Draftline II : Twisted Devotion

Build Up Vibes

01:23 ━━━━●───── 03:43

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>>Imagine you spend your entire life holding control. Trying and becoming someone who governs everything. Always being the middleman and never once thinking you'd fall for someone who enters your room, locks the door from the inside, and says, "Help me destroy them." You know you should refuse, but for the first time, you don't want to hold control. You want to surrender it. And that is the most terrifying and most liberating thing you've ever felt.<<

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Hust: The park at the end of Peckham Road. Three in the afternoon. Come alone. I want to talk.

Cal sent that message on Saturday, at 06:47.

Xavier read it three times. Four times, then a fifth. Strange—he always understood messages quickly, but this one felt different.

Cal sent the message like she was losing something and only Xavier could get it back.

Her command was short and flat. Like someone trying to sound strong but whose fingers were trembling over the screen.

Xavier typed a reply.

page27: I'll be there :)

He refused to ask why at the park and not at school. He refused to ask why it had to be just the two of them. Because he already knew the answer.

Cal didn't feel safe. At least not yet, and maybe she'd need a long time to make that sense of safety whole again.

The archive room was an enclosed space. A locked door, and Cal chose to throw away that key, and for a girl who had spent weeks feeling watched, an enclosed room was no place to negotiate.

An enclosed room is a cage. And Cal had lived in a cage for far too long.

The park was Cal's choice. Open space. Sky above. An exit in every direction. A place where she could see Xavier coming from a hundred meters away. A place where she could run if she wanted to.

Xavier understood, and he wouldn't make the girl feel foolish. Because foolishness makes someone crumble, and Cal wasn't foolish. She just needed open space to talk to the person she had just appointed as her ally.

During school, Xavier kept his distance, but his eyes followed Cal wherever the girl went until the time of their meeting arrived.

The park at the end of Peckham Road was a small park that never made it into tourist brochures. There were only three wooden benches with peeling paint. One swing whose chains were rusted. A grass field cut too short so that brown soil showed in places, and finally one old oak tree whose roots had lifted the paving around it.

Xavier arrived at 14:52. Eight minutes early. Deliberately. He didn't want Callista to come and find an empty bench, then wait and start imagining worst-case scenarios.

He wanted the girl to come and see him already there. Sitting. Waiting. Not watching. Not hiding. Just sitting like Cal's writing used to describe someone waiting behind a window.

He chose the bench facing the park entrance. So Callista could see him from the gate. So there would be no surprises and the girl could decide whether she wanted to approach or turn and leave.

Xavier sat with his hands on his knees. Nothing in his pockets. He came openly, visibly, making sure he was not a threat.

At 15:03, Callista appeared at the park gate.

She wore an oversized gray hoodie. Jeans. Sneakers with worn-thin soles. Her hair tied back carelessly. No school blazer, no backpack. Just hands in her hoodie pocket and slow steps.

Callista stopped at the gate. Stared at Xavier from thirty meters away. Xavier looked at her and smiled. He wanted Callista to assess him, to make sure he was safe, and to calculate the distance between the bench and the exit in case the girl wanted to run.

Xavier didn't wave. He just nodded once. One small nod as a signal.

You're safe.

Callista walked closer. She chose to stop two meters in front of Xavier. Still standing with her hands still in her hoodie pocket.

"I don't want to sit," said Callista. Her voice was flat. But beneath that tone, her voice was trembling.

You're fragile, Cal, and I see that fragility.

Xavier didn't reply. He waited for Cal to speak if the girl wanted to speak.

"If I sit, I can't run," Cal continued, her voice barely audible.

Xavier finally nodded. "You don't have to sit."

Silence greeted them as the afternoon wind moved the oak leaves. The rusted swing creaked softly with no one pushing it.

"I want to ask one thing," said Cal. "And I want an honest answer."

"Go ahead."

"What's the next plan?"

Xavier looked at Cal. The girl stood with her back straight, but her shoulders were slightly stiff. Her jaw was too tight for a question that important. She looked like someone holding herself back from running.

"I haven't thought that far ahead," said Xavier. Honest. He truly hadn't thought of anything yet. "We only made the deal yesterday. I won't pretend I already have a blueprint to destroy the most powerful family in London. That's stupid. And we're not stupid."

Callista frowned. "Then what do we do?"

"We go to school," answered Xavier. "We finish our education. Graduate, and remember, Callista, we don't fight them with foolishness. We don't storm Kensington with kitchen scissors and rage. Because to defeat a monster, you have to become a monster more patient than they are."

"I don't want to be patient."

"I know."

"I want them to pay for what they did."

"They will pay. But not this week. Not this month. We build the foundation first. We gather data. We map their weaknesses. We make sure they don't know where the attack is coming from. And when we strike, they can't fight back because they won't even know who attacked them."

Cal stared at Xavier. For a long time. She was searching for lies in his eyes. Looking for manipulation or a hidden agenda, but there was nothing there. Xavier didn't need manipulation; he just needed to make sure Cal was safe by his side.

