~ 𝐂𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐲𝐚𝐬 𝐃𝐢𝐚𝐫𝐲

You first notice the sound.

A faint, slippery tap-tap-tap in the white hallway behind you. Soft as droplets falling into snow, barely there, the kind of sound that could be a mouse or a hallucination or the echo of your own heartbeat. In the Borderland, noises don’t obey the same rules they do back home. They crawl, they slither, they cling to your spine like wet fingers.

“Don’t stop walking,” Chishiya says, voice low, calm, but sharpened at the edges.

His tone doesn’t match the way his eyes flick to the darkness behind you. Those strange dark irises of his, set inside a face too pretty for this dead world, betray a glimmer of calculation. He hears the tapping too. He’s already measuring it, weighing it, slicing it apart mentally like a frog under a scalpel.

You swallow the dryness in your throat.

“What is it?” you whisper.

He doesn’t answer.

He just smirks, one of those cool paper-thin expressions of his, and keeps walking, hands in the pockets of his hoodie as though the two of you aren’t trapped in a white geometric labyrinth that smells faintly of antiseptic and old blood.

The door behind you slammed shut the moment you stepped inside. GAME START burned across the walls in pulsing red letters.

No suit. No number. Just this white maze. Clean, blinding, and humming like a neon graveyard.

Chishiya moves slowly, almost lazily, but you’ve been around him long enough to know that the pace is intentional. He’s coaxing the maze to show its hand.

That’s when the sound comes again.

Tap.Tap.Tap.

Not behind you this time.

Above you.

You don’t look up. Not yet. You feel if you do, something will drop its mouth over your face and chew its way in.

“We need to find the center,” Chishiya murmurs. “These games always have a heart.”

His voice is smooth velvet over razors. He doesn’t talk to comfort you; he talks to keep himself entertained. Maybe that’s why you follow him. Maybe horror feels different when shared with someone who treats death like an old acquaintance.

The white corridors stretch infinitely. Corners turn into more corners. Hallways fold into each other like the pages of a book written in a language you almost understand. The lights flicker, not the polite flicker of a faulty bulb, but the aggressive, stuttering spasm of something struggling to stay alive.

You step over a dark streak on the floor.

You think, you hope, it’s paint.

But it’s not.

It’s sticky.

The moment it clings to the bottom of your shoe, the tapping stops.

Chishiya freezes.

You freeze.

Everything in the labyrinth holds its breath.

Then...

SCRAAAAAAAAATCH.

The sound comes from every direction at once, clawing at the walls like a starving animal. Something drags itself along the ceiling, scraping bone or metal or something worse. You jerk backward instinctively and collide with Chishiya’s shoulder. His hand closes around your wrist, cool, steady, grounding.

“Don’t run,” he says softly.

“It’s right above us,” you hiss.

“That’s why we don’t run.”

His logic is infuriating and flawless.

The scratching stops.

A silence settles over the hallway, thick and heavy like wet tar.

You hear your own breathing, sharp and ragged.

Chishiya hears it too.

“You’re panicking,” he says.

“No kidding.”

He tilts his head, studying you the way a scientist examines a sample, curious, detached, maybe even fond in his own quiet way. “Fear is useful here. But only in the right amounts.”

“Well I’m overflowing.”

For a fraction of a second, he smiles, not a smirk, but something almost human. “Good. Then let’s make use of it.”

The hallway shifts.

You feel it before you see it, the floor rippling subtly under your feet, as if settling into a new arrangement. When you glance back, the corridor behind you has sealed over, perfectly smooth. No seams. No cracks.

No way back.

Chishiya clicks his tongue in mild annoyance. “A one-way maze. How predictable.”

“Predictable?” you whisper. “Nothing here is predictable.”

His eyes gleam. “Everything is predictable. If you know how to look.”

You want to ask what he sees, but before you can, he kneels beside the sticky streak on the floor. He touches it with a gloved finger, rubs it between two slender fingertips, lifts it to the light.

“It’s blood,” he says, matter-of-factly.

Of course it is.

“And not old. Someone passed through recently.”

“Someone alive?”

He shrugs lightly. “For a time.”

“Chishiya...”

A sudden, thunderous pounding slams through the walls, like a giant fist hammering from the other side. Dust floats down from the ceiling. The lights dim to a sickly yellow.

Your heart tries to escape your ribcage.

Chishiya rises, an unreadable expression crossing his face. “It’s herding us.”

“Herding us where?”

“Wherever the game wants us to go.”

He steps forward without hesitation and you follow him like a moth following a smarter, more suicidal moth.

You walk for what feels like hours.

The air grows colder, sharp enough to sting your lungs. Shadows begin forming where there shouldn’t be shadows at all. The white walls aren’t quite white anymore, they’re tinged with something gray, something rotten.

You start to notice faces in them.

Distorted outlines pressed beneath the surface. Mouths open in silent screams. Hands reaching for you from behind the translucent material.

You squeeze your eyes shut.

When you open them again, the faces are gone.

Chishiya doesn’t notice the shift in your breathing, or maybe he does and pretends not to. He’s busy tracing symbols carved into the walls, tiny indentations forming geometric shapes.

“Look,” he murmurs.

You step closer.

They’re numbers. Coordinates. Patterns.

“Is this a map?” you ask.

“No,” he says. “A warning.”

You blink. “About what?”

Before he can answer, a soft hiss travels down the hallway behind you. Not the tapping. Not the scratching. This is worse...

Breathing.

Wet, ragged, uneven breathing.

Chishiya’s eyes sharpen. “Move.”

You break into a run.

The corridor buckles beneath your feet as though the entire maze is shifting to chase you. Lights burst overhead, spraying sparks. Something slams into the wall behind you, cracking it like an eggshell.

You don’t dare look back.

Chishiya is fast, unnaturally fast, but even he starts to strain now, breath quickening, muscles tensing. Whatever is behind you is faster. Close. Hungry.

The hallway ends in a large white chamber.

A perfect cube. Perfectly empty. Except for the mirror.

A floor-to-ceiling mirror on the far wall, spotless and cold.

Chishiya skids to a stop.

You crash into him, nearly sending both of you to the floor.

The door behind you seals with a hiss.

The breathing stops.

Silence.

Breathless, trembling silence. Then, the mirror ripples like a drop of water hit its surface.

Chishiya steps in front of you. This time, he doesn’t smirk. He doesn’t play coy.

