The Prototype

55. Veiled Convictions

TEMPEST

It's been weeks since the conversation with Sapphire in the gym, yet her words been lingering in my mind like a jagged splinter I couldn't remove—sharp, irritating, impossible to ignore. Her voice had become a ghostly refrain, haunting me in the still moments. "You're special, You're unique. There's something about you that has prevented Marcellus from killing you."

Special. Unique. The words rolled in my head, each syllable biting like an accusation rather than a compliment. Those words should've stoked my arrogance, fed the inferno of my confidence, or fueled my endless self-loathing. But they didn't because I knew the truth.

Marcellus sparing me have nothing to do with me being 'special' or 'unique'. No, it's about strategy. Deliberate, calculated, like every damn move he made. His narcissism, a fortress impenetrable to anything that didn't benefit him. I am still alive, because he wants me alive. Part of it could be about the prototype I've created, the intricate networks and systems that bolstering his empire, feeding his delusion of invincibility. The other part could be that maybe he wants to see how far he could push. Either way, it's not about me. It's about him.

I haven't been to another event since the chaos that steamed from me attending Nino's grand opening of the street racing tournament weeks ago. I decided to steer clear of the drama that seems to attach itself to me from those got damn events. Coincidentally —or perhaps because of my avoidance—the month has been better. Productive, even.

The sterile white walls of the lab seemed to close in around me as I focused on the screen in front of me. My fingers flying over the keyboard, the faint hum of the computer providing a steady rhythm to the swirling thoughts in my head. The glow of the monitor reflecting off the polished metal surfaces of the room, casting an almost eerie light against the brightness of the space.

I leaned back in the swivel chair, letting out a slow breath. The chair creaking under me as I stared at the code scrolling across the screen. Lines of logic and function, commands and pathways, all meant to form his own router and network. My contribution to this fortress he called home, an intricate web of protection woven to keep threats at bay. Yet, truth be told, I am the very threat he should be guarding against.

The faint creak of the lab door opening snapped me out of my thoughts. My body tensed, instincts honed by weeks of tension kicking in. Slowly, I turned the chair to face the door, my arms resting on the armrests, fingers gripping the edges tightly.

And there he was.

Marcellus.

His presence filling the room before he even said a word. The sharp lines of his black suit standing in stark contrast to the brightness of the lab, the dark fabric absorbing the light as though it were an extension of him. His cold, dark brown eyes locked onto mine the moment the door clicked shut behind him, sealing us in together. Unreadable, piercing, dissecting me as though he could see every thought inside my head.

My chest tightened, each breath an effort as memories clawed their way to the surface—his possessiveness, his suffocating control, the way he always seemed to assert himself in moments when I least wanted to see him. Fighting to keep my expression neutral, but the tension in my jaw betrayed me. The nerve that he could still elicit such a visceral reaction from me.

He stepped forward with a precision that was unmistakably deliberate. The sound of his polished shoes against the tiled floor echoed in the cavernous space, slicing through the hum like a blade. Every step a calculated move, a reminder of the control he so ruthlessly wielded over every facet of his life—and everyone in it.

I folded my arms across my chest, creating a barrier between us, a futile defense against the force of his presence. "If you've come to argue with me," I said, my tone clipped, "you should've done it weeks ago when I was in your office. I said what I said, and I have nothing else to add."