Tyler's POV
Alright. So maybe I didn't have a solid plan, or any real muscle, or the willpower to climb stairs without weeping internally. But what I did have was curiosity, caffeine withdrawals, and just enough petty energy to risk getting caught.
It started with a single decision: today, I would explore.
I slipped out of my room like a discount ninja, creeping through the hallways in socks that slid too much on marble flooring. I had no idea where I was going, but the mansion was big. Bigger than my ability to stay out of trouble.
I passed by a hallway filled with glass statues that probably cost more than my future children's tuition. One wrong step, and I'd owe this family a kidney and my entire bloodline. So I tiptoed like I was defusing a bomb.
Dodged a guard. Hid behind a twelve-foot plant. Realized the plant was fake. Had an existential crisis. Moved on.
The second floor was quiet, until I accidentally bumped into a marble vase with my hip. My hip, of all things. That thing toppled so fast, I swear my soul left my body and ran to file for insurance.
But I caught it.
Barely.
Like, with the tips of my fingers and the strength of a panicked rat holding a dumbbell. I whispered a victory "Yesss," to myself, which immediately triggered the motion-sensor chandelier above me. Light. Everywhere.
Great. Now I was the star of a break-in simulator.
I bolted.
I turned left into a hallway that smelled like cedar and sin, only to suddenly stop mid-stride.
Standing there, leaning casually against the wall like a magazine cover model for Undercover Mafia Weekly, was Brown-Haired Guy. Same brown hair. Same brown eyes. Same "I can kill you politely" aura.
And those damn earrings again.
"Out for a jog?" he asked, arms crossed.
I blinked. "Yep. Mental jog. Good for blood circulation."
His brow quirked like, really?
We stared at each other for a second. I considered pretending to faint. But he just exhaled through his nose and gestured down the hallway.
"Kitchen's that way," he said. "Unless you're scouting escape routes."
"I—what? Escape? Me? Nooo. Never. I love it here. Absolutely love getting punched in the liver as a morning greeting."
He smirked. Smirked. Like he knew too much.
"I like you," he said. "You're dumb. But funny."
And then he walked away. Just like that. Gone. Into the shadows or another corridor or wherever mysterious hot guys disappear to.
I stood there frozen. Confused. Slightly offended. But also flattered.
Then I whispered to myself, "That man is either my soulmate or my executioner. No in-between."
I kept walking. Found a room that looked like a small library, but when I opened the door, it was filled with knives.
Not books.
Just... knives.
Closed it right back.
Walked into another room. Found a wine cellar with stairs leading God-knows-where. Another door. Locked. Another one. Storage. Jackpot. Towels and cleaning supplies—escape tools in disguise.
I grabbed a broom for defense. Or distraction. Or just in case I needed to dramatically slam it down and declare "Not today, Satan."
That's when a voice behind me said, "You know that's not a weapon, right?"
I jumped so hard I hit my head on the shelf.
Azazel.
Standing there with her arms crossed and her expression reading I'm two seconds from folding you like laundry.
I dropped the broom.
"Just cleaning!" I squeaked.
She rolled her eyes and walked past me like I wasn't worth the energy. Which, fair.
I waited until she was gone before whispering, "June 9th. I'm getting out. Broom or no broom."
And with that, I continued sneaking. Like the petty fugitive I was born to be.
Tyler's POV – The Rooftop Escape Attempt
Oh my God. Fresh air. Actual, legitimate, non-blood-smelling, non-azazel-cursing, non-pain-infused air.
I had made it.
The rooftop was massive. Windy. The city lights blinked below like they were winking at me—"Come on down, baby, freedom's waiting." I sucked in that glorious breath of liberation and whispered to myself, "Tyler, you genius. You absolute majestic idiot. You did it."
I took out the rope I'd snatched earlier. Don't ask how I got it, just know that when desperation meets mild intelligence and a suspicious janitor's closet, things happen.
I found a sturdy iron rod near the edge of the rooftop. Real industrial stuff. Looked strong enough to hold the trauma I've been carrying. I tied the rope around it like I'd seen in the movies. You know, when the hot spy rappels down from the top floor without dying? Yeah. I was channeling that energy.
One final glance at the sky. One hand on the rope. One foot on the ledge.
I was just about to climb down when—
"And where do you think you're going?"
Damn.
Damn.
Damn.
I froze.
Because I knew that voice. That stupid, arrogant, soul-snatching, pain-igniting voice.
Han.
I turned around in slow motion like I was in a bad horror movie. And there he was.
Mr. HanSora. In all his crisp, designer suit glory. Perfect hair. Cold eyes. And that same condescending smirk that told me I was not about to be free tonight.
"You—" I started, pointing a shaky finger.
He raised an eyebrow. "Me."
My mouth opened, but words decided to take a vacation. I blinked twice. My brain restarted like an old Windows laptop. I wasn't sure if I was more scared or mad. But my knees wobbled. Not romantically. Terrifyingly.
"You can't be serious," I said.
"Dead serious," he replied, stepping closer like the Grim Reaper of Broken Hopes.
"What are you doing here?" I hissed.
"I own the damn house, Tyler."
"Well, you weren't supposed to be on the rooftop!" I protested like that somehow made it better.
"And you weren't supposed to be trying to climb off it like a raccoon escaping Animal Control."
He walked right up to me and grabbed the rope. One sharp tug and snap the knot came undone. The rope dropped to the ground below.
My last hope, gone. Like my dignity.
"I was so close," I mumbled.