CHAPTER 42: CHAPTER 41: SAFETY IN SILENCE

Orion’s POV — The Diner

The burgers were massive.

Orion could barely look at his. Melted cheese clung to the bun like a second skin, and the patty bled grease into the flimsy paper tray. It was grotesque in a way that would have delighted him a month ago—back when late-night fast food was a reward after a night ride, not an after-breakdown lunch.

He used to crave this kind of thing. Thick-cut fries, neon ketchup, the sugary burn of cola bubbles on the roof of his mouth. The comfort of bad food and bright lights. It used to mean something. It used to mark the end of a normal day.

But now? He stared at the meal like it might bite back.

Franz didn’t share the sentiment. He bit into his burger like it owed him money, jaws working methodically, a napkin caught between two fingers to wipe his mouth in elegant, practiced motions. He sat across from Orion, legs casually spread, as if they weren’t hiding from everything they’d left behind previous night.

Unbothered. Composed. Almost too much so.

Orion sat still, hands slightly trembling. The place reeked of fryer oil and old ketchup. The lights buzzed above, flickering slightly with each surge in the fryer.

The hum of the ventilation system blended with the faint chatter of other patrons. Somewhere near the counter, a soda fountain wheezed and hissed. Grease clung to the air like a second skin, coating everything with a film that no one seemed to notice but him.

Franz didn’t look up. "You shouldn’t think too much about it."

The words barely registered at first.

Orion blinked. "About what?"

Franz pointed at him with a fry, his voice low and measured. "Everything. The warehouse. Your freak-out. The blood on your hands. All of it."

Orion felt the sting of that last part. He instinctively glanced down looking at his covered hand.

The cloth of his sleeve felt too tight around his wrist, like it was hiding something rotten beneath it. He didn’t need to look. He could feel it anyway. The weight. The memory.

"I don’t know what to do," he muttered.

Franz leaned back, sipping from his drink. The ice clinked lazily.

"You don’t have to ignore it," he said. "Just don’t drown in it, keep yourself distracted. The weight. You get busy—college, friends, late-night garbage food." He gestured at the tray. "You stop bleeding internally every second."

The tray. The burger. The food that looked like a parody of comfort. It was still untouched.

Orion stared at his untouched burger. He didn’t feel like eating.

His stomach had been a fist for hours. Maybe days.

"Why are you protecting me?" The question slipped out before he could stop it.

It wasn’t rehearsed. It wasn’t polite. It just cracked loose from the fear in his chest.

Franz paused mid-bite, jaw tightening. He set the burger down slowly, wiping his hands on a napkin.

The silence between them stretched.

"I have my reasons," he said simply.

Orion watched him carefully. "But why?"

The question hovered in the air between them, raw and unbalanced.

Franz finally looked up, and when he did, his gaze was sharp enough to slice.

"You don’t need to know why. Just know this."

A pause.

"I won’t let you die."

The words fell like stones into Orion’s chest, solid and heavy. There was no softness to them, no comforting cadence. Just stone-bound finality. Like a contract sealed in silence.

They weren’t a promise.

They were a sentence.

Franz leaned forward, pushing Orion’s tray closer. "Now eat your damn food. You’re wasting good food."

The tray slid forward a few inches, bumping lightly against Orion’s hands.

Orion let out a weak laugh, almost a breath. But he picked up the burger.

I really don’t wanna eat it.

Third-Person POV — Inside the Car

The silence in the car had grown thick, almost tactile. But it shattered the moment Emphera spoke.

"Well," she drawled, "someone explain to me how Franz turned out hot and not... I don’t know, serial-killer awkward."

Her voice cut through the tension like scissors through gauze. She leaned her head back against the window, grinning sideways. The leather seat creaked with the movement.

Outside, the city rolled past in a blur of streetlights and shadowed storefronts. The late afternoon haze made the windows feel fogged over with a thin film of heat.

Celeste, in the front passenger seat, gave a soft chuckle. "You’re not wrong. I thought he’d be this aloof, brooding jerk. Turns out he’s... weirdly decent."

She shifted slightly, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear.

"He saved my mom," Celeste added, voice softening. "He didn’t even hesitate. And then he let us all stay. Just like that."