His voice is almost a whisper: “Don’t look directly at it.”

Of course you look. The reflection is wrong.

It shows the two of you standing in the white chamber, but the room in the mirror is darker, lit by a faint pulsing red glow. Your reflection stands perfectly still, even as your real body trembles.

Chishiya’s reflection, however...

It smiles.

Not his usual smirk.

A wide, unnatural grin that splits too far up his cheeks.

Your stomach lurches.

“Step back,” Chishiya murmurs.

But you can’t move. Your feet feel rooted to the floor. A pressure builds inside your skull, a humming vibration that sinks into your bones.

Chishiya grabs your hand. It grounds you for a second. Long enough for him to yank you toward the side wall.

“Close your eyes,” he says sharply.

You do.

The vibrations intensify. You hear something wet hitting the floor. Something heavy dragging itself closer. The mirror whispers soft, indistinguishable murmurs like a thousand voices clawing at your thoughts.

You cling to Chishiya’s sleeve.

For once, he doesn’t pull away.

Then...

CRASH.

The sound of glass exploding.

You scream.

Something slashes across your arm, sharp, cold, burning.

Chishiya pulls you into a tight, sudden embrace and shields you with his body as shards rain down.

When the storm of glass settles, you open your eyes. The mirror is shattered. But something crawls out of the broken surface. Something wearing your shape. Something wearing his smile.

Chishiya steps in front of you, eyes narrowed, knife already flashing in his hand.

He doesn’t hesitate.

He lunges.

You don’t see the first strike; it’s too fast. You only hear the wet sound of the blade cutting into something that shouldn’t have flesh at all. The creature shrieks, a sound like metal grinding against bone.

It moves with jerky, unnatural motions, as though held together by strings. Its skin flickers like TV static. Its smile never fades.

You back away, clutching your bleeding arm.

Chishiya fights with cold precision. Every movement calculated. Efficient. Beautiful, in a terrifying way. But the creature adapts. It mimics his movements, copying his attacks with twisted, uncanny accuracy.

It’s learning.

“Chishiya!” you shout.

He knows.

He steps back, breathing heavier now.

The creature matches him.

It tilts its head.

Smiles wider.

Then... It turns its gaze on you.

You freeze.

Its mouth moves, but the voice that comes out is yours, warped, hollow, wrong.

“Do you want to see what he really thinks of you?” it whispers.

Your blood turns to ice.

Chishiya’s posture shifts.

“No,” he snaps. “Don’t listen to it.”

But the creature keeps talking, voice slithering into your ears like poisoned honey.

“He likes you just enough to keep you useful. Isn’t that right, Chishiya?” it croons.

“Shut up,” Chishiya hisses.

The creature laughs, your laugh, twisted.

“And you...” it says, pointing a trembling, glitching finger at you. “Do you really think he cares whether you live or die?”

Your throat locks.

Chishiya lunges again, faster this time, aiming for its neck.

But the creature is ready.

It dodges. It wraps its too-long fingers around Chishiya’s wrist.

And it leans close to him, your face, your eyes, your voice dripping venom.

“You’re afraid of her,” it whispers. “Not losing her. Having her see you.”

Chishiya’s expression flickers.

Just for a second.

But the creature pounces on it.

“You hide behind your logic,” it purrs. “But she frightens you, doesn’t she? Because she makes you feel.”

His jaw tightens.

And then you hear it, the faint cracking sound. The mirror pieces scattered around the floor vibrate. They hum. They move.

They’re forming shapes.

Not reflections.

Hands.

Hands pulling themselves free of the shards. Hands reaching for Chishiya. Reaching for you.

Dozens of them.

“No,” Chishiya breathes. “No, no, no”

He grabs your wrist.

This time, he’s the one pulling you.

“Run.”

You sprint through a new hallway that wasn’t there before, glass hands clawing at your ankles, scraping your legs, slicing your skin. Chishiya yanks you forward, navigating the turns with instinctive sharpness, but the maze twists unpredictably now, walls shifting like living muscle.

Behind you, the creature shrieks again. Your voice, but not your voice. It echoes through the labyrinth, cracking the air.

“You can’t run from yourself.”

Chishiya glances back, panting. “Ignore it.”

“That’s hard when it’s using my voice!”

“It’s not you.”

“But it looks like me!”

He stops abruptly.

You slam into his back. “What are you..”

Then you see it.

A door.

Not white this time. Black. Glossy. Pulsing.

The doorknob is cold metal, shaped like an eye that never blinks.

“Is that the exit?” you whisper.

“I don’t know,” Chishiya admits. “But it’s the only way forward.”

The hands behind you grow louder. Sharper. Closer.

“Open it,” you plead.

He hesitates.

And you know why.

Exits in the Borderland are never just exits. They’re choices. Games inside games. One wrong decision and you end up part of the walls.

“Chishiya, please!”

He meets your gaze.

For a second, something raw flickers there... fear, maybe. Or something more human.

He opens the door.

It’s dark.

Not the absence of light.

A presence of dark.

A thick, pressing thing that feels like it breathes alongside you. The floor is soft, carpeted in something that shifts when you step on it.

You don’t want to think about what it might be.

Chishiya holds your hand tighter. He doesn’t comment on the gesture. Neither do you.

A faint light appears overhead. Dim, red, pulsing like a heartbeat. At the center of the room is a table.

On the table are two things:

A scalpel. And a mirror shard.

Chishiya exhales slowly. “A choice.”

“What kind of choice?”

His voice is flat. “Pain… or truth.”

“That sounds bad.”

“It is.”

The creature’s footsteps echo outside the door, slow and deliberate.

You don’t have time.

“Which?” you whisper.

Chishiya picks up the mirror shard.

You flinch. “Why that?”

“Pain can be endured.” He meets your eyes. “Truth cannot.”

Before you can respond, he slices his palm with the shard. Blood drips onto the floor. The darkness stirs.

It shivers.

It parts.

You see a path forming in the void. A way forward.

Chishiya grabs your uninjured hand.

“Don’t let go.”

You nod, shaking. You step together into the dark. Behind you, the creature screams.

You walk through darkness thicker than any nightmare. It clings to your clothes, your skin, your breath. You feel things move past you, brushing your shoulders with cold fingers. Whispering your name.

Chishiya squeezes your hand harder.

“Stay with me,” he murmurs.

“I’m here.”

“Good.”

The path narrows. The air grows colder. Your lungs burn.

