Chapter Text
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Foxie walked through the house with the lightness of someone who isn’t truly present. His feet touched the floor without making a sound, as if he were a shadow drifting between the walls, always searching for something he couldn’t quite name. He didn’t desire company. The silence, that abyss of stillness, was the only thing that seemed to fill him. But it wasn’t peace he sought. It was a distraction. Something to make him forget the void that followed him, the loneliness that spread through his chest like poison, slow and relentless.
When he entered Erica and Boyd’s room, his gaze wandered aimlessly over their belongings. He wasn’t there out of disrespect, but out of a need to escape his own mind. His hands, cold and apathetic, mechanically sifted through the objects, with the lightness of someone adrift, without control over their own movements. He didn’t care about the mess he was creating, nor about the things he touched. He hated disorder, but what mattered was the search, not what he left behind. He was no longer in control. He was running away.
The house was full of echoes of memories. Foxie could feel their weight in every corner, as if the furniture itself bore the mark of the past. But he didn’t want to be consumed by it. He didn’t want to lose himself again in the images that haunted him. Yet, something made him stop, almost unintentionally.
As he opened a drawer, his fingers brushed against something that seemed to stand out from the shadows. Erica’s makeup box was there, well hidden among other things, but to Foxie, it seemed to glow with an almost supernatural allure. He pulled it toward himself with a slowness that bordered on reverence, knowing exactly what it was.
It wasn’t just makeup. It was a connection, an invisible thread tying him to a time he preferred to keep distant, yet it was irresistible. Foxie knew what it meant—the leader’s gaze upon him, the way he watched him, almost possessively, as Foxie transformed before him. It was always like this: the leader loved to see him surrender, to see him paint his face with shadows, to see the contrast between the darkness of the makeup and the pallor of his skin. Every line of eyeliner, every touch of lipstick, was an act of surrender, a way of becoming what the leader desired.
Foxie closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the weight of the memory in his mind. He knew what that gaze meant. The leader didn’t see him merely as a creation, but as a reflection of what he wanted. Every movement Foxie made, every gesture of obedience, was a confirmation that he was in the right place, doing what he was meant to do, surrendering completely to his master. He knew this as surely as he knew his own name. The pleasure in the leader’s eyes, the way he approached when Foxie was ready, made up and at his mercy, was all Foxie needed to feel complete.
The smell of the eyeliner, the touch of the lipstick on his hands, made Foxie sigh softly. He no longer needed words. He already knew what to do. He was the creation, the perfect piece for the leader. He was always available, ready to become whatever was necessary.
The house around Foxie grew more and more distant as he began to apply the makeup to himself, like a ritual that transported him away from the real world, into a place where only the leader existed. He felt every stroke of makeup not just on his skin, but on his soul. He surrendered without reservation, as he always had. There was no more room for doubt. The only thing left was the leader and the possessive, irreversible love Foxie felt for him.
When he finished, Foxie looked into the mirror. The reflection he saw wasn’t just himself, but the projection of everything the leader wanted him to be: perfect, dark, and completely surrendered. He needed nothing more. The leader would always have him, in every way possible. And Foxie, with his eyes now heavy with a deep, dark gaze, knew he would become everything the leader wanted—because he already was everything he himself desired.
Foxie blinked, the weight of reality returning with force, his breathing short and rapid. He held the makeup in his hands, the cold bottle against his skin, and a part of his mind already knew what to do. It wasn’t a new task, nor something he needed to think about. He did it automatically, as if it were a ritual—one that always brought him back to the leader. He never needed permission. The leader loved to see him like this, with pale skin, eyes heavy with darkness, reflecting what they were together: something monstrous, yet, at the same time, perfect.
The eyeliner flowed over his skin, gliding as if tracing the mark of an inevitable destiny. Foxie watched his reflection in the mirror, seeing the transformation unfold. The deep black spread across his face, creating shadows that consumed his gaze, making him more distant, more... the leader’s property. He felt his heart race. It wasn’t just makeup. It was surrender. Every stroke, every gesture, brought him closer to what the leader had always wanted from him: something perfect, something incomplete, something that could be molded as he desired.
The sensation of total surrender took hold of Foxie. He was no longer there—he was in the space between what he was and what the leader wanted him to be. He was nothing without him. Foxie knew this now, knew that this feeling of emptiness was the price of his total devotion. He became the leader’s reflection, the creation he wanted him to be: pure and dark, marked by shadow, but with a glow only the leader could see.
𓍯𓂃
Foxie stood before the foggy mirror, a corroded silver reliquary hanging from the wall like a blind eye. His hands, bony and marked by blue veins snaking beneath translucent skin, trembled as he opened the makeup case—a box of ebony carved with forbidden runes. Inside, the instruments of his transformation rested like sacred relics: brushes made from the hair of sacrificed horses, lipsticks in shades of coagulated blood, and opaque glass bottles where liquids whispered ancient secrets.
He began with the foundation, a thick paste made from powdered infant bones and the tears of hanged virgins. The substance, cold as tomb marble, flowed between his fingers as he spread it across his face. Each layer was a prayer. Foxie’s skin, already pale and cracked like ancient porcelain, absorbed the cream with a hiss, as if the living flesh rebelled against the disguise of death. The scars—deep cuts left by the vampire’s nails on previous nights—shone beneath the ghostly layer, like silver scars on a phantom.
"To cover what still insists on living," he murmured to his reflection, as his fingers traced concentric circles on his temples. The mirror responded with a groan, its cracks pulsing like veins.
