Another morning crawled by.

Thankfully, Levi’s infection, while initially alarming, hadn’t been as severe as it appeared, and he had transitioned to oral antibiotics. I was in the kitchen, preparing our usual morning repast. Levi had even agreed to a cup of fruity tea, sweetened with honey. As I stirred the honey into the steaming brew, Leo entered the kitchen behind me. God damn, the man was a titan. Even though he clearly made an effort to move without contact, his breadth brushed against my back as he passed. He offered a mumbled apology, but honestly, it wasn’t his fault. It was simply the consequence.

As Levi and I ate breakfast, a dark, unwelcome emotion began to churn within me. Levi still hadn’t definitively labeled his own sexual identity. So… was there a chance he might be versatile? What if that vulnerability, that moment of complete dependence on Leo, had somehow… awakened something? The image of the titan carrying him so effortlessly, so gently, like a precious cargo… No, Raphael, you idiot, shut that line of thought down now. But the tendrils of jealousy had already taken root, that ugly worm wriggling its way through the fertile ground of my anxieties.

Furthermore, I'd noticed a significant increase in their intellectual sparring sessions. Even when they held diametrically opposed viewpoints, Levi engaged with Leo seriously, valuing his perspective enough that he would actively steer the conversation in directions that piqued his own interest when boredom threatened to set in. Shut up, brain. You're being utterly ridiculous. You know how difficult it is for Levi to form friendships or even tolerate most other people. Be grateful that he doesn’t treat Leo with his usual disdain, like some bothersome insect, a piece of vermin, or a filthy pig. Yeah… be grateful for that small miracle. Shut up, brain, and just watch Levi attempting to drink his peach tea, his nose wrinkling in that adorable way.

Shut up, brain, just shut the hell up. Levi is a dominant top. End of story. If he harbored any other inclinations, he would have told me already, without a shred of hesitation or shame. But… what if Leo is a bottom? Oh no, gods, no. Someone, please, make these thoughts stop. I dug my fingernails into the soft flesh of my palm. Shut up, brain. Do not conjure that scenario. Not even for a millisecond. No. Shut. Up. Leo has been intimately involved in Levi's care for over a week now, every single day, every single morning, every single night, tending to his most vulnerable needs. No. Shut up. He is a medical professional. This is his job. Fuck off, brain. Don't do this to me. The last time you spiraled like this, I ended up completely dissociated, lost in a fog of my own making. I can't afford to lose myself again.

Then Leo approached the breakfast table, pointing that toy gun-like thermometer at Levi's forehead.

"Temperature within the average range again, sir," Leo announced after the beep. Levi, without looking up from his tea, dismissed him with a wave of his hand and took a tentative sip of the tea, his nose wrinkling in that endearing display of mild distaste. Thank god. But just as Leo began to step away from the table, Levi asked. “Did you manage to finish that book?”

Oh no. This feeling. It’s clawing its way up from the pit of my stomach, hot and viscous like molten lava. It’s spreading, inching its way up my chest, burning everything in its path. My palms feel clammy, as if I’m clenching red-hot steel rods. Yes. This is jealousy.

I gripped my hot mug of coffee. The heat barely registered on my palms.

“Ah, yes, sir, I finished it this morning. I must confess, I did not agree with the author’s central stance at all. I find this pervasive notion, this way of thinking as if the entire world was created solely for human benefit, that this humancentric ideal is… fundamentally egotistical,” Leo said, his tone thoughtful and measured.

Levi, his gaze fixed on his rim of the cup, crinkled his right eye. “How… utterly predictable.”

Thank god. Thank you, Leo, for being a reasonable, agreeable person.

Wait.

No. No. No. Levi knew, with absolute certainty, what Leo’s opinion on such a topic would be. Yet, he still asked Leo to read that specific book, just to hear him articulate those very thoughts. No. This is so much worse than I initially imagined.

As Leo quietly exited the room, each exhale felt like a blast of furnace air against my nostrils. Yeah. Definitely a fever creeping in. The unmistakable flush of heat was rising from my chest. Raphael, you pathetic pig. Shut up. Just shut up. Be grateful that your husband, your recovering, vulnerable husband, has found someone he can engage with, someone he can talk to beyond you. Yeah… Calm down. Just be calm. Take a slow sip of your coffee, the warmth a small anchor in this storm, and focus on the simple act of chewing your cheese and ham sandwich. Yeah. Calm. What did therapist say? Grounding techniques. Look around the room. Count the familiar objects. One… the mug in my hand. Two… Levi’s wrinkled nose as he sips his tea. Three… the lingering scent of peach. Yeah. I feel like a balloon. A stupid, fragile helium balloon. Slowly floating… away.

