MEI

(A/N: …i haven’t updated my opm fics in ages, but i still wanted to contribute something to this dying fandom. this is kind of a sequel to my very first fic, »Bad Publicity«, but with a bit of a sexy twist heh i still love that story a lot, but i’ve honestly lost a lot of motivation to continue it, and my writing style has changed so much that i’d probably want to rewrite the whole thing (which will most likely never happen) 🫩

sorry to the readers still waiting for an update, but i hope some of you come across this and see it as a bit of compensation 🫶

you don’t need to read the first fic, but here’s some context that might help:

reader is genos’ very diligent and hard-working manager, and she has co-workers (momo and aiko) who manage other heroes. she gets stressed easily, is constantly worried about her job, has a serious caffeine addiction, and has somewhat of a stick up her ass lmao she’s inspired by ashley from the boys and retsuko from aggretsuko!

also, just a heads up: everyone in this story is kind of dumb and oblivious but we’re rolling with it, because it’s literally just porn)

Day 1: Saitama

If you had to describe yourself in three words, they would be: funny, smart, and most of all, reliable. If you asked other people, though, the answer would change just slightly: stiff, oblivious, but grossly dependable.

“Indecisive,” however, wouldn’t make either list. Not from your friends, your family, or anyone else who knew you.

And they’d be right.

You’d always known what you wanted. Ever since you were a kid, you’d had your whole future mapped out with extreme clarity: You’d start as an intern straight out of college, work your way up to marketing manager, and eventually become a chief marketing officer at a reputable company.

Not exactly a typical dream for an elementary school student, admittedly, but it was achievable and respectable, too.

And being the routine-driven, highly structured person you were, it wasn’t surprising that, years later, you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

Your internship at the Hero Association was finally coming to an end and after putting in the work—weeks, months of it—you’d been offered a permanent position. All those workdays that stretched well past midnight, the endless coffee runs, the hours spent hunched over photocopiers, and the most dreadful task of all, shooing away protestors from the company grounds, had finally paid off.

So when Mister Sato had finally given you the contract for becoming Genos’ official manager, it was, without a doubt, the happiest, most satisfying, day of your life, second only to your graduation day from A-City University.

Just a few more weeks, and you’d check off the first milestone of that long-standing plan.

To top it all off, after a lot of begging, persistence, and increasingly shameless negotiating with your boss, you’d even managed to secure seven full days of paid time off. At this point, if you somehow, by any miracle, won the lottery next Saturday, you could probably die the luckiest person in the world.

Everything was going according to plan.

And if you could solve that one small problem, then everything would be just perfect.

You’d been staring at your laptop screen for hours now, typing, deleting, and rewriting the same list you’d been working on for nearly three weeks. It wasn’t like you to finish something so last-minute—your vacation started tomorrow, after all—but narrowing things down turned out to be way harder than expected.

Again, no, you weren’t “indecisive”. Not at all.

There were just too many shows worth binge-watching, too many restaurants you wanted to try, and somehow, between it all, you still had to fit in meeting your friends. Sorting through all of it took time; like anything worth doing. Which was exactly why you were so deep in planning mode.

You were so absorbed, in fact, that you didn’t hear the key turning, the door opening and closing, and not even the heavy footsteps that followed.

It only registered when a voice came from right behind you.

“What are you looking at?”

You jumped so hard you nearly knocked the laptop off the chabudai table.

A loud yelp escaped before you could stop it. Then, instinctively, you snapped the laptop shut, a little too forcefully, maybe, as you turned around and met Saitama’s blank expression standing just a step behind you.

You gave him a nervous smile. “You scared me for a sec.”

“It is my apartment, you know,” he said, setting a plastic bag down by the door. A bunch of green onions stuck out from the top, along with a mix of other vegetables visible through the thin plastic. Probably another discount run, you concluded. He’d probably have Genos turn it into something decent later. “I should be the one surprised you’re here.”

You gave him a sheepish smile and took another sip of your coffee. It had been months since you’d been assigned as Genos’ manager, back when you were still just an intern, and dropping by Saitama’s apartment had become fairly routine. They lived together, after all.

The place itself was barely bigger than a shoebox, but you’d grown oddly fond of it. It reminded you of your own small apartment in E-City.

“You didn’t answer me,” Saitama said, lowering himself onto the hardwood floor beside you, legs crossed.

You hummed, tilting your head in question.

He nodded toward your laptop. “What were you looking at?”

Your eyes followed his, and your grin spread.

“As you know,” you said, flipping the laptop back open, “I’m on vacation starting tomorrow. So I’ve been planning what to do.”

The screen lit up and with it, an aggressively detailed spreadsheet: Color-coded, time-stamped tables down to the minute, filled with notes, ratings, tiny embedded images, and cross-referenced links. There were contingency plans for delays, alternate routes for takeout deliveries, and even a column labeled Emotional Recovery Time.

You leaned back slightly, arms crossing over your chest as you watched him take it in.

Saitama stared at the screen.

“Wow,” he said after a moment.

It was hard to read him—he wasn’t exactly an expressive man—but you caught the slight pause, the way his eyes swept over your meticulously crafted Excel sheet. You smiled, satisfied. Of course, he was impressed. Anyone would be.

“You even planned your toilet breaks,” he added.

You gave him a nod. “Yup. That way I can relax, knowing everything’s already been taken care of.”

“…right.”

He smiled politely as he blinked. His gaze drifted back to the screen, scanning another dense block of color-coded cells before pausing. Then his finger lifted, pointing at a specific row.

“You want to get a massage?”

He tapped the entry in your schedule; it was a neatly labeled slot for a massage parlour not far from A-City’s center. You’d asked Momo for recommendations the other day, and she’d suggested one that came with complimentary foot massages and a discounted skincare package. Considering your diet had consisted mostly of espresso and hot pot lately, it was long overdue for your already sensitive skin to get some pampering.

“My back’s killing me,” you said, stretching your arms over your head. Sharp, unhealthy cracks followed, and you winced. “I thought about asking Bang for acupuncture, but…” You trailed off with a shudder. Just the thought of a hundred tiny needles piercing your skin was enough to make your skin crawl.

Saitama hummed absently, then suddenly froze as his finger slid further down the screen.

“It’s ¥60,000?!”

You flinched at the sudden volume. It wasn’t like you wanted to spend that much on ninety minutes of someone working the knots out of your back, but if you were going to do it at all, you might as well do it properly.

You shrugged, though your face twisted slightly at the reminder.

“I know, I know, but look—” You grabbed the mouse and clicked into the listing. “It includes a special herbal therapy mix, and there’s live music during the session. Pretty amazing, right?”

