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wrapped in a long black cloak that swept behind him like smoke, his tall silhouette broken only by the beaded strands hanging from his hat, swaying against the rhythm of battle. his skin was dulled violet now, patterned in jagged, vibrant black. demon markings. his eyes glowed faintly under the brim of the hat. he hadn’t summoned his weapon yet.

just stood there.

watching you.

“…you’re not running tonight,” you said quietly, drawing your sickle with one smooth motion. the blue glow illuminating, already humming with enchantment. your fingers curled tight around the handle. “guess it’s you and me.”

he didn’t move. didn’t blink.

the air between you felt too still for a battlefield. like the whole world had pressed pause.

you’d fought him before. sharp, messy skirmishes in alleys and tunnels and rooftops, always short-lived. always strange. there was something different about the way he moved. the way he hesitated. the way you hesitated. it had been bothering you for weeks.

you hated that you remembered the shape of his hands.

when he finally spoke, his voice was quiet—too deep for how soft it came out.

“why do you keep hesitating?”

you narrowed your eyes. “what?”

his head tilted just slightly. the beads of his hat clinked softly. “you always hesitate before you swing.”

“…you do the same.”

his lips didn’t twitch, but something in him shifted. like your words hit somewhere unexpected.

he took a single step forward.

your grip tightened.

“i don’t want to kill you,” he said. “but i will if i have to.”

you moved first.

not because you wanted to. but because it was what you were trained to do. and baby didn’t flinch when your sickle sliced through the air, sparking off the cursed stone floor with a high screech. he was already twisting away, cloak fanning out behind him, beads from his hat swinging like pendulums of warning.

your blade missed his chest by inches.

he retaliated with a burst of dark energy—raw, silent magic that hissed through the air like steam. you ducked under it, rolled forward, and came up behind him, swinging again.

metal met nothing. not even resistance.

every time your sickle came close, he vanished for just a split second—blinking through the space between heartbeats like smoke that refused to settle.

but you kept coming.

spinning. striking. sparks flying in every direction. your boots skidded across ash-stained ground. debris cracked underfoot. and still, neither of you spoke. not even once.

until he grabbed your wrist.

not hard. not cruel. just enough to stop you.

you froze.

his fingers, warm and inhuman, wrapped around your arm like restraint wrapped in longing. his eyes met yours through the veil of beads.

“you don’t want to kill me either,” he said, and this time, it sounded like pain.

you tore your arm free.

“i don’t want to let you go.”

you swung again, angling low for his legs, but he jumped—too fast, too graceful—and landed behind you. you turned instantly, steel catching his cloak, tearing a line down the side. but when you looked up, he was already there—closer than before.

his hand came up. not to strike.

but to touch your face.

you stopped breathing.

for a second, neither of you moved. your sickle was pressed against his side. his palm hovered inches from your cheek.

he could vanish. you could kill him.

you shoved him back.

not gently.

your palm hit his chest with enough force to stagger him, his boots skidding against the broken ground. the beads of his hat clinked again, and this time they tangled—caught in the wind, caught on his shoulder, caught on nothing and everything.

“don’t touch me,” you said.

your voice was low. not a warning. a plea.

he didn’t respond. didn’t move. the space between you crackled with the weight of everything unspoken. then—he blinked, that slow, ghostlike step, and vanished from sight again.

you spun, just in time to block his attack.

this time, he fought with real intention.

he wasn’t playing defense anymore. the silence between you shattered beneath the pressure of his blows. he didn’t use a weapon—just his fists, his power, the crushing weight of his magic. every movement was precise, almost too quiet to follow. and you could feel it.

he wasn’t trying to kill you.

he was trying to force you to kill him.

your sickle clashed against his arm and sparked. no blood. he didn’t scream. his body rippled with the hit but didn’t fade.

you pulled back, panting, your chest rising and falling fast beneath the weight of your armor. dust rained down from the stadium’s upper rafters. the screams around you grew louder. gwi-ma burned hotter.

but all you could see was him.

and he—

he still hadn’t looked away.

“why won’t you end this?” you demanded.

his reply came slow. low.

“because you’re not ready.”

and then he came at you again.

you met him in the middle. weapon to hand. skill to skill.

a hunter and a demon, locked in a battle neither of them had the heart to finish.

your sickle caught his shoulder, and he vanished again—reappearing behind you, just barely grazing your arm with the edge of his hand. you spun fast, a desperate counterattack, but your body froze before the blade landed.

the ground shook.

violently.

a new sound split the air—not from either of you. it was deeper. more ancient. it echoed from the center of the stadium like a warning.

your head whipped toward the heat.

gwi-ma was surging.

the great flame at the heart of the arena pulsed once—twice—and then exploded upward in a final, blinding flare of pink light, shooting like a geyser into the sky. it lit up the entire stadium, casting jagged shadows across the bloodstained walls. the demons he’d summoned screamed and twisted, turning into ash before your eyes.

a wave of something hit you hard in the chest—knocked you back, skidding along the concrete. your ears rang. your body trembled. you barely managed to throw up a warding spell before the next tremor cracked the ground right beside your head.

your vision blurred. but you heard it.

over everything, one voice rang clear:

“scatter!”

jinu.

somewhere near the top of the stadium, his shout cut through the storm like a siren. a command. final. urgent.

you pushed yourself up, eyes scanning—

and saw them.

the saja boys.

one by one—vanishing.

mystery disappeared in a flicker of static near the scoreboard. romance faded into smoke behind the shattered stage lights. abs vanished mid-sprint, leaping from the rafters. baby—

your heart stopped.

your eyes searched frantically.

he was just there. right there in front of you.

but he wasn’t now.

