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

His laughter echoed through his empty laboratory. Slightly unhinged, definitely not the sound of a stable man, but who cares?

But he couldn’t help it. The irony was too perfect—too beautiful.

He had laughed out loud, unrestrained, hysterical even as he was watching Grayson make a fool of himself.

That’s right, Ethan thought with a satisfied smile. You don’t know Neville like I do.

Because that was the difference between them, wasn’t it?

Ethan had observed Neville for a long time. He had been studying him since their first meeting, every micro-expression and behavioral pattern subjected to intense focus that turned curiosity into devotion and meticulous documentation.

Grayson had done the same, of course. He had the power, the position, and a certain charm that let him keep Neville within reach. But Grayson was an idiot, a man too blind and too cowardly to even recognize his own desires.

Since he couldn’t name the feeling, Grayson did everything but name it.

How many times had Ethan watched Grayson make excuses just to keep Neville close?

How many times had he caught that fleeting look in Grayson’s eyes, thinking that no one noticed?

How many times had Grayson changed his path the moment Neville appeared, only to hurt him with his own stupidity?

Too many to count.

And that gave Ethan an advantage.

He knew exactly what he felt. He had accepted it, embraced it, let it drive him to the edge. He wanted Neville enough to make him religious if he had to. He wanted to own him, disassemble him, and unravel every secret hidden behind those ocean-blue eyes.

He had made it a habit to learn something new about Neville every single day.

Like the fact that Neville’s home system was unhackable.

Ethan had burned three full weeks trying to breach the security protocols on Room 4410. He had deployed every trick, every backdoor, and leveraged every favor from every asset just to gain access to that room.

But in the end—nothing had worked.

Each time he solved one complex layer, it refactored1 itself into an even more sophisticated problem. Soon, he wasn’t hacking a system; he was running in endless circles of elegant, custom code.

He had considered Neville to be a relatively ordinary target, but this?

This raised too many questions to ignore.

Questions about the fascinating little tidbit he had pulled from hacking Medea’s Garden: Neville hadn’t even left a trace of his DNA during registration.

Ethan had seen it himself, through the Garden’s internal system logs. Every visitor, creature, even the stray roots outside the domes, had to pass a full biometric scan. Fingerprints, retina, and DNA were all mandatory.

Neville’s file came back completely blank. No DNA detected, despite the scanners clearly marking his physical presence. The system had flashed a critical red light for a fraction of a second...but it let him through anyway.

At first, Ethan assumed it was Grayson’s doing. Maybe Grayson had pulled strings.

But no, Grayson was too self-righteous, moralizing prig1 to get his hands dirty over a simple outing.

Which only left one conclusion.

That red light... wasn’t an error.

Neville was somehow capable of not leaving biological traces. There was something in his physiology that rendered standard DNA collection methods completely useless.

The implications made Ethan’s fingers itch. He wanted to drag Neville into his lab, strap him down beneath the scanners, and run every test he could imagine until there was nothing left he didn’t understand.

But he held back.

Because the most useful thing Ethan had learned was that: Neville needed direct words.

If you didn’t tell him something directly, he would never assume, no matter how obvious it was. Not because he was stupid—but because he was afraid of being stupid.

And clearly, Grayson was terrible at handling that kind of person.

Which was how Ethan found himself watching the two of them spiral into yet another mess of misunderstandings. Honestly, watching those idiots made him feel like he was catching their stupidity by proximity.

Or maybe he was already one. After all, he had let Neville slip away again and again, using his master’s ’mission’ as an excuse.

He had told himself the mission mattered more than his personal desires. He had sacrificed every chance to get closer because "the timing wasn’t right." He had pulled back when he should have pushed forward, all because of those lessons drilled into him since he was young.

But what was the point of fulfilling a mission if he lost Neville in the process?

Ethan let out a sigh after his laughter faded, the sound weighted with too many conflicting thoughts.

Then his light brain pinged—an incoming call.

Speak of the devil.

He accepted the call, switching to voice-only mode. His lab was his sanctuary, and he had no intention of letting anyone—especially this young master—see it.

A distorted voice came through, the tone modulated beyond recognition.

[Have you been doing well?]

