Bitchasscupcake

So, when it came to protecting Mikey, hesitation wasn't in Haruchiyo's vocabulary. Even as the vice president of the Kanto Manji Gang, commanding men who would have spilled blood for him without question, he had walked into an enemy trap alone.

Fourteen men against one.

It was a calculated sacrifice. A massacre.

Haruchiyo had fought like a demon unleashed, his katana moving with a ferocity that turned the narrow alley into a butcher's den. Flesh tore, blood sprayed, and screams rose like a choir of agony in the night. For every cut he delivered, though, another fist found its mark. A bat slammed into his ribs. A knife grazed his body. Yet he didn't stop. Every movement, every ounce of pain, was fuel for the fire that burned him.

By the time the last man fell, Haruchiyo was barely standing.

Now, sprawled on the street, his breath came in wet, ragged gasps, each one an effort that felt like swallowing glass. The katana he'd fought so fiercely with had slipped from his grasp, its one-sharp edge dulled and stained crimson. A knife wound in his side pulsed with pain, the searing ache radiating outword with each shallow rise and fall of his chest. His blood pooled beneath him, soaking into the filthly street like a grosteque offering.

The world around him began to twist and blur, a kaleidoscope of dim streetlights and distant, faceless silhouettes. People were there; he could hear the hurried shuffle of their feet the murmurs of unease carried on in the wind. But none of them came closer. Their figures remained hazy and indistinct, heads turned away as if acknowledging his existence was an act too heavy to bear.

And maybe it was. He didn't deserve their pity. He didn't want it. What use did a knight have for mercy?

His hand slipped slightly, the strength draining from him faster than he could summon the will to move. A part of him recognised the truth: he was losing too much blood.

It was fine. This was how it was supposed to end, wasn't it?

Haruchiyo had always been a piece on the board, a knight thrown into battle again and again without hesitation. He was meant to break, to shatter, to be discarded when his usefulness ran out. As long as the king stood tall, untouchable, his sacrifice was nothing more than a necessary loss. And so, as the void began to reach for him, he let his mind drift, accepting its cold embrace with the faintest hint of a smile.

Until your voice jolted him awake.

“Are you alright?”

It was soft, hesitant, and so out of place in the blood-soaked reality he lived in that it made his eyes flutter open, despite the overwhelming exhaustion.

At first, he could only make out the shape of you, standing in front of him, your figure illuminated by the dim orange glow of a nearby streetlight. His gaze shifted, struggling to steady, until he caught sight of your school uniform. A pristine, ordinary thing that looked so absurdly out of place amidst the blood-soaked chaos. And then there was your face: wide-eyed and paled with worry, as you stared at him like you couldn't quite believe what you were seeing.

You shouldn't have been there.

Someone like you—a stranger, so normal, so untainted—had no business stopping for him. You should have turned away, just like everyone else. You should have kept walking, left him there to bleed out and vanish, just another nameless casualty swallowed by the night.

And yet, you hadn't.

You were holding out something to him. A handkerchief embroidered with flowers. It looked laughably small in your hands, the kind of thing that belonged neatly folded in a school bag. How could that delicate thing possibly fix the mess he was in?

When he didn’t move, didn’t say anything, uncertainty flickered across your face, and your hand lowered slowly.

“I just called the ambulance,” you said, your voice was steady, but he didn’t miss the way your fingers trembled. “They should be here any minute.”

Your gaze darted to his wound, and he saw the way your lips pressed into a tight line as if you were debating whether you should be doing more.

“I… I can’t stay long,” you added, almost apologetically. “I’ve got an important test to get to. But I didn’t want to just…”

You trailed off, biting your lip as though the words felt inadequate, as though you were ashamed of even thinking of leaving him.

His chest ached at your concern.

It wasn’t pity though. Your voice didn’t carry that patronizing weight. It was genuine. The kind of thing he hadn’t encountered in what felt like a lifetime.

He wanted to tell you to leave.

That your kindness was wasted on him. That people like him didn't deserve help, didn't deserve saving. That the world would be better off if he bled out here, just another piece sacrificed for the king's game.

But the words wouldn't come.

All he could do was lie there, his breathing ragged, his body a leaden weight against the cold asphalt. His eyes, hazy yet piercing, locked onto yours, as if searching for an answer he didn't know how to ask.

Then you knelt in front of him, holding out the handkerchief once more.

The mechanical mistrust ingrained in him since childhood roared to life. His instinct flared violently, screaming at him to shove you away, to guard himself. His hand shot out before he could stop it, knocking yours aside with more force than intended.

You froze mid-motion, your hand lingering in the air, your eyes widening slightly. A moment of silence passed, and he anticipated the usual response: fear, disgust, even hatred.

But your gaze softened instead.

"I'm not going to hurt you," you said gently as though you were speaking to a frightened animal. "I just want to help."

Help.

He stared at you, his chest tight with disbelief. The concept felt alien, as if you'd spoken a language he'd never learned. People didn’t help without wanting something in return. Not in his world. Not in the life he’d been swallowed by since the day Mikey pulled him out of the gutter and gave him a purpose.

Still, your hand came forward again, slower this time, the handkerchief trembling between your fingers.

The soft fabric brushed against his cheek, and he froze. Every muscle in his body locked, the instinct to recoil roaring in his mind, but his body betrayed him, rooted in place. Your touch was gentle, so impossibly careful, it felt like you were afraid of breaking him.

Breaking me? The thought almost made him laugh, if he weren't already choking on exhaustion. But I'm already broken.

