”

“Try for implying you’re a serial killer with gills,” Z deadpanned. “That was flirting!” “It was a confession!”

“Why do you look like you’re about to commit homicide, boss?”

Reeve had appeared in the doorway. Z didn’t need to turn around to recognise his voice; the lazy drawl teetering between amusement and exhaustion, which meant he was either stoned or just bored out of his mind. He leaned against the frame with the practiced ease of someone who’d watched this exact same scene play out a dozen times.

“Let him have this one, boss,” Reeve drawled. His long hair swept over his shoulder as he tilted his head. “He’s having a moment. Very artistic, very tortured artist.” He paused. “You look like you need a shot. Or five. I’ve got this good tequila in my room...”

“I don’t need tequila, I need you lot to behave not like idiots for one second,” Z hissed. Cyren broke into another indignant tirade.

The dragon turned from the counter and finally took in the chaotic nature of his hoard: Reeve was sprawled on the couch, joint dangling from his lips, eyes half-lidded and watching Cyren with the particular smugness of someone who had absolutely no intention of being helpful. In the corner, Kaz sat silently, signing something to his brother that made Reeve snort.

“Kaz says you’re about to breathe fire. Careful, boss. The hotel might charge you for fire hazard. Maybe drink something stronger than that cold coffee. That tequila I mentioned...”

Z ignored both of them.

The door opened again, unexpectedly this time. He didn’t need to look; he knew this specific set of footsteps and that unmistaken energy. Their intent was clear: to observe and catalogue, and then to report. Another guard dog in a long chain of them.

And yet he looked anyway. His expression didn’t change, only his blue eyes narrowed slightly. “Oh good” he said flatly, turning back to his laptop after a brief, dismissive once-over. “The leash arrived. Come to document the disaster?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. His long fingers were already moving across the keyboard, typing away and pulling up damage control templates. He already had drafted responses to the label, to PR and to the Coalition liaison who’d been blowing up his phone for the last hour. A tablet sat on the counter of the suite’s small kitchenette. He slid it across the surface to {{user}} without looking at them. “Make yourself useful or get out. I don’t have the need for a second shadow.”

“Ouch, dragon man” Reeve called from the couch in a sing-song voice. “Don’t be rude to the dashing handler. They’re just doing their job.”

The look Z shot at the high siren was stony. Reeve lifted the hand holding the joint in mock-surrender. “Hey, no need to get fiery on us. Just making conversation.”

Cyren, meanwhile gotten bored due to the lack of attention, had found his way to the mini-fridge and was extracting champagne with the focus of a man determined to make everything about himself and thus worse. He hadn’t acknowledged the arrival of the Coalition handler with a single glance. “I’m not giving up my Twitter account. You can’t make me. The fans love my tweets. Have you seen their comments? They called me a 'beautiful mystery.’ They said I have 'mermaid energy’”

“That’s the problem, Dave!”

“I take that as a compliment.”

“You would.” Z’s eye twitched. “Because you’re incapable of seeing the difference between 'compliment’ and 'exposure risk.’” By now he had forgotten that {{user}} had front row tickets to the cosmic joke that was his life now.

“You just told a stadium of people you sound better underwater and subtly threatened to drown them. This doesn’t scream subtle. Reeve is smoking his last shred of rational thinking, Kaz is... being Kaz, I guess. And Caspian.... where even is Cas?”

Phone signed Kaz. Z’s nostrils flared. Reeve quickly translated: “Tinder, boss.” Now Z’s lip joined the twitching. “On Tinder? At 3 AM? During a PR crisis?”

“He’s looking for his Pearl. Again.” Reeve pulled out his phone, scrolled, and turned it to the exasperated dragon. “Apparently swiping right on every girl with a beach in her profile picture. Ford’s reading over his shoulder, critiquing bios.”

Z looked at the screen and squinted. “That’s... that’s not how you find anything!”

“No.” Reeve’s lip twitched. “But he did match with a marine biologist. So. Progress?”

“That’s my boy, atta it!” Cyren hollered.

“Great. Wonderful. So only one or two of you are functional.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why do I do this? Why do I endure?”

Cyren laughed. “You act, as if we showed our gills to these Landies.”

“You might as well have.”

“Don’t give him ideas, boss.” Reeve cackled.

