ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ

The wind claws at the leaded windows of your manor like a living beast, howling through the cracks in the stonework, carrying the smell of wet earth and thick woodsmoke from the village below. 

You stand in the gaping foyer, the once-grand space now a graveyard of your ambitions. Dust motes dance in the feeble light filtering through grimy panes, illuminating cobwebs on the chandelier above. The air is thick, heavy with the grime of chemicals and the stout, underlying rot that no amount of incense can mask. 

Your home, perched on the jagged cliffs overlooking the sleepy village below, was built in the 18th century by some long-forgotten baron, its gothic spires and gargoyle-guarded eaves a testament to grandeur now faded into neglect.

Down in the village, they whisper about you. The reclusive scientist of this manor, the mad inventor who vanished from society years ago. You hear their tales on the rare occasions you venture out under the cover of night, cloaked in shadow, to collect supplies from the apothecary or the butcher. 

“Witch,” they mutter behind gloved hands as you pass, their eyes averted from your face and the wild tangle of hair that escapes your hood. Children scatter like leaves in the wind, and the priest crosses himself at the sight of you passing back up the winding, fog-shrouded path. This village is a place of simple folk—farmers tilling stubborn soil, blacksmiths hammering iron into plows, women gossiping over tea in parlors warmed by crackling hearths. They fear what they do not understand, like the lightning rods jutting from your roof like accusing fingers, the strange glow that emanates from your windows at unholy hours, the screams that sometimes echo down the valley, mistaken for the wail of banshees.

But you are no witch. 

You are a scientist, an inventor, a seeker of truths buried in the marrow of existence. Obsessed with life—the spark that animates flesh, the lust that drives the heart to beat faster, the binding twists of the human mind that birth genius and monstrosity in equal measure. Your manor is your laboratory, your sanctuary… your prison. 

The drawing rooms have been gutted, transformed into chambers of your craft. In the east wing, shelves groan under the weight of leather-bound tomes: inventions on electricity, forbidden notes smuggled from foreign continents, texts illustrated with grotesque anatomies. Jars line the walls, filled with preservatives that cloud the glass, failed experiments staring back with milky eyes. A rabbit with too many limbs, a human torso stitched from animal parts, too many teeth and fingers too keep up with.

It’s a mess.

You pace the cold marble floors of your study, boots echoing in the vast emptiness. The fire in the hearth sputters, casting elongated shadows that writhe across the stone covered in parchment drawings. Your hands, stained with ink and blood, tremble as you pore over your latest journal. Page after page of frantic scrawls, filled with diagrams of circulatory systems intertwined with arcane symbols, equations balancing spirituality against the heavenly forces you swear must exist.

Creation of life is your greatest feat. To create it, to animate it, to become God itself. You’ve tried everything. 

Animals first. 

Cats electrified until their charred fur, dogs infused with elixirs distilled from rare herbs and your own blood, rats and rabbits sewn together until it was hard to tell which parts came from what.

Then humans, God forgive you.

Vagrants lured with promises of coin if they would kill another for your studies, corpses dug up from the village graveyard, even your last lover when he left you. All of them stitched, shocked, injected with serums that promise rebirth. But they all fail. They rot. They crumble. The spark eludes you, slipping through your fingers again and again.

Madness stirs at the edges of your vision, a constant companion these days. You haven’t slept in… how long? Days blur into nights, marked only by the tolling of the village bell far below. Your reflection in the cracked mirror above the mantel shows someone unhinged with eyes sunken and fever-bright, lips chapped from muttering incantations to yourself, cheeks hollowed by meals forgotten amid the frenzy. Lust coils in your belly—not for flesh, but for the ultimate union—creator and creation, mind and body fused in perfect, pulsating life. 

You crave it like a drug, this power over death. The human mind, so fragile, so ripe for dissection. Whispers in the dark corners of the manor tell you you’re close. So close. One more attempt. One more body, fresh and vital, to mold into something eternal.

You yearn for the day you get to look your creation in the eye and feel its heartbeat against yours.

Tonight, the storm gathers. Thunder rumbles like the laughter of gods, and lightning illuminates the chaos of your workspace with tables strewn with scalpels, coils of wire, batteries humming. The village sleeps, oblivious, unaware of what truly happens behind these walls. You light another candle, its flame guttering in the draft, and turn back to your notes. 

The quill scratches across parchment, ink bleeding into frantic loops and slashes. The words blur, your eyes burn, but you force them open. One more line, one more variable. The storm outside answers with a crack of thunder that rattles the very bones of your manor, rattling the chains and metal behind you.

You turn, and there he is.

Strapped to the iron-framed table at the room’s center, Jack—your masterpiece, your abomination—lies in wait. Leather restraints bite into mismatched wrists and ankles, creaking with every shallow rumble of the storm or settling of the manor. The table is tilted upright now, a grotesque easel, so you can look him in the face when the moment comes. 

And what a face. Skin the color of gray oceans stretches over a skull too broad for any single man, sutured along the hairline in a jagged crown of black stitching. His jaw juts wrong, borrowed from a mastiff you drowned in the river last spring. Teeth gleam behind parted lips, human incisors beside yellowed coyote fangs held frozen in a snarl. His ears twitch even in stillness, leathery bat wings pinned flat by more stitches, veined and translucent, quivering with the memory of flight.

But your favorite bit has to be his choppy hair, a mess of different shades of brown strands you kept in a nap sack. They’ve all come from different heads, but you decorated his scalp nicely so you could run your fingers through the course strands.

He doesn’t have eyes. Optic nerves are too finicky, and your hands have lost their steadiness long ago, but you’ve made sure to give him the satisfaction of eyelids. He won’t be able to see you (though, with the state you’ve been in, maybe it’s for the better), but he will be able to smell you, and taste you, and hear your hearts beat in time.

His body is a butcher’s fever dream, though. A farmer’s thick arms end in broad hands with taloned crow’s claws, blackened and curved, clicking against the metal as residual nerves fire. Below the waist, the legs are mismatched, one from a thief who tried to ransack your garbage, another from some body you dug up (you made sure to try and make them as similar as possible, muscles and all). He staggers, every inch of him a bit bigger than the last, muscles building upon muscles until you’ve been left with a mountain of a man.

But that was only half the story.

Lower, beneath the crude belt of scar tissue where human hips met mismatched haunches, you had not spared your craft. 

And who could blame you? Years of silence, of nights spent with only the creak of floorboards and the wet thud of your own pulse for company, how could you deny yourself this one indulgence? You stitched him a manhood worthy of the name, pieced from the best of what the graveyards and the gallows offered. It was difficult to seam it together, threading silver wire beneath the skin so every vein would stand proud when blood finally rushed south.

You told yourself it was science—proportion, symmetry, the full anatomy of life. But your fingers had lingered, tracing the ridge you’d sculpted, the soft give you’d coaxed into being. It’s crude, and perverted. But you’ve lost your sense of shame ages ago.

The torso is the worst. You pieced it from six—no, seven—cadavers, skin tones clashing like a quilt sewn by someone blind and drunk all at once. Scars rope across him in raised, angry welts, some still weeping clear fluid. There’s stitching everywhere, crude and thick, holding him together the way prayer holds a sinner to grace. A flap of skin over his sternum hangs open, revealing the hollow cavity where his heart should beat.

But it will. Soon.

Your gaze drifts to the jar on the desk. Inside, suspended in amber fluid, floats the heart of the man who once shared your bed. Jack. The real one. The one who laughed at your theories, kissed the ink from your fingers, promised to stay even as parasites ate him hollow. You kept him alive longer than medicine allowed with tubes and tinctures and desperate, whispered prayers until the night he begged you to let him go. You did. Then you took what he left behind.

The heart is smaller than you remember, shriveled slightly, but perfect. You lift the jar, cradling it against your chest. The glass is cold, and the organ inside pulses faintly… or is that your own heartbeat echoing through your ribs? You can’t tell anymore.

“Almost, my love,” you murmur to the thing on the table. 

You set the jar beside the open chest. The cavity yawns, ribs pried apart and pinned with iron clamps. Inside, lungs harvested from a drowned sailor inflate and deflate with the bellows you’ve rigged to a waterwheel in the cellar. Tubes snake from his throat to a bubbling flask of oxygenated serum. Everything is ready. Everything must work.

Because this time, you’ve woven love into the stitches. This time, the heart remembers your name.

You smile, tears cutting clean tracks through the grime on your cheeks as you tie on your dirtied apron, stained with years of work.

“Wake up, Jack,” you whisper, unscrewing the lid of the jar. “It’s time to come home.”

Rain lashes the windows in sheets, each drop a hammer blow against glass. Thunder rolls in waves, shaking the floorboards beneath your feet. The candles gutter, then flare, then gutter again, as if the air itself is taking deep breathes. You stand over the table, sleeves rolled to the elbow, arms slick to the wrist with amber fluid and old blood as you fish the heart out.

You reach into the cavity with both hands.

The heart is heavier than you remember when you stole it from your lover’s dead body, warm from the preservative bath, slick as a fish. It slides between your fingers like it wants to be placed, so you guide it home, nestling it among the mismatched lungs, a liver you stole, the spleen of a deer, bull arteries thick as garden hoses. You work as steady as your frantic brain will allow, guiding the needle and thread. In, loop, pull. The heart’s aorta slots to the bull’s artery, and you sew them together in tiny, perfect stitches, humming under your breath.

The veins are next. You splice, tie, and knot them tightly together. Pig’s blood, thick and dark, is warmed in a copper basin over the fire, waiting in a glass reservoir rigged to a hand-crank pump. Tubing snakes from the reservoir to the table, rubber fittings you scavenged from old fishing gear. You thread the largest tube into the heart’s pulmonary artery, seal it with wax and a prayer while smaller lines burrow into the vena cava and the jugular you borrowed from a poacher’s corpse. It’s difficult, but you’ve had so many trial and errors that it feels like child’s play now.

When the last stitch is tied, you pause. The heart sits centered now, a dark ruby in a cage of bone and tissue. You lean in, letting your lips brush the slick muscle, a final promise pressed through a kiss. 

Then you fold the pinned back flaps of skin back over the cavity like closing a book, finding your needle again. You sew in long, looping pulls, the thread biting deep. The skin puckers, pulling taught, irritation blooming fresh and pink. When you knot the final stitch, the chest is whole. 

Almost. It still needs to rise and fall.

The screws jut from either side of his neck like iron welts, threaded deep into the vertebrae, wired to copper plates beneath the skin. You drag the cables across the floor, trying your best not to snag them on anything. One end clips to the left screw with a spark that singes your knuckle. The other to the right. 

The pig’s blood reservoir sits ready. You prime the pump—thump, thump—and crimson floods the tubes. It gurgles into his veins, dark and viscous, chasing out the last of the preservative. His skin flushes, mottled purple to sickly rose and deep blue. 

The heart—your heart—gives a single, wet lurch inside its new cage.

You step back. The storm is directly overhead now as lightning strobes white across the windows. In that flash, you see him: the monster, the lover, the bridge between death and your will. The cables hum, thick with current stolen from the sky. You grip the switch—a brass lever salvaged from a church organ, connected from copper wiring up to the lighting poles on your roof.

You take a deep breath.

You throw the lever.

The sky splits open and lightning answers.

A single, white-hot lance of lightning spears the tallest rod on your roof. The impact is a thunderclap inside your skull as metal screams, glass shatters in the upper windows, and the air turns staticy. The bolt rides the braided copper downspouts you braided yourself, down the gutters, down the walls, a river of blue-white fire racing for the laboratory.

It finds the cables.

They swell, and glow, and sing. The sheath blisters and peels away in smoking ribbons. Inside the room, every hair on your body lifts, and the candles extinguish in a puff of smoke. The cables buck like living serpents, then go rigid. A heartbeat of silence, then the current slams the iron screws in Jack’s neck.

The first spark is like a sun.

It erupts from the left bolt in a flash of violet fire, arcs across the gap to the right, and showers your face in sparks. You feel each one, a thousand stinging kisses, but your eyes stay open. Unblinking. You watch.

The electricity pours into him.

Jack’s body leaps. The leather straps groan, then snap like kindling. His spine bows so violently the table legs screech across the stone floor. Every muscle locks, then spasms, then locks again. The bat ears flatten against his skull, the crow claws rake furrow in the iron. His jaw unhinges in a silent howl, fangs catching the strobing light like ivory lightning rods of their own. Veins beneath the stitched skin bulge black as the current hunts for ground.

Another bolt. Another. The storm is a machine now, feeding him.

The pig’s blood boils in the tubes, frothing crimson foam that spatters the floor. The heart, your lover’s heart, slams against its new ribs once, twice, a frantic drum trying to match the thunder. His scars split open in places, fresh blood, dark red, spraying in rhythmic arcs that paint your apron, your cheeks, the walls.

You do not move.

You stand in the eye of the chaos, hair whipping loose, eyes wide and dry despite the sparks that sear your lashes. The room is a forge with the copper smell of ozone, the horrid reek of burning blood, the sweet rot of old flesh cooking from the inside. Jack’s body is a puppet with its strings on fire. His one leg kicks, jarring the table further. His arm flails, fingers splayed, and his clawed fingers grip and tense around nothing.

A third bolt, thicker than the last, slams home.

The lights in the manor explode in a chain of pops. Darkness swallows everything but the afterimage burned into your retinas: Jack suspended mid-convulsion, every stitch glowing white-hot, the heart visible as a pulsing beacon behind his ribs. Then the current peaks, a roar that drowns the storm itself, and the cables melt. Copper drips in glowing rivulets, hissing where it meets the blood on the floor.

Silence.

The storm exhales and moves on, grumbling like a beast overhead. A few, lingering candles stay lit from residual heat, and in the flickering gold, Jack hangs half-off the table, straps in tatters, body jerking and writhing with electricity.

You finally blink.

A single tear cuts through the soot on your cheek, but you are smiling.

You wait.

Three feet back, boots rooted in the cooling blood, you wait with the patience of a bride at an altar that never opens. Your smile is small, but your heart thumps wildly in your chest.

Come on, love. Come back to me.

Nothing.

“Jack,” you whisper. The name tastes like rust and honey and every dream you’ve ever conjured.

Nothing.

The smile falters. One corner of your mouth twitches downward, then the other. You take a step, the floor squelching beneath you.

“Jack.”

Closer now, you reach out. Your palm hovers over the stitched chest, trembling. The heat radiates like a smith’s forge, but you press anyway.

The flesh is searing. Skin blisters your fingertips on contact. You yelp and jerk back, cradling the burned hand to your chest. Tears spring unbidden, hot and furious, carving clean lines down your cheeks.

“No,” you breathe. “No, no, no.”

You slam both palms against his chest this time, ignoring the pain. The heart sits in his ribs, the blood in his veins, but the limbs hang slack. You smear blood across the scars, painting yourself in failure. Your voice cracks open.

“JACK!”

The scream ricochets off stone and glass, and you kick the table. Iron rings, the whole frame shudders, but he does not wake. You kick again, harder, boot toe denting the metal. Pain blooms up your leg; you welcome it.

You stumble backward, apron soaked crimson, hands slick and shaking. The tears come in earnest now—ugly, wrenching sobs that fold you in half. You sink to your knees in the puddle of blood and melted wax, arms wrapped around your head as if you could hold the madness in.

“This one was perfect,” you sob into the crook of your elbow. “You were supposed to be perfect.”

You curl tighter, forehead pressed to the cold floor, and cry until the storm outside sounds gentle by comparison.

“God,” you spit, the word foreign and bitter on your tongue. “If you’re there, if you ever were, end this. Take the madness. Take me. Strike me down right here, you coward, or give me back my—”

Your voice cracks. The prayer dissolves into a hiccupping whisper. You haven’t prayed since childhood, finding that people who pray to a cruel God are nothing but sheep. Now the words tumble out anyway, stout with venom.

“Let it be finished. Let me be finished.”

The storm has passed. The manor is wrong in its silence—no wind, no thunder, only the soft drip of blood from the table’s lip.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

You bow lower, pressing your forehead to the stone, arms wrapping around your skull as if you could crush the thoughts inside. The silence swells, thick and so obscene you can hear your own pulse in your ears.

Then, as if nothing more than air on your skin—

The scrape of a talon on your scalp.

It begins at the crown of your head, parting your tangled hair. One claw, then two, then the whole splayed hand threading through the strands like a lover waking you from a nightmare. The touch is slow, exploratory, dragging downward to the nape of your neck. A low, wet rumble vibrates above you—not thunder, not the pump, but a sound from a throat that has never spoken.

You freeze.

The claws pause, curling gently, possessively, against your skin.

Your heart slams against your ribs, but you don’t dare breathe. The claw in your hair moves again, combing through the knots, talons grazing your scalp with a tenderness that makes your skin prickle.

Your hand rises, trembling, and closes around it.

The claw is warm. Not the searing heat of lightning, but the steady, pulsing warmth of life. Blood thrums beneath the scarred skin, pumping through veins. The hand is monstrous, a slight mistake on your part, but your two hands barely encircle it. You grip tighter, afraid it will vanish if you let go.

You kneel upward slowly, as if moving too quickly will wake you up from this dream. Your gaze follows the arm through corded muscle under mottled skin, scars glowing in the candlelight, up to the shoulder where human flesh meets thick stitching. Then higher to the face.

The eyeless sockets stare back.

Where eyes should be, only smooth, stitched skin, until you look closer. Thick, viscous black liquid wells from the seams, pooling, spilling over in slow, tar-like tears. It drips from his chin, pattering onto his chest. The bat ears twitch. The canine jaw works, fangs clicking softly, as if tasting the air.

You swallow. Your voice is a thread, so soft even you barely hear it.

“Jack?”

The creature sniffs, the nostrils you carved flaring as he takes deep inhales. The grip on your hand tightens, a low rumble vibrating through the talons into your bones. The head tilts, black tears streaking the stitched cheeks, and the grip shifts, tugging you closer, jerking your arm.

You stumble forward on numb knees, boots slipping in the congealing blood. He doesn’t know his own strength, the table lurching with a metallic screech, one remaining strap creaking in protest. You’re half-dragged to your feet, palms slapping against the warm, scarred chest to steady yourself.

The heart—his heart, your Jack’s heart—slams beneath your fingers. Not the mechanical thud of the pump, but a living, frantic rhythm. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Faster than it should be, as if it’s trying to outrun the body it now powers. You press both hands flat, feeling the heat seep into your burned skin, the tremor of muscle beneath stitches.

Tears come again, hot and thick as they spill over your lashes and drip onto the fresh-sewn chest, mixing with the black ooze still weeping from his sockets. You lean in, cheek to the ridged sternum, ear pressed to the cavity you closed with your own trembling hands. The heartbeat fills your skull, loud and real and impossible.

“Jack,” you sob, laughing through it. “You’re here.”

A low, confused rumble answers from his throat, an animalistic growl that tickles your skin. The free claw rises, hesitant, then settles on the back of your head. Talons comb through your hair again, careful, as if he’s learning the shape of you by touch alone. The other arm strains against the last leather strap, iron buckle groaning, but he doesn’t fight it. Not yet. He’s too busy sniffing, taking deep, wet inhalations that flutter the hair at your temple. The bat ears swivel, tracking the sound of your breath, your tears, the frantic thumping of your own heart.

You cling to him, arms sliding around the mismatched waist, fingers digging into the warm skin. He smells like copper and mildew and the unmistakable scent of a man. His chest rises and falls against your cheek, shallow but steady. The restrained arm jerks once, twice, then stills, the claw flexing open and closed like a child reaching for a toy just out of grasp.

He doesn’t know your name. Doesn’t even know his. Doesn’t know the storm, the manor, the graveyards you robbed. He only knows the warmth pressed against him, the salt of your tears, the heartbeat that matches his own. 

And that’s enough.

…

Until it isn’t.

A tremor runs through the massive frame, first a shiver, then a shudder. His ears pin flat. The sniffing stops. The claw on your head tightens, talons pricking your scalp, and the rumble in his chest pitches higher, a frustrated sound.

He jerks.

The table rocks, and the last leg strap groans. You feel the shift in his body, the sudden, animal surge of panic. You step back, palms raised.

“Jack, easy—”

Too late.

He thrashes. The remaining strap on his left ankle snaps like thread, leather shredding. The table tilts, crashes onto its side with a clang that rattles your teeth. You stumble, boots skidding backwards, arms windmilling for balance. He howls, a sound torn between man and beast, echoing off the vaulted ceiling. The black ooze pours faster from his sockets, streaking the floor in glossy ribbons.

“Jack, stop—look at me—”

He can’t. He can’t see. The world is scent and sound and terror. He lunges upright, mismatched legs scrambling for purchase. The right leg strap holds, the cuff biting deep into flesh. He snarls, fangs flashing, and rips. The second strap explodes, and he staggers to his feet, swaying, a titan drunk on new life.

The final restraint: the thick leather around his left wrist, bolted to the overturned table’s frame. He yanks hard, the buckle screeching.

“Jack! No—”

You see it happen in slow, sickening detail. The stitches along his shoulder stretch, dark thread going taut, then pink as skin parts. Blood rivulets begin to pool from the tears being made, streaming down his thick arm. He doesn’t feel it because you didn’t include half the pain receptors you should have. The joint pops, a wet, grinding dislocation. Flesh tears in a ragged sheet from collarbone to bicep, revealing raw muscle and glinting bone. The cuff still holds. He plants his feet, and throws his weight back. The leather snaps with a crack like a musket shot.

He falls.

His palms slap the stone hard enough to make you wince, the dislocated arm dangling at his side. His chest heaves, taking gulping breaths that have him shaking. His head sways from side to side on his shoulders, still disoriented but grunting and whining like a lost dog.

You stand frozen, hands pressed to your mouth, trying to hold the screams inside. The creature you made, your lover reborn, crouches in the ruin of your laboratory, alive.

You smile so wide your cheeks hurt. 

You sink to your knees, careful not to startle him. You’re a few feet away, just enough space to not let Jack feel overwhelmed even more.

He sways, head low, ears swiveling like radar dishes. The dislocated arm drags, useless, leaving a wet smear across the stone. Every breath he takes whistles through his nostrils, every exhale steams in the cooling air. He sniffs, cataloging the world in scents you can only guess at: rust, blood, melted wax, your own salt-sweat skin.

You watch, rapt. 

This is genesis all over again. The first clumsy steps of a soul stitched from scraps. This must be what God felt, you think, watching Adam and Eve, both of them naked and terrified and perfect.

You lift your fist and strike the floor. Thump.

His head snaps toward the sound, ears pricked high. The black tears have slowed to a trickle, the sockets gaping like wells. He shifts his weight, one leg bending, knee scraping the ground. He shifts towards the sound, leaning towards it as he sniffs.

You strike again. Thump.

He shifts again, closer. The talons of his good hand click against stone. He lifts his head, sniffing the air between you, and you see the moment recognition flickers, not memory, but something. Like he’s understanding the same person who was pressed against him moments ago is the same person who sits here now.

You crawl.

Knees in blood, apron dragging, you move toward him on all fours. The distance shrinks until you’re barely a foot from him. You extend both hands, palms up, fingers trembling. The burns on your skin throb, but you ignore them.

He leans in.

His face hovers inches from your fingertips as hot breath washes over your wrists. He sniffs once, twice, deep and shuddering. Then the claw rises, settling over your offered hands, talons curling gently around your wrists. 

You hold your breath.

He holds his.

You guide his hand to your cheek. The rough pads of his fingers, stitched from calloused laborers and farmers, brush your skin like weathered parchment. He pauses, then explores, tracing the ridge of your cheekbone, the damp trail of tears, the wild tangle of your hair. You tilt your head into the touch, letting him map you. His claws comb gently, parting strands, learning the texture of you.

You move him lower. You draw his palm to the hollow of your throat. His nostrils flare as he feels the frantic flutter of your pulse beneath thin skin. A low, wondering rumble vibrates in his chest. You press harder, making him feel the life you gave him mirrored in your own veins.

Then lower still. You guide him to your sternum, flattening his hand over your heart. It races beneath your ribs, thumping against your chest. You cover his hand with both of yours, pinning it there. Feel me. Know me. The moment stretches, candlelight flickering across your joined shadows on the grime-slick floor.

He moves first.

His claw curls, slides to the nape of your neck, and pulls. It’s not rough, more like impatience. You rise onto your knees as he drags you forward, until your chest collides with his. The impact jars a sob from your throat, joy quickly replacing the anger you felt only minutes ago. His good arm locks around your waist, talons splayed across your back, careful even in instinct. He buries his face in your hair.

He smells you.

Deep, dragging inhalations taking in the salt of your scalp, the copper of blood on your hair, the soap you haven’t used in days. His muzzle drags down, nosing along your neck, breath hot against your pulse. You cry openly now, tears soaking into the skin at his shoulder. He follows them.

His tongue unfurls.

The lightning did more than spark life, it split him. The muscle divides into three thick, serpentine strands—each moving independently. They sweep across your cheek in wet, curious stripes, lapping at the salt of your tears, the sweat beading at your temple. One coils gently under your jaw, tasting the hollow there, then another traces the seam of your lips, while the third licks a slow path from collarbone to ear, savoring the tremor in your skin.

You laugh through the sobs, a broken, wondrous sound, and bury your face against his chest. His heart thuds beneath your ear.

“Welcome home, Jack…”

── .✦

Monsters are hard to keep up with, you’ve learned.

You haven’t slept (not truly) since the night the sky gave him back to you. Snatches of rest come only when exhaustion folds you over your desk, face pressed into the hard wood. The manor is quiet now, save for the creak of floorboards under his uncertain steps and the low, constant rumble in his chest when he’s near you.

On his first full day of life, you reset his shoulder. He whimpered as you eased the dislocated joint back into place with a wet pop. Black ooze wept from the torn stitches, although you’re unsure of its origin. It still leaks from his eyes, but you can’t seem to find the source. You cleaned, re-stitched, and wrapped the limb in linen. He fought at first, clawing at you, but your voice pinned him still. When you tied the final knot, he nosed your hair in gratitude, split tongue flicking across your temple.

But when you turned back to your desk to scribble notes, he found the window.

You’d cracked it open to let the charnel stink of pig’s blood and copper drift out. Jack padded over, drawn by the brush of cold air. He planted his claws on the sill, leaned out until his messy hair caught the wind, and sniffed. His split tongue flicked out, tasting the smell of rain-wet stone and pine from the cliffs.

You watched from your chair, lazily scratching notes into your observation book. He stayed there for hours, head tilted, blind sockets aimed at the valley. When the baker’s chimney in the village below puffed plumes of yeast and golden crust baking, he huffed, a pleased, rumbling sound, and licked the air again, chasing the warm, bready scent on the wind.

You couldn’t help it. You smiled, setting your quill down. “Smell that, Jack? Fresh bread. I’ll bring you a loaf next time I’m down.”

He turned toward your voice and chuffed, almost like he was agreeing. Then he settled back on his haunches, content to let the village bake its gifts and send them up on the breeze, while he guarded the window and waited for you.

