Grayson sat at the edge of the bed, his shirt half-buttoned, eyes locked on the floor like it might offer answers if he stared long enough. For a long moment, he didn't move. His body felt slow, like it hadn't caught up to the fact he was awake. Muscles ached from the night before, the long hours, the constant motion but there was something deeper, a heaviness that sat under his skin and refused to leave.
He swung his legs out of bed, bare feet on cold floorboards, and sat there, elbows on his knees, palms pressed to his face. He breathed in the smell of his own sweat, the faint metallic tang of the club still clinging to him — perfume, money, and something darker threaded through it all.
Elysium.
His first shift had been… relentless. Not just exhausting, but disorienting. The place had its own gravity, pulling at you until you forgot the outside existed. He'd gone in thinking it would be just another bartending job. He'd been wrong. Elysium wasn't a bar. It was a living thing, sleek and hungry.
He'd gone home with his ears still ringing, hands smelling of citrus peel and polished steel. And through all of it — between drink orders and clipped instructions, between the constant pressure to keep up — the murder kept creeping back in.
It had been three days. No sirens at his door. No police waiting outside. No mention of it on the news. Not even a whisper on Briarwick's rumour mill. Maybe he'd gotten away with it. The thought didn't bring relief so much as a sharp, hollow kind of thrill. Like he was balanced on a rooftop edge and leaning forward just enough to feel gravity's pull.
*******************
The kitchen was quiet except for the low hum of the fridge. The air smelled faintly of yesterday's coffee and cheap detergent. Holly's mug sat in the sink, red lipstick smeared on the rim, a wet tea bag balanced on top like she'd meant to throw it out and hadn't bothered.
He made a fresh pot, poured the first cup black, and stood at the counter while the city murmured outside the cracked kitchen window. The caffeine worked its way in slowly, cutting through the fog in his skull.
He had another shift tonight.
He took a slow swallow of coffee, feeling it burn down his throat. The pay was good — better than anything else he could get right now and it mattered. He needed the money.
Grayson finished his coffee, rinsed the cup, and decided he needed to look better tonight.
The clothing store two streets over from the apartment had a window display of black dress shirts on silver mannequins. He stepped inside and was hit with a soft wall of air conditioning and the faint scent of starch.
The saleswoman glanced up from behind the counter, eyes flicking to the faint shadow of the bruise on his jaw. If she noticed, she didn't say anything.
"Looking for something in particular?" she asked.
"Black shirts," he said. "Dress. Long sleeve."
She nodded, led him to a rack, and started pulling sizes. He picked two, checked the stitching out of habit, and paid in cash.
The barbershop was next. The doorbell chimed when he stepped in, the smell of aftershave and hair product wrapping around him. The barber was older, with a face like weathered leather and steady hands.
"Trim?" the man asked.
"Yeah. Clean it up."
The scissors worked without much conversation, the low hum of clippers filling the silence.
By the time Grayson left, the light had shifted. The streets gleamed damp, the air thick with the scent of impending rain. He buttoned the new shirt, straightened the collar, and made for the tram stop.
The tram's windows were fogged, the glass vibrating gently as it rattled over the tracks. Outside, Briarwick's streets slid by, graffiti-tagged walls, narrow alleys that smelled of piss and rot, corner shops with buzzing neon signs. The closer he got to the city's centre, the cleaner it looked. By the time the tram stopped near Elysium, the pavements were wide, the store-fronts lit in warm tones, and the people walked like they knew where they were going.
He stepped off, adjusted his cuffs, and headed for the club.
*******************
Elysium breathed slower tonight.
The early crowd had burned itself out, leaving the low, steady hum of the regulars who mattered. Deals were being made in the booths, drinks were being poured without hurry, and the stage lights spilled gold over the dancers like they'd been designed for their skin alone.
From the second-floor balcony, Kane stood with a glass of scotch in hand, the ice clicking softly when he tilted it. Below, the main bar stretched like a polished blade, the staff moving in clean lines from well to well.
His eyes didn't roam tonight. They stayed fixed on the far-left service station.
Grayson Hale.
Second night on Kane's floor and working like he'd been here weeks. Jax had put him back in the service well — tight space, no direct customer interaction. The hardest spot. The one that showed you whether a man had the rhythm to survive here.
Grayson's hands were steady. His pour exact. His body moved with efficiency that was all muscle memory and no waste. Kane watched the way he scanned the station between orders, like he was taking inventory every thirty seconds.
Connor appeared beside him, resting an arm on the rail. "Jax says he's quick. Calm. Picked it up in one walk-through."
"That's not why he's here," Kane said without looking away.
Connor smirked. "No, but it doesn't hurt."
It didn't. But Kane's reasons for keeping a man close were rarely so simple.
Jax approached during a lull, clipboard in hand. "Kept pace tonight. No mistakes worth mentioning. You want him moved to the floor?"
Kane didn't take his eyes off the bar. "No. Keep him in the service station this week. Keep him close."
Connor's gaze slid to him, a faint smirk at the edge of his mouth. "Close to the bar… or close to you?"
