Lost Memories: Tri-Junction

The flashing red and blue lights from the police cars cast eerie shadows across the grand mansion gate as Charles Baxter stepped out of his vehicle. Despite the tense atmosphere, he adjusted his coat with a casual grace, his sharp blue eyes scanning the scene beneath his tousled blonde hair.

He looked out of place among the rugged security guards—a lean, well-dressed detective with delicate features. 

"What's the status?" he asked to the security guard, his voice smooth but firm.

The guard straightened at the sight of him. "The thief is inside, sir. He's already killed two of our men. We have him trapped in the manor, but he's fast. Slippery as hell."

Charles clicked his tongue, exhaling in mild irritation. Of course, Daddy G would need police involvement now—Byron had spilled blood on his precious estate. Killing security guards was one thing, but Byron wasn't stupid enough to kill a cop. That would turn him from an annoyance to a high-priority target.

As the guard spoke, his hands moved over a guest's trench coat, performing a routine search before letting him pass.

Charles' gaze landed on the man being frisked.

Something about him stood out. The way he held himself—poised but relaxed, like he belonged anywhere he went. Even with the trench coat wrapped around him, concealing the elegant black dress beneath, there was an effortless grace to his posture. The faint sway of his long earrings caught the light, drawing attention to the delicate curve of his jaw. His makeup was impeccable—dark lashes framing his unreadable eyes, lips painted with just enough color to demand a second glance. His face remained calm, but there was a flicker of something—an unreadable glint lurking beneath the surface.

"Who's he?" Charles asked, tilting his head.

The guard barely glanced up. "Oh, just one of our guests, Detective." 

Charles watched the man, his eyes narrowing slightly. But as the guards moved to let him pass, Charles stepped forward, blocking his path. 

"Where are you going?" Charles asked, his tone casual but firm. 

The man, seemingly unbothered, let out a soft sigh. "There's a thief on the loose, and he's killing people. I don't feel safe inside. I need to leave."

A reasonable answer. Too reasonable.

Charles crossed his arms, his tone careful and neutral. "It's safer inside. Why are you even out here?"

The man shrugged effortlessly, his lips curving into something resembling amusement. "You mean when it happened? I was catching fresh air. Then suddenly, people started shooting, someone died, and now I need to leave."

Charles studied him. The pretty androgynous face. The way he spoke with just the right amount of charm.

Byron would love him.

A slow smirk spread across Charles' lips, but instead of responding right away, he casually gestured for Etienne to follow him. "Come with me."

Etienne blinked, glancing around at the swarm of security guards bustling around them. With a confused expression, he pointed to himself. "Me?"

Charles tilting his head. "Yeah, you. Come on."

"When the police tell you what to do, just answer with 'Yes, Daddy", or "thank you, sir!'"

So, Etienne stepped away from the main gate to follow Charles, allowing the detective to guide him toward a dull gray-blue car parked nearby. The vehicle desperately needed some healing—one headlight was cracked, the bumper slightly dented, and streaks of scratches lined its body.

Who the heck had this detective been chasing to torture this poor little thing?

Charles opened the passenger door and commands, "Get in."

Etienne hesitated for a beat, glancing back at the bustling security guards. There are tons of muscular, capable men around us, but he chooses to talk to me instead. He scoffed internally. Just say it if you're looking for an excuse to get to know me better.

But since it's the police who commands him, Etienne slipped inside.

Charles rounded the front of the vehicle, sliding smoothly into the driver's seat. The door shut with a quiet thud, sealing them off from the outside world.

"This thief," Charles started, his voice steady but probing, "do you have any idea who he is?"

Flashes of Byron's tender smile flickered in Etienne's mind—how those sharp, rugged features softened when he smirked, how boyishly cute he might look if he ever bothered to shave that beard. He was interesting. Infuriatingly so.

Etienne had to refrain from answering with, Oh yes, he's a handsome, charming dancer, and I think he's quite funny—annoyingly interesting. Why? Is he a player? A serial killer? Does he have a habit of kidnapping femboys just to kill them? Oh, please tell me he's the worst thief you've ever seen. But please, anything but a serial killer!

