CHAPTER 126: CHAPTER 126: CORRUPTION AND PROMISES

The line clicked dead, leaving only the hum of the office and the faint whir of the servers that fed into the walls around him. Victor didn’t move for several breaths, his thumb resting against the cooled glass of his phone, Elias’s last word, "yes," lodged in his chest like a blade he wasn’t sure he wanted removed.

He set the device down on the desk with deliberate care and turned his attention back to the wall of monitors. The main screen had been looping the same sequence for hours, a grainy black-and-red tint spilling across the feed. Matteo’s face filled the frame, pale under the harsh lighting, but stretched into something that no longer resembled a man.

Red ether.

It slicked across his veins like fire turned liquid, staining the whites of his eyes, peeling the edges of his mouth into that impossible grin. Victor’s jaw flexed, the same muscle pulling taut every time Matteo tilted his head too sharply, too mechanically.

This wasn’t a man anymore. This was a vessel.

On the footage, a shadow cut across the corner of the room, then stepped into view. Theobald. His movements were precise, his coat trailing like oil on water. Victor had watched the sequence too many times not to know every gesture by heart: the way Theobald’s hand settled over Matteo’s chest, fingers pressing as if feeling for something beneath bone, the moment the red ether surged brighter and thicker, wrapping Matteo’s body in a skin of corruption that glowed against the camera’s lens.

Matteo convulsed once, mouth tearing wider, then stilled. His pupils dilated to pits, his teeth bared in something between rapture and madness. His voice, when it came, was low, distorted, wrong. "I am returned."

Victor leaned forward in his chair, elbows braced against his knees, eyes fixed on the grotesque parody of a resurrection. He had fought wars in rooms that smelled like blood, but this, this was a desecration of the soul.

The footage ended in static.

Victor sat back in the chair, the glow of the monitors painting the edges of his face in cold white light. His reflection stared back at him in the dark glass between sequences: black hair combed neatly, shirt buttoned to the throat, belt polished until it caught the light like a blade. Controlled. Composed.

Except for the eyes.

Red, sharp as the cut of a scalpel, burning against the sterile surface of the screen. For a moment they looked too much like the footage still etched into his mind, Matteo, body broken and dragged upright again by Theobald’s hand, ether veins glowing crimson under his skin. That impossible grin. That desecrated soul.

Victor leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees. He watched as the corrupted grin bled across Matteo’s face again in the replay, a grotesque mirror that mocked sanity. The red ether had not only twisted his body; it had shackled his soul, forcing it back into the cage of flesh with strings only Theobald could pull.

’Not resurrection. Puppetry.’

A knock sounded, light, cautious, and before Victor could answer, the door clicked open.

Ashwin entered first, his face an unbroken mask. Behind him, Samael followed more slowly, one hand brushing the doorframe as though grounding himself before stepping inside.

"Sir," Ashwin greeted, inclining his head. His eyes flicked once to the monitors, long enough to register the image of Matteo’s twisted grin, then shifted back, his composure unbroken.

Samael faltered.

His gaze locked on the screen, and whatever steady mask he had worn cracked instantly. The color drained from his skin, breath stuttering as though the air itself had turned toxic. He jerked his head away, swallowing hard, but the damage was done.

"Gods," he whispered, voice hoarse, almost strangled. "That face... it’s... wrong. It shouldn’t exist."

Victor didn’t move. "It exists," he said, shrugging lightly.

Samael’s hand pressed hard to his stomach as if steadying himself against a wave of nausea. "It feels like it’s crawling under my skin," he admitted, low, ashamed of the weakness but unable to hide it. His shoulders hunched, his body trying to recoil from the sight even when the footage was no longer moving. "Like standing too close to a fire that doesn’t burn, it just... rots."

Ashwin set a steadying hand on Samael’s shoulder, his voice as flat as ever. "Then endure it. Turning away won’t make it less true." His gaze shifted to Victor. "Do you wish me to cut the feed?"

Victor leaned back in his chair at last, the red glow of his eyes catching on the static of the screen. "No," he said evenly. "You will both watch it. Every frame."

Samael flinched, eyes snapping to him in disbelief. "Watch? Victor, this..."

"This," Victor cut across, his voice edged in steel, "is what becomes of those who break from me. Matteo chose defiance. Theobald turned my ether into a leash." His gaze cut like a blade as he looked at Samael, then Ashwin. "You asked to serve me. Then understand what betrayal costs."

Ashwin’s expression didn’t shift, but Samael’s throat worked, his jaw tightening as if to hold himself steady against the sickness twisting through him. His knuckles whitened where his hand gripped the back of a nearby chair.

The screen flickered back to life. Matteo’s grin stretched wide, impossible, wrong.

Victor’s voice came low. "Look at it. And remember, because I don’t give more than a warning."

He rose from his seat, the scrape of the chair calculated in the silence, and stopped by Samael’s side. His hand settled briefly on the man’s shoulder, a weight rather than comfort. "I will deal with them."

Samael didn’t answer, his jaw clenched too tightly for words.

Victor turned, the black of his tie catching the sterile glow of the monitors, red eyes sharp enough to slice through the dim. He didn’t look back at the screens again. "Ashwin."

"Sir."

"Walk with me."

Ashwin fell into step without hesitation, the door swinging shut behind them with a final click that left Samael alone with Matteo’s grin.

The corridors of the NumenCorp building stretched long and silent, lined with glass and steel. Lights hummed overhead, but Victor’s stride was steady, leisurely, each step echoing with the weight of command.

He did not think of Theobald. Not of Matteo. Not even of the corrupted ether still clawing at the edges of loyalty.

Only of Elias.

He had promised him. Tonight.

Ashwin’s gaze flicked toward him once, the faintest tilt of his head betraying curiosity. "Sir... do you wish me to prepare the remaining files for the board?"

"No." Victor’s answer was immediate, his tone flat. "They can wait."

Ashwin inclined his head once more; no further questions were offered.

Victor’s mouth curved, faint and cold, but his eyes burned warmer, the bond thrumming at the edge of his mind. Home. That was the only matter worth his time tonight.

"Clear my schedule," he said as the elevator doors slid open. "Everything else is irrelevant."

And with that, the god of destruction left his empire in shadow, returning to the one promise that mattered more than war.