Next, the shadows. He dipped a fine brush into a pot of ground charcoal, extracted from the ashes of a burned church. He applied it to his eyelids with precise movements, dragging the pigment to the bones of his cheeks, where the skin already sank into dark valleys. The shadows weren’t just darkness—they were consumption. Each stroke of the brush deepened the hollows of his eyes, turning them into bottomless craters, windows to a void that sucked in even the light of the candles.
"So that he sees in me the same abyss I carry," he whispered, and the room seemed to agree, the walls creaking like old coffins.
The eyeliner came next—a black liquid made from abyssal squid ink and lamp oil stolen from graves. Foxie tilted his face back, the brush tip touching the corner of his eye like a needle about to sew his eyelids. The line he drew was as sharp as the guillotine's blade, extending beyond the skin, as if it were cutting through the air itself. Dark blood surged from the crease, mixing with the liquid, but Foxie didn't flinch. The pain was a ritual, a minimal sacrifice for the masterpiece he was about to become.
"So that every glance you give me is a cut," he hummed, his voice a thread of distorted melody.
The lips were the final step. The lipstick, kept in a hollow bone tube, had the consistency of poisoned honey. Its color was an impossible red—the shade of a martyr's heart squeezed until the last drop. Foxie applied it with devotion, his fingers stained crimson as he traced the curve of his lips, extending them beyond their natural limits, like a glorified wound. The pigment burned, seeping into cracks and drying like a crust. When he finished, his mouth seemed to have bled for centuries, and the smile he rehearsed was a skull grinning.
"So that every word I don’t say... is an invitation," he whispered, and the echo answered in Latin, a dead language scratching the walls.
The mirror, now completely shattered, reflected a creature that was neither human nor vampire—it was a monument to decay. The makeup did not hide; it revealed. Each layer was an aesthetic straightjacket, an armor made of stylized death. Foxie slowly turned, watching how the candlelight danced on his cheekbones painted with matte silver, like metallic tears. His breathing, shallow and irregular, dusted the air with bone powder particles, creating a ghostly halo around him.
It was then that the vampire entered the room, drawn by the perfume of despair and necrotic chemicals. His eyes, the color of poisoned amber, dilated as he saw Foxie—not as prey, but as an enhanced offering.
"What a masterpiece of ruin," he hissed, approaching with the grace of a predator who recognizes its own poison in the prey. His cold, heavy hand grasped Foxie's chin, lifting his face to inspect every detail. "You painted yourself for me... like a bride dresses for the altar."
Foxie didn’t answer. Instead, he opened his mouth into a wide, silent smile, exposing blood-stained teeth—a challenge, a provocation. The vampire laughed, low and hoarse, before sinking his teeth into the already marked neck, drinking not only the blood but the very essence of that macabre art.
And as life drained away, Foxie stared at his reflection in the shattered mirror. He saw the makeup melt like wax under the heat of violence, mixing with blood in black and crimson streams. It was perfect. Because even in destruction, he remained a work of horror—and the vampire, his only and eternal admirer.
The dance of death continued, entwining the bodies of Foxie and the vampire, as if the entire world were a canvas where both painted and destroyed each other. Foxie, now fully transformed into his macabre masterpiece, felt the vampire's coldness penetrating his skin like a sharp blade, but it was this pain, this consumption, that completed him. Every touch, every kiss of blood, was a rebirth amidst decay, and he was willing to lose himself forever in that dance.
The vampire, observing Foxie’s fragility, could no longer distinguish where his thirst began and where his desire ended. "You are such a beautiful ruin, Foxie," he murmured, his voice heavy with dark adoration. "You make me desire the end, the last breath of existence. Every piece of you, every layer of your pain, is a delight I can never savor enough."
He stepped back a little, his eyes fixed on Foxie’s reflection. His vision drunkenly swam with the emaciated figure, the flesh seeming on the verge of disintegrating, yet still firm, like a marionette chained to eternity. The contrast between his strength and Foxie’s fragility was almost palpable, a force of destruction and fragility that, together, created a devastating harmony.
"It's funny," the vampire continued, his voice deep and laden with uncontrollable desire, "how you’ve become the key to my own destruction. A lover as... ruined as I am." He touched Foxie’s face, his fingers caressing the melted makeup, Foxie’s expression marked by pain and pleasure from being consumed. "You don’t realize, but you’re as dangerous as I am, Foxie. You and I... we can destroy everything. Not just the world, but the very limits of pain and adoration. Together, we will be the storm that will swallow the sky."
Foxie said nothing, but his eyes, deep and empty, reflected a silent smile. He knew that with the vampire, he no longer needed to be more than a piece of destruction. They were the same thing, two parts of a sick obsession, united in their search for the apocalypse. His mouth, now stained with the color of blood that was no longer his, curved slightly.
"Yes," Foxie finally replied, his voice hoarse and full of a pain that now became part of his being. "Destroy me, as you’ve always wanted. We both... can destroy everything."
And the vampire, now immersed in his own obsession, did not hesitate. He pulled Foxie closer, their lips meeting, and this time, not only blood but the essence of their souls merged into a single chaotic existence. Pain, passion, destruction, all blended together, and Foxie knew there was no turning back. They were now more than lovers. They were the storm, the end, and the beginning.
"Together," the vampire whispered, his body pressed against Foxie’s as darkness consumed them, "there will be no more limits."
