pharah.joy

Disaster had struck Republic City. Whirls of wind destroyed its walls into nothing but rubble, fired by none other than Taga, the vicious airbender who stood before the Gaang. His impressive skill was hardly a product of rigorous training; rather, it was fueled by fierce spiritual energy emanating from a staff he held ever so tightly. A relic belonging to former Avatar Sonam. A relic that no ordinary human being, especially a supremacist, should possess. A relic which the Gaang had helped him secure. And so, they found themselves amidst a battle to right their wrongs and protect the peace they’d worked so hard to restore years ago.

Aang took on Taga, aiming to seize the staff, while the rest faced the Denied, the villain’s team of non-bending extremists. Though outnumbered, fighting this group was certainly no competition for them. The clang of weapons colliding, torrents of water, streams of fire which set the ground ablaze, and peaks of earth all sent the Denied tumbling down. “Keep going, guys!” yelled Katara, sweat beading on her forehead as she commanded a stream with her hands. 

“They're good, I’ll give them that,” y/n mumbled as a comet of fire left her hands, setting ablaze a rather bold bunch who attempted to lunge at her altogether. “Not good enough though, my love,” quipped Zuko, appearing suddenly, firing an explosion of inferno towards a man sneaking behind her. Her heart raced dangerously fast as the adrenaline coursed through her blood, exactly how she liked it. 

Their fight, however, was interrupted. A bright stream of blue light, the Avatar’s glow clashing with the glare of the staff, distracted the combatants on the field. They all gazed in astonishment for a moment, only for their expressions to turn pained as they abruptly hit the ground. The force of two air storms colliding had sent all of them up and away from the site. The Denied, most of whom were injured in the fight, had scurried away long before they’d noticed. 

“Pathetic,” Suki mumbled as she stood up, faltering a bit.

Sokka was the next to rise, ready to run back rashly, “Aang needs help! Let's charge—” 

“No!” interrupted y/n. “Taga’s too strong. Trying to separate him from the staff isn’t working. We need to rethink this,” she paused for a minute. 

Toph gestured towards the fight, which only seemed to get more intense. “Would it hurt you to rethink a little faster?”

“His bending makes him and that staff seem untouchable. How on earth do we get to the staff without him noticing?” said Katara, staring at the fight.

Y/n’s eyes also drifted to Aang and Taga, eventually spotting a cliff behind them. It was high enough to keep her out of Taga’s view but low enough to keep him in hers. A thought entered her head. “We can’t, but we might be able to get to him instead,” muttered y/n, earning a puzzled look from all of them. Isn’t that what Aang’s been trying to do all along as he fought him? 

She continued, noticing their confusion, “We need to destroy Taga alongside the staff, but in a way he wouldn’t suspect a thing. We bite him from behind rather than up front. It's the only way of putting an end to this madness. I have an idea, but there’s no time to explain. I need you all to buy me some time and try to tire him out. Tell Aang, too. He’s Taga’s biggest challenge and now, his biggest distraction.”

“How long do you need?” Zuko asked, his brow raised in contemplation. 

“Ten minutes. Then you all have to get out of there.”

Scepticism immediately showed on their faces, but disappeared just as quickly. They trusted her. “Got it!” they said unanimously. 

They began running towards the battlefield. “Toph! Give me a boost!” yelled y/n. Immediately, the ground beneath her shot up, her feet soon meeting with the terrain above. She ran towards the cliff, stopping at its edge, the closest point to the chaos below.

The noise of the fight was now but distant murmers. Nonetheless, she could see everything: Zuko’s blaze, Katara’s powerful currents, Toph’s boulders, Sokka’s and Suki’s blades, Aang’s glow as he fought head-on in his Avatar state and finally, Taga’s back. Almost as if Zuko had known she was looking, he glanced up for a split second, his lips curving into a smile before turning his attention back to launching another stream of red. He trusted her enough to count on her. They all did. 

Not wasting another moment, her eyes shut tightly. With a deep breath, she drew her mind away from any distractions, concentrating all her energy into her palms. “Blazing sun,” she whispered. It was the name of an ancient technique in which one’s life force is put at risk. A technique only individuals of extreme firebending mastery could perform. A technique she’d learned but never imagined using until now. The heat radiating between her hands only became hotter. She knew of the detriment she might face, but the fate of the world, her friends, and, most importantly, the love of her life proved far more significant to her. Ten minutes had lapsed. Her eyes shot open, catching the barren battlefield, with only a confused and slightly exhausted Taga at its centre. “Asshole,” she muttered before a ball of flame as grand as the sun shot towards him. 

Watching this all from behind the trees made Zuko’s stomach flip, a contrast to the rest of the Gaang, who gazed in awe, as he was the only one aware of what she'd just done.

Taga reacted quickly to y/n, but not quickly enough. His wicked gust of wind was released far too late to save him and his precious staff from being submerged in solar flames and burnt to ash. 

Victory was finally nearing the Gaang’s horizon, or so they thought. The storm of air collided with the bottom of the cliff; the firebender that once stood strong upon its peak was now too drained to react to its collapse, accepting her fate as she plunged with the ruins. Her world, that had just been so full of flaming light, was now pitch dark.

“NO!” yelled Zuko, as he rushed towards the cliff ruins, extinguishing any fire that stood in his way. The rest followed behind him only to freeze in horror as they spotted the once vivacious y/n lying lifeless on the wreckage. 

Zuko scurried to pick her up, refusing to acknowledge any of the grave thoughts that roamed his mind. “Please, please, please…”

“Her heart’s still beating,” Toph croaked out. “I can hear it.” 

Katara snapped out of her trance. “Quick. Lay her down.” She approached y/n’s limp body, kneeling before running a small stream of spirit water through her with the expertise of a healer. “We can still save her.”

Minutes felt like hours spent in anticipation, all eyes observing, tearing, praying. “What’s taking so long? Why isn’t she awake yet?” Zuko squalled, an explosion amidst the sorrowful silence. But who could blame him? The man’s face alone held the torment of someone whose life was crumbling down before them. Well, that’s because it was. 

“She has a few fractures and wounds…” Katara finally spoke. Her tone slowly shifted to one of bewilderment. “But what’s weird is that her spirit is what’s damaged the most. It’s almost like she let it happen.”

Zuko’s palms rubbed across his face in agonising frustration. “The technique she used— it’s called the Blazing Sun. It’s so advanced that it requires you to use your life force.” Zuko’s words came out in sobs, his fingers now laced with her cold ones. “Master benders rarely ever end up like this when they perform it for the first time. They just end up really spiritually exhausted for a while, so when the cliff fell—,” he choked on a cry, struggling to continue. “I think she accepted that she couldn’t save herself then. The fall and the injuries she suffered damaged her already broken spirit even more…”

Once again, no one could muster up a word to speak as the lumps in their throat only got heavier and the chill on their spine got colder with the realisation that she’d placed herself in jeopardy to save them.

Katara finally spoke. “I’ve taken care of her physical injuries. As for her spirit— that’s for her to decide. She’s the only one who can save it.” 

“Y/n is literally the strongest-willed person I’ve ever known. We need to trust her as we did before.” Suki breathed, the first to break the teary-eyed silence that governed the rest of the Gaang.

“She gambled with her life. That’s badass. If anyone could do it, it’s her.” Toph followed.

A bitter-sweet smile formed on Katara’s lips. “Her condition’s a bit better than when we first arrived. She’s already started to fight for herself. Though we do need to get her somewhere she can rest.”

“We must help y/n, as she helped us,” Aang affirmed. “I’ll ready Appa. Let’s head to the palace.”

“I’m coming too. I’ve got pillows in my bag— it’s not much, but she’ll be a lot more comfortable.”

The mood around them shifted. While sadness and sorrow remained, hope and faith began to blossom. And Zuko was watching it all before his eyes, the rapid race of his heart settling slightly.

“You know,” Katara whispered to him. “If there’s anyone she needs the most right now, it’s you.”

Zuko sighed. “How could I even dare look at her face? After I let this happen—”

“You couldn’t have stopped her, even if you had known. She’s y/n after all. She couldn’t have known that bastard’s final shot even had a chance, and neither could you. She risked so much to save us. So after all that, you, of all people, especially, shouldn’t doubt her ability to save herself, Zuko.”

He gave himself a second to breathe in and slowly let it out. “I could never doubt her. It’s just—” His tone started firm and sure, but splintered as he struggled to form the words. 

“I know,” Katara nodded in understanding. “But you’re not going to lose her.”

He sighed, eyes drifting back to her closed ones. He’d long since lifted y/n’s head and placed it on his lap. “I am not going to lose you,” he whispered against her hand, a reassurance to himself more than her. And with that, he slowly lifted her, head on his chest, and arms wrapped around her legs, heading to the bison ready to fly them home.

The time spent during their journey was quiet, but purposeful. Sokka and Toph had made y/n a makeshift bed with his pillows. Suki had helped her into a fresh set of spare clothes she’d kept just in case. Katara was on healing duties, with Zuko next to her, committed to helping out in any way he could. Aang was, of course, busy guiding Appa towards the Fire Nation, taking extra care to ensure that the ride went smoothly. While the weight of anxiety still sat on their chests, hope made them strong enough to carry it.

Once they finally reached the palace, not a second was wasted in rushing to their royal chambers. Servants, council members or guards were barred from entering their quarters unless an emergency arose. 

Zuko had laid her on their bed, crouching low so his fingers could comb through her hair.

“There are a few hours until I should be starting water therapy again. We should probably all get cleaned up first,” Katara said.

“What about y/n?” asked Suki.

“I’ll take care of cleaning her up,” Zuko answered with no hesitation. “The servants should have rooms ready for you all.”

They hesitated to leave, but the room emptied gradually. Katara was the last to depart. “She’s getting better, you know? She’ll be okay.”

“I know,” a breath leaving Zuko before he lifted her once again and carried her to the bathroom.

Katara could only watch his silhouette disappear, a sigh escaping her in sympathy, before she too turned to walk away.

Zuko had taken utmost care in washing her. He’d make sure the water was as warm as she liked, and that he’d used her favourite soaps, ensuring he hadn’t missed a single spot as he scrubbed her. Once he’d finished, he’d dried her and dressed her in a soft nightgown. He then laid her back on the duvets before he left to shower himself, intentionally rushing as even seconds apart from her in such a state felt torturous to him.

He finally approached the bed in a fresh robe, before lowering down to place a soft kiss on her forehead. “I’m so scared, my love,” he whispered. “I really don’t doubt you, but the thought of you being in this condition alone that pains me. Please come back to me.” Tears fell from his eyes, falling on her cheek. He’d quickly reached to wipe them off her face. “You’ll wake up. I know you will. You have to.”