His life had been a series of fractures, cracks spreading deeper with every betrayal, every fight, every sacrifice made in Mikey's name.

And yet, your touch, your gaze, your voice, scraped at a forgotten part inside him, a hollow space he'd long since buried beneath rage and violence. A part of him he didn't recognise anymore.

For that fleeting moment, Haruchiyo let you clean the blood off his face. The warmth of your touch soothed the sting of his wounds, both seen and unseen, you presence anchoring him a way he didn't understand and didn't want to question.

Then the panic set in.

"Don’t," he snapped, the word tearing from his throat, as he jerked your hand away again.

Letting someone in, even this much, felt like a crack in his armor, and the vulnerability clawed at him like a living thing.

You sighed in response, your frustration flickering across your face, but there was no genuine anger. “Fine, I’ll stop.”

You tucked the handkerchief away.

Haruchiyo watched silently as you pulled out a notepad from your bag, scribbling something quickly before tearing the page free. You folded it neatly in your hands and held it out to him.

"I really need to get going now," you said, straightening to your full height. Your schoolbag shifted on your shoulder, a reminder of the normal life you'd be returning to—a world so far removed from his.

"But if you need anything, call me. Please. I mean it."

Haruchiyo stared at the paper, but he didn’t take it.

You hesitated for only a second before bending down and slipping it into his hand yourself. Your fingers brushed against his briefly, but the contact was enough to send a jolt through him, one he didn’t know how to process.

He stared down at the paper now crumpled in his hand, the faint imprint of your touch still linegering on his skin. His mind raced, torn between the instinct to throw it away and the inexplicable urge to hold onto it like a lifeline.

You.

Someone who had stepped into his world, this twisted hell he lived in, and hadn't turned away. Someone who didn't treat him like he was nothing more than a lunatic, a dog loyal to its master.

Someone who looked at him and saw a man worth saving.

He didn't understand it. He didn't trust it. But he couldn't bring himself to reject it.

You turned to leave, but paused a few steps away, glancing back over your shoulder with a small, uncertain smile.

"Don’t forget," you said softly, "you can call me, okay?"

And then you were gone, your figure swallowed by the chaos of the city.

Still, he didn’t move. The sounds of the world around him—the distant hum of traffic, the wail of approaching sirens—blurred into static. His heart pounded, erratic and uneven, a thundering rhythm he couldn't control. He couldn't explain it. Why his chest felt tight, why his throat burned, why this small, stupid piece of paper felt heavier than the katana he'd wielded mere hours ago.

For the first time in his life, Haruchiyo Sanzu didn't know what he was supposed to do.

And it terrified him.

Haruchiyo Sanzu couldn’t get you out of his mind.

It was infuriating.

Days had passed since you left him on that bloodstained street with your naive kindness and a flimsy promise tucked into his hand. Days spent staring at white ceilings, surrounded by the antiseptic stench of the hospital Mikey had sponsored. Mikey hadn’t even bothered to visit, and part of Haruchiyo expected that. The boss was angry.

Not that Mikey’s silence stung. It did.

But the truth was, Mikey had done enough. He’d kept the whole ordeal from reaching the police, hidden the mess Haruchiyo had made in his reckless attempt to protect the king. That was Mikey’s way: decisive and clean. Still, the absence of his leader left Haruchiyo restless, trapped in a limbo of recovery and idleness.

And then there was you.

Your voice, your face, the warmth of your touch. They haunted him. Haruchiyo scowled as he pulled the crumpled note from his pocket, smoothing the creases with his thumb. Your number, still smudged with his blood, stared back at him like a challenge.

“Don’t forget, you can call me, okay?”

He hadn’t called you.

Not even once.

He told himself it was for the best. You were a normal girl, innocent, untouched by the filth of his world. It would be irresponsible to drag you into the dark. But no matter how hard he tried to ignore it, the selfish, traitorous part of him wanted to see you again.

The knock at the door snapped him out of his thoughts, and Haruchiyo shoved the paper back into his pocket just as it creaked open.

Ran Haitani sauntered in like he owned the place, a shit-eating grin on his face, and dark Kanto Manji Gang uniform hanging perfectly off his tall frame. His signature braid dangled over his shoulder, swaying with every step.

“You look like shit, man,” Ran quipped as he stopped at the foot of Haruchiyo’s bed.

Haruchiyo shot him a glare, his lips curling in irritation. “If you’re here to waste my time, get lost.”

Ran didn’t budge. Instead, he leaned against the wall, one leg crossed over the other, as if he owned the place. “Relax. I’m only here as a messenger. Boss sent me.”

At that, Haruchiyo’s eyes narrowed, his posture stiffening despite the ache it caused. “What does he want?”

“He’s pulling you out of the gang for a while. Says you’re supposed to rest.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut. Haruchiyo pushed himself upright, ignoring the sharp pain that lanced through his side. “Bullshit. Mikey wouldn’t say that.”

Ran shrugged indifferently. “Believe what you want, but those were his exact words.”

Haruchiyo clenched his jaw, his fists balling in the sheets. “There’s no one who can protect Mikey like I can. He knows that.”

At that, Ran’s smirk faltered, his violet eyes narrowing just slightly. “That’s the problem, Haru-chan. You think you’re the only one who can do shit? Like the rest of us are just for show?”

“Because you are,” Haruchiyo snapped. “None of you understand what Mikey needs. What it takes to keep him safe. You’re all just playing at loyalty.”

The room grew tense, the air thick with unspoken challenges. Ran straightened, his easygoing demeanor shifting into a chilling coldness.