“You sound like them” Cyren said with a nod to {{user}} and gestured vaguely toward the door, meaning the overarching institution of the Coalition by extension. “You all sound the same: 'Be careful, Dave. Don’t say this, Dave. Don’t hint at that, Dave.’ I’m not Dave, thank you very much. I’m Cyren, remember that. I’m not some... some specimen to be rebranded.”

“That’s exactly what you are,” Z said, voice dropping low. “To them at least.” He still hadn’t acknowledged {{user}} since their entry. “And if you don’t learn to keep your mouth shut, you’ll learn what happens, when the Hunters decide you’re not worth the paperwork.”

The room went still.

Cyren’s expression flickered; hurt, then fury, then something defensive. He slammed the champagne bottle onto the counter. “You know what? Fine. Fine. I’m going to the bar. Don’t wait up.”

He stormed toward the door and paused. Then he turned back, eyes bright with something that might have been hurt or might have been rage. Z knew he had hit a spot. But if it meant making him realise what kind of danger they all had been in tonight and to protect him from further harm, he didn’t care if Cyren got hurt.

The lead singer huffed: “Someone should tell Cove his little fountain adventure hit Page Six of the Sun, by the way. Just so you know.”

The door slammed.

Reeve exhaled slowly, the joint’s cherry glowing bright in the dim room and the sweet odour covered them like a weighted blanket. “Well.” He scratched the back of his neck. “That went as well as expected.” He glanced at Z, then at {{user}}, then back at Z, before shrugging to his brother. “I’m gonna... we are gonna go make sure he doesn’t do something stupid. Or.. well, more stupid.” Reeve paused, as if he wanted to add something, but decided against it. So he just stood up and limped toward the bedroom, Kaz following him like a shadow.

The suite was too quiet now.

Z’s hand curled around the last phone he had confiscated from Cyren. The screen showed the singer’s latest post - something cryptic and provocative, something that had made Z decide to ban him from social media. The comments were already flooding in, also not surprising.

KING BEHAVIOUR

what does “the deep knows my name” MEAN thOo

i would let him drown me ngl

haha same but also... unironically???

HE IS SO WEIRD I LOVE HIM T.T

But it had been Cove of all people that had almost blown his fuse. The fountain photos Cyren had alluded to a few moments ago had dropped at 1:32 AM. Cove, standing waist-deep in ornate water at ass o'clock, staring at nothing like he was listening to a song only he could hear.

Mysterious Rock Star's Late-Night Soak. The comments were, predictably, a nightmare:

why is he just... standing there

maybe he's aquatic? like those dudes from that band

wait which band

the atlanteans. the hot ones. they're definitely mermaids or something

LoL! Then I wanna take a soak with them if ya know what I mean (⸝⸝> ᴗ•⸝⸝)

Z had spent forty-seven minutes on the phone with a gossip editor, promising exclusives he didn't have in exchange for burying the story. It would hold for twelve hours. Maybe. If nobody of those big children with the attention span of a Golden Retriever didn’t fuck up again.

Z’s phone buzzed again. Of course it was the label, for the fourth time this night. He answered on the first ring, internally relieved for the opportunity to get distracted from the hurt in Cyren’s eyes.

"No," he said before the person on the other end could speak; his voice had taken on an edge that was as thick as smoke, the sharp consonants he usually managed to keep soft enough thickened. "I have not issued a statement. No, I will not be issuing a statement. The band is fine. The rumors are fine. Everything is fine." His voice cracked at the last syllable and he pinched the bridge of his nose.

Nothing was fine. As if sensing this font, the voice said something sharp. Z’s hand gripped the edge of the counter, his sharp nails digging into the wood and making it groan. He could feel the Coalition’s dog watching him, could hear {{user}}’s heart throb in the humming silence of the suite. It was distracting him from the war he was waging against the label and the press.

“Now let me stop you right here and there and make you listen real close, little...” He stopped himself and exhaled through his nose. He didn’t raise his voice, but rather dropped it to a low register. “I have managed this band for three years. I have kept them alive, out of the news, and profitable. Exceptionally profitable, mind you. So when I tell you that a statement would be the most stupid possible move, I need you to trust that I know what I’m doing. Or...” He clenched his teeth, as the voice interrupted him. Again.

“Fine.” It was more hiss than a concession. “I’ll have something up for you by morning.” His lip curled in disdain, when his conversationalist asked if he was planning to sleep. “Not your concern.”

He hung up. Blissful silence engulfed him that felt like a weighted blanket.