And then... A faint glow ahead.

White light.

Sterile, humming, familiar.

The maze’s exit.

You break into a run.

Chishiya stumbles, blood loss catching up, but you throw his arm over your shoulder and drag him forward.

The creature shrieks behind you, but it grows faint. Distant. Dying.

You burst through the doorway together.

And the world goes...

White.

You wake up on the rooftop of a building. Cold wind brushes your face. Night sky stretches above. The Borderland city glows below, silent and strange.

Beside you, Chishiya sits up slowly, wincing as he holds his stitched palm. Someone, probably you, bandaged it while he was unconscious.

“You’re awake,” you breathe.

He nods. “Seems so.”

Silence lingers.

Heavy. Haunting.

You look at him. “Chishiya… what the creature said...”

“It lies,” he says instantly.

“How do you know?”

For once, his expression cracks. Just a little. A hairline fracture in his perfect composure.

“Because if it were true,” he murmurs, “you would not be here.”

Your breath catches.

He stands, brushing dust from his hoodie.

“Come on,” he says quietly. “We should get out of sight before the next game appears.”

You get up and follow him.

But as you walk, you catch a glimpse of something in the distance... the window of another building, reflecting the two of you.

In the reflection…

Your face smiles.

Chishiya’s does not.

You blink.

The reflection returns to normal.

Chishiya doesn’t notice.

You swallow hard.

The Borderland is not done with you. Not even close.

But for now... You walk beside him anyway.

Because the only thing more terrifying than the monsters in this world…

The hospital smelled faintly of antiseptic and burnt coffee, and somewhere in the distance, someone’s shoes squeaked down the hallway. Dr. Shuntarō Chishiya had long stopped noticing either sound. His focus was entirely on the chart in his hands, the lines of an EKG as familiar to him as the back of his own hand.

He was, by all accounts, a man who didn’t feel much — or at least didn’t show it. Even in a hospital full of adrenaline junkies, Chishiya was an enigma: calm, detached, and eerily composed. His colleagues could be shouting, the OR could be a mess, but he’d still be steady, monotone, efficient.

Which was why, when one of the nurses asked with a teasing smile, “So, Dr. Chishiya, how’s married life? Your wife’s due soon, right?” — he didn’t flinch.

He just said, “She’s fine.”

They all rolled their eyes. “You could at least pretend to sound excited.”

He only gave them that small, knowing half-smile — the one that made people unsure if he was amused or just done with the conversation. “I’m a heart surgeon,” he replied. “I see excitement every day. I don’t need more of it at home.”

What he didn’t add was that his wife was literally the definition of excitement lately.

Because while the rest of the world thought Dr. Shuntarō Chishiya was unflappable, only one person had ever seen him break his poker face — you.

And you didn’t even mean to.

It was almost 9 p.m. when he finally pulled into the driveway. His hands were still faintly stained from gloves, the faint scent of soap and hospital disinfectant clinging to him. The house was dark except for a warm glow spilling from the living room.

He exhaled slowly. Home. Finally

When he opened the door, he heard it — the sound of sniffles.

Immediately alert, he dropped his bag near the entryway and stepped out of his shoes. “(Y/N)?”

You were curled up on the couch under a blanket, phone in hand, face red and blotchy from crying.

His pulse kicked up slightly, reflexive concern, trained instinct — until he caught sight of your phone screen. A cat video. A compilation of kittens meowing softly at the camera.

You hiccuped. “They’re so small, Shuntarō.”

He blinked. “...The cats?”

You nodded miserably. “They can’t even open their eyes yet. They just want love!”

He sighed, crossing the room and sitting down beside you. “You’ve watched that same video about ten times this week.”

“I know!” you wailed, wiping your nose with a tissue. “And it’s still sad!”

He didn’t say anything at first, just brushed a strand of hair off your face. Then, with that calm voice that could command an entire OR, he murmured, “You’re crying over happy kittens, love.”

You sniffled. “I’m pregnant. I have feelings.”

That got him, a soft, rare smile tugging at his lips. “Clearly.”

You huffed, crossing your arms. “You’re so mean. You don’t even miss me, do you?”

That startled him. “What?”

“I said, you don’t miss me!” you repeated, your voice trembling as tears started welling again. “You come home so late every night, and I’m just here alone, and I miss you, and you probably don’t even think about me while you’re doing all your— your doctor things!”

Chishiya blinked twice. Then again. Slowly.

He’d faced heart attacks, cardiac arrests, chaotic emergencies — and yet, somehow, this was what truly left him speechless.

Finally, he let out a quiet sigh, leaning closer until his forehead rested against yours. “You’re ridiculous,” he whispered, but his tone was fond. “Of course I miss you.”

You frowned, lip trembling. “You don’t say it enough.”

“Because every time I do, you cry.”

“That’s not true!”

“It is,” he said, brushing his thumb under your eye. “You cried when I said ‘good morning’ yesterday. And again when I said ‘you look beautiful.’”

You sniffed. “Well, maybe if you weren’t so nice I wouldn’t cry.”

He couldn’t help it — he laughed. Not the small, sarcastic chuckle his coworkers heard, but a soft, warm sound that was all for you.

You narrowed your eyes, offended, even as tears still streaked your cheeks. “You’re laughing at me.”

“I’m laughing near you,” he corrected. “Different thing.”

You swatted his arm weakly. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re beautiful when you’re mad.”

That earned him a glare — followed by a watery smile you couldn’t suppress.

The next day, when he got home, you were in a completely different mood.

“Hi, baby!” you cheered, running — well, waddling — to the door to greet him. You were glowing, wearing one of his oversized shirts, and clutching a bowl of strawberries.

He blinked at the whiplash. “You’re...happy?”

“Of course I am! You’re home!” You wrapped your arms around him as best as you could, pressing your face into his chest. “Did you eat? Are you tired? Do you want me to run you a bath? Wait, I made dinner! Oh! And I washed your scrubs!”

Chishiya stood there, coat half-off, eyes slightly wide. “Did you nap today?”

“A little!” you said proudly. “Only cried once!”

“Progress,” he murmured dryly.

You didn’t notice the teasing. “And I watched this video where a baby heard his mom’s voice for the first time with hearing aids, and I—” your voice broke off, and he immediately tensed, but you shook your head quickly, smiling again. “—but I didn’t cry this time! Okay, maybe a little.”

He chuckled, cupping your face. “You’re unbelievable.”