“And you think kissin’ his ass makes you better than us? Newsflash, Mad Dog. Just because we don’t worship him the way you do doesn’t mean we’d hesitate to kill for him.”

Haruchiyo opened his mouth to fire back, but before he could get a word out, Ran’s fist connected with his face.

The punch wasn't hard enough to cause any real damage, but the impact jerked Haruchiyo’s head to the side. The sting was enough to leave him momentarily stunned, his fingers flying to his cheek as his eyes snapped back to Ran, blazing with fury.

“—The fuck?!”

Ran shrugged, a lazy grin spreading across his face as if he hadn't just signed his death warrant. "I’ve always wanted to do that. Figured now's my best shot since you're, y'know, bedridden."

Haruchiyo’s hands clenched into fists, his entire body vibrating with restrained rage. "You want to die, Haitani?"

"Not today," Ran replied smoothly, raising his hands in mock surrender. But there was no fear in his eyes, only that infuriating glimmer of amusement.

“Anyway, Boss got another job for you.”

Haruchiyo scoffed, his anger momentarily eclipsed by disbelief. "What job?"

"You're going to guard someone."

Haruchiyo frowned. Guard duty? That wasn’t his style. He wasn’t some babysitter.

“Who?”

Ran’s grin widened, and his next words came as casually as a bomb dropping.

“Mikey’s girlfriend.”

Haruchiyo’s body stilled, his mind whirring as the air seemed to shift around him. “What? Mikey’s girlfriend?”

“Surprise, surprise.” Ran chuckled. “Turns out Boss is a ladies’ man. Figures, huh?”

Haruchiyo said nothing. His expression was carefully blank, but his chest tightened with a foreign, unpleasant feeling. Mikey, his king, had a girlfriend? He’d never heard anything about her before.

The thought churned in his gut like acid, his loyalty and jealousy clashing violently. Who the hell was she? What kind of girl could hold a place in Mikey’s heart that wasn’t reserved for the gang; wasn’t reserved for him?

Whoever she was, Haruchiyo doubted she deserved him.

“She’s important,” Ran said, turning to leave. “So don’t screw this up, Haru-chan. If you do… well, I’ll have another reason to smash your face in.”

Haruchiyo didn’t respond, his mind already spinning as the door clicked shut behind Ran. He leaned back against the pillows, his head swimming with questions.

His fingers brushed against the paper in his pocket, its edges worn and stained. The burning question lingered like a curse: Who the hell was she?

And why did he already feel like he was losing something he never even had the chance to claim?

Haruchiyo Sanzu leaned casually against his superbike, its black frame gleaming beneath the afternoon sun. His presence alone drew a crowd, as it always did. Dressed in a loose black turtleneck and fitted jeans, with his pink hair pulled back into a ponytail, he cut a figure both intimidating and impossibly attractive. The all-girls school gate was abuzz with murmurs and giggles as students streamed out, whispering and glancing in his direction.

But Haruchiyo ignored them.

He wasn’t here for them.

Today, he had a job to do. A job he wanted no part of. Guard Mikey’s girlfriend. The words alone made his blood boil. He knew this wasn’t about trust; this was a punishment. Mikey was pulling him away from the gang, away from what Haruchiyo lived for, because he’d disobeyed. Charging headfirst into enemy territory was reckless, and Mikey knew it wasn’t just about protecting him. Haruchiyo enjoyed the fight. The blood. The chaos.

And this? This assignment was meant to tear that from him, to leash him like a misbehaved dog. Worse still, Mikey was entrusting him with someone weak. Someone unworthy of a king.

His phone buzzed in his hand, breaking him from his brooding thoughts. He glanced at the screen before answering lazily, holding the phone to his ear.

“Is that you with the bike? I’m right in front of you!”

The feminine voice rang through the line, soft, sweet, familiar. Haruchiyo frowned, his gaze lifting instinctively to search the dispersing crowd.

And then he saw you.

You were waving a hand above your head, your phone still pressed to your ear as you caught his eye. Your face lit up when you spotted him, a bright, cheerful smile gracing your lips as you walked toward him.

His breath caught in his throat.

You.

The girl who had stopped for him. The girl who’d knelt beside him on that blood-soaked street, her voice soft and kind, her hands unshaking as she wiped his face. The girl who had called an ambulance and disappeared, leaving him with nothing but a crumpled note and a memory that had been haunting him ever since.

What the hell is going on?

Haruchiyo stiffened, his hand tightening around his phone as he stared at you approaching. He felt the ground shift beneath him, felt a sharp and painful twist in his chest. The warmth he’d felt in that moment you saved him—the unspoken gratitude he refused to admit—curdled into a dark and bitter emotion.

“Hey,” you said as you stopped in front of him, lowering your phone. “You’re Sanzu, right? Mikey’s friend?”

He stared at you, his teal eyes wide in disbelief. “You…” The words tumbled out before he could stop them. “Who the hell are you?”

You blinked, clearly confused by the question.

“I’m Mikey’s girlfriend,” you replied, the words light and cheerful, so matter-of-fact that you might as well have driven a knife through his chest.

Haruchiyo’s stomach dropped. The blood drained from his face, leaving him cold.

Mikey’s girlfriend.

The truth hit him with all the subtlety of a freight train. His mind reeled, a thousand thoughts crashing into one another. You’re Mikey’s? The girl who had stopped for him, the girl who had shown him kindness he didn’t deserve, you were Mikey’s.

A hot, suffocating mix of anger and jealousy roared to life in his chest. It confused him, rattled him to his core. Jealous of Mikey? Jealous of you? He couldn’t tell anymore, but the fury was there, blinding and undeniable.