Two weeks had passed. Two weeks of Katara's healing sessions. Two weeks of Zuko never leaving y/n’s side. He’d abandoned his royal duties long ago, working tirelessly to care for her. He’d bathe her, dress her, brush her hair as he did before, dress her wounds every time Katara had finished treating her, and this was all only to name a few. He paid attention to every little detail, such as adjusting the room temperature so that it was neither too hot nor too cold, making sure her clothing was neither too thick nor too thin, or ensuring her bandages were wrapped neither too tightly nor too loosely. Taking care of himself, on the other hand, was the least of his concerns. He vowed to do everything in his power to enjoy even a sliver of her presence again, though it seems even if it was at the expense of his own.  

The Gaang had worried for him. Aang suggested a schedule to take turns looking after y/n, but that eventually turned into a schedule to keep Zuko company. Every time any of them were to walk in and suggested a rest, he protested, saying he'd be only a few minutes more. 

It was now Sokka’s turn on the schedule. Lucky him. He sighed at the sight of Zuko, perched on the edge of the bed. “Yo, your food’s getting cold.” He gestured to the table in front of the window. 

Zuko’s face lifted to the table. He and y/n would often enjoy dinner there when they wanted a break from the crowd of the palace; not unusual a Firelord and Firelady who often begged for a getaway from the formalities expected of them.

“I’m not hungry, I'll just ask the servants to reheat it later.”

Which, of course, never happened. And just like that, meals were sent back daily, more often than not, untouched, to the royal kitchen. 

It was sunset that same day when he'd first noticed. The warm colours of the sun spilt through the window. His face rested on his arm that lay on the bed, eyes struggling to stay open — the cost of days without proper rest. So logically, when he saw the tip of her finger twitch, he thought he'd finally gone mad. Was his mind playing tricks on him? 

But then he saw it again, followed by several beads of sweat that started to erupt all over her.

Zuko shrieked in fear. Katara and the rest of the Gaang were soon called to the royal chambers.

“I don’t know what happened. She just started sweating out of nowhere after she moved—” Zuko’s voice breaking as he fell further into panic.

“She moved?” Toph’s mouth hung wide open. However, she wasn’t the only one shocked, as the rest of them also stood wide-eyed.

“Her finger,” he said. “I thought I was just seeing things.”

Katara took a few minutes to examine her. “Don’t worry. This is good. Her spirit is curing. The sweat seems to be coming from her rejuvenating firebending energy and strength. I think— I think she’ll be up soon,” her lips curved into a small grin. “It’ll be a bit difficult for her, but we shouldn’t try cooling y/n down. Her body is regulating its temperature.”

The air in the room lightened. It was still hot, most of which radiated from the unconscious bender before them, but the hope they’d been carrying like life support since the battle, finally felt real.

“So… How long?” Suki asked.

Katara sighed, “I don’t know.”

“It could take years, and I’ll still wait right here,” Zuko mumbled under his breath.

Midnight finally came in silence. No one left the room, forcing themselves to stay awake despite the desire of their eyelids to fall so they wouldn't miss another movement from their dear friend. Zuko hadn’t been bothered too much by it, as pushing through exhaustion with minimal sleep had become second nature to him in the past weeks. 

What broke the silence was not one, but several gasps for air, leaving a wide-eyed y/n.

“What’s happening?” they yelled in unison, turning to Katara.

A response proved useless as the picture in front of them was what they’d been waiting for all along. Y/n had clung to Zuko’s arm that rested beside her. He was quick to respond and hold her close. “Breathe,” his fingers laced through her hair as he cradled her close. Her breath eventually relaxed. 

A minute of relief and quiet excitement passed. “You’re alive,” he whispered into the crook of her neck. Her eyes trailed over his features, noticing the sheer exhaustion that encompassed him. Strands of his hair lay messily,  his eyes were sunken, with the skin around them dark, and his figure a bit thinner. “I very much am,” she whispered back, albeit a lot quieter. The rest observed on the side, not wanting to interrupt despite their urges.

Y/n’s head turned, finding them in the corner of her vision. A small smile found its way to her lips. “Are you waiting for an invite?” She rolled her eyes playfully as she gestured for them to come close, followed by a long-awaited group hug.

“Told you she was a badass,” mumbled Toph.

“How do you feel?” Katara asked as everyone, except Zuko, stepped back. In truth, she wanted to give y/n a quick check-up, but having witnessed the way the man clung to her, she figured a short delay wouldn’t hurt. 

“Really good, actually. Which is surprising after what happened.”

“You remember?” Suki gasped.

“Everything, until I fell off the cliff. Please tell me that jackass is dead.”

“Oh, you burnt him to ash,” Sokka responded, a smirk on his face. “And that shitty staff too.”

“Good riddance.” She scoffed. Her eyes then drifted to the grandfather clock in their chambers. “It’s past midnight. Have I been out for an entire day?”

Hesitant glances were exchanged throughout the room.

“You were out two weeks, my love,” Zuko finally answered, whispering into her neck again.

Her eyes widened again, “Two weeks—?”, but soon relaxed. A sigh left her lips. “It was worth it. Saved you guys, saved the world, burnt that jackass and his staff, and at the end of it all, I’m still alive.”

“Thank you, y/n,” Aang now spoke. “We wouldn’t have been able to handle that without you doing what you did. It shouldn’t have gotten that bad, but you took it on anyway.”

“It really isn’t something you should thank me for. It’s what being part of a team as great as ours is all about. Just like I said, it was so worth it. Besides, I’m sure you all tired yourself out having to take care of me.” 

“That’s basically nothing compared to what you did. It was the least we could do,” replied Katara.

Sokka joined in. “I’ll be honest, we were kinda scared you wouldn’t make it… But we realised how dumb it would’ve been to suddenly not trust in your abilities after all that.” 

“Pfft… It’ll take a lot more than a man, of all things, to end me, you know. How badly was I injured, though?”

“You had a few fractures and wounds. I was able to treat them with my bending. However, most of the damage happened to your spirit. Now healing that was all you.” Katara detailed. 

“Blazing Sun,” y/n muttered, before speaking loudly again. “Thank you, Katara. Thank you all,” she paused and then turned to Zuko. “Thank you especially, you look like you haven’t rested in ages.”

At that, everyone slowly made their way out to give the two some long-overdue privacy. 

“None of that mattered if I’d lost you forever,” he murmured, still holding her. “I was dead-scared, y/n. But I know how incredible the woman I fell in love with, and keep falling for, is. And I know all the amazing and absurd things she's pulled off before, so I shouldn’t be surprised she woke up fine. I’m so damn relieved.” As if to show her the truth of his words, he placed all his yearning into a gentle, warm kiss on her lips, to which she didn’t hesitate to respond to with equal fervour.

She pulled away, her hands cupping his face. “Damn right. But no more avoiding rest, eating and taking care of yourself, alright? Regardless of what happens. I love you so much.”

“I love you too,” his hands held her cheeks. “I’m never letting you go ever again,” he whispered, far too low for her to hear, before diving to kiss her again.

Ashveil:

As he walks back Purito Station to regroup with Sunday back at the Astral Express, Ashveil can only think about you and Mr N. He keeps replaying the conversation he had with you before left with Dan Heng, Welt, and Yao Guang.

“I need you two to stay here.” Ashveil rubs his thumb back and forth on your cheek.

Gently holding his forearm you smile sadly at him, “We will stay here.”

He smiles lightly before gently kissing your forehead. His lips linger for a brief second before he pulls back, turning to leave his little rented room.

Before he shuts the door you call out to him, “Please come back to us.”

“I’ll always come back.”

“Be safe.”

“For you? I promise.”

Now since the world has changed due to Asat Pramad, he can’t help but worry. He can’t reach you at all and hasn’t heard anything from anyone about you seeing you and Mr N. It takes a lot to truly make him unsettled but this has his stomach tying in tight knots.

He zones out most of the conversation back at the station until Sunday says his name.

“Mr Ashveil? There’s a monkey gentlemen and lady asking about you.”

“They are here!?”

“Yes. They led a group of civilians here.”

“Where are they now?”

“By the massive sign, a bit to the left.”

Ashveil walks by, nodding at Sunday, “Thank you.”

He walks into the main area and looks towards the left and sees you handing some bananas to Mr N. How you got those shock him but he’s just eternally grateful to see you two safe.

Closing the distance quickly he calls out your name, you barely face him before he’s wrapping you in a tight embrace. One hand on the back of your head and his other arm wrapped strongly around your waist, anchoring you to him.

You return the embrace by wrapping your arms around his chest and resting your head on his chest.

“You’re back.”

“I told you I’d come back.”

“She wouldn’t stop pacing Mr Ashveil!” Mr N pitches.

“Mr N! You weren’t supposed to tell him!” Your face flushes with embarrassment so you bury yourself more into Ashveil’s chest to hide your reddened face.

His arm around your waist loosens so he can run it up and down your back. “I’m not letting anything take you from me. I will always come back to you,” he whispers.

“You’re not hurt right?”

“Not a scratch.”

“That makes me happy.”

“So that means your face isn’t bright red anymore?” He smirks after teasing you.

You try to push him away out of fake annoyance but he grabs your forearms and pulls you back into the hug.

“I’m so relieved you two are okay.”

“It’s because of my heroics that she is safe Mr Ashveil!”

He looks over his shoulder to his partner in crime and mouths, “Thank you.”

The knots in his stomach have disappeared. He can’t help but feel calm and collected in this moment. It’s as if there isn’t a lord ravager trying to wipe out this entire planet. The feeling of you in his arms makes everything bad go away and he can’t help but selfishly want to stay in it forever.

Blade:

“I will go find Dan Heng and the others.”

Your jaw nearly drops to the floor. How can he just leave after you just got him back? You get they have to be found but does he really have to go alone.

He turns to you as if he senses your inner turmoil, “I’ll be fine. You do not need to worry.”

“But Blade… we- I just got you back.” You try to reach out for him but end up deciding to drop your hand and look away. You already saw his face after he almost permanently left but now the thought of seeing it leave again, pains you like nothing before.

“We should get going,” Caleus tells the group.

You knew you were going back with him towards the express because civilians could use your healing abilities. Yet your heart yearns to go with Blade.

You start to walk by Blade but he puts his arm up, stopping you from walking by. He doesn’t look at you but instead looks off in the distance, “I’m not leaving.”

“I know,” you murmur.

“I will see you soon.”

“Please don’t get hurt.” You know it’s a pointless thing to tell him but it eases your mind.

He doesn’t say anything, he just drops his hand and heads off in the opposite direction of you. You watch as he slowly gets further and further from you until you can’t seem him anymore.