You leaned into his hand, eyes fluttering shut. “You love it.”

He did. More than he could say.

Later that evening, you were curled up in bed watching random videos while he read next to you.

Everything was peaceful. You were giggling at some stupid meme, the sound of your laughter soft and contagious. He allowed himself to glance up from his book, just for a second — watching your expression change with each video, your eyes bright and happy.

Then the next video autoplayed.

A slow, melancholy piano began to play. The screen showed a montage of couples growing old together, the kind with captions like “True love lasts forever.”

Your face crumpled instantly.

“Oh no,” he muttered.

You sniffed loudly. “It’s so sweet, Shuntaro. They’ve been together since high school and he still holds her hand even though she has Alzheimer’s.”

He closed his book with a resigned sigh. “Here we go again.”

“She doesn’t even remember him, but he still visits her every day!” you wailed, clutching the pillow to your chest. “That’s— that’s what love is supposed to be!”

Chishiya reached over and gently took your phone, locking it before you could scroll further down the emotional abyss of the internet. “Okay, that’s enough TikTok for today.”

“Hey!”

“You’ve cried three times in one hour. Your tear ducts need a break.”

You frowned up at him, eyes glassy. “You don’t understand, you’re emotionally constipated.”

He snorted. “That’s a new diagnosis.”

“Yeah, and I’m the doctor now.”

He set your phone on the nightstand and leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “You’re cute when you’re bossy.”

“I’m always cute.”

“I won’t argue that.”

That finally drew a laugh out of you — a soft, sniffling one, but genuine.

And that, he thought quietly, was worth more than any successful surgery.

A few days later, one of his colleagues caught him smiling at his phone during lunch.

“Okay, that’s it,” the nurse said, squinting suspiciously. “What’s got you smiling, Dr. Emotionless?”

Chishiya didn’t look up. “Nothing.”

The surgeon next to him leaned over. “Is it your wife again?”

“She sent me a video,” he said simply.

“What kind of video?”

He paused. “…A raccoon washing grapes.”

There was a collective groan around the table.

“Seriously? That’s what makes you smile?”

He shrugged. “She said it reminded her of me.”

The nurse snorted. “Because you’re both emotionally detached and like to wash things?”

He smirked faintly. “Because we both use our hands a lot.”

The entire table groaned louder.

“Gross, Chishiya.”

He only smirked more.

That night, when he got home, you were on the floor, sitting cross-legged in front of the baby crib you’d just assembled.

You looked exhausted but proud, rubbing your belly absently as you admired your work.

“Hey,” he murmured, kneeling beside you. “You actually did it.”

You beamed at him. “I’m nesting. It’s a thing.”

He reached out and steadied your hand, seeing the faint tremor from your effort. “You could’ve waited for me to help.”

“I wanted to surprise you.”

He exhaled softly, then leaned in to kiss your temple. “You always do.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder, suddenly quiet. “You think I’ll be a good mom?”

He turned to look at you — at your soft eyes, your worried frown, the vulnerability that came in waves lately.

“(Y/N),” he said quietly, “you cry because a cartoon dog gets lost and laugh because someone sneezed like a duck. You already care too much. You’ll be perfect.”

You laughed through a sniffle. “That’s not a medical opinion.”

“It’s a personal one.”

You smiled at him, soft and watery. “You’re sweet sometimes.”

“Only for you.”

That night, as you both lay in bed, you reached for his hand, resting it on your belly.

He blinked, startled by the gentle movement beneath his palm.

“She’s kicking,” you whispered. “She does that when she hears your voice.”

He didn’t say anything for a long moment, just stared at your stomach — the faint thump against his hand making his chest tighten in ways he couldn’t explain.

Finally, his lips curved into that tiny, private smile again. “Guess she’s impatient. Just like her mother.”

You giggled, swatting him lightly. “You love us both.”

He didn’t deny it this time. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I really do.”

The next morning, he left for work before sunrise. You were still asleep, curled up on his side of the bed, wearing his shirt and hugging one of his pillows.

He paused by the door, taking in the sight — the peaceful mess of blankets, your hair spilling across the pillow, one hand resting protectively over your stomach.

For someone who prided himself on logic, Chishiya couldn’t quite rationalize why his chest ached in the best possible way.

Maybe this was the one part of his life he didn’t need to analyze — the one thing that didn’t need to be measured, dissected, or fixed.

Because no matter how unpredictable your moods were — whether you were laughing, crying, or scolding him for being “too pretty to be a doctor” — you were his constant.

And if the hospital was where he fixed hearts, home was where his own finally learned how to beat for something other than survival.

Thank you for reading!

It wasn't an uncommon sight for people to see you like this—you attached to him one way or another. Whenever you would wade through a crowd, you'd have a fistful of his jacket in your hand as he guided you forward. If there was a party and the environment was rowdy, eagle-eyed residents would spot you in a corner sharing earphones, listening to your own music.

"'Shiya, are they firing me?" You scooped up some of the pudding, bringing it close to his lips. He hummed in deep thought, letting you feed him.

"They wouldn't try," he finally responded. "They know what would happen if they did."

Your heart fluttered a little, making you bite the inside of your cheek to prevent a smile. After getting to know him for a while now, you've come to realize that only one word could fully describe your relationship: subtle.

He wasn't as big on PDA as you were, but he wasn't averse to physical touch as well. He wouldn't let you sit on his lap in public, but you'd feel his touch on your lower back whenever you were wandering around. He wasn't overtly jealous, but he didn't not care either. He was protective in the sense that he wouldn't make a scene. And it's in instances like this where his love for you really shows.

"Oooh, you're so hot when you're scary like this," you teased him, offering him another spoonful. He rolled his eyes, though a small smile played at his lips. He was silent after that for a few more minutes. You frowned a bit at this. Something was off.

"You gonna tell me what's on your mind?" you asked softly, placing your chin on his shoulder. Subconsciously, he leaned his head towards you.

"We're playing tonight, right?"

"Uh-huh. What about it?"

"They're putting us into separate groups this time." His eyes shifted towards you, trying to read your reaction.

Your eyes widened just a bit, surprised but not fully. In the past, you and Chishiya have come to expect that they'll use your relationship as a target. It was impossible for the militants or Hatter to have gotten a whiff of your plan to steal the cards, but a storm was about to come if they were trying to get rid of you first—and then presumably Chishiya.