And in the heat of chaos, Foxie finally surrendered, for he knew, in a terrible way, that his existence had been made for this: to be the last breath of a world in ruins, to be the lover of destruction. Together, they would be an unstoppable hurricane, a force that could not be contained, and the world would never be the same again.
𓍯𓂃
Foxie stood before the mirror, the fragmented and distorted reflection becoming a caricature of what he had been and desired to be. The layers of makeup, now melted like black wax on his pale skin, had become a tangle of grotesque stains. The details of the scars, which he had once taken pride in, were now painful reminders of a surrender that had consumed him completely. His fingers trembled, but not from fear—it was the immense desire to return to that place where pain became pleasure, where destruction was not an end but a beginning.
The touch on the bones of his face, now covered by a cold layer of makeup made of ashes and blood, was like a ritual. Foxie felt the makeup blend with his open wounds, the liquids seeping into the cracks as if they were an extension of his suffering. Each brushstroke, each movement, gave him a cruelly comforting sensation that, in some way, he was closer to becoming what he desired to be: a creation of the vampire. He breathed deeply, trying to lose himself once again in that reflection that consumed him.
But then, like a sharp rope pulling him out of the trance, reality invaded. That room, the cracked and filthy walls, the dim candlelight that seemed to fade under the weight of the air, all became unbearable. He felt his body shrink, his chest tight as if an invisible hand was squeezing him. Foxie, with half-closed eyes, let the emptiness swallow him. But the emptiness was not empty. It was a maddening longing for what he had lost.
He touched the broken mirror shards, feeling the cold, sharp blades in his hands, but not caring. He needed to feel the pain. He wanted the pain. Pain was the only thing that made his heart, already in pieces, beat again. He closed his eyes and remembered how the vampire touched him, how the immortal iron claws dug into his flesh with cruel pleasure. He wanted that back. He needed it. The vampire was the only thing that made him feel real. Without him, Foxie was just a shadow, a wisp of what he could be.
"I need you," he whispered, his voice rough, almost a moan, as if the very act of speaking was a blasphemy. "I need... you to consume me. I am yours. I am only yours."
Anger grew inside him, mixed with desire. He hated Mieczysław. Hated him with every fiber of his soul. He hated him for interrupting the cycle. For pulling him away from what he was destined to be. Mieczysław didn't understand. He would never understand. He didn't belong to Foxie's world, the world of destruction and obsession that he and the vampire had created. And that, no matter how painful, only made the longing and the anger burn even hotter inside him. Like an unhealed wound.
The emptiness spread, a dense darkness that consumed the room. Foxie could no longer stay there, he could no longer endure the silence, the abandonment. He wanted to go back. He wanted to lose himself again. The vampire's claws, the pain of the immortal kiss, the cold of the solitude that only he knew how to offer. Foxie wanted nothing else, not even the possibility of salvation. He wanted to be destroyed, wanted the vampire's hands to tear him apart, because in destruction, he was finally free.
He felt the weight of the anger collapse in his mind, like a black storm. Guilt, shame, everything that had been before mixed with the carnal desire for complete destruction. Mieczysław's body, his presence, all of it became an unbearable obsession, something Foxie wanted to see reduced to dust. If Mieczysław hadn't interfered, he would have been taken, consumed by what he truly desired. Now, all he felt was anger.
The anger was pure. And with the anger came a distorted love, a love that could only exist between the broken pieces of himself. The love the vampire offered him was torture, and yet, he didn't know how to live without it.
The room was a velvet coffin of shadows, suffocating in its decadent opulence. The walls, once covered in elegant wallpaper, now showed damp spots spreading like black veins. The air was thick, heavy with the sweet, sickly scent of wilted flowers, mixed with the metallic smell of dried blood that seemed to emanate from the walls themselves. Melted candles, wax dripping like coagulated tears, cast a flickering light that made the shadows dance in an unsettling way. They twisted in the corner of Isaac's eyes, as if they were living creatures, watching, waiting.
The door closed behind him with a soft snap, echoing like a gunshot in an empty corridor. Isaac felt his heart race, the sound of blood pulsing in his ears. Something inside him whispered that it was too late to turn back. The air felt heavier now, as if the room itself was breathing with him, slowly devouring him.
Foxie stood before the broken mirror, his silhouette reflected in dozens of glass fragments that shimmered like fallen stars. Each shard of the mirror captured a part of him: one eye here, a smile there, as if Foxie were a fragmented entity, impossible to see in full. His thin, almost translucent robe hung over his slender body, revealing more than it concealed. The candlelight played with his pale skin, creating shadows that seemed to move independently of him. His hair, disheveled in a chaotic and deliberate way, fell over his face like a curtain of dark silk. And his eyes... deep, dark, like black holes that sucked all the light around them.
And now, they were fixed on Isaac.
"You came."
Foxie’s voice slithered into the room like a dark whisper, each word a caress that both soothed and sliced. It was a quiet tension, an intoxicating blend of warmth and ice, promise and threat. The sound seemed to wrap itself around Isaac, tightening with every syllable until he could no longer discern where the words ended and the weight of Foxie’s presence began.
Isaac stood frozen, his body trembling, every muscle taut with conflicting urges—fight or flight, run or stay. Sweat trickled down his neck, the coldness of his own fear mingling with the suffocating heat of the room. His heart raced, but his legs felt like lead, unwilling to move, unwilling to betray the invisible force that had him in its grip.