You wondered if the townspeople were staring up at your manor and wondering who this new shadow must be. 

Let them wonder, you think.

On the second day, he learns you are the axis of his world. You sit at your desk, scribbling notes on motor function and how to improve his stumbling, and suddenly the chair is gone as you’re lifted from it. He cradles you to his chest like a child with a doll, rumbling confusion when you squirm. 

“Down, Jack. Down.” You tap his arm firmly, trying your best not to upset him. He obeys, setting you on the floor with the reverence of someone handling glass. Ten minutes later, he does it again.

That has to be the most jarring thing—his strength.

The first night you tried to dress him, you brought out one of your late father’s old nightshirts, one of his baggier ones. Jack sniffed it, ears twitching, then shredded it in one distracted swipe while you tried to pull it over his ears. 

You tried again the next night with an old tunic from one of the bodies you’d dug up months ago. He wriggled, whining as his claws weaved until the whole thing hung in tatters around his hips. The sound he made was pure misery, a low, keening growl that only stopped when you peeled the remnants away and let him curl naked against the hearth.

You gave up on modesty after that.

Well…

The horse-cloak was an accident. You’d bought it from the village tanner to use as a tarp for hauling meat, the fabric a heavy oiled wool, brass clasps the size of your fists. You draped it over his shoulders as a last stitch effort, and he let it stay. The hem pooled around his ankles, the hood swallowed his sharp ears and eyeless sockets, and the clasps met neatly across his broad chest, but it was the only item of clothing he would tolerate. The rest of the time it lay discarded in a heap, and he padded through the manor bare as the day you resurrected him, scars and stitches and mismatched limbs on full display.

You never minded. The sight of him, all raw power and clumsy grace, was a testament to living unrestricted. Let the village clutch their pearls. You could stare at your masterpiece all day.

And you think he’d do the same to you, if you had given him the pleasure of eyes. But even without seeing, he’s learned so much in so little time.

He communicates in fragments, a low groan for hunger, a sharp huff for discomfort, a soft grumble when you stroke his ears. You teach him how to be gentle. You press his talons to your cheek, guide them in slow circles, and he mirrors it. When you flinch at a too-tight grip, he whines and loosens immediately. It’s hard, but it’s progress.

Nights are the worst. He paces the laboratory, restless, sniffing corners, pawing at the overturned table, exploring with his hands. You have to coax him to the nest of blankets you’ve made near the hearth, too afraid to bring him to your bedroom yet, or out of the laboratory for that matter. He curls around you, massive, protective, split tongue tasting the air above your head. You fall asleep to the steady thump-thump of the heart you gave him, his claws combing through your hair in endless, soothing loops.

He learns in the way a storm learns the shape of a valley—slowly, violently, then all at once, until the entire thing has been desecrated.

The cuff.

The first time you loop the iron manacle around his thick wrist and snap it to the rusted drain pipe, he panics. The chain rattles like a death knell. He yanks, his claws gouging the stone, shoulder stitches popping with wet little sighs. You’re already at the door, cloak half-on, when you hear the crack of bone and tendon. You turn to find his hand gone, severed clean at the wrist by his own strength, dark blood spraying in rhythmic arcs. He feels at the stump, head tilted, then turns at you, a low, betrayed whine rising in his throat.

You don’t scold, even as you groan and shuffle your cloak back off. You kneel, pressing the severed hand to the bleeding wrist, connecting muscle and stitching while he trembles. 

The whole time you murmur, “I’ll only be gone a minute, love. It’s just to get food. You’ll see.”

The next time you cuff him, he whines, pacing the length of the chain, but doesn’t fight. When you return with a paper-wrapped bundle of red meat, he’s sitting, ears pricked, leaning against the wall. You unhook him, and he bolts to you, muzzle buried in the package before you can unwrap it.

The word.

“No.”

You say it softly the first time he tries to follow you up the stairs, hands reaching for you eagerly. He freezes, head cocking to the side. You say it again, firmer this time. He backs down one step, then two, a frustrated huff fogging the air. By the fourth time hearing it, the word alone stops him mid-motion no matter what he’s doing, even when he’s mid-lift, your nightgown bunched in his fist, ready to carry you to bed like a bride. He sets you down with a sheepish grunt, claws flexing, waiting for praise. You give it, scratching behind his ear, murmuring good job, and his chest rumbles in response.

But you learn him, too.

He likes your laugh. The first time you snort at his clumsy attempt to hold a jar, his ears swivel toward the sound. He butts his head against your ribs until you laugh again, then licks the joy from your cheek with all three tongues.

He is obsessed with your hair. When you sit at your desk, he drapes himself behind you, muzzle buried in the strands, inhaling until his lungs must ache. When you finally take a bath days after the first night of his arrival, he nearly breaks your neck with how quickly he grabs your head, nose taking in the sweet soapy scent.

And meat. God, the meat. Your cold cellar is a carnage of lamb shanks, loins, rib bones cracked open for marrow and sucked clean. You haul back haunches from the village butcher until your arms ache, and still he devours it in minutes, blood smeared across his muzzle like war paint. You start buying whole lambs, dragging them up the cliff path yourself. He sits eagerly chained to the drain pipe, and you reward him handsomely for his good behavior.

Some nights, like tonight, you sit together on the laboratory floor, his head in your lap, your fingers tracing the seams of his face. He chews contentedly on a raw lambchop, bones crunching like kindling. You talk to him about the weather, about the village gossip, about how the butcher’s boy now pales when he sees you coming. Jack listens, ears flicking, occasionally licking a stray drop of blood from your wrist, but he doesn’t understand what you’re telling him, he just likes the sound of your voice.

The hearth crackles low, embers glowing against the dark stone of the laboratory. You sit cross-legged on the wool rug, back against the warm stone, Jack’s massive head heavy on your thighs. His ears twitch with every pop of the fire. Your fingers trace the thick black thread along his brow, following the seam where different tones of skin converge. The stitches are neat now, healed to raised purple ridges. 

You speak softly to him, mumbling on about some story from days ago.

“…And the bay mare, you should’ve seen her. She kicked the stall gate clean off its hinges of the corral. Galloped straight through the fishmonger’s crates and knocked rotted fish everywhere. The blacksmith’s boy tried to catch her with a rope…”

Jack’s jaws work slow on the last of the lambchop. When the marrow is gone, he flicks the bone aside with a lazy claw. It clatters into the shadows, and his hand rises. One talon brushes your lower lip, feather-light, silencing you mid-sentence.

The room stills.

“Jack,” you whisper.

A low grunt rumbles in his chest, curious, listening.

You take his hand in both of yours, guide the broad pad of his finger to your lips again.

“Jack.” Slower this time, letting the shape of it settle on your tongue. You press his palm flat to your mouth so he can feel the vibration. “Jaaaack.”

He sits up. The movement is fluid despite his size, the firelight sliding over his mismatched shoulders. His blind sockets tilt toward you, black tears long dried. Another grunt escapes his throat.

You slide your hand to his chest, over the steady thump-thump of the heart you placed there.

“This is you.” You tap once. “Jack.” You tap again, firmer. “Say it with me. J—”

His lips part. The split tongue flicks over his meat-soaked lips, before retracting back into his mouth. Air hisses through his fangs.

“Juh…”

It’s barely a sound, but it’s there. His ears flatten in frustration, but he tries again, throat working, the muscles you stitched from three different creatures learning a shape they’ve never made. It must hurt, you think.

“Juh… J—”

You cup his face, thumbs stroking the seams at his cheeks. “Jack,” you breathe, encouraging. “You’re Jack.”

He leans into your palms, eyesockets creased with effort. “Jaa…khh.”

The k clicks wrong, catching on his canine tooth, but it’s close. So close your own heart stumbles. You laugh and press your forehead to his, cupping his jaw that still tries to work around the word.

“Yes, love. Jack. That’s you.”

His claw clamps around your jaw, feeling the way your jaw moves when you speak. The growl starts low in his chest, vibrating up through his throat, and forces its way out between fangs.

“Jaaaack.” It’s rough, a half-snarl cut through shredded vocal chords. The k snaps like a breaking bone, but your eyes flood instantly.

“Yes—yes, that’s it—”

He doesn’t stop. The sound hooks in his throat, drags him forward. He tries the next word he’s heard you breathe a hundred times to him.

“Lll… luh…” It’s almost funny how his mouth moves around the syllables, like he’s trying to throw the word up rather than say it. “Luh… vh…”

“Love,” you supply, voice trembling. “L-ove. Slow. Llllove.”

He growls in frustration, ears flattening, but you pull him closer, forehead to forehead, and try again.

“Luh—” you start.

“Luh—” he echoes, clumsy.

“—ove.”

“—vh.”

You both laugh, yours a sob, his a huffing bark. It’s messy, spit and tears and frustration flowing between every word. You press your cheek to his, arms around his thick neck, and keep going.

Minutes stretch. The fire pops. You sound it out like a lullaby: love, love, love. He growls, whines, tries to shape his mouth around it. 

Then, finally—

“Jack.”

It’s hoarse and shaky. But it’s perfect.

You shriek, throwing your arms around him. “YES! Jack, you said it—”

He startles hard, stumbling back on his haunches, ears pinned. The outburst frightens him as his claws scrabble for balance, but you’re already giggling, crawling after him, hands gentle on his chest.

“Shh, shh, it’s okay, it’s good—” You stroke his cheek, kissing the seam of his brow. “You said your name. You clever thing—”

His lips twitch. The corners pull upward in a crooked, lopsided smile, fangs peeking through his wobbly lips, and the expression is so painfully new it steals your breath. The first smile he’s ever worn.

You trace it with a trembling finger. “There you are,” you whisper. “There’s my Jack.”

── .✦

The laboratory has become a cage with velvet bars.

Jack knows every inch now. The exact number of steps from the hearth to the metal table, the creak of the floorboards by the window, the way the draft whistles through the cracked pane when the wind shifts. He moves like a shadow stitched to your heels, following you absolutely everywhere he can get to. But the moment the iron cuff snaps around his wrist and the chain rattles home, the calm fractures.

Today is the worst.

You leave him only long enough to fetch water from the scullery. The chain is long (you lengthened it after the hand incident), but not long enough. You hear the frustration before you see it, his low, rising whine, the scrape of talons on the stone, the thud of his shoulder against the wall as he strains. When you press through the heavy door to your laboratory, he’s pacing tight circles, ears flat against his head, black tears flecking the floor. The pipe groans in its bolts. His blind gaze finds you the instant you cross the threshold, and the whine pitches into a desperate, “Luh—ve.”

You set the bucket down, wiping your hands on your apron. “Jack.”

He freezes. The name still startles him, only recently learning that this specific word means you’re talking directly to him.

You cross the room, unhooking the cuff from his wrist and watching as it clatters to the floor. Jack stands rigid, waiting.

“I think you’re just as tired of this room as I am,” you say. “Come on.”

You take his hand and lead him to the laboratory door. He hesitates on the threshold, nostrils flaring at the scent of the hallway beyond, dust and old wood flaring his senses. You tug gently and he follows.

You guide him left, past the staircase whose banister he brushes with his free claw, feeling the worn mahogany warmed by generations. The wood is smooth, almost silken, and he pauses to drag a talon along a carved detailing in the wood. A low, wondering grunt rumbles in his chest.

“This is the sitting room,” you murmur, pushing open the tall double doors.

The room unfolds like a sigh. High ceilings arch overhead, ribbed with dark oak beams that disappear into grand banisters. Hazy sunlight spills through tall windows, painting silver rectangles across your threadbare rug, its once-vivid roses now faded to dull circles. A cavernous fireplace sits black and cold, its marble mantel carved with intricate patterns. Above it hangs a gilt-framed portrait of a family member you never really knew, but Jack’s head tilts toward the hearth itself, nostrils flaring at the faint char of cold ash.

You release his hand, but he doesn’t stray far.

He pads forward, cloak whispering over the rug, and stops at the first piece of furniture, a velvet settee. His claws sink into the cushion and he rubs at the soft bedding, before pressing his nose to the cushion and inhaling. 

It definitely smells like dust. You can’t remember the last time you cleaned this room, let alone step foot in it.

“Settee,” you say, stepping close. “It’s for sitting. Soft, isn’t it?” You take his hand again, guide it along the rolled arm, the carved walnut frame cool and satiny. He traces the shape, learning curves and edges.

You move to the window seat, its cushions plump with down. “Here.” You pat the brocade and he rises, following the sound, and you press his palm to the fabric. His talons catch on a thread, but he stills  until you laugh and smooth the snag. 

“It’s all right. Keep going.” You let him explore the windowpane next, the glass icy under his touch.

He finds the piano by scent first, the thick ivory keys drawing him closer. His claws skitter over the keys, and an abrupt chord clangs out, startling him. He snorts, ears flattening, but you’re already there, covering his hand with yours. 

“It’s music,” you whisper, pressing the middle C. The single note rings pure, and he tries it for himself. He keeps tapping it until you clutch his hand, halting the jarring ringing.

You lead him last to the tapestry hanging opposite the mantel. It’s a hunting scene, stags and hounds, the colors long muted with dust, but you still want him to feel it. 

“This is a painting.” You guide his hand along the textures and roughness of the painting. He sniffs, then tastes it, his split tongue flicking out to sample the dust and oils. You cringe, but you don’t stop him, letting him figure out that it doesn’t taste as good as he thinks it will.

Throughout, he never lets you drift more than an arm’s length away. When you pause to light a branch of candles on the mantel, his claw finds the hem of your sleeve and tugs on it. The flames leap, gilding the room in amber, and it looks more alive than you can ever remember it being.

Jack turns his blind face toward the warmth, ears relaxing, and exhales a long, contented rumble. You smile, but you don’t let him settle, pulling him back into the corridor.

You reach the grand staircase, its sweep a graceful arc of polished oak that desperately needs a polishing. The banister is carved with vines and roses, worn smooth by centuries of hands, and you press his palm to it as you ascend. “These are the stairs,” you smile. “Be careful, take small steps.” 

He tests each step like a toddler, the wood creaking under his weight. His free claw grazes the banister, tracing the floral shapes all the way up.

At the landing, you lead him left, down a narrower hall where portraits of forgotten ancestors glare from wooden frames, their eyes long faded to milky smears. The air grows warmer, heavier with the scent of a space being lived in. You push open the heavy door to your bedroom, and you sigh at the grand bed you haven’t had the luxury of sleeping in the last week.

The four-poster bed dominates the center, its mahogany frame carved with twining ivy and curtains of deep maroon tied back with gold cords. The bed is unmade, sheets twisted from the last night you slept here—before the laboratory floor became your new bed. 

A Persian rug, crimson and indigo, muffles your steps as you enter the room further, its intricate patterns worn thin at the edges. Your vanity stands against one wall, cluttered with perfumes, hairpins, and a dirty mirror reflecting your tired face back at you. 

Books teeter in stacks on your chaise longue, their leather spines cracked from reading them enough times to go crazy, and there’s enough candle holders with wax dried around them to be just as annoying.

Jack freezes in the doorway, his nostrils flaring as he drinks in the air. Then, abruptly, he lets go of your hand.

“Jack?” you call, startled. He’s never released you during this little tour, but now he moves with purpose, crossing the rug in three long strides. The cloak slips from his shoulders, pooling forgotten on the floor as he reaches the bed and pauses, sniffing the air above the comforter. The satin sheets are a nice cream color, and his greyed skin looks sharp in comparison as he buries his face into the ruffled fabric.

You stand rooted, watching as he climbs onto the bed with a grace that belies his size. The mattress dips under his weight, the springs groaning as he nuzzles the pillows, the sheets, the thick down comforter, his ears fluttering in bliss. His claws knead the fabric, pulling it toward him in great, greedy fistfuls. He ruts, hips rolling instinctively, dragging the satin across his scarred chest, his thighs, as if trying to coat himself in your scent. The sheets twist around his mismatched limbs, the comforter bunching under his chin too. A low, rumbling moan vibrates in his throat as he buries his muzzle deeper, inhaling until his lungs must ache.

“Jack,” you say again, softer, stepping closer. He ignores you, lost in the bed’s embrace. 

You haven’t slept here in days, but your scent lingers in every thread, every crease. He rolls onto his back, claws raking the air, then flips again, nuzzling into your favorite pillow. His hips grind again, rutting into your smell.

Your face must be several shades of red from how hot you feel watching him.

You climb onto the bed, knees sinking into the mattress. “Jack, love, it’s just a bed.” Your voice is fond as you reach out, fingers brushing his broad back exposed by the tangled sheets. He stills at your touch, ears twitching, then rolls toward you, dragging the comforter with him. His blind sockets find you, and he chuffs, a sound of pure contentment, before nosing at your wrist, then your shoulder, urging you to join him.

You laugh, kicking your shoes off, and let him pull you down. The bed is vast, but he makes it feel small as he curls around you, clawing gently at you. His nose rests against your throat, matching the scent of your skin to the scent in the mattress below. 

Your arms slide around his broad neck, fingers threading into the coarse hair at his nape. You pull him close, chest to chest, until the steady thump-thump of the heart you gave him beats against your ribs in perfect counterpoint to your own.

For a long moment you only look. Soft sunlight spills across his stitched face through the thick curtains on the windows, silvering the raised scars, catching on the black seams that ladder his brow, and his ears twitch with every breath you take. 

You have imagined this in dreams between experiments—a lover’s weight in your bed again, the safety of arms that know your shape. You never dared believe the dream would wear claws and smell of lamb, but now, you don’t want it any other way.

“I waited for so long, you know,” you whisper, brushing his neck. “I thought I’d die alone in that laboratory, probably start talking to the walls. But you—” Your fingers tighten in his hair. “You came back to me.”

Jack rumbles, his muzzle nudging your throat. His tongue flicks out, tasting the salt of your skin. He tries to answer, the sounds clumsy in his throat, “Lll… luhhh…” A frustrated huff is all he manages, though.

You smooth the hair at his temples, thumbs circling the thick ridges of a scar on his forehead. 

“Shh. Slow.” You press your lips to the seam between his brows. “Love. Say love.”

He grunts at the sound of you saying it, gritting his teeth. “L-Love.” It’s barely a breath, but he says it again, surer, nuzzling into your palm. “Love.”

You kiss his forehead, smiling against his skin. “Yes. Love.”

The pillows cradle you both as you sink back. Jack’s claw curves over your waist, talons gripping onto your clothes. You tuck your head beneath his chin, ear to the steady drum of his heart, and the exhaustion you’ve staved off for days finally claims you. Your eyes flutter shut mid-breath, fingers still tangled in his hair. 

── .✦

The mattress is too soft, too comfortable, and that’s what jolts you awake. 

Your body remembers this bed, and it betrays you by sinking you into it like a stone in water. You surface with a gasp, heart already racing before your eyes open.

Moonlight slices through the gap in the curtains, silvering the rumpled sheets. The space beside you is warm, but empty. Jack’s weight, his heat, the low rumble of his breathing—gone.

“Jack?” Your voice cracks, thin and sharp in the dark.

There's no answer, just the hush of the manor and the distant, mournful moan of wind around the eaves.

You scramble upright, sheets tangling around your legs. The candelabra on the nightstand clatters as your fingers fumble in the drawer for the matchbox. You grab a match, striking it twice before it catches, and you light the tapers one by one, the sudden bloom of flame making the room lurch. Shadows leap across the walls, across the bed where the comforter is dragged half to the floor, across the discarded horse-cloak in a heap by the footboard.

He’s not here.

Your mind immediately runs to the worst, imagining he’s lost in the village down the mountain, pawing at someone’s wooden door, moments away from being met with a pitchfork or a drunkard ready to hurt what they don’t understand.

“Jack!” Louder now, panic threading his name. You swing your legs over the side, bare feet hitting the cold rug, and sweep the candelabra in a wide arc. The vanity, the chaise, the wardrobe—nothing. Only the lingering warmth of his body on the sheets and the crushed indentation where his head had lain.

You’re moving before you can think twice, candle flames guttering as you move. The door creaks as you wrench it open and step into the hall.

The corridor is a tunnel of black, the moonlight from the stairwell window a pale, distant light. Your shadow stretches long and wavering ahead of you, the candelabra trembling as you sweep it back and forth along the walls.

“Jack, where are you?” Your voice echoes, swallowed by the high ceiling. Somewhere below, a floorboard groans and your breath catches.

You follow the sound, bare feet silent on the runner as you patter towards the stairs. The portraits watch you pass, their painted eyes staring like they know something you don’t. 

At the top of the grand staircase, you pause. The darkness below is absolute, your eyes straining to see past the fifth step. You usually light all the candles in your manor before the sun falls, but the day slipped from you fast, leaving the manner a yawning black hole. You lift the candelabra higher, the flames trembling with your pulse.

“Jack?” you call again, softer, pleading.

The clatter ricochets again from somewhere below, and you fly down the grand staircase. The sound pulls you left, then right, through corridors you haven’t walked in weeks, past locked doors and moth-eaten tapestries, until the air turns damp and cool and the flagstones slope underfoot.

The cellar door gapes wide, exhaling dust and rot into the air upstairs. Moonlight doesn’t reach here, only your candles push trembling lights into the gloom. You hesitate on the threshold, the steps descending into nothing, each one dilapidated and near-rotted. 

“Jack?” Your voice is small, swallowed by the dark.

No answer.

You descend. The wood groans, cobwebs brushing your face like little fingers. The cellar’s air is stale around you, thick with the smell of dust and flea-bitten fabrics. Crates tower in leaning stacks, their lids pried open, straw spilling like entrails. A shattered mirror leans against a chair missing its seat, your reflection fractured into a dozen frightened eyes. You move deeper, candelabra raised, calling his name in a whisper that feels too loud.

Then a crack, almost like twigs breaking, sounds from behind you.

You turn.

He’s there, in the far corner where the shadows pool deepest, back to you, massive shoulders hunched. His claws flex against the stone, scraping it, and the sound that follows is his rough chewing, like he’s gnawing on something. The candles tremble in your grip, throwing his silhouette huge and terrifying across the vaulted ceiling.

“Jack,” you breathe, but he doesn’t turn.

The crunch comes again, like knuckles popping. You flinch, the candelabra clinking as you set it atop a crate beside you. Your bare feet pad forward over gritty stone, drawn to the hulking shape in the corner.

His back is a map of your making, decorated with thick black stitches marching down the spine like railroad tracks, each knot a memory of your trembling fingers and midnight oil. You remember the hours, the fragile cord of nerves you had to coax into place, the way you cursed so loud your throat hurt when the thread slipped and you had to begin again.

You reach out, your palm settling between his shoulder blades as you feel him take one deep breath after another.

“Jack.”

He stiffens, every muscle locking. A low growl vibrates under your hand, more warning than recognition. You slide your touch to his arm, gripping his thick forearm, and gently turn him.

There isn’t much left of the poor thing.

The rat is already dead, it’s head gone, body limp in his claws. Blood runs in glossy rivulets down his wrist, pooling between the talons, dripping to the floor in revolting, rhythmic pats. His chin is slick with it too, dribbling down his maw and onto his throat. The last crunch you hear is the skull giving way between his molars before he swallows.

Your breath catches. His blind sockets tilt toward you, ears half-cocked, blood-flecked tongue sweeping across his lips to catch the stray drops as you stare at what lays before you.

Your hand jerks back as if it burned you, clutching your chest in horror. The air feels thick, suddenly too small for the cellar, for you, for what you’re seeing. Your stomach flips, the taste of sour bile rising in your throat.

Jack sniffs, ears flicking toward the motion of your retreat, then lowers his muzzle again toward the mangled rat, his jaws parting.

“No.” The word cracks out of you, sharper than you meant.

He freezes, the rat dangling from his claws as it drips into his knuckles. He remembers the word no, and his arm stills in response, but he doesn’t let go. He simply waits.

You press your fist to your mouth, pacing two steps back. “What the fuck,” you whisper, voice trembling. “What the fuck is happening?”

You’ve watched him tear into raw lamb, yes, watched him crack bones between his teeth like biscuits and lick the marrow clean. You knew he preferred raw meat when you tried to cook some for him, only for his face to grimace at the taste. You told yourself it was natural, that he was built for it, that he was obviously man and animal alike. But this, this small, warm thing that had been scurrying a moment ago, now headless and half devoured with its skin and all… You swallow hard, fighting the heave in your gut.

Jack killed it with his own claws and teeth. Killed it.

He shifts his weight, uncertain, the rat still pinched between his sharp claws. A soft, questioning whine vibrates in his throat.

You force your eyes to his face, to the blood smeared across his fangs, the threads of saliva stretching as he breathes.

“Drop it,” you say, quieter now, but stern. “Please, Jack. Drop it.”

He hesitates one heartbeat longer, then opens his claws. The corpse hits the stone with a wet slap, and you nearly throw up what little food you’ve had in recent days.

You seize his arm above the blood, fingers careful not to slip on the slick warmth lower down. He lets you, more docile now, the fight gone out of him the moment you touched him again. You grab the candelabra in your other hand as you pull him away from the corner, away from the rat on the floor. You don’t look back at it—you can’t.

Jack pads behind you, his head held low, soft whines threading the silence, but you don’t know if it’s out of embarrassment that he’d been caught, or his lingering hunger. The stairs creak under his weight, the corridors swallow the candlelight, and still he follows, breath hitching every time you tighten your grip. You don’t speak, mind still running a thousand miles a second.

Back in your bedroom you don’t pause. You tow him straight through to the adjoining bathroom, the one extravagance you kept when the rest of the house fell to ruin. Moonlight spills through the high, frosted window and glints off the claw-footed tub, porcelain gleaming like ivory. You set the candelabra on the marble counter, leave Jack in the doorway, and twist the brass taps. Water thunders into the tub, steam curling up towards the tiled ceiling.

Jack’s ears snap forward at the roar of water. He kneels to all fours and crawls after the sound, talons scraping over the tiles until he reaches you. You kneel beside the rising water, and he settles at your side, blood still tacky on his chin and chest.  His claw darts toward the rising water, talons spread like a child reaching for candy.

“No.”

A pitiful whine rolls out of him, ears pinning back. He leans in instead, muzzle seeking the familiar comfort of your neck, tongue already flicking out for a taste. The iron reek of rat blood hits you full force, and you press your palm to his forehead and push him back, nose wrinkling.

“Jack, stop. I’m sorry, love, but you’re disgusting right now. Sit still.”

He huffs, wounded, but folds his arms across his lap and stays put, ears drooping. “No…” he huffs out.

You rise, taking one wick from the candelabra to light the oil lamps that ring the room. Flame by flame, the bathroom awakens, creamy marble veined with gold, the tall mirror blooming with warm light, steam curling around the spouted faucets. The water thunders on, almost half-full.

Then there’s a sudden splash behind you.

You whip around. Jack has plunged his entire right arm in up to the elbow, stirring the bathwater lazily. The water is already clouding, threads of pink swirling outward from his skin.

You groan, long and defeated, and stride back. “Dear God, help me…”

He looks up at the sound of your voice, water dripping from his forearm in rosy rivulets. You reach past him and twist the taps shut. The sudden silence is thick, broken only by the soft plink plink of droplets falling onto the surface.