You hummed, taking the last bite of pudding. Chishiya was still studying your expression. Truthfully, he wasn't worried about sending you off alone. He knew what you were capable of—your intellect and quick thinking were among the biggest reasons why he fell for you in the first place. It was who you were going to be grouped with that he was worried about.

"Well... I guess we had it coming," you stated plainly. You heard him scoff next to you. You quirked an eyebrow. "Is the great Shuntaro worried about little, old me?"

"Yes."

He moved so that he was facing you. Honey brown eyes bore into your own, his lips pinched in a thin line. The sarcasm died on your tongue, and you noticed how his knee was restlessly bouncing.

"I want you to come back here alive and well." It was a demand more than a request.

You took his hands gently into yours. "Of course I will. I'll always find my way back to bother you."

────୨ৎ────

"Where's your jacket?" Kuina gestured towards him with the lollipop. "Don't tell me you forgot it."

"It's with ___," he replied cooly.

Kuina tensed a little at your name. She knew about the separation ploy. Even further than that, she knew you were getting sent to a hearts game. She shifted from one foot to another, eyeing Chishiya carefully.

Upon first glance, he seemed aloof enough. His face was perfectly blank, eyes sharp. It was his hands that gave him away. He was repeatedly digging his nails into the tip of his thumb.

"I'm sure they'll be okay," Kuina murmured, nudging his shoulder. "They're tougher than everyone else thinks."

On the other side of the city, you were cozying yourself up in Chishiya's jacket as you leaned against the wall. The car had brought you to a mall, which had already unnerved you since it may mean you'd have to be quick on your feet. Large game zones always meant more physicality. The usual table filled with phones was also scattered with various weapons. Knives of various sizes, an axe, a baseball bat, dumbbells. All melee.

You've already armed yourself with the switchblade Chishiya made for you. You didn't want to risk carrying anything heavy around, especially not in a hearts game. You never knew if you'd need to run.

You eyed your "teammates," five militants you recognized to be under Niragi's posse. They couldn't have made it any more obvious that they were sending you to the wolves.

You rolled your eyes as they leered at you. It was one more minute before the game started, and your attention was drawn to a burly man accompanying an elderly woman. He was wearing a tank top reminiscent of Aguni's. He donned two full sleeves of tattoos and a row of piercings on his left ear.

Would've fit right in Aguni's faction if it weren't for the way he gently spoke to the woman.

Her crow's feet deepened when your eyes met. You gave her a small smile and a polite nod. She bowed lightly to you, mirroring your smile. You knew that part of Chishiya's protocol was to never look out for others, but god, you could already feel the guilt gnaw at you.

Just then, the familiar chime sounded, followed by the game announcer's voice.

"Registration has closed. There is a total of eight participants. The game will now commence.

Difficulty, 8 of Hearts. Game, Virus.

Clear condition: Find the antidote before the timer runs out.

Rules:

All players are Infected. Being Infected when the timer runs out will result in elimination. To be cured, players will need to find the antidote hidden in the shopping center. There is only one.

To administer the antidote, please place it in front of your phone camera.

Players are not allowed to exit the venue.

Players are allowed to use weapons.

Players will have 30 minutes before game over."

Almost immediately, the phones lit up with a timer counting down. There was palpable tension in the room, like all eight of you simultaneously held your breaths. Eight of you and only one antidote.

You could already see the gears turning in the militants' heads. Less people meant a larger chance to be cured. The one who went for the axe—Akira, you've come to remember his name—had a wolfish grin. Slowly, you inched yourself closer to the pair of newcomers.

The man already looked distressed, saying something inaudible into the old woman's ear. He froze when you came into view, his eyes narrowing at you. Before he could speak, you cut him off with a harsh whisper.

"Stay clear of them."

"Hey Kenji, aren't you Number 78?" You heard Akira speak behind you.

You subtlely nodded to the doors on the far left, an entrance to the grocery. Lots of shelves meant lots of places to hide. Lots of places to search. The tattooed man nodded in understanding, clutching the elderly woman's arm. Slowly, you led them farther and farther away from the armed men.

The militants were all focused on each other now. Akira was eyeing Kenji with a smirk. He was shorter, newer to the Beach. He took a cautious step back when Akira inched closer to him.

"I'm just double-checking, because if you aren't worth shit then that means I can do this."

You walked faster, breaking into a sprint when you heard the thick "thwack" of metal colliding with flesh. The body fell to the floor with a muted thump, followed by jeers and yells from the four remaining men.

"Don't look back!" You shouted at the pair. You led them into the supermarket area, winding around shelves and freezers. You finally stopped in your tracks when it was silent once more.

"How did you know they were going to..." The man trailed off, rubbing the elderly woman's back as she panted.

"I came here with them. Not really friends, more like begrudging workmates," you explained, catching your own breath. You stuck a hand out at them, introducing yourself.

"I'm Minato. This is my mother, Chiyo." Minato shook your hand firmly. Chiyo smiled at you once more, bringing her hand to her mouth before slowly turning it down.

"She's saying 'thank you,'" Minato said. You shrugged, moving to look around you.

"I think we should look around for now. We'll cross the bridge when we get there," you huffed, vaguely referring to the elephant in the room. Minato looked only half convinced, though nodded nonetheless.

The three of you moved together in silence, wary of the other men who may still be alive. At worst, it will still be the four of them. If, by some miracle, they were smart enough to work together, you'd have to face all of them if they decided they wanted to play the violent way. At best, it would be just Akira, or whoever would overpower him. After that, it would boil down to you, Minato, and Chiyo—something you did not want to think about for now.

"How are we even supposed to know what it looks like?" he asked you as you took off items from the shelves, digging around for anything that may be useful.

"Maybe our phones will light up when we come in contact with it?" you answered non-commitally.

You scanned your surroundings, seeing only half-off banners and posters offering discounts. "Under 40% off!" one of them read.

"What if it's not here?"

You turned around to look at them before peering around the shelves to glance at the entrance of the grocery. "Then we'd have to go out. You wouldn't happen to have anything you can defend yourselves with, would you?"

Minato gulped, shaking his head. He placed a hand on Chiyo's shoulder. "I'll be back, mama. I'll just look for things we can use. Take care of her while I'm away, okay?"

You assured him with a nod, carefully leading Chiyo to stand behind you. At least Minato was willing to trust you enough to leave you with his mother. The worry over betrayal was erased, for now.

