Something In The Way-SYLUS X MC X ZAYNE

XI: Tethered

Sylus

The cables hum low as the machines draw breath, and the light in the chamber sharpens against steel edges. I walk toward him—Zayne—where he bends over his work with the kind of precision that makes my skin itch. Stoic, shoulders squared like he's made of stone, hands steady even when the air itself feels unsteady. He adjusts a dial, scribbles a mark on a chart, then moves again without pause, as if this routine of wires and cold instruments is more natural than touch, than warmth, than faith.

"Are you certain this is safe for her?" I ask, and my voice is too even to be mistaken for anything other than calculation.

He doesn't look at me right away. He pushes his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose, eyes fixed on the monitor. "I find it offensive," he says finally, "that you think I don't have her best interests in mind."

I let out a low groan, something between irritation and disbelief, and tilt my head. "That's not what I asked."

Zayne's focus doesn't break as I step closer. He leans over the console, shoulders square, one gloved hand steadying a switch while the other scribbles numbers into a log. He is disciplined in everything he does, almost mechanical. It is what makes him dangerous, his refusal to falter.

"I asked if this is safe," I repeat, firmer now, eyes fixed on the machine rather than him. "Not whether you think I misunderstand your intentions."

He finally exhales, the sound sharp through his nose. "And I told you I don't take kindly to being questioned about whether I care for her." His tone is clipped, professional, but there's steel underneath.

I fold my arms over my chest, watching the way he adjusts another dial, as if the conversation is an annoyance to be swatted away. "You're avoiding the question. Safety isn't the same as intention. Ever since we stepped into this place you've been restless. Quiet, yes, but not in the way you usually are. You're hiding something."

Zayne places the pen down, turns just enough to look at me through the lenses of those narrow glasses. His expression doesn't change, but his eyes carry something sharper. "I'm trying to prevent this from escalating into something none of us can control. That is what you're sensing. Nothing more."

The words settle poorly. He's too composed, too precise. Men with clean answers are the hardest to trust.

"You know more than you're saying," I tell him plainly, licking my teeth as if to cut the silence.

He chuckles under his breath, not out of amusement but out of disbelief. "You would know," he says quietly, "since you've been spying on me."

My jaw tightens before I allow a slow, mocking smile to spread. "Don't mistake necessity for obsession. Tall, dark, and handsome isn't my type." The words slide off my tongue smooth, but the edge beneath them is clear.

He doesn't rise to the bait. Instead, he meets my stare evenly. "This is the only option we have," he says, measured, almost like he's reminding himself as much as me. "If you want her to live, then let me work. Calm yourself before your paranoia ruins what little chance we've got."

I study him for a long moment. Every fiber in me wants to tear his words apart, to expose the weakness in his logic, but I can't. He's right about one thing, options are running out. Still, my instincts do not lie.

Something in this room, in this plan, is wrong. I can feel it moving at the edges of my sense like a storm before the sky splits open. I have lived too many lives to mistake that weight for anything else.

I breathe slow, steady, though my chest tightens with heat. Zayne turns back to his notes, shutting me out again, but my mind continues circling. Machines, men, promises—they've all failed her before. If this fails too, no reasoning, no loyalty, no alliance will stop me.