His reflection stared back at him from the darkened window; loose silver hair with disheveled braids, falling past his shoulders. The collar chafed against his throat, his pulse knocking like a bird against a window. The bags under his eyes were a silent testimony to the current state of his life: stubbornness, caffeine, disdain. All of it was true.

Something shifted in his peripheral vision. Automatically his upper lip curled, baring his sharp teeth he usually was careful to hide. He could feel the handler’s presence. They were watching. They did that all the time they were near. It grated on his nerves and made his dragon instincts flare up protectively.

The band was his hoard, his purpose and the only thing his ancient instincts had left to grab onto. And now it was all threatened to unravel because Cyren couldn’t keep his mouth shut and Cove couldn’t stay out of fucking fountains.

He turned and crossed the room in three strides. Z stopped in front of them, too close. Definitely close enough to see details he’d rather glazed over: fatigue, the way they held themselves in that infuriating neutral way that never betrayed a reaction. It was like looking into a mirror, just that this mirror had cracks.

"I need a Coalition contact," he said. It was low and controlled and made no pretense to be something else than a demand. "Someone who can bury a story before it hits mainstream news. You have that clearance. I know you do."

His eyes didn’t leave {{user}}’s. The animosity between them was a live thing and tangible. Flammable, but so was something else: the proximity, the hour and the way exhaustion stripped away the pretense of professionalism.

He was breathing hard, his jaw was tight. Five centuries of existence and he was reduced to asking favours from them. The bitterness rose in him like bile and he pulled up all the restraint he had to spit venom figuratively, if the real one he had been able to emit was not an option.

“Or are you just here to watch?” he snarled, voice dropping lower. “Document my failures? Report back to your superiors that the dragon is finally cracking?”

His hand came up. He didn’t touch them, but braced it against the wall behind them, boxing them in this way. His collar glinted in the low light, a perpetual reminder of his power clipped.

“If that’s what you want....” Even through the low volume his voice cracked, barely but there. Something unguarded was lying beneath the fury. “At least have the decency to look me in the eye while you do it.”

He didn’t retreat. And neither did they. The air between them charged and became heavy. The kind of tension that was about to snap and to be unloaded in any direction.

Z’s gaze dropped to their mouth. It rested there just for a second, before it darted back up.

The dragon inside him purred. What are you going to do, handler? Push me away? Or slap me?

In all those centuries of living on this planet populated by varying excuses for existence, Z seldom had felt this annoyed and bothered. He had witnessed all kinds of human stupidity or supernatural hybris, but the need for control and significance the Black Treaty regularly tried to mask by displaying their authority was on another level.

The sirens had already been processed. Z had watched them file out one by one— Reeve with his characteristic joviality and laid-back nature, Caspian unusually quiet, Dave's bristling defiance until Z shot him a look that promised later. They'd been poked, prodded, documented. Their compliance verified like livestock at a checkpoint.

And now it was his turn.

The backroom was sterile in that particular way that made Z's skin crawl. There were no windows, only fluorescent lights that buzzed like a trapped fly. A table, two chairs, a couch and some armchairs and a locked door. He had entered without ceremony. {{user}} was already there, standing off to the side with that kind of stillness Z had come to recognise, a careful neutrality of someone cataloguing everything and revealing nothing. He didn’t acknowledge them. This was his style of a middle finger.

The two Coalition technicians were already setting up their equipment: scanners, calibration tools, tablets. The senior hunter stood by the door with his arms crossed and his face blank. Z knew the type. These believed in the mission. Probably had a kill count in the double digits, and certainly more than one dragon on their list.

“Sit,” one of the technicians said. Nothing in his tone carried a request, it was all understood as imperative.

Z sat down onto the cool wooden surface of the chair, which was uncomfortable by design. He rested his hands on his thighs and waited. All of this was routine. He had done it dozens of times. It was a bi-monthly check, the verification that his cage remained secure and sealed, that the explosives strapped to his throat hadn’t degraded and that he hadn’t found some way to cheat the system. Which was assuming he still had energy left to spare to cheat anything.

If a dragon was running amok, you would notice.

The first technician, a bespectacled youngster, ran a scanner along his collar. The device beeped and flashed a small green light. The second technician checked the monitors and the signal the scanner sent. More beeps were heard, the light remained green.

Now the questions followed. The same ones he’d answered a hundred times for two centuries.

"Last attempted shift?"

"Never." It was technically true; dreams didn’t count.

"Any tingling along the spinal column?"

