[BL]Hunted by the God of Destruction

The car turned off the main road without a word from Victor, gliding up a private drive flanked by trees too perfectly spaced to be natural. The gates had opened long before they arrived.

And then the manor came into view.

Elias sat up straighter without meaning to. His fingers clenched around his phone. The ache in his ankle flared dully, but even pain struggled to hold his attention against what unfolded before him.

It wasn't just a house.

It was a palace pretending to be discreet and failing with grace.

Soft golden light spilled from tall, narrow windows trimmed in black iron. Carvings curled around arched stone balconies. Slate-blue turrets pierced through the trees like crowns. The façade gleamed in the late light, the kind of gold-tinged ivory that made Elias think of cathedrals and war memorials. The architecture was both romantic and clinical. Designed to impress and built to intimidate.

He knew wealth. He'd been raised in it. Marble floors, garden courtyards, double-height ceilings, none of it was new. But this… this was something else.

The car came to a smooth stop at the front steps. The doors didn't open immediately. For a moment, there was only the faint hum of the engine cooling and the low weight of Victor's gaze as he leaned forward, shadow slicing across half his face.

Elias didn't meet it.

He opened his own door, slowly, and stepped out, teeth clenched against the pressure in his leg. The air smelled like old roses and fresh stone. Quiet, curated luxury. 

Victor stepped out after him.

He looked at home here, more than he had in the safehouse. More than anyone had a right to look. The robe he wore still moved like smoke around him, the barest breeze enough to stir the fabric of his pants against his legs. The low lights from the entry cast his features into something half-mortal, half-statue, etched lines, composed stillness, the faintest curve of something that might have been satisfaction.

"Welcome," Victor said, turning to him and guiding him with his right hand hovering over his back. 

Elias didn't flinch at the gesture.

Didn't lean in either.

He walked forward with his head high and his teeth set, ignoring the tug of pain every time his foot met the stone path. The entrance loomed ahead, double doors carved in intricate relief, flanked by lanterns that burned steady and golden and were too warm for comfort.

He didn't notice the way the staff lingered in the shadows of the hallway as they entered, backs straight, eyes lowered.

He didn't see the way one of them, Ashwin, paused with a faint narrowing of his gaze, like he'd expected to see Elias carried, not walking, and now wasn't sure what that implied.

And Elias didn't look back.

He just stepped into the foyer after Victor and felt the doors close behind him with a hush that sounded a lot like a trap.

—

Victor didn't walk far. He stopped at the foot of the staircase and turned slightly, a glance thrown over his shoulder that wordlessly summoned someone from the edge of the corridor.

"Adam," he said, voice even, low. "Show him to his room. East wing. The one with the terrace."

The man who appeared was tall, lean, and dressed in the kind of black that didn't catch dust. His posture was perfect. Not stiff, just...correct. Mid-thirties, maybe, though his face gave nothing away. Polished but not warm. The kind of butler you'd expect in a house like this, precise, unshakeable, probably trained in a dozen things that had nothing to do with household service.

"Sir," Adam nodded once to Victor, then turned to Elias with a shallower one. "If you'll follow me."

Elias didn't look at Victor again. He followed the butler.

The hallway stretched longer than it should've. Oil paintings lined the walls, each one gilded and slightly too perfect, nothing modern, nothing lived in. The house didn't feel like a home. It felt like a stage set, curated to the last inch. Every vase, every light fixture, and every door handle was chosen for its quiet, calculated luxury. Elias had grown up in wealth, but even he felt underdressed for the wallpaper.

Adam didn't speak unless necessary. His shoes made no sound on the marble. When they turned a corner, the hallway opened up into a gallery of arched windows, each framing the manicured gardens below. Light still clung to the world outside, soft and golden, like the manor had its own climate.

Finally, Adam stopped before a set of pale grey double doors with delicate carvings that looked older than the country itself. Not grand, not ostentatious, but quiet in a way that felt expensive. Like the kind of door that didn't have to prove anything, because it had already outlasted empires.

He opened one with a quiet push and stepped aside.

"Your room," he said, with the polite cadence of someone who didn't mean guest room so much as designated space.

Elias stood on the threshold for a second longer than he should have. Something about the air inside felt… premeditated. Still. Like the room had been holding its breath for him and now exhaled.

Warm light spilled from recessed fixtures tucked into the crown molding, casting long shadows over clean walls and darker furnishings. The bed was centered against the far wall, low and wide, dressed in slate sheets and a deep charcoal throw. It looked like it had never been slept in. 

But it was the rest that made Elias's stomach tighten.

To the right, past a half-partition of matte black glass, was a private workspace. Sleek. Clinical. A desk with just enough curve to suggest custom design, triple-monitor array already powered on, with an ergonomic chair pushed in neatly beneath it. On the desk sat a closed folder with his name embossed on the spine in soft grey foil. To the side: a drawer cracked open just enough to reveal a row of mechanical pencils in his preferred brand, lined up with exacting care.

To the left: a minimalist sitting area, all ashwood and concrete. A shelf with books, books he would read and journals he followed. 

Elias stood there, jaw locked, eyes sweeping the space again like something would change if he blinked differently. The lights were too warm. The shadows were too soft. Nothing was out of place, and that was the problem. It felt like a showroom wearing his skin.

He moved toward the walk-in dressing room without really intending to. The door was already open, just slightly. Like someone had paused halfway through staging a scene.

Inside, the air was cooler.

The closet wasn't full but every piece inside had weight. His jackets from the dorm, the worn navy one with the threadbare cuff. The two shirts Ruoxi had stolen and then folded back into his laundry, still smelling faintly of her citrus shampoo. The black jeans with the ink blotch on the left pocket that he never managed to scrub out.

And beside them, new clothes. Not flashy. Not branded. Just better. Fabrics that knew their worth. Cuts that understood his frame better than he did. Tones he always gravitated toward but never bought because practicality had always come before aesthetics.

They matched his style. His preferences. His body.

But none of them were his.

The phone in his pocket vibrated once, sharp and loud in the hush of the room. He pulled it out with numb fingers.

Matteo:

Can I call you?