Chapter Text
The restaurant was dimly lit, casting a warm glow over each enclosed booth, creating small worlds of privacy within. Dark wood paneling and deep leather seats lined the semi-circular booths, with soft amber light filtering through frosted glass dividers. Around them, quiet conversations hummed low, like distant waves on a calm shore, and the gentle clinking of cutlery was softened by thick carpet and discreet service. Each booth felt isolated, with just enough separation to let conversations flow without worry of prying ears.
Skye glanced around, still feeling a tinge of curiosity from earlier that afternoon. As they ascended some staircases in a residential building across from his apartment, her curiosity grew. "Where are you taking me?" she asked, glancing around as they climbed higher.
"You’ll see," Andrew replied cryptically. "I want to show you something."
She was trying to piece it together, but the route they were taking was unfamiliar. At first, she had assumed he was driving her to his apartment, but when they parked and began walking toward a different building, confusion flashed in her eyes.
"Follow me," he said, leading the way.
They stopped in front of an apartment door, and Andrew turned to her, his expression serious. "What I’m about to show you is private," he said, his voice steady. "I don’t usually share this with anyone, but I’m sharing it with you now."
His gaze hardened with intensity. "Under no circumstances are you to put this on social media. This is private."
"No problem," she replied, her voice matching his seriousness, a hint of intrigue in her eyes.
He nodded and took out a key, unlocking the door. "After you," he said, stepping aside to let her enter first.
As she stepped into the apartment, she was taken aback by its simplicity. The studio was modest—clean white walls, a small kitchenette tucked into the corner, a couch against the far wall, and a bed that looked more like a pull-out than a traditional frame. But what immediately caught her eye was the collection of framed photos and awards lining the walls.
Photos of him in uniform, standing tall and serious next to other men in tactical gear. Certificates of military achievement adorned the walls, along with medals that glittered softly in the ambient light. Among them, a trident pin—the iconic insignia of the Navy SEALs—was prominently displayed, a quiet yet powerful testament to his service. There were posters, one capturing a group of soldiers mid-mission, and another depicting a special forces unit—his squad—navigating harsh, unforgiving conditions. On the wall hung a framed patch displaying the distinctive Red Squadron insignia: a bold design featuring a Native American figure against a red background, flanked by two crossed hatchets. A battered yet polished Ka-Bar knife rested on a shelf beside a challenge coin etched with a SEAL emblem. The room radiated a sense of discipline, duty, and sacrifice, making it unmistakably clear: this man was no ordinary civilian.
Her mouth dropped open in surprise. "Oh my god," she whispered, her eyes scanning the room in disbelief as they landed on his photos, awards, medals, and other mementos.
He was leaning against the wall near the door, his arms crossed. "I don’t like to tell anyone," he said, his voice quiet but firm. "But yes...I served in the Navy Seals. Black ops, for many years."
The words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of unspoken history. Her heart pounded in her chest as she processed the scene before her, the magnitude of it settling over her like a storm. And then, like a flash of lightning in the dark, a realization hit her with the force of a tidal wave. She looked at him with wide eyes, her breath catching in her throat, a rush of awe and understanding flooding her all at once.
Her mind hurtled back to that night at her concert, when bullets rained down like a violent storm, slicing through the air mere inches from her face. She could still hear the deafening crack of gunfire, the world spinning, her heart lodged in her throat. But it wasn’t just the terror that surged back—it was the memory of him. The way he held himself—effortless, precise—was a still, controlled presence amidst the chaos raging around him. His eyes, unwavering, locked onto the stage with terrifying precision. Every step he took was a calculation, every breath a testament to unyielding resolve, as if he could see through the madness, untouched by it, as though the world had fallen away. There was no hesitation, no flinching, only brutal focus. The air around him felt heavier, electric, charged with an unspoken promise of violence.
With a calmness that sent a chill through the air, he disrupted the monstrosity with a single, methodical action, severing its control over her as if he had done it a thousand times before. He stood there, unshaken—his composure more chilling than the monster itself.
It let out a howl—a sound that was not human, not even animal, but something far worse. Its face a grotesque mask of terror as the bullets punctured its mouth and eyes, splintering its features. Its head flailed violently from the force of the impact, as though trying to escape the relentless assault, yet every bullet found its mark.