Foxie smiled slowly, his lips curling upward in a way that made Isaac’s stomach twist. The smile was dark, predatory, but there was something almost languid in the way Foxie moved, his steps purposeful, calculated, each one a deliberate stroke in a dance only he knew the rhythm to. It was like watching a predator stalk its prey, and Isaac was the center of it all.
"I knew you’d come, Isaac," Foxie purred, his voice smooth as silk, but with a dangerous edge. "You try to stay away, try to act strong, but deep down, you always come back. Like a moth to the flame, don't you?" His smile widened, sharp and knowing. "You can’t help it."
Isaac’s spine stiffened. He tried to step back, to put some distance between them, but the cold door pressed against his back. He was cornered, trapped in the space between the walls that now felt like a cage. There was no escape, not from Foxie, not from the web he was slowly weaving around him.
"I don’t—"
"Shh..." Foxie raised a finger, his touch gentle but commanding, pressing against Isaac's lips in a silent demand for quiet. The coldness of his skin seared through Isaac’s senses, sending a strange heat through his body. "You don’t need to say anything. You don’t need to justify yourself. Not to me."
Isaac’s breath hitched as he struggled to pull his mind away from the suffocating pull of Foxie’s presence. But those eyes—those piercing, unyielding eyes—kept him locked in place, as if they could see right through him. The air around them seemed to thicken, to grow heavier, pressing down on Isaac’s chest like a weight he couldn’t escape.
"You’re trembling," Foxie whispered, the words more of a thrill than a concern. His voice was honeyed, like a velvet promise, but there was something cruel in the way he said it. "Is it fear, Isaac? Or something more?"
Isaac’s hands balled into fists, his nails biting into the soft flesh of his palms. A sharp pain shot through him, but it felt distant, insignificant in comparison to the pressure building inside his chest. He wanted to speak, to deny whatever Foxie was implying, but his throat closed up. His voice died in his mouth, and all he could manage was a faint, strained whisper.
"What do you want?"
Foxie’s smile stretched wider, like a cat watching its prey squirm in a trap.
"I want to help you," he said, his words so smooth, so sincere, that for a moment, Isaac almost believed him. But the sincerity was a mask, a thin veil that barely hid the darkness underneath. The sweetness in Foxie’s voice promised as much comfort as it did destruction.
Isaac stiffened as Foxie leaned in closer, his presence overwhelming. Foxie’s eyes didn’t leave his, scanning him with such intimate scrutiny that it felt like he could see into Isaac’s very soul. He reached out, his hand tracing the edge of Isaac’s jaw, the touch feather-light, but it sent a jolt of heat through Isaac’s body. He could feel every movement, every sensation Foxie invoked, curling beneath his skin like a slow burn.
"I see you, Isaac," Foxie murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "All the parts you hide. The boy who pretends to be strong, the one who hides behind his laughter and training. But deep down, you’re still that boy who waited for love, for something he never got. You’ve always been alone, haven’t you?"
The words hit Isaac like a punch to the gut. The rawness of Foxie’s insight pierced through the walls he had built around himself, exposing the parts of him he had long buried. His father’s face flashed in his mind—the vacant, emotionless stare that haunted him even now. That silence. It had always been worse than any insult, any scream.
Foxie saw it. And he smiled.
"He never saw you, did he?" Foxie’s voice was a low, melodic hum, soothing and dangerous. "You could have shattered your body to please him, begged for his love, and it would have been as if you never existed."
Isaac felt the walls inside him begin to crack, the pain surging up from the depths of his chest. His eyes closed against the sting, a hot tear slipping down his face, but he did nothing to stop it. Nothing to stop Foxie from seeing.
Foxie’s fingers brushed Isaac’s skin, soft and almost tender, but the touch burned like a brand. His thumb slid down Isaac’s cheek, and the coldness of Foxie’s hand felt like fire against his skin.
"But I see you," Foxie continued, his voice growing softer, more intimate. "I see the scars you hide, the wounds no one cares to notice. And I want to help you. I want to make it stop. I want to protect you from all of it, Isaac."
Isaac felt the weight of Foxie’s words settle in his chest like a stone. The ache, the emptiness that had gnawed at him for years, seemed to pulse in time with Foxie’s voice. He wanted to push it all away, wanted to scream that he didn’t need help, didn’t need Foxie. But his body betrayed him, his breath coming in shallow gasps, his muscles stiff with longing and resistance.
Foxie’s lips were inches from his now, close enough that Isaac could feel the coolness of his breath, could taste the promise in the air. "You don’t have to be weak anymore, Isaac. I can give you strength. I can fill the emptiness inside you. You’ll never be alone again."
Isaac’s chest tightened, the knot in his throat growing tighter with every word. He couldn’t fight it anymore. The words, the promise, the overwhelming pull of Foxie’s presence—it all felt like the only thing that could fill the hollow space inside him.
"...Yes," he whispered, his voice trembling. "Yes."
Foxie’s smile was triumphant, cruel in its satisfaction.
"Good choice, my sweet."
And then, his lips crashed against Isaac’s.
It was not a kiss. It was an invasion. It was a dark, consuming force, a claim that rooted itself inside Isaac before he even had the chance to think. Foxie’s lips were cold, but the kiss was fire, burning away any shred of resistance that remained. Isaac’s senses spun as the heat of Foxie’s touch seeped into him, a poison that spread through his veins, leaving him dizzy and breathless.
For a moment, Isaac didn’t know where he ended and Foxie began. Everything inside him, all his fears, his doubts, his pain, melted away in the wake of Foxie’s kiss. The world around him disappeared, and all that remained was the intoxicating feeling of being filled, of being seen.