Why doesn’t Levi ever ask me to read books?

I’ve even made a conscious effort, slogging through dense tomes on neurodivergence specifically to understand him better, and it genuinely has helped. Yeah, but what about other books? I mean, let's be realistic, there's absolutely no conceivable way my brain could even begin to comprehend the intricacies of chemistry or the vastness of astronomy, but surely I could at least manage to wade through some philosophy, right? Who am I even kidding? My idiot brain and my attention span, which rivals that of a goldfish, wouldn't stand a chance against that kind of intellectual rigor. Does Levi even ever read fiction? I honestly don’t think so. Fuck! This whole situation is just… fuck!

Levi set his empty teacup down on the saucer with a sharp clink. “Gods… I loathe tea with every fiber of my being. My stomach feels like it’s lined with sandpaper.”

Well, my chest feels like it’s being slowly roasted over an open flame, you oblivious idiot. Shut your mouth, engaging another man in intellectual discussions about books you wouldn't deign to share with me.

“Is that so?” I replied, my knuckles white as I clutched the handle of my own mug. “But you know Dr. Nora said it would be gentle on your digestive system.”

“It feels like a battalion of tiny gremlins tap-dancing on my intestinal lining. But thank you for your concern, dearest,” he said, his tone still laced with mock suffering. Then, I saw the crinkle at the corner of his right eye. “Did I inadvertently pass on my delightful infection to you, dear? You do seem rather flushed.” He reached out a hand, his touch gentle against my forehead.

Yeah, Levi, it's the fever. The fever of you having intellectual pillow talk with someone else. Infection? No, not that kind. This is a different kind of sickness. One that festers in the quiet corners of my mind, fueled by insecurity and irrational fears.

“Oh, no, not that at all,” I said, attempting a weak, slightly embarrassed smile. “I just… I think I drank my coffee a little too quickly this morning. Still a bit fuzzy from sleep, you know?”

Nailed it. Playing the slightly dim, easily flustered partner usually managed to deflect his intense scrutiny.

He withdrew his hand, his right eye remaining narrowed. That look. His eyes boring into me. “Hm… Your complexion is rather… intense, to say the least, Pulla,” he stated, his voice carefully neutral. He hadn’t bought my flimsy excuse for a second. Of course he hadn’t. “But I will not press the matter further… for now.”

Asshole. Where does he even summon that laser-like intensity from? Even I, a trained actor, can't conjure that level of focused scrutiny on command. What did he say last time this green-eyed monster appeared? Ah, yes! He told me, with that infuriatingly logical detachment of his, that since he doesn't experience jealousy himself, he doesn't fully grasp its manifestations. Therefore, if I am feeling it, I should articulate it. Yeah, right. As if. As if I'm just going to casually say, 'Hi, darling, just wanted to let you know I'm feeling a tad jealous of your nurse, specifically your cozy little book club.' Fuck everything. Damn it all to hell.

Levi made an attempt to push himself up from his chair. No. He was still weak, unsteady. He could easily lose his balance and fall. Instinct took over. I shot out of my own chair and rushed to his side.

“Dearest,” he said, his hand gripping the table, “calm yourself. I am perfectly capable of navigating three feet to the couch.” He began to move, but I hovered around him, my hands poised to catch him at the slightest wobble. He lowered himself onto the couch with a grunt and reached for the remote. I settled beside him, anxiety still buzzing beneath my skin. “What’s going on, Levi?”

“Ah, nothing too elaborate, my dear,” he replied, his attention already drifting towards the screen. “Today marks the final day of the government’s currency change initiative. My consultancy role at the relevant government office is… nearly concluded. Eighty percent concluded, to be precise. From this point forward, my primary function will revert to the far more satisfying task of calling and, shall we say, persuading recalcitrant ministers to actually perform their duties.” He flicked on the television.

The news was saturated with reports on the final hours of the currency change program.

“That’s… that’s a relief to hear that your workload is finally being reduced, Levi,” I said, trying to sound genuinely pleased while the knot of worry in my stomach tightened. “But what exactly does that remaining twenty percent entail?”