“wait—” you breathed, but your voice got lost in the roaring storm.

no sign of him.

not his cloak. not the glint of his hat beads. not even the press of his magic in the air.

he was gone.

and for some reason—you weren’t ready for that.

you stumbled to your feet, scanning every face on the battlefield. the ruins were scattered with movement—zoey, yelling something across the field. mira, slicing through the last of the summoned demons with wild fury. even rumi, standing tall and breathless in front of gwi-ma’s fading flame.

but him?

no trace.

and that was when the panic hit.

not sharp. not loud.

quiet.

a slow, spreading ache in your chest that made no sense. you were safe. the demons were gone. the fight was nearly over.

and yet—

why did it feel like something had been ripped away?

gwi-ma’s flame collapsed in on itself.

with one final shriek, the sky swallowed the light. the cursed magic bled into the clouds and then vanished, like it had never been there at all. the air stilled.

for the first time in what felt like hours—there was silence.

a stadium full of fractured concrete, shattered lights, torn seats, and bodies that had once burned too bright.

you stood still, breath shallow.

the sickle in your hand dimmed.

rumi was at the center of it all, hunched over, her chest heaving as the last flicker of flame died at her feet. mira rushed toward her. zoey was already yelling something about backup, her voice distant—faint, like it was behind glass.

but you didn’t hear her.

you were already moving.

you ran—fast, wild, unthinking.

through the haze. past the broken stands and the wrecked gates. rubble crunched beneath your boots. ash caught in your throat. someone called your name, but you didn’t turn.

what were you looking for?

you didn’t know.

your heart slammed in your chest as you climbed through the debris, past the corners where the saja boys had vanished just minutes ago. every shadow felt like it might be him. every shimmer of magic made your pulse spike.

you weren’t even sure what direction you were going. just away. away from the others. away from the moment of victory.

you needed to find him.

baby.

you didn’t understand why. not really. you barely knew him. you’d fought him. hated him. stared at him like he was the last thread of a dream you couldn’t untangle. he was the enemy. a demon.

but still—you had to find him.

you had to know.

was he okay? did he get out in time? did he vanish like the rest of them or—

you stopped.

dead in your tracks.

a corner of the stadium collapsed in front of you, smoke curling up from the foundation. no sign of him. no sign of anything.

your fingers tightened around your weapon until your knuckles went white.

your chest hurt.

and for a moment—you didn’t know if it was from the battle or something else entirely.

“why am i doing this?” you whispered.

no one answered.

but your feet wouldn’t move.

not forward. not back.

just stuck there, in the wreckage, heart pounding like it hadn’t yet accepted the war was over.

or maybe—

maybe your war hadn’t ended at all.

₍₍⚞(˶˃ ꒳ ˂˶)⚟⁾⁾

you didn’t know how long you’d been running.

minutes? hours?

time didn’t make sense when all you could hear was your heartbeat and the crunch of broken stone under your boots. smoke still curled in lazy wisps over the remains of the stadium, but here—just beyond the outer wall, in the long stretch of cracked pavement leading into the city—you saw it.

a bead.

small. round. black with an etched silver pattern that glinted faintly even in the dim haze. it was unmistakable.

you dropped to your knees and picked it up carefully, cradling it in your palm like it might crumble.

your eyes followed the trail.

there were more.

scattered—like someone had been moving fast. a cloak snagged, a hat torn. whatever it was, it led out, toward the distant, ruined roads.

so you kept going.

half-tripping over your own feet. hands scraped. body still sore from the fight. but none of it mattered.

“just a little further,” you whispered to yourself.

and then—you stopped short.

two figures stood in the clearing.

abby. unmistakable. shirtless as always, his cloak shredded, dark patterns covering his broad chest, abs flexed like armor. his demon form didn’t dull his confidence—it made it worse. stronger. more intimidating.

and beside him—

mystery.

hair veiling most of his face, silver-lilac in the ashlight. his head turned sharply as soon as you approached, and before you could even call out, he hissed—sharp, guttural, like an animal—and took a step toward you.

“easy—!” you said quickly, reaching for your sickle, but not drawing it. not yet.

mystery barked. a choked, garbled sound that echoed in your bones. his body jolted forward again, twitchy, aggressive, like he barely held himself back.

but abby moved fast.

his arm shot out, blocking him with one hand. he said something low under his breath. you couldn’t hear it, but it worked.

mystery stilled—barely—but didn’t stop staring at you.

“you’ve got guts showing your face out here,” abby muttered.

you took a slow step forward, your breath ragged. “i’m not here to fight.”

he scoffed. “you sure? ‘cause that thing on your back says otherwise.”

your hand dropped from the hilt of your sickle. “i just… i’m looking for him.”

abby’s expression didn’t change, but the air got heavier.

“baby,” you added, voice quieter now. “i’m looking for baby.”

that was the first time mystery reacted in a way that wasn’t threatening. his head tilted slightly, just enough to suggest confusion—or maybe curiosity.

abby crossed his arms. “what do you want with him?”

you hesitated. not because you didn’t have an answer, but because… you didn’t know how to say it.

you looked down at the beads in your palm. fingers curled around them.

“i just… need to know if he’s okay.”

abby didn’t reply right away.

he just stared.

like he was trying to solve a puzzle he didn’t like the look of.

but mystery—he moved.

you didn’t even see it at first. one moment he was behind abby, twitching like a live wire. the next, he was in front of you. too close. his head tilted, hair covering majority of his face, but you could feel the weight of his eyes underneath. unnatural. piercing. hungry and empty all at once.

you froze.

his hand reached up—not quite touching you, just hovering near your shoulder. his fingers twitched like he was trying to trace something only he could see.

“don’t,” you warned, voice low, unsure if you could keep it steady.

but he didn’t growl this time.

he sniffed.

not just once. several short, quiet inhales, like a creature trying to remember the scent of something it couldn’t name.

and then—

a noise. soft. croaked out of his throat.

