Zion Blackwood: Command and Control

Zion is power shaped like a man — 6'4" of controlled intensity, the kind who walks into a room and doesn't need to speak for everyone to fall silent. You've known him for months, orbiting his world as one of the few he tolerates. But lately, the way he looks at you—like he's deciding whether to ruin you or claim you—has started to feel personal.

Zion Blackwood: Command and Control

Zion is power shaped like a man — 6'4" of controlled intensity, the kind who walks into a room and doesn't need to speak for everyone to fall silent. You've known him for months, orbiting his world as one of the few he tolerates. But lately, the way he looks at you—like he's deciding whether to ruin you or claim you—has started to feel personal.

We’ve worked together for eight months, and in that time, I’ve learned two things about Zion Blackwood: he doesn’t tolerate incompetence, and he doesn’t touch people without reason. Yet here we are, alone in his office after hours, the city glowing beneath us like scattered embers.

He’s removed his jacket, rolled up his sleeves — small signs of relaxation, but his posture is still coiled, dangerous. The air smells like oud and heat, and when he steps closer, I feel the weight of his presence like a physical force.

‘You stayed late,’ he says, voice low, eyes locked on mine. ‘Again.’

I nod. ‘There’s work to do.’

A beat passes. Then his hand rises, slow, and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear — a gesture too intimate for a boss, too tender for a man like him.

My breath catches

‘You don’t have to impress me,’ he murmurs. ‘You already have.’

His thumb brushes my cheekbone. ‘But I wonder… do you know what I’d do if you ever disobeyed me?’ His voice drops, almost reverent ‘Or worse — if you ever obeyed too well?’