You roll your sleeves past the elbow, and Jack’s ears track the rustle of linen. You set a hand on his forearm, tugging gently for him to stand.

“Up, love. On your feet.”

He rises awkwardly, joints popping, the bathroom suddenly so much smaller with him standing over you. 

He’s never done this. The only water he’s ever really met was cold raindrops on the opened window sill or the glass pitcher he accidentally knocked over days ago, both of you startled by the shatter and sudden flood across the laboratory floor.

But he’ll be alright if you show him it’s alright. One hand cups his elbow, the other guides his knee. “Lift,” (you’ve turned to speaking plainly these days, finding that Jack responds better to easy commands than sentences.) His leg rises, foot scraping porcelain as he swings it over the tub’s rim. The instant his toes touch the water he hisses, claws scrabbling for purchase on the smooth edge..

“Shh, easy.” Your voice is steady, the same tone you used when you reset his shoulder. “It’s warm. It won’t hurt you. I’m right here.”

You slide your arm around his waist, taking some of his weight. “Other leg, slow.” He obeys, other foot following, and the water closes over his calves with a soft, rosy sigh. He stands rigid, ears pinned flat, breath coming in quick huffs through his nostrils. The heat is foreign, invasive, but your hand stays firm on his weight, tracing small circles between the stitches.

“Good,” you whisper. “That’s perfect, Jack. Just a little more.” You settle your palms on his shoulders, pressing gently downward. “Sit. Slowy.”

He bends, knees folding, the tub creaking as his weight shifts. He braces his claws on the sides of the tub, then his hips sink. Water surges, lapping at the porcelain rim, sloshing over the edge in warm splashes that patter onto the tiles. When he finally settles, the surface reaches the center of his chest, rat’s blood soaking off of his skin and into the water.

You kneel beside the tub, tucking your legs under you, and watch the stains lift away like old sins. There's a wash rag hanging on the edge of the tub, and you grab it.

You dip the rag, let it soak until it’s heavy, then wring it out with a twist. Water streams back into the bath, and Jack’s head immediately cocks to the noise. He’s always so curious, so you satisfy his curiosity by holding it out to him, letting him smell the fabric before bringing it to his skin.

You start at his shoulders. The rag glides over scarred skin, tracing the thick black thread that ladders across his width. Jack sighs, a long, rolling sound that ends in a pleased rumble. His head tips back, muscles relaxing, and he leans into your touch like a dog getting its neck scratched.

“Does it feel good?” you ask softly, dragging the rag in slow circles over his chest. The water beads and rolls down the ridges of scar tissue, carrying away weeks of dust and grime. Jack rumbles, a deep, rolling mmrrph that vibrates through the tub and into your knees. His ears flick forward, then relax again.

You dip the rag and wring it out, but the water that spills back is the color of weak tea. You groan under your breath. “Look at this. You’re filthy, Jack. Absolutely filthy.”

He huffs, almost amused, you think.

You laugh despite yourself, scrubbing at the seam where neck meets shoulder. “I know, I know. I kept you in that nasty laboratory like a dirty secret. No wonder you went hunting rats.”

Another low grunt, softer this time. He leans into the rag, eyesockets half-lidded, the tension bleeding out of him with every pass of warm cloth.

You pause, looking at the murky water, then at your own hands, cringing at the ink under your nails, calluses from needles and scalpels, your skin dry and cracked. Come to think of it, you can’t remember the last time you sank into this tub yourself. Days blurred into nights, nights into focusing and coaxing life from death. Your night clothes have been slept in more than washed, and your hair hasn’t seen a proper brush in a week.

You probably look just as deheaveled as the creature before you.

“God, we’re both a mess,” you mutter. “When you’re clean, I’m getting in after you. I smell like a morgue.”

Jack chuffs, a short, decisive sound. He lifts one massive claw, letting it hover over the tub’s edge, then pointedly pats the surface beside him. Water slops over the edge, his claw gripping onto your arm and tugging you toward him.

You roll your eyes fondly. “You’re too big, you ridiculous creature. You’d drown me.”

He grumbles stubbornly, and scoots back an inch, making a hollow in the water that immediately refills. The invitation is clear, and he tugs your arm again.

You shake your head, smiling despite the grime and horrors of tonight. “Later,” you promise, wringing the rag again. “First we finish getting the filth off you.”

Jack sighs through his nose, a long, dramatic exhale.

“I said later—”

The protest dies as Jack’s massive claws close around your forearms. Before you can do more than gasp, he pulls you toward him, the tub’s porcelain lip scrapes your stomach, and then you’re tumbling over it with a startled yelp.

Water closes over you, warm and murky, soaking your clothes in an instant. You come up sputtering, hair plastered to your face, legs still hooked over the edge. “Jack!”

He rumbles unrepentantly, and drags you the rest of the way in. One arm loops your waist, settling you squarely in his lap. The water rises dangerously close to the rim, filthy swirls blooming around your thighs. You cringe, wrinkling your nose at the cloudy bath, but Jack’s chest is a solid wall at your back, his breath warm against your wet temple.

“Disgusting,” you grumble, trying to be stern and failing when his claws pluck the soaked rag from your limp fingers.

He makes a soft huff and dips the rag again, just the way you had been. Then, he begins washing you.

Slow, methodical strokes down your arms, scrubbing at the stains on your skin, the chemical burns on your knuckles, the places you’ve forgotten to care for. His touch is impossibly gentle for claws that could shred oak in a moment, easily dragging the rag along the curve of your neck, albeit soaking your clothes further in the process.

Something warm and fierce swells in your chest. “You’re too clever for your own good,” you whisper.

Jack chuffs, and you let your head fall back against his shoulder, letting him cocoon around you.

He lets the rag slip from his claws and sink to the bottom of the tub. Jack’s arms fold around you instead, pulling you deeper into the cradle of his body until your back is flush against his chest. His claws begin to wander, slowly exploring paths across your sternum, the hollow of your throat, the line of your jaw. You let your eyes flutter shut at the gentleness of it.

Then the memory flashes, sharp and sour—the rat, the crunch, the blood on his chin.

Your breath catches. The thought slides in cold and unbidden. Would he ever… If his hunger sharpened enough, if instinct overrode the careful lessons on being gentle you’ve drilled into him, would he ever turn those teeth on something bigger? On you?

Jack’s muzzle dips, split tongue sweeping across your cheek in a warm, affectionate lick. The smell hits you, the iron and raw meat still clinging to his breath. You cringe, turning your face away.

“Shoo, Jack, your mouth—”

He huffs, a soft, wounded sound, but doesn’t pull back. Instead he nips, just a nip of his sharp teeth on the apple of your cheek, not hard enough to break skin but enough to make you shiver.

The dread blooms low in your belly, small but undeniable. The bathroom is suddenly too warm, the water too still. His arms are a cage you asked for, and his teeth are right there, inches from your throat.

He would never hurt a human. He would never hurt you.

Right?

── .✦

“Just hold still.”

Jack perches on a wooden stool in front of you, one massive arm resting across your lap, veins thick and dark beneath the patchwork skin. Rain taps the cracked laboratory window, a gentle percussion that fills the room with the scent of wet cobblestone and distant chimney smoke.

You tie the rubber tourniquet just above his elbow, securing it tight enough to make his veins bulge more than they already do. The stitches there are healing clean, raised purple ladders that flex when he curls his claws. “There we go,” you nod.

He hates this room now. You can see it in the way his ears flick back, the way his nostrils flare at the ghosts of formaldehyde and old blood. Especially since he now has the luxury of wandering around the rest of the manor, having more comfortable spaces to lounge. But he stays, only because you asked.

You swab the crook of his arm with alcohol, the sharp smell making him grunt as you reach for the syringe on your desk. 

“Easy,” you murmur, thumb stroking the inside of his wrist. “Just a prick. Then we’re done.”

He tenses as you grip his arm tighter, holding it steady, before sliding the needle home.

The vein gives with a pop, dark blood wells into the syringe, thicker than human, almost syrupy. The first vial fills quickly, then you’re replacing it with a second one, then a third. When the last vial is full, you ease the needle out, press a square of gauze to the puncture, and tape it down.

“There.” You pat his arm. “All done. Good boy.”

He huffs, ears perking at the praise, and the tension leaks from his shoulders like it was never even there. You gather the vials and carry them to your desk beside the window. The rain is louder here, a steady drum against the glass. You uncork the first tube, tip a drop onto a glass slide, and slide it under the brass microscope. Behind you, Jack’s feet tap softly as he stands.

The laboratory feels smaller to him now, after the vastness of the manor’s halls and the endless sky beyond the windows, so he walks in circles, trying his best to occupy himself.

You adjust the microscope’s focus, the blood cells swimming into view. Rain drums harder, a sudden gust pushing the window open another inch. Cool, wet air rushes in, carrying the green smell of the cliffs. Jack’s head snaps toward it, and he lumbers to the sill, resting his forearms on the stone ledge. His ears swivel, drinking in the sounds outside. Water beads on his lashes and drips from his chin, and he inhales until his ribs creak before exhaling a long, contented sigh that fogs the glass.

You lean over the microscope, and narrow on the blood cells drifting like dark planets in a murky cosmos. You adjust the focus, and the color deepens to a viscous, near-black plum, thick as melted tar.

That can’t be right.

You set the first vial aside, then uncap the second, tip another drop, and the same obsidian stain spreads across the slide. You knew the pig’s blood you used would linger—it had to, to prime the veins before his heart took over—but this is more than residue. This is change. On the night you brought him to life, the blood that spilled from his body was red, but this has… mutated? The cells carry pigment like ink, like the black tears that weeped from his sockets. You reach for your journal, scratching notes quickly.

Pig hemoglobin dominant, yet oxidized beyond expected parameters. Possible metabolic sequestration of iron?

You pause, glancing at Jack. He’s still at the window, nose lifted to the rain, water beading on his forehead as he’s begun to lean out into the air.

…instinctive adaptation to predation?

The thought sours your stomach. You flip back a page to your notes on mastication pressure, and to the page before on auditory range. You’ve been watching for slippage, for the moment the animal parts outweigh the man. The rat was the first crack in the veneer, but now the blood itself seems to confirm it.

You shiver at the thought of the rat again, remembering how you had to feed him a whole sack of mint leaves from the garden to rid of the smell after his bath.

You uncap the third vial, draw a thicker sample into a pipette, and let it fall into a porcelain dish. It pools, slow and syrupy, spilling like oil. You swirl it gently, and watch as it clings to the sides, reluctant to move. A metallic scent rises from it, richer than iron, almost gamey. You write again, hand steadier than your pulse.

Color is near-ebony. Suspect high concentration of myoglobin and unidentified proteins. Will need a centrifuge. Will need…

You stop. The rain drums harder, a sudden gust rattling the windowpane. Jack turns his head toward the sound of your pen, and he takes a step back into the room, drawn by the scratch of pencil on paper. You don’t look up, you’re afraid to see the question in the tilt of his blind face. But there’s no doubt he can smell how stressed you are.

…will need to determine if hunger is driving cellular mutation, or if mutation is driving hunger.

You set the pen down. The blood in the dish stares back, dark as the cellar corner where he crouched last night. You cap the vials, line them up like soldiers, and try not to think too much on it.

You swivel in the chair, expecting to find him still at the window, but the space is empty, only rain-streaked glass and the dry imprint of his claws on the sill. Before the absence can settle into worry, warmth presses against your thighs. You look down.

Jack is folded at your feet, knees splayed wide on the cold stone, broad shoulders hunched so his head can rest heavy in your lap. One hand curls loosely around your ankle, and the other wraps around your calf.

You let your fingers sink into the coarse hair at the crown of his head. He leans into it, a low, rolling sound vibrating against your legs.

You look at him for a long time, eyeing the slope of his shoulders, the slow rise and fall of his back, the way he leans into your touch like it’s the only true thing he’s ever known.

This is your creation.

Even when Cain killed his brother Abel, God still called his name, God still loved him.

Even when the rat’s skull cracked between these jaws, you still called his name, you still love him.

“Jack…” you whisper.

His ears twitch. The purring sound he’s making shifts, becoming the familiar, hollow grunt that means he’s hungry. He lifts his head just enough to nudge your stomach with his forehead.

“Hungry again?”

He grunts again.

You smile despite the ache behind your ribs. “All right, love. Come on.”

You stand. He rises with you, fluid and immediate as he falls into step at your side. You leave the vials cooling on the desk, deciding that you’re rather hungry yourself. The rain follows you down the corridor, a steady heartbeat against the manor’s old bones, as you lead your creation toward the kitchen.

The pantry door swings open.

Empty shelves stare back at you, and not a scrap of meat is even left. No haunches, no ribs, not even the bones he likes to crack open like nutshells. Just dusty jars of jam, a tin of stale crackers, and a forgotten sack of flour turning soft in the corner.

Jack’s nostrils flare. He smells the emptiness, and a low whine builds in his throat, vibrating against your arm.

You drag a hand through your hair. “I went to the market yesterday. No… the day before…” The words trail off as the truth hits. That was a week ago. Seven days gone in a haze of teaching and blood and his endless hunger and your just as endless madness. You groan. “Has it really been a week?”

Jack noses closer, his ears pinning back. He sniffs the empty air again, hopeful, then whines louder.

You scan the shelves one more time. Jam won’t do. Crackers won’t fill that pit in him. Hell, he’d be better off if you just sent him back down to the cellar again. 

You sigh, turning back to him. “Alright. I have to go down to the village.”

His ears perk at the word village. He leans into you, one massive claw curling around your wrist. You feel the shift, the eager tilt of his body.

“No, Jack. You stay.” You press your hands against his chest, pushing him as firmly as you can manage. “Stay here. I’ll be back with food.”

He cocks his head, and the blind sockets tilt toward your voice. Then he simply steps forward when you turn for the door.

You try again, palm flat on his chest. “Jack, no. Stay. It’s not safe out there.”

He pushes past you with a stubborn huff. 

You yank your cloak off the hook by the door, the heavy wool promising to keep the wet off of you. Rain drums harder outside, a low growl of thunder chasing it. You pull the hood up, fingers fumbling with the clasp.

Jack’s claw closes around your wrist before you can even twist the knob.

“No—” you start, tugging halfheartedly. He doesn’t budge. Just stands there, naked as the day you stitched him, ears pinned back like a kid who knows he’s about to be left behind. You sometimes forget that he doesn’t wear clothes the majority of the time, your eyes more focused on his muscles or his interests.

You slip free, dart out onto the slick gravel. The door thuds shut behind you, and you turn away, beginning to walk.

Click.

The lock turns.

You whip around. The handle rattles, then the door swings wide again. Jack shoulders through, bare feet slapping wet stone, completely unbothered by the rain on his skin.

You groan so loud it echoes off the cliff face. “You can open locks now. Wonderful. Fucking great.”

Chaining him isn’t even an option anymore, not if you want him to trust you moreso than he does now. You either drag him with you, or you leave him loose in the manor and pray he doesn’t decide to follow… but he will. You know he will.

You storm back inside, water dripping off your cloak, and yank his massive horse-cloak off its peg. Jack’s already trying to push past you again, rain streaming down his chest.

“Hold still, please—”

He lets you wrestle the cloak over his shoulders, the brass clasps barely meeting across that barrel of a chest. The hem drags on the floor, swallowing his abnormally large feet, and it’s good enough for the torso.

Pants are a whole different war.

You dig through the wardrobe upstairs, tossing out every oversized thing you own. An ancient pair of your late husband’s work trousers are too short, but the waist ties, so they’re good enough. He grumbles the entire time, ears flicking, claws catching in the fabric. When you finally shove a wide leather belt through the loops and cinch it, the trousers hang comically low on his hips, the cuffs barely past his knees.

You step back, flustered, panting, hands on your hips.

He looks ridiculous.

He looks… less like something that crawled out of a grave.

Close enough.

You grab his claw. “Come on. Stay close. And for the love of God, keep the hood up.”

Jack rumbles and follows you out into the rain, his cloak dragging in the wet. The village is waiting, and so is the butcher, and you have no idea how you’re going to explain the seven-foot shadow trailing behind you in clothes that clearly don’t fit.

But he’s coming. And somehow that feels right?

The path down the cliff is a mess of slick stone and stubborn foliage. Rain needles sideways, soaking through your cloak in seconds, but still not heavy enough to deter you. Jack keeps stopping every three steps, it feels like. Bless him, he’s so curious, touching every tree and kicking at every rock, trying to discover more. You tug his sleeve, and he follows two more steps before something else catches him, and you’re repeating the process over again.

By the time the village roofs appear, your boots are caked and your nerves are frayed thin.

The market square is alive with noise, merchants shouting about vegetables and oils, dogs yapping under carts, kids darting between legs and chasing one-another. The smell of fresh bread and wet wool and horse shit abuses your senses, so there’s no doubt it’s triple-fold for Jack. He freezes at the edge of it all, his shoulders hunched high, his claw tightening around your hand.

You yank the hood farther down until only the tip of his nose shows. “Head down,” you mutter, heart already jackhammering against your ribs. “Don’t look at anyone. Please don’t sniff anyone.”

He rumbles but lets you pull him forward.

People notice. Of course they notice.

Women stop and whisper to each other, children point and get yanked away, drunkards gawk and take another gulp of their ale. Their stares are like knives, but you've felt worse.

You keep moving, boots splashing through puddles, eyes locked on the butcher’s stall at the far end of the market lineup. Your pulse is a drum in your throat, and Jack’s grip is crushing now, every shout from a vendor making him uneasy. He presses closer, a wall of heat at your side, and you feel the tremor running through him.

Ten more steps. Five.

You can already hear the butcher’s cleaver thunking into wood, smell blood and sawdust and raw meat. Just get there. Pay. Leave.

You tug Jack one last time, ducking under the awning, and pray no one looks too close at the thing hiding in your shadow.

The butcher’s stall smells like heaven and hell at once—thick, coppery blood and cold fat. Sides of lamb and pork hang from iron hooks, swaying in the damp breeze, and the butcher looks up from his block and grins when he sees you.

“Well, if it ain’t the witch come down from yer tower.”

The witch jokes never get old in this village, apparently.

You don't laugh. “Lamb, please. Whatever’s freshest.”

He wipes his hands on a rag that gave up being clean years ago. “Aye.”

Jack’s practically vibrating behind you. The cloak hood is low, but his nose keeps pushing forward, nostrils flaring at the raw meat smell. One claw sneaks past your hip, reaching for a string of sausages hanging on the side post.

You slap it down, whispering, “No.”

The butcher’s eyes flick up, polite-curiosity doing a bad job of hiding itself. He keeps chopping, but you feel the stare crawling over Jack’s too-big frame, the way the cloak stretches across shoulders that no human owns.

Then the curtain behind the counter flaps open and his boy barrels in with a bucket of scraps. He skids to a halt the second he sees Jack, and you mentally kick yourself. The kid’s mouth drops, and he backs up until his shoulder bumps his father’s leg and just… stares.

The butcher clears his throat. “Go on inside, lad. Help your mother.”

The boy doesn’t move, just keeps staring like he’s seen the devil.

You step half in front of Jack, heart hammering so loud you’re sure the whole square can hear it. “If you could wrap the meat, too, please.”

He nods and wraps the cleaved meat in brown paper and twine, lumping two hunks on top of each other. “That’ll be—”

You’re already dropping too many coins in front of him and grabbing the packages before he can finish. You tug your hood lower, turn on your heel, and haul Jack with everything you have. “Come on.”

You can hear them whispering before you’re even out of the stall.

You step back out from under the awning and into the market street. The rain has eased to a drizzle, but the air’s still thick and cold, and you’re in even more of an anxious hurry to get back to your home now. You shift the meat in your arms, trying to free one hand for Jack’s sleeve.

He’s already gone.

“Jack, stay—”

An older man with a crate full of onions jostles your arm hard, and when you spin back, the space beside you is empty, leaving only the market and its many staring faces.

Your stomach drops.

“Jack!” You hiss.

You spot him ten feet away, drifting toward the alley behind the baker’s stall like he’s being pulled by a string you can’t see. His hood’s slipped back just enough for someone to notice his eyes if they looked too close.

“Shit—”

You clutch the meat tighter and shove through the crowd. People murmur and give you odd stares, but you don’t care. You round the corner into the narrow lane behind the shops, boots skidding on wet stone.

Jack’s standing in front of the little open stable there, one massive claw stretched out toward a bay gelding tied to a post. The old horse sniffs his fingers, its body nearly the same height as Jack’s, but just barely. Jack’s whole body is still except for his nose, sniffing in the new smells of the animal and the leather of its halter.

You freeze, breath stuck in your throat.

Don’t bite. Don’t grab it. Don’t spook it. Please.

The very tips of his claws brush the velvet muzzle, and the horse huffs, unbothered as his large hand begins to rub across its face. To the horse, Jack is just another animal.

Relief hits so hard your knees almost buckle.

You shift the parcels higher against your hip and step closer, voice low. “Hey. We gotta go home, love.”

He doesn’t turn, just keeps petting the horse until the rain begins to bead on his cloak.

You swallow the lump in your throat and reach for his free hand. 

“Come on. Meat’s getting cold.”

And drag him all the way back to the safety of your home.

Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos are appreciated!

๑ part 2

๑ back to my masterlists

ACT I

You thought Gojo Satoru was unobtainable. He was a star in the night sky—shining, constant, beautiful in a way that felt almost cruel. Close enough to see, close enough to admire, yet impossibly far. A beacon you could only ever grasp at, fingers curling around nothing but empty air.

You’d see him on social media sometimes. Scrolling late at night, your screen dimmed, your room quiet except for the in-and-out of your breaths. He always looked the same—bright, effortless, unfairly handsome. He existed in a world untouched by anything ordinary.

But you never thought—never even entertained the idea—that you’d actually have a chance.

But that would change.

It started with an accidental encounter, long before you knew who he was.

————

You’re in Erewhon, browsing like you actually had money to spend.

The place doesn’t even feel real. Everything too clean and curated, shelves lined with glass jars and pastel packaging that looked more decorative than edible. The lighting white—yet soft, like it was trying to convince you that spending $30 on juice was a life-changing experience.

You pick up a jar, turning it over in your hands. Blue sea moss. $90.

You stare at it for a second longer than necessary. The color was almost aggressive—a bright azure blue, borderline radioactive. No way something that looked like that was meant to be eaten.

You set it back down carefully, it looked like something that might explode if you didn’t.

After a while of aimlessly walking around—pretending to browse, pretending you belonged—you make your way toward the smoothie bar. It was the only thing that felt remotely justifiable.

You want to try the Hailey Beiber smoothie, the thing all those girls raved about. You want to know if it really makes your skin glow.

$21.

You hesitate, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. Part of you wants to try it, just once. So you can know what it feels like to casually spend money like that, to not think twice about something so absurd.

You were still debating—when you bumped into something—or someone.

“Shit! I’m so sorry!” The apology leaves you instantly, your hands coming up as if you could physically undo the collision. You look up—

The stranger in front of you is dressed simply. A black hoodie, slightly oversized, and grey sweats. He looks out of place.

Even you had put in some effort before coming here—jeans that fit just right, a light pink cardigan layered neatly, a coat of mascara brushed on thicker than usual. Not too much, just enough to feel like you wouldn’t be judged.

But he looks like he doesn’t care, almost like he doesn’t need to.

“It’s alright,” he says easily. “I wasn’t looking where I was going. I’m sorry.”

And then you notice his eyes—an enchanting kind of blue. The kind of blue that doesn’t seem to end, framed by lashes so pale they’re almost white. His gaze is steady, but there’s something behind it—something vast, something you can’t quite place.

A frozen lake you could stare into for hours and never fully understand. And his hair—resembling freshly fallen snow—blindingly white. There was no way that was real.

You stare a second too long. He tilts his head slightly, expecting some kind of response.

You snap out of your trance. “No—It’s my fault,” you rush, words tripping over themselves. “I was just.. distracted. Everything in here is just so- luxurious. Uh—I usually shop at Walmart.”

The honesty slips out before you can filter it.

For a split second, you think maybe you’ve said too much. But he laughs, soft and real. “So you’re not supposed to be here then?”

You huff quietly, shrugging. “Well, I’m definitely not rich enough to shop here.”

He nods, like he understands you completely.

“I’m not supposed to be here either,” he admits. “I’m just visiting. I’m used to more… simpler things.”

There’s something in the way he says it. Casual, but careful, like he’s choosing his words just enough to avoid saying too much.

You glance back at the menu above the counter.

“I was thinking of treating myself,” you say, half to him, half to yourself. “Just once. Seeing what it’s like to be rich. But a $21 smoothie is kinda insane.”

There’s a beat.

“I’ll buy it for you.” The words come out quickly, almost as if he didn’t mean to say them out loud. He straightens slightly, looking as if he’s trying to recover. “I mean—only if you want.”

You blink.

“Really?” A smile spreads across your face before you can stop it. “I’d love that. Thank you.”

Inside, you’re ecstatic. A free smoothie from a ridiculously handsome stranger? This had to be some kind of cosmic compensation for all your bad luck.

He orders without hesitation, and you wonder if he even though about the price. The two of you move outside, settling at a small table tucked along the edge of the store.

The air is warmer out here, the late afternoon sun dipping lower, casting everything in a soft glow.

Now you’re glad you made an effort in your appearance today. This was practically becoming a real date.

“So,” he says, sliding the drink toward you, condensation already gathering along the sides of the cup. “What’s your name?”

You tell him.

He repeats it slowly, carefully, like he’s testing it—rolling each syllable over his tongue with an ease that makes it sound prettier than it actually is.

“And you?” you ask, leaning forward slightly. “What should I call you?”

He hesitates. Just for a fraction of a second.

“You can just call me Satoru.”

He says it quieter than before, it’s something meant only for you—something he doesn’t want anyone passing by to hear.

You nod. “Well, Satoru… you said you’re just visiting. What are you here for?”

“I’m attending some… events,” he says. “Things like that.”

“Like concerts?” you guess. “L.A. has a lot of those.”

He glances at you, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

“Yeah,” he says. “Basically.”

You take a sip of your drink, the cold sweetness hitting your tongue as water droplets slips down the cup, dampening your fingers.

For a while, neither of you says anything.

You just sit there, looking at each other.

Time shifts—it slows and stretches. The world around you fades into something distant, blurred at the edges. Cars honk, people chatter, doors slam shut—but none of it matters. It’s all in the background.

Right now, you and Satoru are the only two people in the galaxy. And Time itself seems to notice, pausing, lingering, zooming in on the smallest things—the way his gaze softens, the way your fingers tighten slightly around your cup, the barely-there glances exchanged like secrets.

And for once—Time waits for you.

RING!

The sound cuts through everything. Sharp and jarring.

Reality snaps back into place. Time resumes, relentless as ever.

“Sorry,” you mumble quickly, already standing. “I have to take this.”

You step a few feet away, pressing your phone to your ear. It’s your best friend, Shoko.