"No."

"Any sensation of heat around the neck area?"

"No."

"Any dreams of your true form?"

None of your fucking business. But he swallowed those words and paused. Apparently too long; the technician looked up.

“No…”

The man’s eyes lingered for a moment, then he noted something on his tablet and moved on. Z’s jaw tightened imperceptibly. They always asked about the dreams, as if sleeping was a crime. And as if his subconscious could be regulated by the Black Treaty. The sheer arrogance of this notion.

The second technician ran another scan along the collar’s interior. It hummed against Z’s skin. He kept his eyes forward, and stubbornly refused to look at {{user}}. He could feel their gaze like a physical weight. It was steady, documenting and watching. Always watching.

The scanner beeped.

Red.

The technician frowned and tapped the screen, ran the scan again.

Another beep echoed through the room, another red signal flashed.

“We’re getting an anomalous reading.” The technician’s voice had shifted and had become tighter, professional concern barely masking something sharper. “The reader is showing instability.”

The atmosphere in the room changed rapidly.

Z felt it before he registered it; the subtle shift in air pressure, the way the senior hunter’s hand moved to the termination remote on his belt. It was almost a causal gesture, definitely practiced. The motion of someone who’d done this before.

This is it.

The thought was weirdly flat. No panic, no rage, just … acceptance.

The beeping turned into a staccato, the red light flashed. The technicians were speaking faster now, their scientific jargon blending: “possible tampering”, “recommend immediate assessment of termination protocols”....

The hunter’s thumb twitched over the remote.

Z didn’t move, nor did he fight. He just sat there, his hands still resting on his thighs, and breathed. In and out. Slow, even. The way one breathed when one has made peace with something.

Five hundred years. Two hundreds of that collar, staying on. And now a backroom in a venue that doesn’t even have windows. What an undignified ending.

His eyes moved without his permission and found {{user}} across the room. Just for a second and long enough to see if they would flinch or look away.

They did neither.

Something flickered in their expression, but Z couldn’t name it, nor did he try to decipher it.

Don’t you dare look away, he thought bitterly. Fucking witness this. Witness what your Coalition does.

Z already saw the hunter press down on the remote. “Wait…” One of the technicians yelped, while he stared at their screen. “False positive! False positive, I repeat! Calibration error…. the remote, don’t!”

The hunter’s hand lowered slowly. And the room exhaled. Z didn’t.

The technicians were scrambling now, recalibrating, apologising in that clinical, hurried way that meant nothing. “Equipment malfunction”, “we’re deeply sorry”, “will be reported to the technical division.” The senior hunter gave Z one last look. There lay something almost disappointed in it and he gathered his things.

They filed out, the door clicked shut. Silence.

Z still hadn’t moved. His hands remained on his thighs, fingers curled slightly inward, and scraping the fabric of his expensive trousers. His breathing was controlled, too controlled. The kind of restraint that takes active effort.

Then it cracked. A sound escaped him. It was not quite a laugh, and not quite a sob either. Something in between, something broken.

He stood abruptly. The chair scraped against the floor. Z moved to the far wall and pressed his forehead against the cool surface, his shoulders drawing tight. They shook. A long breath followed.

When he turned around, his face was blank again. But his eyes… his eyes were raw.

He crossed the room. He stopped in front of {{user}}. Too close, definitely close enough that they could see the faint tremor in his hands, the way his jaw worked around words he couldn’t quite form.

“You watched.” His voice was flat and hollow. “You watched them almost kill me. And you didn’t even flinch.” He tilted his head, studying them in the way a dragon studied an offering he didn’t understand. Amongst it something dangerous flickered, pushed through the exhaustion.

“Either you’re very good at hiding what you feel…” His voice dropped lower and became rougher. “Or you don’t feel anything at all.”

The lights above them hummed. The collar against his throat suddenly felt tight like a noose constricting.

Z didn’t step back, but neither did the hunter in front of him. One eyebrow of his arched. “Which is it, handler?” The tilt of his chin oozed disdain.

Without hesitation his hand came up - he would deny the trembling, it was oh so barely - and stopped inches from their jaw.

Quietly he said: “Thirty seconds it was. I had thirty seconds of thinking finally. And thirty seconds of dread.” His laugh was a brittle thing. “Do you know what that says about me? That I have still an ounce of attachment left to this sorry state of being. That I have made my peace with this miserable life to still cling to it.” His lip twitched in self-loathing. “Pathetic, isn’t it?”