You looked on as the seconds flew by on your phone. You've spent about 15 minutes in the shopping center, and you still have two whole floors left to investigate. You racked your brain, trying to think of the most efficient way to solve this.

You can't split up. Chiyo would be vulnerable, and Akira wouldn't hesitate to attack an old woman. Survival always came first in the Borderlands, sometimes more than humanity. If you went as a group, you'd risk having the timer run out. And even if you did find the antidote, what then?

That was when you heard the sliding doors part open. A small ding ran through the supermarket. You stuck close to the shelves, craning your head to see enough of the entrance. Chiyo followed suit.

Akira stood in the middle, face splattered with blood, a trail of crimson coming from the blade of his axe. He gripped it tightly, boots heavy on the tiled floor.

"___!" he called out. "I know you and your little friends are here!"

You looked around, still not seeing Minato. Akira walked aimlessly in your direction. You put a finger against your lips before gesturing to Chiyo. You'd have to go around and hope you'd meet Minato outside. Shakily, she hobbled towards the back aisle, silently making your way to door.

"I just want to talk!" Akira bellowed, hitting a display in one big swoop. Cans fell to the ground in echoing clatters. If Minato didn't know Akira was here, he sure would now. "You left so fucking fast a while ago!"

Akira swiped at the shelves, sending products toppling to the floor. From the corner of your eye, you saw Minato across the cash registers. He was kneeling down, pressed against one of the ledges. The end of a fire extinguisher poked out of his arms. He frantically pointed to the exit. You shook your head stubbornly.

"No, you'll break your mama's heart."

He shuffled on bent knees until he was a good distance behind a rampaging Akira. He stood up, bringing the fire extinguisher above his head. In front of him, Akira brought his eyes up, just in time to see their reflection in one of the freezer doors.

He spun around, bringing the axe across Minato's chest. Minato jumped back, shielding himself with the fire extinguisher. The axe blade broke through the metal, sending a steady puff of smoke out with a high-pitched wheeze.

"Stay close to the wall!" You lightly pushed Chiyo back before running towards Akira. You had gotten your blade out, swinging it at his neck. He jerked his head back, the blade cutting through his cheek instead. Minato got hold of the fire extinguisher again, smacking Akira in the side with it.

The militant stumbled back, but his grip on the axe was tight. He caught himself on one of the shelves and swung back at you. Minato shoved you out of the way, making you collide with one of the cashier stands. You smacked your head on the conveyor belt ledge, room spinning as you held yourself up.

"Under maintenance," the sign stuck on it read.

Unsteadily, you straightened up once more, seeing Minato on the ground as he clutched the side of his thigh. The fabric of his pants was torn, blood gushing out of the deep cut. Akira towered above him, extending his arms high above his head for the killing blow.

You swiftly grabbed one of the cans from the ground, chucking it at him. Bullseye, square in the face. He staggered backward, letting out a pained cry. You dragged Minato away from him, adrenaline pumping in your ears. Your vision wasn't fully clear yet, but you dove for the axe.

You had managed to grab the handle closest to the blade, but Akira's hand shot out to clutch the other end. The two of you fought, trying to wrench it out of each other's grip. He had you pinned against one of the cash registers, struggling to press the bladed end into you.

"You think lover boy would cry if I brought back your corpse?" he sneered at you through a toothy grin.

Just then, a blast of smoke hit him. With your remaining strength, you pushed off the axe handle, sending Akira flying back. Chiyo held onto the fire extinguisher, emptying it on a coughing Akira. You brought your arm around your face, burying your nose in the jacket's cotton. With your free arm, you dug around, blindly feeling the floor. Finally, your fingers came into contact with your switchblade.

Just as the smoke ran out, you lunged at Akira, plunging the blade into his sternum, just a little to the left. Exactly where the heart was, as Chishiya taught you. You retracted the blade, pushing it back in deeper. Akira limply struggled beneath you, mouth gaping in a wordless taunt. Eventually, he stopped moving.

You got up, wiping the blood off your blade using your shorts. You turned to Chiyo, who found her way to Minato. She was trembling as she pressed her hands against his wound. Below her, he gritted his teeth in pain. Panicked, you glanced at your phone. Seven minutes.

You swore, briskly walking up to them.

"Give me your phones. I'll find the antidote and—"you made eye contact with Minato. "I'll scan it using Chiyo's."

"How will we know you won't use yours?"

"Then I'll take her with me."

He chuckled humorlessly. "And leave me here?"

"Would you rather have all of us die?" you retorted, furrowing your brow. You could faintly hear the seconds tick down on your phone. For a moment, it was just you and Minato holding eye contact, challenging one another. It didn't look like either of you was budging soon.

"If I would scan using my phone, I would have left you by now." His brow furrowed deeper, mouth open with an argument that died on his tongue. Chiyo pressed Minato's cracked phone into your hands.

She smiled tearfully at you, repeating her gesture of thanks. You tilted your head towards her. With one last glance at Minato, you stood up.

"No! Mom! Give her yours! Mama!"

Minato's voice faded behind you as you made your way back to the center of the mall. You frantically looked around. Kenji's body was sprawled near the table. Another body was near one of the potted plants, at the landing of the escalator.

You forced your breathing to slow down. Chancing at one more look at your phone, you figured you had 5 minutes. You slowly spun around, taking in your surroundings.

Your eyes scanned the shopfronts, the banners, the posters tacked on the columns.

"Under 1,000 yen!"

"See us under the food court!"

"Selected items under 5, 000 yen!"

You brought your gaze back to one of the escalators, a piece of paper taped on its side.

"Under renovation."

Under.

It hit you.

You scrambled back to the phone table. Trying your best to avoid the pool of blood, you knelt down and peeked underneath. Sure enough, a 2x2 QR code was taped underneath. Below it was a red cross.

You positioned Minato's phone underneath it, angling the camera to line up with the code.

"Come on, come on," you pleaded.

Finally, the phone buzzed. Yours did as well. Confused, you brought both phones out, placing them on the ground.

"Antidote administered. You won!"

────୨ৎ────

Back at the Beach, Chishiya stood next to Kuina. They were on the balcony overlooking the entrance, waiting for time to trickle slowly as group after group came back. Everyone except yours.

Niragi and his group of "friends" perched around the couches, revelling as the night stretched on and you still haven't arrived. He tilted his head in Chishiya's direction, a mocking smirk on his face.

He tapped his fingers repeatedly on the balcony, letting out a long sigh. "Why aren't they back yet?"