“Hello?”

“This better be important,” you say immediately, lowering your voice. “You interrupted something.”

“Yeah, whatever—like you have anything important to do.”

You roll your eyes, even though she can’t see you. “Shoko-”

“You know how I applied to that medical school?” she cuts in.

You pause. “Yeah… what about it?”

“Well, I got in!” Her voice spikes, bright and unfiltered, and it catches you off guard. You’ve never heard her sound so genuinely excited about anything.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, a smile breaking across your face. “I’m so happy for you—seriously. I’m proud of you. You’re going to be the best doctor in the world.”

“I know,” she laughs, not even pretending to be humble. “So get ready, I’m taking us out. I’m already on my way to your apartment.”

“Wait- what?”

The line goes dead. You stare at your phone for a second, exhaling sharply.

You didn’t even get to tell her you weren’t home. You have to leave.

Now.

You hurry back to the table, your steps quicker, your beating fast.

“I’m really sorry,” you say to him, breathless. “But I have to go. It’s- an emergency.”

The lie comes out smoother than you expect. You don’t have the heart to tell him the truth—that you’re leaving to go celebrate with your friend. That this moment, whatever it is, is already slipping away.

You grab your bag, slinging it over your shoulder, already half-turned toward the street.

“I’m really sorry,” you repeat, casting one last glance at him. Taking in his face, his eyes, his open mouth—like he was about to say something.

You wave down a taxi, directing it to go to your apartment.

————

You make it home just before Shoko arrives.

The moment you manage to slip into a tiny black dress, one that was probably a size too small, the door swings open.

Of course she lets herself in. She always does.

“This night is going to be all about me,” she proclaims, striding in like she owns the place. Her dress catches the light with every movement, sequins scattering reflections—and actual glitter—across your floor. “I’m going to get so wasted I’ll forget that I can never party again.”

You blink, ignoring the glitter. “Never party again? Isn’t that a little far? I’m sure medical school won’t take up that much time.”

She stops, staring at you like you’ve just said something deeply naive.

“You don’t know the horrors,” she says flatly, then shudders. “I’ve heard stories.”

You laugh, grabbing your bag, and your keys.

“Well,” you say, forcing the energy back into your voice, “let’s make this a night you won’t forget.”

You hook your arm through hers, pulling her toward the door.

And just like that—you run out into the night.

————

You get home at 3am and drag your dress down your body, fingers clumsy, impatient. The fabric catches at your hips and you tug harder than you should, nearly tearing it in the process. For a second you don’t even care—you just need it off.

It slips free and pools at your feet, a crumpled reminder of the night.

You step out of it and leave it there.

The bathroom light is too bright when you flick it on, harsh against your tired eyes. You don’t bother adjusting it. You turn the shower knob all the way to hot—too hot—and step in before you can register the pain.

You stand there, unmoving, letting it run over your shoulders, down your back, washing away the smell of sweat and perfume and alcohol. The night clings to you, stubborn, but the heat slowly starts to pull it away.

And for the first time all night, you let your mind drift back to Satoru. You wonder if he was hurt that you left so quickly. It didn’t matter anyways. He probably bought women drinks regularly. You weren’t special—you were just at the right place at the right time. Just another girl he happened to run into.

The water runs down your face, and you close your eyes.

You aren’t anything special.

You’re pretty—but an average kind of pretty. The girl-next-door kind. The kind that has to have a real personality for people to fall in love with. You aren’t particularly well endowed either—your body lacks curves. You have barely any extra plush to grip onto.

Sometimes you stare at your naked body and wonder how anyone could ever love it—love you. In a society where big breasts and a fat ass gets you everything, you have nothing to give.

You aren’t someone people remember. Not the kind someone like him would go out of his way to find.

You probably should’ve told Shoko. She would’ve lost her mind—genuinely, completely thrilled to hear you actually talked to a man who wasn’t an asshole for once. She would’ve demanded every detail, replayed every word, made it into something bigger than it was.

But you didn’t want to make the night about you. So you kept your mouth shut. Now you’re wondering if that was a mistake.

Because there’s so much you want to say now. So many questions that keep circling back, refusing to settle.

Would he even remember you? Would he try to find you?

You let out a quiet breath, leaning your forehead against the cool tile.

You could just tell Shoko tomorrow. Or later. Over FaceTime, like you always do. You could say everything then.

That thought settles something in you, just enough.

Eventually, you step out of the shower, skin warm and flushed. You wrap yourself in your fluffy pink towel, the fabric soft against your damp skin, and pad barefoot over to your bed.

You grab your phone from your purse and collapse onto the mattress, scrolling absentmindedly while you wait for your hair to dry.

The first video that pops up is a clip of an idol performing in L.A. You barely register it.

You don’t care much for famous people, so you scroll away.

A flash of white brings you back. Your thumb pauses mid-motion. You scroll back up and watch the video—the whole thing.

A figure steps forward on stage, lights flashing, the crowd screaming so loud it distorts the audio. At first, it’s hard to tell—it’s out of focus, chaotic.

But something about the singer feels familiar.

Your stomach twists. It’s Satoru, but he looks different.

His hair is styled now, not soft and slightly messy like before. His clothes are nothing like the hoodie and sweats from before—they’re sharp, intentional, expensive. There’s makeup, subtle but there. Stage lights catch on his skin, highlighting angles you hadn’t noticed earlier.

And his presence—it’s stronger, more confident.

It’s clear he knows exactly how every eye in that arena is on him. He knows he belongs.

This is version of him you didn’t see. Or maybe you just weren’t paying attention.

“What the fuck?” you whisper, barely audible.

The camera zooms in. And it’s him.

There’s no mistaking it now. The crowd screams his name. GOJO.

Gojo Satoru. That’s his full name.

You pause the video, your finger hovering for a second before tapping into the comments.

They flood the screen instantly.

@gojossixthsenseye: I NEED HIM SO BAD

@gojosatorusmicstand: The mic is ON

@ineedwaterrrr: I would die for him ngl

Your mouth parts, your eyes flicker away from your screen—trying to forget to focus on anything else, anything but your phone.

Girls thirsting, screaming, and jumping—all of it was for him.

The same guy who bought you a smoothie like it didn’t matter. Who sat across from you like it was normal. Who looked at you—really looked at you—like you weren’t just another face passing by.

This version of him—would never do that. Would never talk to a stranger—never talk to you. Someone who’s never even brushed against fame, let alone existed inside it.

You turn your phone off abruptly and toss it somewhere into the mess of blankets and pillows on your bed.

You stare at the ceiling. You felt something when you talked to him. A connection—a spark of something real.

But maybe that was just him—charming. So much so that it disarmedyou. The kind of person who could make anyone feel seen if he wanted to.

Maybe he just wanted to feel normal for a little while. And you were convenient. You didn’t recognize him. Not even when he gave you his name.

That must’ve been perfect for him. No expectations, screaming fans—no pressure.

Just a normal conversation. Maybe that’s why he stayed as long as he did.

The thought sits heavy on your chest. And you know that by morning he won’t even remember you.

You were just a moment for him. A tool to step outside of his life for a little while.

You reach blindly into your blankets and fish your phone back out.

Your fingers move almost on autopilot, opening Instagram, searching his name.

His account pops up instantly—verified, with tens of millions of followers.

You tap on his latest post—it’s from the concert. A photo of him on stage, lights exploding behind him, the crowd barely visible beyond the glare.

You stare at it for a second.

Then you comment.

@starrygirI: he sounds way better than i thought

It’s stupidly casual. Like you’re just another fan.

But now, that is all you are.

He didn’t seem the singing type when you first met him. Not the idol type either. You were wrong about a lot of things.

He probably wouldn’t recognize you. And why would he? You’re just another comment in a sea of thousands.

You check the time: 5am. Two hours gone. And somehow, you feel like you’ve learned more in those two hours than you had in college.

Reality settles in, heavy and immovable. You’ll never get a chance to speak to him again. At least not casually.

You turn your phone off—this time for real—and pull on a loose t-shirt, the fabric soft and familiar.

Sleep comes quickly.

And when it does—your dreams are filled with a vast land of snow and endless blue.

————

You wake up late—when the sun is at its highest point in the sky. Light spills through your half-closed blinds, painting your room in a muted golden haze.

The first thing you do is reach for your phone.

Notifications.

But not the one you want. He hasn’t responded. He’s famous, you didn’t expect him too.

It still hurts.

You push yourself out of bed, limbs sluggish, and trudge over to your small kitchenette. You open a box of cheap Costco croissants and pull one out, eating it cold because you don’t have the energy to heat it up.

You lean against the counter, chewing slowly, and unlock your phone again.

This time, you go straight to his profile and open direct messages.

Your fingers hover for a second before you start typing.

idk if u remember me but i was the girl at erewhon

“I don’t know if you remember me?” you mutter, “who the fuck would say that?”

It’s only been a day, he’d probably remember you. Considering the fact he spent the better part of his afternoon with you.

You delete it and start again.

u didn’t tell me u were famous

Now it sounds worse. Like you care about that. Like it changes something. Like you’re about to latch onto him now that you know who he is.

Maybe that’s dramatic, but it sounds desperate. You send it anyways.

He probably won’t even see it.

You move to your living room, collapsing onto your ratty little couch, the cushions sinking under your weight. Your laptop sits on the coffee table, and you pull it toward you, flipping it open.

You type his name into Google, and instantly your screen floods with images, articles, and interviews.

You click on one. It’s a magazine cover from the recent issue of Man About Town.

Satoru sits on the floor, head tilted slightly upward, eyes locked with the camera like he’s looking straight through it—through you. It’s mesmerizing, almost as magical as seeing him in person.

But no camera can capture the exact blue of his eyes. Not the way they looked in real life. Not the way they held yours so effortlessly.

Your gaze drifts lower—to his clothes. Black pants, sleek, perfectly tailored—interrupted only by the unmistakable red and green Gucci stripe running down the side.

It’s obvious now. At the store, you thought he was like you: Broke and out of place.

Now it’s clear, he just snuck away from his hotel. From his schedule. From everything that comes with being him.

And for a moment—you were his normal.

You close the tab and go back to your search.

Absorbing more than you probably should. Turns out he had another concert next week.

You click on it immediately, already knowing what you’ll find: Sold out.

You check resale sites next. Sketchy ones—links you barely trust.

The prices make your stomach twist, knowing you could never afford them.

$800

$1000

$1200

You’d really fucked up this time.

There’s nothing you can do except wait.

————

It’s the day of Satoru’s concert.

You told yourself you wouldn’t go.

You would get in trouble. You’d regret it. There’s no point—you don’t even have a ticket.

The thought flickers in your mind anyway. You shut it down before it can take root, digging into the pliable soil of your mind and settling.

You don’t have a ticket. There’s nothing for you there.

————

It’s dark by the time you step out of your Uber. The door shuts behind you with a dull thud, swallowed almost instantly by the distant roar of a crowd.

For a second, you just stand there on the curb, unsure how you got here. You don’t remember making the decision. Your body had moved on its own, there was something inside you that refused to stay away.

Now you’re here—standing in front of the arena.

It towers over you, steel and glass and blinding lights. Massive screens flash Satoru’s name in looping graphics, his face appearing for seconds at a time before dissolving into color and motion. People rush past you in clusters, buzzing with excitement, their voices overlapping into a constant hum of anticipation.

You let yourself drift with them. No resistance, no direction—just letting the current of bodies carry you forward. Their energy brushes against you, warm and electric, but it never quite reaches inside. You feel like a ghost slipping through something you can’t touch.

Inside, the air changes immediately—cool, artificial, humming faintly with the building’s ventilation. Bright lights reflect off polished floors. There’s a long line snaking around metal barricades. People waiting for wristbands, tickets clutched tightly in their hands.

You slow, watching them for a moment. You wouldn’t need to wait, you don’t have a ticket.

The realization doesn’t sting like you expected, it just settles, deep in your gut.

You walk around the line. Past the security ropes. Toward somewhere quieter—somewhere you know you probably shouldn’t be.

A dark corridor opens along the side of the building, half-hidden from the main flow of people. A small sign hangs above it, almost overlooked.

Staff Only. You don’t stop.

The lights dim as you step inside, the noise of the crowd muffling into the distance, like waves behind a wall. The corridor stretches ahead, narrow and shadowed, leading to a thin gap between the arena wall and an outer barricade.

It’s empty. Occasionally, someone passes at the far end—staff members with headsets, security guards moving with purpose—but none of them spare you more than a glance. They look through you, past you.

You’ve always been good at that: being invisible.

You step closer to the wall, the bass faint but steady beneath your feet, like a heartbeat you can’t quite sync with. For a moment, you close your eyes.

And just for a moment. You let yourself pretend.

Pretend you’re out there, pressed up against the barricade, shoulder to shoulder with the crowd. Pretend the lights are blinding instead of distant. Pretend that when you look up-

A roar erupts. Your eyes snap open.

Reality crashes back in all at once. The music surges, louder now, vibrating through the concrete, through your bones. The crowd screams in waves—rising, falling, rising again—reacting to something you can’t see.

A few beats pass. Then his voice appears.

It cuts through everything, even from here. He starts with his most popular song—you knew he would. You’d looked it up, you memorized the setlist.

The crowd explodes. It’s deafening, overwhelming, almost violent in its intensity. They scream the lyrics back at him, thousands of voices merging into one. From where you stand, it’s hard to even hear him over them.

But then certain parts come. The ones no one bothered to memorize.

His voice is deeper than the recordings ever captured, richer—like it’s pulled straight from somewhere deep inside his chest. It fills the space in a way that feels too intimate for something so far away.

And the crowd feels it too. Their screams sharpen, higher, almost desperate, bouncing off the walls and folding back in on themselves.

You hum along softly, barely audible over the clamoring in the pit. Trying to imagine that you’re out there.

That somehow, he sees you.

For a second, it almost works. But the illusion shatters as quickly as it formed, leaving you standing in the pieces of your broken dream. You’re still in the hallway, separated by concrete bricks.

A wall between you and him. Literally and figuratively.

He’s famous, you’re not. He’s rich, you’re broke. He’s beautiful, you’re average.

The song ends. There’s a pause, brief but heavy—the entire arena is holding its breath at once.

Then he speaks. The crowd erupts again, louder somehow, like they’d been waiting just to hear him talk. His voice filters through the wall in fragments, broken and uneven.

“…tonight…”

“…thank you…”

“…means a lot…”

You strain to catch more, but the rest dissolves into noise. He sounds so close. Close enough that, if the wall disappeared, you could reach out and touch him.

And yet—he’s impossibly far. Once, you were right there. Closer to him than any of these people will ever be.

And now there are thousands between you. Thousands screaming his name. And even if you screamed—he wouldn’t hear you.

Time keeps moving. Like it always has. Steady, unrelenting, dragging everything forward whether you’re ready or not. Even when you wish it would rewind. Even when you’d give anything to relive the moments you let slip away—like the drifting tides of the ocean.

Another song starts. Then another.

You tell yourself you’ll leave after this one.

Time blurs, slipping through your fingers, measured only by the rise and fall of music and the constant pulse of the crowd. At some point, your legs give out and you sink to the floor, back pressed against the cold wall, arms wrapped around your bare knees.

You let the sound wash over you. Let it carry something away—some piece of the weight you’ve been holding onto. Your anguish.

By the time the concert nears its end, you can feel the difference. The crowd’s energy is thinning, stretched tight and fraying at the edges. Still loud, still alive—but it’s tired.

Then the music shifts.

It turns slow, soft. It’s a different kind of song.

A love song.

His voice returns, quieter now, stripped of the heavy production. No distortion, no layering. Raw and unguarded, resonating through the space.

For a moment, it’s easy to pretend that this is just for you. A private concert in your mind, tucked away in the dark.

But it’s not for you, none of this is. You’re just another face in a crowd you’re not even part of.

The final note fades, and the arena erupts.

Every single person screaming, cheering, pouring everything they have left into the moment. It’s louder than before, louder than anything, it hurts to listen too.

He says a few words, the crowd cheers again, the lights dim. His presence is gone.

You sit there for a moment longer, unmoving, the silence in your space feeling heavier now that the music is gone. Then you push yourself up, legs stiff, and make your way back down the corridor.

The closer you get to the exit, the louder it becomes again—not music this time, but people.

The crowd spills out into the halls and onto the streets, buzzing with excitement. Laughter, chatter, voices overlapping in a chaotic song.

You let yourself be pulled along again. You try to join the crowd, but you don’t fit. You’re not laughing, not smiling.

If anything, the concert didn’t bring you closer to Satoru—it reminded you of how far away he is—of everything you’ll never have.

You wish, not for the first time, that Satoru was normal. Because maybe then, this wouldn’t feel so impossible. Maybe then, you’d have a chance.

A long sigh escapes you as you pick up your pace, exhaustion settling deep into your bones. Every part of you aches—not physically, but in that quiet, persistent way you can’t shake.

You just want to go home.

Outside, the night air hits you, cool and grounding. The moon hangs overhead, plump and inviting, casting a pale glow over the sea of people and cars below.

Pickup lines stretch endlessly, headlights blending into one continuous stream of white and red. Drivers call out names, passengers weave through traffic, tires screech.

You stand there for a second, scanning the crowd. You’re unsure if you’ll even be able to find your ride.

Suddenly, the window of a Toyota rolls down and a man with a scarred lip peers out at you.

He calls your name, “Uber for you?”

“Uh yeah,” You open the door to the backseat and slide in. “You’re Fushiguro right?”

He tries to catch your eye in the rear-view mirror, “Yeah, but you can just call me Toji.”

“Right. Just take me to the address I put in the app.” You purposely avoid his gaze, opting to look out the window instead.

You hear him hum and type something out on his touchscreen

He pulls away, speeding off. Leaving everything behind you in the dust.

————

That night, Shoko calls you.

Your phone buzzes against your mattress, the sound louder than it should be in the quiet of your room. You stare at the screen for a second before picking it up, already knowing it’s her.

You answer in bed, still half-buried under your blankets. You put her on speaker and drop the phone beside you, turning onto your side.

“Hey Shoko, how’s med school so far?”

“Well—” she starts, dragging the word out, “this guy I met at the bar had free tickets to a meet and greet with some famous singer, it’s in a week, you wanna go?”

You blink, that wasn’t what you expected.

Shoko’s been so busy with med school lately, buried in textbooks and stress—you’ll take any excuse to see her. Even if it means standing in a crowded room with a bunch of screaming fans.

“Of course,” you say, pushing yourself up slightly. “Who is it?”

“Go-go Sakura, I think?” she says, completely unsure. “I don’t remember his name. He’s super famous though.”

You pause, wondering if you heard it right.

She completely butchered his name, but you know exactly who she’s talking about.

Your chest tightens just a little. This is your chance.

“Yeah,” you say casually, pretending that his name doesn’t stir something inside you. “Let me search him up.”

You grab your laptop from beside your bed and sit up properly, leaning back against your pile of pillows. The screen lights your face blue as you open it, fingers moving slower than usual.

You don’t want her to know that you know him—that you met him.

“Oh—” you say after a second, forcing a bit of surprise into your voice. “He is super famous. He’s got like—100 million listeners on Spotify.”

“Holy shit,” Shoko gasps, “the guy didn’t tell me he was that famous.”

You huff out a quiet laugh.

Of course he didn’t.

“Do you think if I post a photo with him on my Insta I’ll go viral?” she adds, suddenly more awake.

“Shoko,” you say flatly, “your Insta is private.”

There’s a pause.

“Oh yeah,” she says. “I’ll make it public then.”

You actually laugh at that, shaking your head a little.

Then it hits you—she can’t see you.

“Hey,” you add quickly, adjusting your position, “you wanna FaceTime? I miss your face girl.”

“Duh,” she says immediately. “I miss you too.”

You prop your phone up against your laptop, adjusting it a couple times until it stops slipping. Your camera turns on, and a second later hers does too.

Her face fills the screen.

You notice it right away—her dark circles.

“You look tired,” you say, leaning in a little, your brows pulling together. “We can talk tomorrow if you want.”

“The semester just started,” she sighs, rubbing at her eyes. “The work isn’t that difficult yet. I just need to fix my sleep schedule.”

You nod slowly.

“I know,” you say. “At least you’re doing something productive with your life. I sit on my couch watching movies all day.”

The words come out lighter than they feel.

“I really need a job.”

“No luck with liberal arts?” she asks.

You let out a dry laugh.

“Fuck no,” you say. “My only hope is to marry a rich man.”

You drop your face into your hands dramatically, muffling your voice.

“You’ll have men lining up for you,” she says without hesitation. “Trust me.”

“I wish,” you groan, dragging your hands down your face. “Ugh. I was so dumb—I should’ve gotten a degree in biology or something.”

You glance back at your phone, at her.

“I think I’m the one who’s tired,” you add. “I’m gonna sleep. Text me the meet and greet stuff.”

“I’ll send the ticket to you,” she says. “It has all the info.”

You nod. “Okay.”

She ends the call.

You let out a deep sigh and fall back against your pillows, one arm coming up to cover your eyes.

You were boring, jobless, and loveless.

The thoughts bury deep inside your mind, heavy, hard to ignore.

How were you supposed to attract a rich man like this?

You weren’t anything flashy. You weren’t the kind of girl who walked into a room and had people turning their heads.

You were certainly no peacock. If anything, the smallest things made you flush with embarrassment—a wrong word, a lingering stare, even thinking too hard about something you said hours ago.

You exhale slowly. You were going to have to pick up a shit ton of jobs again.

Just like in college. The thought almost feels nostalgic. But back then, it meant something. You were working towards your future, now this is your future.

Your eyes shift toward your laptop, still open beside you. The screen glows softly in the dim room, pulling your attention back.

You sigh and sit up again, dragging the laptop into your lap.

“Jobs near me,” you mumble as you type.

Listings load in instantly—retail, cafés, random part-time positions you’ve seen a hundred times before. Your eyes skim over them, already half-disinterested.

URGENT HIRING: Limitless

You pause, you’ve been there before.

A Michelin star restaurant. The kind that serves tiny plates of food that barely fill your stomach. One of your old boyfriends took you there once—said it was “nothing special.” That kind of place was normal for him. You remember feeling out of place the entire time.

Men dressed in perfectly tailored suits. Women in beautiful floor length dresses, slits cut into the sides—high enough to show a sliver of thigh.

You swear the waitress eyed you up and down, as if she knew you didn’t belong among them.

And now—you’re considering working there.

You tilt your head slightly, thinking.

It’s not like you’re completely inexperienced. You’ve worked as a waitress before. Plenty of times. You know how to carry trays, deal with customers, smile even with it hurts.

It won’t harm you to try.

You click on the link. The application page loads, clean and simple. You skim it quickly before uploading your resume, the same one you’ve sent out a dozen times before.

You hesitate for half a second, then hit submit. You lean back slightly, staring at the screen.

Hopefully they find you a perfect applicant, and call you in for an interview. You just want something to do besides lying on your couch all day.

Your phone buzzes loudly, making you jump, scaring you out of your thoughts. You pick it up lethargically—it continues to buzz in your hand.

You’re being bombarded with messages.

All from Shoko.

Shoko 💗: Omg look at this

Shoko 💗: It’s abt the singer i was showing u

Shoko 💗: Wait

Shoko 💗: Isn’t this u???

She sends a link in the chat. You open it slowly—your fingers hovering over it hesitantly.

It leads you to a post filled with pictures of Satoru and—

You.

The photos are blurry, taken from far away. Only the side of your face is visible—covered by strands of hair. Not enough to identify you, but you recognize yourself—your outfit, the shape of your nose.

You glance down at the caption.

Gojo Satoru spotted in the wild with a girl???

Your stomach drops, people had noticed him—had noticed you.

The comments are filled with people wondering who you are, maybe a secret girlfriend, a fan.

No, you’re too close to be just a fan. He looks too relaxed, his smile easy, his hand frozen in time—pushing your drink towards you.

You scroll, just to find more videos of people making theories, defending you, or picking out every little thing—the curve of your nose, the cardigan you’re wearing, the pattern of your hair—talking about it like it’s the hottest gossip of the year.

And maybe it is.

When you he offered to buy your drink and you agreed, you didn’t expect anything big to come out of it. You didn’t even know who he was.

Now, you’re somehow apart of all this.

A/N: First fic i’ve posted on tumblr 🙏 don’t flop pls

reblogs appreciated

ACT I

You thought Gojo Satoru was unobtainable. He was a star in the night sky—shining, constant, beautiful in a way that felt almost cruel. Close enough to see, close enough to admire, yet impossibly far. A beacon you could only ever grasp at, fingers curling around nothing but empty air.

You’d see him on social media sometimes. Scrolling late at night, your screen dimmed, your room quiet except for the in-and-out of your breaths. He always looked the same—bright, effortless, unfairly handsome. He existed in a world untouched by anything ordinary.

But you never thought—never even entertained the idea—that you’d actually have a chance.

But that would change.

It started with an accidental encounter, long before you knew who he was.

————

You’re in Erewhon, browsing like you actually had money to spend.

The place doesn’t even feel real. Everything too clean and curated, shelves lined with glass jars and pastel packaging that looked more decorative than edible. The lighting white—yet soft, like it was trying to convince you that spending $30 on juice was a life-changing experience.

You pick up a jar, turning it over in your hands. Blue sea moss. $90.

You stare at it for a second longer than necessary. The color was almost aggressive—a bright azure blue, borderline radioactive. No way something that looked like that was meant to be eaten.

You set it back down carefully, it looked like something that might explode if you didn’t.

After a while of aimlessly walking around—pretending to browse, pretending you belonged—you make your way toward the smoothie bar. It was the only thing that felt remotely justifiable.

You want to try the Hailey Beiber smoothie, the thing all those girls raved about. You want to know if it really makes your skin glow.

$21.

You hesitate, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. Part of you wants to try it, just once. So you can know what it feels like to casually spend money like that, to not think twice about something so absurd.

You were still debating—when you bumped into something—or someone.

“Shit! I’m so sorry!” The apology leaves you instantly, your hands coming up as if you could physically undo the collision. You look up—

The stranger in front of you is dressed simply. A black hoodie, slightly oversized, and grey sweats. He looks out of place.

Even you had put in some effort before coming here—jeans that fit just right, a light pink cardigan layered neatly, a coat of mascara brushed on thicker than usual. Not too much, just enough to feel like you wouldn’t be judged.

But he looks like he doesn’t care, almost like he doesn’t need to.

“It’s alright,” he says easily. “I wasn’t looking where I was going. I’m sorry.”

And then you notice his eyes—an enchanting kind of blue. The kind of blue that doesn’t seem to end, framed by lashes so pale they’re almost white. His gaze is steady, but there’s something behind it—something vast, something you can’t quite place.

A frozen lake you could stare into for hours and never fully understand. And his hair—resembling freshly fallen snow—blindingly white. There was no way that was real.

You stare a second too long. He tilts his head slightly, expecting some kind of response.

You snap out of your trance. “No—It’s my fault,” you rush, words tripping over themselves. “I was just.. distracted. Everything in here is just so- luxurious. Uh—I usually shop at Walmart.”