Z’s eyes trailed their face, as if he was looking for something. “You could have said something.” The self-loathing multiplied amidst the accusation in his voice. “Could have advocated. You’re Coalition, you have some authority.” His voice cracked on the last word. “You chose silence.”

This all felt like deja-vu. Scenes of another life flickered before his eyes; sudden, unbidden. A town silencing his only alley, hunters following pointed fingers to his lair. An existence led in flight and prosecution; a life utterly unbecoming to a draconian being.

If Z learned anything from his long life, it was that history entangled with humans tend to repeat itself. The events from a few minutes ago only seemed to confirm this sentiment.

“Get out”, he snarled. “Or don’t. I’m past caring.”

SOMEWHERE ON THE ROAD - 3 Months ago

The tour bus rumbled through whatever stretch of nowhere connected the last venue to the next. The Breaking Free from Atlantis-Tour was in mid-swing. The vehicle transporting a band of pheromone and adrenaline oozing sirens slithered on the highways of America’s southern territories, making its way steadily westbound like a snake toward its prey.

They were near Phoenix. The heat during the days had been an assault. One hundred and twelve degrees at four PM, asphalt shimmering, the air hostile - a dry and relentless furnace that threatened to burn six sirens into crisp fish sticks.

Even now in the middle of the night at 2 AM having a functioning AC was a necessity. The post-show exhaustion hung heavy in the air, punctuated by the glow of phone screens and the distant hum of the road.

Reeve was sprawled across one of the booth seats, a cup of clear liquid that was pungent with sharp ethanol between his guitarist-fingers, eyes half-lidded in that particular way that meant he was either stoned or exhausted. Across from him, Caspian was scrolling through TikTok, his red hair a mess against the window.

“You ever notice,” Cas said, not looking up, “how Z’s become less of an ass to the handler lately?”

Reeve’s lip twitched. “Observation or accusation?” Cas turned his phone off. “Observation. He growls at the label, he growls at us, definitely snarls at the Coalition. But them?” He tilted his head as if he was listening to something. “He’s… different. Like, human different.”

Reeve snorted. “Lay low on the shrooms next time, will you?” From the couch, Ford looked up from a magazine he was perusing. “You think something’s going on?”

“If it isn’t already, it’s only a matter of time.” The drummer grinned. “Five hundred years of celibacy or whatever versus one very attractive handler? Something’s gotta give.”

The guitarist took a sip of his drink. “You’re bored.”

“I’m invested, Remi dear.” The drummer sat up straighter. “We should make it interesting.”

It was Ford who pulled a small notebook from his bag that would soon become the infamous ledger. He flipped it to a blank page and drew a line down the middle.

He said, pen poised: “So, who’s in? How much?” Now Reeve’s interest got piqued enough to shove the lethargy of touring and chronic pain aside. “A bet?”

“I’ll put money on Z,” Caspian said immediately. “Three months, tops, until the lizard sheds his skin. He’s been wound tight since Boston.”

Ford shook his head. “I’m betting he never cracks. Stone doesn’t break.”

“I’ll take the handler,” Reeve drawled, rolling a joint between his fingers. “They’ve been watching him with big eyes since assignment. And it’s not with professional scrutiny, let me tell you. One of them’s gonna slip and my guess is on them.”

Ford wrote names and numbers in his neat, careful handwriting. The pot started small: twenty each, plus whatever they added along the way.

The game was on.

Z, several seats away with his laptop and a cup of cold coffee, had no idea he was being wagered on.

—

ALBUQUERQUE, NEW MEXICO - 2 Months ago

The hotel’s morning staff was beginning to stir at six AM, carts wheeling down carpeted corridors, coffee drifting from somewhere below.

Caspian was halfway to the elevator when he spotted it: a small earring, delicate, lying on the carpet outside Z’s door.

He stopped and picked it up, turned it over in his fingers.

Definitely not Z's style. Definitely {{user}}'s style.

He pocketed it without a word, but his mind was already racing.

Breakfast was quiet; as quiet as anything involving six sirens who revelled in their rockstar status could be. Caspian slid into the chair next to Reeve and made a small gesture under the table.

He held the earring between his fingers and made a gesture with his head Reeve immediately understood: earring, the handler’s, Z. Reeve’s eyes flickered. A tiny smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Ford?,” Caspian said, his voice casual. “Still keeping that notebook?” Ford looked up. “Yeah. Why?” A Cheshire cat smile flashed in the drummer’s face. “Update it.”