Instead, he tilted his head just slightly, his expression unreadable. "No, I don't."

"His name is Byron, from Planet Alayan, Galaxy Vega. He used to steal cars, motorbikes—sometimes just the parts, sometimes the whole thing. Then he sold them on the black market. That's how he made his money. But also… he's dangerous. He's been harassing people, yes, sexually, and kidnapping them. You're exactly his type." 

Etienne felt his hopes and dreams crumble, but as a skilled actor, he compressed his emotions with ease, ensuring not a single flicker of disappointment showed on his face.

"I really want to end it all, but he's so damn difficult to catch," Charles continued, frustration evident in his tone. 

Etienne bit his lip, regret flickering in his eyes. "Okay… so what's the point?"

"You help us," Charles began, his voice smooth but firm, "and you'll get more than just a thank-you." His lips curled into a confident smirk. "A medal, extra bonus money, and a reputation as a hero. Not a bad deal, huh?"

Etienne barely held back a sigh, shifting in his seat. This guy really thinks I'd care about a stupid medal? He resisted the urge to rub his temples. I really need vodka after what I just heard. I almost got myself kidnapped by a serial rapist!

Still, he tilted his head, pretending to consider it. "Tempting," he said with a small, polite smile. "But no. Sorry, detective. I don't want to take any risks. And honestly? I'm really, really scared right now. I don't want to have anything to do with this—not you, not the thief, not anything. I just want to get back to my normal life and pretend tonight was just a dream."

"No need to be scared," Charles said smoothly, reaching into his coat pocket. He pulled out a small, sleek device no bigger than a coin, holding it up between his fingers. "Just attach this beneath your clothes, and we can monitor you. The second he starts getting dangerous, we'll save you. Right away."

Etienne picked up the spying device, turning it over in his fingers as he examined it. A wave of nausea churned in his stomach, making him want to throw up. He didn't want to get involved in this. Was it caused by disappointment that the cute thief was actually a serial rapist? Or was it just because the unease of an incoming change he had no desire to face? 

All he wanted was to return to his normal life—where everything was a masquerade party, where he could jump from one man's arms to another, toying with hearts without consequence. 

And yet, just when someone finally caught his interest, he turned out to be a dark soul. 

Was this karma? 

Etienne shrugged, his tone light, almost teasing. "I don't know… you're quite cute yourself. Why don't you dress up instead? I'm sure he'd be interested in you too." 

Charles flustered instantly. "I—I'm not! I… I can't! N-not me!" 

"Ah… I see now," Etienne mused, his eyes narrowing as if piecing together a puzzle. "You find him hot, don't you? That's why you're asking someone else to do it instead. Perhaps because you don't want your friends to figure out how you truly feel about him when they overheard your interactions....?" 

"N-no! That's not what this is all about!" Charles stammered, unable to hide his emotions. 

Etienne sighed, shaking his head. "Detective, I can't do this. Please, spare me. I don't want to be involved. I know some other gay guys with cute faces, younger than me—they might do a better job." 

"But they're not actors!" Charles argued. His voice softened, almost desperate. "Please. If we don't do this, he'll keep roaming free, hurting more people. Someone has to stop him. You are perfect for this."

***

The grand hall was in chaos. Guards and police swarmed in from every entrance, their weapons drawn, their eyes darting wildly in search of their elusive target. Byron stood at the center of it all, calm, untouchable, a sly smirk playing on his lips as he dodged every desperate attacks.

Detective Charles Baxter climbed the stairs to the indoor balcony, his sharp gaze scanning the battlefield from his elevated vantage point. He grabbed his radio, voice sharp with urgency.

"Shoot him! Don't underestimate him! Shoot him when you get the chance!"

But Byron was too fast. A swift kick sent one officer crashing into another. He flipped over a guard's head, dodging a bullet by a hair's breadth. His movements were fluid, effortless, as if he was merely playing while the rest fought for their lives. Not even a trace of exhaustion marked his face.

Then, a faint vibration against his wrist. His smart watch lit up.

Etienne: I'm out.

