Episode-8
1141 Words
The gown stood like a constellation stitched from midnight. It shimmered in the lamplight, dark as ink but vibrant with interwoven threads of sapphire, obsidian, and starlight silver. Layers upon layers of cascading midnight blue organza swept downward, the fabric light as air and heavy with meaning. Embroidered with constellations of silver thread, the gown sparkled as if dipped in the cosmos itself. Clusters of deep violet gemstones adorned the bodice like enchanted nightshade blossoms, curving upward toward the neckline that was framed with sheer lace—delicate, almost cobweb-fine—trailing up to the collarbone like frost.
Intricate beadwork spiraled from the waistline, sewn in waves and whorls that mimicked ocean tides under the moon. Pearls, black as shadow, trickled down the seams like tears from an ancient tale. The back swept into a cathedral-length train, its hemline finished with velvet embroidery depicting winding roses and crumbling ruins—symbolism hidden beneath the finery. Each ruffle and fold, every stitched glint of light, told a story: of power, of pain, of a beauty forged in fire and kept under lock.
Freyda moved around it in a daze, fingers aching, back sore from bending over the design for days without pause. The shop was strewn with sketches and measuring tape, thread spools scattered like forgotten thoughts. Her eyes were hollow with fatigue but sharp with precision. This wasn’t just another commission—it was a masterpiece.
Sera stepped into the room, arms crossed. “So… is this for that someone you mentioned before?”
Freyda didn’t look up. “No. It’s - it's yes.” she admitted with a heavy sigh.
Sera raised a brow. “Hm?”
“Not like that,” Freyda snapped, a little sharper than intended, and added an apology.
“Interesting,” Sera murmured. “I’m still intrigued. Whoever he is, he’s already earning points with me.”
Freyda rolled her eyes. “Don’t romanticize it. He’s just… some nobody who extended a hand.”
“That nobody is making you create something this gorgeous?” Sera tapped the gemstone-lined waist with the back of her fingernail. “I don’t believe you.”
Freyda chose not to respond.
---
Later, at Freyda’s apartment—a compact but tastefully cluttered space that mirrored her own existence—Sera dropped her overnight bag with a theatrical sigh.
“Business brings me here for a month,” she said, flopping on the couch. “And I’m not staying in some hotel when your couch exists.”
Freyda laughed quietly. “You just want to monitor my descent into madness.”
“I want to stop it,” Sera corrected. “And make sure you don’t bury yourself again. You should’ve quit when you had the chance.”
“That’s rich, coming from a painter who went to court just to get her work back.”
“Touché.”
Their banter continued while they adjusted to each other's quirks—the sound of brushes against fabric vs. the smell of oil paint, the hum of Sera’s expensive tablet, and the flutter of Freyda’s notebook pages. At first, it was chaotic—two stubborn women colliding like stars. But by the second day, it felt almost like home.
---
Meanwhile, in a brightly lit operating room, Zion Havoc transformed.
The head surgeon stood over the operating table like a general over a battlefield, eyes narrowed behind his surgical mask, voice calm but firm. The room buzzed with tension as nurses and junior doctors moved around him in perfect rhythm.
“Scalpel,” he said, and it appeared in his hand instantly.
The operation was complex—an arterial reconstruction after a motorcycle crash. The patient’s vitals danced dangerously close to the edge, but Zion’s hands never faltered. He worked swiftly, each stitch clean, each cut exact. He didn’t bark orders—he issued them with cool authority that demanded compliance.
“Clamp. Suction. Increase pressure,” he said, barely glancing at the monitors.
A junior surgeon nearly dropped a tool. Zion’s eyes shot up, calm but cutting.
“Focus or step out,” he warned. The younger man nodded, sweat on his brow.
As the hours passed, Zion didn’t tire. He moved like he was made for this—the chaos of flesh and blood somehow more orderly under his command than his own life outside.
When it was over, he peeled off his gloves and stepped away. “Vitals are stable. Post-op monitoring for forty-eight hours.”
His assistant handed him a chart. “You just saved a limb—and probably his life.”
Zion glanced at it, then said with a shrug, “That’s the job.”
He washed up in silence, the light gleaming off his wrist tattoo partially hidden beneath the cuff of his scrubs. Outside this room, he was a mystery—a Havoc, a biker, a man with scars. But here, he was untouchable.
---
Evening swept across the town with velvet grace. The sky was streaked in plum and peach, casting long shadows that danced across the pavements.
Freyda and Sera walked side by side along a winding path near the gardens. Freyda wore a long shawl draped over her shoulders, and Sera carried a takeaway coffee she hadn’t touched.
“You’re still thinking about the dress,” Sera said, her voice softer now.
“I’m thinking about what comes after it.”
“Did he say anything?”
“No. Just… told me to stay alert. Like he’s some kind of shadow knight.”
“I like him already.”
Freyda groaned. “You like anyone who isn’t a manipulative art critic.”
“Touché again.”
They turned a corner near the wrought iron gates of the estate gardens—and came face-to-face with a tall, imposing figure.
The man looked to be in his late thirties. Broader than Zion, his leather coat framed his body like armor, his face angular, jaw squared, and his gaze—a sharp, flint-like silver—latched directly onto Sera.
Freyda tensed beside her.
He said nothing.
Sera tilted her head. “Can we help you?”
He smirked slightly, then looked at Freyda over once—slowly, calculating.
“You’re the designer,” he said.
Freyda nodded cautiously. “Yes?”
His gaze returned to Sera. “And you?”
Sera stiffened. “Not yours to question.”
He held her gaze. Something unspoken passed between them—something cold and electric.
Freyda stepped forward. “Who are you?”
“I’m family,” he replied. “And I’m watching.”
He turned and walked away without another word.
Sera exhaled. “Was that—”
Freyda nodded. “The nobody's family.”
They stood in silence, the evening air humming with tension. And in Sera’s mind, something had just begun to unravel.
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- Writer