Once you get to the station, you jump right into helping anyone and everyone. Some people suffer smaller injuries like small cuts or little pains here or there. Then there are others that have broken bones and deeper cuts.

You focus on the bad ones first because you made a vow that you would never lose a patient so today it’s not going to be the day you break your vow. Starting with the deep cuts you clean the wounds before using your abilities to close the wounds. You then go to the ones with broken bones and position them the best you can before using your abilities to fix the bones.

You repeat this over and over again until all the major injuries are over. You then go to the area where the injuries are less severe. You repeat the same actions as you did earlier. After you finish you go and check with everyone you helped to make sure they are doing okay.

When you finish talking with the last kid you helped you push yourself off your knees. As you stand up, you can feel how exhausted you are. Your body aches, your eyes are heavy, and your mind is so empty.

You take a couple steps before tripping over your feet. Great you’re going to face plant in front of everyone.

Instead of hitting the ground you fall into someone. It’s a familiar embrace. It’s warm and comforting, it makes you lean into it more.

Then you realize what you’re doing. You pull back and apologize, “I am so sorry, I tripped and didn’t-“

“You overworked yourself again.”

That voice. You snap your head up to see Blade looking you over. You can tell he’s upset, or what he considers upset, that you pushed yourself this far. You don’t care because all you’re doing is wrapping your arms around his neck and holding him tightly.

“You’re back!”

Blade slowly wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you close again. “I told you I would.”

“I know but… I thought I wasn’t going to see you for a while.”

“I’m here now.”

You smile into his neck, “Thank you.”

“Did you doubt me?”

“No.”

“Then I don’t see the need to thank me.” He unwraps one arm around your waist before guiding you to an area with chairs, “But you need to rest.”

“But we should meet up with the others-“

“I talked to them already, they aren’t making any moves soon. So we will sit down so you can rest.”

He leads you two to open seats then pulls you down beside him. He wraps an arm around your shoulder, letting you to rest your head on his shoulder.

He looks down at you with soft eyes before whispering, “Rest.” Melting into his hold you find your eyes closing without hesitation.

Sunday:

When Sunday was resting on the express after the fight with Fulwish, you told him that you’d go get him some Planarcadia snacks and drinks so he could enjoy his trailblazing as much as he can. Looking back on it, you wish you had stayed on the express with him because what the heck happened to the planet? It’s all dark and ominous looking.

You can’t get in contact with anyone from the express so you decide just to run around and fight anything that tries to attack you as you make your way back to the express. You luckily run into Caleus, March, Ashveil, Sparxie, and Magnus.

“March!” You wave in the distance before running up to the group.

“You’re safe!” She hugs you tightly, “Am I so happy to see you.”

“Me too. I thought I would have to try and get back to express myself.”

“Look, it’s Sunday’s bird!” She points out. “Sunday! Can you hear me?”

“Hello?”

“Sunny!” Caleus excitedly calls his nickname.

“I finally was able to make a connection with you. There was something interfering with my ravens.”

“It’s probably the big smiley face we had just fought.”

“Are you all alright?”

“Yes. Took them down easily,” Caleus puffs his chest out.

“That’s good.” Sunday responds. He then utters your name, “Have any of you seen her?”

“Yeah! She’s right here!” March answers.

“I’m okay Sunday.”

He sighs heavily, “Thank the Aeon’s.” He clears his throat, “You all need to get back here.”

“We are on our way!”

You barely walk into the tunnel when you see Sunday running towards the group, “You all are still safe!”

He catches you all up on the situation before ridiculing himself. “I seem to be making my past mistakes all over again.”

Before you can tell him he isn’t, Caleus beats you to it. “It’s not the same as it was before Sunny. You helped them a lot.”

“You did all that you could Sunday and that’s all we can ask of you. Thank you for helping them all.” You add on, giving him a proud smile at your boyfriend gently.

He mirrors your expression. Before turning back to the conversation. You all make your plan on Sunday trying to keep using his tuning to connect with the conductor. While he does that you all will wait to make the next steps of the plan.

The group separates as you and Sunday stay in the tunnel. He tells you again, “I am happy to see that you are safe. I was worried once everything happened that something would happen to you.”

“I’m really happy to see you’re safe too. I didn’t know what to think of the whole situation.”

“Neither did I.” He sighs, “I should go and try to reach the conductor.”

He turns on his heel but you quickly grab his hand, stopping him in his tracks. He furrows his brows, “Is something the matter?”

Instead of telling him, you gently wrap your arms around his chest while leaning your head on his shoulder.

“I was scared,” you admit.

He doesn’t hesitate to hold you as tightly as he can, “I understand because I felt the same way.”

Resting his chin on your head as he sways you two from side to side, “But we are here now and are going to fix everything. After all we are part of the trailblaze, that is what we do.”

He’s grown so much since joining the express and you couldn’t be more proud of him. “I am so proud of you Sunday.”

He tighten his hold on you and swallows thickly, “Thank you.”

You two hold each other for a couple more minutes before you gently pull back but not far enough to break the embrace.

“You should go now.”

His expression falters for a second, “I don’t want to let go.”

You raise yourself on your toes placing a gentle kiss his lips, “I believe in you.” Placing your feet fully on the ground again, you watch him blush.

“I will do my best.” He pecks your lips quickly before walking out of the tunnel.

No response.

His heart pounds against his ribs. A suffocating weight coils in his chest, pressing against his lungs like iron. He tries again, voice sharper this time, more desperate— “Wake up, damn it!”

Still, you don’t move.

The battlefield is eerily silent now. The enemy is dead, the Stellaron still pulsing ominously, but none of it matters. Nothing matters.

Blade doesn’t realize his hands are shaking. Doesn’t realize his breath is unsteady, or that something tight and unbearable is closing around his throat.

“Don’t—” His voice is quieter now, raw. “Don’t do this.”

But you don’t hear him. ♥♥♥

A cold, paralyzing numbness creeps into Blade’s bones as he stares at you. It’s wrong. This is wrong.

You were just standing. Just breathing. Just alive.

And now—

His hands press harder against your chest, trying—desperately—to stop the blood from spilling out, from leaving your body, from stealing what little warmth is left in you. His fingers are slick with it, trembling as they push down, but the more he tries, the more it slips through his grasp. It coats his hands, drips from his fingers, soaks into his sleeves like an irreversible stain.

A mistake. A terrible, horrible mistake.

He did this.

The realization crashes over him like a tidal wave, dragging him under, drowning him in a suffocating weight that crushes his ribs, his lungs, his very soul. He can still feel the lingering phantom of his blade, how it had sliced through skin, through flesh—through you.

It wasn’t supposed to be you. It was never supposed to be you.

His body tenses, chest heaving as something primal, something devastating, coils inside him, searing hot and unbearable. A silent rage, a self-loathing so deep it threatens to consume him whole. His own hands did this. His own sword.

And now you—

“Wake up.” His voice is a whisper, hoarse and uneven. Begging. “Wake up, (Y/N).”

But you don’t.

You’re so still. Too still.

A hollow sort of panic sets in, twisting his insides into something unrecognizable. He has seen death more times than he can count. He has caused death more times than he can count. But this—this is different. This isn’t just another body. This isn’t just another casualty on the battlefield.

This is you.

The one person who managed to wedge yourself into the cracks of his guarded existence. The one person who spoke to him like he was something more than a weapon. The one person who had seen him, truly seen him.

And now you’re slipping away.

His breathing is uneven, ragged. He bows his head, forehead nearly pressing against yours as if the closeness will somehow tether you back to him. His grip on you tightens, as if holding you close will stop you from fading.

“Please…” The word feels foreign on his tongue, barely more than a breath.

Blade doesn’t beg. He doesn’t plead.

But for you—

For you, he would tear the world apart if it meant undoing this moment. If it meant undoing his mistake.

But there’s nothing left to tear apart. There’s only you.

Blade’s body is frozen, every muscle tense as he cradles your lifeless form. His breath is shallow, erratic, his mind barely able to process the horror of what he’s done—what he’s lost.

And then—

A strange hum fills the air.

Blade’s eyes snap upward, his grip on you tightening instinctively.

The Stellaron—the very thing that had driven this battle into chaos—is no longer resisting, no longer trying to reject containment. But it isn’t going into the device meant to hold it.

Instead, it’s being drawn elsewhere.

Straight into your sword.

His gaze locks onto Agnes, your trusted weapon, the one you’d wielded with such precision and ferocity, the one that had struck down countless foes—and the one you had thrown in a desperate last attempt to stop the enemy controlling him.

It stands lodged in the chest of the one who had manipulated him, still embedded deep in their body, yet the Stellaron’s energy flows toward it, as if it has chosen a different vessel.

The swirling, radiant light pulses unnaturally, its tendrils stretching and weaving into Agnes’s blade like veins of power sinking into flesh. The energy crackles, a force both mesmerizing and terrifying, sinking deeper, deeper, deeper—until there’s nothing left of the Stellaron but its lingering glow, now fused with the weapon.

A deep, unsettling silence follows.

Blade barely breathes. His gaze flickers between the sword and you, his heart hammering against his ribs. There is something unnatural about this. Stellaron energy should not be able to merge with anything outside of containment protocols. It should not be choosing anything of its own will.

Why your sword? Why not the device? And then—it clicks.

Your weapon, forged with a fragment of a Stellaron, was never just a simple blade. It had always been something more, something attuned to the Stellaron’s influence. And now, in this critical moment, it had acted as a vessel, drawing the rogue energy into itself, sealing it away without resistance.

But what did that mean for you?

Blade doesn’t care about the Stellaron. Doesn’t care about containment, about missions, about success or failure.

All he cares about is the person in his arms.

Your skin is still unnervingly cold. The blood on his hands is still far too much.

And then, He lets out a choked sob, burying his face in the crook of your bloodied neck. Yet, it still had the comforting scent of You.

Blade’s hands tremble as he stares at your bloodied form, the weight of your stillness suffocating him. His breath is shallow, barely leaving his lungs. His mind is screaming, telling him to do something—to act, to save you— but he knows, deep down, that he’s already too late.

But he refuses to accept it.

His gaze flickers to Agnes, your sword—now pulsing, glowing with an eerie light, the Stellaron completely absorbed within its steel. It hums with power, unstable yet contained, a force that no ordinary person could wield.

And yet, he grips the hilt.

The moment his fingers curl around it, a sharp, burning pain slashes through his body. It’s like the Stellaron itself is rejecting him, pushing him away, forcing him to understand that this weapon belongs to you and you alone.

His vision blurs, but he grits his teeth, refusing to let go.

He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care if it destroys him.

If there is even the smallest chance—the smallest hope— that Agnes can help bring you back, he will endure any pain, any suffering.

But then—

A crack.

His breath hitches. His entire body stiffens.