The honesty slips out before you can filter it.

For a split second, you think maybe you’ve said too much. But he laughs, soft and real. “So you’re not supposed to be here then?”

You huff quietly, shrugging. “Well, I’m definitely not rich enough to shop here.”

He nods, like he understands you completely.

“I’m not supposed to be here either,” he admits. “I’m just visiting. I’m used to more… simpler things.”

There’s something in the way he says it. Casual, but careful, like he’s choosing his words just enough to avoid saying too much.

You glance back at the menu above the counter.

“I was thinking of treating myself,” you say, half to him, half to yourself. “Just once. Seeing what it’s like to be rich. But a $21 smoothie is kinda insane.”

There’s a beat.

“I’ll buy it for you.” The words come out quickly, almost as if he didn’t mean to say them out loud. He straightens slightly, looking as if he’s trying to recover. “I mean—only if you want.”

You blink.

“Really?” A smile spreads across your face before you can stop it. “I’d love that. Thank you.”

Inside, you’re ecstatic. A free smoothie from a ridiculously handsome stranger? This had to be some kind of cosmic compensation for all your bad luck.

He orders without hesitation, and you wonder if he even though about the price. The two of you move outside, settling at a small table tucked along the edge of the store.

The air is warmer out here, the late afternoon sun dipping lower, casting everything in a soft glow.

Now you’re glad you made an effort in your appearance today. This was practically becoming a real date.

“So,” he says, sliding the drink toward you, condensation already gathering along the sides of the cup. “What’s your name?”

You tell him.

He repeats it slowly, carefully, like he’s testing it—rolling each syllable over his tongue with an ease that makes it sound prettier than it actually is.

“And you?” you ask, leaning forward slightly. “What should I call you?”

He hesitates. Just for a fraction of a second.

“You can just call me Satoru.”

He says it quieter than before, it’s something meant only for you—something he doesn’t want anyone passing by to hear.

You nod. “Well, Satoru… you said you’re just visiting. What are you here for?”

“I’m attending some… events,” he says. “Things like that.”

“Like concerts?” you guess. “L.A. has a lot of those.”

He glances at you, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

“Yeah,” he says. “Basically.”

You take a sip of your drink, the cold sweetness hitting your tongue as water droplets slips down the cup, dampening your fingers.

For a while, neither of you says anything.

You just sit there, looking at each other.

Time shifts—it slows and stretches. The world around you fades into something distant, blurred at the edges. Cars honk, people chatter, doors slam shut—but none of it matters. It’s all in the background.

Right now, you and Satoru are the only two people in the galaxy. And Time itself seems to notice, pausing, lingering, zooming in on the smallest things—the way his gaze softens, the way your fingers tighten slightly around your cup, the barely-there glances exchanged like secrets.

And for once—Time waits for you.

RING!

The sound cuts through everything. Sharp and jarring.

Reality snaps back into place. Time resumes, relentless as ever.

“Sorry,” you mumble quickly, already standing. “I have to take this.”

You step a few feet away, pressing your phone to your ear. It’s your best friend, Shoko.

“Hello?”

“This better be important,” you say immediately, lowering your voice. “You interrupted something.”

“Yeah, whatever—like you have anything important to do.”

You roll your eyes, even though she can’t see you. “Shoko-”

“You know how I applied to that medical school?” she cuts in.

You pause. “Yeah… what about it?”

“Well, I got in!” Her voice spikes, bright and unfiltered, and it catches you off guard. You’ve never heard her sound so genuinely excited about anything.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, a smile breaking across your face. “I’m so happy for you—seriously. I’m proud of you. You’re going to be the best doctor in the world.”

“I know,” she laughs, not even pretending to be humble. “So get ready, I’m taking us out. I’m already on my way to your apartment.”

“Wait- what?”

The line goes dead. You stare at your phone for a second, exhaling sharply.

You didn’t even get to tell her you weren’t home. You have to leave.

Now.

You hurry back to the table, your steps quicker, your beating fast.

“I’m really sorry,” you say to him, breathless. “But I have to go. It’s- an emergency.”

The lie comes out smoother than you expect. You don’t have the heart to tell him the truth—that you’re leaving to go celebrate with your friend. That this moment, whatever it is, is already slipping away.

You grab your bag, slinging it over your shoulder, already half-turned toward the street.

“I’m really sorry,” you repeat, casting one last glance at him. Taking in his face, his eyes, his open mouth—like he was about to say something.

You wave down a taxi, directing it to go to your apartment.

————

You make it home just before Shoko arrives.

The moment you manage to slip into a tiny black dress, one that was probably a size too small, the door swings open.

Of course she lets herself in. She always does.

“This night is going to be all about me,” she proclaims, striding in like she owns the place. Her dress catches the light with every movement, sequins scattering reflections—and actual glitter—across your floor. “I’m going to get so wasted I’ll forget that I can never party again.”

You blink, ignoring the glitter. “Never party again? Isn’t that a little far? I’m sure medical school won’t take up that much time.”

She stops, staring at you like you’ve just said something deeply naive.

“You don’t know the horrors,” she says flatly, then shudders. “I’ve heard stories.”

You laugh, grabbing your bag, and your keys.

“Well,” you say, forcing the energy back into your voice, “let’s make this a night you won’t forget.”

You hook your arm through hers, pulling her toward the door.

And just like that—you run out into the night.

————

You get home at 3am and drag your dress down your body, fingers clumsy, impatient. The fabric catches at your hips and you tug harder than you should, nearly tearing it in the process. For a second you don’t even care—you just need it off.

It slips free and pools at your feet, a crumpled reminder of the night.

You step out of it and leave it there.

The bathroom light is too bright when you flick it on, harsh against your tired eyes. You don’t bother adjusting it. You turn the shower knob all the way to hot—too hot—and step in before you can register the pain.

You stand there, unmoving, letting it run over your shoulders, down your back, washing away the smell of sweat and perfume and alcohol. The night clings to you, stubborn, but the heat slowly starts to pull it away.

And for the first time all night, you let your mind drift back to Satoru. You wonder if he was hurt that you left so quickly. It didn’t matter anyways. He probably bought women drinks regularly. You weren’t special—you were just at the right place at the right time. Just another girl he happened to run into.

The water runs down your face, and you close your eyes.

You aren’t anything special.

You’re pretty—but an average kind of pretty. The girl-next-door kind. The kind that has to have a real personality for people to fall in love with. You aren’t particularly well endowed either—your body lacks curves. You have barely any extra plush to grip onto.

Sometimes you stare at your naked body and wonder how anyone could ever love it—love you. In a society where big breasts and a fat ass gets you everything, you have nothing to give.

You aren’t someone people remember. Not the kind someone like him would go out of his way to find.

You probably should’ve told Shoko. She would’ve lost her mind—genuinely, completely thrilled to hear you actually talked to a man who wasn’t an asshole for once. She would’ve demanded every detail, replayed every word, made it into something bigger than it was.

But you didn’t want to make the night about you. So you kept your mouth shut. Now you’re wondering if that was a mistake.

Because there’s so much you want to say now. So many questions that keep circling back, refusing to settle.

Would he even remember you? Would he try to find you?

You let out a quiet breath, leaning your forehead against the cool tile.

You could just tell Shoko tomorrow. Or later. Over FaceTime, like you always do. You could say everything then.

That thought settles something in you, just enough.

Eventually, you step out of the shower, skin warm and flushed. You wrap yourself in your fluffy pink towel, the fabric soft against your damp skin, and pad barefoot over to your bed.

You grab your phone from your purse and collapse onto the mattress, scrolling absentmindedly while you wait for your hair to dry.

The first video that pops up is a clip of an idol performing in L.A. You barely register it.

You don’t care much for famous people, so you scroll away.

A flash of white brings you back. Your thumb pauses mid-motion. You scroll back up and watch the video—the whole thing.

A figure steps forward on stage, lights flashing, the crowd screaming so loud it distorts the audio. At first, it’s hard to tell—it’s out of focus, chaotic.

But something about the singer feels familiar.

Your stomach twists. It’s Satoru, but he looks different.

His hair is styled now, not soft and slightly messy like before. His clothes are nothing like the hoodie and sweats from before—they’re sharp, intentional, expensive. There’s makeup, subtle but there. Stage lights catch on his skin, highlighting angles you hadn’t noticed earlier.

And his presence—it’s stronger, more confident.

It’s clear he knows exactly how every eye in that arena is on him. He knows he belongs.

This is version of him you didn’t see. Or maybe you just weren’t paying attention.

“What the fuck?” you whisper, barely audible.

The camera zooms in. And it’s him.

There’s no mistaking it now. The crowd screams his name. GOJO.

Gojo Satoru. That’s his full name.

You pause the video, your finger hovering for a second before tapping into the comments.

They flood the screen instantly.

@gojossixthsenseye: I NEED HIM SO BAD

@gojosatorusmicstand: The mic is ON

@ineedwaterrrr: I would die for him ngl

Your mouth parts, your eyes flicker away from your screen—trying to forget to focus on anything else, anything but your phone.

Girls thirsting, screaming, and jumping—all of it was for him.

The same guy who bought you a smoothie like it didn’t matter. Who sat across from you like it was normal. Who looked at you—really looked at you—like you weren’t just another face passing by.

This version of him—would never do that. Would never talk to a stranger—never talk to you. Someone who’s never even brushed against fame, let alone existed inside it.

You turn your phone off abruptly and toss it somewhere into the mess of blankets and pillows on your bed.

You stare at the ceiling. You felt something when you talked to him. A connection—a spark of something real.

But maybe that was just him—charming. So much so that it disarmedyou. The kind of person who could make anyone feel seen if he wanted to.

Maybe he just wanted to feel normal for a little while. And you were convenient. You didn’t recognize him. Not even when he gave you his name.

That must’ve been perfect for him. No expectations, screaming fans—no pressure.

Just a normal conversation. Maybe that’s why he stayed as long as he did.

The thought sits heavy on your chest. And you know that by morning he won’t even remember you.

You were just a moment for him. A tool to step outside of his life for a little while.

You reach blindly into your blankets and fish your phone back out.

Your fingers move almost on autopilot, opening Instagram, searching his name.

His account pops up instantly—verified, with tens of millions of followers.

You tap on his latest post—it’s from the concert. A photo of him on stage, lights exploding behind him, the crowd barely visible beyond the glare.

You stare at it for a second.

Then you comment.

@starrygirI: he sounds way better than i thought

It’s stupidly casual. Like you’re just another fan.

But now, that is all you are.

He didn’t seem the singing type when you first met him. Not the idol type either. You were wrong about a lot of things.

He probably wouldn’t recognize you. And why would he? You’re just another comment in a sea of thousands.

You check the time: 5am. Two hours gone. And somehow, you feel like you’ve learned more in those two hours than you had in college.

Reality settles in, heavy and immovable. You’ll never get a chance to speak to him again. At least not casually.

You turn your phone off—this time for real—and pull on a loose t-shirt, the fabric soft and familiar.

Sleep comes quickly.

And when it does—your dreams are filled with a vast land of snow and endless blue.

————

You wake up late—when the sun is at its highest point in the sky. Light spills through your half-closed blinds, painting your room in a muted golden haze.

The first thing you do is reach for your phone.

Notifications.

But not the one you want. He hasn’t responded. He’s famous, you didn’t expect him too.

It still hurts.

You push yourself out of bed, limbs sluggish, and trudge over to your small kitchenette. You open a box of cheap Costco croissants and pull one out, eating it cold because you don’t have the energy to heat it up.

You lean against the counter, chewing slowly, and unlock your phone again.

This time, you go straight to his profile and open direct messages.

Your fingers hover for a second before you start typing.

idk if u remember me but i was the girl at erewhon

“I don’t know if you remember me?” you mutter, “who the fuck would say that?”

It’s only been a day, he’d probably remember you. Considering the fact he spent the better part of his afternoon with you.

You delete it and start again.

u didn’t tell me u were famous

Now it sounds worse. Like you care about that. Like it changes something. Like you’re about to latch onto him now that you know who he is.

Maybe that’s dramatic, but it sounds desperate. You send it anyways.

He probably won’t even see it.

You move to your living room, collapsing onto your ratty little couch, the cushions sinking under your weight. Your laptop sits on the coffee table, and you pull it toward you, flipping it open.

You type his name into Google, and instantly your screen floods with images, articles, and interviews.

You click on one. It’s a magazine cover from the recent issue of Man About Town.

Satoru sits on the floor, head tilted slightly upward, eyes locked with the camera like he’s looking straight through it—through you. It’s mesmerizing, almost as magical as seeing him in person.

But no camera can capture the exact blue of his eyes. Not the way they looked in real life. Not the way they held yours so effortlessly.

Your gaze drifts lower—to his clothes. Black pants, sleek, perfectly tailored—interrupted only by the unmistakable red and green Gucci stripe running down the side.

It’s obvious now. At the store, you thought he was like you: Broke and out of place.

Now it’s clear, he just snuck away from his hotel. From his schedule. From everything that comes with being him.

And for a moment—you were his normal.

You close the tab and go back to your search.

Absorbing more than you probably should. Turns out he had another concert next week.

You click on it immediately, already knowing what you’ll find: Sold out.

You check resale sites next. Sketchy ones—links you barely trust.

The prices make your stomach twist, knowing you could never afford them.

$800

$1000

$1200

You’d really fucked up this time.

There’s nothing you can do except wait.

————

It’s the day of Satoru’s concert.

You told yourself you wouldn’t go.

You would get in trouble. You’d regret it. There’s no point—you don’t even have a ticket.

The thought flickers in your mind anyway. You shut it down before it can take root, digging into the pliable soil of your mind and settling.

You don’t have a ticket. There’s nothing for you there.

————

It’s dark by the time you step out of your Uber. The door shuts behind you with a dull thud, swallowed almost instantly by the distant roar of a crowd.

For a second, you just stand there on the curb, unsure how you got here. You don’t remember making the decision. Your body had moved on its own, there was something inside you that refused to stay away.

Now you’re here—standing in front of the arena.

It towers over you, steel and glass and blinding lights. Massive screens flash Satoru’s name in looping graphics, his face appearing for seconds at a time before dissolving into color and motion. People rush past you in clusters, buzzing with excitement, their voices overlapping into a constant hum of anticipation.

You let yourself drift with them. No resistance, no direction—just letting the current of bodies carry you forward. Their energy brushes against you, warm and electric, but it never quite reaches inside. You feel like a ghost slipping through something you can’t touch.

Inside, the air changes immediately—cool, artificial, humming faintly with the building’s ventilation. Bright lights reflect off polished floors. There’s a long line snaking around metal barricades. People waiting for wristbands, tickets clutched tightly in their hands.

You slow, watching them for a moment. You wouldn’t need to wait, you don’t have a ticket.

The realization doesn’t sting like you expected, it just settles, deep in your gut.

You walk around the line. Past the security ropes. Toward somewhere quieter—somewhere you know you probably shouldn’t be.

A dark corridor opens along the side of the building, half-hidden from the main flow of people. A small sign hangs above it, almost overlooked.

Staff Only. You don’t stop.

The lights dim as you step inside, the noise of the crowd muffling into the distance, like waves behind a wall. The corridor stretches ahead, narrow and shadowed, leading to a thin gap between the arena wall and an outer barricade.

It’s empty. Occasionally, someone passes at the far end—staff members with headsets, security guards moving with purpose—but none of them spare you more than a glance. They look through you, past you.

You’ve always been good at that: being invisible.

You step closer to the wall, the bass faint but steady beneath your feet, like a heartbeat you can’t quite sync with. For a moment, you close your eyes.

And just for a moment. You let yourself pretend.

Pretend you’re out there, pressed up against the barricade, shoulder to shoulder with the crowd. Pretend the lights are blinding instead of distant. Pretend that when you look up-

A roar erupts. Your eyes snap open.

Reality crashes back in all at once. The music surges, louder now, vibrating through the concrete, through your bones. The crowd screams in waves—rising, falling, rising again—reacting to something you can’t see.

A few beats pass. Then his voice appears.

It cuts through everything, even from here. He starts with his most popular song—you knew he would. You’d looked it up, you memorized the setlist.

The crowd explodes. It’s deafening, overwhelming, almost violent in its intensity. They scream the lyrics back at him, thousands of voices merging into one. From where you stand, it’s hard to even hear him over them.

But then certain parts come. The ones no one bothered to memorize.

His voice is deeper than the recordings ever captured, richer—like it’s pulled straight from somewhere deep inside his chest. It fills the space in a way that feels too intimate for something so far away.

And the crowd feels it too. Their screams sharpen, higher, almost desperate, bouncing off the walls and folding back in on themselves.

You hum along softly, barely audible over the clamoring in the pit. Trying to imagine that you’re out there.

That somehow, he sees you.

For a second, it almost works. But the illusion shatters as quickly as it formed, leaving you standing in the pieces of your broken dream. You’re still in the hallway, separated by concrete bricks.

A wall between you and him. Literally and figuratively.

He’s famous, you’re not. He’s rich, you’re broke. He’s beautiful, you’re average.

The song ends. There’s a pause, brief but heavy—the entire arena is holding its breath at once.

Then he speaks. The crowd erupts again, louder somehow, like they’d been waiting just to hear him talk. His voice filters through the wall in fragments, broken and uneven.

“…tonight…”

“…thank you…”

“…means a lot…”

You strain to catch more, but the rest dissolves into noise. He sounds so close. Close enough that, if the wall disappeared, you could reach out and touch him.

And yet—he’s impossibly far. Once, you were right there. Closer to him than any of these people will ever be.

And now there are thousands between you. Thousands screaming his name. And even if you screamed—he wouldn’t hear you.

Time keeps moving. Like it always has. Steady, unrelenting, dragging everything forward whether you’re ready or not. Even when you wish it would rewind. Even when you’d give anything to relive the moments you let slip away—like the drifting tides of the ocean.

Another song starts. Then another.

You tell yourself you’ll leave after this one.

Time blurs, slipping through your fingers, measured only by the rise and fall of music and the constant pulse of the crowd. At some point, your legs give out and you sink to the floor, back pressed against the cold wall, arms wrapped around your bare knees.

You let the sound wash over you. Let it carry something away—some piece of the weight you’ve been holding onto. Your anguish.

By the time the concert nears its end, you can feel the difference. The crowd’s energy is thinning, stretched tight and fraying at the edges. Still loud, still alive—but it’s tired.

Then the music shifts.

It turns slow, soft. It’s a different kind of song.

A love song.

His voice returns, quieter now, stripped of the heavy production. No distortion, no layering. Raw and unguarded, resonating through the space.

For a moment, it’s easy to pretend that this is just for you. A private concert in your mind, tucked away in the dark.

But it’s not for you, none of this is. You’re just another face in a crowd you’re not even part of.

The final note fades, and the arena erupts.

Every single person screaming, cheering, pouring everything they have left into the moment. It’s louder than before, louder than anything, it hurts to listen too.

He says a few words, the crowd cheers again, the lights dim. His presence is gone.

You sit there for a moment longer, unmoving, the silence in your space feeling heavier now that the music is gone. Then you push yourself up, legs stiff, and make your way back down the corridor.

The closer you get to the exit, the louder it becomes again—not music this time, but people.

The crowd spills out into the halls and onto the streets, buzzing with excitement. Laughter, chatter, voices overlapping in a chaotic song.

You let yourself be pulled along again. You try to join the crowd, but you don’t fit. You’re not laughing, not smiling.

If anything, the concert didn’t bring you closer to Satoru—it reminded you of how far away he is—of everything you’ll never have.

You wish, not for the first time, that Satoru was normal. Because maybe then, this wouldn’t feel so impossible. Maybe then, you’d have a chance.

A long sigh escapes you as you pick up your pace, exhaustion settling deep into your bones. Every part of you aches—not physically, but in that quiet, persistent way you can’t shake.

You just want to go home.

Outside, the night air hits you, cool and grounding. The moon hangs overhead, plump and inviting, casting a pale glow over the sea of people and cars below.

Pickup lines stretch endlessly, headlights blending into one continuous stream of white and red. Drivers call out names, passengers weave through traffic, tires screech.

You stand there for a second, scanning the crowd. You’re unsure if you’ll even be able to find your ride.

Suddenly, the window of a Toyota rolls down and a man with a scarred lip peers out at you.

He calls your name, “Uber for you?”

“Uh yeah,” You open the door to the backseat and slide in. “You’re Fushiguro right?”

He tries to catch your eye in the rear-view mirror, “Yeah, but you can just call me Toji.”

“Right. Just take me to the address I put in the app.” You purposely avoid his gaze, opting to look out the window instead.

You hear him hum and type something out on his touchscreen

He pulls away, speeding off. Leaving everything behind you in the dust.

————

That night, Shoko calls you.

Your phone buzzes against your mattress, the sound louder than it should be in the quiet of your room. You stare at the screen for a second before picking it up, already knowing it’s her.

You answer in bed, still half-buried under your blankets. You put her on speaker and drop the phone beside you, turning onto your side.

“Hey Shoko, how’s med school so far?”

“Well—” she starts, dragging the word out, “this guy I met at the bar had free tickets to a meet and greet with some famous singer, it’s in a week, you wanna go?”

You blink, that wasn’t what you expected.

Shoko’s been so busy with med school lately, buried in textbooks and stress—you’ll take any excuse to see her. Even if it means standing in a crowded room with a bunch of screaming fans.

“Of course,” you say, pushing yourself up slightly. “Who is it?”

“Go-go Sakura, I think?” she says, completely unsure. “I don’t remember his name. He’s super famous though.”

You pause, wondering if you heard it right.

She completely butchered his name, but you know exactly who she’s talking about.

Your chest tightens just a little. This is your chance.

“Yeah,” you say casually, pretending that his name doesn’t stir something inside you. “Let me search him up.”

You grab your laptop from beside your bed and sit up properly, leaning back against your pile of pillows. The screen lights your face blue as you open it, fingers moving slower than usual.

You don’t want her to know that you know him—that you met him.

“Oh—” you say after a second, forcing a bit of surprise into your voice. “He is super famous. He’s got like—100 million listeners on Spotify.”

“Holy shit,” Shoko gasps, “the guy didn’t tell me he was that famous.”

You huff out a quiet laugh.

Of course he didn’t.

“Do you think if I post a photo with him on my Insta I’ll go viral?” she adds, suddenly more awake.

“Shoko,” you say flatly, “your Insta is private.”

There’s a pause.

“Oh yeah,” she says. “I’ll make it public then.”

You actually laugh at that, shaking your head a little.

Then it hits you—she can’t see you.

“Hey,” you add quickly, adjusting your position, “you wanna FaceTime? I miss your face girl.”

“Duh,” she says immediately. “I miss you too.”

You prop your phone up against your laptop, adjusting it a couple times until it stops slipping. Your camera turns on, and a second later hers does too.

Her face fills the screen.

You notice it right away—her dark circles.

“You look tired,” you say, leaning in a little, your brows pulling together. “We can talk tomorrow if you want.”

“The semester just started,” she sighs, rubbing at her eyes. “The work isn’t that difficult yet. I just need to fix my sleep schedule.”

You nod slowly.

“I know,” you say. “At least you’re doing something productive with your life. I sit on my couch watching movies all day.”

The words come out lighter than they feel.

“I really need a job.”

“No luck with liberal arts?” she asks.

You let out a dry laugh.

“Fuck no,” you say. “My only hope is to marry a rich man.”

You drop your face into your hands dramatically, muffling your voice.

“You’ll have men lining up for you,” she says without hesitation. “Trust me.”

“I wish,” you groan, dragging your hands down your face. “Ugh. I was so dumb—I should’ve gotten a degree in biology or something.”

You glance back at your phone, at her.

“I think I’m the one who’s tired,” you add. “I’m gonna sleep. Text me the meet and greet stuff.”

“I’ll send the ticket to you,” she says. “It has all the info.”

You nod. “Okay.”

She ends the call.

You let out a deep sigh and fall back against your pillows, one arm coming up to cover your eyes.

You were boring, jobless, and loveless.

The thoughts bury deep inside your mind, heavy, hard to ignore.

How were you supposed to attract a rich man like this?

You weren’t anything flashy. You weren’t the kind of girl who walked into a room and had people turning their heads.

You were certainly no peacock. If anything, the smallest things made you flush with embarrassment—a wrong word, a lingering stare, even thinking too hard about something you said hours ago.

You exhale slowly. You were going to have to pick up a shit ton of jobs again.

Just like in college. The thought almost feels nostalgic. But back then, it meant something. You were working towards your future, now this is your future.

Your eyes shift toward your laptop, still open beside you. The screen glows softly in the dim room, pulling your attention back.

You sigh and sit up again, dragging the laptop into your lap.

“Jobs near me,” you mumble as you type.

Listings load in instantly—retail, cafés, random part-time positions you’ve seen a hundred times before. Your eyes skim over them, already half-disinterested.

URGENT HIRING: Limitless

You pause, you’ve been there before.

A Michelin star restaurant. The kind that serves tiny plates of food that barely fill your stomach. One of your old boyfriends took you there once—said it was “nothing special.” That kind of place was normal for him. You remember feeling out of place the entire time.

Men dressed in perfectly tailored suits. Women in beautiful floor length dresses, slits cut into the sides—high enough to show a sliver of thigh.

You swear the waitress eyed you up and down, as if she knew you didn’t belong among them.

And now—you’re considering working there.

You tilt your head slightly, thinking.

It’s not like you’re completely inexperienced. You’ve worked as a waitress before. Plenty of times. You know how to carry trays, deal with customers, smile even with it hurts.

It won’t harm you to try.

You click on the link. The application page loads, clean and simple. You skim it quickly before uploading your resume, the same one you’ve sent out a dozen times before.

You hesitate for half a second, then hit submit. You lean back slightly, staring at the screen.

Hopefully they find you a perfect applicant, and call you in for an interview. You just want something to do besides lying on your couch all day.

Your phone buzzes loudly, making you jump, scaring you out of your thoughts. You pick it up lethargically—it continues to buzz in your hand.

You’re being bombarded with messages.

All from Shoko.

Shoko 💗: Omg look at this

Shoko 💗: It’s abt the singer i was showing u

Shoko 💗: Wait

Shoko 💗: Isn’t this u???

She sends a link in the chat. You open it slowly—your fingers hovering over it hesitantly.

It leads you to a post filled with pictures of Satoru and—

You.

The photos are blurry, taken from far away. Only the side of your face is visible—covered by strands of hair. Not enough to identify you, but you recognize yourself—your outfit, the shape of your nose.

You glance down at the caption.

Gojo Satoru spotted in the wild with a girl???

Your stomach drops, people had noticed him—had noticed you.

The comments are filled with people wondering who you are, maybe a secret girlfriend, a fan.

No, you’re too close to be just a fan. He looks too relaxed, his smile easy, his hand frozen in time—pushing your drink towards you.

You scroll, just to find more videos of people making theories, defending you, or picking out every little thing—the curve of your nose, the cardigan you’re wearing, the pattern of your hair—talking about it like it’s the hottest gossip of the year.