Kane finally glanced his way, the curve of his mouth not quite a smile. Connor's smirk deepened, but he didn't push.
"Hesitation?" Kane asked.
"None." Jax answered.
Kane's eyes stayed on the service well. "Give him the problem table. Let's see how he handles himself. "
Jax didn't blink. "Understood."
The man they sent was wrong for Elysium in ways that had nothing to do with his bank account. The suit was expensive but badly fitted, the tie hanging loose without intention. The shoes were glossy but cheap.
He took the stool near Grayson's well and leaned in like he'd bought the space.
Connor's mouth tightened. "Vance."
Kane didn't reply. He wanted to see.
From above, he caught the whole thing: Vance flashing a roll of bills, Grayson's slow shake of the head. A coupe glass set down without flair. Words exchanged — too low for Kane to hear — that made Vance's grin falter before it returned. Vance tried again. Then again. Both times, Grayson shut him down without raising his voice or breaking stride.
"Send him up," Kane said.
"Vance?" Connor asked.
"Hale."
******************
The upstairs lounge was dim, the bass from below a slow pulse under the skin. Kane sat in a leather chair angled toward the tinted glass, the floor below a haze of gold light and shadow.
The door opened. Connor first. Then Grayson.
Grayson stopped just inside. Shoulders squared. Eyes steady, but alert. A soldier in unfamiliar terrain. Kane didn't speak—just let the silence expand, dense and deliberate. His gaze slid to the bruise shadowing Grayson's jaw. It looked worse up close—dark, swollen, and almost intimate in the way it marked him.
"Men don't walk around with a bruise like that unless they've made enemies," Kane said evenly. "Or unless they've put someone else in the ground." He tilted his head. "Which was it?"
Grayson's fingers twitched near his thigh. "Walked into the wrong conversation."
Kane's mouth curved, just a little. "And did the conversation walk away?"
Grayson didn't flinch. "Does it matter?"
"It matters that you're still standing," Kane said. "Most men wouldn't be."
The silence that followed was heavier now, edged with something neither of them named.
"You work clean," Kane said. "Fast. Controlled. But you weren't hired for that."
Grayson studied him, eyes narrowing. "Then why was I?"
Kane rose, slow and deliberate, like a man entirely in control of his body and the room around him. He moved toward Grayson without rush, the soft press of leather soles against marble barely audible.
The scent hit first—scotch and something deeper, darker—something expensive and sharp, cutting through the lingering gin, sweat, and smoke that clung to Grayson's skin.
He stopped just short of touching him. A breath away. The heat of his presence pulsed through the space between them.
Kane's voice dropped. "That's for me to know," he said, "and for you to earn."
Grayson's pulse kicked once in his throat. He held Kane's gaze, his face unreadable but something flickered. Not fear. Not quite.
"There's a man downstairs," Kane said, his tone snapping back to business. "Blue suit. Wrong shoes. Owes me. He doesn't leave until he's paid."
Grayson didn't blink. "And if he doesn't?"
Kane's eyes locked on his like a hand to the throat. "Then you'll learn how Elysium cleans its floors."
A long beat.
Grayson's jaw flexed. "Alright."
Kane's hand flicked toward the door, a gesture as much dismissal as command.
As Grayson moved to leave, Kane turned to the glass wall, watching the floor below. Through the reflection, he saw Vance already leaning in too far toward the mark, a word too sharp, a gesture too big.
The swing came fast but sloppy. Grayson moved just enough. The second missed too. His counter didn't — short, hard, a jab to the ribs that folded Vance.
They grappled, Grayson's forearm pressing against Vance's throat.
Security closed in, each taking an arm. Before they dragged him away, Grayson's hand slid into Vance's jacket and came out with the roll of cash. Vance shouted something Kane didn't care to hear. Moments later, Grayson was on the stairs.
The lounge door opened. Grayson stepped inside, calm, composed, and set the roll of cash on the desk without a word. Kane didn't look at it. Didn't need to. His attention was already elsewhere—on the man who'd delivered it.
Kane took a step forward, then another, each one slow and measured until the low amber light caught the edge of his scar, the ink curling up the side of his neck like it was alive. When he stopped before him, Kane reached up, fingers brushing Grayson's chest before catching the loose knot of his tie between two fingers.
"This?" Kane said quietly, almost an exhale. "This needs to be tighter."
He didn't wait for permission. He tightened the tie with slow, unhurried precision, drawing it snug, dragging fabric against fabric until Grayson's breath hitched—just slightly. The movement brought them a breath closer. Barely anything. But it changed everything.
"Sloppy ties," Kane murmured, his voice pitched low, "make sloppy impressions." His eyes flicked up, catching Grayson's without blinking. "And no one gets to be sloppy in my house."
Grayson didn't move back. Didn't blink either. "I got you what you wanted."
Kane's mouth tilted—not quite a smile. Something sharper. Something dangerous. "And you didn't break anything important. That matters."