And just as the darkness began to close in around him, as the kiss deepened, Isaac realized that he had been lost long before Foxie ever touched him. But now, he was lost to something far darker, far more intoxicating.
Foxie had claimed him. And Isaac wasn’t sure if he wanted to fight it anymore.
Foxie pulled away just enough to watch Isaac, his lips still moist with the taste of the other. His dark, deep eyes devoured every expression that passed over Isaac’s face, as if reading a book written just for him.
"See?" Foxie murmured, his voice a soft whisper, so gentle it was almost suffocating. "Wasn't this what you always wanted?"
Isaac opened his mouth to respond, but the words failed him. He didn’t know the answer. He didn’t know if this was something he’d always wanted or if Foxie had just made him believe that.
Foxie smiled—a sweet, soft smile, filled with something that could be tenderness... or pure triumph.
"I see you, Isaac," he repeated, his thumb gliding along the line of Isaac’s jaw, almost affectionately. "And you finally see me too."
Isaac swallowed, feeling the echo of those words resonate within him.
Foxie was right.
He saw.
And he no longer knew if he wanted to look away.
Isaac spent the rest of the morning with the pack, but it was as if he were in a distant place, wandering without truly being present. He heard the words unfolding around him, responded when necessary, but everything felt distant, almost irrelevant. Every laugh, every word spoken had a muffled tone, as if he were hearing them from a tunnel. Foxie’s words were always there, endlessly echoing in his mind. He spoke softly, smoothly, seductively—a voice that enveloped him, intertwining with everything happening around him. "Bring something. Something from the pack." It didn’t make sense, but the urgency of the message burned in his mind like fire, something he couldn’t ignore. The pack’s scent became distorted, their voices blending into a noise he didn’t want to hear. Everything seemed to be crumbling around him, and he was drifting further and further from them, watching everything from the edge of his mind, trapped in a maze of thoughts that suffocated him.
While the others spoke, Isaac remained there, on the surface, pretending to pay attention, responding minimally. But inside, he was becoming more distant, as if he’d become a stranger in his own life. The feeling of being lost, of being out of sync, of not belonging in that place, overtook his body. With every look, he felt more exposed, more scrutinized, as if he were a piece of a puzzle no one wanted to fit anymore. He didn’t want to be there, didn’t want to be part of them, but the expectations kept pressing down on him. When the conversation finally dissipated into a whirlwind of words and laughter, he didn’t have the strength to keep playing his part. He couldn’t do it anymore.
He slipped away, leaving the house without anyone noticing—or perhaps they noticed, but didn’t do anything to stop him. The air outside was thick, charged with an almost palpable silence. He walked aimlessly, without direction, just moving away, trying to escape from himself, from the pressure of being in something he no longer understood. Foxie never stopped talking, his voice crawling through his mind, whispering more nonsensical words, and Isaac felt his anger grow inside him like a wave ready to break. He was alone, but in a way he had never felt before, as if he were sinking into a void where not even the pack mattered anymore.
When he finally returned to the house, time seemed to stop. He could still smell it, embedded in his skin, soaked into his clothes, in his breath. He carried something with him, something no one would understand, but that was so obvious to him. And when he entered the kitchen, silence fell. Erica was the first to notice. Her sharp, attentive eyes fixed on him, and a chill ran down Isaac’s spine. She didn’t say anything, but her gaze was a cut, a penetrating analysis that seemed to seek something—something he knew she wouldn’t find. He tried to ignore her, do whatever was necessary to keep the façade, but it was impossible. All eyes were on him, watching his every movement, every breath, as if they were waiting for something. He was being examined, and there was no escape.
"Isaac... where have you been?" Erica’s voice was soft, but laced with a cold tension. It was a simple question, but the tone, the way she said it, indicated that she knew something was wrong.
He didn’t answer immediately. He grabbed a plate, served himself mechanically, his hands trembling—not from hunger, but from the anger that was building inside him. He was being watched, as always. Always expecting something from Isaac, always demanding more from him. Frustration consumed him, and the heat of anger spread through his veins. He didn’t want to explain, didn’t want to justify himself to anyone. The idea of being watched, of being treated like a child, made his patience crumble.
"You... smell different," Boyd said, his voice dry and direct, almost as if making an accusation.
Isaac's hands shook as he gripped the edge of the counter, his breath coming in sharp, shallow bursts. He felt the heat of the pack’s stares like a thousand needles pricking at his skin. Every glance, every whisper, burned through him. It wasn’t just curiosity anymore. It was expectation.
The weight of their gazes, all of them, was too much. He felt as though they were trying to peel back his layers, dissect his every thought, his every emotion. He couldn't stand it. They didn’t understand. They never understood.
His lips parted, but no words came out. Instead, his fists clenched, and he gritted his teeth, fighting against the flood of anger that surged up his throat.
Erica’s voice sliced through the thick silence. "You’re not yourself, Isaac."
The words, though spoken with care, cut through him like a blade. Not yourself. Was he ever? Was he ever more than just what they made of him? Their pet project, their broken toy to fix. He wanted to scream, to tell her how much he hated it. How much he hated being studied like some lab rat. But all he could do was stand there, fists trembling at his sides.
Boyd leaned forward, his gaze flicking from Isaac to the others. “You smell different, man. What’s going on?”