“Hm,” he mused, his gaze still flicking towards the television screen, though his attention seemed to waver slightly. “Given the… unique intellectual landscape of the current ministerial staff, coupled with their inherent predisposition towards indolence, there is a distinct possibility they will attempt to delegate their remaining responsibilities to their already overburdened teams. Therefore, they require a firm hand, a benevolent tyrant, if you will, to ensure a smooth transition. This will likely occupy my attention until approximately two months hence, when we finally have our first elected president. The very moment that president is officially declared, I will practically snap my SIM card in two and flee the realm of governmental consultancy with unseemly haste.”

I’d almost relegated that whole political upheaval, the upcoming presidential election, to the dusty corners of my mind. It felt like a lifetime ago, a distant memory from the hazy days before the electrocution and the fever-induced delirium.

“So, your primary function for the next two months is essentially just… verbally eviscerating government ministers over the phone?” I clarified, a hint of morbid amusement coloring my tone.

“More or less, indeed,” he confirmed. “My work concerning the presidential rallies and the election itself – the comprehensive guidelines, the detailed instructions – was completed and disseminated prior to the incident. So, yes. My current role largely consists of vociferously conveying my dissatisfaction via telecommunications. Then, in approximately two months, the populace will finally exercise their democratic right.”

“Wow…” I murmured, a mixture of awe and slight bewilderment in my voice. “Everything you said you’d do... But… I am genuinely curious, Levi. How exactly do you prepare those things? Those incredibly comprehensive instructions?”

“Ah, that is the truly tedious part, my dear,” he replied, shuddering. “You are welcome to visit my study at any time and pull down one of those deceptively labeled document boxes and attempt to peruse their contents. I assure you, the sheer mind-numbing monotony of it all practically liquefies my brain, even though I am the one who crafted those bureaucratic monstrosities. Pages upon pages dedicated to articulating something fundamentally simple in the most convoluted and elaborately verbose manner imaginable. It is its own special brand of torment.”

“You know what…” I said, a sudden impulse overriding my reluctance. “I am curious. I’m going to grab one of those boxes.”

“Hm,” Levi murmured, a knowing smirk playing on his lips as he watched me rise from the couch. “Well, now we know what my Pulla's nightmare will consist of tonight.”

...

I ignored his teasing and headed towards his study on the second floor. The six-digit code clicked as I punched it in. My god, the air was stagnant and thick with the scent of old paper and dust. It had to have been at least three weeks since anyone had last ventured into this space. Ah, this dim and claustrophobic room. Stacks upon stacks of document boxes loomed on either side, forming towers that stretched all the way to the ceiling. There was barely a narrow pathway cleared, just enough for Levi to navigate to his desk and sit down. There weren’t even any windows. How did he manage to exist in this airless tomb, sometimes not even leaving it for days on end? I did as he instructed, grabbing one of the nearest boxes. I wrestled it free from the towering stack and pulled out the first file that came to hand.

I opened a yellow file, the paper crackling faintly in my hands. Ah, shit! No, no, no. This wasn't the dry, mind-numbing bureaucracy Levi had described. This was something else entirely. This was evidence. One of those files. The ones Levi had compiled, a damning indictment against the old nobility, the ammunition he intended to use to dismantle their archaic power structure. Shit, shit, shit. The photographs… they seared themselves onto my retinas.

I flung the yellow file back into its box as if the paper itself had scorched my skin. Shit. Mental note: steer clear of anything remotely yellow in this godforsaken study. Curiosity was rapidly curdling into nausea. My gaze landed on a blue box. I grabbed it, the cardboard rough in my trembling hands, and pulled out the top file.. Oh. My. God. This wasn't evidence of past crimes. This was surveillance. Specifically, this was surveillance documentation of that incident. The horrifying incident where Levi's own sperm had been stolen by his own mother and those… potential birth mothers. My breath hitched. The clinical language describing such a violation, the reports detailing dates, times, and locations… it was sickening. I didn't need to see photographs to conjure the cruelty of it all. My stomach lurched violently. I shoved that file back into its box, wanting to scrub the words from my mind. My stomach was churning with a potent cocktail of disbelief, disgust, and a profound sense of violation, even though it hadn't been my body that had been so ruthlessly exploited.

