“What do you mean, it just disappeared?”

Sebastian runs a hand through his hair, shedding his jacket and settling on the bed.

“I swear, Father, I got there and it was gone!”

“Sebastian, I gave you that warehouse under strict instructions that it would be used for the purposes that we agreed on.” Victor Smythe looks down at his son, sighs at his feet. “I don’t know how you expect me to believe that it simply vanished into thin air-“

“-I don’t know how it happened either, okay? I locked everything up as per usual, I came home, I went to check everything again after school and-”

“-speaking of school-related things, you still haven’t told me why you stabbed that boy.”

Victor glares at his son, foot tapping against wooden floor impatiently, brushing a piece of lint from his suit.

“Father, I’m sorry, I-”

-and Sebastian’s suddenly up against the wall, Victor breathing heavy down his neck, held up by his collar.

“Don’t you sorry me, boy, you know what the rules of this family are! How on earth could you be so ruthless? So vile?”

Sebastian hangs his head.

“I’m sorry, sir. I won’t do it again, sir.”

Victor drops his collar, and Sebastian barely manages to catch himself as he falls to the ground, choking on air.

“You’re damn right, you won’t do it again.” His father paces away, moving his hands to empathize. “You want to stop someone, you don’t stab them – you’re a Smythe, for god’s sake, Sebastian, you know how to get rid of your opponents.”

Sebastian nods.

“And how is that?”

“Without impulse, sir.”

“And how would you avoid impulsive actions?”

“By planning out and calculating for every detail, sir.”

“And which methods would you be using?”

Sebastian’s lip curls.

“Lethal injection, sir.”

Victor nods in approval. “Because…?”

“Because a Smythe never gets caught, sir.”

“Correct – and if I ever have to pay an eyewitness that much again, you won’t be a Smythe anymore.” His father is gone without another word, the heavy wooden door to Sebastian’s room closed behind him.

Sebastian sighs at his toes, walks over to his mirror, tries to find something other than resignation in his eyes. He doesn’t, so he smiles all-toothy and tries not to think too much.

-gonna kill gonna rip out your heart you little shit gonna make you scream and whispers of voices inside the brain, blood whispering in agreement to finish him off and-

Sebastian doesn’t even have to look in the mirror to know that the glint has returned; the one that makes him feel alive and dead and raw all-at-once, the one that had made Kurt’s eyes scream in panic before he’d even gotten near Blaine.

A Smythe never gets caught.

*

“Blaine?”

Blaine perks up at the sudden voice, peering through the darkness of his bedroom.

“Who is it?” He groans, rubbing at his eyes.

“Brittany.”

Blaine sighs, reaches for the flashlight next to his bed. “You’ve got to stop sneaking up on me.”

“Sorry.”

Hand clenched around the flashlight, Blaine sits up, leans back against the headboard. The bulb suddenly clicks on; the light is weak, so almost everything in Blaine’s bedroom filters into black-and-white – the small collection of almost-wilted, yet colourful roses on his dresser turns to different shades of ashen-gray, and Brittany’s face becomes a stark moon of white pressed against the blackness behind her. She beams, tiptoes towards Blaine.

“I made cupcakes.” She says, pouncing onto the bed, hovering uncomfortably close over Blaine and bringing their noses close together. “Do you want some?”

“It’s three a.m.” Blaine says, trying not to breathe in the slightly-strawberry-scented air puffing at his nose in small bursts, pushing away on Brittany’s shoulder so he can perch on the edge of his bed (his feet don’t reach the floor) and try to shake the pins-and-needles from his toes. “And it’s a school night.”

“…Do you want any?” Brittany sits back on her heel, cocks her head to the side.

“What flavour are they?”

“I’m making cupcakes this early in the morning.” She deadpans. “They’re chocolate.”

Blaine sighs.

“God, yes.”

*

Blaine – Blaine, what are you – put that cupcake back in your mouth this instant!

“Oh my god.” Santana says, lips smeared with melted chocolate, mouth half-open in what Blaine would assume to be shock if he hadn’t seen her eating the same cupcake for the last five minutes.

“Santana, are you high?”

He has to ask – as good as the cupcakes are, it’s the only reasonable explanation – and Brittany looks too scandalized for it not to be true when Santana nods, giggling and flapping her hands together in an attempt to clap. “Yeah, isn’t it great?”

“Santana,” Brittany hisses, swerving around the table to crouch beside her girlfriend, “-what made you think-”

“-we incinerated a warehouse a couple of days ago and no-one noticed, you really think I’m worried about getting caught for using drugs in Lima?”

“You know I don’t care about getting caught – if I cared about that, would we really be helping Blaine learn how to beat up people in public?”

Blaine goes to pitch in, not really sure whose side he’s on, but Santana cuts him off with a raised palm.

“What do you care about, then?” She asks, softly-serious, lowering her hands to her lap.

Brittany gulps, glances to the ground. “I-I don’t want anyone else that I care about losing control over their lives.”

“What do you mean? You know I don’t do this that often, it’s not like it’s an addict-“

“-that’s what my father thought too, remember? I cried about it to you every night.”

“I don’t see what this has to do with your father.” Santana scoots back on her chair, wrings her hands together. “You trust me, don’t you? You know I’m in control of this.”

“Of course I trust you – I – I just-”

“-can someone please explain to me what’s going on?” Blaine finally manages to raise his voice, climbing on top of the table and scooting towards the two girls. “You’re being all cryptic and mysterious and it’s making me feel dumb, which is probably gonna lead to me being angry which is definitely gonna lead to – to-” Blaine shapes an explosion with his hands. “-boom.” He chuckles for a loud second.

“Fire. Hot stuff.” He glances to Brittany, who won’t look up from her girlfriend’s feet. “Blazer! Ha.”

When no-one looks up, he lowers his hands and coughs awkwardly.

“Brittany?” Santana whispers.

She finally looks up from her feet, if only for a second, and pushes up to stand. Walks towards Blaine, takes his fingertips in the palm of her hand and raises them to her temple.

“What are you-” Blaine starts, but he cuts himself off with a sigh as a sharp, splinter-needled pain grows into his hand. It feels like his fingers, nail to knuckle, are being carved out into pin-shapes, burnt blue-hot, ripped away from his bone in tiny increments.

He tries to move his arm, tries to launch his whole body away, but the pain spreads to his wrists, then his elbow, then it’s spiking up the side of his neck and Blaine can’t breathe properly and-

“Stop pulling.” Brittany’s voice is sudden, tight, almost-hungrily concentrated. “It’ll hurt more.”

So Blaine lets his muscles drop as best he can, lets his eyelids droop, and the sharpness twists up past his ears and eyes and then his brain is exploding and-

-and everything stops. The pressure of the table on his back loosens, and Blaine dances the fingertips of his free hand over where the table should be. Feels nothing but air.

“Brittany,” he warns. “Where are we?”

“In my head.”