The ground beneath you shatters.

Like fragile glass breaking apart, the earth beneath your lifeless form collapses inward, spiraling into a void. The shadows stretch, clawing at you, pulling you down—

Blade’s eyes widen in horror. No. No, no, no, NO.

He lunges forward—but the moment his eyes leave your body—

You’re gone.

Swallowed by the abyss.

The echoes of crumbling stone fade into suffocating silence.

Blade stands frozen, his grip tightening around Agnes until his knuckles turn white. His entire body trembles—not from exhaustion, not from pain—but from the unbearable weight of loss.

His chest rises and falls, breathless, disoriented. He should move, he should jump in after you— but the abyss has already sealed itself, as if you had never been there to begin with.

He stares at the spot where you had just been. His heartbeat is deafening.

His fingers dig into the sword’s hilt.

The Stellaron had chosen this blade. And now, it had taken you.

Blade’s breath is ragged, his body trembling as he grips Agnes so tightly his hands threaten to bleed. His mind is blank—no, not blank. It’s a hurricane, a violent storm of emotions ripping him apart from the inside.

Your blood is still on his hands.

Your warmth is gone.

And you—you disappeared.

He can't breathe. His entire body feels wrong, like his nerves are misfiring, like his own flesh is rejecting him. His chest aches—a deep, horrible pain unlike any wound he's ever endured.

The Stellaron—the fucking Stellaron.

It took you.

His grip tightens around your sword, the blade pulsing as if it were mocking him, reminding him of his failure. His head pounds, his vision swims, and for a split second, he forgets where he is.

The battlefield is quiet now. The bodies of enemies lie scattered. The air reeks of burnt ozone and blood. But Blade hears nothing.

Nothing except the echo of your last breath.

Then—

"Blade. Do you copy?"

A voice cuts through the suffocating silence. A voice he barely registers.

"Hey, where the hell have you been?! What happened? You weren’t responding!"

Silverwolf.

Her words feel distant, like she's speaking through water, but something in them grates against his already shattered mind.

The Stellaron.

That’s what she’s asking about. That’s what she cares about.

His fingers twitch, his nails digging into the metal of the hilt. His heartbeat is erratic, his breathing uneven. For a moment, he doesn't respond, just staring at the cracked ground where you had once been, where he had lost you.

Then—

"Blade. Answer me."

A spark of rage ignites in his veins.

Why the hell does any of it matter now?

He opens his mouth, ready to snarl—ready to break something, ready to tear apart the first thing that comes near him—

But then, a sharp pulse vibrates through his skull.

Silverwolf isn't waiting for an answer anymore.

She’s teleporting him back.

"You’re in bad shape. Hold still, I’m pulling you in—"

His surroundings shift.

The battlefield disappears. The gaping hole in the earth—where you fell, where you were lost— vanishes.

For a split second, Blade tries to resist, tries to cling to this place, to whatever trace of you is left—

But he’s already gone.

The next thing he knows, he’s standing on the Stellaron Hunters’ ship.

Cold. Sterile. Familiar.

And completely, disgustingly empty.

The second Blade materializes on the Stellaron Hunters' ship, the shift in air pressure makes his head pound. His muscles are still coiled tight, his breathing erratic, his hands shaking as he grips Agnes like a lifeline. The sword—your sword—still pulses faintly in his grasp, the Stellaron sealed inside.

Silverwolf, Kafka, and Firefly stand in front of him, waiting. The atmosphere is tense.

Kafka’s eyes land on the blood smeared across his clothes, the still-fresh stains on his hands. Her usual lazy smirk is nowhere to be seen.

Firefly, normally composed, shifts uneasily.

Silverwolf crosses her arms. “You look like hell,” she says, voice sharp but not unkind. “What happened out there? We lost your signal after the Stellaron—”

Her gaze flickers to Agnes, noticing the faint glow pulsing from the blade. Her eyes narrow. “Wait… where’s the containment device?”

Blade doesn’t answer. He can’t.

His jaw is clenched so tightly his teeth might shatter.

Kafka steps forward, slow and measured, her gaze searching his face. “Blade,” she murmurs, voice softer than usual. “Where’s the kid?”

That’s when the dam almost breaks.

Blade’s voice is hoarse—so raw that it barely escapes his throat. "She’s dead."

The words shouldn’t have come out so easily. Shouldn’t have left his mouth like some cold, detached statement. But the second they do, the weight of them crashes down on him like a blade straight to the heart.

Silverwolf stiffens.

Firefly freezes.

For a moment, neither of them move. Neither of them breathe.

Then—

"No."

Firefly’s voice is barely above a whisper, trembling, eyes wide—disbelieving. "No, she’s not. She’s not dead."

Blade says nothing.

"She’s not dead!" Firefly’s voice cracks. It’s not like her. She’s usually composed—soft-spoken but firm—but right now, she looks like she’s about to break apart. "She can’t be. We—we just saw her last week—she—she promised to teach me how to—" Her breath shudders. She stops. Clutches her chest like it physically hurts to breathe.

Silverwolf doesn’t say anything either. Just stands there, lips pressed together so tightly they’re white—fingers twitching like she doesn’t know whether to grab her device, to break something, or to force reality to change.

But the truth is there. In Blade’s bloodstained clothes. In the way his hands are still shaking. In the empty space where your voice should be.

And then it hits.

Hard.

Firefly’s legs give out. She crashes to her knees, fists clenched so tightly they tremble. Her red eyes glisten, her breath unsteady. "She can’t be dead," she whispers, and it sounds so young—so small—so utterly broken.

Silverwolf grits her teeth. Shoves her hands into her hoodie pockets like it’ll hide the way they’re shaking. But the way her shoulders are stiff, how her head is tilted just enough to hide her expression behind her bangs—

She’s breaking.

They both are.

Flashbacks come, unbidden, flooding their minds like a tsunami of memories.

♥♥♥

With Silverwolf, The late-night gaming marathons where you always let her win at first, only to turn the tables at the last second, making her groan in frustration.

The teasing banter, the way you called her "kid" just to piss her off. The way you ruffled her hair, and she’d swat your hand away, grumbling—only to lean into it when she thought no one was looking.

The one time she stayed up too late hacking, you tossed a blanket over her and left a drink by her setup. You never said anything about it, but she always knew.

With Firefly, How you always fixed her mech suit with the utmost care, like it was something precious. How you helped her adjust the settings, making sure it fit just right.

The way you’d train together, spar together, laugh together. The way you called her "Firecracker" with that teasing grin, even though she pretended to hate it.

The one time she had a breakdown over a failed mission, you sat beside her, silent, letting her cry until she calmed down.

You were their sister.

You were family.

And now—

Now you’re gone.

Silverwolf clenches her fists, hard. “You’re lying,” she mutters, voice tight. “You’re—you're messing with us, right? There’s no way—”

Blade doesn’t respond.

Because there’s nothing left to say.

The silence is deafening.

And that’s when Silverwolf’s legs give out too.

The air is thick, suffocating, as Firefly trembles on her knees and Silverwolf stares blankly at the floor, her hands still clenched in her hoodie pockets. Blade says nothing.

And neither does Kafka.

For the first time, she doesn’t have some playful, teasing remark. No sly comments, no knowing smirks, no I-told-you-so’s.

Just silence.

She stands there, still, her usual relaxed posture gone—arms crossed tightly, fingers digging into the fabric of her coat.

Then, she exhales. Slow. Measured. But even that can’t hide the weight in her chest.

"So that’s how it is, huh?" Her voice is quieter than usual. Lacking its usual honeyed lilt. It’s not a question—more of a resigned statement.

Blade doesn’t answer.

Kafka lifts a hand, brushing her bangs back, and for a split second, her fingers tremble.

She remembers.

She remembers how you’d roll your eyes at her dramatic antics but still play along.

How you never backed down when she tried to get under your skin—how you’d fire back just as easily, always giving her a run for her money.

How she used to call you “darling” just to annoy you, and how you’d throw a wrench at her in response.

How—despite all the chaos, despite all the missions, despite everything—you always had their backs.

How you were never supposed to be the one to fall.

And now, you’re gone.

Kafka closes her eyes. She takes another breath, slower this time.

Then, she opens them and looks at Blade.

Really looks at him.

At the way he’s standing like a man on the verge of shattering into pieces. At the way his bloodied fingers are still curled like he’s trying to hold on to something that isn’t there anymore.

At the way his red eyes, always so dull and detached, are now nothing but an abyss of unspoken agony.

She’s seen Blade covered in blood before. Seen him come back from battle, cloaked in red like it was just another day at work.

But this—this is different.

This isn’t just another mission gone wrong.

This is personal.

And for once, Kafka doesn’t try to put it into words.

She just lets the silence speak for itself.

One Month Later

The Stellaron Hunters didn’t talk about you.

Not because they didn’t want to—because they couldn’t.

The silence stretched like an unspoken wound, raw and aching, a reminder of what was missing.

Firefly wasn’t as chatty anymore. She used to hum while working on her mech suit, rambling about improvements and upgrades. Now, she barely spoke unless necessary. The light in her eyes had dimmed. She still waited for your teasing comments. But they never came.

Silverwolf drowned herself in her games, playing until her fingers ached. She ignored calls, ignored everything. It was easier that way. She didn’t have to think about the fact that you weren’t going to pop in behind her and complain about how much she gamed.

Kafka still played her part, but it was different. Her usual smirks? Forced. Her teasing? Hollow. It wasn’t the same without you firing back. The last thing she expected was for you to disappear first.

And Blade?

Blade was gone.

Not physically—no, he was still here, still breathing. But he wasn’t here.

He barely spoke. He didn’t train. Didn’t even react when Kafka poked at him.

All he did was search.

Because deep down, no matter what he told them that day—no matter how much he tried to bury it—he refused to believe you were dead.

Not you. Not like that.

You couldn’t be.

And if there was even a fraction of a chance that you were still out there, no matter how impossible—he would find you.

You were nowhere.

Or rather, you were somewhere, but that place existed outside the grasp of time, beyond the laws of space. It was neither heaven nor hell, not the physical world, nor the afterlife.

It was just limbo.

A hollow realm where the sky remained frozen in early morning blue, neither dark nor light, just an eternal moment between night and day. The air was still—too still, as if it had never known the weight of wind.

Beneath you stretched a vast, endless field of lilies. Their pale petals gleamed in the faint, soft glow of the sky, their fragrance too light, too distant, as though it existed in another plane entirely. Each step you took pressed into the earth but left no imprint, no sign that you had ever been there.

There was no sun, no moon, no horizon.

Just the unchanging blue and the hush of flowers shifting without wind.

It felt like a dream. A dream you couldn’t wake up from.

But dreams weren’t supposed to feel this empty.