And then, his voice. It erupted across the concert hall, raw and thunderous, cutting through the chaos like the crack of a whip. “For your life, Skye! Run!” She remembered every syllable, every word—etched into her mind like a brand, searing and indelible, a thunderous echo that refused to fade. The command wasn’t a plea; it was an order—a primal force of nature that shattered her paralysis with its sheer power. Each word hit like a hammer, sharp and unrelenting, saturated with the weight of life and death. It wasn’t just a roar—it was survival itself, tearing through the bedlam and anchoring her to him. His voice carved through the pandemonium, leaving no room for hesitation, no time for doubt.
Her shock splintered under the ferocity of his words. But as he reloaded with lightning precision, her gaze caught it. That face. Disfigured and monstrous, it slowly turned toward her, its empty eyes pits of malice, its lips stretching into a nightmare grin. The smile was grotesque—a jagged mockery of humanity, twisting and regenerating with terrifying speed, as though clawing to reclaim her.
A wave of icy dread gripped her, crawling up her spine like venomous fingers. Her breath hitched, the trance threatening to swallow her whole. But before it could ensnare her again, his rifle cracked. The shots tore through the air, deafening and final, severing the creature’s advance.
Time itself seemed to hold its breath. The madness of the moment stilled, giving way to an aching clarity that hit her like a tidal wave. She looked at him—truly looked at him—and for the first time, she saw him. Not just a figure amidst the chaos, but the embodiment of something far greater. The layers of fear and doubt stripped away, leaving only the raw, unrelenting force of his purpose.
He stood in the alcove above the stage, a dark sentinel bathed in the flickering light of destruction. There was no hesitation in his movements, no fear in his eyes, no doubt in his stance. Every action, every breath, was charged with a singular, burning intent. He wasn’t just saving her; he was igniting something inside her she hadn’t known she’d lost—a spark, a lifeline, a chance to fight.
The world blurred, but he remained—a fixed point in the storm. His voice, his presence, his will—they didn’t just pull her from the darkness. They commanded her to resist, to fight for her life. And in that fleeting, electric moment, she felt it in her soul: he wasn’t simply dragging her from the abyss—he was forging her into someone who could survive it.
And then it hit her with the force of a freight train: she knew. She didn’t need to understand why or how. She didn’t need the answers. She felt it in her bones, deep in her soul—he was no ordinary man.
She had known it then, in the chaos of that moment, even if she hadn’t fully understood it. She had felt the truth of it, even before it fully clicked.
"I knew," she said, voice barely above a whisper. "I knew, back then."
He didn’t say anything, but his eyes locked onto hers, his expression unreadable. He didn’t need to say more—his past was laid bare before her, and something told her that, despite all the secrets he carried, she was seeing only the tip of the iceberg.
Later, in the cozy glow of the restaurant, that heaviness seemed to lift. The dim, amber light softened their surroundings, casting a warm glow on her face as her excitement danced across it. She patted his hand, her eyes bright with a playful gleam. "I have a surprise to tell you," she said, a smile tugging at her lips. The change in her energy felt like a breath of fresh air, a welcome shift after the intensity of the moment they’d shared earlier. It was as if, in this quiet space, they could both take a break from the weight of their pasts—at least for a while.
“Oh yeah?” he asked, his curiosity piqued. “Let’s hear it.”
She leaned in a little closer, her voice dropping as if she were sharing a secret. “I finally put my foot down with my mom today. I told her she doesn’t have to be my manager anymore if she doesn’t want to. And if she can’t let go of her control over my schedule…I’ll find someone who will.”
He raised his eyebrows. “How did she take it?”
She shrugged, looking both satisfied and a little nervous. “We’ll see. But I had to do it. Thank you, by the way.” Her voice softened, and she squeezed his hand. “For giving me the courage to stand up to her.”
He gave a small shake of his head. “I didn’t do anything. That courage was in you this whole time.” He met her eyes with a half-smile, raising an eyebrow. “Look at you, acting all grown up, pulling up your big-girl pants and making these big-girl decisions. A Grammy winner, no less. You’ve got this huge gift that millions of people would kill for, and you've worked your ass off for it. No one can take that away from you, Skye.” He shrugged playfully. “You’re basically a rockstar, even if you’re still figuring out the ‘manager’ thing.”
