10:03 A.M. – Clark's Desk
Clark had been sitting still for five full minutes, staring blankly at the blank document on his screen.
He didn't know what bothered him more:
The fact that Diablo hadn't shown up until nearly 10, or the fact that when he did arrive, he walked past Clark without a word, acting as though nothing had happened.
No "Good morning."
No "Where's the report?"
No acknowledgment of the shirt he left behind.
Clark had placed the polo neatly on his desk a couple of hours ago.
It was gone now.
Taken.
Silently.
Without a trace.
No "thank you."
No "that's mine."
Not even the usual "you're wasting oxygen, Clark."
Just cold silence.
> So we're just pretending that never happened, huh? Clark thought, leaning his chin on one hand.
It didn't sit right with him.
He had questions. But asking them? With Diablo?
> Yeah, I value my ability to keep breathing.
---
11:17 A.M. – Executive Wing, Diablo's Office
Diablo stood alone near the tall window, hands behind his back.
From this high up, the city looked small.
Predictable.
Silent.
Which was how he liked things.
His office was back to its usual perfection — pristine desk, untouched coffee, dim lights.
As if nothing had happened last night.
As if he hadn't draped his own shirt over a sleeping human assistant like some clumsy act of concern.
He had told himself it was practical. Logical.
The boy looked cold.
He was tired.
Weak.
Mortal.
Leaving him like that could've disrupted productivity, nothing more.
> And yet, Diablo thought, jaw tightening, I waited until the hallway was empty before I placed it on him.
His thoughts were interrupted by the faint chime of his private door.
It opened without a knock — the only person allowed to do that.
Hakuro.
"Busy?" his cousin asked, stepping inside.
"Extremely," Diablo replied without turning around.
Hakuro walked over slowly, carrying a slim folder and an unreadable look.
"You've been acting strange," he said calmly.
"I'm always strange. You say that like it's new."
Hakuro smirked. "Don't get defensive. I'm just checking on your… recent behavior."
Diablo finally turned to face him.
Red eyes cool. Voice flat.
"There's nothing to discuss."
"Oh, I think there is," Hakuro replied, taking a seat. "Like the fact that your human assistant has been walking around confused all morning because you're pretending you never laid a finger on him."
Diablo said nothing.
Hakuro leaned forward, voice dropping.
"You didn't even thank him for returning the polo."
Diablo's expression didn't change. "It's a piece of fabric."
"It's not the polo, Diablo. It's what it means."
Diablo turned away again. "It means nothing."
"Then why leave it with him?" Hakuro pressed.
No answer.
"I warned him," Hakuro added. "Told him to be careful."
Diablo's eyes flicked toward him. "You had no right."
"I have every right," Hakuro said calmly. "Especially when my cousin starts forgetting what he is."
There was a flicker in Diablo's eyes — faint, but real.
"I haven't forgotten," he said lowly.
"Then stop acting like you have a heart."
A tense silence fell between them.
Hakuro stood slowly, straightening his sleeves. "If you're going to toy with that boy, at least be honest about it."
"I'm not toying with him."
"Then what are you doing?"
More silence.
Diablo's gaze drifted toward the hallway. He could still sense Clark's presence. A heartbeat he knew too well now. The scent of worn-out paper and stubbornness and something… warm.
"I'm doing nothing," he said finally.
Hakuro stared at him.
Then gave a small smile.
"Then do nothing, properly."
With that, he walked toward the door.
But before he left, he looked back.
His eyes were softer now. More serious.
"Just remember," he said. "You can act like you don't care, but humans feel it when you lie."
Then he left.
The door clicked shut behind him.
And Diablo stood in silence once more.
---
Meanwhile – 11:43 A.M., Clark's Desk
Clark was still struggling to concentrate.
He kept glancing toward the office door.
Waiting for some kind of sign. A look. A grunt. A comment. Anything.
But the man behind the glass wall might as well have been a statue.
Cold. Silent.
Unreadable.
Clark finally typed a sentence, stared at it, and deleted it.
> Why does it bother me this much?
> Why do I care if he remembers the polo or not?
> It's not like I like him or anything—
His thoughts stopped.
He stared at the blinking cursor.
"…Oh no," he whispered to himself. "Don't even go there."