"I don't know, Chishiya."

"They should be back by now. The games never take this long."

"Maybe they're driving back right now? Maybe it's an endurance game?"

Chishiya scoffed. "It's a hearts game. You don't need endurance for that."

"Well, I don't know, Chishiya, okay? I'm worried too," Kuina glanced at him, grimacing in irritation.

As if on cue, you walked breezily through the large doors. Chishiya's eyes widened at the sight of you. Dark red seeped into his jacket, your sleeves, especially, soaked with them. A large bloodstain was spattered over your t-shirt, flecks of scarlet stuck on your chin and cheeks. You glanced around, face blank. When your eyes met, your mouth broke into the biggest grin.

You sprinted towards him, Chishiya walking briskly to meet you halfway down the steps. Before he could get a word out, you wrapped him up in a tight hug. His arms snaked around your frame, pressing you against him.

"What took you so long, you idiot?" he mumbled against your neck. To your surprise, he gently cradled your face in his hands, pressing his lips softly against yours. You hummed, beaming as he pulled away.

Kuina folded her arms, proudly watching you both. She sneaked a glance at Niragi, a deep scowl on his face. This made her laugh under her breath.

"I told you I'd be back," you knotted your fingers in between his. You smoothed down the worried crease between his brows. You giggled, accidentally transferring some of the blood onto his skin.

"Sorry about that. I guess we'll both need to shower." Chishiya rolled his eyes as you winked teasingly at him.

Kuina moved towards you, embracing you as well. "Jesus, that worried the fuck out of me. What happened to you?"

"Don't worry, it's not mine," you referred to the blood. "I had to drop some friends off on the way."

The three of you started to make your way back to your room, Chishiya's hand gripping your waist firmly.

"Oi!" Niragi called after you. You groaned, turning halfway to him. You cocked a brow.

"What the fuck did you do to my boys, huh?"

For a moment, you contemplated what you would answer. You could tell the truth, tell him his "boys" mindlessly went after each other for a cure that needed to be activated only by one person—logic they missed out on. You could lie and act tough, bluff that you killed them yourselves. You glanced at Chishiya, his mouth formed in a content grin.

"I didn't do anything. They were too dumb, that's all. Just like you."

The building was dead.

Not ten minutes ago it was filled with screams and agony. People fighting for their lives, some of them losing. Not only their lives but themselves, the people they were before the games.

The air was still now, heavy with the smell of adrenaline and blood. Chishiya’s quiet footsteps barely disturbed the settling silence as he walked out of the building and towards a small shed at the end of the garden.

He idly rifled through the scattered debris. Rusted gardening tools, an overturned chair with one leg missing, some yellowed papers. In the far corner was a sleeping bag and some canned goods. Someone must have used this shed as shelter and had to leave in a hurry when the building in front of it was turned into a game arena.

Something caught his eye. Half-buried under a wood panel covered in dust was a small, leather-bound book. The cover was worn, the edges frayed, as if it had been handled too much in a world where people still had time to write. He crouched, brushing away the dirt with lazy precision and turned it over in his hands.

When he flipped it open, the first thing he noticed wasn’t the words, it was the handwriting. Small, deliberate, elegant, each letter curved with a kind of care that felt foreign here.

His eyes lingered. A flicker of recognition moved through him. Not in the words themselves, but in the way they sat on the page. The shape. The slight slant of a certain letter.

It took him back to a different street, a different sky and the sound of wind pressing a crumpled piece of paper against his shoe.

It had been one of those shifts. The kind where time stretched and collapsed in uneven bursts. Seconds dragging, hours vanishing. A code blue that didn’t end the way it should have. Arguments in the staff room. The bitter sting of too much caffeine, too late at night.

Chishiya walked home without really seeing the city around him, his hands buried in the pockets of his coat, the hospital still clinging to him like a second skin. That was when the wind pushed it towards him. The way autumn leaves land at your feet before crumbling under the next step. A crumpled scrap of paper, edges torn, ink faded just enough to show it had lived in someone’s pocket before.

He might have ignored it. But the handwriting caught his attention first. It wasn’t rushed, like most things in Tokyo. It had weight. A voice hiding in ink.

He smoothed it out under the glow of a streetlamp and read:

Once, I held the world in brighter hue,

Where every dawn felt polished, raw, and new.

I gave with hands unscarred, a gentle flame,

But kindness dies when cruelty learns your name.

The streets are cold with strangers’ sharpened eyes,

They steal your trust, then dress it up in lies.

Each tender word you offered turns to dust,

Beneath the boots of greed, of hunger, lust.

And slowly, colours seep into the ground,

Where laughter once was painted, there’s no sound.

The sky turns grey, the rivers lose their song,

And days, once fleeting, drag too harsh, too long.

You age, and learn the lesson carved in stone:

This world will hollow you, leave you alone.

The heart that bled for others, pure, sincere,

Now beats in whispers no one else will hear.

What meaning lives in ashes, dim, confined?

When love is trampled by the ruthless kind?

A canvas torn, where joy has slipped away,

A soul left shivering in shades of grey.

Chishiya read it once, then again. Something about it slipped under his skin, not because it was sentimental, but because it wasn’t. It didn’t beg for hope. It didn’t lie.

He folded it with deliberate care and slid it into his pocket. Not because it mattered, he told himself. Just because it was… curious. But sooner rather than later, the folded piece of paper moved from his pocket into his wallet.

The Beach had been louder than usual that evening. Someone was shouting in the lobby, someone else crying in the hallway over losing a friend in a game. It was all noise to Chishiya, white static against the inside of his skull. He went straight to his room. The diary was already in his hand before he sat down. He opened it.

Dear diary,

Today's game was a five of Diamonds. We won, but “winning” here just means surviving long enough to see the next door open. There were twelve of us at the start. Four at the end. I don’t remember the exact moment each one fell, only the sound. Bodies hitting the ground here don’t sound the same as in the movies. There’s no slow fade to black, no music swelling. Just the flat, final punctuation of a life stopping.

People say this place changes you. I don’t think that’s true. I think it just strips you down to what you already are. In the real world, cruelty wore cologne and smiled for photographs. Here, it doesn’t bother pretending.

Out there, people lied with silk voices and warm handshakes. Here, they lie with their eyes open, their knives already drawn. It’s not better or worse... just… more honest.

And I think that’s the worst part.

That the monsters here don’t scare me as much as the ones who smiled at me in the streets.