She let out a small, uncertain laugh. “My mom always tells me there’s always someone else who could take my place. That I can’t afford to slip up, not for a second.” Her voice wavered with self-doubt. “I just…I don’t know if I’m doing it right.”
He interrupted gently, “Well, here’s what she might be missing.” He leaned in closer, his voice carrying a warmth that softened his words. “Your fan base loves you. They’ll keep listening, they’ll keep following. You could do concerts only in New York, and people would fly in from around the world just to see you, to hear that voice of yours.”
“But remember, you’re Skye, the human being—not Skye, the machine. Behind the voice and the performances, you have real wants and needs like everyone else. You need to eat, sleep, feel mad, sad, tired, lonely…all the things that make you human. Those needs come first, Skye—and they always will.”
She listened intently, her gaze fixed on his as his words sank in.
His tone softened even further. “You need people in your life who can cut through all the noise and say, ‘We don’t care about the music, the fame, or any of that. We care about you—Skye Riley, the human being.’ People who’ll ask, ‘How are you feeling today? Are you ready? And if you’re not, that’s okay too.’”
Her eyes glistened as she processed his words. It was as if she was hearing something she hadn’t even known she needed.
“I just…” Her voice wavered. “I feel like everything has to be perfect all the time. This image I’ve crafted—what people expect—it feels like I can’t let them see me as anything less than that. Like…perfection is the only option.”
He leaned forward, his gaze steady and sincere. “Turn that on its head for a second,” he said gently. “How many of your fans do you think feel the same pressure to be perfect—in their jobs, friendships, relationships? They look up to you and feel even lonelier or more depressed, thinking they’ll never measure up to your ‘perfection.’ All the while, they don’t realize you’re struggling, too.”
Her brows furrowed, but she didn’t look away.
“How many people do you think you’d help if you said, ‘Hey, I have the same struggles you do’? What if you started something—a non-profit even—that tackled what you’ve been through: addiction, depression, the pressure to be flawless? You could show people your true self and help others at the same time.”
She smiled faintly, her fingers lightly tapping the edge of the table. “You’re giving me a lot of ideas,” she said, her voice thoughtful.
He leaned back, giving her space to absorb his words. “It’s something to think about. You’d be helping yourself, showing the real you. And in doing that, you’d let others say, ‘You know what? If my idol, Skye, can come out, help herself, and work to help others, I can do it, too.’ It doesn’t have to be taboo.”
She looked down, her fingers tracing absent patterns along the edge of her napkin as she mulled over his words. The silence between them stretched, not uncomfortable but reflective.
After a moment, she looked back up, a flicker of gentle curiosity in her eyes. “I’ll think about it,” she said softly, her voice carrying a hint of something—hope, perhaps, or relief. Then, with a small, almost shy smile, she shifted her tone. “But enough about me for now…tell me more about you,” she said, her voice soft. “I want to know the real you. Tell me more about your time in the military.”
He took a slow sip of his water, his gaze intense as he looked across at her. “You know, I really enjoyed being a Navy SEAL,” he began. “The work was good. The missions…well, they were intense. You’d get an adrenaline rush like nothing else.” He paused, reflecting. “But there was a lot of moral ambiguity. I guess that’s why I transitioned out after a while.”
She leaned forward, her curiosity piqued. “What was your most memorable mission?”
A small smile flickered at the corner of his mouth. “Well, there was this one mission. We had to free a group of hostages being held by ISIS in Syria. It was hell on the ground. Hostiles everywhere, gunfire coming from God knows how many directions. The Apaches were hovering above us, clearing a path. Just getting in was a battle.” He looked into the distance, reliving the tension and thrill of that night. “One of our snipers took out a guard holding a hostage, and from there…it was mayhem. But we got them out.”
Her eyes widened, impressed. She shook her head slightly, as if processing this new layer of him. “I had no idea you…did all that,” she admitted, her voice soft with awe.
