[BL]Hunted by the God of Destruction

The house was quiet in a way that didn't feel abandoned.

It was the kind of silence designed for recovery, with thick curtains drawn against the dawn, wood floors softened by layered rugs, and the low hum of heating already adjusted for his shivering skin. Elias stood in the entryway, barefoot and bleeding, the hem of his shirt clinging to his side, the chill of early morning clashing with the sweat dried along the back of his neck.

He didn't move until the door shut behind him with a soft click.

Robert Moore, the driver, stepped inside after a beat. 

"Sit down," Robert said, nodding toward the wide couch near the fireplace. "Physician's already en route. Ten minutes."

Elias didn't ask how he knew. Or who he was. Or why there was no hesitation in any of this.

He crossed the room slowly, each step pulling grit from the wounds on his feet, and lowered himself onto the couch like his body was only half-connected. His palms ached. His ankle throbbed. His breath still hadn't settled.

Robert disappeared into the kitchen without another word.

When he returned, he placed a small stack of folded clothing on the side table: dark joggers, a soft long-sleeved shirt, socks still in packaging. A phone box was set beside it, clean and unopened, still bearing the seal of a restricted brand Elias didn't recognize.

"Everything's been cleared," Robert said. "New number, temporary ID. No tracking. No messages in or out unless approved."

Elias glanced at the box but didn't reach for it.

"The clothes should match, but we will have new ones sent in after lunch. Are you hungry?"

"No. Thank you." 

Robert gave a short nod, not pushing. He didn't look surprised.

"Physician will be here in five," he said instead, checking his watch. "She's discreet. No questions. You won't need to speak unless you want to."

Elias didn't answer.

The room felt too clean. The couch too soft. His body too wrong for the space it now occupied.

His fingers flexed once against the fabric of his pants, trying to ground himself in the feel of it. Still damp. Still dirty. His palms stung where the gravel had torn skin, and his right foot was beginning to swell.

Robert stepped aside, giving him space in a way that felt practiced. He didn't hover. He didn't offer comfort. Just stood near the hallway, like a quiet sentinel.

Elias's gaze drifted back to the phone on the table. 

"Can I ask something?" he said finally, voice low.

Robert glanced over. "Yes."

"Why does Victor Numen help me?" 

Robert didn't answer right away.

He adjusted his stance slightly, hands behind his back, gaze steady on Elias but not invasive. It wasn't the first time he'd been asked something like this. But it was the first time the person asking didn't sound suspicious.

Just tired.

"Because you asked him to," Robert said at last. "Once."

Elias blinked. "I don't remember that."

"You wouldn't. You didn't say it out loud."

He could've left it there. Should've, maybe. But Robert had driven too many people to too many safehouses to pretend this one was like the others.

He added, quieter now, "Sometimes you don't have to ask a god in words. You just have to run in the right direction."

Elias looked away. Back to the floor. Back to his hands, still scraped and open.

'Fuck. So he really is the God of Destruction.' Elias thought. 

Robert opened the door to a woman in her mid-forties with a bag in her hands. 

She stepped inside without hesitation, her coat still damp from the early morning mist, hair pulled back in a clean knot, her face free of makeup, and her expression unreadable in that way only professionals mastered. She scanned the room once, taking in Elias, the dried blood at his ankle, the tension in his shoulders, and the raw skin on his palms.

"Mr. Clarke?" she asked, voice low, clipped, but not unkind.

Elias nodded once.

She crossed to him without further preamble, setting her bag down on the table beside the clothes and unopened phone. Her hands moved quickly, sterile gloves, antiseptic, gauze, a quiet efficiency that didn't ask for permission because it had already been granted somewhere far above either of them.

Robert stepped back, letting the door swing shut behind him with a soft click.

The physician knelt beside the couch. "This will sting," she said, already lifting his foot with careful hands.

It did.

Elias flinched, just slightly, jaw tightening as the antiseptic touched broken skin. He didn't cry out. He didn't look away. Just stared past her at the wall, his thoughts loud behind his eyes

'God of Destruction.'

The phrase didn't feel mythical anymore, but dangerous.

Of course Victor was a god.

Of course he had a plan before Elias even knew he'd need one.

"You're lucky," the physician murmured, wrapping the foot now, gentle but firm. "Didn't break anything. Ligament strain. Surface trauma. Hands will need salve for a few days, but you'll heal clean."

Elias didn't feel lucky.

"Thank you, doctor." 

Robert approached silently and placed a cup of hot tea on the table in front of him. "Master Victor would come to see you today, in the evening." 

The cup clicked softly against the wood, steam curling in thin spirals into the cold morning air. It smelled faintly of something herbal. The kind of tea meant to soothe nerves and settle the body, but failed as only strong medication could do the job.

Elias stared at it for a moment.

He wasn't sure if the tightness in his chest loosened or worsened.

Robert's voice was calm. Unapologetic. As though Victor's presence were a natural extension of the day. 

"He said it would be after sundown," Robert added. "No earlier. You'll have the day to rest."

Elias's fingers curled slightly in his lap, the gauze tugging at the motion. The weight of those words settled heavy across his shoulders.

Victor was coming.

'I don't want to see him.' Elias thought while the sting of his palms being cleaned reached his mind. He was afraid of that man.