"You don't have a plan at all," accused Cal, pushing her hands deeper into her hoodie pocket.

"I have a direction," corrected Xavier. "But not a map yet. And a map takes time. And time takes patience. And patience takes—"

"Patience. Yes. I heard."

Cal turned away. Xavier followed the direction of her gaze. He watched Cal stare at the grass field cut too short, shift to the rusted swing, then look at the sky beginning to turn gray.

Xavier tilted his head slightly to see something in the girl's profile that he couldn't read. Cal was tired like someone who had been running too long and had just been told the finish line was still a hundred kilometers away.

Xavier stood up.

Callista immediately tensed. Her whole body locked. Like an animal that hears a twig snap in the forest and prepares to flee.

"I'm going to leave," said Xavier. His tone was calm. Not threatening. "You've got your answer. I don't have a map yet. But I have a direction. And I'll start working tonight. I'll re-read all the files on the Draftline server related to Dominic. Looking for gaps. Looking for patterns, and I'll report everything to you."

Cal didn't answer. She just nodded stiffly.

Xavier walked past Callista. Toward the park exit. One step. Two steps. Three steps. With his back to Callista.

Xavier didn't hear footsteps behind him.

What he felt was movement. A change in air pressure and something shifting in the space between his shoulder blades and the world. And then—

The sound of metal—scraping right against his skin.

Xavier gasped and stepped back slightly, staring at the tip of the scissors that had just grazed his neck from behind.

The cut was thin and quick. Like someone accidentally dragging a nail across a table surface. But the skin of the neck is thin and blood appeared immediately. A warm red line, flowing slowly down his jaw, dripping onto the collar of his white shirt.

Xavier stared at the scissors, stunned.

His hand rose. His fingers touched the line. And when he pulled his fingers away, there was red at the tips.

Behind him, the sound of metal hitting paving stones.

CLANG.

The scissors fell.

Xavier turned around. Slowly. And what he saw made him stop breathing.

Cal stood not far from him. Her hands raised in front of her chest, her gaze empty, her fingers open and trembling. A tremble that shook her entire arms. Her shoulders. Her jaw. Like someone who had just pulled her hand from a burning stove and whose entire nervous system refused to move again.

Her eyes were wide. Wet. Her mouth was open but no sound came out. And in her eyes, Xavier didn't see an architect. Didn't see a general. Didn't see the girl who yesterday said "help me destroy them" with a flat, cold voice.

What Xavier saw was a seventeen-year-old girl who had just hurt someone and didn't know if the world would end because of it.

"I-I..." Cal's voice finally came out, cracking with a thin tremor like paper folded too many times and now torn at its crease. "I didn't... I didn't mean to... I-I—" Cal covered her mouth with her hand.

And Xavier Blake, with blood still flowing down his neck, turning his shirt collar red, decided to make a choice.

His choice was to step back.

One step. Two steps. Three steps. Until there were five meters between them. A safe distance. A distance that said I won't touch you.

Xavier raised both hands. Slowly. At shoulder height with palms open.

"Callista."

His voice was soft, like he was speaking to someone fragile and frightened and ready to shatter if one word was wrong.

"Look at me."

Cal didn't move. Her hands were still raised. Her fingers still trembling. Her eyes locked on the red line on Xavier's neck. On the blood dripping onto the white collar.

"Look at me," Xavier repeated. He didn't move closer and didn't change his tone. "I'm page27. I'm the one who reads your writing. I'm the one who said you're not foolish for waiting. I'm the one who sat in the archive room yesterday and said the price of my loyalty is you. Look at me."

Slowly, very slowly, Cal's eyes lifted from Xavier's neck to his face. Those ocean-blue eyes were wet. Full of fear, guilt, and anger at herself.

"I'm not attacking," said Xavier. He stood there. Still. Not moving. Blood still flowing thinly down his neck. But he didn't touch it. Didn't wipe it. He let it be. Because if he touched the wound, Cal would see the blood and feel more guilty. And he didn't want Cal to feel more guilty than she already did.

"See? I'm standing here. And I'm not approaching or even attacking."

Cal swallowed. Her breathing was still ragged. Her lips trembled.

Xavier lowered his hands. Slowly.

"I'll go first," said Xavier. "I'll walk to that gate. And I won't look back. You can stay here until your hands stop shaking. Until you can breathe again and are ready to leave. It's not good to rush."

He paused for a moment. Looked at Cal. Behind those eyes was confusion mixed with Xavier's eyes that radiated only deep understanding.

"Then you go home. And tomorrow we meet at school. And we don't need to talk about this. No one needs to apologize. Okay?"

Cal didn't answer. Couldn't. She just nodded. One small nod that was almost invisible.

Xavier turned around. Slowly. Then walked to the park gate. Without looking back or peeking. He didn't need to check if Cal was following him.

He just walked. With blood drying on his neck and a collar turned red. His back straight without regret.

Behind him, in the small park with the rusted swing and the old oak tree, Callista Dolores stood alone. Staring at the scissors lying on the paving. Her hands still trembling.