“Y-you’re Sanzu, right?” you asked again, your voice hesitant now as you took in his silence.

He ignored your question entirely. Turning away sharply, Haruchiyo pulled a helmet off his bike and tossed it at you without warning. You barely caught it, stumbling back as it hit your hands clumsily.

“Get on,” he ordered coldly, already swinging his leg over the bike and settling onto the seat.

“Oh… alright,” you said softly, your tone unsure, as if you’d finally realized he wasn’t the friendly face you’d expected.

Haruchiyo felt your weight shift behind him as you climbed on, the awkward shuffle of your movements pressing against his back. He didn’t give you a moment to settle. He twisted the throttle, and the bike roared to life, lurching forward so suddenly you were forced to cling to him.

Your arms wrapped tightly around his waist, your fingers clutching at the fabric of his shirt as if he were the only thing keeping you upright. He could feel your body against his, your warmth seeping into him, and it only made the ache inside him worse.

The ride was silent.

Haruchiyo’s mind was anything but.

The cold wind whipped past him, but he barely felt it. All he could think about was you. The girl who’d saved him. The girl who’d smiled at him, looked at him like he wasn’t just a weapon, wasn’t just Mikey’s loyal dog. That brief moment of kindness had lingered inside him, burning like a flame he couldn’t snuff out.

And now you belonged to Mikey.

Of course you did. Mikey got everything. Every ounce of respect, every shred of loyalty, every good thing this world had to offer. And Haruchiyo? He was just the knight on the board, meant to protect the king. Nothing more.

But the worst part—the part that clawed at him like a splinter lodged deep in his chest—was the fact that you didn’t remember him.

To you, he was just Sanzu Haruchiyo. Mikey’s friend. A stranger on a bike.

Not the broken, bleeding boy you’d knelt beside.

Not the one you’d saved.

As the city blurred past him, Haruchiyo tightened his grip on the throttle, pushing the bike faster, as if speed could drown out the storm raging in his head.

But no matter how hard he tried, the bitterness wouldn’t go away.

You were Mikey’s.

And Haruchiyo Sanzu hated it.

Haruchiyo Sanzu leaned against the wall, hands shoved deep into his pockets, his expression blank. Or at least, he hoped it was blank. The last thing he wanted was for anyone to catch the storm brewing beneath the surface.

“Can’t believe Mikey’s letting some chick walk all over him like that,” he muttered, just loud enough for you to hear.

You froze mid-step, your head tilting slightly as his words registered.

“The bitch got him wrapped around her little finger. It’s pathetic.”

The words were entirely uncalled for, but Haruchiyo couldn’t stop them from spilling out. He told himself it was necessary as a reminder to himself, to you, that you were unworthy of Mikey.

And for a moment, he thought he’d feel better for saying it.

But then he saw the look on your face.

It was so fleeting that anyone else might have missed it, but Haruchiyo caught it. The flicker of hurt in your eyes was like a dagger straight to his chest.

His heart clenched, his stomach twisting painfully. Guilt began creeping in slowly, wrapping around his throat like a noose. He wanted to say something, to take the words back, to apologize, but his pride slammed the door shut before he could.

Instead, he turned away, ignoring your gaze as he stalked off, every step heavier than the last. His heart thudded against his ribs as he tried to ignore the pang of regret gnawing at him. He didn’t know where he was going, but anywhere was better than standing there, looking at the pain he’d caused.

What the hell is wrong with me?

Haruchiyo didn’t know how to deal with this; how to deal with you. You weren’t supposed to matter. You weren’t supposed to be anything more than an assignment Mikey had handed him, one he’d reluctantly accepted out of duty.

You’d been targeted lately by bullies, opportunists, people who thought messing with Mikey’s girl was a shortcut to provoking him. Mikey had ordered Haruchiyo to guard you, along with a few other trusted gang members, and Haruchiyo had obeyed without question.

But obedience didn’t mean he had to like it.

Your presence made him feel unsteady, like the ground beneath his feet was shifting constantly. He’d tried to shake it off, to focus on the task at hand, but being alone with you was unbearable.

So instead, he dragged you around the others, tossing his so-called responsibility to them under the guise of laziness. Kakucho, Ran, Mochizuki. Hell, anyone else could do it. As long as he didn’t have to be alone with you.

But no matter where you were, his eyes always found their way back to you.

Ran’s voice broke through his thoughts. “What’s with the face?”

“What face?” Haruchiyo replied flatly, not bothering to look at Ran. His eyes were glued to you, watching as you chatted awkwardly with Kakucho.

“That face,” Ran drawled, a teasing lilt in his tone. “You look like you’re about to stab her. Or Kakucho. Maybe both.”

Haruchiyo didn’t respond. His grip tightened in his pockets as he watched you giggle at something Kakucho said. The sound of your laugh was like a dagger twisting in his chest.

You were Mikey’s girl. You should only be laughing like that around Mikey. Or… him.

Before he could spiral further into his thoughts, the distant, throaty growl of Mikey’s Street Hawk sliced through the air like a warning bell. The familiar sound carried weight that silenced the room in an instant. Every head turned toward the door.

Haruchiyo’s spine straightened instinctively, his eyes flicking toward the door as the door swung open to reveal Mikey, calm and collected as always.

And then you moved.

Haruchiyo watched as your face lit up the second you saw Mikey. That radiant smile—blinding, unfiltered, genuine—was a sight he hadn’t seen you give to anyone else all day.

“Mikey!” Your voice was filled with warmth, the kind Haruchiyo hadn’t realized he craved until it wasn’t directed at him.

