As Ivan’s kick landed and pushed Arlen back, Arlen had used the backward momentum to whip his hand down. In a single, fluid, almost invisible motion, he had dragged the sharp edge of the broken tile directly across the back of Ivan’s ankle, targeting his Achilles tendon.
It was a terrifyingly precise, lethal counter-attack, executed while blocking a heavy strike, all while keeping his own injured spine perfectly aligned.
"The tile wasn’t sharp enough," Ivan muttered, a cold dread settling deep in his chest. "It only sliced the skin. A flesh wound."
He looked down at the tiny, jagged piece of ceramic lying in the puddle of blood near his foot. If Arlen had been holding a knife, or if the tile had been just a fraction sharper, Ivan’s tendon would have been cleanly severed. He would have been crippled, dropped to his knees in the dirt, entirely at the mercy of the Adelaide’s hunting dog.
Arlen hadn’t run away because he was scared. He had walked away because he had deemed the threat neutralized, and he simply wanted to go home and sleep.
"If I had pressed him..." Ivan whispered, his leg still trembling as the adrenaline began to fade, leaving only a cold, stark realization of how close he had come to the grave. "If I had tried to take another step after him... he would have taken my leg off."
He looked back at his three battered subordinates, who were now staring at him in stunned, terrified silence.
"Get up," Ivan commanded, his voice shaking slightly as he limped toward the alley exit. "We’re leaving. And tell the client... if they want to hunt the Adelaide dog, they’ll have to find another pack. We’re out."
***
The penthouse was dark and silent when Arlen quietly let himself back in. The only illumination came from the city lights bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long, cool shadows across the pristine marble of the living room.
Arlen closed the front door with a soft, imperceptible click. His body was exhausted. The dull, throbbing ache in his lower back had flared up again from the tension of the alleyway encounter, and his forearms still felt slightly heavy and sluggish, the numbness only slowly receding. He walked down the hallway with stiff, guarded steps, his mind focused entirely on the simple, comforting task of arranging his biscuits before going to sleep.
He pushed open the door to his guest room.
He stopped on the threshold, his left eye blinking slowly in the dim light.
The bare, skeletal wooden slats of his bed frame were no longer bare. Flung carelessly across the center of the wood was a thick, plush charcoal-colored comforter, a soft knitted throw blanket, and a large, fluffy white pillow. They lay in a messy, disorganized heap, looking as though someone had stood at the doorway and aggressively hurled them onto the frame with absolute reluctance.
Arlen stared at the pile of bedding. He stood perfectly still for a long moment, his literal mind trying to process this sudden change in his environment.
*’Did they fall from the ceiling?’* he wondered, his gaze briefly drifting upward to check for any structural holes. The plaster was perfectly intact.
He took a slow step forward, his back twinging slightly. He reached out with a still-tingling hand and gently pressed his fingers into the fluffy white pillow. It sank deeply under his touch, incredibly soft and luxurious—a stark contrast to the stiff, folded knit sweaters he had been using.
"Don’t get any ideas."
The sharp, defensive voice cut through the quiet of the hallway.
Arlen turned his head slowly. Mika was standing in the doorway, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. She was wearing a pair of dark silk pajamas, her fiery red hair slightly messy, her expression a volatile mix of irritation, pride, and deeply suppressed embarrassment. She refused to look him directly in the eye, instead glaring at the wall just past his shoulder.
"Carly wouldn’t stop whining about how cold this apartment gets at night," Mika snapped, her voice carrying its usual commanding, haughty tone, though it lacked its usual bite. "And if you freeze to death or your back gets worse, my grandfather will somehow find a way to blame me for it. I had those extra blankets lying around in the hallway closet. They’re practically trash. I was going to throw them away anyway."
Arlen looked from Mika to the plush, designer comforter, and then back to her. He processed her words with his usual, unwavering literalism.
"Thank you," Arlen said softly, his androgynous voice airy and sincere. "The trash is very soft. And it smells like lavender."
Mika’s jaw tightened, a flush of embarrassed anger creeping up her neck. "It’s not *literal* trash, Adelaide! It’s expensive! Just... just shut up and use it so I don’t have to hear Carly complain anymore."
