Jonathan had a calculative head perched on his utterly useless shoulders — a vulture eyeing roadkill and pretending it was a feast.

It was the one of the thing keeping him atop this long. That cold, reptilian instinct that knew precisely when to strike and when to slither back into the shadows.

The same instinct that had navigated Legacy politics for decades, whispering which alliances to forge, which throats to cut in the dead of night, and exactly how hard he could beat his wife without leaving marks that wouldn’t pass muster with a half-blind doctor.

That instinct was screaming now.

The instant his eyes locked on Phei standing beside the bed — holding Roxanne’s hand, eyes glowing with an actual, literal, impossible radiance that turned the dim bedroom into something out of a nightmare — his legs moved before his brain could catch up.

One step back.

Then another.

That same sharp instinct that had marched him through the door with confidence, already anticipating her every satisfying flinch only at the sight of him and knowing what hell he was going to serve her, already savoring the power of watching her cower — now reversed itself completely.

A predator realizing mid-stride that it had wandered into the territory of something far worse than itself.

His heel caught the doorframe.

He stumbled, his heart slamming against his ribs like a caged animal trying to break free, in fear of something that had set it’s eyes on him.

Cold sweat erupted across his skin in the very instant in what didn’t take a second, soaking his shirt in seconds.

His throat tightened until swallowing his gulps of fear felt like forcing down broken glass through his throat.

Because he knew.

No matter how he’d inflated himself with lies of power — the Montgomery name right now was nothing but a paper crown, his connections a web of favors ready to snap, his wealth a bubble waiting for a pin — against this being?

Against something whose background didn’t just outclass his power but laughed at it entirely?

Jonathan had already lost. Game over.

The math was simple. Brutal. Final as a guillotine yawn.

And that survival instinct coiled at the base of his skull knew exactly what to do.

Retreat.

Get out.

Run.

His legs moved on their own into more fleeing steps — backward, stumbling, feet whispering across the wood like a rat trying to flee a sinking ship. His hands trembled violently at his sides. His bladder tightened with humiliating pressure.

The taste of copper flooded his mouth as he bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood.

Facing this boy — this monster wearing a seventeen-year-old’s skin — Jonathan had nothing.

No leverage. No threats that would land. No allies waiting to save him from it.

Nothing against the nightmare standing in his bedroom with glowing eyes and a protective grip on the woman Jonathan had spent years breaking down piece by piece.

With what he’d done to Roxanne — and how protective Phei was known to be over his women — the same fate as Harold waited for him. Or worse.

Harold had been humiliated first... the entire Main Paradise knew how Phei had beat him shitless and took his wife and daughters. His companies were ripped away during a divorce. Left a hollowed shell of what he’d been.

Because Harold had touched one of Phei’s women.

But unlike Jonathan... Harold hadn’t spent years beating someone the boy had decided to protect.

Jonathan’s throat went bone-dry. His vision tunneled. Panic clawed up his spine like icy fingers.

And just like Harold, nobody would help him.

He could almost already see it even if he screamed for help — Legacy families locking themselves in their mansions, phones going unanswered, doors staying shut. They would abandon him the way they’d abandoned Harold.

Erase the shared dinners, the backroom schemes, the comfortable delusion that men like them were untouchable.

They would watch him fall and feel nothing but relief that it wasn’t them.

The Heavenchilds wouldn’t intervene — not after what happened to Marcus and Kyle.

The Maxtons were still bleeding from wounds Phei had already inflicted.

The other families would calculate the cost of defending Jonathan Montgomery against the Ryujin Tiamats and decide it wasn’t worth the price.

He was alone.

Yes, Roxanne wasn’t Phei’s woman.

Yet.

That single word dangled like a blade waiting to drop.

But as Sierra’s mother, the boy had all the justification he needed. Every brutal, twisted thing he wanted to do — all of it excused by the simple fact that Roxanne had given birth to someone Phei had claimed.

If Phei even needed an excuse to begin with!

Monsters like this don’t collect excuses. They collect reasons. And I have provided more than enough.

I have to get out.

Another step back. His shoulder slammed into the door wall. Pain flared, but he barely felt it over the roaring panic in his ears. He adjusted and kept moving — stumbling, retreating, feet tangling in his own desperation.

Yet Phei just watched him and all the calculations Jonathan was making!

Third step. Fourth.

Horror spread across Jonathan’s face like something he couldn’t hide no matter how hard he tried. His composure had shattered the moment he’d seen those glowing eyes. His mouth hung open in a slack, pathetic gape. Sweat poured down his temples. His hands shook so violently he couldn’t even clench them into fists.

He looked exactly like what he was: prey.

Phei finally let go of Roxanne’s hand gently before he gave her one reassuring squeeze before his fingers slipped away.

Then he took a step forward.

There was so sound from his graceful step. It didn’t need to. The weight of that single step filled the room like a death sentence being read aloud.

"Jonathan."

The voice was calm. Conversational. Almost friendly?

That was... worse than rage. Worse than violence. Worse than anything Jonathan had prepared himself for.

"Are you familiar with hope?"

Jonathan’s retreat stopped dead.

His back pressed flat against the wall. Nowhere left to go. The stairs were behind him if he could get put the door — he could hear them calling, promising him the sweetest and quick escape — but his legs had stopped obeying entirely.

His knees trembled. A wet warmth spread down his thigh as his bladder finally gave out.

"W-what?"

The word came out broken. Pathetic. Barely more than a whimper.

He’d expected the boy to attack. To charge. To unleash whatever violence lived behind those glowing eyes.

Not this... not the coffee-klatch with the devil. 𝒇𝓻𝓮𝓮𝙬𝙚𝒃𝒏𝓸𝙫𝒆𝙡.𝓬𝓸𝒎

"I asked," Phei said, taking another step closer, "if you’re familiar with hope."