Before anyone could process it, you were already rushing toward Mikey, throwing your arms around him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Haruchiyo’s stomach churned, the knot of emotions in his chest tightening until it felt like he couldn’t breathe. Mikey’s hand rested lightly on your back in return, his expression unreadable. But Haruchiyo knew Mikey. He knew how rare it was for Mikey to show affection so openly.

The casual intimacy between you and Mikey clawed at him, a sensation so raw and uncomfortable that he had to bite the inside of his cheek just to keep himself in check.

He didn’t even realize how hard he was staring until Ran’s voice slid into his ear again.

“Careful. You’re staring holes into them. People might start thinking you’ve got a thing for her.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Haruchiyo snapped.

Ran smirked, clearly enjoying the reaction. “Relax, Haru-chan. She’s just doing what girlfriends do. It’s not like you’ve got a shot anyway.”

The words hit their mark, and Haruchiyo snapped his glare toward Ran, his sharp eyes practically daring him to say more. But Ran, ever the provocateur, just chuckled and walked off, leaving Haruchiyo stewing in his own fury.

He tore his gaze away from you, but it was too late. The image of your arms wrapped around Mikey was already burned into his mind.

The jealousy bubbling in his chest was scorching, suffocating. And the worst part was, he couldn’t tell who he was jealous of.

Was it Mikey? Mikey, who had everything Haruchiyo had ever wanted: respect, loyalty, and now, you?

Or was it you? You, with your radiant smile, your soft laugh, your ability to draw out a side of Mikey that Haruchiyo hadn’t seen in years.

The lines blurred until all Haruchiyo could feel was a searing hatred for the way you made him feel.

Hatred, because he couldn’t stop thinking about you.

Hatred, because he couldn’t stop looking at you.

And hatred, because no matter how much he told himself you didn’t belong in their world, a selfish part of him wanted you to stay.

Haruchiyo Sanzu knew exactly what he wanted.

He was a man of sharp edges, carved by desire and driven by instinct. When he reached for something, he never hesitated. Women were no exception. Most of them fell for his dangerous charm, entranced by his striking pink hair and the unshakable confidence he exuded. But you? You were different.

Because you weren't just unreachable.

You were Mikey's.

That fact alone made every lingering thought about you unbearable. Every smile you gave to Mikey, every laugh that lit up your face, each one was a taunt, a reminder of the invisible line Haruchiyo couldn't cross.

And yet, you haunted him.

Haruchiyo had tried to convince himself that his infatuation with you would fade, that the strange ache in his chest every time he saw you with Mikey would eventually dull. He sought distractions, found fleeting thrills, and buried himself in the chaos of the gang’s world. For a while, he believed he had it under control.

The ache didn’t lessen, but he’d learned to hide it. He’d trained himself to stop flinching when you smiled at Mikey, to ignore the way his stomach twisted when you laughed, to dismiss the pang of jealousy that gnawed at him when he saw the way you looked at Mikey.

Then, one day, it all unraveled.

You came to him, tears streaming down your face, your voice trembling as you pleaded for his help.

“Mikey—he’s surrounded! There are too many of them. Please, you have to save him!”

Your words hit him like a knife to the chest, but it wasn’t just the message that cut him. It was the sight of you with your tear-streaked cheeks, your swollen red eyes, the desperation in your voice.

“The fuck are you doing here? You tryna get yourself killed?!” His voice cracked like a whip, making you flinch.

His knuckles whitened around the hilt of his katana, the metal trembling with the force of his grip. Rage rolled off him in waves, but beneath it bled a deeper emotion, fear, desperate to be disguised.

He hissed through his teeth, voice dropping low. “Just… get the fuck out of here before you end up a corpse at my feet.”

Your tearful gaze wavered, lips parting as if to speak, but Haruchiyo had already turned away, jaw locked tight as though he couldn’t bear to look at you any longer.

You don’t belong here, he thought bitterly, his jaw clenching as he strode forward. Why the hell are you even involved in this mess?

He knew the answer: because of Mikey.

It was always Mikey.

The realization only stoked the fire inside him, the bitter lump in his throat making it harder to breathe.

By the time he found the enemies, Haruchiyo was already seeing red. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t stop to consider his actions. The first swing of his katana was precise and brutal, and the rest followed in a blur of blood and chaos.

His mind was blank, his body moving on instinct. He didn’t even register Mikey’s presence amidst the fight; didn’t notice his boss standing off to the side, silent and watchful.

All Haruchiyo cared about was eliminating every single threat.

When the last body hit the ground, Haruchiyo Sanzu stood amidst the carnage, chest heaving, blood dripping from his katana. He didn’t know whose blood it was anymore—his or theirs—but it didn’t matter. The red painted across his skin and clothes told the same story: violence and rage.

He turned to you.

You were still standing there, frozen, your hands trembling at your sides. Your wide eyes met his, but they weren’t filled with relief or gratitude.

They were filled with fear.

Haruchiyo’s stomach twisted painfully, but it wasn’t the trembling in your figure that drew him closer. It was the smear of blood on your cheek, stark against your pale skin, that compelled him forward.

Without thinking, he stepped toward you, his boots crunching against the blood-soaked pavement. His hand rose unsteadily to wipe the blood from your face.

You flinched.

The sharpness of your movement cut hit him like a freight train, forcing him to stop mid-reach. His breath hitched, the sting of rejection settling deep in his chest.

What the hell was he doing? Trying to wipe your cheek like he was someone who could comfort you? Like he was someone who deserved to touch you?