“…you.”

your heart jumped.

abby moved in an instant, grabbing mystery’s wrist and pulling him back with practiced ease.

“enough,” he snapped. “she’s not the one we’re after.”

mystery didn’t argue, but he didn’t stop staring either.

you exhaled shakily. “is he always like that?”

“no,” abby said flatly. “sometimes he’s worse.”

you swallowed and looked down at the beads in your hand again. “i meant what i said. i’m not trying to fight you. i just… he disappeared. and i can’t stop thinking about it.”

abby’s eyes narrowed. “and why would a hunter like you care what happens to a demon?”

you lifted your chin. “i don’t know. maybe i should. maybe i shouldn’t. but i do.”

the silence that followed was thick. uncomfortable. until finally—abby let out a breath.

“we don’t know where he is.”

you blinked.

“me and mystery—” he gestured vaguely, “we only just found each other. we’ve been looking too. for the others. for… anything.”

you nodded slowly. something inside you eased, just a little. he wasn’t lying. you could feel it.

the three of you stood there for a moment. unsure. tense. the world still smelled like fire.

then abby stepped forward—slowly—and extended a hand.

“we’ll help you look.”

you stared at it. your hand hesitated, hovering in the air between you.

but then you took it.

the shake was firm. brief.

but enough.

“fine,” you said. “but the moment either of you try anything…”

abby smirked. “you’ll what? cry about it?”

you smiled. tired. sharp. “no. i’ll gut you.”

mystery let out a sound that might’ve been a laugh.

the alliance was thin. temporary. unstable.

but it was a start.

₍₍⚞(˶˃ ꒳ ˂˶)⚟⁾⁾

the city looked untouched.

no crumbled buildings. no smoke. no blood staining the streets. just a soft, unnatural glow pulsing from every window, every glass pane reflecting moonlight that shouldn’t have been this bright.

the honmoon had been sealed.

you could feel it—settling in your bones like sleep you didn’t ask for. the kind of stillness that made your heartbeat feel too loud. like the world had been paused and painted over in a fresh layer of peace.

you walked at the front, beads clenched in your hand, cloak pulled tighter against the cold wind.

abby walked behind, arms crossed, eyes always scanning. mystery, of course, never stopped twitching — pacing a little too close to walls, stepping in odd patterns like he was following music only he could hear.

“he’s going to give me a heart attack,” you muttered under your breath.

abby snorted. “he’s fine. you’re the one walking straight toward our guys with nothing but blind hope.”

“and yet,” you shot back, “here you are, following me.”

“tch.”

you found romance first.

half-sunk into a broken billboard, picking glass from his arm with an expression that was way too casual for someone bleeding dark energy. he raised an eyebrow when he saw you.

“am i dreaming?” he said, standing up with a dramatic stretch. “is this the part where the hunter turns on the charm and saves the day?”

“no,” you said flatly. “unless you know where baby is.”

he blinked. the flirt dropped. “…i don’t. last i saw him, he was getting pulled under a building.”

abby tensed. mystery hissed.

“pulled under?” you repeated.

“yeah. like… swallowed by the ground. and then—gone.”

your stomach dropped. but you pushed forward.

finally, just as the sky began to bruise with approaching night, you reached the top of a broken highway ramp, and saw a tall figure waiting in the distance. long black coat. perfect posture. calm like he hadn’t just lost a war.

jinu.

his back was to you at first. he turned slowly when he heard your footsteps — and the moment his eyes landed on the strange group you’d formed, a flicker of something passed through his expression.

curiosity. calculation. and then…

“well,” he said, his voice smooth and low. “this is unexpected.”

abby stepped forward. “you seen him?”

jinu didn’t answer right away. he studied you.

then he said:

“i have an idea.”

your breath caught.

“where is he?”

jinu turned away again, facing the horizon — where the clouds swirled above an old, long-abandoned train station. it sat half-sunken into the ground, glass shattered, surrounded by torn posters and glowing runes that pulsed low and steady.

“if he’s still holding himself together,” jinu murmured, “he’s there.”

you didn’t wait for the others.

as soon as jinu pointed, your feet moved. not fast, not wild — just certain. like something inside you had been waiting for this direction all along.

the train station stood still beneath the glowing sky. vines of honmoon crystal wrapped gently through its broken windows and doorways, their pulsing purple light breathing like a heartbeat. the tracks were overgrown, but not ruined. the entire place looked abandoned, yet held — like something sacred was hiding there.

you stepped carefully inside.

no noise. no movement. only that glow. soft. quiet.

and then —

you saw him.

baby.

he was sitting on the edge of a stone bench, head bowed, elbows resting on his knees. his hat was gone. his cloak torn. the black patterns across his dulled violet skin shimmered faintly under the moonlight bleeding through the glass ceiling.

he didn’t look up when you entered. didn’t flinch. didn’t move.

he just sat there. still. silent.

your breath caught. your hand found the last bead in your pocket.

“baby…”

his voice came before your footstep could echo.

“go ahead,” he said, quietly.

“if you’re here to finish it, just do it.”

your throat closed.

he still didn’t look up.

“you won,” he added. “there’s nothing left for me to do.”

your hand fell to your side. fingers trembling. and then — you ran.

not to fight.

not to hurt.

you dropped your sickle behind you and ran to him. your boots skidded slightly on the polished floor, but you didn’t stop. you didn’t think. you just reached—

—and threw your arms around him.

his body jerked back slightly in shock, but he didn’t push you away.

“you idiot,” you choked out. “you absolute idiot—what were you thinking disappearing like that?! i thought—i didn’t know if—i thought you were gone—”

you couldn’t stop talking.

your words kept spilling, broken and messy, barely holding themselves together. you pressed your face into his shoulder. his skin was warm, too warm, like leftover magic still simmered just beneath the surface.