And yet… despite the stillness, despite the absence of anything alive, something whispered at the edges of your mind. Something was here.

Something was watching.

But no matter how much you turned, no matter how far you walked into the endless expanse, there was nothing.

Only blue.

♥♥♥

You remembered dying. You remembered Blade.

You remembered the **pain—**his sword piercing through your chest, the way the world had dimmed, your body growing weightless, like you were sinking into an abyss with no bottom.

But you never hit the ground.

Instead, something ripped you away from the moment of death.

Something interfered.

The Stellaron.

Agnes had been a part of you for years, and through it, you had unknowingly been exposed to the Stellaron’s energy for far too long. It had seeped into your body, into your very being, forming a bond that shouldn’t have existed.

And when you died—**or almost did—**that bond refused to break.

The Stellaron did not allow you to pass on.

But it didn’t save you, either.

It had displaced you. Shoved you into the cracks between existence and oblivion, into a realm where time and space did not hold meaning.

A place where you would remain.

Forever.

Silverwolf had never been this frustrated before.

She had cracked the Xianzhou’s firewalls, hijacked IPC’s databases, and even pulled off unthinkable data breaches across the universe—but this? This was the first time she felt utterly useless.

She sat in front of a sea of holographic screens, hands flying over her controls as she dug, searched, calculated— anything that could bring you back.

Because you weren’t dead.

She refused to believe it.

The Stellaron had done something. It had been exposed to you for years through Agnes. It had been inside your hands, inside your very core for so long that it treated you as part of itself.

That’s why your soul didn’t pass on.

That’s why you weren’t here, but not gone either.

"Come on, come on," Silverwolf muttered, pushing past encrypted logs, analyzing energy signatures, tracing connections.

The data was scattered, but there was a pattern—something binding you and the Stellaron together.

She felt a presence behind her.

Blade.

She didn’t turn to look at him. She couldn’t.

Because if she did—if she saw that blank, haunted look on his face—she’d break.

Firefly had already broken.

After Blade told them you were "dead," Firefly had locked herself in her room for hours. When she finally came out, she had collapsed in Silverwolf’s arms, shaking. Crying.

Firefly never cried.

But she had lost you. Her older sister. Her mentor. Her home.

Silverwolf had lost you too.

And she was not going to let this be the end.

"Anything?" Blade’s voice was low, but there was a sharp edge to it—one that barely kept him from snapping.

Silverwolf exhaled, still not looking away from her screens. "Maybe."

Blade didn’t respond, but she felt him step closer, watching her every move.

His fingers clenched at his sides.

He was tweaking. He had been ever since you disappeared. Like a machine running on broken code, barely holding itself together.

Silverwolf knew that if she failed—if she said "there’s no way"—Blade would tear the universe apart trying to find you himself.

And she wasn’t going to let it come to that.

Because you were still out there.

Somewhere.

Silverwolf found it.

Or at least, she thought she did.

She had been cross-referencing the Stellaron’s energy fluctuations with your sword, Agnes, tracking every signature it had absorbed since the moment you disappeared. And there—a pulse. A faint, but undeniable resonance buried in the data.

Not gone. Not lost.

Just... stuck.

The Sea of Quanta.

"She’s there," Silverwolf whispered, her breath catching in her throat.

Firefly, who had been silent the entire time, jerked up. "She’s alive?" Her voice was barely above a whisper, as if saying it too loudly might shatter the fragile hope in her chest.

Blade didn’t say a word. But his grip tightened on Agnes, his knuckles turning white.

Silverwolf barely heard them. She was already moving, working, hacking—calculating a way to stabilize the connection.

There was a chance. A method.

The Stellaron inside Agnes had absorbed part of you, enough to leave a trail—a thread tying you to this plane. If they could amplify that connection, create a rift through the Stellaron’s energy field, they could pull you out.

She turned to Blade. "We’re doing this. Now."

—

The ship’s control room had never been this tense before.

Silverwolf ran the calculations. Firefly prepared the energy stabilizers. Blade stood at the center, gripping Agnes like it was the last thing tethering him to sanity.

"Alright," Silverwolf exhaled. "Theoretically, if this works, the Stellaron’s energy should latch onto her soul and pull her back. It’s like... fishing. We just have to—"

"Do it," Blade cut in, his voice sharp.

Silverwolf didn’t argue, so she activated the sequence.

Immediately, the ship shook.

Agnes glowed violently, the Stellaron inside pulsing—reaching. The entire room was bathed in cold, blue light as the energy wave ripped through dimensions, searching, grasping.

For a second, just a second, it worked.

A distortion appeared in the air, a rift—a glimpse into the Blue Hour limbo where you were trapped.

There you were.

Standing in a field of lilies, your back turned to them, your figure bathed in the cold glow of that endless, unmoving sky.

Blade moved before he could think. He reached out—his fingers nearly brushing yours.

And then—

The entire ship shuddered violently.

The rift collapsed in on itself.

Agnes screamed—the Stellaron rejecting the process.

And then—

The connection severed.

The distortion vanished.

You were gone.

Silverwolf’s monitors flickered wildly before flatlining.

Nothing.

No signature. No trail. No sign that you were ever there at all.

Like you had never existed.

Silence.

Then—

"NO!"

Blade’s roar shook the walls.

Agnes clattered to the ground, the Stellaron’s glow fading as Blade dropped to his knees, his hands clenched into fists so tight they bled. His head hung low, trembling—shaking with unfiltered rage, grief, and pure, unbearable loss.

Firefly stood frozen, hands over her mouth, her entire frame shaking.

Silverwolf?

She just sat there, staring at the blank screen, heart pounding in her ears.

She had failed.

They had failed.

And you were gone.

♥♥♥

The silence after the failure was unbearable.

It was Silverwolf who felt it first—the crushing weight of nothingness. The absence where your presence had been just moments ago.

Her hands hovered over the keyboard, shaking violently. She ran the program again, and again, and again—replaying the sequence, searching, calculating—

But every time, the answer was the same.

Connection: Lost.

She tried to swallow, but her throat felt tight. Her chest **ached, burned—**something deep and ugly twisting inside her.

"That’s not—" she choked, voice barely above a whisper. "That’s not possible."

But it was.

The last fragment of your existence had just been wiped away.

The sword had failed.

The Stellaron had failed.

She had failed.

Firefly had crumpled to the ground, shaking violently. Her fingers dug into the cold metal floor as she clutched her arms—like she was trying to hold herself together.

"She was—" Firefly’s voice cracked. "She was right there—I saw her. I saw her, Silverwolf, we—"

Her breath hitched, shoulders rising and falling as she broke down.

Silverwolf’s hands clenched into fists.

They had spent months— Months digging through fragments, searching through countless dead-end data points, chasing a hope that was nothing but a mirage.

And for what?

For it to be ripped away the second they reached out for her?

It was like the universe itself was laughing at them.

Blade hadn't moved.

He was still on his knees, staring at the empty space where you had once stood. His hair fell over his eyes, shadows swallowing his face. His breathing was ragged, uneven.

A slow, suffocating horror crawled up his spine.

You were gone.

No.

No, not just gone— Erased.

This was worse than death.

If you had died, there would at least be something left—a body, a grave, something tangible to mourn.

But there was nothing.

No corpse. No proof that you had ever been there at all.

Just… silence.

A hollow, endless emptiness.

The weight of it hit Blade so hard his entire body locked up, his hands gripping his arms so tightly his nails dug into his skin, drawing blood.

His head tilted down, his breath coming out in short, shaking gasps.

Then, slowly, a sound tore from his throat—low, broken, guttural.

Not a scream.

Not a cry.

Something worse.

It was the sound of a man whose last tether to existence had just been cut.

His fingers twitched toward Agnes, the sword still lying on the floor, its glow completely dimmed.

His chest ached.

Physically, painfully, aching.

It wasn't supposed to end like this.

Kafka watched him, silent.

There was no teasing remark. No comforting words. No lies to soften the pain.

Even she—someone who had spent years seeing death, losing people, betraying and being betrayed—had nothing to say.

Because what was there to say?

She reached for a cigarette but didn’t light it. Just held it between her fingers, staring at the ground.

Silverwolf was still desperately rerunning the calculations, her hands trembling on the keyboard.

Firefly had curled into herself, crying so quietly it was barely even a sound.

Blade… Blade just sat there, staring at nothing, hands limp at his sides.

His mind was blank.

His chest felt like it had been hollowed out, ripped apart, emptied until there was nothing left.

The air in your limbo was always still.

The sky remained an endless early-morning blue, the horizon stretching infinitely with no sun, no moon—just a hollow, soft glow that never changed.

The lilies around you swayed even though there was no wind. Their white petals rippled gently in a nonexistent breeze, their fragrance mild, familiar, eternal.

You had grown used to this.

How long had you been here?

Time didn't exist in this place. No days, no nights—just the same tranquil, timeless existence.

You had walked through these fields countless times. Sat within them, lay within them, tried to piece together what had happened before you arrived here.

At first, you thought you were dead.

But dead people don’t think, do they?

You still felt things. You still existed—trapped in this plane, this place of stillness and blue.

You had accepted it.

Until now.

The air flickered.

A strange, foreign pulse ran through your body, cold and unfamiliar—like static crawling over your skin.

You turned.

The lilies near your feet had glitched.

For the first time since you had arrived in this eternal, unchanging limbo—something changed.

The blue sky distorted for a second, like a reflection rippling across water. The lilies in the distance flickered, shifted— like static running through a screen.

Your fingers twitched.

That had never happened before.

You took a hesitant step forward, and the moment your foot pressed into the flower-covered ground, another glitch rippled outward—

The sound of distorted voices.

Distant. Unclear.

But they were there.

Your breath caught in your throat.

That was new.

You turned your head sharply, scanning the horizon, searching for the source—

But the sky had already stabilized. The flowers had stopped glitching. The air had returned to its dead stillness.

It was like it never happened.

But it had.

You were sure of it.

Something—or someone—had reached out to you.

And for the first time since being trapped in this place, you felt something other than numb acceptance.

You felt hope.

The moment the world flickered—just for a second, just enough for something to break through—hope took root in your chest.

And you refused to let it go.

Your breathing turned shallow as you steeled yourself. If this place could glitch, if the sky could distort, if voices could reach you—then there had to be a way out.

You just had to break it.

Your hands clenched into fists as you turned toward the vast, endless blue.

Then, you swung.

A pulse of raw energy erupted from your hands, tearing through the air, cutting through the empty horizon. The lilies rippled from the force, petals scattering—

But the sky didn’t break.

Nothing shattered.

You grit your teeth, panting.

Again.

You struck again. Harder. More forceful. Desperate.

The sky flickered. The flowers glitched. A sharp, stinging crack ran through your fingertips.