Meanwhile, Xavier walked home.

Thirty-eight minutes from Peckham to Bermondsey. He didn't take the bus. He chose to walk even as rain began to fall. A thin drizzle that made the world look like it was seen through frosted glass.

Xavier didn't open an umbrella even though he carried one. He let the water soak him. Touching the cut that now stung every time a drop of rain touched it.

He touched the wound. Again. His fingers traced the thin red line beneath his jaw. The blood had dried. But the mark was there. And the mark would last. A few days. Maybe a week. Maybe longer.

Xavier realized he was smiling.

Because the cut was real. For weeks, everything that happened between him and Cal happened behind the screen. Behind text. Behind pen names and anonymous profiles and paid requests. But this cut? This cut was physical proof.

This was proof that Callista Dolores was no longer a character on a screen. She was someone with hands that could tremble. Eyes wet with tears, and scissors that could wound.

And Xavier Blake had just been wounded by the only person who had ever made him feel worthy.

He crossed a small bridge over a canal and chose to stop. Staring at the dark water moving slowly beneath him. His thoughts spoke too loudly inside his head.

She didn't feel safe yet. And that's okay. Safety isn't something you can give someone. Safety is something that has to be built yourself. And I won't rush it. I won't force it. I'll just be here. Outside her fence. Waiting until she decides to open the door.

Xavier stared at the river below him for a moment before walking again.

He knew what awaited in his room.

The room in Bermondsey was silent when Xavier entered.

He took off his jacket. Dried his hair. Walked to the study desk. And stared at the wall.

A small nail in the center. A white paper with his name and Cal's still in place. He had bought a frame to make sure the paper wouldn't be damaged.

Below it, a pile of artifacts that were his secret. There were print-outs of stories, torn shopping lists, a flattened blue pen cap, and a blazer button.

Xavier took a new sheet of paper and his black ink pen. And he wrote.

"Help me destroy them."

— Callista Dolores, Archive Room, Ravenscroft.

He pinned the paper to the wall. Above Callista's name. Because now, what defined the girl was no longer her writing. But her mission.

Then he took his black leather notebook. Opened the last page. His surveillance list.

Door lock: Four to five times.

Bus: sits in the corner.

Window: light on.

Habit: pulls at blazer sleeve.

Xavier stared at the list. And took his pen. He crossed it out. One by one. Thick pen lines covering every word. Because the list was no longer relevant.

The list was a record of prey. Cal was no longer prey. Cal was the boss, and bosses are not surveilled.

Xavier opened his laptop. Opened Draftline. Logged in as page27.

He stared at the blinking cursor. And typed. One finger. Not ten. One index finger pressing keys one by one.

Page27: Miss. I've started re-reading all of Dominic's files on the server. There are 47 transactions not recorded in the official reports. Tomorrow at school, I'll give you the list. Not in the hallway. In the library. The table near the window. Second break.

He stared at the message. Then added one sentence below it.

About the park today. You don't need to apologize. I won't attack you. Not today. Not tomorrow. Never. And if you need to meet me again, you know where to find me. I'll be waiting. For however long that is.

Xavier pressed send.

The screen changed and the message was sent.

In another tab, there was an email from Dominic. Subject: Weekly Report. Content: "Send before Friday. Make sure she stays stable and isolated."

Xavier stared at the email. And closed the tab. Without replying.

He walked to the window.

Bermondsey outside in the night. The rain had stopped. City lights flickered in the distance. And somewhere out there, in a small flat in Lewisham with a dripping faucet and a table with a leg propped up by a card, there was a girl who might be sitting on her bed with her knees pulled to her chest.

Staring at her hands. Hands that had held scissors earlier. And asking herself if she had just destroyed the only alliance she had ever had.

Xavier wanted to tell her: No. You didn't destroy it. You just made it real and made me want to try even harder for you.

But he couldn't say that. Not yet. Because Cal wasn't ready to hear it.

Xavier stared at the window. And realized something.

In Cal's writing, he was the one standing outside the window. He was the one staring at the light. He was the one waiting and sending messages from the darkness, hoping the girl behind the glass would turn around.

But now, positions had reversed. Cal held the key. Cal decided who could enter and who had to wait outside. And Xavier, for the first time, was the one standing in the darkness waiting to be invited in.

Xavier didn't hate it. Never would.

He turned off his room light. Lay on the bed. Stared at the dark ceiling. And touched the cut on his neck. Once. Slowly.

A smile crept back onto his lips.

Tomorrow, he would see the girl at school. The girl would see the cut on his neck. She would remember it. And that memory would give her the fact that Xavier didn't attack. He stepped back and walked away without looking back.

That, Xavier thought, was the only thing stronger than all the words in the world.

No threats. No manipulation or poetry.

Just patience.

Xavier closed his eyes.

And slept.

Across the city, in the flat in Lewisham, a phone lit up on the kitchen table. The Draftline screen displayed one message from page27.

Miss. I've started re-reading all of Dominic's files on the server...

And no one read it.