[BL]Hunted by the God of Destruction

The city wore its evening like silk, light bleeding into the edges of pavement and glass, the kind of slow dusk that made time feel suspended just long enough to doubt your reflection. Elias stood in front of the mirror, back straight, hands steady as he adjusted the fall of his jacket sleeve. The suit was tailored, not overly expensive, but the cut gave the illusion of something finer, and on him, that was enough.

His body had always been the kind that disappeared into doorframes. Lean. Elegant. All long lines and quiet control, the soft edges of a recessive omega. There was nothing overtly delicate about him, but nothing imposing either. He was built for the gene game everyone was playing. And tonight, he looked exactly like what he wasn't trying to be: effortlessly unbothered.

The bronze of his tie caught the dying light like a secret. He had slid on two simple gold rings and a watch to make everything work.

Elias exhaled, raking his light brown hair with long, elegant fingers and trying to keep his thoughts under control. Matteo knew a lot about him, so either Elias was insane and told him about the presentation, or he was sane and did not. That meant Matteo wasn't as trustworthy as he thought.

He didn't want to believe that.

Not from Matteo. Not after everything. Not after Ruo, or the coffee, or the quiet space between their last conversation where Matteo hadn't pressed too hard, hadn't pried where others would have.

But Clara wouldn't have known. Not unless someone was listening. Not unless someone was tracking it. And Matteo, sharp, steady, with just enough charm to disarm and just enough training to vanish behind it, had access.

'He could be watching me for someone else.'

That thought settled like oil across the back of his tongue. Heavy. Uncomfortable. Coated in something too dark to name.

But Elias stood anyway.

Shrugged into his coat like it didn't feel heavier tonight.

And walked out the door.

Because trust, like most dangerous things, always wore its best suit.

—

The city bled gold at the edges, the streetlamps already lit though the sun hadn't finished its descent. The walk wasn't long, but Elias took his time anyway. He moved like someone trying not to show he was thinking too hard, like every step was a choice instead of a calculation. The streets blurred by in a way only cities could manage: soft noise, glass reflections, strangers too preoccupied to notice anything that wasn't already meant to be seen.

The bar sat on a corner that whispered exclusivity. No sign. Just a small, polished plaque near the door and a man in a dark suit who nodded once and let Elias pass without a word.

Inside, it was all velvet and shadows, copper light soaking into black walls and expensive laughter echoing low between marble-topped tables. A place designed to feel old money without trying. No music, just the hush of money moving from glass to throat, and conversation slick enough to pass for background noise.

And then—

There was Matteo.

He didn't blend. One could guess from a mile away that he had the genes of an alpha.

Even in the dim, his hair looked like something caught in the middle of a fire, like the glow from the amber lights had chosen him as its anchor. He sat with one elbow hooked over the back of the booth, the other arm resting on the table, thick wrist bent casually beneath a tumbler of something amber and too neat to be cheap. His black dress shirt was open at the collar, no tie, and his sleeves were rolled up to just below the elbow like he'd planned to fight someone or charm them halfway to confession.

The rings were familiar. His stare was already on Elias. He just tilted his head, like watching Elias cross the room was enough.

Elias let him.

He moved through the soft buzz of elite chatter, eyes forward, coat sliding from his shoulders as he approached. He didn't rush. Didn't pretend not to notice the looks. They didn't matter. Not tonight.

When he reached the table, he didn't sit right away.

"You're early," he said softly.

Matteo's gaze flicked once to the drink, then back up. "So are you."

Elias's coat slipped across the leather beside him as he sat, smooth and deliberate, like the air had been waiting for him to take that seat.

"Wasn't sure you'd come," Matteo said after a moment, voice low enough that it didn't quite carry.

"I wasn't sure either," Elias replied, folding one leg over the other. His posture was too perfect, the kind that came from years of needing to look like he belonged somewhere. "But then I remembered you still owe me a drink."

Matteo smiled, finally. Not the full grin, not yet, but the curve of something sharper beneath it. "That I do."

Elias hummed and leaned back while his ringed fingers tapped on the table. "I didn't know cops are so well paid." 

"I'm not that ordinary of a cop," Matteo said, the words warm but shaped with steel beneath. "And my family has enough money to make me used to expensive tastes."

Elias didn't blink.

He let the sentence hang there, suspended between the flicker of candlelight and the breath between glasses. The phrasing wasn't casual; nothing about Matteo ever really was. He knew how to speak like he wasn't saying anything and still lay a map beneath it. Elias had heard him do it in interrogation rooms and coffee shops, heard him lie like it was a favor and tell the truth like it was a dare.

"So this is generational wealth guilt," Elias murmured, more observation than jab.

"It's a celebration," Matteo countered, lifting his glass, not quite smirking. "You should know too. Your family's even wealthier."

"Hmm, maybe," Elias said, his gaze steady over the rim of his glass. "But I'm disowned."

He said it without venom. Without drama. Like it was a line from a résumé he'd stopped rereading years ago. A fact archived in fine print, weightless unless someone tried to lift it.

"So," Matteo asked, voice low but not prying, just present, "you didn't reconcile with them?"

Elias's gaze flicked to the side, toward the candlelight bleeding softly across the rim of his glass. He turned it slowly, the condensation leaving a faint ring on the marble, precise and vanishing.

"No," he said. "They're willing to 'save me' if I return to their way. Their rules. Their version of faith. The old rites. The lineage. The right kind of silence."

He didn't blink.

"Not for me, though."

Matteo didn't speak. Just let the words settle, the shape of them trailing into the space between table and breath. There was no shock in his expression, just something watchful. Measured. Like someone hearing the last half of a story they already knew the beginning of.

"I thought after your meeting with Victor Numen," he said finally, voice low, "they would try and reach you."

He paused, gaze steady, fingers brushing the condensation from his glass like he was smoothing out the moment.

"You know," he continued, quieter now, "there's a rumor that… he's the vessel of the Numen God."