The excitement in your voice didn’t quite reach him. Instead, Saitama leaned back, arms crossing, his expression changing. He looked strangely serious now.

“Maybe you should look for a cheaper option,” he said. “You don’t make that much.”

Ouch.

There it was again. That unwarranted, stinging remark Saitama always seemed to have ready at the worst possible moment.

It stung more than it should have.

You knew it was true, though. You weren’t exactly rolling in money, not at all, but hearing it said out loud was just rubbing unnecessary salt into the wound. But it wasn’t like you were completely broke, either. It wasn't a crime to treat yourself once in a while, even when that meant spending almost half of your monthly income at an overpriced massage parlour.

“It’s just this once,” you said, clenching your fists before awkwardly using them to knock against your own back. A sigh slipped out as a bit of tension eased. “At this point, if I go another day like this, I might actually die.”

Saitama hummed again, his brows pinching together in thought. Then, after a brief pause, he snapped his fingers, his expression suddenly brightening. You could practically see the light bulb go off over his shiny bald head.

“How about I just give you a massage?” he said, turning to face you. He nodded, more to himself than anything, as if that would make his idea more convincing. “I’ll do it for free.”

You raised an eyebrow, giving him a slow once-over.

Your gaze wandered from his dark, round eyes down to his open-mouthed smile, finally landing on that awful Oppai hoodie he was wearing again.

Your eyes narrowed. 

How many times had you told him to get rid of it? Didn’t you even throw it out for him the other day?

No—wait.

You exhaled slowly through your nose and suppressed the urge to roll your eyes, stopping the headache before it could fully form. Just one more day, you reminded yourself. You couldn’t afford to freak out now, not when your vacation was less than twenty-four hours away.

“You can give massages?” you asked, not even trying to hide the doubt in your voice. “Do you even have a license?”

Saitama clenched one hand into a fist and smacked it into his open palm.

“Nope. But I watched a video.”

You stared at him for a long, silent moment.

“You can still go to that place tomorrow if it doesn’t work,” he added. “But if you try mine first, you save ¥60,000 and still get a pretty good massage.”

It wasn’t that you didn’t like Saitama enough to let him do it; it was that you didn’t trust him to do it well. There was a reason massage therapists went through proper training for months on end. You’d read all about it while researching your appointment and even had a one-on-one consultation with a therapist in B-City. Different muscles required different techniques, and one wrong move could make things worse or result in problems that weren’t even there in the first place. At least, that's what they'd said. 

You glanced at him again and grimaced.

He looked so excited, sitting there, waiting for your answer with the widest grin you’d ever seen on him.

Saitama had never been the kind of person who liked doing much of anything. He was lazy and unreliable and probably the last person you’d trust to handle something like this. And yet…

The small voice in the back of your mind, the one pointing out that he’d probably be very disappointed if you said no, kept getting louder the longer you stared. You squeezed your eyes shut, lifting a hand to pinch the bridge of your nose as a defeated sigh slipped out.

“Okay,” you said, giving in, and his grin widened instantly.

Before you could react, his hands landed on your shoulders, making you flinch at the sudden contact.

“Let me grab the oils real quick,” he said.

“Oils—?” you started, but before you could finish the question, he was already on his feet and had quickly disappeared into the bathroom.

Your shoulders slumped. Then, when you shifted, you immediately tensed when a sharp knot in your back flared. A small hiss slipped past your lips, and you helplessly let your forehead drop onto the chabudai table with a loud thud, riding out the sudden spike of pain.

Whatever Saitama had planned, your back couldn’t get much worse than it already was.

There was nothing harder than being a teenager.

Think your life was tough? Try surviving a day in high school while pretending you weren’t having a full-blown existential crisis, and trying to fulfill everyone’s expectations at the same time. Everything was a disaster. Your brain said one thing, your heart screamed another. So really, who could blame you for being such a brat? It wasn’t entirely your fault, clearly.

The only halfway decent excuse for why you became so insufferable was that you were basically half an orphan. Or at least, that’s how you liked to put it. The moment your mom walked out on you and your dad, claiming she’d missed out on life by getting pregnant in her senior year of high school, she might as well have been dead to you. You didn’t miss her. Really, you didn’t.

It wasn’t like there was much to miss.

Her disdain for kids (or maybe just for you specifically) had never exactly been subtle. You couldn’t even remember her giving you something as simple as a hug. Or a smile. Or anything that vaguely resembled what a mother was supposed to give her child. So when she cleaned out the joint bank account and vanished without a word, it wasn’t even that surprising. Disappointing? Kinda. But shocking? Not in the slightest. Why she didn’t leave earlier was a bigger mystery to you. That would've saved you a lot of unresolved mommy issues, for sure.

That’s why you were the way you were. And it didn’t help that your dad tried to make up for her complete lack of parenting all your childhood by being the most emotionally available, open-minded, “cool” parent to walk the planet. He even took some online parenting classes a few years ago, and things only got worse from there.

“I’m so proud of you.”

“I’ll always support you.”

“Do you want to talk about how you’re feeling today?”

Nothing objectively terrible, you admitted. And yet, that rage inside you refused to settle, even when he tried so hard to fill the hole your mom left behind. Stupid, right? You didn’t want her in your life, and here was the best dad imaginable, trying everything to connect with you, his only daughter… and still, you couldn’t bring yourself to meet him halfway. You didn’t even know why.

That immature mess of feelings, the anger, confusion, and pride, clouded your judgment. It’s what made you ignore his desperate, awkward attempts at bonding. He’d eat alone in the dining room, watch TV by himself, and go on walks solo, while you stayed holed up in your room by yourself, sinking deeper and deeper into self-pity.

Which is probably how you ended up here: sitting in some overpriced, fancy restaurant you’d never set foot in by choice, forced into a tight dress instead of your usual baggy hoodie, poking at a plate of Australian wagyu.

“I heard from your dad that you got a full-ride scholarship to Upstate,” a voice said, snapping you out of your thoughts. “You must’ve worked really hard for that.”

You glanced up from your plate, locking eyes with the middle-aged woman across the table. She was smiling warmly at you, but you couldn’t quite return the gesture.

You’d already forgotten her name. Delia? Daphne? Something that started with a D, you were pretty sure.

A week ago, your dad had sat you down on the couch and dramatically taken your hand in his. For a brief second, you actually thought he was about to drop something devastating, judging by the way he was acting.

Maybe he’d lost his job, and you’d have to sell the house and move away. Or maybe he had a secret gambling addiction and now you had to flee from all the people that he owed money to. Or worse, Grandma had passed, and no one had told you yet. Grim scenarios spun through your head, each one darker than the last, and for the first time in a long while, something other than that dull, monotone apathy stirred in your chest.