The tie sat perfectly now, neat and flush against Grayson's throat. But Kane still didn't let go. His thumb pressed slowly against the hollow just beneath the knot, deliberate and lingering, feeling the beat of Grayson's pulse beneath skin.
"You fight like you've done it in worse places," Kane said, tone deceptively casual. "You hold your ground. And you don't scare easy."
Grayson's voice came back low, edged. "Should I?"
Kane's gaze dropped to his mouth and lingered there, before meeting his eyes again. "No," he said softly. "Fear's useless to me."
His thumb shifted, slow against his throat, as if testing the pace of the blood underneath. Grayson swallowed, and Kane felt it.
"I don't hire men to scare," Kane said. "I hire them to endure."
Grayson's jaw tensed, but he stayed where he was, steady, gaze locked.
"You'll come to me tomorrow," Kane said. It wasn't a suggestion.
"And if I don't?"
Kane leaned in—barely—but it was enough to change the air between them. Tighter now. Charged.
"Then I'll come to you," Kane murmured, his breath brushing Grayson's skin. "And I won't be this polite."
A flicker of something passed through Grayson's expression—amusement, maybe, or something more dangerous. "Noted."
Kane finally let the tie fall. The knot was perfect. His touch wasn't. It lingered like a mark no one else could see.
"Go," he said, quiet and final.
Grayson obeyed, but the tight knot of the tie was still snug against his throat when he stepped back into the pulsing light of Elysium's main floor. The faint pressure there felt deliberate now, like Kane had left a mark without leaving anything visible. His skin still remembered the trace of a thumb along the line of his neck — not lingering, not accidental. Intentional.
The air outside was cooler than he'd expected. He pulled his jacket closed as he walked to the tram stop, the rhythm of the city different here — softer, cleaner, but no less watchful.
On the tram, he caught his reflection in the darkened glass: hair neater than usual from the cut earlier that day, shirt crisp, tie tight. He looked almost respectable. Almost like someone who belonged in a place like Elysium. And yet, beneath that image, there was something else in his expression he didn't want to name.
By the time he reached his building, the streets were nearly empty. The apartment was warm when he stepped inside, the low flicker of the TV casting light across the small living room.
Holly was curled into the corner of the couch, her bare feet tucked under a blanket. She looked up as he came in, eyes sharp in that way she had — always cataloguing, even when she pretended not to.
"You're late," she said.
He shrugged out of his jacket. "Got held up."
"Held up in a good way or a bad way?"
Grayson gave a faint smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Doesn't matter. It's a job."
Her gaze lingered, searching, but she let it go. "There's leftover pasta if you're hungry."
"Not tonight."
She turned back to the TV, the glow lighting her profile. "Don't forget, rent's due next week."
"I won't."
He left her there, padding down the short hallway to his room. Closing the door was like cutting the cord on the rest of the world — the muffled sounds of the television, the low hum of the refrigerator, gone.
The shirt came off first, the starched fabric whispering as he tugged it free. He draped it over the back of the chair instead of throwing it aside, though he didn't know why. The tie stayed in place for a moment longer, the knot still firm under his throat.
He could almost feel the weight of Kane's gaze again. The measured way he'd closed the space between them upstairs. The deliberate pull of the tie — not to fix it, not really, but to make a point. The brush of his thumb over the hollow of Grayson's throat had been so slight he could have imagined it. But he hadn't imagined it. It wasn't the kind of touch you confused with something else.
He sat down on the edge of the bed, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. His pulse was unsteady in a way that had nothing to do with the fight with Vance. Nor in the way he'd folded under the jab.
He reached for his laptop.
The familiar weight of it in his hands was grounding at first. He opened the browser, typed in a search that had always worked before — a man and a woman, something straightforward, mechanical almost. The video loaded, the sound soft and distant in the small room.
He watched, waiting for the usual pull, for that automatic reaction. He even tried touching himself, but the spark wasn't there. Everything on the screen felt flat, like someone else's conversation in another room.
He leaned back against the wall, frowning at himself, until his eyes caught on something in the sidebar. A heading he'd never bothered to look at before. It sat there quietly, unassuming, almost as if it had been waiting for him. He told himself it was curiosity, nothing more. A distraction. His finger hovered over the trackpad before finally clicking.
The video opened to two men in low light, close enough that their breathing was audible. Their mouths met without hesitation, hands in hair, fingers on skin. The physicality of it was immediate, unpolished, and somehow more honest than anything he'd watched in years.
And then it happened — the shift in his body, sudden and undeniable. Heat low in his stomach, blood moving in a way he couldn't control. His hand moved without conscious thought, his breath tightening in his chest.
It wasn't about the mechanics. It was about something else — the way they touched like they knew exactly what the other wanted, the lack of pretence, the pull of it.
He kept watching, kept moving, until the reality of what he was doing caught up with him.
The laptop slammed shut, the sound loud in the stillness.
He sat there for a moment, breathing hard, the ache between his legs making it worse, not better.
"Fuck," he muttered under his breath, scrubbing a hand over his face, his cock half-hard and aching.