Driven by a morbid curiosity and a sliver of grim understanding – Levi had, after all, been remarkably candid about the darker corners of his past – I reached for another box. This one was a black. I pulled out the top file and began to read. Yeah. None of this was particularly new information. He’d never sugarcoated his methods. Bankrupting noble families, discreetly arranging safe abortions for noblewomen trapped in unwanted pregnancies (always with their explicit consent, he’d stressed), orchestrating the quiet dissolution of politically advantageous but loveless marriages, sabotaging their lucrative business ventures, and ensuring, with intricate legal maneuvering, that they couldn't simply flee the consequences of their actions by escaping the country. And then there was the ethically murky territory he’d always approached with a chilling pragmatism: the quiet switching of terminally ill nobles' vital medications with placebos. He’d laid it all out for me, stark and unflinching, even offering me the files themselves, a silent invitation to report him to the authorities if my conscience demanded it. I continued reading, the black ink on the crisp paper detailing not only his actions but also the intricate web of alliances he’d forged. There were comprehensive transcripts of text messages, between Levi and his network of allies within the nobility – the very women he was ostensibly working against, yet who secretly aided his endeavors.

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

This study… this airless, dimly lit vault crammed floor to ceiling with boxes… It feels like a tomb. No wonder a part of me has always recoiled from even touching these files. No one should have this much documented… history of manipulation and potential destruction at their fingertips. The burning outrage I once felt about Levi’s clandestine efforts to dismantle the nobility feels strangely muted now. The nobility is essentially a relic, a footnote in history. I know Levi doesn’t experience fear in the way most people do, or the paranoia that might drive someone to hoard such information. But… isn’t this all just meticulously documented trauma, both inflicted and witnessed? Forget, for a moment, his own admitted wrongdoings. What about everything else? Why, after all these months of relative peace and progress, does he still keep these records? Does he genuinely believe that someday, those old power structures, even if not under the banner of nobility, will somehow try to resurface, perhaps as influential families or shadowy corporations?

This study. This airless, suffocating space. This is where he tried to end his life. He told me, in his characteristically detached way, that he was seeking another void, a deeper nothingness, because he himself is a void. No. I shouldn’t be dwelling on this. No. Stop. He is alive. He is here. And even though his body bears the scars of his recent ordeal, stitched together like a fragile doll, he is still fiercely independent, still taking care of himself, and most importantly, still sober and clean. Shut up, Raphael. Stop projecting your own fears and anxieties onto his past. Don't view his struggles solely through the lens of your own emotions.

I continued to delve deeper into the black files, one after another, each one a chronicle of calculated dismantling. Dates, transcripts of text messages, records of clandestine meetings in hushed locations, snippets of overheard conversations, even the faintest whispers – all recorded. Some of the most crucial entries were penned in his own handwriting, detailing observations, strategic notes, and step-by-step instructions on how to systematically unravel a noble family’s power and influence. And he had done this, it seemed, for every single family he had targeted. The files documented his intricate network of informants: meetings with mistresses seeking retribution, conversations with sex workers privy to damaging secrets, outreach to long-serving household staff yearning for a better life, whom he would then relocate and support through his charity foundation. Every single whisper, every insignificant act, was documented with relentless precision, day by day, some entries dating back nearly a decade.

He identified what he termed pressure points. For some deeply entrenched families, the vulnerability lay in their business empires, susceptible to rumors or financial maneuvers. For others, it was the fragile facade of their arranged marriages, ripe for exploitation through discreetly revealed infidelities or long-held resentments. And for the truly vulnerable, it was often a beloved but compromised child, whose indiscretions or hidden struggles could be leveraged with devastating effect. He would locate these weaknesses, often through the whispers provided by his network of noblewomen. Then he would apply initial pressure, a carefully timed rumor, a strategically leaked piece of information. He would escalate this pressure, sometimes choosing the highly public stage of the exclusive noble galas, even daringly orchestrating subtle embarrassments or carefully worded insinuations in the presence of the late King himself, maximizing the impact and sowing seeds of doubt and discord. After each calculated move, he would patiently wait for his allies to feed him more data, more vulnerabilities, and then he would apply pressure once again, tightening the noose slowly but inexorably. Until they fractured. Until their fortunes crumbled. Until those marriages shattered. He would then offer impartial legal advice to those seeking divorces, subtly guiding them towards outcomes that further served his long-term goals.

Reading about his actions is a different experience than hearing him recount them. It’s like reading a war journal penned by the victorious commander himself. And he did win, didn’t he?

I picked up another file, my hands trembling slightly. This one… this felt different. This felt like the point of no return.

