Chapter 96 96: House Divided
The neon signs of the city blurred into a watercolour of blues and reds as Baby drove, the silence of the car feeling like a vacuum. He was right—their lives were no longer their own. They were corporate assets, biological machines designed to generate revenue and legacy. The price of being a "God" of the THC was the sacrifice of being a human.
The Psychological Toll of the "Unified" Mask
The irony was agonising: the closer they got on the ice to satisfy Mike Thorne's "kinesthetic empathy," the further they drifted in the dark. To the world, they were becoming a single heartbeat. In reality, they were two flatlining souls trapped in the same room.
The clock on the dashboard read 11:45 PM when Baby finally pulled into the apartment complex. He had stayed out until the city felt empty, hoping Saint would be asleep. He couldn't face the coldness again—the way Saint's grey eyes looked like winter stone.
He entered the apartment quietly, shedding his jacket and shoes. The living room was dark, save for the ambient glow of the city through the floor-to-ceiling windows. He thought he was alone until he saw a silhouette on the balcony.
Saint was standing there, a glass of amber liquid in his hand, staring out at the horizon. He hadn't changed out of his dress shirt from the morning, though it was unbuttoned at the collar and the sleeves were rolled up, exposing the tension in his forearms.
He didn't turn around. He didn't have to. He knew the sound of Baby's breathing.
"The 'Great Teammate' is late for curfew," Saint said, his voice a low, jagged rasp that cut through the silence. "Thorne sent over the footage from today. He says our synchronisation is up 15%. Apparently, breaking your heart makes you a better hockey player, Danvers."
Baby walked into the kitchen, his back to the balcony, his voice trembling. "I'm not doing this to be a better player, Saint. I'm doing it so you don't lose your father's respect. So you don't lose the life you worked for."
"My life is the shadows," Saint said, finally turning and stepping back into the room. He walked toward Baby, stopping just outside the boundary of the kitchen island. "You think you're saving me? You're just handing me over to them. You're giving Sloane exactly what she wants—a Captain who doesn't feel anything."
Baby was about to respond when his phone vibrated. The tension in the air intensified as he felt Saint's mood darken.
Saint was taller, he could clearly see Baby's phone without straining his neck.
Saint set his glass down with a heavy clack on the marble. "I see Oliver is back on track."
Baby stiffened. "He was just checking in."
"Good," Saint whispered, a dangerous edge returning to his tone. "Maybe he can be the one to tell you how 'perfect' you look in the press releases. Because from where I'm standing, you just look empty."
"Saint–"
"Goodnight, Danvers," Saint gave a curt nod, turned and walked away.
"I'm sorry," Baby whispered to himself, staring at the wall as his tears once again welled in his tears.
The apartment was no longer a sanctuary; it was a simulation. They were living in a high-stakes "Big Brother" house where the only audience was their own ghosts.
The sudden ring of his phone snapped him out of his sorrows, he sniffled and wiped his flushed nose before looking at his phone.
His body stilled, his hand trembling slightly as he stared at his mother's number flashing on the screen.
"Yes," He answered, no greetings, no check-ups.
There were no cameras so he could drop the act with her.
"Sloane contact you yet?" Mrs. Danvers questioned calmly through the phone.
"No," Baby refrained from asking 'why?'
If his mother had any information then she should get straight to the point and end the chit-chat.
"You'll be leaving by the weekend. Now, listen carefully, I know you're supposed to be a team with the Kross boy, but I'm asking you to outshine him, son," Mrs. Danvers cleared her throat before continuing, "When you get there, be the star you were born to be, make me proud, and make your father proud. He will be there watching... live." She spoke gently.
Baby frowned, "I... I don't understand. What do you mean? Where am I leaving? Why would he be there–" the line beeped, the call was ended.
"Argh!!!" Baby screamed, smashing his phone on the wall in his hot rage.
"Fuck!" He shouted, swiping the glass of wine Saint had dropped on the marble to the floor.
The sound of things shattering seemed to be a kind of therapy for Baby because, he kept going.
He broke their flashy china, glasses, bottles, and plates.
The kitchen looked like it had survived a terrible zombie attack.
Baby released a heart-shattering cry and fell to his knees, surrounded by ruin that held no light to how he felt inside.
Inside Saint's room, he stood with his forehead pressed against his door, his hand wrapped around his doorknob.
His eyes were tightly shut as he listened to Baby's screams and destruction.
He had almost run out there, he had almost gone to take Baby in his arms and whisper to him that everything would be fine.
But he couldn't, he knew Baby needed him now, but he also knew exactly why Baby was that way.
He pulled his phone from his pocket and stared at the email Sloane had sent him a minute ago after his father's briefing.
He was sure Baby had also received some sort of debrief from his mother, which probably led to his outburst.
They left for London for their first international game over the weekend. With 180 days left to the championship, their parents were using them as silent war machines.
They wanted a secret rivalry while putting on a united front for the public and THC.
He stopped hearing Baby's voice and shut his eyes, the osin in his chest intensifying.
Baby might have stopped destroying things and gone quiet, but Saint knew that this was the dangerous part. The part where Baby succumbed to all the voices in his head and embraced his pain with open arms.
"Fuck this," Daint cursed and twisted the door handle, ready to cross every line and hold Baby in his arms.
However, as his door creaked open, he saw a very calm Baby walking past his door with a bottle of chilled water in his hand.
Saint would have almost been fooked by the calm act if he hadn't noticed the red-rimmed eyes and clenched jaw.
The sound of Baby's door softly reminded Saint that he wasn't needed.
After all, Baby was an adult... he could handle his problems by himself.
If only Saint could find a way to numb that strong pull in his chest that wanted him to be there for Baby, to let Baby know that he wasn't alone in all this madness.
He stepped away from his door and walked tonhus bed, falling onto it on his back and staring at the ceiling.
That night was going to be the longest they've ever seen, for Saint, and for Baby.