But the limbo still held.

Your breath came in heavy, shaking gasps. It wasn’t enough.

You needed more.

With a raw, guttural scream, you threw everything into your next attack. Your hands tore through the air, slamming against the fabric of reality itself. Your body shook, the force tearing through your muscles, sending waves of pain ripping through your arms.

Your vision blurred, but you didn’t stop.

Your nails dug into your palms as you struck again, and again, and again.

Your knuckles split open. Blood dripped from your fingertips.

Still, nothing.

The sky still refused to break.

“No,” you whispered, voice hoarse, body trembling. “No—no, no, no—”

You slammed your fists into the ground, clawing at the lilies beneath you. The once-pristine white petals were now stained red, coated in the warm, slick proof of your desperation.

The pain in your hands was unbearable—but it wasn’t enough.

You weren’t strong enough.

You sobbed, shoulders heaving, forehead pressing against the bloodstained lilies.

This place… It was a prison.

No matter how hard you fought, no matter how much you bled—it wouldn’t let you go.

A choked sob tore from your throat as you collapsed to your knees, body shaking, hands drenched in blood.

It wasn’t fair.

You had fought. You had bled. You had torn yourself apart trying to break free.

But nothing changed.

This place wouldn’t let you go.

Your lips trembled as you let out a shuddering breath, tears slipping down your cheeks. The sky above you remained the same—empty, unchanging, cruel.

It mocked you.

Your screams ripped through the void. You slammed your fists into the lilies again, sobbing, gasping for air.

You wanted out.

You wanted out.

Your breath hitched, lungs burning, head pounding—but you didn’t stop.

With a final, earth-shattering cry, you poured everything—every ounce of strength, every drop of your existence—into one last, desperate strike.

A surge of power erupted from within you, radiating outwards.

The world cracked.

A violent tremor rocked the field. The sky distorted. The lilies withered, turning black. The air fractured, splitting apart as the limbo screamed in protest.

And then—

It shattered.

A deafening explosion of light, like glass breaking, like the very fabric of reality collapsing in on itself.

And suddenly—

You were falling.

The lilies, the endless blue sky, the prison that held you—it was gone.

Wind rushed past you. The cold kiss of the real world embraced your skin. Stars twinkled above you, endless, boundless.

You were high—so high. The night sky stretched forever, the clouds below you thick and dark, but none of it scared you.

Your body was plummeting, the air tearing through your hair, but all you could do was—

Smile.

♥♥♥

The wind roared in your ears as you plummeted, your body cutting through the sky like a star falling from heaven. The world stretched vast and endless around you—an ocean of darkness speckled with countless stars, each one shimmering like distant fireflies.

The sky above was a deep, boundless abyss, a velvety shade of indigo that swallowed everything whole. The air was crisp and cool against your burning skin, the sharp contrast making you shiver, though not from the cold.

Below, the clouds rolled like waves, a thick, silver mist curling and twisting as if trying to reach for you. The moon hung massive and radiant, a glowing pearl against the void, casting a soft, ethereal glow over everything.

Your white dress billowed wildly, the fabric whipping around you like ghostly tendrils, streaked with the crimson stains of your own battle. The blood smeared against your fingers had long since dried, but you could still feel the raw sting in your palms—the ache of what you had done to escape.

And yet, despite the pain, despite the uncertainty of what lay beneath the clouds, you smiled.

For the first time in what felt like eternity, you were no longer trapped in an endless loop of time, in a world that refused to change.

You could feel the weight of reality pressing against you, the rush of gravity pulling you down, reminding you that you were alive.

And so, you let yourself fall.

The night sky stretched endlessly around you, a cathedral of stars, and you—a soul breaking free from the chains of limbo—descended with nothing but the wind and the moon as your witnesses.

The rush of air screamed around you as you plummeted closer and closer to the ground. The neon glow of the city below grew sharper, more vivid—the blurred streaks of artificial light transforming into a sprawling cybernetic metropolis.

Skyscrapers loomed high, their glass surfaces reflecting the endless sea of neon billboards and holograms. Hovercrafts zipped through the sky, following invisible paths lined with glowing strips of cyan and magenta. The streets far below pulsed with life, movement, sound—a world so vastly different from the timeless limbo you had just escaped.

But you were falling too fast.

Your instincts kicked in. With what little power you had left, you willed the energy around you to bend—to break your descent before you crashed into the unknown city below. A shimmering blue force erupted beneath you, slowing your fall in bursts of crackling energy. Your body hovered just above the pavement, suspended in the glow of your own lingering power, before your feet finally touched solid ground.

For a moment, you just stood there, breathless.

You had made it.

Your fingers trembled as they curled into fists, your bloodied dress clinging to you in the humid night air. The scent of metal, rain, and electricity filled your lungs. The distant hum of machinery, the murmur of the crowd, the mechanical voice of an automated announcement—it was all real.

Slowly, your gaze lifted toward a massive, glowing billboard towering above the street. The neon letters shifted, flickering as a voice echoed through the air:

“Welcome to Ark City.”

The words seared into your mind.

You weren’t just anywhere. This was a place far from what you once knew.

And you had no idea what was waiting for you next.

The cool night air brushed against your skin as you walked through the bustling streets of Ark City, your bare feet meeting the cold, smooth pavement. Neon lights reflected off the wet ground, painting everything in hues of blue, pink, and violet. The city was alive—people in cybernetic augments walked past, machines roamed the sidewalks, and the distant hum of hovercrafts buzzed above. You must’ve looked insane—a girl in a bloodstained white dress, barefoot, with scratches on her hands. But no one paid you any mind.

You exhaled, pushing past the aching exhaustion creeping into your bones. You needed a change of clothes—badly.

♥♥♥

Eventually, you spotted a street-side shop with racks of clothes displayed behind a glass window. The store itself was sleek, dark, and minimalistic, glowing with a soft neon-blue light. As you stepped inside, a mechanical voice greeted you:

"Welcome. Please select your items and proceed to the counter."

The place was automated. No humans—just hovering drones scanning the shelves. Good. That meant no questions.

You quickly scanned the racks, grabbing what you needed:

Black cargo pants. Loose yet flexible, with enough mobility for you to move freely.

A simple dark hoodie. Oversized, comfortable, and something you could disappear into.

Fingerless gloves. For better grip—whether in a fight or simply getting things done.

As you walked to the counter, you reached up and unclipped the ornament from your hair—a small, intricately crafted piece of metal infused with a deep blue gemstone. It shimmered under the fluorescent lights, an object of unknown worth, yet something about it felt… valuable.

The scanning drone hovered over it before confirming:

"Transaction accepted. Your item holds high market value. Would you like to receive credits in return?"

You blinked. High market value?

"...Yeah. Give me whatever it's worth."

A small beep followed, and suddenly, a sleek black card slid out of the machine. Your balance was displayed on a tiny holographic screen—enough to last you for a long, long time.

You smirked. Well, that worked out.

♥♥♥

After changing into your new clothes, you felt lighter. The bloodstained dress was shoved into a waste chute, disappearing the moment you tossed it in. You looked normal now—or at least, normal enough for Ark City.

But you weren’t done yet.

Walking through the streets, your eyes landed on a weapons shop. It was nothing fancy—just a run-down store in a darker part of the city, its neon sign flickering. But it had what you wanted.

You stepped inside, scanning the walls lined with all kinds of weapons. Guns, knives, stun batons—but your gaze landed on something simple.

A metal baseball bat.

The weight felt good in your hands as you gave it a test swing. Sturdy. Solid. Reliable.

It’d do just fine.

After paying for the bat, you exited the shop and stood in the middle of the city, gripping the cold steel in your hands. You had money. You had weapons. You had freedom.

Now, the real question was—

What the hell were you going to do next?

The cool metal of the bat rested against your shoulder as you strolled through the neon-drenched streets, pockets stuffed with cash, no plan, no destination—just the desire to do whatever the hell you wanted. Ark City was a playground of chaos and lights, and for the first time in a long while, you weren’t bound by anything.

You ducked into a small convenience store, its shelves stacked with random trinkets, accessories, and snacks. The soft hum of the automated cashier filled the air as you wandered through the aisles.

That’s when your eyes landed on it—a tiny keychain hanging off a display rack, shaped like a blue-purple cat.

You paused, reaching out to take it.

It reminded you of Silverwolf.

A bitter smile tugged at your lips as your fingers ran over the smooth surface of the keychain. Her dumb little game-loving ass would’ve totally had something like this hanging off her bag. You shook your head, but instead of putting it back, you brought it to the counter.

♥♥♥

After stuffing the keychain in your pocket, your eyes landed on a glass display case filled with jewelry. Most of it was over-the-top, but one piece caught your attention—a silver ring with a thin red line running through it.

Your throat tightened. It reminded you of him.

Blade.

You clenched your jaw. You shouldn’t be doing this. Shouldn’t be picking things that reminded you of them—of a life that wasn’t yours anymore. But your fingers still curled around the ring, slipping it into your pocket along with the keychain.

♥♥♥

You left the store and walked through the streets, letting the night guide your steps. The scent of something sweet drifted through the air, and you followed it until you found yourself standing in front of a small bakery stall.

Your gaze flickered over the menu—and your chest tightened.

Oak cake rolls.

Your fingers twitched. Firefly loved these.

She’d always eat them with a stupid little smile, her hands barely keeping up with the crumbs that fell from her lips. You exhaled sharply and ordered one. When you took the first bite, the soft, sweet flavor melted onto your tongue, and for a second—just a second—you could almost hear her laughter.

You swallowed down the lump in your throat.

♥♥♥

Your last stop was another store filled with more jewelry and accessories, but this time, your eyes searched for something specific.

And there it was—a small necklace with a silver spider charm.

Kafka.

You clicked your tongue, shaking your head. It was ridiculous. What were you even doing? But your fingers still curled around the chain, and before you could think too hard about it, you bought it.

Now, you stood outside the store, gripping the bat in one hand while your other hand toyed with the small collection of items stuffed in your pocket.

You sighed, looking up at the towering skyline of Ark City.

You had money. You had a weapon. You had freedom.

But even now, with the entire city before you—

Why did it still feel like something was missing?

The electronic shop was sleek, filled with holographic advertisements and walls lined with the latest gadgets. The low hum of tech blended with the muffled beats of some upbeat song playing over the speakers.

You strolled past the displays, fingers lightly brushing over different models of headphones before stopping at a pair that caught your eye—sturdy, comfortable, and built to drown out the world.

Perfect. Holy shit you missed your electronics so much.

Grabbing them, you made your way toward the phone section. It didn’t take long to find a model that suited you—nothing too fancy, just something that worked. The cashier barely looked at you as they scanned the items.