Isaac didn't respond. His throat was tight, choked with emotion he couldn’t articulate. His mind was a whirlwind—thoughts racing, anger swelling in his chest like an uncontrollable fire. The way they were looking at him, their concern masking something darker, something more suffocating—it made him feel smaller, weaker.
"Does it matter?" Isaac’s voice came out low, too low, laced with bitter venom. He couldn’t contain the frustration anymore. "Does it really matter what’s going on with me? It’s not like you give a damn anyway."
The tension in the room thickened, thick as smoke. Erica’s eyes narrowed, but she didn’t back down. She was always so damn sure of herself, so in control. It made Isaac want to lash out even more.
“You don’t have to be so defensive, Isaac,” she said, the words carrying an edge that wasn’t there before. “We’re just trying to help.”
Isaac’s laugh was short, bitter, almost maniacal. “Help?” He spat the word out like it was poison. “This isn’t help. This is you trying to fix me. Like I’m some damn broken toy you can put back together.” His words hung in the air, sharp and heavy. He could feel the pack’s eyes on him, could feel their concern starting to shift into something else—something darker, more accusatory.
“You think we don’t care about you?” Scott’s voice was a punch to the gut. It wasn’t just the question. It was the way he said it, the way he stepped closer, as though trying to close the gap between them, to reach him. “We’ve always been there for you. Don’t you see that?”
Isaac wanted to scream at him. He wanted to tell Scott that he didn’t see it, didn’t see them. That all he saw were their expectations, their demands, their constant push for him to fit into something he wasn’t. But the words caught in his throat, turning to ash before they could escape.
Instead, his voice came out hoarse, strained, as though he was choking on his own rage. “What do you want from me, Scott?” The words were like daggers. “What the hell do you want? I’m not like you. I’m not normal. I don’t belong in this pack. You keep trying to shove me into this box, this mold that’s supposed to fit, but it doesn’t work. It never works.”
Isaac’s hands trembled so badly now that he had to force them into his pockets to hide the shaking. He was losing control, losing himself to the anger and frustration that boiled over, and he knew it. Knew that if he didn’t get out of that room, he would explode.
“You don’t get it,” Isaac continued, his voice shaking with raw emotion. “You think this is about you. You think this is about the damn pack and some connection we have. But it’s not. It’s about you trying to fix me, to make me something I’m not. I’m not some fucking project for you to solve.”
There was a long silence, thick and suffocating. The pack was reeling, unsure how to react. Some of them shifted uncomfortably, glancing at each other, unsure if they should speak.
Boyd cleared his throat, his voice tight. “Isaac… we’re not trying to fix you. We just want you to be okay. We care about you.”
Isaac’s gaze snapped to Boyd, his eyes narrowed, sharp with frustration. “Caring? Really? You think caring looks like this? You think it looks like watching me break down, then turning it into some damn mission to save me?” He stepped forward, the anger radiating off him in waves. “I’m not broken, Boyd. I’m not some fucking charity case. I don’t need your help. I don’t need any of you.”
His chest heaved with the weight of his words, and for a moment, no one moved. They just stared at him, all of them struggling to process the depth of his anger. But Isaac didn’t care. He wasn’t there to explain himself anymore. He wasn’t there to fit into their narrative, to conform to their expectations.
Lydia’s voice cut through the thick silence, softer, quieter, but still full of that unmistakable edge of concern. “Isaac… please. We’ve been through this together. We’re family. We don’t give up on each other.”
Isaac’s laughter was harsh, a bitter sound that didn’t reach his eyes. “Family?” He shook his head, the words tasting like acid in his mouth. “You think I’m part of this family? You think I’ve ever been anything but a fucking outsider to all of you?” He didn’t wait for a response, his voice rising now, cracking with the force of his emotions. “I don’t belong here. Not anymore. I don’t fit in your little pack. You can all go to hell.”
With that, Isaac turned on his heel, slamming the door behind him with enough force to rattle the frame. The pack was left in stunned silence, each of them processing his words, but Isaac didn’t care. He couldn’t stand it anymore.
He didn’t need them. He never had.
The air felt lighter, but the weight of his own loneliness pressed on him harder than ever. As he stormed out into the night, the cold air biting into his skin, Isaac was consumed by one thought: he was finally free. But freedom felt like a heavy burden, one he didn’t know how to carry.
Isaac stood at the top of the staircase, leaning against the railing, his eyes unfocused as they traced the lively scene below. The pack was gathered in the living room, surrounded by laughter and casual conversation. Their voices bounced off the walls, lighthearted and carefree, but to Isaac, they felt hollow. He watched them, but he no longer felt connected. It was like looking at a reflection in a broken mirror—fragmented and foreign. He wasn’t part of that world anymore. He was no longer one of them.
They had no idea, no inkling of the distance growing between him and them. And for the first time, it didn’t hurt. The loneliness that once gnawed at him was no longer a sharp ache; it was a quiet companion. The rage, the resentment, the feelings of betrayal—they had all faded into soft whispers, drowned out by the steady presence of Foxie. His mind no longer battled against the tide. Foxie was inside him now, a constant, pulsing force that shaped his thoughts and desires. And for once, Isaac didn’t want to fight it.
The anger that had once consumed him had given way to something calmer, more controlled. Foxie’s presence wrapped around him like a warm, comforting blanket. Isaac felt no fear, no confusion. He simply felt... accepted. Foxie had seen him, had chosen him, and that was all that mattered.
"They don’t see you."