But then he said he was seeing someone. And even though no one had died, something twisted in your stomach in a way that felt pretty close.

Not that it should’ve been a shock. You’d known he was lonely. Ever since Mom left, it was obvious. Painfully so. And it’s not like you were much help in that regard, either. You barely spoke to him anymore. So, really, it was only a matter of time before he picked himself up, dusted off the whole high-school-sweetheart-divorce thing, and reentered the dating scene.

You should have seen it coming.

He met her at some work event, apparently. Said she was smart, kind, and made him happy. That was the pitch, anyway.

And despite your usual indifference, you did love your dad. You really did. But being a moody teenager, that wasn’t always something you could say out loud. So instead, you showed it in small ways, like the time he hugged you on your birthday, tears in his eyes, barely able to contain how proud he was to see “his little girl” growing up. You didn’t pull away. And by your standards, that was a pretty big sign of love, just so we're clear. That’s why agreeing to this dinner, to meet his new girlfriend, felt like proof of how much he meant to you.

Because this was hell.

You hated meeting new people. Especially people who might become your new mom. You hated pretentious restaurants with dress codes and fifteen-course menus with ridiculously tiny portions. You even found yourself irrationally hating the overly chipper server who swung by every five minutes with the same fake smile, asking, “How’s everything tasting?”

Absolutely everything about this was a complete nightmare—horrible, terrible, there wasn’t a single word in the whole encyclopaedia that could describe how awful this situation was. You’d never missed the quiet of your room more than you did right now.

“She won every spelling bee in elementary school and took first place in every science fair,” your dad chimed in, grinning from ear to ear as he set down his fork and knife. “She’s always been the smart one.”

You tried not to roll your eyes, but the grimace tugging at your lips was hard to fight.

When was the last time you saw him like that? The way his eyes lit up when he introduced you to her. The way his whole face softened when she made a joke. How his expression got all stupid and soft every time you said something remotely polite to her. A couple of years ago, maybe? Back when Mom was still around?

So, you swallowed your pride, bit your tongue, and decided to ride it out. Just for tonight, you told yourself.

You shrugged silently as your dad gave you a light pat on the shoulder.

“That’s amazing!” the woman said, her smile somehow stretching even wider. “This guy here could definitely learn a thing or two from you.”

Your eyes flicked to the boy sitting next to her, who immediately went pale as his mother gestured to him with a nod of her head. Still mid-bite, he awkwardly chewed and swallowed. Her son. Same age as you. Mark… or was it Matt? Something painfully ordinary.

He looked like your typical shy nerd: scrawny and a little hunched. He probably owned a collection of graphic tees with bad puns printed on them. Definitely not someone you’d ever talk to voluntarily. Not that you thought you were better than him.

When he finally swallowed, he gave a nervous smile and glanced at his mom before speaking.

“I’ve still got a couple of months until graduation. Maybe I can pull my grades up before then,” he said, scratching the back of his neck.

They laughed and exchanged a few light jokes that weren’t funny. You weren’t listening anyway.

College was just around the corner. You’d go to Upstate, graduate top of your class, then settle into a painfully average life as an office worker—just like your dad had. Not exactly something worth looking forward to, in your opinion. You couldn’t share their enthusiasm, but you bit back any snarky remark.

You settled back, staring down at your plate, when your name was being called again.

You looked up, lifting your chin from your palm.

It was your dad.

His eyebrows were drawn together, and his lips held a strained half-smile. You knew that look all too well.

“Maybe you could help Mark with some of his assignments?” he asked, nodding toward the boy across from you.

Your face twisted into an instant frown. Tutoring was already bad when it was for kids—you’d only done it during summer to make some quick cash for those limited edition shoes you wanted. The stupid questions, the growing impatience when they still wouldn’t get it after explaining it over and over and over again… Not to mention the shit pay. Doing it with someone your own age sounded even worse. You wouldn’t do it, even if your life depended on it.

Definitely not.

You opened your mouth to decline, to tell him that you’d rather choke on your steak than tutor that dimwit, but your dad was watching you so earnestly and the words stuck in your throat. Then, involuntarily, you thought of all the times he’d sat alone on the couch, eating popcorn and watching reruns of trashy reality shows that you outgrew of. His sad smile, whenever the two would talk about the day you’d eventually move out for college, leaving him behind all by himself. Of the mornings he woke up with red eyes, still hurting from the way your mom left without a warning.

The memory of it stung. You hated that feeling.

A simple “no” would’ve done the job. A shake of your head. Even a shrug would’ve sufficed. But instead, you nodded, just barely, and gave the faintest smile.

Your dad’s face lit up as he turned back to his girlfriend and her son, completely unaware of the storm churning in your chest. And all you could do was sit there and quietly curse yourself.

The rest of the night dragged by just as painfully slow, and you couldn’t imagine the dinner getting any worse—until you found yourself standing outside the restaurant with the girlfriend’s son, waiting for your parents to bring the car around.

Neither of you spoke, and you hoped it would stay that way. Even though you’d barely listened to him mumbling through dinner, you’d already decided there was nothing between you that could carry a decent conversation. There was no way you were going to keep pretending to get along with him when this whole date had already been exhausting enough.

All you wanted was to go home, crawl into bed, and never see him or his mother again.

But things never really went your way. Of course, they didn’t.

So when you heard him clear his throat, a not-so-subtle attempt to get your attention, you weren’t even surprised.

“Thanks for the offer, by the way,” he said. “The tutoring. You’re really saving me.”

“Don’t mention it,” you replied flatly.

“Your dad seems nice,” he added. “My mom’s already told me a lot about him.”

You hummed, unable to hide the disinterest in your voice any longer. This was torture.

A brief silence followed, and for a moment, you thought he might have finally taken the hint and pieced together your lack of enthusiasm with the painfully obvious signals in your body language. But apparently, just like his academic performance, his social awareness wasn’t exactly stellar.

“I haven’t seen her this happy in a while.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “She was really nervous about meeting you, too—”

“Hey.” You cut him off. Your voice came out much sterner than you intended, and the surprise on his face made it clear he hadn’t expected it, too.

Your gaze flicked over him, catching the way he fidgeted where he stood. It only made you roll your eyes again.

“Look, Matt—”

“It’s Mark.”

There was a moment of awkward silence. You ignored it and continued.

“Let’s not start this whole ‘happy family’ thing,” you said. “It’s not like we don’t both know we’re only doing this,” you gestured between the two of you, “for our parents’ sake. So let’s just not.”