His hand didn’t retreat. Instead, it lowered, wrapping gently around your throat.

There was no pressure, no intent to hurt. Just his palm resting against your skin, feeling the rapid pulse beneath it. The warmth of your neck spread through him, grounding him in a way he didn’t understand.

For a moment, he let himself believe a lie.

That your quickened heartbeat wasn’t from fear but from something else. That it matched his own racing pulse, fueled by the same feelings coursing through him.

“Sanzu… Have we met before?”

The question jolted him.

He blinked, his grip loosening slightly as he stared at you.

“You were that boy,” you continued, realization dawning in your wide eyes. “The one I saw bleeding on the street.”

A bitter sneer twisted his lips, baring his teeth in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “What about it?”

Your words faltered, dying in your throat as his fingers flexed against your neck. His gaze bore into yours, searching, desperate to find something other than fear in your eyes.

But it wasn’t there.

The crunch of footsteps behind him made Haruchiyo freeze.

Your eyes snapped past him, locking onto the source of the sound. Relief washed over your features, softening the fear that had been etched there moments ago.

Mikey.

Haruchiyo didn’t need to turn around to confirm it. He could feel Mikey’s presence, like a weight pressing down on his shoulders.

Your gaze darted back to him, uncertain, as if you weren’t sure whether to plead for him to release you or to run.

Haruchiyo almost laughed at the absurdity of it.

“Run,” he muttered.

And you did.

You swatted his hand away, stepping back before turning on your heel and running straight to Mikey.

“Mikey!” Your voice cracked with emotion as you clung to his arm. “Are you okay?”

Haruchiyo didn’t move. His hand hung limply at his side as he stared at the empty space where you’d stood just seconds ago. The warmth of your skin lingered against his palm, but it did nothing to quell the cold sinking into his chest.

He sighed, his shoulders slumping as he took a moment to recompose himself.

When he finally turned, his gaze met Mikey’s.

You were holding onto Mikey’s arm, your tear-streaked face pressed against his shoulder. Your sobs were quieter now, but the sight of you leaning on someone else, stung in a way Haruchiyo didn’t have the words to describe.

The weight of his guilt, his jealousy, his unspoken feelings pressed down on him, and Haruchiyo couldn’t breathe.

He dropped to his knees in front of Mikey, bowing his head low.

“Boss,” he murmured.

Mikey’s dark eyes flicked to Haruchiyo, unreadable as always. “Akashi.”

Haruchiyo Sanzu had spent years pretending he didn’t feel anything for you.

But he wasn’t stupid.

He knew what it was. This thing clawing at his chest every time you smiled at Mikey. He knew it when you clung to Mikey’s sleeve back in school, when you cried into his arms, when you looked at him—Haruchiyo—as though he was just a shadow standing in Mikey’s light. That hollow weight in his chest wasn’t hate. It was hunger.

Obsession.

He told himself it didn’t matter. That it would pass. That you’d go away or Mikey would grow tired of you. That he would grow tired of you.

But you didn’t. Mikey didn’t. And Haruchiyo never did.

He tried to drown it out. He tried. Even now, years later, with Bonten inked into his skin and blood on his hands, he was still haunted. Haunted by the shape of your mouth, by the way your voice rose when you were angry, by the way you existed without even trying, and drove him fucking insane while doing it.

The nightclub owned by the Haitani brothers became his escape.

Most nights, he’d end up in that dim, smoke-filled private room on the third floor, neon lights flashing like a heartbeat through the glass. Music pounding against the walls. Lines of white spread out neatly across the glass table, a lighter flicking on and off between his fingers. There were always women around—girls who giggled too loud and touched him too much—but they were nothing.

They weren’t you.

They didn’t sneer the way you did when you were pissed. They didn’t challenge him, didn’t call him a lunatic like it was a curse and a promise all at once.

They didn’t burn.

And so, Haruchiyo stopped pretending. He sent the girls away. He drowned himself in pills, crushed and bitter on his tongue, chased with whiskey that burned like guilt. The drugs numbed the rage but not the ache. Not the way your name still hovered in the back of his throat like smoke he couldn’t cough up.

Most nights, the Bonten executives left him alone. Too many bad nights. Too many broken bottles. Too many holes in the walls and bruises blooming across people’s faces when they touched him wrong.

He was too much when he was high, they said.

But alone, that’s when the worst came.

The drugs hit fast, coating his mind in a blissful, detached haze. Everything slowed down. Everything softened.

Except you.

You were always there. In the corner of his eye. In the phantom weight on his lap. In the echo of your voice curled around his name like a noose.

And fuck, it wasn’t fair.

Why did it have to be you?

Why was it only you?

He sank deeper into the couch, one hand running down his face, the other sliding beneath the waistband of his pants. He didn’t even hesitate anymore. Didn’t bother closing his eyes, didn’t need to. Your face was already there, so vivid it made his chest hurt.

His breath stuttered as his fingers wrapped around his length. He was already half-hard just thinking about your voice, sharp and angry, soft and breathless. He imagined you straddling him, fists in his shirt, cursing him through gritted teeth while your body told a different story. He imagined the way you’d glare at him when he made you beg.

Haruchiyo’s hips bucked into his palm.

A sharp breath. A curse. His grip tightened.

He shouldn’t be doing this. Mikey would fucking kill him if he knew. If he ever knew what Haruchiyo thought when he looked at you; what he did when he thought about you.

But he couldn’t stop.

He wanted you too much.

He stroked faster, chased the edge like a man starved, his mind spinning, your name the only coherent thing in the chaos. You, sneering. You, crying. You, moaning. You, screaming his name like it meant something.