The words, once cutting, now felt like a simple truth. They were a reminder, not a condemnation. Foxie had accepted him, and in turn, Isaac had embraced the submission. No longer did he resist the pull. He welcomed it. Foxie’s influence was now a part of him, shaping his every thought, every action. The pack could laugh and joke all they wanted, but it no longer mattered. They were a distant memory, shadows of the past.
“I see you.”
Foxie’s voice was softer this time, but the possessiveness was still there. It wasn’t a command, but a promise. Isaac didn’t feel trapped by it. No, it was a kind of ownership that brought him satisfaction, a pleasure he couldn’t quite explain. He wasn’t just part of something now. He was Foxie’s, and that feeling, that certainty, made him smile inside. No one else could share in that gaze. No one else was seen the way he was.
Isaac’s eyes wandered to the couch, where Scott’s jacket lay crumpled and forgotten. The familiar scent of wool wafted up to him, a fleeting reminder of what was left behind, but it no longer had the same pull. Instead, it was a symbol. A symbol of the pack, yes, but more importantly, a symbol of Foxie’s will. Foxie had led him here, to this moment, and Isaac felt an undeniable pull toward the jacket. It wasn’t just an object. It was a link, a thread connecting him to something much greater.
"Bring me something, Isaac."
The words were soft, but they carried an undeniable weight. They were a command, but one laced with affection, almost intimate. Isaac didn’t hesitate. He couldn’t. There was no room for doubt, no space for questions. Foxie wanted something, and Isaac would give it to him. He was no longer torn between choices. He had surrendered, and that surrender brought him peace.
Isaac moved towards the couch, a slow, deliberate smile curling at his lips. His fingers brushed over the fabric of the jacket, pressing it to his chest with a strange reverence. It felt like a prize, a treasure he had earned. It wasn’t just a jacket—it was a token of his devotion, of his surrender. He didn’t feel guilt. He didn’t feel regret. He felt... content. Happy, even. Foxie wanted this, and Isaac was more than willing to give it.
The jacket felt heavy in his hands, but it wasn’t a burden. It was a symbol of something larger, something more meaningful. As he ascended the stairs, Isaac felt a rush of exhilaration, an adrenaline-fueled thrill that surged through his veins. He no longer had the weight of doubt or hesitation. Foxie was with him, and together, they were unstoppable. The jacket pressed against his side like a shield, but it was more than that. It was a reminder of the power he now held, a power that came from surrender, from total acceptance.
Isaac’s steps were firm as he climbed the stairs. He didn’t look back. The pack was downstairs, but they no longer mattered. He no longer needed them. He didn’t need anything or anyone, except Foxie.
As he reached the hallway, Isaac paused for a moment. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply, allowing the presence of Foxie to wash over him. Foxie was there, always. He didn’t need to question it anymore. The sensation was comforting, almost grounding. Foxie had become his truth, his reality. There was no conflict, no confusion. There was only the certainty of his place in Foxie’s world.
The door to Erica and Boyd’s room opened, its creak barely audible in the silence of the hallway. Isaac’s pulse quickened, and he stepped forward, drawn to the door like a moth to a flame. Inside, Foxie stood, framed by the doorway, a faint smile playing on his lips. His presence filled the room, commanding and intense. Isaac could feel the weight of his gaze, the way it seemed to strip him bare. Foxie knew him, saw him, in a way no one else could. And that was enough.
Isaac’s heart raced as Foxie’s eyes locked onto his. There was something hypnotic about the way Foxie moved, like the world around them slowed down, the air thickening with anticipation. He took a slow, deliberate step forward, his presence a magnetic force Isaac couldn’t resist. Foxie’s voice broke the silence, smooth and laced with something darker.
“I knew you’d come. I didn’t think it would take this long, but... here we are.”
Isaac’s chest tightened. Foxie’s calm words contrasted sharply with the storm raging inside him. There was a certainty in Foxie’s tone, a knowledge that sent a shiver down Isaac’s spine. It was as though Foxie had already mapped out every step of Isaac’s journey, and now that journey had brought him to this moment.
Isaac’s hands shook slightly as he reached into his jacket, pulling it out and offering it to Foxie. His breath caught in his throat, a mixture of anticipation and something darker flickering in his chest. He wanted to give it to him. He needed to. He wasn’t sure why, but it felt like the right thing to do.
“I… I brought what you asked for,” Isaac said, his voice unsteady. He didn’t meet Foxie’s eyes immediately, afraid of what he might see there. His fingers clenched around the jacket, his heart pounding in his ears.
Foxie’s gaze never left him, studying him with a look that made Isaac feel both seen and invisible at the same time. Slowly, Foxie reached out, taking the jacket from Isaac’s hands. The touch was almost reverent, as though the simple act of receiving the jacket was somehow sacred. Isaac stood there, watching, his mind a haze of confusion and desire, knowing only one thing for certain: he was beyond escape now.
Foxie grasped the jacket, his fingers curling around the fabric with an almost obsessive reverence. His eyes locked onto Isaac, a glimmer of something dark and knowing in his gaze. He traced the seams with his fingertips, his touch slow and deliberate, as if he were exploring something far more significant than a mere piece of clothing. The jacket seemed to represent something much deeper, something precious, something tied to Isaac in ways Isaac couldn’t fully understand.
“Well done, Isaac,” Foxie murmured, his voice smooth, like velvet dipped in honey, but there was an underlying tension that made Isaac's skin prickle. "I knew you’d do what was right. I trusted you." His words landed on Isaac with the weight of a stone dropped into a still pond, rippling through him in waves. They should have been a relief, a sign of approval, but they felt more like a trap—like a promise of something far more dangerous lurking beneath the surface.