He turned the page.

The Borderlands are cruel, yet clear,

No painted smiles, no masks to wear.

A game of death, of loss, of strife,

But isn’t that the game of life?

In this world cards decide your fate,

A ticking clock, a guarded gate.

Yet outside too, the stakes are shown,

We gamble trust, though not with stone.

Here truth is sharp, it cuts the skin,

No velvet glove to hide the sin.

The lies we live in day by day,

Are stripped and torn and burned away.

For out there, hearts are just the same:

They cheat, betray, yet dodge the blame.

In here at least, the blade is bare,

No kindly words to mask despair.

So tell me, friend, what world is true?

The one with masks, or one with view?

For whether cards or tongues deceive,

Both worlds demand we bleed, then leave.

He read it twice. His lips curved slightly, not in amusement exactly, but in recognition. People here, people there… it was the same table, just without a pretty tablecloth.

He leaned back in the chair, diary balanced loosely in his palm. The voices in the Beach’s hallways had faded to a low hum, almost like the sound of the city used to be outside his old apartment window.

The entries weren’t all poems. Some were fragments of thought, strange observations about the way people behaved after games, how their shoulders never quite lowered again. Others were half-finished metaphors, abandoned mid-sentence like a thought that hurt too much to finish.

He read until his eyes felt heavy, not because he was tired, but because the words had weight. He closed the diary slowly, brushing his thumb over the worn cover before setting it down next to his bed. It wasn’t that he needed to keep it close. He wanted to.

The Beach was a stage. It always had been. Morning brought another meeting, another round of Hatter’s theatrical speeches about utopia and legacy. Chishiya sat at the long table, half-listening, half-mapping the room in his mind. Who leaned forward to agree. Who leaned back to calculate. Who avoided eye contact because they knew too much.

Every conversation was a transaction. Every smile had a price. He could see the gears turning behind their eyes, each person working their own game within the larger one.

It reminded him too much of your words: In the real world, cruelty wore cologne and smiled for photographs.

The hours passed in a haze of forced camaraderie, pretending he was invested in the Beach’s future. But all of it felt like dressing a wound that was already infected.

When the day finally thinned out into night, he slipped back to his room without anyone noticing. The diary was where he had left it, under the corner of his pillow. He opened to a random page.

It didn’t matter what you had written, whether it was a sharp observation about someone’s trembling hands before a game, or a quiet note about the way the moonlight hit the glass in an empty lobby you had currently found shelter in. There was always something in it that hooked under his ribs.

You wrote the way he thought. Stripped of sentiment, but aware of beauty in places most people didn’t bother looking.

He began to notice patterns. The way you never crossed out a word, the rare moments you let a sentence trail off instead of ending it. The subtle shift in your handwriting when you were tired.

It felt… familiar. Not in a déjà-vu way, but in the way you know the rhythm of someone’s breathing in the dark.

He didn’t know your face, your voice, your name. But somehow, he felt like he knew you. And every night, that feeling rooted itself a little deeper.

A few nights later he stumbled across a particularly interesting entry:

Dear diary,

There was another player today. Not like the others. He didn’t bark orders or try to charm his way through. He stood apart, watching, like the game was a painting he was studying instead of something that could kill him.

It was strange… how someone could seem so still in the middle of chaos.

He didn’t speak unless necessary and when he did, his words were cut sharp, no excess. His face gave nothing away. Not fear. Not excitement. Just… calculation.

But there was a sharpness in his mind I could almost feel, like static in the air before lightning strikes. He seemed to notice every movement, every shift in the room, as if he was mapping us all.

It mesmerised me. Not in a way I can explain, but in the way you’re pulled toward the sea at night. Dangerous, but impossible to look away from.

Not only was it impressive. It ignited something in me. A spark of recognition, as though I had met him before in some other life, or maybe just in a dream I had forgotten.

I dreamed about him later. Not in a romantic way. At least, I don’t think so. More like he was still in the room, even after I woke. And for the first time since entering the Borderlands, I didn't wake up terrified.

The words stopped him cold. He’d been reading in that lazy, measured way he always did, but now his eyes fixed on the page like they were locked in place. The description wasn’t vague enough to be anyone else. It was him. He turned the page quickly.

I knew no name, nor where you’d been,

Yet something stirred, a pull within.

A fleeting spark, so swift, so true,

As if my soul remembered you.

The world was loud, yet you felt near,

A silence only I could hear.

No reason held, no proof, no plan,

Just threads unseen from me to man.

And since that moment, nights grow long,

My chest hums low, a restless song.

A call that whispers through the air,

A want to find you, somewhere, there.

Not love, not chance, but something more,

A tide that drags me to your shore.

I wait, I ache, I can’t explain,

Why absence burns like a dying flame.

He leaned back in his chair, gaze slipping toward the far wall though he wasn’t looking at it. The memory of that game stirred. Faces, movements, the flicker of numbers on a screen and someone in there had to be you. He couldn't get a perfect image in his head, but fragments: a turn of the head, a gaze lingering too long, the sound of footsteps that didn’t match the panic in the air.

You had seen him. Not just seen, but noticed. And not for the reasons most people noticed anything here.

A faint, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. From then on, reading wasn’t enough. The diary had been a window, now it felt like a trail. And he had never been the type to leave a trail unexplored.

The diary was still open on his lap, your words running through his head like a melody he couldn’t silence. I felt like I knew him.

His fingers lingered on the page, tracing the curve of a letter without touching it. He could still see your handwriting when he closed his eyes. Small, deliberate, alive in a way almost nothing here was.

He’d told himself at first that it was curiosity. That he was reading because your perspective was rare in this world, sharp enough to cut through the monotony. But that excuse had worn thin days ago.

Now, the thought of finding you sat heavy in his chest. And the feeling was insistent. It wasn’t just about putting a face to the words. It was the pull of wanting to know you, to hear those thoughts in your voice instead of on paper, to see if your eyes were as sharp as your mind.

His heart beat faster at the thought, a quiet, steady thrum that felt unfamiliar. Dangerous.

It was a need, but not the kind born from survival. That, he could manage. This was worse. This was the kind that dug its claws in and refused to let go.

Chishiya closed the diary, sliding it into his jacket with deliberate care. Then he stood, glancing out the window at the black sprawl of the city. Somewhere out there, you were still moving through the games, still writing, still breathing.

And he would find you. Not by chance. Not by accident.

Because he had decided so.