The orgasm hit hard, like a wave crashing over him, dragging him under. His breath hitched. He groaned, slumped further into the couch as the aftershocks rolled through his trembling frame.

For a moment, there was nothing but silence. Just his heartbeat, pounding like a war drum in his ears.

And then—

Disgust.

It crept up slowly. Sour and shameful. He stared at the ceiling, chest rising and falling, the back of his hand pressed to his mouth like it could somehow take the moment back.

He felt sick.

Not because of the drugs. Not because of the high.

But because you didn’t deserve this.

Because he didn’t deserve you.

And maybe that was the worst part. That even now, after everything, he still wanted you. Still craved you. Still wanted to be close, even if it meant seeing you in someone else’s arms.

Haruchiyo Sanzu didn’t believe in love.

But if he did… it would look like this.

Like obsession. Like hunger. Like madness in his veins.

And your name in his mouth.

Haruchiyo Sanzu rubbed a hand down his face, dragging the heel of his palm across his mouth like it could erase the memory of what he’d just done. His other hand trembled faintly, twitching with the remnants of the high, though whether it was the drugs or you, he couldn’t tell anymore.

Suddenly, a shrill, high-pitched ringtone shattered the silence, stabbing through the haze in his skull.

His head snapped toward the phone vibrating violently on the table.

That phone. Only one reason it ever rang.

Work. Mikey.

He scrambled, wiping his hand on the nearest towel and snatching the phone up with a speed that nearly sent the table crashing.

The screen flashed: “King.”

He took one shaky breath and answered.

“Yo, Mikey.”

His voice was too casual. Too light. He forced it through his teeth anyway, trying to slap the familiar crooked grin into his tone. Trying to sound like he hadn’t just been stroking himself raw to the image of his boss’s girl.

There was a long pause on the other end. Then, finally, that cold, detached voice: “Come to my office, Akashi.”

Mikey’s voice was never loud. He didn’t need to be. The silence after his words was always enough to fill the room.

Haruchiyo’s mouth curved into something halfway between a smirk and a grimace.

“‘Course I’m comin’, Mikey.”

He hung up before his voice could crack.

The ride to Bonten was a blur of neon lights and roaring engines. His superbike carved through Tokyo’s streets like a blade, wind tearing through his open jacket, smoke still clinging to his clothes. The night air helped clear the static from his head and sobered the crawl of chemicals in his bloodstream. But it didn’t stop your name from echoing in the corners of his mind.

By the time he pulled into the underground lot, his hands were steady again.

Mostly.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime as he stepped into the heart of the beast.

Bonten headquarters was too silent. At this hour, only ghosts and executives moved through its marble halls. But tonight, the usual stillness had a different weight.

Haruchiyo’s boots clicked down the marble corridor until something caught his eye. Mikey’s office door, left ajar.

That never happened.

A muscle in Haruchiyo’s jaw ticked as he pushed it open.

Mikey sat slouched behind his desk, paperwork scattered around him. His silver hair was mussed, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves shoved up. He looked… frayed. Not weak, but not the untouchable king Haruchiyo bled for either.

Haruchiyo smirked faintly, out of habit more than anything. “Boss?”

Mikey didn’t look up right away. When he did, his voice came flat and detached, like he was announcing the weather.

“I’m getting married.”

The words cut clean through the air.

And Haruchiyo knew instantly.

Married. To someone else. Not you.

It was instinct. He could tell from the absence of warmth in Mikey’s voice. Because Mikey wouldn’t sound like that if it were you. If it were you, the words would’ve carried something. Anything.

Haruchiyo’s chest caved in around the realization, bitter heat flooding his veins.

His brain, trained on bloodshed and chaos, refused to accept what it had just heard. He should’ve felt triumphant. Hell, maybe even smug. Mikey letting go of you meant you were free now. No longer wrapped around the king’s neck like a noose. No longer the soft spot that Haruchiyo resented you for.

But the image that bloomed in his mind wasn’t one of relief.

It was you, shattered. Eyes glassy. Lips trembling. Voice cracking around a scream you wouldn’t know how to let out.

Because you loved Mikey. You loved him in that all-consuming, sacrificial way. Haruchiyo had always thought it was stupid. Weak. But now the image of your heartbreak wouldn’t stop clawing at the inside of his skull.

His jaw clenched until it ached.

“The fuck you sayin’, Mikey?” Haruchiyo’s voice came out hoarse, barely restrained.

Mikey didn’t even flinch a muscle. “I’m getting married next week.”

Same flat tone. Same dead-eyed delivery. Like it was nothing. Like he wasn’t detonating every part of Haruchiyo that still felt.

Haruchiyo’s hands trembled. He wasn’t even high anymore, and still his control was already slipping.

He took a step forward.

“What about her?” he hissed. “You just gonna toss her aside like trash?”

Mikey didn’t answer. His eyes remained empty and unreadable.

The silence sliced through Haruchiyo like a wire pulled taut. He shouldn’t care this much or be this angry. Mikey was his king. His god. If Mikey decided to marry some no-name woman to fulfill some ancient wish, it wasn’t Haruchiyo’s place to say a goddamn thing.

But you—

You would be ruined.

And Haruchiyo couldn’t stop seeing it.

“It’s what Shin wanted,” Mikey said at last, gaze drifting away. “It’s the least I could do to honor him.”

The words sounded noble. But they felt like betrayal.

Haruchiyo’s eyes flared wide, fury swallowing any logic left in him. He slammed his hand against the desk hard enough to make the papers scatter.