♥♥♥

You stepped outside, the cold night air brushing against your skin as you powered up your new phone. The moment the screen flickered to life, you instinctively logged into your old account.

It had been so long. Too long.

Your fingers hovered over the screen as notifications from an eternity ago flooded in—messages you never got to read, calls you never answered. The weight in your chest grew heavier, but you forced yourself to scroll past them.

Instead, you focused on setting up your phone, connecting your new headphones and adjusting the settings.

And then—

A shiver ran down your spine.

You froze.

That energy.

It was distant, but unmistakable—the pulsing, raw presence of a Stellaron.

Your breath hitched, your grip tightening on the bat as your gaze slowly lifted toward the horizon.

Something was here.

♥♥♥

Your body moved with purpose, muscles remembering movements that had once been second nature.

As soon as that pulsing energy of the Stellaron hit your senses, you didn’t hesitate. The second you took off, the city became a blur—lights streaking past like shooting stars as you weaved through the dense streets of Ark City. People barely registered in your vision as you slipped through the gaps in the crowd, dodging and pivoting with ease.

The rhythmic thud of your boots against the pavement was drowned out by the roar of the metropolis. Bright holographic billboards flashed advertisements, neon signs buzzed overhead, and the smell of metal and coolant filled the air. The city was alive—thrumming with technology, towering skyscrapers stretching into the sky, and a web of interconnected rooftops that became your playground.

A set of metal stairs leading up a building caught your eye. Without breaking stride, you jumped onto the railing instead of the steps, using your momentum to launch yourself higher. Your hands gripped the ledge above, body swinging up and over with practiced agility.

The moment your feet touched concrete, you kept moving.

Faster.

Your heart pounded with adrenaline as you sprinted across the rooftops, leaping across gaps that would have terrified any normal person. The wind howled past your ears, the city stretching endlessly below you. You moved like you belonged there—a shadow weaving through the skyline.

But then—a whirring sound.

Your instincts screamed at you to dodge.

You twisted mid-air—just as a massive mechanical arm crashed down where you had been moments before. The rooftop beneath cracked on impact, debris flying everywhere.

Your eyes flicked up.

Towering before you stood a massive combat drone, its sleek metal plating reflecting the neon glow of the city. Its glowing red optics locked onto you, scanning your form with an eerie hum. You had no time to process before you heard another sound—a mechanical whine followed by the sharp crackle of energy charging.

More were coming.

Your grip tightened around your baseball bat. You exhaled, muscles coiling, a smirk playing at your lips.

"Guess I’ll be having some fun tonight."

The first bot lunged—a metal arm swinging down with lethal force. You ducked, spinning low to the ground as it smashed into the rooftop, sending cracks through the surface. Before it could recover, you surged forward, swinging your bat directly into its joint. The impact sent a shudder through your arms, but you felt the satisfying crunch of metal buckling under the force.

Without missing a beat, you twisted your body, flipping onto the back of the bot as another drone fired a blast toward you. The energy projectile barely missed, scorching the air where you had been.

Using the momentum, you leaped off, twisting in mid-air to bring your bat down on the second drone’s head. The reinforced alloy dented under the force, sparks flying as it crashed to the ground.

You didn’t stop.

You ran, flipping off railings, vaulting over pipes, and dodging more attacks with fluid precision. The city became an obstacle course, and you were unstoppable.

Another drone rushed at you. You ducked under its swipe, kicking off the side of a neon billboard to gain height, flipping over its head. As you landed behind it, you swung your bat into its exposed power core— a flash of electricity crackling as the machine staggered and collapsed.

But they kept coming.

Through the chaos, your focus never wavered. Your body moved on pure instinct—flowing, adapting, striking. Every hit was precise, every movement calculated. You weren’t just running toward the Stellaron anymore.

You were carving your path straight through.

And with each step forward, the pulse of the Stellaron’s energy grew stronger.

The last drone stood before you, its metal frame gleaming under the artificial lights of Ark City. This one was larger than the rest, its sleek black plating lined with pulsing crimson circuits—a clear indication that it was more than just a regular combat unit. Its optics whirred and locked onto you, scanning your battered figure with eerie precision.

It moved first.

The bot lunged with terrifying speed, its massive arm swinging down in a brutal arc meant to crush you instantly. But you were already moving—twisting your body, just barely slipping past the strike. The force of impact shattered the rooftop beneath where you stood moments before, sending shards of debris flying into the air.

Your grip on your bat tightened. Your body ached, your breath came in sharp pants, but adrenaline drowned out the exhaustion. You had come too far to stop now.

The drone pivoted, launching a barrage of energy blasts in your direction. You ducked, flipped, and weaved between the attacks with inhuman fluidity—your body moving purely on instinct. The scorching heat of the projectiles brushed past you, but you never faltered.

Then—an opening.

You rushed in, closing the gap faster than the machine could react. With all the strength you had left, you swung your bat straight into its chest—right into its exposed power core.

CRACK!

The impact sent a violent jolt through your arms, but you felt the satisfying shudder of metal breaking. Sparks erupted as the bot staggered backward, its circuits flickering erratically.

Not enough.

You spun on your heel, gripping the bat with both hands, and slammed it down again—harder.

CRASH!

The core shattered. Electricity surged wildly through the bot’s frame before its entire body went rigid. A second later—it collapsed, lifeless and defeated.

Silence.

You stood there, chest rising and falling heavily, as the wind carried the smell of burnt metal.

You won.

Your eyes flickered toward your bat—its surface dented, chipped, and streaked with black oil from the countless enemies you had taken down. Your hands, covered in scrapes and bruises, trembled slightly from the sheer exertion.

And then, you finally looked up.

The Stellaron was close—its pulsating golden energy illuminating the area in an ethereal glow. You could feel its presence buzzing deep within your bones, calling to you in a way you couldn’t fully understand.

You took a step forward.

But then—your breath caught in your throat.

Your gaze locked onto the figures standing near the Stellaron. Familiar figures.

Your blood ran cold.

Kafka. Silver Wolf. Firefly.

Your heart slammed against your ribs as the realization hit. The Stellaron Hunters.

They were here. ♥♥♥

Your hoodie, once pristine, was now scuffed and dirtied with dust, smoke, and streaks of oil from the bots you had destroyed. The fabric held up surprisingly well, proving its durability despite the hell you had just put it through.

Your cargo pants were slightly torn in places, nothing too drastic, but enough to show that they had endured the sheer intensity of the fight. Your fingerless gloves were stained—blood from your knuckles mixing with the black smears of machine oil.

Strands of your hair clung to your face, slightly damp from sweat, but your eyes still burned with determination. Despite everything—the exhaustion, the injuries, the endless running and fighting—you looked alive.

And as you stood there, gripping your battered baseball bat, staring at the Stellaron Hunters—you wondered…

Did they even recognize you?

The Stellaron pulsed, its eerie blue light flickering across the metallic rooftops of Ark City, illuminating the smoke-filled air in an almost hypnotic rhythm. The high-rise buildings stretched into the distance, their neon signs flickering like stars against the abyss of the night sky. Somewhere far below, the hum of the city continued—cars speeding down illuminated roads, crowds gathering in districts overflowing with artificial lights and holographic advertisements. But up here, it was silent.

Too silent.

Kafka, Silver Wolf, and Firefly stood near the Stellaron, their figures bathed in its luminescent glow. They hadn’t noticed you yet—not truly.

Silver Wolf was closest to the Stellaron, tapping away at her holo-screen with laser focus, a faint blue shimmer flickering across her glasses as she read through whatever data she had pulled up. Her short, silver-purple hair swayed slightly as she tilted her head, seemingly puzzled by the readings.

“This isn’t normal,” she murmured, mostly to herself. “The energy signature is fluctuating. It’s like something already tried to influence it…”

Firefly stood slightly behind her, arms crossed, her sleek, high-tech mech suit reflecting the glow of the Stellaron. Her blue-peach pink eyes which were like the sunset, narrowed, suspicion flickering across her face. She was tense—on edge.

And Kafka?

She was the furthest back, yet somehow the most aware. Her magenta eyes scanned the rooftop like she had already sensed something was off. One gloved hand rested on her hip, while the other twirled a strand of her deep burgundy hair lazily between her fingers.

A smirk tugged at her lips, but her usual playful ease was undercut by something sharper—a quiet, calculated wariness.

Then—she stopped twirling her hair.

The shift was subtle, but immediate.

“...We’re not alone,” she mused, her voice smooth yet laced with something unreadable.

Silver Wolf snapped her head up. Firefly instinctively took a step forward, her stance defensive.

The air grew colder.

A breeze rustled through the rooftop, carrying the lingering scent of burnt metal, smoke, and electricity. It was only then that they noticed—the wreckage.

The scattered remains of the robotic sentries lay across the rooftop in twisted, smoking heaps. Metal limbs severed, cores shattered, wires sparking. Something—someone—had torn through them.

Someone fast. Someone strong.

Someone who was standing right behind them.

Silver Wolf’s fingers twitched over her holo-screen. Firefly’s eyes sharpened, her fingers subtly curling as if ready to summon her weapon at any moment. Kafka simply turned her head ever so slightly, that unreadable smirk still playing on her lips.

And then, you took a step forward.

Your boots scraped against the rooftop, slow and deliberate. The neon lights of the city cast a long shadow in front of you, stretching toward them like the hand of a ghost. Your hood was pulled low, obscuring your eyes. But even without seeing them, you knew their gazes were locked onto you now.

“Who the hell…?” Silver Wolf muttered under her breath.

You didn’t answer. You just stood there, bat resting over your shoulder, body tense yet completely still. The oversized hoodie you wore fluttered slightly in the wind, barely hiding the subtle rise and fall of your chest as you caught your breath.

The tension was thick.

For a moment, nobody moved.

Then—Kafka chuckled.

“Now, this is interesting,” she mused, turning her body fully to face you. Her violet eyes gleamed with something dangerous—curiosity.

Firefly, however, wasn’t as amused. Her golden eyes burned with suspicion.

“You fought those drones, didn’t you?” she asked, voice sharp. Not a question—an accusation.

You tilted your head slightly, but still, you didn’t speak.

Silver Wolf’s gaze flickered down—noticing the dents and scratches on your metal bat, the streaks of black oil staining your gloves. Her brows furrowed.

“…Who are you?” she asked, voice quieter this time.

You exhaled softly. Finally, you reached up with one hand—gripping the edge of your hood.

And then, you pulled it back.

Your hair, messy from the fight, spilled out from beneath the hood. Your eyes, sharp and piercing, were finally revealed.

The moment they saw you, the world seemed to stop.

Silver Wolf froze. Firefly’s breath hitched.

Kafka?