The stupid grin on his face slowly faded as your words sank in. Maybe someone else would’ve felt bad for crushing this poor boy’s idea of some perfect patchwork family, but his kicked-puppy expression did nothing for you. If anything, it only made the irritation simmering inside you even worse.

“What’s wrong with trying to get along?” Mark asked, and you were surprised he was still pushing. “I’m just trying to be nice.”

You scoffed.

“I’m moving out in a few months anyway,” you said. “We won’t have to deal with each other for much longer, so don’t bother.”

You opened your clutch and started rummaging through it, searching for your earphones. That should’ve been enough, even for someone as socially inept as Matt, to signal that the conversation was over. How far away had your dad parked the car, anyway? If he didn’t show up soon, you were actually going to lose it.

“You don’t have to be such an asshole about it,” he muttered, his voice low enough that you almost didn’t catch it.

You should’ve ignored it. You knew you should have. He was just being a naïve, overly sensitive baby. But the anger that had been building all night finally tipped over, and before you could stop yourself, you turned back around.

“Oh, don’t pretend you don’t hate this,” you shot back. “Just because you’re trying to suck up to your mom doesn’t make you better than me.”

“At least I’m not a miserable mess like you.” His voice cut clearly through the air; far more confident than it had been all night.

Then, thick silence settled over you, the atmosphere tense and heavy, but neither of you looked away. Your eyes widened, your hands curling into fists at your sides.

You had tried.

You really had.

But it wasn’t your fault your dad’s girlfriend had raised such a dick. So whatever came out of your mouth next was completely justified, as far as you were concerned. The insults spilled out before you could stop them, one after another, even as your dad finally pulled up.

“And just so we’re clear—” you yanked the car door open and raised your middle finger, holding it up in Mark’s direction. You didn’t even wait for a response before dropping into the passenger seat and slamming the door shut with a loud bang.

You were grounded for the next two weeks afterward.

You weren’t born lucky. You figured that out early enough.

You saw it every time your mother and father came home from the fields, with their clothes dusty and their hands sore from holding the sickle for hours on end. When all they could do was to eat and sleep, too tired for anything else. You felt it when you went with them to town, helping sell their grain, and watched girls your age hurry past in clean shoes and pretty dresses.

It made things painfully clear.

A low-born girl could only go so far, no matter how hard she worked or how much she dreamed of something better. You can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear, after all. Knowing that this was likely as far as you would ever rise left a sinking feeling in your stomach.

“Ale! More ale, girl!”

The shout came suddenly, too loud and too close, and you flinched. In an instant, you were violently dragged out of your self-pitying thoughts and thrown back into the noise of the celebrating crowd. You turned your head and saw an older man already with his brows drawn tight, and his leg bouncing impatiently beneath the bench he was sitting on. The way his jaw clenched told you his temper was already wearing thin.

It took only a moment to remember where you were; what you were meant to be doing. Your gaze dropped to the jug in your hands, the sharp, yeasty scent of ale rising from its neck.

You were back at Lord Lyonel Baratheon's feast.

There was no room for daydreams now. No room for silly what-ifs. Not unless you wanted to be thrown out of the tent and shamed before half the lords and ladies in the realm.

You quickly smoothed your expression into something polite and nodded, biting the inside of your cheek to keep the irritation from showing.

“At once, ser.”

The scruffy man clicked his tongue as you hurried to his side, the jug still clutched carefully in both of your hands. He didn’t even look at you as you poured, cup already raised and waiting. From the way he carried himself and the arrogance in his voice, you guessed he was one of the knights riding in the tourney. It was easy to spot them as they were usually all the same: overly loud, prouder than any lord could ever be, and blind to anyone who didn’t have the necessary coin to make them seem worthy.

So much for chivalry.

You’d learned quickly that knights made some of the worst customers. The tales of noble knights in shining armor were just that: mere fantasies.

Going from a farmer’s daughter to working with a traveling kitchen crew hadn’t felt like much of an improvement at all. The work was still hard, your body still sore by the end of the day. If anything, it was even more exhausting now than before. Who would’ve thought that dealing with drunk men all day could be worse than working under the sun from dawn to dusk?

If not for your mother’s friend, you wouldn’t have taken this position at all. She’d promised it was a good opportunity, said you’d earn proper coin and maybe even see a bit of the realm.

(“She’s still young,” she had said. “Let her go now, and she might work her way up. Who knows? She could even wed into a decent family one day. Opportunities like this do not come twice. You’ll regret it if you keep her here.”

Your mother’s lips had pressed into a thin line, worry evident on her face. She had always been careful, always thinking two winters ahead, especially when it came to you. But when you turned to her, your eyes bright with so much excitement she had not seen in you before, her expression softened.

How could she refuse her only daughter what might be her one chance at something more?)

But you supposed it could have been worse.

If your parents had been crueler, they might have kept you working their fields forever. Or worse still, sold you off when times grew hard. You’d seen it happen before. The girl who lived next door had vanished one morning after her father ran from his debts, leaving her to pay the price.

And still, your gaze drifted across the tent, pausing on the laughing faces of strangers as they danced and sang along. A few women moved among them — wives of knights draped in expensive fabrics, and others who must have been of lesser noble houses. Not great ladies, probably, but wealthy enough to spend a carefree evening in laughter.

Wealthy enough to truly enjoy themselves.

Unlike you.

Yes, it could have been worse. You knew that. But knowing it didn’t stop that small, bitter ache in your chest.

An angry shout cut through the noise, snapping you out of your thoughts once again. Your head turned just as the man beside you swayed backward.

“Are you blind, girl? Watch what you’re about!”

You jerked the jug back, but it was too late.

Ale sloshed over the rim of his cup, spilling down onto his breeches. The foul smell of it rose immediately, and you couldn’t help wrinkling your nose.

“I—I beg your pardon, ser! Forgive me. It was clumsy of me,” you rushed out, the apologies tumbling over one another as you stepped back, lowering your gaze.

You didn’t need to see his face to know what it looked like. You could imagine it well enough: the red creeping from his neck to his cheeks, the slow twist of his mouth into a deep frown. Men like him were nothing new. You had dealt with dozens, maybe hundreds, just like him, more than you could ever count. But still, when he shoved back from the bench and stood, his shadow falling over you, that familiar shudder crawled up your spine.

In your head, the possibilities grew darker by the second. If you were lucky, it might end with a slap. But if the ale had already muddled his already short temper, you feared much worse could be coming. All the while around you, the fiddle played on, and the singing of the crowd drowned out whatever the knight was mumbling under his breath, as if nothing of it were happening. People danced and cheered, oblivious to the nameless serving girl frozen in the middle of it all.

