[BL] Transmigrated as the Villain CEO's Mermaid Secretary

The sun had long since set, leaving Maxwell Corporation’s headquarters bathed in the artificial glow of hover cars flying across the night sky. Ethan pressed his ID to the scanner, clocking out.

The entire floor had been turned upside down. Every desk drawer yanked open, every storage compartment examined, every possible hiding place scrutinized under Sarah’s supervision. Causing chaos and panic over something so small.

Of course they wouldn’t find anything, Ethan thought as his fingers brushed against the smooth, cylindrical object in his pocket—the very item that everyone was searching for.

His lips curved into a smile that never reached his eyes. He had watched them search for hours, Bryan’s usually composed face growing increasingly strained as department after department reported the same result: nothing.

His shoes clicked against the polished floor as he made his way to the employee parking garage. The day’s events replayed in his mind like a satisfying drama.

Soon. The thought lingered, tasting sweet on his tongue.

His modest hover car sat waiting in its designated spot. He reached for his keys—then froze. His peripheral vision caught a figure leaving the main entrance.

Neville was practically bouncing out of the building. His steps were light and carefree, as if what happened during the day didn’t happen.

"How intriguing," Ethan murmured, eyes narrowing as he tracked Neville’s movements.

There was something wrong about how unaffected Neville appeared to be. Ethan’s fingers drummed against his thighs. Did it not work?

He waited until Neville’s figure was gone before he finally slid into his hover car, the door hissing shut.

Instead of activating the nav system, he sat in the darkness, thinking. He pulled the object from his pocket. A tiny spray bottle, no bigger than his thumb.

A sharp knock on the window disturbed his thoughts.

Recognizing the silhouette outside, Ethan calmly touched the control panel. The window hummed open.

The man who leaned in was average in every way—medium height, medium build, with a face that would vanish in a crowd. Which was precisely what made him so valuable.

"Working late again, Goelet?" The man’s voice was a low murmur, casual as a coworker making small talk, but his eyes held a sharper edge.

He leaned in closer, his body angled to keep his hands and half his face shrouded in the car’s shadow. In the darkness, he performed a sleight of hand that would’ve impressed any street magician. A small vial materialized from his fingers. A thick, crimson liquid swirled inside.

"Good work," Ethan’s tone was calm, almost lazy, as though accepting a drink from an old friend.

He plucked the vial from the man’s fingers with ease. The glass was warm to the touch.

His expression remained unchanged as he nodded. He maintained his position as if discussing tomorrow’s weather or complaining about work.

"Looks like your guy failed." A hint of a smile touched his lips, the same way one might mention a colleague’s fumbled presentation.

Ethan’s lips curved into a smile, thin and humorless. He rolled the vial between his fingers, keeping it hidden in the shadows. "He’s not really the man for that kind of job."

"You’re really ruthless, aren’t you?" The man’s sneer was barely visible in the shadows, but Ethan caught it nonetheless. Not judgment, but admiration dressed as an insult.

Ruthless? Ethan thought. Perhaps. In his world, that was just another word for survival.

"Make sure Grayson’s people won’t notice you," Ethan said, the conversation still deceptively calm as he tucked the vial into an inner pocket, keeping it separate from the other. His voice was light, but the command underneath was unmistakable.

The man pulled back from the window, his smirk widening. "Not if you ratted me out first."

The threat was empty, and they both knew it.

Ethan’s smile never wavered. He touched the window control and said, "If that man doesn’t want you gone, you’ll be in for a long time."

He didn’t wait for a response. The window slid up, sealing the space with a soft hiss. Ethan activated the car’s systems without a backward glance, the vehicle lifting smoothly from its parking space.

The city flowed past in streams of neon and shadow, a blur of color and light. Ethan’s light brain chimed, projecting a simple message across the screen: [The package has been delivered.]

A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. Everything was proceeding exactly according to plan. Well, almost. The morning’s little setback had been annoying, but that was the beauty of redundancy.