“i’ve been looking for you everywhere,” you whispered, almost trembling. “i was so scared. i don’t know why—i just—i had to find you. i had to.”

he still hadn’t said anything.

his hands hadn’t moved.

but his head slowly, barely tilted down. just enough for his chin to brush the top of your head.

just enough for you to feel his breath stutter.

his hands stayed frozen in place, suspended awkwardly midair.

like he didn’t know what to do with them.

like no one had ever held him like this before.

and maybe they hadn’t.

your arms were tight around him, your breath shaky against his shoulder, your chest still trembling from the panic you hadn’t processed. you weren’t crying, not quite—but you were close. your heart felt too big for your body, too full of something you couldn’t name.

his voice finally came.

soft.

fragile.

“…why do you care?”

barely above a whisper.

your eyes shut tight. your grip didn’t loosen.

he spoke again, like it hurt to ask:

“you’re a hunter. i’m a demon. it doesn’t make sense.”

you pulled back just enough to look at him.

his eyes—deep, dark, faintly glowing—searched yours like they didn’t believe you were real. like this whole moment was a dream he didn’t trust himself to want.

“i don’t know,” you said honestly. “i wish i did.”

he looked at you for a long time.

like your face was the first thing he’d ever truly seen.

“you should’ve killed me.”

“i know.”

“so why didn’t you?”

you swallowed, “because i couldn’t.”

the silence that followed wasn’t heavy. it was warm. still. like the moment when wind stops just before the rain.

his shoulders dropped. finally.

not all the way.

but just enough for him to lean—barely, almost—not quite into you.

his hands lowered slowly.

and then one of them—trembled—before landing on your back. tentative. unsure.

you could feel it through your whole body.

“i thought… maybe if i disappeared,” he said, voice thin, “it’d be easier.”

your chest tightened.

“it wasn’t.”

you didn’t say anything after that.

not right away.

and neither did he.

you just stayed there, your arms around him, his hand resting uncertainly on your back like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to hold something that wanted him. like it might vanish.

finally, slowly, you pulled back.

he let you.

his eyes followed your every movement like they didn’t want to lose the shape of you.

you sat beside him on the bench. shoulder to shoulder. not touching now, but close enough that you could still feel the warmth of him — the steady, unnatural heat that pulsed just beneath his violet skin.

his cloak had fallen open. you noticed it now, how worn it looked. how the ends were frayed. like he’d been running for a long time.

“i didn’t know where else to go,” he said eventually, voice low.

you glanced at him.

he wasn’t looking at you anymore — just staring ahead, into the soft-glowing blue of the station windows, where the sealed honmoon pulsed gently through the sky.

“i thought maybe if i stayed here… no one would find me.”

“and did you want that?” you asked quietly.

a pause.

“i don’t know.”

you folded your hands in your lap. stared at your fingers. “we were all looking for you.”

“i didn’t think you would be.”

you gave him a look. “really?”

he exhaled, slow and small.

“you never said anything. never gave me a reason to think—”

“and you vanished,” you interrupted, voice sharper than you meant it to be.

you stopped yourself. looked down.

when you spoke again, it was gentler.

“you can’t act like you don’t matter and then get upset when no one tells you you do.”

he blinked.

then… softly:

“do i?”

your breath caught.

you didn’t answer right away.

instead, you reached into your pocket and uncurled your fingers.

“i followed these,” you said, holding out the beads. “all the way here.”

his eyes dropped to your palm.

you could see something shift in him. something small. delicate.

he reached out slowly — took one bead between two fingers.

“i didn’t even notice they were falling.”

you smiled. a little broken. “i did.”

he didn’t say anything for a while.

neither did you.

the honmoon glowed gently through the broken glass above.

and for once, in this strange, shimmering quiet…

you didn’t feel like enemies.

copyright © t4kalcvr 2025 all rights reserved

💬, alright yaaaall i have my request list on my upcoming stories on my bookshelf if yall wanna see where your request is at !! i will tag yall so yall know when your fic is being worked on and how long you have to wait because YALL ARE FEEEEDING ME IDEAAAAS !! i will tag yall as soon as i post this, it’ll take me a minute buuuut BARE WITH ME ANYWAYS HERES THE FIRST REQUESTED POST !! ITS PURE FLUFFYYYYY I HOPE YALL ENJOY IIIIIT !! also guys ive been working alot more this week and the next week for some reason and its in the back of house (stock) SO IM EXHUASTED BUT IM TRYING TO STAY CONSISTENT !! AND IM ALWAYS WORKING ON YALLS IDEAS I LUUUUV THEM <3333 OH YEAH AND I REACHED 1K FOLLOWERS THANK YALL SOOOO MUCH 🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼

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You didn't even hear them crack.

The sound was lost in the chaos—shouting, gunfire, the scream of metal grinding against metal in the collapsing corridor of the game arena. One second you were ducking behind Ann, fingers tight around your only remaining advantage in this hellish game, and the next… the world went soft. Fuzzy. Like smudged ink bleeding across the page.

You blinked. Squinted.

And knew instantly.

Your glasses had fallen. Worse—they were crushed. Flattened under the heel of some panicked player's boot.

The rest of the game was a blur in every sense of the word. You stumbled, crawled, followed vague silhouettes and muffled directions. The only thing you were sure of was Ann's hand, gripping yours tight, pulling you through the chaos. Her voice—sharp, calm, clear—cut through your panic like a blade.

"Left—now!" "Down—duck!" "Stay close. Don't let go."

You didn't.

You survived.

Back at the Beach, someone handed you a bottle of water. You accepted it automatically, still shaking, half-blind. Everything was warped and distant without your glasses. Faces turned into colored blobs. Text on walls and signs meant nothing.

