"So why did you bring me here?" I ask, having finished my meal of oatmeal, eggs, and sausage. I can only assume it's whatever he found in the breakroom, as it tastes nearly identical to what I find on my plate everyday at Killer Media.
He seems to consider answering genuinely, but shrugs it off instead. "I wanted you in my bed," he says plainly while flicking through television channels.
The two of us are sitting upright in his bed together. His penthouse is nice, far nicer than anything I would have expected. It's clean, monochromatic. The picture of modernity, of sleek appeal.
"I'm truly not interested in Alexio," I attempt to ease his mind.
"I know. But don't hang around that guy," he glances over at me before finally landing on his own news channel.
I hesitate. Something stirs in me and, for some reason, I want to try and appease him. Not out of a sense of duty or fear of repercussion, but instead a desire to make him feel some level of good, happy, relieved. "If you're asking me not to, I won't."
This catches his attention.
"But," I begin nervously, "I want to define our relationship."
"Aren't we engaged?" He chuckles.
He's really a kidder. "N-not actually!"
"We could be," he smiles, turning to lean over me. "I think it'd be good for us."
I hesitate, my face aflame with emotion. "H-hardly!" I pause, measuring his expression carefully. I realize what he's saying is true, from his perspective. But…
"Ledge," I breathe in deeply, "I have a deeply irrational attraction to you that would complicate our professional one. And establishing a professional relationship is made impossible by my not having a defined goal."
He stares at me like I'm an idiot. "Let's just call it an engagement," he counters.
"W-well, you can't have any side pieces then," I assert.
He seems reluctant, but acquiesces to my request. "Alright."
"I don't want a fiance that I have to share with anyone else," I confess, feeling somewhat shy about it. "I want you for myself." Despite my anxieties, the words slip out easily and I don't regret them.
"Oh, how cute~ You should end your sentences like that more often," he smirks, slipping his hand onto my thigh. "And because you're acting so cute, I'll let you hold onto that power you stole from me for a little while. If your body can handle it, anyways."
I blush and swat away his hand, feeling prudish now. However, his words leave me thinking. Being mostly unfamiliar with magick, I'm not certain what he means. The study of magick is entirely theoretical, with some rules applying to some and no rules at all applying to others. Though it's exceedingly rare for someone to be able to do something as simple as knocking over a water bottle, there are rumored to be people capable of rewriting the universe, if they so wanted.
Adding greater complications to the matter is spirits, manifestations of magick that are most often born from the souls of people who died while casting a spell. I remember my teacher often frightening me with such tales in order to keep me from dabbling too much into it.
"Fuck, did your deadbeat dad teach you anything? I guess since he's shitty at it he didn't want you getting better than him," he laughs. "What you did is basically like taking a chunk of my soul. Like, you dropped some oil in a bowl of water. The oil and water won't want to mix, right? You can either wait for the oil to settle and it'll start fading away on its own, give it back now and I'd likely end up with bits of your soul mixed in, wait and give it back, or keep it in check for long enough and it'll absorb by force."
My head is spinning. "That's… kind of complicated. Does this mean your soul is damaged?" I ask nervously.
"Yeah, kind of? I guess. It's more like my soul's a glass of oil and you spilled some of it. It'll fill back up over time naturally for me. If you did that to your dad, it might leave him half empty forever."
"I took half–?!" I gasp. In such a short amount of time?!
"Guess you were that hungry for me," he snickers.
His expression might be neutral, but I can sense that he's livid about the situation. Perhaps it's because I quite literally have part of his soul living inside of me, but I'm picking up on a lot of his smaller nuances now. The way the corner of his mouth twitches ever so slightly when he's conflicted, the way he flexes his hands when he wants to grab something, the way his eyes seem to search desperately for moments of opportunity.
Though my body might be feeling the physical strain of operating at 150%, my mind is more at peace than ever. A calm ocean has washed over me, allowing me to freely float with no gravity, but no need for direction. I can't imagine this is what it feels like for him. If it did, why would he be so volatile?
I try to silence my thoughts and instead turn my focus to the television that Ledger is glued to. It would seem that the local government is working to upgrade the train systems. The reporter goes on at great length about how this will help the tourism economy, though the price of boring into the walls is too expensive to the average taxpayer.
The city is divided into several layers: The subterra, the breach, and the dome. The subterra is some several miles of crater, where streets and buildings can be built. The next layer, the breach, is the space above the crust of the world. This is where true atmospheric conditions appear. Encasing the collective system, the "pocket" as some might call it, is the dome. The dome keeps the ocean water above from spilling in and killing everyone.
This is all important, as the anchorman explains, because tunnels are rumored to weaken the structural integrity of the dome. There's been no conclusive science on that either way, but he says it with absolute certainty.
I glance over at Ledger with confusion. "Who is this for, anyways?"
"The tunnels?" He doesn't take his eyes off the screen.
"No, this channel. You're both promoting the tunnels being drilled but also saying it might bring about doomsday. Kind of a conflicting narrative."
He cackles at me as if I'm a child who asked the most ridiculous question he's ever heard. "If no one's paying us to agree with them, why the fuck would we take anyone's side here? Let them fight it out and whichever one gets us more viewership we'll promote more." He hesitates, then makes eye contact. He seems tired, worn down. He seems ready to cave my skull in.
"Wh-what's that look for? It was just a question," I bite back.
"Nothing, don't worry about it. I was just thinking that I should hop back to it," he smiles, getting up and brushing off his clothes. "Some of us gotta work~"
"Hey! Wait! Can't you bring me a laptop or something? My phone?" I shout after him, as he's already walking off and out the door.
"Sorry sweetheart. Would be dumb to hand over access to a company laptop, and you've got no one to talk to anyways. Bye~"
The door shuts.