Then, just as you squeezed your eyes shut, bracing for the first harsh word or the swing of a hand, another voice pierced clearly through the heavy silence between you.

“I apologize, ser. The fault is mine. The girl is still learning.”

You would have known that voice anywhere. Rough with age, but still steady and firm.

It was Wylla.

The kitchen matron stepped forward without hesitation, placing herself between you and the knight.

You let out a quiet sigh of relief and slipped a step back, positioning yourself just behind the older woman as she continued to speak. The man muttered a few insults, but you tried not to listen. The loud pounding of your own heartbeat in your ears drowned most of it out anyway. When you dared to look up again, catching Wylla’s gaze as she turned toward you, you gave her a small, apologetic smile.

From the corner of your eye, you were able to spot the knight settling back into his seat. He was still visibly irritated, but his anger evidently settled for the moment. It almost felt like magic, the way Wylla could handle men like him so effortlessly. Her quick wit and her sharp sense for the ways of the kitchen had already saved you more than once in the past.

“Your head’s in the clouds again,” she finally said. “I told you, this is no place for such things.”

Her eyebrows creased, the corners of her mouth pulling downward as she stared at you. It was a familiar look; one that made you lower your gaze almost on instinct. Wylla was kind in her own way, but when it came to work, she was as strict as any master you could imagine. There had been more than one evening that ended with you crying into your hands while the other apprentices tried to comfort you after she’d scolded you for some minor mistake. Last time it was a misplaced jar, if you remembered correctly. Something so minuscule that it barely registered.

She had her own vices, but no one could ever accuse Wylla of lacking passion for her work.

It was only when she let out a long sigh that you faced her again. “Sorry,” you mumbled quickly, giving her a small bow of your head.

The deep lines in her face softened as her frown slowly disappeared. She was never angry for long. Not with you, at least. Maybe after all these months traveling side by side, she had grown a little fond of you. It likely helped that you had a natural talent for baking and cooking, as she liked to call it. Not that you particularly liked doing it; not really. It was merely something you learned back home as a necessity when all you had was a little flour and yeast.

“Why don’t you finish those fritters and set them out?” Wylla said, hands planted on her thick hips as she nodded toward the buffet table at the other side of the tent. “Make yourself useful. Go on, girl.”

You opened your mouth, ready to argue, but the look she gave you made it clear there was no point. You had already caused enough trouble for one evening and pushing your luck any further would be foolish, to say the least. So you closed it again, gave a short nod, and slipped away without another word.

You squeezed through the loud crowd and finally pushed your way out of the tent. The moment you stepped into the open air, you took a long breath and exhaled deeply. The worst part of these feasts was always the heat; with so many bodies crammed into one space, it made the air turn too thick and hard to breathe. And the smell didn’t help, either. The mix of sweat and cheap ale was probably the worst combination to exist. (And that was saying something. You had grown up working in the fields alongside donkeys, after all.)

It wasn’t much better outside, really. But at least out here, you had room to move without being crushed between bodies.

Night had already fallen, and it was so dark you could barely see anything in front of you. You were grateful the makeshift kitchen tent was only a few steps away from where you stood. Drunken men still wandered around everywhere you looked, slurring their words and stumbling over their own feet. During tourneys like this, men forgot what little sense they had. (Though, if you were honest, many of them hardly needed a tourney for that.) A young girl lingering alone in the dark wasn’t something anyone would risk.

Inside the smaller tent, you set the carafe down and went straight to the tray you had prepared earlier that afternoon. The fritters were ordinary — fried wheat dough, topped with sugared raspberries. Nothing you would expect to see served to a lord like Lyonel Baratheon. Just something plain and simple.

You weren’t sure why Wylla had insisted on them; most of the people here, you were sure, were used to richer dishes and barely noticed simple food like this.

Still, you lifted the tray carefully and headed back toward the chaos in the main tent. Dodging numerous dancers on the way, you managed to reach the buffet table without another mishap this time. You set the tray down, shifting other dishes to make room, when a large shadow suddenly fell over you. The few torches around the tent that barely lit the space before were completely useless now.

“May I…?” a low voice asked. If it hadn’t been so close, you probably wouldn’t have heard it over the noise from all around.

“Of course—” you began, but as soon as you looked up, the words stuck in your throat. Your eyes met the deepest baby blue, and you had to tilt your head back until your neck ached from the strain. “—ser?”

You blinked.

Standing before you was a man who seemed part giant, part human; so tall you couldn’t believe you hadn’t noticed him before.

Even with his poor posture, he still towered above everyone else. He slouched almost as if he were trying to hide his size, but it did nothing to conceal the sheer scale of him. For a moment, the same rush of adrenaline coursed through your veins that had hit when the older knight had yelled at you before. Anyone standing in front of a man easily two heads taller than themselves would feel it, surely.

And yet, for all that height, his face was soft and rounded. His large, downturned eyes and the messy mop of dirty-blond hair gave him an almost boyish look. A strange contrast to the first impression his size had made.

“Thank you,” the stranger said, taking one of the fritters, and all you could manage was a small nod. You still felt a strange fascination, as if it were impossible that a man this tall actually existed.

What had his parents fed him to grow like that? Not anything ordinary, you were sure of it.

But you knew staring was rude. A proper young woman didn’t gawk at a man she had just met a few seconds ago. So you turned your gaze to the tent’s ceiling, trying to distract yourself — but your curiosity forced you to steal glances at him now and then as he bit into the fritter.

His clothes were plain and of cheap quality. You could tell by the worn-out edges. The sleeves of his thin tunic were already starting to fray, and his hose were in simple, natural colors. No dyed breeches and no fancy doublets like the lords and knights around the tent. Let alone that rope around his waist that served as a belt of sorts. There was no way he was house-born. Maybe a traveling merchant at most, passing through the tourney to sell his wares. Or a stablehand, tending the horses of the knights competing in the joust.

“Did you make these?” he asked, his words muffled as he chewed.

Your eyes shot up, and when they met his blue gaze again, heat rushed to your cheeks. He didn’t seem to notice, or maybe he didn’t care, that you’d been staring. Still feeling caught, you tried to cover it with a forced smile and a quick nod, probably looking like a fool.

“This might be the best thing I’ve ever had,” he said, taking another bite and swallowing the rest of the fritter in one go.

One of your eyebrows arched up, a frown forming as you accidentally let out a scoff.

“Then you must not have had much good food,” you said, amusement slipping into your voice. “These are nothing special.”

He must be even lower than a stablehand, you figured. Who else would call something you’d usually find for a copper on the market the best thing they’d ever eaten? Maybe he had grown up in worse conditions than you did to say such delirious things. Or maybe he was mocking you. It was hard to tell.