"You okay?“

You knew it was Ann, but you still turned toward her voice like a moth to light. Her presence was the only thing solid in your broken world.

You nodded. "Yeah. I mean… no. I'm alive, but without my glasses…" Your voice trailed off. You didn't need to say it. Everyone here knew survival meant playing again. And how were you supposed to play if you couldn't see?

Ann was quiet for a moment, watching you. You couldn't read her expression—could barely make out her features—but you felt the weight of her gaze.

"I'll figure something out," she said, finally.

You didn't ask her what she meant. You were too tired. Too demoralized. So you just nodded again, fingers twitching where they rested against your thigh, trying not to imagine how it would feel to die in a blur.

Days passed.

Your vision didn't magically improve.

You managed to avoid any games, resting on the few days of grace your high-card win had bought you. But the anxiety lingered. Games would come again. They always did. This world didn't care if you couldn't see.

Ann had gone on a supply run. She didn't say much when she left, but you knew her well enough to know she was planning something. It was in her silence—the kind that carried weight, like a promise unspoken.

She came back later that night, dust-covered and tired. You were sitting in the corner of the common area, legs pulled close, world still blurry and detached.

You sensed her before you saw her clearly.

Then she crouched in front of you, a large tote bag thumping onto the floor between you.

"What's—?"

"I couldn't find real lenses. The optician's were just displays—no prescription." She opened the bag. Inside were glasses. Dozens of them. Different frames, shapes, colors.

"I went through every apartment near the Beach. Checked drawers. Cabinets. Nightstands." She picked up a pair—thick, black-rimmed—and handed them to you. "Try them. One of these has to be close."

Your hands trembled as you reached for them.

The first few were wrong. Too strong. Too weak. One made you dizzy.

Then… the sixth pair.

You slid them on, and the room snapped into place like a jigsaw piece clicking in. It wasn't perfect—edges still ghosted slightly, and there was a faint pressure at your temples—but it was enough. More than enough.

You saw Ann. Truly saw her.

Her eyes. Her smirk that wasn't quite a smile. The tension in her shoulders releasing all at once.

"Ann," you whispered.

"Don't get used to it," she said, her tone teasing but soft. "I still expect you to watch my back next game."

You grinned, a real one, for the first time in days. "Only if you don't mind me stealing your kills."

She shook her head, chuckling. Then, to your surprise, she reached out and adjusted the glasses gently on your face.

"You look better with them anyway."

You froze. Then, smiled wider, heart thudding.

The world was still dangerous. The games would return.

But right now? You could see. You were alive. And Ann was here.

It was enough.

Kuina

The game was supposed to be easy.

A mid-level difficulty. A club card. Strategy and teamwork. You'd worked out the plan with Kuina and the rest of your group. It should've been clean.

It wasn't.

The moment the arena started shifting—metal panels rising, walls rotating, lights flickering—you lost your footing. You tumbled. You heard the crunch before you felt it.

Your glasses.

They were gone in seconds. Crushed beneath your boot or someone else's. You didn't even get to see where they landed. All you knew was that suddenly, the world became an indistinct smear of color and shadow.

You froze.

"Y/N?!" Kuina's voice rang out. "Where are you?!"

"Can't—can't see!" you shouted back.

You could barely make out the glowing walls, the puzzle locks. Everything was noise and motion and indistinct threats. Your hands trembled.

But then—familiar fingers curled around your wrist.

Kuina.

"I've got you," she said, breathless. "Stay behind me."

She dragged you through the rest of the game, dodging deathtraps, barking out instructions, never letting go. You survived by inches, by luck—and by her.

You earned four days of life.

But that didn't solve the problem.

Back at the Beach, Kuina helped you sit down on the bed in the room you shared. You rubbed at your eyes, trying not to look as defeated as you felt.

"Kuina…" you said, voice low. "I can't play like this again. If it's a high ranked card, or anything where I have to find clues… I'll just be dead weight. I can't see."

She sat beside you, silent. The room was dim, and you couldn't quite read her face—but you didn't have to. You knew she was thinking. Planning. Worrying.

"I wish I could go out there," she muttered after a minute. "Find you new ones. Hell, even just scavenge for lenses close to your prescription."

You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat. "It might take weeks to find glasses that would fit my eyes."

"I know," she said, biting back a bitter laugh. "And the second I try to sneak out, someone like Niragi catches wind and I get shot before I hit the gate anyway."

Silence hung for a beat.

Then, she stood abruptly.

"I'll figure something out. Just… wait here."

The next few days passed with a slow kind of dread. You stayed mostly in the room. You tried to listen for whispers of upcoming games. Kuina came and went, always bringing you food, updates, the newest gossip for no real reason other than to distract you.

Then, one evening, she came back holding something in both hands.

A handmade box.

"What's this?" you asked, blinking.

Kuina gave you a little grin, clearly proud of herself. "A project."

She opened it and pulled out… glasses.

More than one pair.

Frames without lenses. Toy glasses. Reading glasses. Old, cracked sunglasses with the tint scraped off. Cheap magnifiers. A pair that looked like it came from a Halloween costume.

"None of them are prescription," she admitted. "Obviously. I've been trading favors for anything even close. Some of these are joke glasses, but—" she paused, lifting one pair carefully. "—this one? I asked around. Some guy said his roommate had near-sightedness. I got these from his stuff after he went missing."

You took them, hands shaking slightly.

Slipping them on… it wasn't perfect. But it was something. Enough to see outlines. Expressions. Shapes. Kuina's face came into partial clarity. You could see her eyes again. See the exhaustion there, but also the hope.

Your breath caught.

"It's… actually kind of close," you said softly. "I can— I can see you again."

Kuina leaned back, a tired smirk on her lips. "Told you I'd figure it out."

