- Local Time
- 4:50 PM
- Joined
- Dec 15, 2023
- Messages
- 9,603
- Age
- 24
@Knight_of_None
The elevator doors slid open without a sound, and Kyn stepped into the upper executive floor like he belonged there—because he did. Yuri’s office sat at the far end, glass walls tinted just enough to keep the city from staring back. Kyn balanced two burdens easily: a paper bag of takeout in one hand, still warm, grease already soaking through at the corners, and a slim stack of legitimate business reports tucked under his arm. Numbers, projections, compliance filings. The kind of paper that kept shareholders calm and regulators bored. He scanned the corridor out of habit, then keyed the door open and slipped inside.
Yuri was exactly where he always was—behind the desk, posture immaculate, screens floating in front of him like obedient ghosts. Kyn shut the door with his heel and finally let himself relax. He crossed the room and unceremoniously dropped the reports onto the desk, then set the takeout down with exaggerated care, nudging it closer to Yuri’s reach. Without waiting for permission, he took the chair across from the desk, leaned back, and let it creak under his weight. “Eat the food,” he said, tone flat but familiar. “Then you can do more work. You’re not efficient when you forget to.”
It was a small rebellion, one he allowed himself only here. Kyn stretched his legs out, boot heel hooked casually against the desk’s edge, eyes flicking briefly to the city skyline before returning to Yuri. He’d spent his entire life in rooms like this—first training halls disguised as classrooms, then boardrooms dressed up as homes. The furniture had changed. The expectations hadn’t. He’d learned early which rules were rigid and which bent if you pushed just right. With Yuri, some things bent.
The reports were clean. Legal. Aboveboard. Kyn had skimmed them already, even though no one asked him to. Old habit—know what keeps the walls standing, not just what knocks them down. He’d grown up watching his family protect Yuri’s from threats that wore many faces: blades, bullets, contracts, competitors. This was just another form of armor. Paper instead of steel. He trusted Yuri to handle it. Yuri trusted him to handle everything else.
Kyn tilted his head, studying Yuri in that quiet, watchful way of his, the way that had been trained into him since childhood. There was comfort here, in the routine, in knowing exactly where he stood. Outside this office, he was a weapon. In the city below, a name whispered in the pits. But in this room, alone with Yuri, he was allowed to be something softer, something closer. “You keep staring at those screens,” he added, almost teasing, “and I’m going to assume you don’t want me to confiscate them next.”
The elevator doors slid open without a sound, and Kyn stepped into the upper executive floor like he belonged there—because he did. Yuri’s office sat at the far end, glass walls tinted just enough to keep the city from staring back. Kyn balanced two burdens easily: a paper bag of takeout in one hand, still warm, grease already soaking through at the corners, and a slim stack of legitimate business reports tucked under his arm. Numbers, projections, compliance filings. The kind of paper that kept shareholders calm and regulators bored. He scanned the corridor out of habit, then keyed the door open and slipped inside.
Yuri was exactly where he always was—behind the desk, posture immaculate, screens floating in front of him like obedient ghosts. Kyn shut the door with his heel and finally let himself relax. He crossed the room and unceremoniously dropped the reports onto the desk, then set the takeout down with exaggerated care, nudging it closer to Yuri’s reach. Without waiting for permission, he took the chair across from the desk, leaned back, and let it creak under his weight. “Eat the food,” he said, tone flat but familiar. “Then you can do more work. You’re not efficient when you forget to.”
It was a small rebellion, one he allowed himself only here. Kyn stretched his legs out, boot heel hooked casually against the desk’s edge, eyes flicking briefly to the city skyline before returning to Yuri. He’d spent his entire life in rooms like this—first training halls disguised as classrooms, then boardrooms dressed up as homes. The furniture had changed. The expectations hadn’t. He’d learned early which rules were rigid and which bent if you pushed just right. With Yuri, some things bent.
The reports were clean. Legal. Aboveboard. Kyn had skimmed them already, even though no one asked him to. Old habit—know what keeps the walls standing, not just what knocks them down. He’d grown up watching his family protect Yuri’s from threats that wore many faces: blades, bullets, contracts, competitors. This was just another form of armor. Paper instead of steel. He trusted Yuri to handle it. Yuri trusted him to handle everything else.
Kyn tilted his head, studying Yuri in that quiet, watchful way of his, the way that had been trained into him since childhood. There was comfort here, in the routine, in knowing exactly where he stood. Outside this office, he was a weapon. In the city below, a name whispered in the pits. But in this room, alone with Yuri, he was allowed to be something softer, something closer. “You keep staring at those screens,” he added, almost teasing, “and I’m going to assume you don’t want me to confiscate them next.”
