The walk to Elena's place was a straight-up struggle for her, but for Zavier? It was like carrying a feather. He walked behind her, his eyes locked on the back of her head, watching the way her wet hair stuck to her neck. Every time she glanced back to check if he was "okay" with the heavy box, he just gave her a bored, blank stare.
Elena couldn't help but steal glances at him. Up close, in the dim city lights, Zavier looked almost... unreal. His skin was insanely fair, almost like pristine white marble and so smooth it didn't look like it had ever touched a day of sun. It was a cold, aristocrat kind of pale. And his nose? A perfect, sharp line that gave him a look of arrogant disdain for everything around him. He looked less like a photographer and more like a lost prince from some ancient, cold dynasty.
"Almost there, Zav! Just around this corner," Elena shouted over the rain, pointing toward a building that looked like it was held together by spit and prayers.
But as soon as they turned the corner, Elena's body went stiff. She stopped so fast Zavier almost walked right into her.
"Oh, crap... not today. Please, not today," she whispered, her voice trembling.
Standing right in front of her apartment entrance was a guy who looked like he'd been chewed up and spat out by a back-alley gym. He was wearing a greasy tracksuit, had a cigarette dangling from his lip, and was flanked by two other goons who looked just as brainless.
"Well, well, well. Look who finally decided to show up," the guy—Mick—grunted, flicking his cigarette butt into a puddle. "You're three days late, Elena. My boss doesn't like waiting. He gets... impatient."
"Mick, I told you! I'll have the money by Friday. I just need to deliver these books first," Elena pleaded, her hands clutching the straps of her bag so hard her knuckles were white.
Mick stepped closer, invading her space. He reached out and shoved Elena's shoulder. Not hard enough to knock her down, but enough to make her stumble back.
"Friday? You think I'm running a charity here, you little—"
Zavier's eyes turned a shade of black that didn't exist in the human spectrum for a split second. His flawless, pale skin seemed to glow with a dangerous, cold aura. He felt a growl vibrating in his chest—a sound no human throat could ever make.
'You touched her. You actually laid a hand on her.'
Zavier wanted to rip Mick's spine out through his throat, but he saw Elena looking at him. He had to keep his "photographer" mask on. He smirked. A dark, twisted little idea popped into his head.
"Hey, Mick, right?" Zavier spoke up, his voice smooth as silk but cold as a grave.
Mick turned around, finally noticing the impossibly handsome, pale stranger holding a box. "Who the hell are you? Her boyfriend? Buzz off, Pretty Boy, this ain't your business."
Zavier didn't even blink. "Just a guy who hates seeing trash on the sidewalk."
Mick got red in the face. He stepped toward Zavier, trying to intimidate him by puffing out his chest. Zavier just looked down his sharp nose at him, his pale features a mask of pure arrogance.
"What'd you call me? You want a piece of—"
Zavier didn't move a muscle. Underneath the water-logged pavement, the shadows began to writhe like snakes. He focused his mind, giving a tiny, invisible flick of his power.
Suddenly, Mick's belt—a cheap, fake leather thing—snapped with the sound of a gunshot. Before Mick could even finish his threat, his baggy trackpants hit the floor with a wet thud. Mick was standing there, in the middle of a rainy London street, wearing nothing but saggy, yellowing SpongeBob SquarePants boxers.
Elena's jaw dropped. "What the...?"
"The hell?!" Mick yelled, grabbing for his pants, but every time he tried to pull them up, his hands seemed to slip as if they were covered in grease.
Zavier wasn't done. He focused his gaze on Mick's shoelaces. As Mick scrambled to pull up his pants, his shoelaces suddenly knotted themselves together in a complex military-grade hitch. Mick took one step, tripped over his own feet, and face-planted directly into a deep, muddy puddle with a massive.
The two goons behind him didn't even help; they were too busy trying to figure out why their own belts were suddenly feeling very, very loose.
"I think your pants have given up on you, Mick," Zavier said, his voice dripping with mock pity, his flawless, pale face utterly impassive. "Maybe it's a sign. You should probably run home before the wind takes the rest of your clothes."
Mick scrambled up, his face covered in mud, clutching his pants to his waist while hopping on one foot because his laces were still tied together. He looked like a panicked penguin.
"This ain't over! You hear me?! This ain't—" Mick tried to yell, but a sudden, localized gust of wind blew a mouthful of dirty rain and a wet candy wrapper right into his open mouth.
He gagged, turned tail, and waddled away as fast as his tied-up feet would allow, his goons following close behind, clutching their own waistlines in confusion.
Elena stood there for a good ten seconds, blinking. Then, she let out a snort. Then a giggle. And finally, she was bent over, laughing so hard she was gasping for air.
"Did you... did you see his boxers?!" she wheezed, pointing at the retreating Mick. "SpongeBob! He had SpongeBob on them!"
Zavier felt a strange warmth in his chest as he watched her laugh. It was a weird sensation—seeing her happy because of a mess he created. He adjusted the heavy box in his arms, a small, dangerous smirk playing on his pale lips.
"Pathetic," Zavier muttered, though he was secretly glad he didn't kill the guy. Seeing him humiliated was way more entertaining.
"Zav, oh my god, that was the weirdest luck ever," Elena said, wiping a tear from her eye. "Come on, let's get inside before he decides to come back with a belt that actually works."
As they walked into the lobby, Zavier glanced at the shadows flickering in the corner. They were dancing, celebrating their master's petty victory.
'Enjoy your luck for now, Elena. Because as long as I'm here, nobody gets to make you cry. Only I get to see those tears—and only if they're the kind that fall when you're screaming my name.'