Byron's smirk widened. Time to go.

But not before saying hello to an old friend.

In one fluid motion, Byron launched himself off a guard's shoulder, somersaulting midair before parkouring his way up the grand pillars toward the indoor balcony. Charles barely had time to raise his gun before Byron was upon him, seizing him by the collar, dangerously close to smashing his head against the railing.

But then—Charles' breath hitched, his eyes widened, that momentary fluster Byron knew all too well.

With a slow grin, Byron reached into his pocket and, instead of a blade, pulled out a single flower.

"Hello there, baby," Byron purred, tucking the flower neatly into the detective's lapel. "If they ask, don't tell them I'm your bed buddy. You'll ruin your career."

Before Charles could react, Byron was gone.

He leaped toward the towering glass window lining the hall's wall, shattering through it in an explosion of glittering shards. Gasps erupted from below as the onlookers watched him fall—plummeting fast, vanishing into the abyss of the night.

"Did he just—?"

"He killed himself?!"

The hall erupted into murmurs, but Charles only narrowed his eyes.

Down in the valley below, where the grass swayed under the moonlight, a faint glow pulsed against the darkness—the eagle tattoo on Byron's forearm illuminating in soft golden light. The air around him thickened, the force of his fall slowing, his descent gentle, until he landed smoothly on his feet, barely stirring the earth beneath him.

His motorcycle awaited him, parked faithfully where he had left it. Byron swung one leg over the seat, pulling out his phone as he revved the engine.

A call connected.

"Hey, I made it," he said, casually fastening his gloves. "I'll ride to your place right now. But I'm bringing a friend, and I don't want him to get involved."

A brief pause. Then a low chuckle on the other end.

Byron smirked, ending the call. He kicked off, tires screeching against the dirt as he sped off toward the bus stop, where a lone figure stood waiting beneath the flickering streetlight.

Etienne.

He was still wrapped in the long trench coat, its fabric swaying slightly in the night breeze. His makeup was slightly smudged from the evening's chaos, but his beauty remained untouched—ethereal, effortless.

Then, the distant roar of an engine.

Byron emerged from the darkness like a shadow breaking into the light, his motorcycle growling low as he pulled up right in front of Etienne. The moment their eyes met, Etienne's face lit up—soft, genuine, as if he had just seen the moon rise after a long storm.

Byron smirked. "I thought you'd think I left you out in the cold and went home."

Etienne shook his head, a tired smile on his lips. "When I promised to wait, I meant it."

Byron pulled on the front of Etienne's trench coat, drawing him in as their lips met in a deep, lingering kiss. The chill of the night was nothing compared to the warmth between them.

As the kiss ended, Byron gazed softly into Etienne's eyes. Even with his makeup slightly smudged, he still looked beautiful. In return, Etienne caressed Byron's cheek gently.

Byron leaned back, his voice a husky whisper. "Let's ride."

Etienne climbed onto the bike, wrapping his arms tightly around Byron's torso, pressing his chest against his back. The feeling of safety, danger, and exhilaration all blurred into one as he held on.

"Where are we going?" Etienne asks.

Byron revved the engine, the low rumble vibrating beneath them. "That's the fun part. You won't know where we're going or for how long. It's your last chance to call it suspicious and go home."

Etienne exhaled a soft laugh, tightening his grip. "And never to see you again forever? Nah. I'd rather put my life in your hands."

"Then I shall treat you well. You're my prince." Byron traced Etienne's cheek with his index finger.

Etienne corrected him with a smirk, "You'll call me queen."

Exactly what Byron liked. Androgynous. "Yes, Your Highness."

Byron landed another kiss on Etienne's lips, and Etienne responded with the same depth of feeling.

Without another word, Byron twisted the throttle, and the motorcycle roared to life, speeding off into the night.

***

Somewhere near the mansion of John Kaspar Gion, a police van sat parked in the shadows. Inside, Charles monitored a red dot blinking on the GPS screen, his expression unreadable. He looked upset—though he wasn't sure if it was because Byron and Etienne knew each other or because Byron treated Etienne differently than he had ever treated him.