And maybe it is.

When you he offered to buy your drink and you agreed, you didn’t expect anything big to come out of it. You didn’t even know who he was.

Now, you’re somehow apart of all this.

A/N: First fic i’ve posted on tumblr 🙏 don’t flop pls

ACT I

You thought Gojo Satoru was unobtainable. He was a star in the night sky—shining, constant, beautiful in a way that felt almost cruel. Close enough to see, close enough to admire, yet impossibly far. A beacon you could only ever grasp at, fingers curling around nothing but empty air.

You’d see him on social media sometimes. Scrolling late at night, your screen dimmed, your room quiet except for the in-and-out of your breaths. He always looked the same—bright, effortless, unfairly handsome. He existed in a world untouched by anything ordinary.

But you never thought—never even entertained the idea—that you’d actually have a chance.

But that would change.

It started with an accidental encounter, long before you knew who he was.

————

You’re in Erewhon, browsing like you actually had money to spend.

The place doesn’t even feel real. Everything too clean and curated, shelves lined with glass jars and pastel packaging that looked more decorative than edible. The lighting white—yet soft, like it was trying to convince you that spending $30 on juice was a life-changing experience.

You pick up a jar, turning it over in your hands. Blue sea moss. $90.

You stare at it for a second longer than necessary. The color was almost aggressive—a bright azure blue, borderline radioactive. No way something that looked like that was meant to be eaten.

You set it back down carefully, it looked like something that might explode if you didn’t.

After a while of aimlessly walking around—pretending to browse, pretending you belonged—you make your way toward the smoothie bar. It was the only thing that felt remotely justifiable.

You want to try the Hailey Beiber smoothie, the thing all those girls raved about. You want to know if it really makes your skin glow.

$21.

You hesitate, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. Part of you wants to try it, just once. So you can know what it feels like to casually spend money like that, to not think twice about something so absurd.

You were still debating—when you bumped into something—or someone.

“Shit! I’m so sorry!” The apology leaves you instantly, your hands coming up as if you could physically undo the collision. You look up—

The stranger in front of you is dressed simply. A black hoodie, slightly oversized, and grey sweats. He looks out of place.

Even you had put in some effort before coming here—jeans that fit just right, a light pink cardigan layered neatly, a coat of mascara brushed on thicker than usual. Not too much, just enough to feel like you wouldn’t be judged.

But he looks like he doesn’t care, almost like he doesn’t need to.

“It’s alright,” he says easily. “I wasn’t looking where I was going. I’m sorry.”

And then you notice his eyes—an enchanting kind of blue. The kind of blue that doesn’t seem to end, framed by lashes so pale they’re almost white. His gaze is steady, but there’s something behind it—something vast, something you can’t quite place.

A frozen lake you could stare into for hours and never fully understand. And his hair—resembling freshly fallen snow—blindingly white. There was no way that was real.

You stare a second too long. He tilts his head slightly, expecting some kind of response.

You snap out of your trance. “No—It’s my fault,” you rush, words tripping over themselves. “I was just.. distracted. Everything in here is just so- luxurious. Uh—I usually shop at Walmart.”

The honesty slips out before you can filter it.

For a split second, you think maybe you’ve said too much. But he laughs, soft and real. “So you’re not supposed to be here then?”

You huff quietly, shrugging. “Well, I’m definitely not rich enough to shop here.”

He nods, like he understands you completely.

“I’m not supposed to be here either,” he admits. “I’m just visiting. I’m used to more… simpler things.”

There’s something in the way he says it. Casual, but careful, like he’s choosing his words just enough to avoid saying too much.

You glance back at the menu above the counter.

“I was thinking of treating myself,” you say, half to him, half to yourself. “Just once. Seeing what it’s like to be rich. But a $21 smoothie is kinda insane.”

There’s a beat.

“I’ll buy it for you.” The words come out quickly, almost as if he didn’t mean to say them out loud. He straightens slightly, looking as if he’s trying to recover. “I mean—only if you want.”

You blink.

“Really?” A smile spreads across your face before you can stop it. “I’d love that. Thank you.”

Inside, you’re ecstatic. A free smoothie from a ridiculously handsome stranger? This had to be some kind of cosmic compensation for all your bad luck.

He orders without hesitation, and you wonder if he even though about the price. The two of you move outside, settling at a small table tucked along the edge of the store.

The air is warmer out here, the late afternoon sun dipping lower, casting everything in a soft glow.

Now you’re glad you made an effort in your appearance today. This was practically becoming a real date.

“So,” he says, sliding the drink toward you, condensation already gathering along the sides of the cup. “What’s your name?”

You tell him.

He repeats it slowly, carefully, like he’s testing it—rolling each syllable over his tongue with an ease that makes it sound prettier than it actually is.

“And you?” you ask, leaning forward slightly. “What should I call you?”

He hesitates. Just for a fraction of a second.

“You can just call me Satoru.”

He says it quieter than before, it’s something meant only for you—something he doesn’t want anyone passing by to hear.

You nod. “Well, Satoru… you said you’re just visiting. What are you here for?”

“I’m attending some… events,” he says. “Things like that.”

“Like concerts?” you guess. “L.A. has a lot of those.”

He glances at you, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

“Yeah,” he says. “Basically.”

You take a sip of your drink, the cold sweetness hitting your tongue as water droplets slips down the cup, dampening your fingers.

For a while, neither of you says anything.

You just sit there, looking at each other.

Time shifts—it slows and stretches. The world around you fades into something distant, blurred at the edges. Cars honk, people chatter, doors slam shut—but none of it matters. It’s all in the background.

Right now, you and Satoru are the only two people in the galaxy. And Time itself seems to notice, pausing, lingering, zooming in on the smallest things—the way his gaze softens, the way your fingers tighten slightly around your cup, the barely-there glances exchanged like secrets.

And for once—Time waits for you.

RING!

The sound cuts through everything. Sharp and jarring.

Reality snaps back into place. Time resumes, relentless as ever.

“Sorry,” you mumble quickly, already standing. “I have to take this.”

You step a few feet away, pressing your phone to your ear. It’s your best friend, Shoko.

“Hello?”

“This better be important,” you say immediately, lowering your voice. “You interrupted something.”

“Yeah, whatever—like you have anything important to do.”

You roll your eyes, even though she can’t see you. “Shoko-”

“You know how I applied to that medical school?” she cuts in.

You pause. “Yeah… what about it?”

“Well, I got in!” Her voice spikes, bright and unfiltered, and it catches you off guard. You’ve never heard her sound so genuinely excited about anything.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, a smile breaking across your face. “I’m so happy for you—seriously. I’m proud of you. You’re going to be the best doctor in the world.”

“I know,” she laughs, not even pretending to be humble. “So get ready, I’m taking us out. I’m already on my way to your apartment.”

“Wait- what?”

The line goes dead. You stare at your phone for a second, exhaling sharply.

You didn’t even get to tell her you weren’t home. You have to leave.

Now.

You hurry back to the table, your steps quicker, your beating fast.

“I’m really sorry,” you say to him, breathless. “But I have to go. It’s- an emergency.”

The lie comes out smoother than you expect. You don’t have the heart to tell him the truth—that you’re leaving to go celebrate with your friend. That this moment, whatever it is, is already slipping away.

You grab your bag, slinging it over your shoulder, already half-turned toward the street.

“I’m really sorry,” you repeat, casting one last glance at him. Taking in his face, his eyes, his open mouth—like he was about to say something.

You wave down a taxi, directing it to go to your apartment.

————

You make it home just before Shoko arrives.

The moment you manage to slip into a tiny black dress, one that was probably a size too small, the door swings open.

Of course she lets herself in. She always does.

“This night is going to be all about me,” she proclaims, striding in like she owns the place. Her dress catches the light with every movement, sequins scattering reflections—and actual glitter—across your floor. “I’m going to get so wasted I’ll forget that I can never party again.”

You blink, ignoring the glitter. “Never party again? Isn’t that a little far? I’m sure medical school won’t take up that much time.”

She stops, staring at you like you’ve just said something deeply naive.

“You don’t know the horrors,” she says flatly, then shudders. “I’ve heard stories.”

You laugh, grabbing your bag, and your keys.

“Well,” you say, forcing the energy back into your voice, “let’s make this a night you won’t forget.”

You hook your arm through hers, pulling her toward the door.

And just like that—you run out into the night.

————

You get home at 3am and drag your dress down your body, fingers clumsy, impatient. The fabric catches at your hips and you tug harder than you should, nearly tearing it in the process. For a second you don’t even care—you just need it off.

It slips free and pools at your feet, a crumpled reminder of the night.

You step out of it and leave it there.

The bathroom light is too bright when you flick it on, harsh against your tired eyes. You don’t bother adjusting it. You turn the shower knob all the way to hot—too hot—and step in before you can register the pain.

You stand there, unmoving, letting it run over your shoulders, down your back, washing away the smell of sweat and perfume and alcohol. The night clings to you, stubborn, but the heat slowly starts to pull it away.

And for the first time all night, you let your mind drift back to Satoru. You wonder if he was hurt that you left so quickly. It didn’t matter anyways. He probably bought women drinks regularly. You weren’t special—you were just at the right place at the right time. Just another girl he happened to run into.

The water runs down your face, and you close your eyes.

You aren’t anything special.

You’re pretty—but an average kind of pretty. The girl-next-door kind. The kind that has to have a real personality for people to fall in love with. You aren’t particularly well endowed either—your body lacks curves. You have barely any extra plush to grip onto.

Sometimes you stare at your naked body and wonder how anyone could ever love it—love you. In a society where big breasts and a fat ass gets you everything, you have nothing to give.

You aren’t someone people remember. Not the kind someone like him would go out of his way to find.

You probably should’ve told Shoko. She would’ve lost her mind—genuinely, completely thrilled to hear you actually talked to a man who wasn’t an asshole for once. She would’ve demanded every detail, replayed every word, made it into something bigger than it was.

But you didn’t want to make the night about you. So you kept your mouth shut. Now you’re wondering if that was a mistake.

Because there’s so much you want to say now. So many questions that keep circling back, refusing to settle.

Would he even remember you? Would he try to find you?

You let out a quiet breath, leaning your forehead against the cool tile.

You could just tell Shoko tomorrow. Or later. Over FaceTime, like you always do. You could say everything then.

That thought settles something in you, just enough.

Eventually, you step out of the shower, skin warm and flushed. You wrap yourself in your fluffy pink towel, the fabric soft against your damp skin, and pad barefoot over to your bed.

You grab your phone from your purse and collapse onto the mattress, scrolling absentmindedly while you wait for your hair to dry.

The first video that pops up is a clip of an idol performing in L.A. You barely register it.

You don’t care much for famous people, so you scroll away.

A flash of white brings you back. Your thumb pauses mid-motion. You scroll back up and watch the video—the whole thing.

A figure steps forward on stage, lights flashing, the crowd screaming so loud it distorts the audio. At first, it’s hard to tell—it’s out of focus, chaotic.

But something about the singer feels familiar.

Your stomach twists. It’s Satoru, but he looks different.

His hair is styled now, not soft and slightly messy like before. His clothes are nothing like the hoodie and sweats from before—they’re sharp, intentional, expensive. There’s makeup, subtle but there. Stage lights catch on his skin, highlighting angles you hadn’t noticed earlier.

And his presence—it’s stronger, more confident.

It’s clear he knows exactly how every eye in that arena is on him. He knows he belongs.

This is version of him you didn’t see. Or maybe you just weren’t paying attention.

“What the fuck?” you whisper, barely audible.

The camera zooms in. And it’s him.

There’s no mistaking it now. The crowd screams his name. GOJO.

Gojo Satoru. That’s his full name.

You pause the video, your finger hovering for a second before tapping into the comments.

They flood the screen instantly.

@gojossixthsenseye: I NEED HIM SO BAD

@gojosatorusmicstand: The mic is ON

@ineedwaterrrr: I would die for him ngl

Your mouth parts, your eyes flicker away from your screen—trying to forget to focus on anything else, anything but your phone.

Girls thirsting, screaming, and jumping—all of it was for him.

The same guy who bought you a smoothie like it didn’t matter. Who sat across from you like it was normal. Who looked at you—really looked at you—like you weren’t just another face passing by.

This version of him—would never do that. Would never talk to a stranger—never talk to you. Someone who’s never even brushed against fame, let alone existed inside it.

You turn your phone off abruptly and toss it somewhere into the mess of blankets and pillows on your bed.

You stare at the ceiling. You felt something when you talked to him. A connection—a spark of something real.

But maybe that was just him—charming. So much so that it disarmedyou. The kind of person who could make anyone feel seen if he wanted to.

Maybe he just wanted to feel normal for a little while. And you were convenient. You didn’t recognize him. Not even when he gave you his name.

That must’ve been perfect for him. No expectations, screaming fans—no pressure.

Just a normal conversation. Maybe that’s why he stayed as long as he did.

The thought sits heavy on your chest. And you know that by morning he won’t even remember you.

You were just a moment for him. A tool to step outside of his life for a little while.

You reach blindly into your blankets and fish your phone back out.

Your fingers move almost on autopilot, opening Instagram, searching his name.

His account pops up instantly—verified, with tens of millions of followers.

You tap on his latest post—it’s from the concert. A photo of him on stage, lights exploding behind him, the crowd barely visible beyond the glare.

You stare at it for a second.

Then you comment.

@starrygirI: he sounds way better than i thought

It’s stupidly casual. Like you’re just another fan.

But now, that is all you are.

He didn’t seem the singing type when you first met him. Not the idol type either. You were wrong about a lot of things.

He probably wouldn’t recognize you. And why would he? You’re just another comment in a sea of thousands.

You check the time: 5am. Two hours gone. And somehow, you feel like you’ve learned more in those two hours than you had in college.

Reality settles in, heavy and immovable. You’ll never get a chance to speak to him again. At least not casually.

You turn your phone off—this time for real—and pull on a loose t-shirt, the fabric soft and familiar.

Sleep comes quickly.

And when it does—your dreams are filled with a vast land of snow and endless blue.

————

You wake up late—when the sun is at its highest point in the sky. Light spills through your half-closed blinds, painting your room in a muted golden haze.

The first thing you do is reach for your phone.

Notifications.

But not the one you want. He hasn’t responded. He’s famous, you didn’t expect him too.

It still hurts.

You push yourself out of bed, limbs sluggish, and trudge over to your small kitchenette. You open a box of cheap Costco croissants and pull one out, eating it cold because you don’t have the energy to heat it up.

You lean against the counter, chewing slowly, and unlock your phone again.

This time, you go straight to his profile and open direct messages.

Your fingers hover for a second before you start typing.

idk if u remember me but i was the girl at erewhon

“I don’t know if you remember me?” you mutter, “who the fuck would say that?”

It’s only been a day, he’d probably remember you. Considering the fact he spent the better part of his afternoon with you.

You delete it and start again.

u didn’t tell me u were famous

Now it sounds worse. Like you care about that. Like it changes something. Like you’re about to latch onto him now that you know who he is.

Maybe that’s dramatic, but it sounds desperate. You send it anyways.

He probably won’t even see it.

You move to your living room, collapsing onto your ratty little couch, the cushions sinking under your weight. Your laptop sits on the coffee table, and you pull it toward you, flipping it open.

You type his name into Google, and instantly your screen floods with images, articles, and interviews.

You click on one. It’s a magazine cover from the recent issue of Man About Town.

Satoru sits on the floor, head tilted slightly upward, eyes locked with the camera like he’s looking straight through it—through you. It’s mesmerizing, almost as magical as seeing him in person.

But no camera can capture the exact blue of his eyes. Not the way they looked in real life. Not the way they held yours so effortlessly.

Your gaze drifts lower—to his clothes. Black pants, sleek, perfectly tailored—interrupted only by the unmistakable red and green Gucci stripe running down the side.

It’s obvious now. At the store, you thought he was like you: Broke and out of place.

Now it’s clear, he just snuck away from his hotel. From his schedule. From everything that comes with being him.

And for a moment—you were his normal.

You close the tab and go back to your search.

Absorbing more than you probably should. Turns out he had another concert next week.

You click on it immediately, already knowing what you’ll find: Sold out.

You check resale sites next. Sketchy ones—links you barely trust.

The prices make your stomach twist, knowing you could never afford them.

$800

$1000

$1200

You’d really fucked up this time.

There’s nothing you can do except wait.

————

It’s the day of Satoru’s concert.

You told yourself you wouldn’t go.

You would get in trouble. You’d regret it. There’s no point—you don’t even have a ticket.

The thought flickers in your mind anyway. You shut it down before it can take root, digging into the pliable soil of your mind and settling.

You don’t have a ticket. There’s nothing for you there.

————

It’s dark by the time you step out of your Uber. The door shuts behind you with a dull thud, swallowed almost instantly by the distant roar of a crowd.

For a second, you just stand there on the curb, unsure how you got here. You don’t remember making the decision. Your body had moved on its own, there was something inside you that refused to stay away.

Now you’re here—standing in front of the arena.

It towers over you, steel and glass and blinding lights. Massive screens flash Satoru’s name in looping graphics, his face appearing for seconds at a time before dissolving into color and motion. People rush past you in clusters, buzzing with excitement, their voices overlapping into a constant hum of anticipation.

You let yourself drift with them. No resistance, no direction—just letting the current of bodies carry you forward. Their energy brushes against you, warm and electric, but it never quite reaches inside. You feel like a ghost slipping through something you can’t touch.

Inside, the air changes immediately—cool, artificial, humming faintly with the building’s ventilation. Bright lights reflect off polished floors. There’s a long line snaking around metal barricades. People waiting for wristbands, tickets clutched tightly in their hands.

You slow, watching them for a moment. You wouldn’t need to wait, you don’t have a ticket.

The realization doesn’t sting like you expected, it just settles, deep in your gut.

You walk around the line. Past the security ropes. Toward somewhere quieter—somewhere you know you probably shouldn’t be.

A dark corridor opens along the side of the building, half-hidden from the main flow of people. A small sign hangs above it, almost overlooked.

Staff Only. You don’t stop.

The lights dim as you step inside, the noise of the crowd muffling into the distance, like waves behind a wall. The corridor stretches ahead, narrow and shadowed, leading to a thin gap between the arena wall and an outer barricade.

It’s empty. Occasionally, someone passes at the far end—staff members with headsets, security guards moving with purpose—but none of them spare you more than a glance. They look through you, past you.

You’ve always been good at that: being invisible.

You step closer to the wall, the bass faint but steady beneath your feet, like a heartbeat you can’t quite sync with. For a moment, you close your eyes.

And just for a moment. You let yourself pretend.

Pretend you’re out there, pressed up against the barricade, shoulder to shoulder with the crowd. Pretend the lights are blinding instead of distant. Pretend that when you look up-

A roar erupts. Your eyes snap open.

Reality crashes back in all at once. The music surges, louder now, vibrating through the concrete, through your bones. The crowd screams in waves—rising, falling, rising again—reacting to something you can’t see.

A few beats pass. Then his voice appears.

It cuts through everything, even from here. He starts with his most popular song—you knew he would. You’d looked it up, you memorized the setlist.

The crowd explodes. It’s deafening, overwhelming, almost violent in its intensity. They scream the lyrics back at him, thousands of voices merging into one. From where you stand, it’s hard to even hear him over them.

But then certain parts come. The ones no one bothered to memorize.

His voice is deeper than the recordings ever captured, richer—like it’s pulled straight from somewhere deep inside his chest. It fills the space in a way that feels too intimate for something so far away.

And the crowd feels it too. Their screams sharpen, higher, almost desperate, bouncing off the walls and folding back in on themselves.

You hum along softly, barely audible over the clamoring in the pit. Trying to imagine that you’re out there.

That somehow, he sees you.

For a second, it almost works. But the illusion shatters as quickly as it formed, leaving you standing in the pieces of your broken dream. You’re still in the hallway, separated by concrete bricks.

A wall between you and him. Literally and figuratively.

He’s famous, you’re not. He’s rich, you’re broke. He’s beautiful, you’re average.

The song ends. There’s a pause, brief but heavy—the entire arena is holding its breath at once.

Then he speaks. The crowd erupts again, louder somehow, like they’d been waiting just to hear him talk. His voice filters through the wall in fragments, broken and uneven.

“…tonight…”

“…thank you…”

“…means a lot…”

You strain to catch more, but the rest dissolves into noise. He sounds so close. Close enough that, if the wall disappeared, you could reach out and touch him.

And yet—he’s impossibly far. Once, you were right there. Closer to him than any of these people will ever be.

And now there are thousands between you. Thousands screaming his name. And even if you screamed—he wouldn’t hear you.

Time keeps moving. Like it always has. Steady, unrelenting, dragging everything forward whether you’re ready or not. Even when you wish it would rewind. Even when you’d give anything to relive the moments you let slip away—like the drifting tides of the ocean.

Another song starts. Then another.

You tell yourself you’ll leave after this one.

Time blurs, slipping through your fingers, measured only by the rise and fall of music and the constant pulse of the crowd. At some point, your legs give out and you sink to the floor, back pressed against the cold wall, arms wrapped around your bare knees.

You let the sound wash over you. Let it carry something away—some piece of the weight you’ve been holding onto. Your anguish.

By the time the concert nears its end, you can feel the difference. The crowd’s energy is thinning, stretched tight and fraying at the edges. Still loud, still alive—but it’s tired.

Then the music shifts.

It turns slow, soft. It’s a different kind of song.

A love song.

His voice returns, quieter now, stripped of the heavy production. No distortion, no layering. Raw and unguarded, resonating through the space.

For a moment, it’s easy to pretend that this is just for you. A private concert in your mind, tucked away in the dark.

But it’s not for you, none of this is. You’re just another face in a crowd you’re not even part of.

The final note fades, and the arena erupts.

Every single person screaming, cheering, pouring everything they have left into the moment. It’s louder than before, louder than anything, it hurts to listen too.

He says a few words, the crowd cheers again, the lights dim. His presence is gone.

You sit there for a moment longer, unmoving, the silence in your space feeling heavier now that the music is gone. Then you push yourself up, legs stiff, and make your way back down the corridor.

The closer you get to the exit, the louder it becomes again—not music this time, but people.

The crowd spills out into the halls and onto the streets, buzzing with excitement. Laughter, chatter, voices overlapping in a chaotic song.

You let yourself be pulled along again. You try to join the crowd, but you don’t fit. You’re not laughing, not smiling.

If anything, the concert didn’t bring you closer to Satoru—it reminded you of how far away he is—of everything you’ll never have.

You wish, not for the first time, that Satoru was normal. Because maybe then, this wouldn’t feel so impossible. Maybe then, you’d have a chance.

A long sigh escapes you as you pick up your pace, exhaustion settling deep into your bones. Every part of you aches—not physically, but in that quiet, persistent way you can’t shake.

You just want to go home.

Outside, the night air hits you, cool and grounding. The moon hangs overhead, plump and inviting, casting a pale glow over the sea of people and cars below.

Pickup lines stretch endlessly, headlights blending into one continuous stream of white and red. Drivers call out names, passengers weave through traffic, tires screech.

You stand there for a second, scanning the crowd. You’re unsure if you’ll even be able to find your ride.

Suddenly, the window of a Toyota rolls down and a man with a scarred lip peers out at you.

He calls your name, “Uber for you?”

“Uh yeah,” You open the door to the backseat and slide in. “You’re Fushiguro right?”

He tries to catch your eye in the rear-view mirror, “Yeah, but you can just call me Toji.”

“Right. Just take me to the address I put in the app.” You purposely avoid his gaze, opting to look out the window instead.

You hear him hum and type something out on his touchscreen

He pulls away, speeding off. Leaving everything behind you in the dust.

————

That night, Shoko calls you.

Your phone buzzes against your mattress, the sound louder than it should be in the quiet of your room. You stare at the screen for a second before picking it up, already knowing it’s her.

You answer in bed, still half-buried under your blankets. You put her on speaker and drop the phone beside you, turning onto your side.

“Hey Shoko, how’s med school so far?”

“Well—” she starts, dragging the word out, “this guy I met at the bar had free tickets to a meet and greet with some famous singer, it’s in a week, you wanna go?”

You blink, that wasn’t what you expected.

Shoko’s been so busy with med school lately, buried in textbooks and stress—you’ll take any excuse to see her. Even if it means standing in a crowded room with a bunch of screaming fans.

“Of course,” you say, pushing yourself up slightly. “Who is it?”

“Go-go Sakura, I think?” she says, completely unsure. “I don’t remember his name. He’s super famous though.”

You pause, wondering if you heard it right.

She completely butchered his name, but you know exactly who she’s talking about.

Your chest tightens just a little. This is your chance.

“Yeah,” you say casually, pretending that his name doesn’t stir something inside you. “Let me search him up.”

You grab your laptop from beside your bed and sit up properly, leaning back against your pile of pillows. The screen lights your face blue as you open it, fingers moving slower than usual.

You don’t want her to know that you know him—that you met him.

“Oh—” you say after a second, forcing a bit of surprise into your voice. “He is super famous. He’s got like—100 million listeners on Spotify.”

“Holy shit,” Shoko gasps, “the guy didn’t tell me he was that famous.”

You huff out a quiet laugh.

Of course he didn’t.

“Do you think if I post a photo with him on my Insta I’ll go viral?” she adds, suddenly more awake.

“Shoko,” you say flatly, “your Insta is private.”

There’s a pause.

“Oh yeah,” she says. “I’ll make it public then.”

You actually laugh at that, shaking your head a little.

Then it hits you—she can’t see you.

“Hey,” you add quickly, adjusting your position, “you wanna FaceTime? I miss your face girl.”

“Duh,” she says immediately. “I miss you too.”

You prop your phone up against your laptop, adjusting it a couple times until it stops slipping. Your camera turns on, and a second later hers does too.

Her face fills the screen.

You notice it right away—her dark circles.

“You look tired,” you say, leaning in a little, your brows pulling together. “We can talk tomorrow if you want.”

“The semester just started,” she sighs, rubbing at her eyes. “The work isn’t that difficult yet. I just need to fix my sleep schedule.”

You nod slowly.

“I know,” you say. “At least you’re doing something productive with your life. I sit on my couch watching movies all day.”

The words come out lighter than they feel.

“I really need a job.”

“No luck with liberal arts?” she asks.

You let out a dry laugh.

“Fuck no,” you say. “My only hope is to marry a rich man.”

You drop your face into your hands dramatically, muffling your voice.

“You’ll have men lining up for you,” she says without hesitation. “Trust me.”

“I wish,” you groan, dragging your hands down your face. “Ugh. I was so dumb—I should’ve gotten a degree in biology or something.”

You glance back at your phone, at her.

“I think I’m the one who’s tired,” you add. “I’m gonna sleep. Text me the meet and greet stuff.”

“I’ll send the ticket to you,” she says. “It has all the info.”

You nod. “Okay.”

She ends the call.

You let out a deep sigh and fall back against your pillows, one arm coming up to cover your eyes.