She stepped back into the hallway, preparing to slam the door and retreat to her room, but her eyes briefly flickered down to his hands. She noticed the slight, unnatural stiffness in his wrists, and the way he was subtly leaning his weight off his lower back.
Her chest tightened with that same, suffocating guilt. She hated it. She hated how he made her feel like a bully just by existing.
"Did you take your medicine?" she asked sharply, her tone aggressive to cover her concern.
"Yes," Arlen nodded obediently. "I took one pill with water. The pharmacist said it will help the plum go away."
Mika let out a sharp, frustrated sigh, running a hand through her red hair. "Whatever. Just... go to sleep. And don’t make any noise. I have work early tomorrow."
"Okay," Arlen murmured. "Goodnight, Ms. Mika."
Mika spun on her heel and marched down the hallway, her bedroom door shutting with a firm, decisive click.
Arlen stood alone in his room. He walked over to the bed and carefully smoothed out the crumpled comforter, laying it neatly over the wooden slats. He placed the fluffy pillow at the head of the bed, aligning it perfectly with the frame.
He climbed onto the bed, his back letting out a quiet, relieved sigh as he sank into the plush cushioning. For the first time in two weeks, he wasn’t resting on hard, unforgiving wood. He pulled the warm, lavender-scented throw blanket up to his chin, his vacant left eye staring up at the dark ceiling.
"It is very warm," Arlen whispered to the empty room, a tiny, peaceful spark of comfort settling over him as he closed his eyes and drifted into a deep, painless sleep.
***
The next day at the agency building, the rich, powerful notes of Mika’s vocals resonated through the acoustics of the recording studio, vibrating behind the double-paned glass of the control room. Standing before the high-end microphone, her eyes closed and her fiery red hair catching the dim, moody studio lighting, she poured her frustration and raw energy into the microphone. Singing was her sanctuary. Here, she wasn’t a stressed-out roommate dealing with a bizarre, silent heir; she was Mika Rivera, the star.
As the final chord faded, the sound engineer gave her a thumbs-up from behind the mixing console.
Mika exhaled a long breath, sliding the heavy headphones down to rest around her neck. She grabbed a bottle of water from a nearby stool, taking a slow sip to soothe her throat. Just as she was about to signal for a short break, the heavy, soundproofed door of the studio clicked open.
In walked Liam.
He was dressed in a pristine, custom-tailored navy suit that accentuated his model proportions, his hair styled to absolute, glossy perfection—without a single trace of ninety-peso peanut butter. In his arms, he cradled a massive, extravagant bouquet of long-stemmed red roses.
Having spent the last week far away from the penthouse and the unsettling, effortless beauty of Arlen Adelaide, Liam had fully recovered his haughty, swaggering confidence. He walked into the studio as if he owned the building, his dazzling, camera-ready smile firmly back in place.
"For the most beautiful voice in the country," Liam said, his smooth, performative voice echoing in the studio as he presented the roses to her.
Mika’s eyes softened slightly, a wave of relief washing over her. This was the Liam she was familiar with—the successful, arrogant, handsome actor who adored her. It was a comforting return to normalcy after two weeks of dealing with a quiet ghost who slept on bare wood.
"Liam," Mika said, stepping down from the recording platform to accept the flowers. She buried her face in the fragrant petals, though her mind briefly, annoyingly, flashed to the scent of lavender on the blankets she had thrown at Arlen the night before. She quickly shook the thought away. "You’re finally here. I thought you were still ’busy’ with your callbacks."
Liam’s smile stiffened for a fraction of a second at the subtle jab, but his haughty confidence quickly smoothed it over. He wrapped a possessive arm around her waist, pulling her close.
"I was, babe, but I couldn’t stay away from you any longer," Liam murmured, kissing her cheek. He glanced at his reflection in the studio glass, subtly adjusting his posture to look more commanding. "Besides, I wanted to take you out to that new French place downtown tonight. Just the two of us. You’ve been working too hard, and frankly, you deserve to be seen with a real man, not stuck in that penthouse with... whatever that charity case is."