Levi, barely twenty years old, his young mind already plotting, scheming, trying to find a way to create a power vacuum where an archaic system could finally collapse. His own handwriting detailed how he synthesized that drug within the Royal Academia – the drug that would ultimately render the late King sterile. Every single day, for six months, he would personally serve the King tea, cloaked in the guise of his ducal responsibilities and an outward display of reverence. According to his notes, the King became… flushed in his presence every time. My stomach clenched. The entitled monarch swine even tried to stroke Levi's hair once. He never told me that particular detail. Every single day, at precisely five o'clock, Levi would return from his studies at the Royal Academia to the palace, bearing that poisoned tea.

Initially, his plan was simply to reveal the King's infertility, a scandal that would undoubtedly rock the foundations of the monarchy. But after a mere week, a colder, more calculating strategy took root: why reveal it now? Let’s wait.

And he did. He waited a decade.

Two years after his daily tea service concluded, he struck a deal with the Queen. The Queen, consumed by a bitter hatred for her husband, to the point of a documented, failed poisoning attempt of her own, found a willing partner in Levi. Their audacious plan began to take shape. The Queen would feign pregnancy, and on the day she was supposedly to give birth, Levi would substitute orphaned twins in her place, securing the lineage he desired. And the Queen… she ultimately drank poison and ended her own life. But it was recorded as a loss of blood during a difficult childbirth.

Levi had never told me the story of the late Queen.

Wait. No. Did Levi… was he responsible for the Queen's death?

I reread the file, starting from the very beginning.

So, the Queen… she had always been teetering on the edge, her despair so profound that she had even attempted to jump from the Royal Palace balcony. That was the moment Levi had witnessed her vulnerability, her desperation, and seized the opportunity to strike their deal. But… according to their initial agreement, the Queen was supposed to fake her own death. But she hadn't. Instead, she had taken her own life.

No wonder he never told me. This isn't a victory in his long war. This is… a tragedy. A messy, complicated, horrifying tragedy, stained with unintended death and the weight of a failed plan. And he was right at the very center of it, orchestrating the moves, making the deals.

I need to get out of this place. This suffocating, airless study. This tomb. An actual tomb, filled with the ghosts of past manipulations and tragic outcomes. My hands trembling, I placed the black files back in their box and walked down the stairs, each step feeling heavy. Levi was still on the couch, idly watching the news, an air of boredom about him. His gaze flicked towards me as I entered the living room.

“Hm…” he murmured, that crinkle appearing at the corner of his right eye. “A predictable outcome, wouldn’t you agree? Did your delicate morality suddenly blossom anew in the dusty confines of my study? Have you come to pass judgment on this irredeemable sinner, Pulla?” His tone was light, almost teasing, but there was an undercurrent of something else there, a subtle challenge, a waiting.

I need to be careful what I say. My emotions are raw, but I can't just lash out. He'll just retreat behind his walls. I need to… understand. Or at least try to.

“Why didn’t you ever tell me about the Queen, Levi?” I asked, my voice steady despite the turmoil roiling within me. I kept my gaze locked on his, refusing to look away from those intense blue eyes, even though every instinct urged me to retreat.

“I made a miscalculation, Raphael. A significant one. I did not anticipate her taking her own life. I only learned the grim details after I obtained and reviewed the official autopsy reports. Apparently, she ingested a potent poison, one that caused a catastrophic failure of her heart.” His tone was flat, as if reciting a factual report.

Is there any point in trying to make him see the human cost of his actions? Or am I just projecting my own "delicate morality" onto a being who fundamentally doesn't share it?

“But… why didn’t you tell me, Levi? You’ve shared so many other dark aspects of your past. Why keep this particular story locked away?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

He finally shifted his gaze fully to mine, exasperation crossing his features. “Would that have made any discernible difference to our present reality, Raphael? This event transpired over eight years ago. We reached a mutually agreed-upon arrangement, and she unilaterally chose to deviate from it. Do you even begin to comprehend the sheer logistical nightmare involved in attempting to forge a credible passport for a member of the Royal Family? I even financed the purchase of a vessel for her escape. Not utilizing a single credit from my family’s coffers, mind you, but from my own personal accounts. She further consented to undergo extensive plastic surgery to ensure her anonymity. But on the very day she was scheduled to arrive at the designated port… she chose to end her own existence instead.” His tone remained flat, clinical, but there was a subtle undercurrent of… something. Frustration?

