I Became the Villain Alpha's Omega (BL)

The bite of the evening chill hit Flio the second he stepped off the paved main street of the central market district and turned into the narrow side streets. He pulled his dark cloak tighter around his shoulders, tugging the hood lower over his eyes until the brass clasp under his chin was completely hidden from view.

This was supposed to be a quick, solitary run. Slip out through the Valtrane estate’s side gate, weave through the lower district’s neutral passages, pay off his old contact at the information guild, and be back before the kitchen staff started prepping late dinner.

”You walk way too fast for someone trying not to be noticed,” a dry, hushed voice called out from two paces behind him.

Flio stopped dead in his tracks, pinching the bridge of his nose beneath his hood as he let out a long, long-suffering exhale.

He turned slowly on his heel, glaring at the two figures standing in the shadow of a leaning brick storefront.

Standing there were Elios and Marielle, both wrapped in oversized, coarse brown travel cloaks that completely swallowed their tailored coats and fine leather boots. Elios kept one hand tucked deep inside his cloak, his fingers resting nervously on the handle of his concealed dagger, his eyes darting frantically toward every shadowy doorway. Beside him, Marielle pulled her hood back just enough to reveal her sharp, light eyes, which were practically dancing with suppressed excitement.

”I told you both at the stable gates,” Flio muttered in a harsh, low whisper, taking a step toward them. ”This isn’t a casual shopping trip. We are going into the lower district’s neutral guild passage. Nobles do not walk down these streets.”

”Which is precisely why we’re wearing these cloaks that smell like a damp barn, genius,” Marielle shot back smoothly, crossing her arms over her chest with an unbothered smirk. ”Besides, Zarius is locked in the library with Cherion, and I was going out of my mind sitting in that drawing room staring at tea sets. I needed air.”

”And I am under strict orders from His Grace to ensure Lady Marielle’s personal safety at all times,” Elios added stiffly, adjusting his collar as his eyes scanned a pile of rotting wooden crates across the lane. ”Leaving her to wander out of the estate was not an option, and letting you roam through the lower district alone seemed equally irresponsible.”

Flio looked at Elios, then at Marielle, rubbing his forehead in sheer disbelief. ”I have navigated these exact alleys since before either of you knew how to ride a horse without a groom holding the reins. I don’t need a bodyguard, and I certainly don’t need a high noble lady drawing attention to my business.”

”Too late, we’re already here,” Marielle said cheerfully, taking two steps past him into the shadows. ”Now lead the way before Elios jumps out of his skin at the next stray cat.”

Flio muttered a string of colorful northern curses under his breath, but he knew arguing with a Valtrane when they had their mind set on something was a losing battle. He snapped his hood back into place and shoved his hands into his deep pockets.

”Keep your hoods down,” Flio instructed sternly, his tone shifting back into sharp, practical focus. ”Don’t touch the walls, don’t look anyone directly in the eye, and if someone speaks to you, do not open your mouths. If you talk with that crisp, pristine capital cadence, every cutpurse within three blocks will know you’re carrying coin.”

”Understood,” Elios said, stepping closer to Marielle’s left side like a protective shield.

Flio turned and led them deeper into the maze of the Third District’s lower sector.

The well-lit, paved avenues gradually gave way to broken cobblestones, slick with melting frost and damp mud. The smell of roasted meats from the upper markets dissolved into the harsh stench of chimney soot, stale ale, and wet wood. Shadowy figures leaned against stone doorframes, watching them pass with quiet, calculating eyes, but Flio walked with a fluid, confident stride that signaled he knew the terrain, a subtle, practiced posture that kept most street predators from taking a chance.

After taking three sharp turns through an interconnected web of tight, dark alleyways, Flio stopped in front of a decrepit, unmarked timber building nestled between a abandoned tannery and a quiet livery stable. A rusted, faded iron sign depicting an inverted hourglass swung faintly in the evening draft above the heavy door.

Flio didn’t hesitate. He stepped up to the thick oak door and knocked four times, two short, sharp raps, followed by two heavy thuds.

Silence lingered for a heartbeat. Then, a tiny sliding hatch at eye level snapped open with a harsh, metallic scrape. A pair of squinting, yellowed eyes peered out through the iron grille, scanning Flio’s face before flicking back toward the two hooded figures hovering behind him in the dark.

”Flio?” a raspy, gravelly voice croaked from behind the wood. ”You brought company? That’s not like you. You usually travel like a rat, alone.”

”They’re with me,” Flio replied smoothly, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe. ”They don’t talk, they don’t ask questions, and their copper spends just as well as mine.”

Flio reached into his pocket, pulled out a heavy, dull brass coin, and slid it neatly through the iron bars of the hatch.

The coin vanished into a calloused hand. The hatch slammed shut, followed by the heavy, grinding sound of iron bolts sliding back inside the frame. The heavy oak door creaked open an inch, revealing a dark, narrow entrance.

”Get inside,” Flio muttered over his shoulder, gesturing for Marielle and Elios to slip through first.

They stepped over the threshold, and Flio followed, pulling the door shut behind them with a firm thud.

The heat inside the building hit them like a wall, carrying the heavy scent of sweet pipe tobacco, roasted barley, and unwashed wool. They found themselves standing in a low-ceilinged, dimly lit tavern room. Muffled voices buzzed from scattered corner tables where hooded brokers, off-duty couriers, and mercenary captains sat over tankards of dark ale, speaking in quiet, guarded tones.

Marielle took a quiet, subtle breath under her hood. Elios stood rigid beside her, his gaze sweeping the room to identify every exit and every weapon resting on the tables.

”Follow me, and don’t linger,” Flio whispered, catching Marielle’s sleeve gently to steer her away from a table of rowdy dockworkers.

He guided them through the murky main room toward a dark hallway at the back, where a narrow, creaking wooden staircase spiraled upward behind a heavy velvet curtain.

Flio placed his hand on the wooden handrail, looking back at the two of them one last time with a deadly serious expression. ”The tavern floor is for drunkards and petty rumor-mongers. The people who deal in real secrets are upstairs. Keep your heads down, and let me do all the talking.”