His mouth twisted into a wry smile. “Part of the job. Also meant dealing with classified intel, though.” He leaned back and added playfully, “Of course, I can’t tell you anything I shouldn’t.”
Skye gave him an inquisitive look, her curiosity far from satisfied. “Well…could you tell me more about what happened to me?” she asked cautiously, her eyes searching his for any hint of openness. “Anything you know about…its origins?”
His expression grew guarded, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Can’t divulge much,” he replied. “And honestly, I don’t know much more about it than you do.”
She studied him, her mouth pressing into a thin line, and nodded. “Okay. I get it.” But her interest lingered, and she could see something dark and firm in his gaze as he continued.
“Overall, though, I loved my time serving. SEALs is family. A lot of guys do their time, then go find something more…lucrative.” His jaw tightened, his eyes fierce. “Here’s the thing—my one rule, then and now, is simple: don’t fuck with me. And don’t fuck with the people I care about. You break that, and there’s no coming back.”
He leaned in, his voice dropping lower but crackling with unyielding intensity. “That thing latched onto you, and it paid the price. If it had left you alone, it’d still be around. But it made a big mistake.” He paused, his gaze razor-sharp. “It got greedy, Skye. It didn’t let you go—it wanted more. More fear, more control. And that’s exactly why it’s gone now.”
Her eyes softened with an understanding she hadn’t felt before. There was something grounding about the way he spoke, like he was tearing down the fear that had been clouding her mind. Her shoulders relaxed slightly, as if shedding some invisible weight, but her eyes stayed locked on his, drawn by the fierceness in his gaze.
“Greedy,” she echoed, almost to herself, a hint of resolve returning to her expression.
He nodded, his gaze unwavering. “Yeah, it got greedy. If it hadn’t fucked with you, it’d still be out there, lurking in the shadows. But it couldn’t help itself. It came after you, pushed me too far—and that was its mistake.” He took a long drink of water, his throat tight from the force of his words. Setting the glass down, he continued, his voice steady but heavy with the weight of everything he’d witnessed. “It fucked with the wrong person.”
His tone sharpened, the intensity of his conviction evident as he leaned closer, his gaze unwavering. “I don’t just stand by and watch when something like that happens. I took that malevolence down because it dared to prey on your vulnerability—you, someone I care about. And that? That’s not something I let slide.”
He paused, then added, his voice steady but firm, “I’d have done the same for anyone I care about. That’s just who I am.”
He leaned back slightly, his expression tightening. “Honestly, you asked me what I know,” he said, his eyes sharpening with resolve. “I think it’s just a coward. Hiding behind illusions, conjuring up these twisted hallucinations to scare people into submission… It doesn’t have the guts to face someone head-on. It preys on weakness, fear. That’s all it’s got. And when someone fights back, it doesn’t know what to do.”
She looked down, taking in his words as if they were a lifeline. There was something freeing in the way he spoke, like he’d cut through the horror with raw truth.
He let the silence linger, his jaw set with a quiet defiance. “I’ve seen worse before… much worse.”
She watched him, caught by the intensity in his words and the unwavering strength behind them. There was something in the way he spoke that reminded her of just how fiercely he protected her, how he’d taken on something beyond human to keep her safe. She felt a glimmer of comfort in his conviction, knowing that his loyalty and resolve went deeper than anything that could threaten her.
As they lingered in the comfortable dimness of their booth, her curiosity got the better of her. She tilted her head, studying him, before she ventured, “So… what’s the worst mission you’ve ever been on? Or… the worst thing you’ve done?”
Andrew’s gaze grew distant, and he shook his head slowly. “You don’t want to know.”
She held his gaze, undeterred. “Try me,” she said softly. “As long as you feel comfortable saying it.”
A hint of reluctance flickered in his eyes, but after a long pause, he took a steadying breath, his voice lowering as he began to speak.
"Alright," he said, his tone resigned but resolved. "There was this mission...Somalia. We were tracking this local insurgent leader who’d been terrorizing the region for months, murdering men, women and children. We’d been after him for so long it felt personal by then, not just for me but for all of us."
She leaned in closer, her eyes locked on his, not flinching.