“Some things don’t need to be grand to be good,” he said, his hand hovering over the tray again. He paused before taking another, looking down at you as if asking permission. You gave a small, unsure nod.

“You’re the first one to say that,” you added.

The man took another fritter. It looked absurdly small in his large hand before he bit into it again. You watched him chew and swallow before he answered.

“Perhaps I’m the first one with sense, then.”

A quiet laugh slipped from you, but you quickly smoothed out your expression, replacing the smile with a pout.

“Are you trying to mock me,” your eyes swept over him once more before returning to his face, “good sir…?”

“Ser Dunk,” he corrected.

For a second, that felt much longer than it was, the two of you simply stared at one another. You blinked. He blinked.

Then he cleared his throat, his blue eyes dropping to the floor as he took another bite. “I am a knight, you see.”

Your frown returned at once, and you gave him another slow once-over.

Him?

A knight?

You had seen many knights before. Though they did vary in looks; most of them were draped in colorful silks and wore polished plates, while others you met only had worn mail and patched cloaks. But never had you met one so… unkempt. It was hard to picture this stranger among them when every knight you’d known had been properly paid by his lord. Certainly better paid than you ever were for your work, and even you could afford intact clothes.

True, his height alone might have convinced you. He was almost the very image of a storybook knight: shoulders so broad they could block out the light behind him, hands large enough to wrap easily around the hilt of a longsword. When he stood to his full height, you could imagine how terrifying he would look in full armor.

But he did not carry himself like them.

The knights you knew made sure every space they entered knew exactly what they were. It was a true honor, after all, to be knighted. This one, however, seemed almost self-conscious, hunching slightly as if he wanted to disappear into thin air.

Another louder clearing of his throat drew your gaze back up to his. He awkwardly shifted his weight from one foot to the other, as if awaiting your judgment.

“Well,” you said slowly, folding your arms, “you do not look much like one.”

A pause.

“Ser.”

For a moment, you saw something shift in his expression, though it was hard to tell what passed behind those blue eyes.

“I am a hedge knight,” he said simply, as if that would make you understand. But when the confusion on your face didn’t fade, he added, “I travel the realms and serve where I can. I have seen much. Eaten well, too.” He hesitated, but continued after a moment of silence. “I would not mock you.”

Dunk nodded, as if confirming his own words. It was almost like he needed you to understand that he meant them.

You only continued to stare at him, turning over what he had said. Instead of laughing or deflecting as you usually would, the corners of your lips slowly curved into a smile.

It was hard not to assume the worst of people. You had seen enough in your travels to expect it. But he seemed proper enough, you supposed. There was a sincerity about him that was difficult to put into words. (It was probably the round, puppy-like eyes of his.)

You were still too young to be so bitter at the world, weren’t you?

“Alright, Ser Dunk,” you said, unfolding your arms and gesturing to the tray of fritters before you. “They are all yours. I doubt anyone else here is interested anyway.”

You glanced toward the crowd. Everyone was still busy dancing, talking, celebrating the coming bloodbath that was the joust tomorrow. There was nothing worth being excited about, in your opinion. But with enough ale, anything could seem bright and grand these days.

Dunk followed your gaze, turning as he finished the last bite of his fritter. Then he faced you again. He shifted his weight, a quiet attempt to draw your attention, and you looked back at him.

“Do you like to dance?” he asked.

“Are you asking me to dance with you?” you shot back, tilting your head.

That same uncertain, flustered look crossed his face again. You would be lying if you said you weren’t starting to enjoy it.

“Of course not,” he said quickly. Then winced, squeezing his eyes shut as if he could take the words back. “I mean, not that I would not dance with you. I mean…” He exhaled. “Forgive me. You must think me a fool.”

He gestured awkwardly toward the crowd of dancers.

“It’s only that you looked at them as though you wished to join,” Dunk explained. “Why don’t you?”

“I am a serving girl if you haven’t noticed, ser.”

It was his turn to raise an eyebrow, looking at you as though you had said something utterly stupid. Dunk glanced back at the dancers. Most were aging lordlings with women half their age, or drunken knights spinning hired girls across the floor. Far from princes or great lords of powerful houses, definitely.

And still, you were nowhere near them. You were just some girl paid to carry trays and clean after them while they celebrated. It went without saying that someone like you, from nowhere, with nothing, stood beneath them all.

“A serving girl is no less than someone with a title,” he muttered.

You let out a short scoff, though it lacked the amusement from before.

“Clearly that’s not true. That’s why I’m here, and they’re there.” You pressed your lips into a thin line. “I’ve no place among lords and ladies.”

Dunk’s face hardened, his eyebrows drawn together.

“Who says that?” he asked.

You hesitated only a second. “Me.”

The word left your mouth before you could stop it.

Then, silence followed. Thick and uncomfortable.

Your answer seemed to linger in the air, much heavier than you had anticipated. Dunk’s expression was that of confusion, you think. He was trying to make sense of what you’d said, and it was obvious he didn’t know how to respond.

Of course, he didn’t.

You suddenly wished you had laughed it off instead, made a joke, said something else.

What were you doing, confessing something like that to a stranger, anyway? To a knight you had known for all of ten minutes?

You should leave, you’d decided. That was the only sensible thing. Excuse yourself. Pretend you had duties to attend to. Do something before this situation grows even tighter, and his gaze would turn into that of pity you’d seen so many times before.

But before you could slip away, something shifted in his demeanor, just slightly, and it was enough to make you stay. The deep frown, the clench of his jaw that sharpened the soft outlines of his face. There was determination there now, somehow. With less uncertainty, the look of a kicked stray from before disappeared completely.

He looked down at his hand, then quickly wiped it against his tunic before extending it toward you, palm open.

You stared at it. Then you looked up at him again, your expression plainly asking, What?

“I might not be a lord,” he said, his voice so low you almost missed it. He paused, then straightened his back until he stood at his full height and tried again, louder this time. “But I am a knight.”

His hand remained outstretched between you.

“And if I ask you to dance,” he went on, and you could hear a hint of awkwardness creeping back in, “then it is not as someone looking down on a serving girl.” He swallowed, and you saw his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “It is as one person asking another.”

There was a short pause.

“So… will you?”

You just stood there, eyes wide, mouth agape.

Insanity.

That was the only word that came to your mind.

Blasphemy. Absolute lunacy.

The two of you were hardly anything in the grand order of things. You had heard of hedge knights before, even if you had never cared much for such things. They were arms for hire, wandering the realms in search of work wherever they could find it. The name came from how they often slept beneath hedges by the roadside instead of in inns, because they were too poor for better. Knights in name, maybe, but barely one in the eyes of anyone else.

