𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝒮𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓃𝓉𝑒𝑒𝓃

Chapter 17: The Quiet Hustle

The rain had let up, but the streets outside still gleamed with wetness, reflecting the flickering streetlights like a thousand eyes watching, judging. Inside the apartment, the heat from the stove was thick, filling the room, but Sincere's mind was colder than ever.

He stood by the window, hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie, staring out into the night. His eyes didn't really see the rain or the city streets below, though. They were fixed somewhere deeper—on a mission he'd started long ago, one that was about to get real ugly, real fast.

Aphoria was still asleep in the other room, curled up under the sheets like everything was normal. She had no idea what was coming. She didn't know what he was doing behind her back, what he was setting up in the dark, with hands that had never been clean. But she didn't need to know. Not yet.

He let out a slow breath. It wasn't that he wanted to hurt her. Hell, he'd do anything to keep her safe. But there were lines in this game you couldn't cross and still look yourself in the mirror. Lines he was about to burn.

"Sincere?" Her voice cut through the fog in his mind, soft and familiar. He turned, finding her standing at the door, looking at him like she could read him better than he thought.

"What's up?" He shoved his hands out of his pockets, tried to keep his face neutral, but she saw the flicker in his eyes. That sharp edge that had been creeping up on him lately.

She frowned, pushing herself up from the bed. "You good? You've been quiet as hell."

He forced a grin, one of those smooth smiles that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I'm good, baby. Just thinking."

Her eyes stayed on him, like she was trying to see past the mask. He stepped closer to her, taking her face gently in his hands, letting her feel the warmth of his skin. "You know I got you, right?" he said, his voice low. "Always."

She nodded, though doubt still clung to her like the rain outside. She had every right to feel like something was off. She didn't know it yet, but he was a damn good actor, and he'd sell this role all the way to the end.

Sincere had been grinding for the past two months, doing the work that needed to be done. Finding the right people. Tying the loose ends. It wasn't pretty, but nothing in this game ever was. And now? It was time to collect.

The first man on his list was someone who thought he was untouchable. Someone who'd been involved in taking her little brother, someone who was deep in the game—drugs, money, the whole package. Sincere had been gathering intel on him for weeks, playing it cool, biding his time. But tonight, things would shift. It was all going down, and Aphoria wouldn't know a damn thing.

When she fell asleep next to him that night, he slipped out of bed, moving as quietly as the shadows. He didn't want her to wake up and find him gone. Didn't want her to see the real him—the one who wasn't all love and support, but a man who knew how to make people disappear.

He hit up his contacts, firing off messages, checking the names and faces that had been haunting him. The digital trail was clean, but the dirt was there. And Sincere knew how to dig through the muck and find it.

By the time he slid back into bed, the plans were in motion. His hands still buzzed from the adrenaline, but he pulled her close, pretending everything was normal. Pretending he was still that guy—her guy.

The next morning, things played out like clockwork. He kept it smooth, making her breakfast, brushing the hair from her face like nothing had changed. But inside? He was building toward something. He could feel it, that weight, that urge to finally make things right. For her.

And for him.

Late that night, when the apartment was quiet again, the doorbell rang. A little too casual. A little too perfect.

Sincere paused. He'd been expecting this.

"Stay here," he said, his voice almost too calm. "I'll be right back."

Aphoria didn't question him. She never did. She trusted him. She would until the end.

When he opened the door, the man on the other side was exactly who he expected—slicked-back hair, crisp suit, too many damn rings. The kind of guy who lived like he could play with fire without getting burned.

Sincere took the envelope the man handed him, eyes never leaving the guy's face. "Everything's set?" he asked, keeping his voice low, controlled.

The man gave a single nod and turned, disappearing into the night without another word. Sincere shut the door, his chest tight, but his mind sharper than ever. He didn't need to get his hands dirty. Not now. Not anymore.

He opened the envelope, revealing the image inside—a photo of his target, caught in the act of doing something that could ruin his whole world. The leverage was perfect. All it took was one phone call, one quiet threat, and the man was finished. Out of the game.

But Sincere wasn't done. Not yet. He had to make sure the streets knew who pulled the strings.

Later that night, after they had both fallen asleep, the ringing of Sincere's phone broke the stillness. He pulled himself out of bed, walking into the living room as he answered the call. The voice on the other end was familiar—a man he'd helped get into position to make things happen.

"It's done," the voice said, its tone cold, final. "No one's looking for them. No one's asking questions."

Sincere nodded, his eyes closing for a moment as relief washed over him. It was over. The men who had hurt her, who had ruined her family, were gone. Disappeared. And now, there was nothing left to worry about. Nothing left to do but keep the lie alive.

"Good," Sincere muttered. "Make sure it stays that way."

The call ended, and Sincere was left standing alone in the dark, listening to the hum of the city outside. The silence felt louder now, like the world had exhaled in relief, but he was still suffocating in his own choices.

He returned to the bedroom, slipping back into bed without a word. Aphoria stirred but didn't wake.

He reached for her, pulling her closer, burying his face in her hair. She smelled like comfort, like safety. And for a moment, he allowed himself to pretend that nothing had changed.

The days following the silent executions of his plan were unnervingly calm. Sincere kept up the act. He still held her when she cried, still made her laugh, still reassured her that everything would be alright. She didn't know what had been done, didn't understand the gravity of the invisible forces that had worked in the shadows.

But Sincere could feel the tension lifting, like the weight of the past was slowly fading. The people responsible for her brother's death were gone, their secrets buried, their influence erased. The streets were quieter now, as if the city itself had exhaled a breath it had been holding for too long.

And still, Aphoria never knew. She never asked, never suspected. She just wanted to heal. To move on.

And that's exactly what Sincere was going to give her. Even if it meant sacrificing a part of himself she could never understand.

One evening, a few weeks later, Sincere found himself back at the window, staring out at the city, the same streetlights casting their long shadows on the wet pavement below. It was quiet again. Too quiet. The calm after the storm felt like a prelude to something far darker.

"You're thinking again," she said softly, her voice laced with understanding.

He let out a breath, one he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "I guess I am."

She stepped closer, pressing her hand gently to his back. "Whatever it is, you don't have to carry it alone."

For a moment, he considered telling her. Telling her everything. The truth. But the words were heavy, too heavy, and he knew if he said them, everything would change. The walls he'd built would come crumbling down, and he couldn't afford to lose her. Not now not ever. Not after everything.

"I know," he said instead, turning to face her, pulling her into his arms. "I know. "She kissed him, gentle and slow, and he kissed her back, the weight of everything still hanging between them, but unspoken. Because it was over now. She was safe. And no one would ever know what he had done to make that happen.

No one, but him.