In the back, Iris adjusted her glasses. "He’s unusually good at cooking."

She spoke like it was a fact she had recorded and filed for future use. No opinion. Just data.

"Unsettlingly handsome," Lena murmured.

There was a small, barely audible noise from Lena.

Emphera turned like a shark scenting blood.

"What was that?" Emphera perked up, grin sharpening.

Lena flushed. "Nothing!"

"Oh no no no," Iris said, the rare ghost of a smile on her face. "You definitely said something."

Lena hid her face in her sleeves. "I did not!"

The girls laughed, the tension easing like steam off pavement after rain.

Even the air in the car seemed to warm, just for a moment.

Zane’s jaw tightened. He stared out the window like it had wronged him.

"Can you all stop talking for a second?"

His voice cut through the warmth like a scalpel.

Everyone fell silent.

It was abrupt, uncharacteristic. Even Emphera’s usual quip died before it left her throat.

Celeste turned in her seat. "Zane... are you okay?"

He blinked, as if realizing he’d said it out loud. His usual mask—the easygoing one with tilted smiles and light banter—slid back into place.

"Yeah," he said, rubbing his temple. "Just a headache. Slept weird."

But Emphera, watching from the corner of her eye, wasn’t convinced.

One by one, the car emptied. Iris first, then Lena, then Emphera. Each girl glanced at Celeste before leaving, silent questions flitting across their faces.

Ardent Mansion — Celeste’s POV

The gates groaned open without the usual rhythm. The guards were different—younger, sharper, and uniform in a way that felt rehearsed. Black suits, subtle earpieces, not a trace of the familiar house staff.

Even their silence felt... managed. Practiced.

Celeste stepped out slowly. One of the guards gave her a short, mechanical nod. She returned it, more confused than reassured.

Something was off.

Inside, the smell hit her first. The scent of bleach, cold and clinical. Furniture had vanished from the foyer. Paintings that once lined the walls were either missing or covered with white sheets. The hallway echoed too much.

The house had been gutted.

She moved through the marble halls, past the statue of the blindfolded muse, until she saw them.

Her mother, Victoria, stood with a circle of suited men. Across from her was an older man—tall, gaunt, and pale, with eyes like melted iron. The kind of man whose presence erased furniture from memory.

Victoria looked up.

"Celeste!"

She crossed the room in seconds, pulling her into a tight hug. Celeste stiffened, then leaned into it slowly.

"Thank God you’re okay," Victoria murmured.

Celeste pulled back. "Of course I am. What would happen to me?"

Victoria paused for a fraction too long.

"Nothing," she said, recovering quickly. "Nothing is going to happen to you."

Celeste studied her. The tension in her mother’s shoulders, the way she kept glancing at the men behind her.

"Franz said the problem with Elliot was over."

Victoria tensed. Subtle, but clear. Her hand tightened around Celeste’s wrist.

"Did he say anything else?"

"No. Just that it was handled. He said to ask you."

Her mother exhaled slowly. "Right. Well... Elliot is gone. Out of our lives for good."

Celeste glanced around again. "So that’s what this is? The guards, the empty rooms?"

Victoria nodded. "I don’t want a single trace of him left in this house."

Celeste gave her a small smile. "Alright. I’m gonna go take a shower. If you need anything, call me."

Victoria nodded, lips pressed into a thin line.

Celeste turned and walked away, heels clicking softly against the polished floor.

A Few Moments Ago — Victoria’s POV

The old man’s breath was stale, and too close.

"No one outside this room must know what happened to Elliot Ardent," he said.

His tone hardened. "If word gets out—if even a whisper reaches the wrong ear—it won’t be good for anyone."

His meaning was clear.

Victoria felt her throat close. The men in suits didn’t flinch. They didn’t need to.

.....

...

Present time —

Victoria stood in place, still and pale. Then her eyes drifted to the hallway Celeste had disappeared into.

She whispered into the silence:

"I’m sorry. But at least you’re safe."

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________A/N

Thanks for reading this Chapter.

I wanted to ask—do you prefer Chapters like this one and previous one (longer and more detailed), or the shorter ones like I posted earlier? Let me know what works better for you as a reader.

I’m trying to find the right balance between pacing and depth as the story progresses. Appreciate your support as always!