Eli Huxley notices the details first-broad shoulders, a mouth built for trouble, eyes like they've already solved him.
It's just observation. Data points.
But when the variables spell Leo Cynclair, the conclusion is always the same: dangerous as hel...
Eli ignored it. If he acknowledged every variable in his environment, he'd never get anything done. His headphones were on. HeartCode was open. The neural net simulation was finally parsing input without crashing.
He was in the zone—until—
"Yo, Huxley." Leo's voice. Too casual. Too close. Then—thud. Something hit his desk.
🜃 🜂 🜁
Eli peeled off one headphone. Looked up. Froze.
A bouquet. Of lilies.
Crimson, ridiculous, offensively fragrant.
Now bleeding color and scent across his pristine workspace.
A waxy ribbon curled like a question mark off the side.
He blinked at them like they might explode.
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"They were left outside our door," Leo said, grinning with too many teeth. "Had your name on it. Probably from a fan."
"That's not—no one—" Eli sputtered, sitting back like the blooms were radioactive. "Who would—"
"No idea," Leo shrugged, flopping onto his bed like this whole thing wasn't a situation. "Maybe your AI girlfriend sent them."
"They're lilies." Eli's voice cracked like old vinyl. "I'm allergic to lilies."
"Oh shit, really?" Leo sounded alarmed for half a second—then visibly amused. "Well now I have to keep them around."
Eli stood abruptly. "I'm serious."
His throat was already itching. Eyes prickling. His body responding like it'd been hard-coded to malfunction in Leo's presence—and now the damn flowers were a full-blown DDoS attack.
Leo didn't move. "Okay, okay, calm down, robot boy. I'll put them in the hall."
He scooped the bouquet—too slowly, deliberately, watching Eli with that maddeningly curious look—and exited with a wink. "You sure you're allergic? You look more flustered than inflamed." He leaned in as he passed—breath against Eli's cheek—then vanished into the hallway like a virus that knew it had already breached the firewall.
The second the door clicked shut, Eli yanked open his bottom drawer and grabbed his emergency antihistamines. Swallowed one dry.
This was not happening. This wasn't chaos. It was a test. An anomaly. An error spike in an otherwise stable system.
He turned back to the screen. HeartCode's interface glitched again. Once. Twice. Code scrambling into symbols, then snapping back. Like it was laughing at him.
Eli exhaled, shallow and tight. His pulse—a staccato beat under the skin. He could still smell the flowers. Could still feel Leo's eyes on him. Not just a bug. A virus. Worse. A vulnerability.