When one path closed, three others opened.

He manually navigated the hovercar towards a secluded public parking lot. Half of the security cameras were obviously non-functional—a perfect place to blend in. The nearby street was the heart of the entertainment district. Its multiple parking lots were packed with vehicles belonging to people seeking nightlife at its finest.

Inside the hovercar’s dim interior, Ethan began to change. He shed his tailored suit for an outdated black leather jacket and dark green camouflage pants. In another part of the city, he would look like trouble. Here, he just looked like he belonged—another forgettable face in the crowd.

He applied washable hair dye and clipped on a pair of fake earrings. Then, he pressed a small button on a compartment handle, revealing a barely noticeable square slit. He tapped around the inconspicuous seam, and a hidden compartment opened with a soft click.

Inside lay a metal box. He lifted the lid to reveal a vial and a brush. He carefully lifted out the tiny vial of special liquid and a brush pen crafted from genuine horse hair, one of the rarest of the rare.

Ethan lifted the brush with care, dipping the tip into the special liquid. Pushing up his left sleeve, and began to draw. The tip of the brush touched his wrist, and a sharp, burning sensation. The liquid evaporated and immediately began to turn into a black ink clinging to his skin like a tattoo.

An anagram took shape with each careful stroke—dots that formed an unrecognizable pattern. Sweat beaded on his forehead, but his breathing remained steady. One wrong mark, one imprecise angle, and the consequences would be—unfortunate.

When the last dot was in place, he returned the tools to their hiding place and sealed the compartment. He buttoned his sleeve, hiding the fresh mark, and stepped out into the parking garage’s dull air.

The street he walked onto was the kind of place that didn’t appear on official maps, not even recognized within this entertainment district. The air was thick, a horrible mixed stench of pheromones that anyone familiar with this place would instantly recognize.

Alphas in rut, Omegas in heat, and everything in between, all packed together. Suppressants were for the weak; control was for those who couldn’t afford to let go.

Ethan walked through it all with quiet indifference. He ignored the calls from doorways, the hands that reached out from the shadows, and the offers whispered in words both legal and otherwise.

Turn left at the club where the music’s bass pulsed through the pavement. Then, right at the vendor selling meat skewers of dubious origin. Straight past the enforcement officers—men who weren’t "accepting bribes," but clearly accepting other forms of payment from the establishment across the street.

Step by step, the noise fell behind him.

Finally, he reached his destination: an alley identical to a dozen others. Graffiti coated the walls in thick layers. The smell here was different—less pheromone, more of rotting, with an undertone of something chemical.

Ethan walked exactly seventeen steps into the alley before stopping. To a passerby, he was just another patron who had perhaps had second thoughts. But he wasn’t looking at the walls or the suspicious puddles on the ground. He was counting.

At the eighteenth step, he turned to face the wall on his left. A blank surface amongst the graffiti-covered stared back at him.

A small smile touched his lips as he pushed up his sleeve.

The anagram on his wrist seemed to pulse in the dim light. He held it up to the wall, positioning it precisely at chest height.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then the burning began.

The pattern on his skin flared at the touch of light. The sensation would have been unbearable to a normal person, but Ethan didn’t flinch. He was used to it. He gritted his teeth, holding his position despite every instinct screaming at him to pull away.

A barely audible soft chime was heard.

The anagram on his skin vanished, leaving no trace—no ink, no mark, no wound, not even a red mark.

The wall before him parted. It didn’t slide or swing; it simply divided, like a curtain of solid matter. Beyond lay an old European-style elevator. However, it had clean white surfaces, soft lighting, and air that tasted recycled but pure.

Ethan stepped inside without hesitation. The wall closed behind him with the same motion, leaving him in a space that could have been anywhere or nowhere.

There were no buttons, no visible controls of any kind. The elevator knew where he needed to go. The descent was so smooth that only the pressure in his ears indicated its movement.

How far down? Only those who know know.

A different chime announced his arrival. The wall behind him opened, revealing the way forward.