A hedge knight and a serving girl. Was that the start of some bad joke?

And still, as Dunk stood there waiting for your answer, you couldn’t help feeling something swell in your chest. You couldn’t help biting down on your tongue, trying to keep that warm, stinging pressure behind your eyes from spilling over. And you couldn’t help feeling ashamed for thinking so little of someone who clearly did not think little of you. There had not been a single person, not one, since you had left home, who had looked at you the way he was looking at you now.

So when you clenched and unclenched your fists at your sides, you tried to imagine what it would feel like to lift your arm and place your hand in his much larger one. To feel the roughness of his palm against yours. To let him pull you into the crowd and forget the watching eyes around you. Wylla. The old knight. The others who always seemed to be judging.

To pretend you were not beneath anyone at all.

Your fingers twitched, wanting so badly to reach for him.

And just as you almost did, as you almost gave yourself away, you heard your name being called.

“I need some help here!” The familiar rough voice shouted. “Come here, girl!”

The spell shattered in that instant.

That brief feeling inside your chest vanished as quickly as it had come. The music you had managed to drown out rushed back in all at once, even louder than before. The sound of people’s laughter, the fiddle, the sound of boots thudding on the ground. Everything came back, and you found yourself standing in the middle of it again.

You called something back, not even registering the words that left your mouth. Wylla needed you outside, and you knew better than to keep her waiting much longer.

You looked at Dunk one last time. You offered him a small, courteous nod, your eyes holding his for a moment longer than they should have.

Then you turned away and left him standing there, his hand still outstretched.

Who were you, exactly?

The brave heroine who defies all odds and writes her own happy ending? Or the warmhearted yet strong protagonist who wins with kindness, carving out the life she deserves?

One glance at your past told you the truth: you were none of that. You weren’t exceptionally beautiful. You weren’t unusually smart. You weren’t even particularly interesting, if you were being honest.

So who were you, then?

Being the only daughter of a fisherman and his wife in a quiet seaside village, you’d had a painfully ordinary childhood. Your future was pretty much decided the moment you were born: you’d marry some boy from the neighborhood, inherit your father’s fishing boat, and spend the rest of your life along the coast of Japan, following the same path your parents had.

Life would have been so simple if things had turned out that way. Your whole story was already written for you before your birth — perfect for someone like you, who never had any grand ambitions of her own. But fate had other plans, and at just fourteen years old, you were left an orphan.

You couldn’t remember much about that night. It was winter, you were sure of that. Sometime in December, a demon broke into your small home and, with just a single strike, took both your parents’ lives. It happened so fast that before you could even scream, you were staring into their lifeless eyes.

You’d been sheltered your whole life, never knowing the true dangers of the world. So when you found yourself face-to-face with that monster, you couldn’t even cry or beg for your life. All you could do was freeze. You would’ve died, too. No question about it.

If he hadn’t appeared.

You remembered that moment vividly, even though everything else was a blur: the rush of cold wind, the flash of a checkered two-colored haori, and the clean, effortless motion of a sword slicing through the air. It was like straight out of a fairy tale. The demon’s head hit the ground before you even realized what had happened.

That was the first time you met Tomioka Giyu.

“Are you hurt?” he’d asked quietly, kneeling in front of you. Even in the darkness of the night, his blue eyes shone clearly, and the sight of them instantly filled you with a strange sense of calm. Overwhelmed, terrified, exhausted, and yet deeply grateful, you couldn’t hold back any longer. You broke down crying right there in front of him.

It was embarrassing to think about now. You didn’t even tell him your name until he came to visit you several days later at a Wisteria House he brought you to. He was awkward, but the fact that he cared enough to go out of his way to see you was etched into your memory. Even years later, you could still recall it clearly.

After that, you decided to repay your debt by helping at the Wisteria House, where you’d been taken in. The old lady, Hisa-san, was kind enough to let you stay with her. Preparing meals, tending to wounds, and offering words of encouragement were the least you could do. There was no way you’d ever join the Demon Slayer Corps, though… You knew you were too weak for that kind of life.

Still, you never forgot Giyu.

He came by from time to time. At least, you liked to think he came to see you. Maybe he was just checking in on injured Slayers recovering at your house or simply wanted some peace and quiet for himself. It was hard to tell. You rarely spoke much when he was around anyway; he wasn’t exactly a talkative man.

But despite that, you had an enormous, hopeless crush on him. Maybe it was his talent as a Demon Slayer, or how effortlessly cool he seemed without even trying. Maybe it was just the way he carried himself, calm and collected, even after fighting demons all night. Whatever it was, you really liked him.

It was torture, honestly. Harboring all these feelings while he remained completely oblivious (although everyone except him seemed painfully aware of it). His mere presence was enough to turn you into a flustered, stammering mess.

And then, one day, after another one of his rare visits, you gathered every ounce of courage you had and confessed.

“I—I really like you, Tomioka-san!” you’d blurted, eyes squeezed shut, cheeks burning.

Not exactly the most graceful confession, but after holding those feelings in for more than five years, you couldn’t keep them bottled up any longer. You’d spent too many nights lying awake in your futon, daydreaming about your future with the Water Pillar. In your ideal world, he’d confess that he’d secretly loved you all along, the two of you would get married, and have at least a thousand babies together. That wasn’t too unrealistic… right?

But as the silence dragged on, your confidence began to waver, and one worst-case scenario after another started running through your mind. What if he thought you were weird for confessing out of the blue? What if he reported you, and you ended up getting dismissed from your position because he felt uncomfortable around you? You still had to work with him, after all. Maybe it wasn’t too late to get up, walk away, and drown yourself.

Fearing all of those outcomes, you kept your head bowed, your back aching from staying in that position for so long, until finally he spoke.

“…Okay,” he said simply, with a small nod.

You blinked up at him, stunned. Okay? What kind of answer was that? That was something you said when someone asked if you wanted more rice with your grilled mackerel, not when someone just confessed their love!

Before you could protest, he added in that calm, unreadable tone of his, “I accept your confession.”

And with that, he turned and left, leaving you completely speechless.

Ever since that day, you and Giyu had been… well, something. A relationship, you suppose. At least, that’s what you hoped he meant. He started visiting more often after that, even when there weren’t any injured Demon Slayers to check on.

This time, during one of those visits, he asked you to join him on the engawa. You sat beside him, knees tucked neatly beneath you in perfect seiza as usual, while internally falling apart.

This was awful.

It wasn’t that you didn’t enjoy his company. You did. Too much, maybe. But the two of you just… sat there. In silence. Again. Weren’t couples (well, were you even a couple?) supposed to talk?