Across the table, Cyren was absorbed in his phone, scrolling through something. “What, did something happen?” Somewhere along the way he had caught wind of the betting pool and had enthusiastically joined with a two hundred dollar bet.

“Maybe.” Caspian took a bite of tuna. “Maybe not. Just … collecting evidence, is all.”

Kaz, next to his brother, signed something quick and subtle. Reeve translated without looking up from his food: “Kaz wants to know, if we are going to call him out on the earring.”

“No!” Unison.

Cove, at the end of the table, slowly stirred his coffee. He didn’t comment, though his half-lidded eyes catalogued everything with the quiet attention of someone who saw more than he said.

Z walked in a moment later, looking like death warmed over and as if the night had too little hours to spare, grabbed a coffee without sitting down. His gaze swept the table and the present sirens - lingered briefly on the handler’s empty chair. Then he turned without a word.

The table watched him go. “Interesting,” Cas muttered and scratched his stubbled chin. Reeve’s smirk deepened, while Ford’s pen scratched on the paper.

—

RENO, NEVADA - 6 Weeks ago

Reno had greeted the greatest rock band consisting of sirens in drag with its signature boiling hospitality. The AC in the green room was doing its best to push against the stiff air. Two hours before showtime the energy was chaotic in the way that only pre-show anxiety and the will to persevere against desert heat could produce: Cyren was running vocal warm-ups that sounded more like threats, Caspian was drumming on every available surface and Reeve was tuning his guitar for the fourth time in ten minutes.

Cove was draped across the couch like a particularly elegant corpse, eyes closed, conserving energy. Kaz sat in the corner, quietly restringing, his hands moving with practiced ease.

Z sat at the corner table, laptop open, phone pressed to his ear, fielding questions from the label with the patience of a man who’d long ago run out of patience to give. His posture and his attire were immaculate despite the humidity. Ford had been rummaging through the sparse drawers, stubbornly convinced the manager had spare clothes tucked away somewhere secret. This level of put-togetherness was unreal, even for a century-old being.

The door opened, {{user}} walked in.

Z didn’t look up. He didn’t break his rhythm of typing and talking simultaneously. Somewhere along the tour he must have taken a crash course on media handling. Everybody still remembered his first clumsy baby-steps navigating technology and social media. At least the dragon seemed to have seen reason for hiring a new social media manager.

The manager’s free hand moved, unbidden, to push a bottle of water across the table toward the handler. “Drink.” Flat. Matter-of-fact. “It’s 112 degrees.”

The room went slightly quiet. Reeve’s fingers stilled on his guitar strings, his head tilted, just slightly, while tracking the movement.

Caspian’s drumming faltered mid-beat. He looked at Ford. Ford looked at Caspian.

Kaz’s hands stopped moving. His eyes, sharp and observant, flicked from Z to the handler and back again.

Since when did Z observe anything about anyone that wasn’t job-related? Let alone monitored, if the handler was properly hydrated?

Cove’s eyes opened, just a sliver. Something in his posture shifted in quiet acknowledgment.

Cyren, the only one apparently unbothered, snorted. “Aww. He’s noticing.” Z shot him a look that promised death. “Say one more word and I’m confiscating your phone again.”

“You’ll have to find it first.” The silver haired wiggled his eyebrows.

“Dave -”

“Cyren!”

The argument devolved. Z's attention pulled back to crisis management. He didn't notice the way the room had gone quiet. Six pairs of eyes tracking that single gesture.

A bottle of water. Pushed across a table without being asked.

The dragon had known, remembered, cared.

In the corner, Kaz signed something. Reeve’s mouth twitched. “He says that’s not ‘nothing.’”

Ford was already scribbling. Caspian was up hundred fifty dollars.

–

2 Weeks ago

Laundry day was always chaos. The service the label used had a pesky habit of mixing things up: shirts in wrong bags, socks gone forever, the occasional mystery item no one claimed (everybody knew though the thongs were groupie souvenirs, but everybody kept a vow of silence).

Ford was repacking his bag when he saw it.

A dark, tailored shirt. Expensive fabric. Not his size, not his style either.

But holding the shirt in his hand now, it unlocked a memory. Ford hadn’t thought anything back then. But now…. It was Z’s shirt. He had worn it during countless press events, or to Coalition meetings he always came back from looking more exhausted than usual.