Ethan’s lips curved faintly and humbly replied, "As I’ve always been, young master."

It was their usual game of power and pretense, where they both knew the rules.

The Young Master seemed to sneer even through the modulator.

[You’re telling me you’re well when things are clearly getting out of hand?]

So, the incident had already reached his ears.

Ethan didn’t bother with excuses. He kept his voice even, detached.

"That old man’s had more than enough help," he said simply.

It was true. In its own way.

The drugs, the research data, the internal intelligence on Maxwell Corporation—Ethan had delivered all of it. He had done everything while maintaining his cover as a harmless Beta employee, complete with a friendly smile and necessary social skills.

If that old man couldn’t take advantage of what Ethan handed him, that was his failure, not Ethan’s.

[Then you should’ve helped more.]

The young master’s arrogant criticism tightened Ethan’s jaw. He was just thinking about how to reply when a message popped up on his light brain’s secondary screen—Mick Hewitt.

Ethan couldn’t help the low, dismissive sound that escaped his lips. "...tough guy."

[Who?] the young master asked, the tone shifting from scorn to a sharp curiosity.

"I told that old man to use that stupid kid from HW." Ethan scoffed, pulling the message up and scanning the complaints—more whining about how ineffective the drug was, accusations that his batch was defective. "But he blew it."

Ethan could vividly recall that old man and that insufferable HW brat, Mick, calling with their loud, angry voices, claiming his drug had been useless. The memory stirred a familiar urge to end the whole charade flicker through him. Cutting them down where they stood early surely would benefit them more.

But Ethan restrained himself. He had warned Mick before he gave the drug that there might be a delay if it was used on Neville. He had suspected Neville’s physiology was different from the start. The incident only confirmed it: the drug had taken effect, but only after Bryan and Grayson had already interfered.

The whole ordeal was utterly irritating to recall. Still, Ethan knew the difference between letting his mind wander and when to let his mind toy with fantasies of violence.

[Then what’s the problem?] the young master asked, deceptively casual.

Ethan debated whether to answer honestly. This young master was clever and probing, but he wasn’t directly involved in the Neville. Neville was Ethan’s personal project, separate from the mission.

Still, silence would only invite more questions.

He chose his words carefully. "Grayson hadn’t killed that one yet."

A pause. Then the Young Master emitted a sound of pure disdain. [When did he become so merciful?]

It was a fair question.

As a former General, Grayson had been efficient, brutal when required, and absolutely ruthless about eliminating threats to his mission or his people.

But that was the old Grayson.

Ethan tilted his head slightly, already planning his next move. "You want the kid from HW dead?"

Mick Hewitt was a loose end, a real dead weight whose incompetence had complicated the mission.

[Not really.] The Young Master’s voice trailed off thoughtfully before snapping back. [I just don’t want to lose more people this year.]

’More people, ’ it seemed that the others had already failed.

"I understand," he said simply.

The young master went quiet for a beat, clearly unconvinced by how quickly Ethan agreed. But he didn’t push it.

[Get ready to pull out whenever.]

Ethan’s mouth curved. His voice came out light, teasing—too casual to sound harmless.

"Young master, please. That old man’s going to shoot himself in the foot no matter what. Why bother supporting him?"

Then the Young Master smirked—Ethan could hear the curve of the lip in the filtered voice.

[I know. That’s why.]

Ethan narrowed his eyes, the faintest grin tugging at his lips—an expression without warmth.

"Anyway~ as long as I get to enjoy the show, everything’s fine."

Two could play that game.

If the young master wanted to watch that old man burn, Ethan was more than happy to sit in the front row. Maybe, in the chaos of those flames, he could finally reach out and take what he wanted.

[I enjoy the process far more than the results,] the young master said, and Ethan could hear the genuine amusement there—pleasure curling at the edges of every word.

They were alike in that respect. But unlike him, Ethan had found something beyond the thrill of the game.

Ethan offered a dismissive shrug, a gesture unseen by the caller. "As long as you’re happy."

The call ended with a soft, clean chime.

Ethan’s face twisted the instant the line went dead, all traces of charm and civility draining away. Hatred contorted his features; exhaustion followed right after.

How much longer do I have to deal with these people? His thoughts were filled with hatred.