Usually, small talk wasn’t something you struggled with, but around him, your mind went completely blank. You had no idea what to say, or if he even wanted to talk to you in the first place. What if he thought you were annoying? Or worse, what if he realized you were so boring that he wanted nothing to do with you anymore?

The two of you barely knew each other, even after all these years. You couldn’t for the life of you understand why he’d agreed to this in the first place… what on earth did Tomioka Giyu even see in you?

“I should get going,” he said suddenly, standing up and looking down at you. “Thank you for your time.”

You froze. Seriously? He’s leaving already?

Every single time he visited, it ended the same way: sitting five feet apart, staring at the garden, not even making eye contact. You might not know much about relationships, but you were pretty sure they weren’t supposed to go like this (all the novels you’d read certainly didn’t play out this way).

While you were still sitting there, trying to process what had just happened, he gave you a polite bow, turned on his heel, and started to walk away.

No, no, no! You couldn’t let him leave. Not when this so-called courtship was already going up in flames before it had even started!

“Tomioka-san!” you blurted, your voice far louder than you meant it to be. You shot up from your spot, frantically smoothing out your kimono before rushing after him.

He turned again, his gaze meeting yours as you hurried toward him. Now, standing right in front of him, your heart pounded painfully in your chest as you struggled to find your words. You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. His dark blue eyes watched you quietly, unreadable as always. You’d always thought they were beautiful, but now, being fixed so strongly under his gaze, you started to question what you were even trying to do here.

Maybe this had been a mistake.

He was the Water Pillar, a man who carried the weight of countless lives on his shoulders. And you weren’t a Demon Slayer or even a Kakushi. Nowhere close to understanding the kind of life he lived. You were nothing like him — just a nobody from a fishing village who fell for someone far, far out of reach. What were you even thinking? The thought made your chest ache.

Your earlier enthusiasm faded to a quiet sadness. Giyu had more important things to do, rather than entertain you with childish conversation. Maybe you should just be grateful he was here at all, taking time out of his busy schedule to see you.

“Nothing!” you said at last, shaking your head with an awkward smile. “Please take care.”

You expected him to brush it off, to just ignore you and leave, but instead, Giyu remained where he was, his gaze fixed on you. It was always hard to read him with that ever stoic face of his, but this time, you could’ve sworn there was something different. His eyebrows lifted a little, the corners of his mouth twitched. A subtle shift in his expression, almost too faint to notice.

He gave a small nod, and just as he turned to leave, he paused. “I enjoyed my time with you today.”

And then he walked away, leaving you stunned on the engawa.

For a moment, your mind went blank.

Did that really just happen? Were you dreaming? Did you fall down the engawa, split your head open on some rock, and die?

You pinched yourself.

No. You were wide awake. And alive. Which meant he really did just say that to you.

The words replayed themselves again and again, each syllable sinking in a little deeper until your brain finally caught up.

He enjoyed his time… with you.

Tomioka Giyu, the quiet, strong, mysterious Water Pillar, had actually said he had fun. With you.

The realization hit you like a bolt of lightning. A strangled squeal escaped your throat as you threw your hands over your burning cheeks, trying and failing to cool them down.

✽

Hisa-san had to call you three times before you answered her.

“Your head’s in the clouds today,” she said, walking up behind you as you swept the entrance with a broom. “Did something good happen?”

Despite the grin still plastered on your face, you quickly shook your head and wordlessly went back to cleaning. Hisa-san hummed thoughtfully.

“Does it have something to do with Giyu-san coming by?” she asked.

You shook your head again, but it was already too late. The heat had crept back into your cheeks, giving you away instantly. When you heard her soft chuckle behind you, you resisted the urge to slap yourself.

Prologue

You were neither the childhood best friend turned love interest nor the villain with the tragic back story.

There was simply nothing remarkable or distinctive about you.

You were a background character. The one who showed up in a few scenes when the writers needed to fill space. Maybe the one who gets a speaking line or two, but no more than that.

And you were fine with it. Being so thoroughly unimportant had its own perks, after all. No messy love triangles, no world that relies on you to be saved, and most importantly, no situations that involve fighting for your very own life.

Your dream was simple: finish high school, get into a decent college, meet a cute guy, and get married. Probably the most all-American fantasy someone could have.

What did set you apart was your sharp mind. That’s what you were known for. You noticed things. You survived high school that way. But no matter how many times you replayed that day in your head, nothing could have prepared you for the explosion that tore through the roof of your classroom. Nothing could have prepared you to lie crushed beneath the rubble, paralyzed by stinging pain and the fear that shook your whole body.

But the real anomaly came after — seeing someone so painfully familiar hovering above the broken bodies of you and your classmates just before he delivered the final blow.

In the seconds between the blast and your death, all you could do was stare at the black hair spilling from the edge of a yellow mask, the straight bridge of the nose, the upturned tip, the sharp jaw clench. The image burned itself into your mind, and just before everything went dark, all you could think about was Mark Grayson.

That name echoed in your head, even as you jolted awake, yelping in pain. Your mind was foggy, your skin damp with sweat, and once your breathing slowed to something close to steady, the scene replayed. Again and again.

A dream?

No.

It felt too real.

You remembered the crushing weight of the rubble pinning down your lower half, the way your limbs wouldn’t move no matter how much you tried. It definitely wasn't a trick of your mind, a fantasy that your brain came up with out of nowhere. It was like it had happened just seconds ago.

But as your eyes adjusted to the darkness, you started noticing the first fractures in reality. The duvet cover. A pale beige with thin, green stripes. But hadn't you changed it to a pink floral one just three nights ago?

Then the carpet.

Grey.

Nothing like the soft blue rug you’d begged your mom to get.

It was only then that something deep in the pit of your stomach twisted so uncomfortably that you could no longer ignore it. You quickly sat up and looked down at yourself and saw a mismatched pajama set, green and pink, unfamiliar and ugly in the dim light. You’d never worn them before.

And then came the final sign: your mom bursted into the room, asking what was wrong — the same concerned tone, the same warmth in her eyes you were used to. But her hair. It was a completely different color, a completely different cut. Much shorter. And darker.

That’s when it hit you.

You weren’t dead.

But you hadn’t just dreamed, either. You’d pinched yourself more times than you could count. The sounds, the light, the weight of the blankets… all real. But whatever this was, it wasn’t your life. It wasn’t your world.

You should’ve panicked. But after what you saw, what you experienced in that demolished classroom all you could think about was survival. You didn’t know how or why, but something or someone had given you another shot at life.

And you sure as hell weren’t going to die at the hands of Mark Grayson again.