Foxie’s eyes bore into Isaac with an intensity that made him feel both seen and exposed in ways he had never imagined. It was as though Foxie could see through every mask Isaac had worn, every secret he had tried to bury. Every lie he had told himself. Isaac’s chest tightened, and for a brief moment, he wished he could pull away from the weight of those eyes, but he couldn’t. It was like a magnetic force, drawing him in despite the discomfort twisting in his gut.
Isaac’s thoughts scrambled, trying to make sense of the storm churning inside him. Foxie’s praise should have been comforting—he was doing what was asked of him, after all—but it felt wrong. It felt like he was being rewarded for surrendering, for falling into the role Foxie had carved out for him. Isaac’s heart raced as the unsettling realization began to creep in: He had walked right into Foxie’s web, and there was no turning back. The satisfaction in Foxie’s smile made Isaac feel like a puppet with its strings pulled tight.
Foxie stepped back, but the space between them felt charged, thick with an unspoken understanding. Isaac remained frozen, caught between the urge to run and the pull of something far more dangerous. Foxie moved with a fluid, almost predatory grace, his presence dominating the room as if he had always belonged there. He perched on the edge of the bed with a nonchalance that was both unsettling and hypnotic. Isaac could feel the weight of his gaze, as sharp and penetrating as a blade, carving through him in ways that made him want to shrink, to disappear.
“Mieczysław did something irreparable,” Foxie said, his voice dropping to a whisper so low it felt like a secret meant only for Isaac. The words sent a chill down Isaac’s spine, and his breath caught in his throat. “He killed someone very dear to me. But… I have a plan. And you, Isaac, will be the key. You’re with me, aren’t you?”
Isaac’s mind went blank. His heart slammed in his chest, as though Foxie’s words were an impossible riddle, something he couldn’t even begin to comprehend. "Mieczysław... killed someone?" The disbelief in his voice was palpable, his words a fractured echo of confusion. It didn’t make sense. Mieczysław—his friend—couldn’t have done something so monstrous. The thought felt like it was suffocating him, each breath harder to take than the last.
Foxie’s smile was slow, knowing, almost affectionate in a way that made Isaac’s stomach churn. It wasn’t the smile of a friend trying to comfort him; it was the smile of someone who had seen the truth and was simply waiting for Isaac to catch up. "Yes, Isaac. Mieczysław made an irreversible mistake," Foxie said, his tone slipping into something darker, something colder. "But he wasn’t alone in this. There was always something inside him, something darker, something that led him to do what he did. And you need to understand that, Isaac."
Isaac’s mind swirled in confusion, his body stiffening with the weight of Foxie’s words. Mieczysław—he had trusted him, believed in him. Could he really have killed someone? The thought twisted his insides, each beat of his heart echoing the painful uncertainty building inside him. Foxie stood, his movements fluid, almost ethereal, and it felt like the world shifted beneath Isaac’s feet as Foxie approached. He reached out, a cold finger brushing against Isaac’s cheek, sending a shock through his body. It was a gentle touch, but it felt like an anchor, pulling him closer to a reality he wasn’t ready to face.
“I know this is hard to accept, Isaac,” Foxie whispered, his voice impossibly soft yet vibrating with an unspoken command. “But you will. You must. I can help you see the truth. I can guide you through it.”
Isaac stood frozen, caught in the tension of the moment. His breath was shallow, his mind reeling with thoughts he couldn’t control. Foxie’s touch was like fire against his skin, burning in ways he didn’t fully understand. He wanted to pull away, to escape, but something deeper, darker, pulled him in. Foxie’s words seemed to settle in his mind like seeds of doubt, sprouting at an alarming rate, and Isaac could feel the roots of those doubts taking hold, burrowing into his thoughts, consuming everything.
"I... I don’t understand," Isaac finally stammered, his voice breaking under the weight of his confusion. "Mieczysław... he’d never do something like that. He was... my friend. I saw him fight every day to be better." The words felt hollow, as if he were trying to convince himself more than anyone else. But even as he spoke, doubt began to claw its way into his heart. Had he truly known Mieczysław? Had he seen the man his friend had truly become, or was he simply blind to the darkness that had always lurked beneath the surface? Foxie’s smile softened, but it held a knowing quality that made Isaac’s skin crawl.
“I know it’s hard to accept, Isaac,” Foxie said, his voice dipping even lower, now almost soothing, like a lullaby sung just for him. “But deep down, you know Mieczysław wasn’t who you thought he was. The Stiles you knew is gone. What you mourn is a version of him that was never real.” Foxie closed the distance between them, his body nearly flush against Isaac’s, his voice low and persuasive. “I can offer you something more, Isaac. Something true. Something you truly need.”
Isaac’s pulse raced, his body trembling as the weight of his decision crushed him. He didn’t know what to believe, what was real. But something inside him told him that there was no turning back. He had already crossed a line. There was no escape from the web Foxie had woven. And deep down, despite the fear and doubt gnawing at him, Isaac couldn’t help but feel like he had been chosen for something larger than himself—something inevitable.
"I… I’ll stay with you, Foxie," Isaac whispered, his voice barely audible, but filled with a strange, determined resolve. "I’ll… do what’s necessary."
And in that moment, as those words left his lips, Isaac knew that his life had changed forever. He had stepped into a new world, one where there was no going back.