“We had good intel on his location, and everything seemed in place. But somehow, we walked right into an ambush. They knew we were coming. They had every route covered. We fought back, but it was chaos. I got out with a few guys, but one of my best friends… Greg…” His voice caught, and he took a steadying breath. “He was captured. I could hear him on the radio, calling for us, pleading…”
His eyes shifted downward, and his hand clenched into a fist, the tension stark against the flickering light. “We tried everything to get him back. But it didn’t matter. They took him, and… they made a public example of him. They recorded everything.” He paused, swallowing hard, the muscles in his jaw tightening.
His expression hardened as the memory took hold of him, the details flooding back with brutal clarity. His fingers tightened around his glass, the muscles in his jaw tight with restraint. He looked down at the table as he spoke, his voice low and controlled. “They didn’t give him a quick death,” he continued, as though trying to distance himself from the raw emotions threatening to surface. “They made sure it was drawn out. They… they dragged him in front of their men, unarmed, defenseless, and they taunted him. He begged for his life, begged them to stop, to spare him, but they just laughed at him.”
His eyes narrowed as the memory resurfaced. “They started with his skin,” he said, his voice quiet but tinged with unflinching honesty. “They took a knife and sliced it off, slowly, piece by piece. It wasn’t just torture. It was deliberate—every cut, every inch of skin they tore away from him was a way to make him feel the agony of it. He screamed. He begged them to just kill him already, just end it, but they wouldn’t. They enjoyed it. They dragged it out, like they were savoring it.”
He paused, the weight of the memory heavy in the silence between them. “Every time he pleaded, they laughed. It wasn’t about killing him anymore—it was about breaking him. They made sure he felt every single second of pain. I can still hear his voice, the desperation, and the way his screams changed as his strength faded.”
His voice broke for a split second, and he inhaled sharply, steadying himself. “They then put him in a cage. A small one, just big enough for him to stand up. But it was made of metal—hot metal, burning in the sun.”
Her breath caught in her throat, her gaze unwavering as she held his, sensing the weight of his words.
“They used fire,” he continued, the words tumbling out like a confession. “They set the cage on fire, slowly. It wasn’t a quick death. They made sure he felt every second of it. The metal burned the remainder of his skin as he screamed, the smoke filling his lungs as he struggled for air. I could hear him through the comms. Could hear his voice crack, his pleading turning into desperation.”
He paused, swallowing hard, his eyes distant as the memory played out in his mind. “The worst part was that… they didn’t just burn him alive. They made it last. They kept feeding the flames, watching him writhe and beg, until his screams faded into choking gasps. By the time they let the fire consume him completely, there was nothing left but charred remains.”
Her heart felt like it was being crushed under the weight of his words, her chest tight as she reached out, her hand hovering just over his, but she didn’t touch him. There were no words that could undo what he’d witnessed. No comfort she could offer that would erase the nightmare etched into his memory.
“One of our guys…Andy…he’d also been close with Greg since training. He took it the hardest.” His expression darkened further. “When we got back stateside, he… he couldn’t handle it. Two months later, he took his own life. Left a note saying he couldn’t get those images out of his head.”
He exhaled slowly, and for a moment, he closed his eyes. When he opened them, there was a hardness there, a glint of something cold and unyielding. “After Andy died, I couldn’t live with it either. So, I went back. Alone. Didn’t tell my team, didn’t tell command. I hunted those men down. One by one.”
Her hand drifted to her mouth, her expression a mixture of horror and sadness, but she didn’t look away. Finally, she asked softly, “What did you do?”
His gaze turned cold, his eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that sent a shiver down her spine. His voice dropped to a chilling level, icily firm. “I took care of it,” he said, his words clipped. His jaw tightened as he looked away, the muscle twitching with restrained emotion. "I’ve made peace with it." He exhaled slowly, his gaze hardening as it returned to hers. “And I would never, ever let it happen to someone I care about again.”
The way he said it—so cold, so detached—made the air feel thicker, suffocating. There was a finality in those words, a weight to them, as if they carried the echoes of things he’d rather forget. The room seemed to shrink around them, and she could feel the darkness of his past pressing in, a shadow she couldn’t escape. He didn't need to say more. The silence that followed spoke volumes.
And in that silence, she knew he had done something irrevocable.