CHAPTER FIVE: The Unmasking
Part I - James
"You don't dress like a metalhead."
Morrigan's voice cut through the alley like a flick of a knife--quiet, smooth, deliberate.
James glanced over at her, unsure if it was a challenge or a statement of fact. Maybe both.
"No," he said. "I guess I don't."
She took a drag, eyes never leaving him.
"You don't look like one either."
He exhaled slowly, letting the words settle instead of scrambling to defend himself. This wasn't some drunk stranger at a bar. This was her.
And he wanted to answer her.
"I used to think about it a lot," he said. "About how I should look, what I should wear. Thought maybe if I wore the right shit, people would take me seriously."
Morrigan didn't say a word. Just watched, smoke curling around her like a veil.
"But I never went all in," he admitted. "Never dyed my hair. Never pierced anything. No tattoos. No spikes. No band shirts plastered all over me."
She raised an eyebrow. "Why not?"
James leaned back against the wall, the chill of the brick soaking through his jacket.
"I didn't want to be labeled," he said. "Didn't want to be the guy people looked at and thought, oh, he must be angry, he must be broken, he must be one of them."
He let out a humorless laugh.
"I already felt like an outsider. I didn't want to look like one too."
He paused, thumb rubbing the edge of his lighter.
"And my job doesn't exactly make it easy to show up in a battle vest and boots."
Morrigan flicked ash to the ground. "What do you do?"
He glanced at her, then back out at the alley wall.
"I'm a junior partner at a law firm."
She raised an eyebrow, just slightly.
"That's... unexpected."
He shrugged, downplaying it. "Clean-cut pays the bills."
She was impressed. She didn't say it--but he could see it in the way her eyes narrowed, just for a second. The tiniest flicker of surprise before her face settled back into that unreadable smirk.
"So I stayed quiet," James continued. "Kept the music in my headphones. Kept it to myself. Let people think I was just some average guy. Easier that way."
He looked over at her, half-expecting a smirk. A jab. A joke.
But she was still. Listening.
And that made it easier to go on.
"It was like--if I didn't look the part, maybe I wouldn't be treated like the stereotype," he said. "You know? The burnout. The weirdo. The freak. I didn't want to be stared at. I didn't want to be laughed at behind my back."
She nodded once. Not in pity. Not in approval. Just noted.
James swallowed. "But eventually, I started to feel like I was hiding something that mattered to me. Something that made me feel alive. And I hated that more than being judged."
Another pause.
Morrigan crushed her cigarette under her heel with a slow twist, then pulled out another. Lit it in silence.
He didn't interrupt her.
She took a long drag, exhaled, then asked, "So why now?"
James tilted his head. "What do you mean?"
"Why this show? Why tonight?"
He didn't answer right away. Just stared at the end of her cigarette, watching the ember flare and dim like a heartbeat.
"Because I was tired of being invisible," he said finally. "And I was hoping maybe someone else would see me."
She looked at him again, and this time the silence felt heavier. Measured.
And then, finally:
"I see you."
Three words.
That was all she gave.
But to James, it felt like everything.
Part II -- Morrigan
She'd seen the vest when he walked in.
Worn denim. Black. Faded patches, rough stitches. Not a poser's piece. A real one--used, lived-in. That vest didn't scream for attention. It meant something.
So when she told him he didn't look like a metalhead, it wasn't a lie.
It was a test.
Because yeah, he had the vest. But everything else? Neatly cut hair. Clean face. No ink. No chains. He wore it all quiet, like armor turned inward. Like he didn't want anyone to ask why he wore it in the first place.
That intrigued her.
So she asked.
And he gave her more than most ever did.
He didn't flinch. Didn't deflect. Just talked.
"I didn't want to be labeled," he said. "Didn't want to be the guy people looked at and thought, oh, he must be angry, he must be broken, he must be one of them."
Morrigan exhaled a slow stream of smoke, watching it drift into the alley air. His words hit harder than she expected.
"I already felt like an outsider," he continued. "I didn't want to look like one too."
That one dug in. She didn't flinch, but it rattled something in her chest anyway.
"And my job doesn't exactly make it easy to show up in a battle vest and boots."
She glanced at him, tone casual. "What do you do?"
He hesitated--barely--but then answered.
"I'm a junior partner at a law firm."
Morrigan blinked once, letting that settle.
A fucking lawyer?
She didn't let it show. Just took another drag like it was nothing.
But it wasn't nothing.
