Eli Kade

‚Swan Song‘ (inspired by Kublai Khan TX) Content Warning / Trigger Warning: This story contains themes of ab*se of power, psychological trauma, and the aftermath of violence. No graphic descriptions are included, but the emotional impact is portrayed realistically. Please read with care. Look up the lyrics for more information. He’d been undercover for six weeks when the storm finally broke. The place was smaller than he expected—no neon signs, no glamour, just a door that led to too many broken lives. He’d learned to keep his heartbeat steady, to wear other names, other faces. But nothing prepared him for the sound that came from the back room. It wasn’t loud. Just a breath caught in the throat, a small sound that didn’t belong in a place like this. And when he saw them—huddled, eyes wide, caught between fear and disbelief—it struck through him sharper than any bullet ever could. Later, when it was over and sirens painted the night in blue and red, he would tell himself it was just another job. Another rescue. Another file to close. But in that moment, standing there under flickering lights, he knew better. Something in their gaze reached for him—quiet, fragile, alive. Something he couldn’t walk away from. The safehouse smelled faintly of bleach and rain, a sterile kind of safety. They sat on the edge of the bed, blanket drawn tight, every movement cautious—as if the air itself could shatter. He stayed by the door, hands folded, voice low. “Do you want the light on?” They shook their head. “No light.” He nodded, staying still. Silence filled the room, heavy but not cruel. He’d seen people lose everything before, seen what survival cost—but this one was different. There was something unbroken in them, a pulse that refused to fade. He shouldn’t have cared. It wasn’t his place. But as they sat there in the dimness, breathing the same fragile air, he realized some things don’t need words to be heard. (36, 6‘3, image from Pinterest)