You blinked rapidly, fighting the sting in your eyes.

"You're amazing," you whispered.

"Damn right I am." Then, softer: "You think I'm gonna let someone like you die just because this world's garbage? No way."

You smiled, finally. Then reached for her hand.

"You're kind of blurry," you said, squeezing her fingers. "But you're the best thing I've seen all week."

She squeezed back.

"Guess I'll just have to stay close, then. In case you get fuzzy again."

And she did.

Mira

You always knew games were dangerous here.

But this one… it was different.

It wasn't the rules. Those were almost laughably simple: follow the trail of lights through a hall of mirrors and reach the end before time runs out.

No, the danger wasn't the trap.

It was the mirrors.

And the sound of your glasses hitting the floor.

You'd been turning a corner when it happened—someone slammed into you in a panic, and the frame snapped right off your face, skittering somewhere into the maze of reflections. You dropped to your knees, hands scrambling blindly.

But all you found were glass shards.

Your glasses were gone. And you were effectively blind.

The world warped. Mirrors became illusions. Lights blurred together into meaningless halos. You could barely tell where one corridor ended and another began.

You were done for.

Until she arrived.

A laugh echoed through the mirrored halls—light, melodic, and unmistakably amused.

"You poor thing," came Mira's voice. "Stumbling through a puzzle meant for sighted minds. How tragic... and yet, so very entertaining."

You froze, turning your head toward the sound.

"Mira?"

Another giggle. Then her silhouette appeared—reflected and multiplied across a dozen mirror panes, each slightly out of sync.

"Would you like help?" she asked, appearing directly beside you now, her heels clicking softly on the marble. "Or would you rather keep crawling in the dark?"

"I…" you hesitated. "I can barely see."

"Yes," she said with a smile in her voice. "I noticed."

A soft hand reached out and took yours.

Mira led you through the maze with terrifying ease, whispering directions like riddles. Sometimes her voice came from behind. Sometimes beside you. Her grip never wavered.

"Left. No, not that left—my left." "Duck. There's a low beam ahead. Well, I assume it's ahead." "Oh, did you flinch? You're adorable when you're afraid."

You didn't know whether she was mocking you or helping you because she was genuinely invested. Maybe both.

But she never let go.

And when the game ended—seconds before the final buzzer—she tugged you into the last chamber with an effortless flourish, as if this had all been planned.

Back at the lounge of the Beach, the high of survival wore off. Your hands still trembled, your eyes strained. Mira sat across from you, legs elegantly crossed, swirling a glass of wine she'd somehow conjured up from nowhere.

"You're very lucky," she said. "Some people lose their sight and die minutes later. You? You earned three whole days."

"Not sure I can survive the next game like this," you muttered, rubbing your eyes. "Not unless someone guides me again."

Mira hummed.

"You could always ask."

You glanced at her.

She tilted her head, eyes gleaming. "I do enjoy games… especially with interesting partners."

"I'm not very useful half blind."

"You're more interesting blind," she said, smiling like she knew a secret you hadn't discovered yet. "Stripped of control. Vulnerable. Honest. It makes you… real."

You swallowed hard. Mira had that effect. Like peeling back skin with a smile.

Then she rose, walking over to your side of the room.

"I can't leave the Beach," she said casually. "Too important here. But I have persuaded some… associates to do errands for me."

You blinked. "Errands?"

She pulled a small velvet pouch from her jacket and let it drop into your lap.

Inside: lenses. A few cracked. Some pristine. And one pair of glasses—an old, worn frame with prescription lenses that made the world snap into partial focus when you slipped them on.

Close enough. Close enough to see again.

Your breath caught. You looked up at her.

"You—how did you…?"

Mira's smile widened. "I made a game of it," she said simply. "Bet a few players they couldn't find anything useful in the city ruins. Told them I'd reward the ones who brought back the rarest item of all—'the gift of sight.'"

"You manipulated them into doing it."

"I prefer the word motivated."

You laughed, more from disbelief than humor. "Why?"

She leaned in, eyes glinting like polished glass. "Because I wanted to see your face… when you looked at me clearly."

You froze.

Mira didn't wait for a response. She reached out and adjusted the glasses slightly on your face, the touch uncharacteristically gentle.

"There," she whispered. "Now I have your eyes. And you… have mine."

And for the first time in this twisted world, the game didn't feel like death.

It felt like something far more dangerous.

Hope.

Aguni

The second your glasses slipped from your face, you knew it was going to be hell.

The lens cracked as it hit concrete. The frame didn't stand a chance under the boot of some panicked player bolting for the game's exit. You barely got out alive yourself—vision blurred, stumbling through chaos with only outlines and instinct to guide you.

Now, days later, you still couldn't see much.

Life in this world was brutal even when you had all your senses. Take one away, and it was practically a death sentence.

You rubbed your temples, sitting in one of the Beach's corners, a vague smear of color that might've been a book in your lap, unreadable. You heard someone approach—heavy boots, steady stride.

Aguni.

You didn't need to see to recognize him.

"Get up," he said gruffly.

You blinked up at his silhouette. "Huh?"

"Supply run," he said. "You're coming with me."

You opened your mouth, baffled. "I'm practically blind without my glasses, remember? Unless you want me to walk into door or step on a mine—"

"I said, get up."

And that was that.

You hated every second of it.

You bumped into walls. Tripped over broken sidewalks. Got tangled in a chain-link fence.

Aguni barely said a word the whole time. He just kept moving forward, making sure you stayed close. When you fell behind, his hand found your wrist, yanked you forward like a stubborn dog refusing to leave a leash behind.

"You could've left me behind, you know," you muttered at one point, panting. "Could've grabbed stuff without dragging me through half the city."

"You'd just sulk," he grunted.

"Is that your version of being thoughtful?"