"So, you helped her plan an escape and all you can focus on is the bureaucratic headache and the sunk cost of a boat? Is that truly the extent of your comprehension, Levi? Is that the only lens through which you view this tragedy?" I said, my voice rising slightly, the shock and disappointment making it tremble.

“What a predictably sentimental notion,” he scoffed, a sardonic smile twisting his lips. “Hm, let me ponder how I should have reacted to adequately satiate your seemingly insatiable need for… what was it? Human emotion? Ah, yes! Tears, perhaps? Should I have theatrically rent my garments and wailed about the cruel vagaries of fate? Tell me truthfully, Raphael, what is the underlying motivation for this sudden inquisition? Have you descended from your moral high ground in my dusty study to meticulously dissect my lack of ‘emotion,’ my nonexistent ‘guilt,’ my foreign concept of ‘shame’? As if, after all this time, you still haven’t grasped the fundamental truth of my being.”

"It's not about judgment, Levi," I repeated, the anger giving way to a weary yearning. "It's about trying to understand the man I love. When something this significant, this… consequential, happened in your past, something that involved another person's life and death, I want to know how it shaped you, how it informs who you are today. Keeping these stories locked away, these significant pieces of your history… it creates a chasm between us, a distance I don't know how to bridge."

Levi slowly unfolded himself from the couch, his movements still carrying a hint of stiffness, and walked towards me with deliberate, measured steps. He stopped just a few feet away, his intense blue eyes boring into mine, searching, assessing.

“You asked for the truth, Raphael, did you not?” he said, his voice low and steady, the teasing tone gone, replaced by a weight I hadn't heard before. “You always expressed a desire to know more, to understand the genesis of… me. You pressed for details about my childhood, seeking some elusive point of connection. Are you truly ready, now? Are you prepared to hear it, Raphael?”

I did ask for his childhood, yes. I had yearned to understand the forces that shaped him, the genesis of the man I loved – this brilliant, complex, often unsettling being. I took a deep breath, trying to steady the whirlwind of emotions inside me.

“Yes, Levi. Tell me,” I said, my voice barely a whisper, yet firm. He took a step closer, his intense gaze never wavering, never blinking.

“I felt nothing, Raphael. The day the Queen died, I attended her funeral. Her death held no significance for me, just as her life had held none. It never will. I did not recount this particular detail to you because I did not deem it necessary to the overarching narrative. The crucial element was the King’s sterilization. That was the objective. That is the end of it. Do you still wish to delve further into the intricacies of my… genesis?”

“Yes, Levi,” I affirmed.

He took another slow step closer. “Your country abolished its monarchy a century ago, Raphael, and never truly possessed a rigid, centuries-old class system akin to ours. You had a dynasty, yes, but even your ruling families were ultimately held accountable for their actions under Cyrusian law. Have you ever truly taken the time to understand the intricate, often brutal, distinctions between a mere baron, a powerful marchioness, a titled duke, and the myriad other hierarchical strata that defined our society for generations? Did you ever try to grasp the suffocating weight of tradition, the absolute impunity enjoyed by those at the apex, the utter lack of recourse for those crushed beneath?”

“It is true, Levi,” I conceded, my voice softer now. “As a foreigner, I can intellectually grasp the concept of your class system, but I cannot claim to truly understand its suffocating intricacies, the ingrained power dynamics that shaped your entire existence.”

He cut me off, his voice gaining a raw edge. “Do you even know what being groomed truly entails, Raphael? Forget the sanitized dictionary definition for a moment, and try to imagine what it meant for me, a mere five-year-old child, being prepared for an engagement at sixteen and a legally binding marriage at eighteen. Julia, my own first cousin, was a marchioness, Raphael. Her family, despite their own considerable standing, could not even refuse those orchestrated ‘playdates.’ Do you have even the faintest inkling, the vaguest notion, of what that felt like? No. You do not. You never have. And I sincerely hope, for your own sake, that you never will.”

I asked for connection. And here it is. The connection to a trauma I can barely comprehend.

"Levi… You are right. I cannot truly comprehend the weight of your trauma, the violation you endured. But… I want to try. I want you to share it with me, if you can."