It was impressive. Not the title--she didn't give a shit about that--but the way he said it. No ego. No brag. Just truth.
A guy like him, with that body and that face, and he had a brain too?
She should've felt threatened.
Instead, she felt her thighs press together.
"Unexpected," she said lightly, flicking ash toward the curb.
He shrugged like it didn't mean much. "Clean-cut pays the bills."
She didn't laugh, didn't compliment him. But inside, her mind was spinning--rewriting the assumptions she'd made about him the second she saw the boots and vest.
A lawyer.
And not some smug, cocky prick about it, either.
Just... real.
He wasn't telling her this to impress her. He wasn't flexing or fishing.
He was just peeling something back.
That was rare.
And a little dangerous.
She listened as he talked about keeping the music tucked close, not flaunted. About keeping his love for the scene private because it felt sacred, not performative.
He didn't want to prove he belonged.
He just wanted to feel like he did.
And then he said it.
"I was hoping someone else would see me."
Morrigan blinked. Slow. Controlled. But inside, something shifted.
Recognition. Unwelcome. Sharp.
She didn't like that feeling.
She'd built herself to be unseen unless she wanted to be. She knew how to take attention, to own it, bend it, crush it if necessary--but this?
This was someone offering it.
Quietly. Earnestly.
And the worst part?
She understood it.
More than she wanted to admit.
She smoked slower. Focused on the taste, the burn. Anything to keep her grounded while her pulse clawed its way a little higher.
She could've left it there.
Could've said nothing, flicked the conversation away like ash.
But she didn't.
"I see you."
The words came out level. Smooth. But she felt them hit like a fist to the ribs.
James turned to look at her. She didn't meet his gaze.
Couldn't. Not right away.
She was always the one who looked. Who saw. Who chose.
Letting him feel seen--genuinely--wasn't something she did.
But she had.
And that scared her more than it should have.
She pulled a drag, slower this time. Exhaled like it meant nothing.
But inside?
She hated how true it had felt.
Not because she regretted saying it.
But because she knew it meant something.
Because Morrigan didn't give pieces of herself.
She took.
But right now, standing in this grimy alley with smoke in her lungs and truth bleeding out of her mouth, she knew she'd just given him a piece anyway.
And maybe... maybe she wasn't sure she wanted it back.
CHAPTER SIX: Pressure and Pulse
Part I -- James
James didn't know how close two people could stand without touching before the tension became a living thing.
But this had to be it.
The alley was cold, but he barely felt it. Every nerve in his body was lit up, skin prickling under his jacket like she'd already run her hands over him--even though she hadn't.
Not even once.
She'd said she saw him.
And now she was waiting.
Testing him.
He watched the way she smoked, slow and lazy, like the cigarette was just an excuse to have something between her lips. Her eyes never left him. Not entirely. They drifted, sure--but always came back. Tracking. Studying.
It wasn't just attraction.
It was sizing up prey.
James didn't shrink from it.
He leaned into it.
"So," he said, keeping his voice low, steady, "is this usually how it goes?"
Morrigan cocked a brow. "How what goes?"
"You find a guy. Stare through his skull. Peel him open in a back alley. Then disappear before he figures out if he's being seduced or interrogated."
A slow smile crept across her lips.
"Who says it can't be both?"
His throat went dry, but he didn't let it show.
"You planning to disappear?"
"Maybe."
"You always this cruel?"
Her smirk deepened. "You always this slow?"
The breath caught in his chest.
He stepped forward--not close enough to close the gap, but enough to feel the air shift between them. Her eyes tracked him like crosshairs. She didn't step back. Didn't even blink.
He swallowed.
"What do you want from me?"
She tilted her head like a curious animal. "That's the wrong question."
"Yeah?" he asked. "What's the right one?"
She took another drag. Exhaled through her nose. "What do you want from me?"
James held her gaze, pulse pounding.
"I think," he said, voice barely audible, "I want to know how long you can keep this up."
"Keep what up?" she asked, lips curved just slightly.
"This. The teasing. The heat. The way you circle like you're going to pounce--but don't."
She blew smoke out the side of her mouth. "You think I'm teasing?"
"I think," he said, stepping just slightly closer, "you know exactly what you're doing."
She didn't respond right away.
And then--she laughed.
Low. Dark. Delicious.
"Oh, James," she murmured. "You have no idea."
She leaned in--not touching, not even brushing--but close enough for him to feel the warmth of her breath on his cheek.
And then she whispered:
"I'm not circling."
His breath hitched.
"I'm watching."
Another beat.