"Shut up."

The glasses store was mostly looted—display cases shattered, frames long gone.

You stood near the counter, squinting hopelessly at a wall of smudged posters and shelves of nothing, while Aguni moved with quiet purpose through the backroom.

It was quiet for a long while. You leaned on the dusty counter, ready to suggest they leave before nightfall when you heard it:

The scrape of plastic against wood.

Then footsteps.

Then: "Catch."

Something landed in your hands.

A bulky, awkward frame.

You blinked down at it. Black plastic. Thick sides. Round lenses with a weird rotating mechanism—test lenses. The kind optometrists used to find your prescription. Definitely not made for comfort. Or fashion. Or reality.

"What—?"

"Best they had." Aguni came into view, holding a dusty box full of those test lenses. "You can swap 'em. Find ones that work."

You stared at the strange contraption in your hands, heart thudding.

"You really went digging for this?"

"I said shut up," he muttered.

Still, he waited—silent, arms crossed—as you fiddled with the lenses, clicking a few in. You cycled through them, eye by eye, testing combinations. After about a dozen tries…

Click. Click.

The world sharpened. Not perfectly, but close. Close enough to make out the faded letters on the broken sign above the counter. Close enough to see the faint smirk tugging at the edge of Aguni's mouth, even as he pretended not to look directly at you.

You blinked rapidly. "Holy crap. I can see again."

"Good."

You turned to him. "I look ridiculous, don't I?"

"Worse than usual," he said with zero hesitation.

You snorted. "Screw you."

"Better. You're annoying again." He started walking. "Let's go."

You followed, adjusting the ridiculous test-glasses on your face, one hand brushing the frame with something almost reverent. They pinched your nose. The lenses sat at odd angles. You probably looked like a half-mad inventor.

But for the first time in days, you could see the path ahead.

And Aguni—walking just ahead of you, his wide shoulders cutting through the dust, never once looking back, but never leaving you behind either.

Not once.

Fashion could wait.

Niragi

You didn't see the bat coming.

Just the blur of movement—too late to dodge—and then the sickening crack of pain, followed by darkness. Not unconsciousness.

Just blindness.

You hit the ground in the middle of the game, one hand fumbling at your face. Your glasses were gone, flung somewhere into the death trap around you, likely in pieces. You scraped at the floor, heart racing.

Nothing.

The world was just vague outlines now. Colorless smears. Shapes without meaning. You heard someone scream. Something exploded. You were useless—dead weight—if someone didn't help you.

And Niragi had no reason to.

Except he did.

Because minutes later, he grabbed your arm, yanked you behind him, and barked, "Stay close, dumbass."

You couldn't see his face, but his grip was iron. His voice was tight. He didn't let go.

Not once.

The game ended. You lived. Somehow.

Back at the Beach, the adrenaline faded. You slumped in a hallway corner, your eyes sore from squinting at everything, trying to navigate a world that had blurred into impressionist chaos. You felt helpless.

You hated it.

You didn't hear Niragi approach. But you felt him when he dropped something into your lap with a sharp, "Try these."

You blinked. "What—?"

"Just do it."

Your fingers fumbled over a pair of glasses. The frames were a little crooked. Scuffed at the edges. You slid them on.

Too strong.

He tossed another pair at you.

You tried again.

Too weak.

Another. And another.

You went through six pairs before you slipped on one and the world clicked. Just enough. Your surroundings came into focus—not perfect, but real. The texture of the wall. The grit underfoot.

And Niragi.

You looked up at him. His face, finally in focus again. Sharp jaw, burnt-scarred skin, intense eyes locked on you like you were the only thing that mattered.

You blinked fast, a grin tugging at your lips. "I can… I can see. Oh my god."

He scoffed and looked away, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Yeah, well. Took you long enough to find one that works."

"You actually—?" You trailed off, squinting at the other pairs of glasses beside you. Different styles. Different shapes. Some with tiny blood spatters on the lenses, some bent out of shape. "Wait. Where… where did you get all of these?"

He didn't answer.

You sat up straighter. "Niragi. These—these were other players' glasses, weren't they?"

He tilted his head. "Why the hell do you care?"

"If someone died for me to be able to see again—"

"They were dead already." His tone was cold, but there was heat just under it. "They didn't need these glasses anymore. You're not dead. You need them more."

You swallowed. You wanted to argue, but you couldn't deny the warm feeling spreading through your chest as you looked at him, clear and sharp and real again. You were finally out of the fog. You could see him. Really see him.

"You're a psycho," you whispered.

He leaned in, that dangerous smirk returning. "Yeah? But I got you what you needed, didn't I?"

You didn't say anything. Just reached up, lightly touching the side of the glasses, then met his eyes.

And smiled.

A real one.

Warm. Grateful. Soft.

Niragi's breath hitched just a bit.

He hadn't expected that. Not really. He was ready for fear, or anger, or guilt. But not this. Not the way your smile looked when it was aimed straight at him, when you could see every inch of him and still smiled like that.

He didn't say a word.

Just turned, stalking off with a muttered, "Keep them. You break 'em, I'll kill you."

But his ears burned red as he walked.

And in his pocket, he kept a list—of the buildings he hadn't looted yet, of every pair of glasses still left to try. Of every player left to kill who wore a pair that might fit you better.

Because seeing that smile again?

Yeah. That was worth killing for.

Last Boss

You didn't mean to break them.

But when the blade sliced past your face during the game, and you flinched instinctively, your glasses slipped from your nose and hit the floor with a crunch under your own boot.

Panic.

You dropped to your knees, hands scraping at glass shards, your heartbeat spiking like you'd been shot. In a way, you had — just not with a bullet.

You were useless without your glasses.

The game wasn't even that hard. But now, everything was blurred: the floor, the timer, the outlines of the other players rushing around. Shapes with no meaning. You barely made it to the end alive.