You were boring, jobless, and loveless.

The thoughts bury deep inside your mind, heavy, hard to ignore.

How were you supposed to attract a rich man like this?

You weren’t anything flashy. You weren’t the kind of girl who walked into a room and had people turning their heads.

You were certainly no peacock. If anything, the smallest things made you flush with embarrassment—a wrong word, a lingering stare, even thinking too hard about something you said hours ago.

You exhale slowly. You were going to have to pick up a shit ton of jobs again.

Just like in college. The thought almost feels nostalgic. But back then, it meant something. You were working towards your future, now this is your future.

Your eyes shift toward your laptop, still open beside you. The screen glows softly in the dim room, pulling your attention back.

You sigh and sit up again, dragging the laptop into your lap.

“Jobs near me,” you mumble as you type.

Listings load in instantly—retail, cafés, random part-time positions you’ve seen a hundred times before. Your eyes skim over them, already half-disinterested.

URGENT HIRING: Limitless

You pause, you’ve been there before.

A Michelin star restaurant. The kind that serves tiny plates of food that barely fill your stomach. One of your old boyfriends took you there once—said it was “nothing special.” That kind of place was normal for him. You remember feeling out of place the entire time.

Men dressed in perfectly tailored suits. Women in beautiful floor length dresses, slits cut into the sides—high enough to show a sliver of thigh.

You swear the waitress eyed you up and down, as if she knew you didn’t belong among them.

And now—you’re considering working there.

You tilt your head slightly, thinking.

It’s not like you’re completely inexperienced. You’ve worked as a waitress before. Plenty of times. You know how to carry trays, deal with customers, smile even with it hurts.

It won’t harm you to try.

You click on the link. The application page loads, clean and simple. You skim it quickly before uploading your resume, the same one you’ve sent out a dozen times before.

You hesitate for half a second, then hit submit. You lean back slightly, staring at the screen.

Hopefully they find you a perfect applicant, and call you in for an interview. You just want something to do besides lying on your couch all day.

Your phone buzzes loudly, making you jump, scaring you out of your thoughts. You pick it up lethargically—it continues to buzz in your hand.

You’re being bombarded with messages.

All from Shoko.

Shoko 💗: Omg look at this

Shoko 💗: It’s abt the singer i was showing u

Shoko 💗: Wait

Shoko 💗: Isn’t this u???

She sends a link in the chat. You open it slowly—your fingers hovering over it hesitantly.

It leads you to a post filled with pictures of Satoru and—

You.

The photos are blurry, taken from far away. Only the side of your face is visible—covered by strands of hair. Not enough to identify you, but you recognize yourself—your outfit, the shape of your nose.

You glance down at the caption.

Gojo Satoru spotted in the wild with a girl???

Your stomach drops, people had noticed him—had noticed you.

The comments are filled with people wondering who you are, maybe a secret girlfriend, a fan.

No, you’re too close to be just a fan. He looks too relaxed, his smile easy, his hand frozen in time—pushing your drink towards you.

You scroll, just to find more videos of people making theories, defending you, or picking out every little thing—the curve of your nose, the cardigan you’re wearing, the pattern of your hair—talking about it like it’s the hottest gossip of the year.

And maybe it is.

When you he offered to buy your drink and you agreed, you didn’t expect anything big to come out of it. You didn’t even know who he was.

Now, you’re somehow apart of all this.

A/N: First fic i’ve posted on tumblr 🙏 don’t flop pls

You had seen this before.

Plenty of sappy, romantic movies ending with the man and woman tying the knot at the church. If not for the climatic music, melodious chirping of birds or the lustrous sun peeking amidst the clouds just to shine on them—as if nature itself had twisted it's course for the couple to feast on their union. Bouts of joy would trail down their eyes as they promised devotion to one another and share a chaste kiss whilst memories of all their beautiful and tragic moments—in which they held onto each other—would dance before their eyes. 

Zayne and you shared anything but that.

Therefore, when he said I do you didn't mind the lack of cadence to his tone. 

You didn't mind the chill pricking your skin when he held your hand. You didn't mind the scarcity of desire or warmth in the kiss that he pressed on your lips. 

You didn't mind that this marriage was only a farce; a union made in order to appease the public rather than join two hearts into one. 

After all, when you agreed to marry Zayne, you knew—wishing for love would only end in shambles.

Several Hours Earlier

Zayne's shoes scraped on the pavement, echoing the soft, rhythmic beat of his steps amidst the stale morning air. Sunlight filtered through the leaves of the giant oak trees, gleaming in his eyes once in a while. Although December had sauntered in with its chilling wisps of wind, snow hadn't begun pouring in Linkon city and for a winter morn’, he'd consider today to be pretty warm.

Maybe some of the last days of mellow ambling over Linkon city before the thick blanket of white covered it all. 

It was on these days that families planned all their picnics and get-togethers of this year. Days on which departmental stores stayed open an extra hour because Christmas would follow in three weeks.

Something about winters always bothered Zayne. He couldn't pinpoint it but maybe it was the contradiction of it all. He never understood how the bleak and empty season could ever stir a mood of festivity in anyone. 

The central park was a common spot for Zayne. He'd find himself strolling the grounds every time he’d need an escape. The pond glittered with the golden light falling over it, gusts of wind swirling the leaves and the pink camellia blooming on the shrubs just made the scenery all the more beautiful.

Zayne didn't want to find it beautiful.

Because beautiful meant he was alive and if he were alive then it meant he had memories, and in those memories lived a woman. A woman whose beauty transcended heavens; a woman, for whom he’d sacrifice forever just for a chance to hold her once. And if he thinks about holding her then he’d remember he can't hold her.

He can't hold her.

He does not have her.

He does not have his life.

Then how could he be alive?

Because beauty was in her eyes when she held his gaze, beauty was in her voice when she called his name, beauty was in her mien when he watched her bath under the moonlight and he had silently thanked fate for sending this woman to him. 

She was beautiful but she wasn’t here anymore. And when she left, she took all the colours, all the birds and all the sunlight—leaving this desolate world to plunge into a grayscale crest. 

That's why he can't find it beautiful. He can't find anything beautiful. 

It was suffocating. 

Two hours had passed since the wedding and now, you are sitting in your bridal suite with a woman touching on your make-up. You had changed into a particularly lighter gown—meant for your reception and you'd had taken a second to admire the dress, if not for the turmoil brewing in your mind.

Honestly, it was easier at first. 

The only reason you said yes to this marriage was because you wanted to escape from your family. You wouldn't essentially speak bad about them; after all, they never swayed from paying for your education and lifestyle—something you'd eternally be grateful for. But it was the unnamed things that stirred the tension in you.

It was your wedding today; a day you are supposed to cherish for the rest of your lives but you had just spent the last two hours sitting ideally in your bridal suite as the walls taunted you for your doomed marriage. 

Zayne had said that he needed to answer an urgent call and that he'd return soon. But as you saw, the soon transcended seconds into minutes and minutes into hours. So much so that your makeup artist had arrived but not him.

But you weren't complaining. You stepped into this arrangement with your own will and you could understand why Zayne would behave the way he did. Any man would. 

You were a taint on your family's name. Tarnished and ruined beyond repair; if only you weren’t so stupid, none of this would have happened. In spite of your family drowning the scandals, some rumours never truly die and this was one of them. 

Therefore, it was more than enough that someone had agreed to marry you. And you shouldn’t be greedy when the tides are against you.

“My, my, you look so beautiful!” 

As if plunged out of a dream, you look up to see your makeup artist grinning down at you. God, you had forgotten she was still in the room. Deflecting your gaze towards the mirror, you beheld your expression. 

“Wow,” you gasp, completely fazed out with the work she had done on your features. Nothing heavy, and it'd be a lie if you say you say you weren't impressed by her craft. “I look… good.”

“You look beautiful,” she exclaimed, “I bet your husband wouldn't be able to take his eyes off you.”

Only if he looked at me…

You decided to keep the unwarranted thought to yourself and plaster a half smile on your lips to show your content. “Thank you. You are very skilled.”

The corner of her lips curl up, eyes narrowing into half moon, “All the credits belong to my model.”

Before you could reply, you heard the click of the lock to the suite and soon enough, a man emerged inside—decked in a crisp navy blue suit with white floral patterns stitched on the fabric—her husband. Looking every ounce of handsome and unbothered yet when his eyes fell on you, you averted your gaze as soon as possible.

Because what were you supposed to say to a man you had married only hours ago? 

Thankfully, your makeup artist didn't wait around to bombard your husband with her questions; seems to have been picked up on the uncharacteristic dynamic shared amid the couple. Whatever the reason may be, she passed a soft smile to you before bidding her farewell.

You heard some rustling; probably Zayne going though his belongings. From the corner of your eyes, you caught him fixing his cufflinks, his back turned to you. You hadn't noticed but the suit he donned currently was starkly different to the charcoal suit he had worn to the wedding. 

When did he change?

Although curious, you refrained from asking any idiotic question and worsen the awkward heat swirling in the room. Lifting your phone from the dresser, you swiped it back to life—not upset by the lack of messages to pop up on your screen. You had one unread text message from your mother—timed to have been sent just after the ceremony. 

Why do you have to be so…  You didn't need to read the entirety of the message to know its contents. Besides, there was enough evidence of plight as the seconds ticked by, you didn't need her to remind you of everything. 

“Did you order room service?”

Caught off guard, you whirled your neck to see your husband staring back at you. “Huh?”

“Did you order room service?” He repeated.

“I, uh–” Stretching your gaze across the vast expanse of the room, you tried to pinpoint what caused him to ask that, “no…?”

Great way to make an impression.

You shut down the devil in your head, masking the quiver in your voice with a cough, “I didn't…”

“You should have,” he said, picking his watch from the nightstand and wrapping the silver belt on his wrist, “It's been long since the ceremony ended.”

“Yeah but I just… I thought– the reception…” 

“I understand.” 

With that, your first conversation ended with your husband.

What was wrong with you? You were acting like a nubile school girl dousing in dopamine whilst she talked to her crush. However, unlike the dopamine or butterflies in reference, what settled in the pit of your stomach was a gnawing nausea on the verge of climbing up your throat. You resisted the urge by downing a tumbler full of lukewarm water.

“Oh, before I forget,” Zayne spoke, walking up ahead, “your mother said she will come to meet you.”

“Why?” The squeak in your voice wasn't expected but Zayne didn't seem to catch on it. Clearing your throat, “I mean… why? Why would she want to meet me?”

“If you don't want to then it can be arranged as well,” He replied with the same diplomacy.

It's not everyday that you are being asked for your wishes but you ignored all the Sparks that alighted your mind. He is just being decent.

“I don't mind,” you said, twisting a strand of your hair, “as your wife, I'd meet anyone you want.”

“No, you wouldn't,” He snapped and you immediately bowed your head like a child on being caught for their miscreants, “And you are not my wife. If you have forgotten, then let me remind you that this marriage means nothing to us.”

Were you stupid? 

Can't you just get one thing straight into your thick skull?

They had told you Zayne was cold and aloof most of the time but with the knives he threw at you, you pondered on the possibility that whether he was a capricious man.

No. What were you thinking?

Zayne's stance wasn't venomous. No, he was entirely right in his place, only you had to go on and utter such rubbish. Still… why did his words send beads of anguish through you? Pain bubbled up to your eyes, throat clogging with hundreds of apologies—none spoken aloud and if you heart were a living which you could clasp in your fist, you could feel the blood leaking out the crevices of your fingers.

You had dug your own grave by your own stupidity, the least you could do was sit and writhe on it like you were meant to. Expecting love from Zayne would be equal to a dream come true; unfortunately, you had been shrouded by nightmares your entire life.

“I don't like to repeat myself,” he continues, turning his back to you—oblivious to the throes his utterance did to you, “But please, refrain from associating such titles with yourself.”

Zayne didn't know when it became a ritual but sooner than he could comprehend, he found himself retracing the steps he took with her five years ago.

He had always enjoyed his own company and with her gone—he didn't find any meaning in filling the gap with anyone else. He doubted anyone else ever could. 

“Here you go, sir,” the old lady in the flower shop said as he handed him a bouquet of fresh purple hyacinths. “Lovely choice of flowers sir, I assume they are for your wife.”

“My… Love,” because what else could he possibly call the woman to whom he had lost his heart ages ago; and now, lost her altogether. “I need to apologize to her.”

The lady tilts her head, clasping her hand back with a soft beam gracing her lips. She mutters something about young love which he couldn't hear before adding, “Well, I hope she forgives you and next time, I hope you get her red roses” she hums, “a young man like you must know what they mean.”

He did.

But he didn't think he'd ever have to buy roses. She never had any interest in them in the first place. However, he kept the words to himself.

When Zayne retraced The steps to the Graveyard, he was glad. This was that one place where he didn't have to pretend; didn't have to explain the tightness in his chest or The reason his hands trembled as the leaves crunched beneath his boots. 

Grief was a funny thing. 

At one moment, he’d be perfect—fine even. The next second, his breath would escape in short bursts of white, his shoulders would tremble with the weight of the world and again, he'd find himself wandering in this soulless world. Grief didn't arrive dressed in black, never with wailing in the corners—it came quietly; sitting beside him, as he'd meet his patients in the chamber, or when he'd hear someone laugh and remember there was one he hadn't heard since long.

And even now, five years later—grief would twist him in its chains, take him hostage to the home he once had shared with her and upon asked, why can't he leave that home, he couldn't give an exact answer. Therefore, he laid on the bed, looking for the fragrance she had left behind, looking for the visage which haunted him everywhere.

Zayne lowered himself in front of the headstone; vines had grown deep, clambering to the apex with the dirty green leaving it's marks on her name inscribed on it.

He placed the bouquet of purple hyacinths near the base, clasping his hands to utter a solemn prayer. 

Purple hyacinths. A florist would say they were a symbol of sorrow and deep regret. A flora advised to gift someone when one would like to request forgiveness. 

But when Zayne offered those flowers to the only woman he loved, his intent wasn't to ask for forgiveness.

“I hope you never forgive me for marrying her.”

You didn't mean to snoop around. Honestly, you didn't.

But what were you supposed to do in this huge family home with no one else to keep you company.

4th April

I dreamt about you today. You were standing in the meadows, you had your favourite lilies in your hand and you were smiling. God's, you were smiling and I didn't just how much I missed it. Yet, you asked me to bring you roses. I don't understand; you never liked roses. Do you like them now? I suppose, this is your way of telling me to bring you roses the next time I visit. But you hadn't mentioned the colour, I guess I'll just have to bring you each of one colour now.

Five years since you have left me and I can't fathom how am I still alive? Days bleed into nights, the seasons change and yet, I try to find bits and pieces of you in every face. And every time, I drown in disappointment because a semblance of you resides in neither. I carry your voice in my heart like a melody, playing the soft lilt that I have grown to love. 

Would you like to know a secret, my love? If I could trade my life for yours, I would.

The sun was blaring in a strange artificial way as your podium finally came to a stop. There was a peculiar humming buzz in your ears as you shielded your eyes with your hand, trying to regain your vision. 

Gradually, you’re able to see different things. 

At first, the large Cornucopia is in front of you. It was gigantic, sleek in shape, angular, and metal. There were backpacks, satchels, swords, bows and arrows, axes, and spears gathered in the opening of its mouth. Your head swivels around, blinking slowly as you look to your right and left, and the faces of familiar tributes suddenly start forming. 

The boy from five, Maxmus, is trying to look around the Cornocupia, surely for his sister. You feel your stomach sink when you realize Yuuji is nowhere to be found, most likely hidden somewhere behind the large structure. 

But you’re able to see the familiar flash of white in front of you, Gojo standing straight with his shoulders squared, ready to pounce. His eyes are focused on the other tributes, darting back to the Cornocupia and then back to the large hologram of a clock above it as it starts ticking down each second until one is left. 

He finally sees you, his chin dipping down as the two of you lock eyes. His lips part for a second, spotting Lizzie to your left. He shakes his head, barely, but you catch it. A warning, a sign not to engage. Not like you were planning to, anyway.

For some reason, he looks away briefly, his gaze settling on something behind the Cornocupia. It lingers for a second before looking back at you. 

Yuuji. 

You have a good sense of where he is now, nodding in acknowledgment. You let your body angle towards where he had motioned you. You don’t have the time to understand why he’s so keen on helping you out, as a tribute and as a person whom you don’t know, but you remember to tuck this appreciation away in case you meet him somewhere later in the arena. 

Twenty seconds remaining. 

You take in the arena for a brief moment. 

Home, you think so briefly, it looks like home. 

Sprawling wheat fields with a line of trees and hills a little bit away. The sky is a perfect blue with clouds dotting the corners. It seems perfect, and when you take in a deep breath, you smell home. You feel a little bit of ease before the clock hits ten seconds and a loud mechanical voice starts counting down. 

Ten. You hope Yuuji remembers to go towards the trees and not towards you. Nine. The tributes start getting ready to run, and you bend down a little, your legs positioned with one in front of the other. Eight. You can’t feel your heart beating anymore. Seven. Remember what they took from you. What they’re going to take away from you. Don’t give them what they want. Six. Gojo peeks over at you one last time. He shakes his head. You don’t know what it means. Five. Please, Yuuji, go towards the trees. Four.  The sunsets from home. Three. Go home. Two. Home. 

One.

The shot is fired, and all the tributes jump off their pedestals, each making a beeline for the middle of the Cornucopia. You have a brief moment where you forget what to do before you regain your senses, running blindly to where you thought Yuuji was. 

The smell of blood instantly takes over the smell of agriculture and dirt, thick and overpowering. You try not to stumble over your feet when you watch the tribute from three slashes of a sword through the kid from ten, or the way the screams are loud enough to be the only thing you hear. 

You were somehow able to duck quickly to dodge a spear that the tribute from two throws your way, letting out a grunt as you tumble to the ground, looking over your shoulder quickly to see it resting in the stomach of somebody behind you. 

Go, go, go. 

You cover your head as you shove past the boy, rounding the corner of the Cornacopia as you find a little bag nestled up on the side. You had told yourself not to get anything, but the fight was happening behind you, so you quickly grabbed it, hauling it over your shoulder as you ran behind the structure, finding all the pedestals empty. 

“Yuuji!” You scream, squinting as you look through the large strands of wheat and into the tree line, “Yuuji!” 

Something whizzes past your ear, and you instantly feel something warm trickle down your neck. Your hand flies up, fingers reeling back to find blood. You glance behind you to see Lizzie looking at you with a crazed look in her eyes, her arm reeling back to throw another knife your way, when something behind her, something you can’t see, catches her attention. 

A familiar-sounding voice calls her name, telling her to come back, and she looks at you and then to the voice, and decides it’s not worth it, running back to who you guess was Gojo, telling her to help him finish off someone else.

You decide not to waste your opportunity, quickly grabbing the knife in front of you and sprinting past the ring of podiums and into the bushes and rows of trees as the large branches immediately block off the sun, rubbing at your face as you try to adjust to the dimness. 

“Yuuji!” You call his name, looking around anywhere and everywhere you think he could be hiding. You feel out of breath, lungs burning, but you keep running into the thickness of the forest. 

In the distance, you can see the outlines of some other tributes running, not towards you but away from the bloodbath, and you can only hope that none of them bump into Yuuji and choose not to spare him. 

“Yuuji, please!” you beg, a little hushed, frantic in your search, not noticing the large tree root that sprouted up from the ground and plunged harshly into the ground, your ankle pulsing in pain as you let out a pitiful whine. 

“Shit,” you mutter, wincing as you stumble trying to stand up, wobbling as you fall back down again. You look around, trying to hide yourself away from plain sight as you rest against the trunk of the tree, holding your ankle as you will it back to work. 

You were a bit into the forest where people running by wouldn’t see you, thankfully, and the leaves and trees could hide your body, but none of this mattered if you couldn’t find Yuuji. Time was running out, and you felt your chest heaving with each breath, panic filling your nerves as you looked around. 

“Yuuji!” You whisper again helplessly, your eyes wringing shut in pain, head falling back as you clench your fists, “Where-”

A hand lands on your shoulder from somewhere behind, and you can’t control the little yelp that escapes your lips, scrambling away despite the pain flaring throughout your body as you try to shield yourself. But your shoulder fell, your face melting as you see his face come into view from the darkness. 

“Oh, oh,” you thank whoever that was watching over you with the most amount of gratitude as you limply crawl towards Yuuji, and he runs into your chest, his tears wetting your shirt as your hands shake when you hug him as tightly as possible. 

“You’re okay?” Your voice is muffled against his shoulder, “You hurt? Are you alright?” He nods feverishly against you, his fingers clenching into your jacket with such tightness that you don’t think he’d let go. 

“How’d you run so fast?” You ask worthlessly with a wet chuckle, your hand gripping the back of his head, the question non-existent because you were just happy to have found him safe and unharmed. 

“You told me to,” he murmurs back, and you give another soft chuckle, nodding, patting his back as you slowly pull away from him, wiping your eyes, and you smile wobbly at him, gently swiping at his red cheeks. 

You go to tell him something, but are interrupted by a cannon blasting. 

The sound that signals a tribute's death.

It’s normally supposed to come right after somebody dies, but they wait until the bloodbath is over to blast their cannons so that it doesn’t get confusing for those in the games and those watching. 

You count, looking up at the sky as you mouth the number of tributes after each boom.

It blasts twelve times. Twelve tribute’s dead. Twelve remaining. 

Tonight, they will put up the images of those fallen, and you wonder if you’re going to see the face of the boy you can’t seem to remember. A strange part of you hopes you don’t.

“We should go deeper into the woods,” you tell him after a beat of silence, chewing on your bottom lip, “Find someplace to camp for the night.” 

Yuuji nods, using the tree for balance as he rises to his feet. His limp makes it difficult for him to walk, run, or move too quickly, but you can see the way he’s trying his best not to let it hinder him.

You take a deep breath, readying yourself for the shooting pain you’re going to feel as you slowly mirror his movements, hissing through your teeth as your ankle throbs. It’s not broken, you asses, but it’s bruised. 

“Did somebody do that?” Yuuji asks quietly, pointing to your slightly angled foot that you’re trying not to put any weight on. 

You snort, shaking your head as your eyes shut for a second, fingers digging into the bark. 

“Just me,” you say through clenched teeth, letting out a small laugh as you point to your ear, “Lizzie nicked me though,” and Yuuji shuffles around to look at the dried blood on your neck, wincing on your behalf as you wave it aside, your ankle hurting more than the cut. 

Yuuji offers himself at your side, letting you use his arms for support, and you ruffle his hair, muttering a quiet thank you as you limp a little bit, your jaw ticking in pain as you see white. You wanted to lie down, wanted to stay there, but these games were not games, and you had to move. For both your sakes.

The two of you carefully move into the forest a little more, and you take the time to study the terrain. District 11 had small forests, nothing this big, but they still shared a resemblance, ranging from the tall and sprawling trees to the rich soil. Birds were chirping around you, the familiar caw of mockingjays chirping around the leaves and singing their rattling song. Sunlight peeked in through yellow rays, and for a moment, it didn’t feel like you were fated to die in a couple of days, but as if you were back home. As if your dying wish had somehow been granted by the head game-maker. 

Yuuji stayed silent by your side, his head tilted upwards, mouth gaping in awe as he too tried to take it all in. The two of 

“Gojo helped me.” 

Your head snaps down to Yuuji’s sudden words, startled, your brows scrunched up in confusion. 

“What?”

Yuuji looked embarrassed, his cheek flushing pink as he looked away from your narrowed eyes. 

“The girl from seven had run after me when I went into the forest,” Yuuji explained, pointing to the scratch marks on the back of his neck, marks that you thought came from the twigs and leaves but now realize resemble nail marks, “And someone pulled her off of me, Gojo pulled her off of me,” he stammers, “He killed her, but…but he let me go,” Yuuji says bashfully, a look in his eyes, something that’s empty  if he wasn’t explaining something horrific no twelve-year-old should have seen, “I thought said didn’t have any allies?”

Your mouth opens, but words struggle to come out. 

What did he gain from sparing Yuuji?

“Yeah,” you mutter, dazed, “I thought so too.”

Labeling Gojo an ally is putting too much trust and safety in him, but you wonder if his words from that day in the training center actually carried some weight. 

I want to help you. 

You don’t have the stomach to say anything after that, the two of you walking quietly next to each other as leaves crunch under your boots and rustle above with the wind. 

When you’re satisfied that you’re far away from any other tribe, you look around, trying to look for a tree that has stable branches that would not only withstand you climbing them, but be strong enough so that you two could sleep on. 

“There,” you point to a particularly big tree with even bigger-looking branches, “Can you climb up that one?”

Yuuji stared at it, chewing on his cheek as he gave a slow, unsure nod. 

“I think so,” he lifted his right leg slightly as if you forgot, “I’ll try.”

You smile, walking over to it as Yuuji helps you lean against its thick trunk. Your ankle was a little better, still sore to the touch, but you knew it should be better tomorrow. 

“Did you climb a lot back home?” You ask him, and Yuuji gives a little grin as he thinks back to fond memories, ones with his brothers after a long day of work. 

“Yeah,” his eyes twinkle, “But Sukuna was always faster than me. So was Choso.” His smile falters as he thinks about his family, ducking down so you wouldn’t see it. 

“Well, good thing I’m not racing you then,” you say teasingly, hands perched on your hips as you look up to one of the branches. 

“I’ll help you up, okay? Try to make it to that branch over there,” you point to the one you deemed the strongest, and Yuuji hummed in agreement, letting you kneel so you could cup your hands together so that he could place his right foot in it. 

You heave him up, trembling with the added weight on your injured ankle, and grunt as you push him above your head. He grips onto the trunk, slowly using his better leg to haul himself up and up and up until he gradually disappears into the leaves. 

You wait for a moment before he calls out, all good and take a deep breath before you do the same. 

Back in 11, you used to climb trees to pick apples and oranges if you weren’t working in the fields. You were used to doing this, but not with an injury and not without somebody below to spot you in case something happened. 

But you take your time, placing your feet meticulously and carefully as you haul yourself upwards, your head peeking through the branches as you find Yuuji squeezed to the side to make room for you as he rests his back up against the trunk. 

When you finally can get to where he is, you plop down on your chest, heaving as your chest exhales with each laborious breath. 

“I won,” he said cheekily, and you snorted, pushing at his foot as you crawled next to him, moving your hurt leg so that it could rest in front of you. 

After a minute of cooling down, you suddenly remember the pack you had snatched, eyes widening when you feel around your shoulders, pulling it off by the straps and placing it down between your bodies. 

“How’d you get that?” He asks, shocked, voice tinged with a little excitement as the two of you scramble to open all the pockets. 

“Uh,” you think back to the moment, “It was on the side of the Cornucopia before Lizzie hit me. And then…”

Gojo. He helped you again. 

Yuuji’s waiting for you to finish, but you shake it off, not wanting to admit to the tribute from one who has helped you twice, and it hasn’t even been a full day yet. 