“And what about her, Mikey?” he growled again, louder now. “What the fuck about her?!”

Mikey’s eyes snapped back to his, a flicker of irritation flashing in that black void of a stare.

“You don’t question me, Akashi. I’m the boss here,” he said coldly.

Haruchiyo froze, just for a beat. The cold weight of his boss’s tone pressed down on him. But it wasn’t enough. Not when his gut was on fire, not when the image of your broken face was clawing at him.

“Then maybe you should fuckin’ act like one,” he spat, venom dripping from every word. “Not some coward hiding behind his dead brother’s ghost!”

That did it. Mikey moved. Fast.

A blur of movement, fist crashing into Haruchiyo’s face with a sickening crunch. His head snapped sideways, blood exploding from his nose as he staggered back, nearly knocking over a chair. The taste hit instantly, metallic, warm and humiliating.

But he didn’t fight back. He looked up instead, with split lip and racing pulse, and saw something that made his breath hitch.

Mikey’s expression had finally cracked.

He looked like a mess, heartbreak bleeding through his carefully built mask. The edges of his mouth trembled. His brows pinched. And in his those empty, abyssal eyes, was the unmistakable glint of pain.

Haruchiyo faltered.

Suddenly, everything made sense.

Mikey wasn’t letting you go because he wanted to. He was burying you. Just like he buried Shin. Draken. Emma. Baji. And every piece of himself he couldn’t carry anymore.

The weight in the room was unbearable. Grief hung in the air like smog.

Slowly, Haruchiyo stood straight.

He looked at Mikey. At the man he worshipped. The man who had ripped him from the jaws of death and made him a monster.

Then, in one fluid motion, Haruchiyo dropped to his knees. “Please… don’t do this to her.” His voice was low. Strained. Like it had been ripped straight from his lungs.

“You can fucking kill me. You can burn the world if you want. But don’t hurt her, Mikey.”

The room was silent. Not even the lights buzzed now. Only the soft rustle of scattered papers. The heavy sound of two broken men breathing in a room that had no god left.

Mikey didn’t speak.

And for the first time since he was a boy, Haruchiyo Sanzu didn’t know if the man he knelt before was still a king…

…or just another corpse waiting to rot.

Haruchiyo Sanzu’s hands wouldn’t stop shaking. The pills rattled against his palm before he shoved them into his mouth, swallowing them dry. His throat burned, his chest ached, and the familiar static began to crawl at the edges of his vision. It wasn’t enough. It was never enough.

The Haitani nightclub pulsed like a living beast. Heat, sweat, perfume, alcohol, the roar of bass so heavy it felt like it was cracking his skull in half. Girls draped themselves over men like ornaments, and one had slithered her way beside him now, giggling, her nails grazing his thigh in a way that should’ve distracted him.

But nothing could tear his gaze away from you.

Not when you were in the back room.

Not when Mikey was there with you.

Not when he watched the moment your face shattered.

The scene carved itself into him like glass. Mikey’s calm and empty voice, telling you he was getting married to someone else.

He saw the disbelief in your eyes dissolve into something worse. Betrayal. The way your body folded in on itself as though trying to contain the pain, the way your tears spilled before you could catch them. Mikey gathered you against him, wrapping you in those arms you once believed could hold up the whole world. He kissed the crown of your head like it was mercy.

Haruchiyo felt his stomach heave.

But it wasn’t jealousy. Not this time.

It was hollow. It was ruin.

He’d begged Mikey earlier. Like a fool, he’d begged.

Don’t leave her behind. Don’t abandon her. Even if you’re marrying someone else, don’t you dare let her stand alone in this fucked up world.

The words still burned his throat. He hated himself for it. It was pathetic and weak. It wasn’t loyalty to Mikey anymore, but a was weakness for you. All these years he’d told himself he was protecting you from this world, keeping you alive, keeping you safe. But now? Now he couldn’t bear the thought of you gone. Of you not here, within reach, even if it meant watching you cry in another man’s arms.

The girl beside him shifted, pressing closer, her perfume suffocating. She murmured something sweet and meaningless, her hand on his leg, tugging for his attention. And for once, Haruchiyo let her. His arm came around her shoulder, pulling her flush against his side. The gesture was too intimate for him, who never touched women like this unless it was transactional. Her breath caught in surprise, flustered.

But his eyes never left you.

Not when he tilted her chin and pressed his mouth against hers.

The kiss was hollow, mechanical, his lips moving against hers, his tongue tasting nothing but the bitterness of his own obsession. And when his gaze slid past her face and found yours—

That was when it hit.

You were staring. Through the tears clouding your vision, through the brokenness twisting your features, you were staring at him. The corner of your mouth trembled. Then your glare cut sharp, searing through him like fire before you turned away, burying your face into Mikey’s shoulder.

Haruchiyo almost smiled against the woman’s mouth.

It was pathetic. Twisted. Ugly. But it was something.

If all he could take from you was your hate, your disgust, your rage, he’d take it. He’d hoard it. He’d carve it into his chest like scripture. Because even when it hurt like hell, it meant he still existed in your world.

Even if it was only as a shadow.

He pulled away from the woman, his pupils blown wide, the pills buzzing in his bloodstream, and he whispered into her hair like it was meant for you:

“I love you.”

And he did. In his own ruinous way, he loved you. Loved you even when every gift you’d ever placed in his hands was pain. Loved you enough to bleed himself dry just to watch you smile at another man.

That was the curse. That was the obsession.

That was Haruchiyo Sanzu.

< special part ends >

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