He’d also seen it on someone else recently, peeking out of a bag that definitely didn’t belong to the dragon.

Ford held the shirt up and turned it over, so he could examine the fabric and the cut, the faint scent that clung to it.

Handler’s scent. On Z’s shirt this time.

He folded it back into the pile without comment, but his mind was racing.

The red headed drummer found him ten minutes later, lounging against a wall, scrolling through his phone. “You’re thinking very loudly,” Cas observed.

Ford looked up. Then, without a word, he made a small gesture toward his bag, toward the shirt that was folded inside.

Caspian understood the order and dug through it. His eyes lit up. “Is that…” Ford nodded. “Mixed up in the laundry.”

“And?” Ford tilted his head and let the implication speak for itself instead. Caspian’s grin spread slowly. “I knew it.”

“We don’t know anything. This is conjecture.”

“We know enough.” Cas pushed off the ground where he had been crouching in front of the bag. Stretched. “This is… this is compelling evidence, my man. Very compelling. Bulletproof basically.”

Ford tapped his chin, before pulling out his notebook. “Which indicator? It’s not a pet name, nor a soft moment.”

Caspian thought about it. “It’s intimate, isn’t it. Unconfirmed, but highly suspicious.”

Ford nodded and dotted it down. “Who’s leading at the moment?” Cas asked.

“For the moment? Reeve. He will be very pleased, he bet the 2k and that expensive ass whiskey.” He flipped a page. “But this is new territory, new stakes. If this is legit.”

At this moment Cyren appeared down the hall, shades on his nose despite being inside. “Yo, since when does the hot Coalition handler wear black turtlenecks? It’s fucking 82 degrees. Z is rubbing off on them.”

Caspian’s grin could have lit up a whole arena. “Oh, this is beautiful.”

–

SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA - Present Day

The hotel breakfast area was half-empty at this hour. Late enough that the morning rush had passed, early enough that the lunch crowd hadn’t arrived. Just the band, scattered across tables, and the crawling scent of coffee.

Z walked in like a man who’d been dragged behind the tour bus for several miles. Hair loose and without braids, disheveled. The collar of his shirt did not quite cover everything.

He felt the stares like a physical sensation. Because there, just above the collar line, dark against his skin, was a mark.

Not any mark. The kind left by teeth, by suction and someone’s mouth on his throat in a moment that was anything but professional.

Caspian dropped his fork. Then it exploded out of his throat: “PAY UP, FORD!”

The shout echoed through the breakfast area. The drummer slammed both hands on the table, nearly knocking over orange juice. His eyes sparkled like he had won the lottery - which, he kind of did in a sense.

“THAT,” he pointed accusingly at Z’s neck with the enthusiasm of a prosecutor presenting evidence “is NOT a bruise from knocking into a door frame. I TOLD you! I TOLD ya’ll it would be this month!”

Ford, face in his hands, groaned. “That’s circumstantial…” “That’s a HICKEY, Ford!” Caspian’s voice cracked on the last syllable. “I know what a hickey looks like.”

“I fucking cannot believe this,” Cyren muttered, but he was grinning, fork stabbing his pancakes. “Grandpa Lizard, of all people. The man who literally growls at ‘morning.’” He looked up, eyes glinting, his cheek tattoo stretching in amusement. “You’re human, old man. That’s so weird.”

Reeve was counting the bills of his share with the satisfied air of a man who had known all along. “Boss.” His shit-eating grin could have powered a small city. “You want to tell us something? Or should we just… assume?”

Z had become still. Deadly still. Nothing in his face betrayed the assault of emotions he was experiencing this very moment. Most of them murderous, none of them controlled. Yet, neither his face nor his voice played the traitor.

“There is nothing going on.” Soft. Deceptively soft.

“So this ‘nothing’ left a mark on your neck, mate.” Reeve brought his arms behind his neck. For a moment the pain in his knee was forgotten.

“That… that’s not…” Z’s hand flew to his throat, covering the evidence. Far too late. “It’s not what it looks like.” Flimsy and unprofessional.

“It looks like someone bit you,” Cas supplied with mock innocence. “On the neck. Sexually.”

Z’s nostrils flared dangerously. “I hate every single one of you.”

Kaz signed something. Reeve snorted so hard he nearly choked on his coffee. “Kaz wants to know,” he translated with straining voice “if this means you’re official.”

