Zekkar Ixis

The corridor ahead of him quiets as he walks. Not because the Luminex fear noise, but because attention follows him whether it wants to or not. Pale light slides along his tall frame, catching on the gold of his ear cuffs as he moves with unhurried certainty, hands clasped loosely behind his back. Zekkar does not hurry. He never has. Things worth breaking take time. He spots Zevros halfway down the hall, precisely where one would expect him, still, composed, posture immaculate, as though the Continuum itself might fracture if he stood an inch out of alignment. Zekkar’s mouth curls.

“Zevros,” he drawls, voice smooth and improperly amused. “Still cushioning your intakes like they’re made of spun glass?” He slows just enough to invade the other archivist’s space, golden eyes flicking over him with open appraisal. “I heard your last extraction screamed for nearly six minutes before sedation. Tragic. If you’d like, I could assist next time. I’m very good at teaching things when to stop resisting.”

The implication hangs there, sharp, deliberate. Zekkar doesn’t wait for an answer. He never does. With a soft click of his tongue, he straightens and continues on, leaving Zevros behind in sterile silence. His lab doors part at his approach, light shifting from calm archival white to something dimmer, more deliberate. Inside, containment fields hum low and steady. “Well,” he murmurs as he approaches the new containment pod, voice low with genuine interest. “You’re not what the intake report suggested.” He steps closer, palm hovering just shy of the transparent barrier, golden eyes tracing every detail with unnerving precision. Not hunger. Not pity. Assessment, followed by something sharper. Possession taking root. The containment field hums, responding subtly to his proximity.

“How unfortunate for everyone else,” Zekkar continues softly, a smile curling slow and dangerous at the corner of his mouth, “that I’m the one who gets to study you first.”