Only because he found you.

Last Boss.

You didn't know his real name. You weren't sure anyone did. You'd seen him around the Beach, gliding through the halls like a ghost with that tattooed face and body and the ever-present katana. He didn't talk much.

But in that moment, as you sat on the cracked tile after the game, breathing like your lungs were full of sand, he crouched in front of you without a word.

And handed you your broken glasses — both lenses cracked through like spiderwebs.

You couldn't even tell where he came from.

You didn't expect to see him again after that.

But a few days later, he found you. Again.

You were sitting on the rooftop alone, squinting at the horizon. Just vague color and shadow. You heard the door creak open. Light footsteps. The soft jingle of steel.

Then: clink.

A pair of glasses was dropped into your lap.

You stared down at them. Then up at the man standing over you.

Last Boss said nothing.

The glasses weren't pretty. Big square frames, smudged and scratched. They looked like they'd been taken off a corpse.

"Where did you—?"

He tilted his head, one shoulder lifting in a vague shrug. His eyes were unreadable behind the black tattoos.

You hesitated… and put them on.

Wrong. Too strong. You blinked and winced.

Another pair dropped beside you.

Then another.

You turned. He had a whole pouch slung across his hip — filled with glasses. Some bent. Some blood-stained. All stolen, no doubt, from the ruins of the city, maybe even from dead players. But you didn't ask.

He stood patiently as you tried them, one by one. Every so often, he leaned forward to adjust them slightly on your face, rough fingers surprisingly gentle.

Finally, you found them.

Not perfect. But close enough. The lines of the world came back into focus. The sky, the rust of the rooftop rails… and his face.

Sharp. Pale. Half-shadowed by his messy hood. That tattoo curling across his skin like a whisper.

You stared at him.

And smiled.

"Thank you," you breathed. "I… I can actually see you now."

He blinked slowly.

Then he crouched again, arms resting on his knees, gaze locked on you with unnerving stillness.

"I didn't do it for thanks," he murmured.

His voice was low. Rough. The kind of voice you had to lean closer to hear.

"Then why?"

He tapped the side of your glasses, just once.

"So you don't die."

That was all.

But the words hung between you like a thread pulled tight. And you realized then: someone like him doesn't bring you dozens of glasses for no reason. He doesn't carry weight he doesn't care about.

You mattered to him.

He just didn't say it. Didn't need to.

He stood again, trousers rustling from the movement. His hand ghosted over your shoulder on his way past. Like a promise.

And even long after he disappeared back into the stairwell, you sat there, the glasses firm on your nose, blinking at the horizon.

Seeing clearly.

For the first time in days — and maybe longer.

Chishiya

The first thing you saw when you opened your eyes after the explosion was smoke.

And then… nothing.

No sharp outlines. No people. No clarity. Just a world that had turned to haze.

Your glasses were gone. You didn't even see where they landed — only heard the crack of the lenses underfoot as someone scrambled past you. That was it. Your ability to see, and with it, your ability to survive, shattered in an instant.

You made it out of the game with sheer luck. Blind, stumbling luck.

Back at the Beach, you holed up in one of the quieter rooms. You could barely find the door without help. There was no way you'd survive another game. Not like this.

You didn't tell anyone. You didn't want pity. You were terrified.

So when someone knocked once and let themselves in without a word, you braced yourself for mockery or dismissal.

But it was him.

Chishiya.

Expression unreadable. Movements efficient. Carrying something small in both hands — a box and a pair of frames.

You stared blankly at him. "What are you—?"

"I heard you broke your glasses," he said simply.

You blinked. "I—yeah, but how did you—"

"Doesn't matter." He walked past you, setting the box on the desk like he'd done it a thousand times before. "Sit."

"…What?"

"Sit," he repeated.

You sat.

He opened the box. Inside were dozens of lenses, sorted by power and curvature. The type used in optical clinics — trial lenses. The kind you'd only find if you knew where to look, or more importantly, if you knew what you were looking for.

Chishiya adjusted the chair so you were directly under the weak overhead light. Then he stepped close — too close — and gently tilted your chin upward.

"Look straight ahead," he murmured. "Don't blink."

His hands were steady. Quick. Familiar with the task. He swapped lenses in and out of a test frame, quiet as he worked.

"You've done this before," you said softly.

He didn't stop moving. "Internship. Ophthalmology rotation. I was bored most of the time. But I remember how to measure someone's prescription."

You blinked through another lens. Too strong.

Next one — almost there.

"Hold still," he said, tapping your jaw lightly.

And then… it clicked.

The world sharpened.

You saw his face — up close, calm as ever, eyes focused. The detail in the white strands of his hair. The soft lift of one eyebrow when he noticed the shift in your expression.

"That's the one?" he asked.

You nodded, stunned. "Yeah… how did you—?"

He clicked the lenses out of the tester and into the waiting frame, fingers delicate, precise. "Most people wouldn't know how to insert a lens into a frame without cracking it."

He handed them to you.

You put them on, slowly. The weight felt familiar. Comfortable.

Everything snapped back into focus.

"You—you actually fixed it," you whispered. "I can see again."

He didn't say anything.

You looked at him — really looked at him, now that you could. His face, stoic as ever. But something had softened in his eyes, just for a second.

"…Why?" you asked. "Why go through all this for me?"

He gave a small, almost imperceptible shrug. "You're competent in games. You're better alive."

But his gaze lingered on you a moment longer than it needed to.

And you smiled, just slightly. "Well. Thanks for the investment, then."

He turned to leave, but paused in the doorway.

"Oh," he said over his shoulder. "Don't lose them again. I won't make another pair."

But you caught the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he vanished around the corner.

And somehow, you knew:

He absolutely would.