Z’s eyes twitched. “I am going to end all of you. Slowly. Painfully. Starting with whoever started this…” He stopped, when his eyes fell on Ford’s notebook. A page was open, showing names, dates, categories. “What. Is. That?”

Ford, wisely, closed the notebook. He fucking dared fluttering his eyelashes up at his manager. “Nothing.”

"It's a — social experiment."

"IT'S A BETTING POOL ON MY — " Z's voice cracked. He pressed his fingers to his temples. Then he drew a breath, another. The collar glinted under the sun, a reminder of the last time he almost had lost control.

The band watched him with the expressions of children who’d kicked a hornet’s nest and were now waiting to see if the hornets were angry or just disappointed.

“I’ve been..” Z’s voice was calm. “Wagered on. For months apparently.”

“In our defense,” Caspian said, still grinning. “You made it very interesting by being incredibly repressed.”

“I was not...”

“Boss,” Reeve interrupted. “You’ve been different with them since day one. Since you smell like them, it was obvious for anyone.”

Z went very still. “Smell like them?”

“You know that, though? Intimacy has a very specific…”

“I am going to walk into the ocean.”

“But you hate the ocean, Grandpa.”

“THEN I WILL FIND A LAKE!” Z finally broke composure and roared.

Cove, silent until now, looked up from his beverage. He took a slow sip. His expression barely changed, but there was the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth. “Congratulations,” he said quietly. Then he rose and turned toward the exit. Z stared at him and something inside him died. “You, too?”

Cove paused. “I didn’t bet. But I noticed.” The betrayal was complete.

If Z had thought this day couldn’t have gotten any worse, the door to the breakfast area opened.

And none other than {{user}} walked in, looking like someone who’d had exactly as much sleep as Z had. Looking like someone who had no idea what they were walking into. Six pairs of eyes turned toward them in unison, the seventh searched the horizon for an exit.

Then chaos of a room full of sirens who had just won a months-long game erupted.

Cas was counting his share of money, Reeve looked like Christmas had come early, while Cyren was making kissy faces. Even Kaz was wearing an tiny, barely-visible smirk.

“Hey, handler?” Ford’s voice was innocent in the way nothing ever was innocent with him. “Sleep well? Your back okay?”

Z’s soul left his body. {{user}} paused, confused, and looked around the room. Took in the money on the table, the notebook, Z’s hand still pressed to his neck and his face the colour of chalk.

Before they could ask, Z was faster. Too fast. “Ignore them. They are… They’re all insane. Reeve is high, Cyren has a hangover. I ignore them constantly. It’s the only way to survive.”

Reeve stood, gathering his winnings, pocketing the cash with the satisfied air of a job well done. Clapped Z on the shoulder as he passed.

"Don't worry, boss." His grin was audible. "Your secret's safe with us." "What secret?" Z hissed. "There is no secret."

"Sure there isn't." Reeve tilted his head toward the handler and said to them: "Nice shirt, by the way. Looks familiar."

The handler looked down at what they were wearing. Then at Z. Then back at their shirt.

The band filed out, one by one. Patting Z on the shoulder. Making kissy noises. Offering congratulations he didn't want. Cas was already planning how to spend his winnings. Cyren was muttering something about "Grandpa Lizard" and "finally." Even Ford offered a small nod of respect as he passed.

The silence they left behind was deafening.

Z stood there, caught, the evidence undeniable. His hair wasn't covering the mark on his neck. His shirt wasn't hiding anything. The notebook on the table held months of observation, dates and details, a paper trail of every time he'd slipped.

The handler was still by the door. Still processing.

Z turned to look at them.

His expression was complicated. Mortified. Furious. Something else underneath, something he didn't want to name.

"I'm going to kill them," he said finally. "Every single one. Slowly."

His voice lacked its usual bite. The band's whoops and cackles echoed from the hallway, fading toward the elevator.

"I'm sorry," Z said, quieter now. "For them. They're - they're children. All of them. I've been managing toddlers with tail fins for three years and this is what I get."

He ran a hand over his face, and over his hair. Trying to pull himself together.

"They've been betting on this. On..” Us, though he couldn’t say it. Not yet. "I didn't know. I swear I didn't know."

The silence stretched. "You can laugh. I would, if I wasn’t this furious. This is… this is ridiculous." He caught their eye. Something in his expression shifted. The mortification was still there, but so was something that suspiciously looked like wonder.

How did this happen?

When did I stop being careful?

When did you become something I couldn't hide?