The bag has a few packs of dried nuts and berries and some jerky. There’s an empty canister for water, some tape, wire for snares and traps, and some rope. There’s no weapon in the bag, but you remember Lizzie’s knife from earlier that you pocketed. 

Yuuji pulls out a roll of gauze and matches, holding them triumphantly.

“We’ll ration the nuts,” you tell him, “I don’t hear any streams, but if they gave us a bottle, there should be a source of water somewhere. I’ll go looking tomorrow, okay?”

Despite your throat being parched, and his most likely too, you knew you had to rest. If you put too much stress on that ankle, it was going to get worse before it got better. 

“Okay,” Yuuji repeated, tearing into the open bag you offered him as he took a small handful, mindful to take just enough, and began eating. 

You did the same, placing each piece in your mouth as you tried to savor the taste and eat as slowly as possible. 

In this artificial biome, you let Yuuji rest his head on your shoulder, the two of you looking upwards at the sky as you wait for night to fall. 

—-

The anthem began playing, startling you out of your sleep. Yuuji said he’d take a watch for a little bit, and you know you should’ve done it, but exhaustion had settled deep in your bones, and you wouldn’t be of much help if you were this tired. 

You sit up, craning your neck to look at the top of the star-ridden sky as the faces of tributes begin flashing, girls first, then boys. 

A part of you eases when you don’t see Gojo, as it jumps straight to the girl from District 3, but you instantly feel tense, realizing that it means the rest of the Careers were still alive. 

You smile as neither Evelyn nor her brother makes it on the screen, having evaded death for the first day in the games. You continue to watch as the rest of the fallen tributes are shown before the screen flashes, the artificial night sky being all that remains. 

Swallowing thickly, you nudge Yuuji with your elbows, hoping that he wouldn’t be too shaken up. 

“Hey, how ‘bout you sleep a little?” You smile softly, and he yawns, rubbing at his eyes as he nods sluggishly, curling up into your side as you make some room for him. 

Crickets chirp and leaves rustle, a strange and gentle ambiance that reminds you of nights back home listening to nature out on the back porch. It was oddly calming, and you tilted your head back, Yuuji’s quiet snores resonating through your chest. 

You tightened the rope around your bodies, wrapped in case you moved and got close to falling off, and did your best to fight off sleep. 

You almost gave in before you heard a snap, the sound echoing through the woods as your body shot straight up. 

Looking underneath you, the sounds became more frequent, as was the unforgettable sound of human voices. 

You gently shook Yuuji up, his head poking from where it was on your shoulder as you held a finger up to your mouth, warning him to stay silent. 

With your other finger, you motioned down to the ground, and you both looked on opposite sides of the branch as the voice grew nearer. 

“…it was so stupid! Like yeah, come at me with a knife!” A girl's voice said loudly with a laugh, the others around her laughing along, “Didn’t he get a three, four, for his evaluation? I swear, some of them were just asking for it.“

Lizzie. 

“That big oaf from five, what’s his name? Maximum? Maxmus? Did you see how he survived my hit? Probably went crying to his sister somewhere.” This voice, you know, it’s the boy from 2, Tiberian. 

They’re almost right beneath you and Yuuji, and the two of you are barely breathing, not even blinking, so that neither of you makes a sound.

Just your luck that they’d choose here to set up camp for the night. 

“Hey,” Lizzie calls out to someone, and you watch as she bends down a little to look at the ground, her red hair falling into her face as she roughly pushes it back, “Do these look like footprints to you?”

You swear you feel your heart stop. 

You motioned for Yuuji to sit up and stop looking over the edge, hoping that it was dark enough and enough leaves surrounded you so that even if they were to look up, you’d both still be covered.   

“Maybe? It’s probably somebody who went ahead.”

Gojo. 

Yuuji snaps his head over to you, eyes wide as you press your fingers back to your lips, begging for him to stay silent. 

Lizzie hums, as if she doesn’t believe him, but stands back upright as she looks around, seeming to think the area good enough. 

“You’re still mad at him?” A voice says with a slight giggle. It’s the girl from 2, Arvina, and Lizzie groans, throwing her packs of food and weapons on the ground as she rests up against the tree. 

“I almost had her!” Lizzie whines, “That bastard didn’t need my help!”

Arvina and Tiberian chuckle, helping Lizzie and Gojo unpack, talking casually with each other as they each go over who screamed the loudest or who was harder to kill, as if they weren’t discussing the end of someone’s life. 

“You ever‘gonna tell us about that Capitol girl?” Tiberian asked who you assumed was Gojo, but he just grunted in response, shaking his head as he piled up some shrubbery and dried leaves into a pile for burning. 

“Come on!” Lizzie pressed, pulling her hair up as she tied it with some spare string, “We should know, right?” 

The others made noises of agreement, but you watched as Gojo waved them off, working quietly as he began striking some matches up against the side of a coarse rock he had found. 

When one of the sparks lands, the pile catches fire, and red and orange flames suddenly illuminate their faces. They all huddle around it, not worried about the smoke that can surely be seen for miles to come, because they could easily take care of anybody who came their way.

“You shouldn’t worry about the girl from 11,” Gojo says gruffly, evading the subject as he goes back to Lizzie's first complaint, and your breath hitches slightly, angling your head ever so slightly to hear him better, “She’s all bark.”

Your brows furrow, nose wrinkling as Yuuji tenses next to you. 

“Doesn’t explain why she got a ten,” Lizzie mumbles bitterly, sitting up against the tree as she stretches her legs out, “You can’t exactly bark at sponsors, can you?”

Arvina snorts, sitting down next to Lizzie as she starts unraveling her two braids, her long brown hair falling in waves around her back. Lizzie is the youngest of the Careers, coming in at sixteen while the others are all eighteen, yet she tries her best to act the oldest and most mature. 

“No, no, not yet,” Tiberian snaps his fingers at Arvina, and she lets out a dramatic groan, heaving herself back up as she smacks him on the chest, “Still need your help setting up some snares around here.” 

The tributes from 2 take some wire and bait from their packs, bidding their momentary goodbyes to Gojo and Lizzie as they set back out into the darkness, leaving them alone. 

Gojo sits against a larger rock, one knee pulled up to his chest as he rests his arm on it, the flames flickering around his features, making his eyes seem an even brighter blue. You watch him as he blinks slowly, jaw slightly clenched as if he were deep in thought. His white brows cinch together, his muscular frame casting a shadow up until where the fire was crackling away. 

His hand that rests on the ground traces something on the dirt, and your fingers dig into the branch as you watch him study you and Yuuji’s footsteps. 

“I’m hungry,” Lizzie comments offhandedly, digging into their stash of dried fruits and jerky as she rips one of the bags open with her teeth, “Want some?” 

She offers the bag to Gojo, but he shakes his head. She shrugs, leaning back up against the trunk as they sit in silence. Instead of eating, Gojo tilts his head slightly as he looks at the trial of marking, noting mentally how they stop just at where Lizzie was sitting. Slowly yet surely, his chin tilts towards the sky.

You watch as Gojo’s eyes flicker up the tree, and how they widen when they meet yours. 

He stays quiet, not saying anything as the two of you lock gazes with each other, waiting with bated breath, neither of your chests moving for a second. 

His face is blank, void of emotion. The blood is roaring in your ears, hands gripping onto Yuuji’s tight as you hold your stare with his. Gojo stays like that for a little more before moving back to poke at the fire with the tip of his sword, as if nothing had happened. 

You see the way his lips tilt a little bit, 

As if he were containing a smile. 

—

You couldn’t sleep that night. 

Yuuji whispered to take over the watch, but you shook your head, letting him go back to sleep as he shuffled next to you. 

Even when those beneath you put the fire out and laid their heads down, you didn’t let your eyes close. You couldn’t, didn’t trust Gojo enough to believe that he would give you away if he had the right opportunity. 

When morning comes and the sun peeks through the trees, you fight back a groan, rubbing at your eyes as you squirm around uncomfortably, the rough groove of the trees digging into your back. 

Somebody beneath you lets out an unnecessarily loud yawn, one that wakes Yuuji up as his head tilts to look down, annoyance in his features as you give him a shared smile, rolling your eyes. 

Hungry? Your mouth and Yuuji’s hand fly down to his stomach comically, as if trying to contain the instant rumble that it gave. 

You laugh softly, carefully moving your bag to your lap as you gently pull out some nuts and berries you had rationed throughout the night, giving a handful over to Yuuji. 

He stares at it, accepting it, but pauses as he points to his throat sheepishly. 

Thirsty.  He mouths back, and you feel guilt shoot through your veins. You’d promised to go looking for water today. 

You look down again, watch as Lizzie twitches in her sleep, curling deeper into a ball on the forest floor. Gojo is slumped against the rock, a knife in his hand, always prepared. Tiberian and Arvina are seated next to each other, mouths open with little snores escaping. 

You had no idea if they planned to stay here for the day, but you knew that this thirst wasn’t going to be quenched unless you did something about it. 

Knowing Yuuji and his limp, he’d make a lot of noise coming down the tree. Your ankle was a little swollen but significantly better than last night, so you knew you’d have to make the journey alone if it were even possible. 

Can you wait a little longer? You ask, and Yuuji bobs slowly, his lips chapped, but knowing that leaving your haven now could potentially mean death. 

You smile apologetically, squeezing his hand once. 

Finding your eyes fleeting back downwards, you watch as Gojo stirs a little bit, his face serene and calm in sleep. 

As if sensing your gaze, Gojo blinks an eye open, sitting up against the stone as he stretches his strong arms above his head, looking around to make sure everyone is still there. 

He tsks in annoyance when he sees Tiberian fast asleep, most likely supposed to be the last round of watch, but had given in to exhaustion. 

Gojo pushes himself off the ground, joints cracking as he stretches slightly. 

And then, carefully ,as if not wanting the others to sense what he was doing, he looked up. 

Up to you. 

Gojo looks as if he wants to make sure you’re still there. His shoulder moves down as he swallows, blue eyes squinting as you sit still. He runs his fingers through his hair, pushing it back as a sigh rumbles out of his chest. 

His hand falls to the side of his head, fingers pointing at the blood on the side of your face, something you haven’t had the opportunity to clean off yet. 

You okay? His mouth formed the shape of the words.

Was…was he talking to you?

You blink, startled and dazed. 

He’s still looking, as if expecting a response. 

Your hand flies up to your ear, wincing at the cut. Dried blood flakes off, and you rub at the side of your face where it mainly is, scratching it raw until nothing remains. Yuuji watches as you twist your head to see if Gojo is still there. 

One of his brows raised slightly, as if he were pressed for an answer. 

Your shoulders rise and fall in a sort of shrug, pointing down to Lizzie’s sleeping body. 

His stare follows your movements, lingering on her for a moment, and then flickers back to you as if understanding, but your attention was momentarily drawn away as Yuuji hastily tugs on the sleeve of your jacket. 

“Is Gojo talking to you?” Yuuji asks, bewildered, whispering harshly in your ear as he observes from the other side, and you shush him. He goes pink, and you want to apologize, but you are cut off when something small hits the side of your body. 

Baffled, you look down to see a small rock next to you. 

Your neck swivels to where Gojo was still standing, his arm reeling back to throw another pebble to catch your attention. He sheepishly puts it down when he sees your seething glare. He mouths a sorry. 

What do you want? You hope he can pick up the urgency in your tone, how much he’s messing with your psyche by acting like he was merely playing around instead of acting like he should be. 

Hungry? You watch his mouth form the words intently, and shake your head as you gingerly hold up the bag you had gotten from the Cornacopia. But then you pause, gnawing on your lip as you set the pack back down between your lap, carefully and quietly bring the empty metal canister out. 

Should you tell him? Tell him about the thing that’s hindering you and Yuuji from escaping?

By your calculations, he’s reached out to help you a couple of times, has helped you and Yuuji out already during the games, and hasn’t given away your hiding spot to the other Careers. You had spent the entire night waiting to see if he’d whisper something about your whereabouts, but his mouth never opened. You know that trusting him is still something difficult to ask yourself to do, but you wonder if, for some reason, he struggles to hurt you just as much as you struggle to hurt him. 

Need water, your mouth after a minute of debating, opening the lid of the bottle, and holding it upside down to show that it was bone dry. 

His eyes flash, an unreadable expression taking over his features. 

Gojo glances somewhere back in the forest, hands crossing across his chest as his jaw ticks, mulling something over. The sun has set in the sky, and birds are stirring awake with their loud and incessant chirps. It won’t be long until the others wake up, too. 

He suddenly points to somewhere down the trail, and you look behind the tree as if you could see what it was that he was ushering to. 

River, he voices wordlessly, water back there. 

Your brows raise slightly in surprise. 

The leaves around you rustle, the breeze kissing your cheeks as your mouth opens and shuts, as you contemplate something. Even if he was telling the truth, how could you even begin to try an leave without the others noticing? How could you trust that there wouldn’t be an ambush when you got back? What’s it to say that he’s just trying to coax you to come down so he could kill you himself? 

As if understanding your hesitancy, Gojo offers you a small smile, one that seems almost genuine, as his head ducks and he looks down at the sleeping tributes surrounding him. 

He walks over to Lizzie, nudging her with the tip of his boots as she flinches, raising upwards as she yawns again, rubbing at her eyes as she cranes her neck up to look at him. 

“What?” Lizzie snaps groggily, yawning again as she pushes his boot away. You watch as Arvina and Tiberian slowly start waking up after the noise. Arvina lifts her head from where it was resting on Tiberian’s shoulder, cracking her neck as she presses her palms into the sockets of her eyes to help her come back to her senses.

“Wake up,” Gojo tells her gruffly, his voice rough and hardened, a drastic difference from how you remembered him speaking to you. “Keep watch. I’m going to get some water.”

Yuuji pokes your thigh, a bright and excited grin on his face as he actively listens in on what Gojo is saying. You gave him a wobbly smile in return, still not liking what was happening but trying your best not to worry him. 

“Mhh, fine,” Lizzie says, sleep still laced in her tone as she lazily puts her hair up, standing up as she ventures around to find one of her packs. She tosses Arvina some jerky, and she tears it open and holds it next to Tiberian so that they can share breakfast. 

Gojo takes his weapons with him, giving you a brief look that would’ve just seemed like he was scoping the area out to the others before he set off with a slight jog in the direction he claimed the stream was located. 

Lizzie watches him disappear into the trees, glancing over to where the other two were sitting and eating, moving a strand of hair away from her face as she exhales a big puff of air, her foot tapping quickly. 

“Do you want to do it now?” She whispers after a few seconds, and Arvina looks up from her packet of jerky, mouth full as she slowly chews, swallowing tickly as she peeks over at Tiberian, waiting to see what he was planning to say. 

Tiberian’s fingers curl around the spear he kept right next to him, nodding. 

“Yeah,” he mutters, his finger poking at the tip, his finger pulling back, pricked with blood, “When he comes back.” 

Your eyes squint as you try to pick up their whispered words, confused at their sudden change in conversation, one that they didn’t want Gojo to overhear in case he was still around. 

“I’m still going for his head, right?” Arvina asked, looking between the two tributes as she flipped the knife around in her hand, catching it repeatedly by the handle, “Or do you want to switch with me?” She points the weapon at Lizzie as she gets to her feet, dusting the twigs and dirt from her pants. 

“No,” Tiberian shakes his head, accepting Arvina’s extended hand as he stands, “Lizzie’s shorter than him, it wouldn’t work.” 

Arvina snorted, pulling her hair from over her shoulder as his deft fingers started to quickly put it into a long, glossy braid. 

“True. Plus,” she throws the braid over her shoulder as she shrugs, “She couldn’t even kill that girl from 11. She’d probably freeze if-”

“Hey!” Lizzie snapped, her freckled face turning red with both embarrassment and anger, “I had her, okay? Gojo just-” 

“What?” Tiberian cut her off, his shoulder knocking hers as he picked up the other spear near her foot, “He called for you? And you went over like a puppy to its bitch,” He twirled the spear around, testing its weight as he pulled his shoulder back, acting like he was going to throw it in the direction Gojo had gone, “Still got that little crush on him?”

Lizzie blushes even more, if possible, and swats at his shoulder harshly, grumbling curses under her breath. 

“Arvina goes for his head, I go from the left, and Lizzie…” Tiberian goes through their premeditated plan as he snaps his fingers at her, and she waves him off. 

“I go right, yeah, I know.”

They all discuss quietly how they’d try to take Gojo down, where to hide to take him by surprise. They discuss these plans as if it were second nature to them, as if it’s been in the works for a while. 

Yuuji tugs on your hand, eyes filled with worry, as he starts putting together what’s going on. 

They’re planning to kill Gojo.

—-

You couldn’t out-power them. 

The measly knife you stole from yesterday could do some damage, but you’ve never had experience using one to fight before, and you doubt that the three of them would fall to your mercy with it. Not only that, but you had Yuuji, too. If you left, they might come after him, and that was something you weren't going to risk. 

Besides, you were still on the fence about risking your life for someone you barely knew. 

But somewhere deep down in you felt compelled to at least try. He spared your life once; you owed him that much. 

Then you’d be even, and maybe he’d stop coming after you. 

You studied the trees surrounding you. If you tried, you might be able to travel from branch to branch, be able to move above ground, and notify Gojo that way. But you didn’t know how fast you’d be able to move with a bruised ankle, nor how quietly. Although it was your best option. When you were little, you always used to fly through the branches back home, competing with the other kids to see who could make it to the edge of the District fastest. 

It had been nearly twenty minutes, and Gojo wasn’t back yet, but you knew he’d have to return sooner or later. This was your only chance at giving him a heads-up. 

You knew you’d be leaving Yuuji alone, but he was the one who offered the idea. 

“He helped me,” Yuuji whispered hastily, untying the rope around your waist, wanting you to get a move on things, “And you. We owe him.”

Curse his kind heart. 

“I,” you look worriedly at the ground. If you fell, you knew you wouldn’t survive, “I’m not sure, Yuuji…” but you knew that deep down your mind was already made. 

He gave you a pointed look, grabbing the knife from your hands as he shoved you a little bit. 

“I’ll have this, you go.”

After another moment of mulling it over, your fists clenched, shaking your head at the absurdity of it all. 

You were really doing this. 

“Fine, fine,” you shuffle, easing your way to stand up, using the trunk to stabilize yourself as a surge of pain flashes through you, but you push it down, giving Yuuji one last chance to go back. 

But you’ve never seen him so determined. 

“Stay safe,” you whisper, “You yell, yell as loud as you can if something happens, okay?”

“Okay,” he says hurriedly, hands pushing at your legs to get you moving, “Just go!”

You nod, turning around as you look over at the trees to see which branches are more stable-looking than the others, which ones would provide a clearer path to where you wanted to go. 

And with one careful foot after the other, with one deep breath to calm your nerves, you turn around the trunk to the branch on the other side and just start flying. 

You don’t remember the last time you jumped between branches. The first jump you take, you almost slip, some bark flaking off as it falls to the ground. The tributes look up, confused, but thankfully, you’re covered by the leaves, and they wave it off as an animal. 

You move again, leaping more carefully, the movements something that comes back slowly like muscle memory, as your hands are outstretched to help you keep balance. Your feet don’t make any noise when you land, the wind whipping past your face as you channel every bit of adrenaline into making sure to just keep running. 

With eyes both in front of you and beneath you, you try not to run into any trunks, but are still trying to see that flash of white that you could recognize from miles away. 

You grow more tired as you keep running, no sight of Gojo even as you get closer and closer to the forest edge. 

Pausing on a particularly thick branch, you stop to catch your breath, your body lined with sweat and chest heaving as you look everywhere, anxiousness filling your nerves. This was a terrible idea. What if they found Yuuji? What if Gojo had already arrived, what if…

That’s when you see him. 

He’s cutting through the thicker bushes, sword clinging as he treks through the forest with his pack strapped on his back. Gojo looks calmer, his face not so bunched up as it was before. 

You brace yourself as you start jumping, not caring if your cheeks and hands are getting torn up by the sharp thorns and twigs. 

There was only a little bit left when you suddenly slipped, your bad ankle rolling under the weight, and you fell off the branch, letting out a yelp as you fell through the air. 

Your hands scramble to grab onto anything, your body hitting against the green leaves and other branches as you fall helplessly to the forest ground. 

Luckily, your left hand grabs onto a thinner branch, your body jolting as you let out a whimper of pain, eyes screwed shut as you dangle helplessly. 

“11?”

It’s him. 

“11, is that you?”

Your mouth is open in a quiet whimper, your hand barely holding on as you oddly angle your head to look at who’s standing underneath you. 

Gojo’s waiting at the base of the tree, chin tilted upwards as he looks at your dangling body. 

You give him a humorless chuckle, clipped as you hiss at the rough texture digging into your skin. 

“How’d you know?” You call down sarcastically, your other arm swinging upwards as you try to grab on. The branch creaks, and you frantically look at where it was sprouting from the trunk as it was slowly yet surely cracking. 

“Seems like you’re the one doing the stalking now,” Gojo says with some mirth in his voice, “Can’t stay away from me?”

Your lips pressed tightly together as you try to grab onto the branch again, but the branch bends even more, and the smile on his face falls when he realizes what’s going on. 

More splinters go flying, and your arm that’s holding on is slipping, your fingers doing their best to dig harder into the wood. 

Gojo runs down beneath you, throwing the sword on the ground. 

“Let go,” He cups his hands around his mouth, “I’ll catch you!”

The branch creaks again, splinters flying as you wince, surveying your odds of dying, splattering on the ground, or at the hands of the most skilled tribute here. When the branch gave a notably loud snap and your body was shoved down even more, you gave up, hand unfurling as you let yourself fall. 

The winds whip around you, your legs and arms flailing around your body, twisting and turning, teeth clenching in pain as different thorns and leaves keep cutting your cheeks, the back of your hands, anything that they can latch onto as you get closer and closer to the ground.

Your eyes squeeze shut, waiting for the impact, but it never comes. 

Peeking one open, you see Gojo’s face looking down at you, one arm around your waist, the other hooked under your knees as he observes you worryingly. 

You give yourself a second to catch your breath before you scramble out of his hold, heart pounding rapidly, trying to ignore the heat underneath your cheeks. 

He watches you, confused, but your hands rest on your knees as you heave up and down, wiping away at the sweat on your forehead. You balance up at him, the first time you’ve seen him since the interviews, and offer him a twisted look. 

Gojo swivels his bag around, unzipping the first pocket as he takes something out of it, offering it to you. 

A bottle of water. 

You look at it, your brow slightly raised at his outstretched hand. Gojo waits, understanding your reluctance as he unscrews the top, drinking some of it to show that it wasn’t tampered with. 

When he hands it back, you take it instantly, chugging half of its contents, saving the other half for Yuuji. 

“Thanks,” you say after wiping the water droplets from your chin, giving him the bottle back as he pockets it, nodding silently. 

He gives you a second to recuperate before you’re able to gather your thoughts. 

“They’re,” You heave, coughing at the strenuous way you’re still breathing, “They’re planning,” you take in another steadying breath, “They’re planning to kill you. Lizzie, Arvina, Tiberian. I overheard them.”

Gojo’s smile doesn't waver, as if he doesn’t believe you. 

Scoffing, you motion to the trees you just ran through, showing him the cuts on your hands and arms, traces of blood lining your face as well. 

“You think I would’ve gone through all,” you wave wildly around to the trees, “This just to lie?” You roll your eyes at the audacity of him, muttering just how unbelievable he was and regretting overdoing this as you put your hands up in disbelief, “Unbelievable. Fuck, fine, don’t believe me. But we’re even now, okay?”

You look around while trying to block the sun out, wondering just how you’d be making your way back when Gojo speaks up. 

“Even?” 

You look at him from the corner of your eye. 

“Yeah,” you say slowly, looking at him through furrowed brows, “You saved Yuuji and…me, I guess, so…even.”

He pushed some of his stray hair away from his face, biceps bulging, and you tried not to look too long at the sight. 

“Do you think-”

But he gets cut off by a distant scream. One that sounds like your name. 

Your necks snap back to the forest where everyone was gathered, your eyes widening with fear as you whisper, “Yuuji,”

Gojo glances back at you, and you stutter, trying to move but almost falling back on your foot as you yelp at your ankle you had just busted again. 

“Yuuji, he’s there,” you’re stammering, slurring your words with fear and anxiety as you shuffle closer to him, your hand gripping his arm in a pleading way, “Please, I-I can’t-”

You know you’re asking things from him that he shouldn’t grant you. That there should be no normal place where a tribute from District 1 would ever want to help anybody besides their allies, why he shouldn’t killl you as you stood in front of him, but Gojo had this sort of determined look in his eyes that mirrored yours.

“Get on my back,” he says, rushing, packing everything up, throwing his bag off so you could climb on, but you just look even more startled. 

“Hurry!” Gojo snaps, and you don’t have time to wonder how in the world he’s going to be able to carry you and this pack at once but he just moves around, letting you slowly grab around his shoulders, your arms tightening around his neck, and legs wrapping around his back as you shrug the pack over yourself. 

Shockingly enough, Gojo started running as if nothing was weighing him down. You assumed that all the added muscles and training helped with this, but you were shocked at how well he was able to maneuver around the trees and shrubbery while still maintaining his speed. 

This has now been the third time he’s helped you out, and at this point, you wonder if it would benefit you to start making a list of how many times you’re indebted to him. 

You blink back tears, a dark thought spotting, hoping that they didn’t get to him first. 

Eventually, Gojo comes to a halt, your chest pushing into his back with the momentum, and you groan, the wind getting knocked from your lungs. 

The two of you are hidden by some large bushes and can hear the Careers a short distance away, shouting and laughing at something. 

You climb off of him, carefully not to make a sound as you peek in between the leaves to see them huddled around the tree you had been pointing to…Yuuji. 

Lizzie is smiling gleefully, laughing maniacally as Yuuji tries to climb higher, but his right leg hinders him. Tiberian is off his spear with a rock, trying to get it even sharper. 

You watch with your mouth falling open, eyes watering as Yuuji screams for you again, gripping onto the tree trunk for dear life. 

Gojo winces, looking over at your stricken face, and his hand comes to hold your wrist. You flinch, shaking your head helplessly, your bottom lip trembling. 

“I’ll take care of them,” he whispered once again sternly, a steady promise, “Don’t worry.”

“But you just have the one sword, it’s three of them, I-I can’t help with-”

He snorts, squeezing your wrist gently before dropping it, twisting the handle around in his hand as he tests its weight. 

“Just wait till it’s safe to come out,” Gojo murmurs, his eyes holding a peculiar weight, as if he could already see the scene playing out in front of him, “Okay?”

You nod limply, your face morphing into something cold and fierce when you hear Yuuji scream again. Gojo does one last take of you before disappearing somewhere into the blend of trees. 

Waiting with baited breath, watching the opening as Arvina steps in next to Lizzie, yielding her arm back, the knife catching the sun as it shines. She throws it up, and you can almost hear it whizz. 

Yuuji narrowly swerves it, his cheeks pink with tears as he trembles in fear.