"Share?" he repeated, a harsh laugh escaping him. "You truly wish me to share? Do you wish me to reiterate the details of how my own mother drugged me into oblivion to steal my sperm when I was a mere seventeen-year-old boy, Raphael? You witnessed the entirety of that grotesque charade. You were privy to the lengths I went to track down every single noblewoman involved. But what was the ultimate outcome? Now I am a father, an unwilling father to twins. Do you truly wish me to relive the events of that day, the day Miss Elira arrived at our house, carrying my children? You, with your unwavering moral compass, talked me out of terminating that pregnancy, even though I possessed the legal and biological right to do so. I didn't proceed because I knew the endless debates, the relentless erosion of your precious morality that would have ensued, wouldn't it? Tell me, Raphael, does any of that sound like the actions of someone who truly wishes to hear my past pain? Especially when your boundless morality, your ready tears, seem so readily available for a dead queen you never even knew?"

"Levi… I see your pain. I see the anger and the resentment. And you're right. My reaction to the Queen… it was different. Maybe because it felt like a consequence of the man I love's actions, a shadow cast on us both. But your trauma… what happened to you… it's different. It's a violation. And I am sorry if my empathy for one felt like a dismissal of the other."

"Stop lying, Raphael. Just… stop for one single second." His voice was low, dangerous, the pain laced with fury. "Oh, let's shift the perspective for a moment, shall we? If the one who was violated, the one whose body was invaded, was Miss Elira, would you even pause for a breath before uttering your pronouncements? What comforting words would you offer her then? 'Go get an abortion. It's the most sensible option,' wouldn't you? Or perhaps, let's consider the present, the reality we are living right now. What if those children… what if they inherited my neurological disorder? Did that thought even flicker across your oh-so-compassionate mind? Did you even consider the potential challenges they might face? No. Of course not. Because everything, in the end, always circles back to you, to preserving your untainted morality, to soothing your precious conscience."

His words are like a physical blow. Each one hits with the force of his pent-up rage and pain. Elira... if it had been Elira... the thought sends a cold dread through me. Would I have prioritized her autonomy, her potential trauma, over some abstract moral principle? The honesty of that question stings.

His disorder... the twins... I pushed that thought away, didn't I? Focused on the miracle of their existence, the joy of new life. But his reality is different. He lives with it every day, the challenges, the frustrations. Is my empathy always about me, about reinforcing my own sense of right and wrong?

"That's not fair, Levi," I said, my voice trembling slightly as I tried to close the physical and emotional distance between us. "It wasn't about just appeasing my conscience. I genuinely believed I was trying to do what was right… for everyone involved. But I see now, with a painful clarity, that I failed to truly consider your perspective, your deepest fears."

"It is not fair?" he echoed, his voice a low, guttural growl. "How dare you even utter those words? How dare you speak of fairness when you stand on the precipice of understanding a fraction of the unfairness that has defined my entire existence?" He recoiled from my hand as if it were a burning brand, his eyes blazing with a pain that was terrifying in its intensity.

I've seen anger in them before, cold and calculating. But this is different. This is the fury of a lifetime of injustice finally erupting. I wanted connection. I wanted to understand his genesis. And here it is, laid bare in this explosive moment. A genesis forged in trauma, in violation, in a world where fairness was a cruel joke. I need to tread carefully. Any wrong word, any misplaced sentiment, could shatter what little fragile bridge might still exist between us.

I tried to reach for his hand again. But he swatted my hand away as if my touch was contaminated. Oh, shit. I had misstepped, badly.

“Did you read every single file in that sterile tomb, Raphael?” he demanded. “Did you absorb the names of the victims, their addresses etched in cold ink, their private numbers laid bare for your perusal? No. You did not, did you? Because in the end, despite your earnest pronouncements, you do not truly care about the reality of it all. You can perform the role of the empathetic observer, crafting your responses, but the truth is, you do not. Every single argument, every well-intentioned debate, invariably circles back to what you ‘think’ is right or wrong, your abstract principles, your comfortable moral high ground. It is never about the messy, brutal reality of life itself, Raphael. Now, if you’ll grant me leave, I require a cigarette before I spontaneously combust from the sheer weight of your… unwavering righteousness.”

Levi turned and walked away, his movements stiff and constrained. He headed towards the back garden, a place he openly loathed.

What do I do now? Do I follow him? Do I attempt to bridge the widening chasm with clumsy words, trying to articulate that my intentions weren't rooted in judgment, but in a desperate yearning to understand the complex, often brutal, reality of his existence? His accusations… they landed like physical blows, each word a sharp shard of glass twisting in my gut.