For the first time in a long, long time—she looked genuinely surprised.

Silence.

And then—

“…No way,” Silver Wolf whispered, voice trembling. Her fingers curled into fists.

Firefly took a step forward, her sunset eyes wide with something dangerously close to disbelief.

“…It can’t be,” Firefly said, barely above a whisper.

Your gaze met theirs. A storm of emotions swirled behind their eyes—shock, disbelief, fear, hope—yet none of them dared to move.

Kafka was the first to recover.

Her lips curled into a slow, knowing smile. A mix of amusement and something deeper—something that looked almost like relief.

“…Now, this,” she said, voice like silk, “is a reunion I never expected.”

The Stellaron pulsed behind them, its eerie glow casting long shadows against the rooftop of Ark City. The hum of neon lights flickered through the thick, night-chilled air, the city below alive with the muted echoes of cars, distant chatter, and the occasional mechanical whir of passing drones.

But up here—on this isolated, broken battlefield—the world was silent.

Kafka stood with a smirk that was just a little too stiff, her violet eyes narrowing with intrigue, but the two others?

They were frozen.

Firefly, always composed, stared at you like she was seeing a ghost. Her blue-peach eyes widened, disbelief crashing over her face like a tidal wave. Her hands, which were usually clenched into fists out of habit, trembled at her sides.

Silver Wolf—Silver Wolf actually took a step back.

Her holo-screen flickered out of existence, forgotten. Her fingers hovered, twitching like she was trying to reboot her own brain.

Neither of them could move. Neither of them could breathe.

Until they did.

Firefly was the first. The moment her mind caught up, she bolted forward.

The next thing you knew—arms wrapped around you.

She crashed into you like a meteor, the force nearly knocking you off balance. You barely had time to register the warmth of her before—

“You idiot,” Firefly choked out, her voice unsteady. Her fingers clutched your hoodie like she was scared you’d vanish again.

Then—Silver Wolf.

She latched onto your side, gripping you like a lifeline. Her head pressed against your shoulder, and for the first time in forever, her cocky, easygoing demeanor completely shattered.

“…You were dead,” she muttered, voice tight. “You were—”

She couldn’t even finish the sentence.

The weight of their arms, the sheer force of their emotions, it hit you like a tidal wave. They were shaking. They were actually shaking.

The two people who never let their emotions slip—who never let their guard down—were holding onto you like they never wanted to let go.

And then—

A sharp inhale.

A presence—one that had been completely, eerily still since the moment you arrived.

Blade.

He stood at the very back, partially obscured by the Stellaron’s glow, his sword still gripped in his hand.

But he hadn’t moved.

He hadn’t spoken.

He hadn’t even breathed.

The shock on his face was unlike anything you’d ever seen before.

His usual impassive, unshaken expression? Gone.

Instead, his crimson eyes—so often cold, distant—were wide. His lips were parted just slightly, like he wanted to say something, like he wanted to speak your name—

But he couldn’t.

Because if he did, if he let himself believe what he was seeing—what he was feeling—he might break.

His grip on his sword tightened. The tension in his shoulders was unbearable, like a coiled spring seconds away from snapping. His breath was uneven, shallow. His entire world—his entire, painstakingly built existence—was shattering right in front of him.

Because you were supposed to be dead.

He had mourned you. He had spent days, weeks, months—lost in grief, in anger, in suffocating guilt.

And yet—

You were here.

Standing before him.

Breathing.

Alive.

Your hoodie—the one you had just bought—was dirtied, torn at the sleeve, but it still held. The cargo pants, loose and flexible, were scuffed from battle. Fingerless gloves covered your hands, streaked with oil and a bit of blood.

But it was you.

Blade felt his heartbeat hammering in his ears. Too fast. Too violent. Too real.

His jaw clenched.

And then—he took a step forward.

A slow, deliberate step.

The sound of his boots against the rooftop was deafening in the silence.

Silver Wolf and Firefly barely registered it, too caught up in their relief to even acknowledge Blade’s presence.

But you?

You looked up.

And in that moment, your eyes met.

Time stopped.

For a split second—just a fraction of a heartbeat—Blade saw everything in those eyes.

The exhaustion. The pain. The sheer, raw desperation that had clawed its way through your soul just to get back.

And something inside him snapped.

His sword clattered to the ground.

A harsh, shuddering exhale left his lips. His fists clenched at his sides—knuckles white from the sheer force of restraint.

His mind was screaming at him to move. To close the distance. To touch you. To make sure you were real.

But his body refused to obey.

Because the moment he let himself believe this wasn’t a dream—that you were actually here, alive, breathing—

He would break.

And this time, he might not recover.

The moment lingered between you and Blade, heavy and suffocating, the air thick with emotions neither of you had the words for. The Stellaron behind the others pulsed with an unsettling glow, its energy humming through the air like a silent, omnipotent force, but none of that mattered. Not when his crimson eyes were still locked onto yours, wide with something fragile and volatile all at once.

Then, Silver Wolf and Firefly, still breathless, their chests rising and falling rapidly from the sheer emotional overload, seemed to snap back to reality.

“…We need to check the Stellaron.” Silver Wolf’s voice was quieter than usual, her sharp confidence buried under layers of lingering shock.

Firefly hesitated for only a moment before nodding, though she glanced back at you as if she wasn’t sure if she could leave you alone. But whatever was going on with the Stellaron, it was urgent—something big enough that they needed to act fast.

“You stay here.” Firefly’s voice was gentler than usual, almost hesitant, almost like she didn’t want to let go. “We’ll be back. Just—stay here.”

Silver Wolf, still visibly shaken, exhaled sharply before pulling up a holographic screen, fingers typing at rapid speed. She didn’t even look at you when she spoke—maybe because if she did, she wouldn’t be able to leave either.

“Kafka,” she called, her voice carrying that same tension that hadn’t yet faded. “Come with us.”

Kafka, who had been watching the entire scene unfold with an unreadable expression, let out a soft hum. She placed a gloved hand on her hip, head tilting slightly, amusement flickering in her violet eyes—but underneath it, there was something else. Something deeper, something she didn’t say out loud.

“Sure thing.”

But before she turned to leave, she glanced at Blade.

And in that single glance, everything was said.

She knew.

She always knew.

That out of everyone, Blade was the one who had suffered the most in your absence.

That out of everyone, he was the one who had lost the most when you vanished.

And now that you were back?

She wouldn’t interfere.

“Stay with them, Blade,” Kafka said smoothly, her voice laced with something almost affectionate, but when he didn’t respond—when he didn’t even blink—she merely turned away, following Silver Wolf and Firefly towards the Stellaron.

And just like that—

It was just the two of you.

The air around you felt different.

Like the world had tilted on its axis, like the cityscape had faded into nothing, like the only thing grounding you to reality was the sound of Blade’s uneven breaths.

You didn’t know how long you stood there. Staring at him. Feeling his gaze burn into you with an intensity so raw, so overwhelming, it nearly made your knees buckle.

And then—he moved.

In a single, swift motion, he closed the distance.

Before you could even react, his arms wrapped around you.

And Blade—Blade held you like he was afraid you would disappear again.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t controlled.

It was desperate.

His arms, strong and scarred, caged you in completely. His muscles tensed as he crushed you against him, his entire body trembling ever so slightly.

His breath was uneven, shaky as he buried his face into the crook of your neck, his hair brushing against your skin. The warmth of him, the sheer presence of him, was suffocating in the best way possible.

And then—you felt it.

A slight, fleeting touch. The faintest press of his lips against your skin.

It was barely noticeable, so soft you almost thought you imagined it, but it was there.

And it was enough to make your entire body lock up.

Blade, the man who had spent so long trapped in his own grief, his own pain, his own relentless torment—was now here. Holding you. Clinging to you. Desperately.

His fingers curled into the fabric of your hoodie, gripping it so tightly it might tear. He didn’t care. He didn’t care about anything except the fact that you were here, alive, breathing.

He needed to feel it.

He needed to feel you.

To confirm that this wasn’t some cruel illusion.

That you wouldn’t vanish if he let go.

That he wasn’t dreaming.

His entire body was shaking. His heart pounded against his ribs, an erratic rhythm that he couldn’t control. He had no control. Not over his breathing, not over his thoughts, not over the unbearable ache in his chest that had been suffocating him for months.

He tightened his hold, pressing you closer, drowning in the feeling of you.

Because if this was a dream—if this was just another hallucination brought on by grief—then he never wanted to wake up.

Blade held you so tightly it almost hurt. Almost. But you didn’t mind—not when you could feel the way his body trembled, not when you could hear the erratic rhythm of his breaths against your skin, uneven and shaky.

His arms were unrelenting, strong, scarred, warm. The weight of his presence, the sheer intensity of his grip, made it clear—he wasn’t letting go. Not now, not ever.

And then—you felt it again.

His lips.

A ghost of a touch against the crook of your neck, rough yet reverent, trembling yet firm.

A whisper. A groan. Your name, spoken in a voice so raw, so deep, so broken.

He was unraveling.

Blade—stoic, untouchable, unreadable Blade—was falling apart in your arms.

The air was thick with emotions, almost suffocating in its intensity. The cityscape around you blurred into irrelevance—the neon lights, the distant hum of traffic, the soft glow of the Stellaron behind you. None of it mattered.

The only thing that mattered was him.

The man who had mourned you.

The man who had suffered in your absence.

The man who had spent months drowning in agony, unable to move forward, unable to let go—because how could he, when you were everything?

For the first time since you returned, Blade pulled away just slightly.

Just enough for you to see his face.

And—oh.

His eyes.

His crimson eyes looked so vulnerable.

So desperate.

So utterly, devastatingly fragile.

Blade wasn’t just looking at you—he was drinking in the sight of you, memorizing every detail as if afraid you would disappear if he blinked.

His hands slowly, carefully, moved up to your shoulders, fingers grazing your hoodie, lingering there like he was trying to convince himself that this was real. That you were real.

His breathing was uneven. His lips parted slightly, as if he wanted to say something—but the words wouldn’t come.

Because what could he possibly say?

What words could ever be enough to describe the way his world had shattered when he lost you?

The way he had ached for you, suffered for you, longed for you?

The way he had convinced himself that he would never get to see you again?

His fingers twitched against your hoodie, his entire body trembling with restrained emotion. His jaw clenched, his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, and for a brief, fleeting moment—

You saw it.

The slightest glimmer of moisture in his eyes.

Tears.

Blade, the man who never showed weakness, was on the verge of tears.

And then, before you could say anything, before you could even breathe—he pulled you back in.

Even tighter than before.

Even more desperate.

He buried his face against your shoulder, his arms caging you in, his body pressing into yours, as if trying to merge into you completely.

And in a voice so low, so deep, so utterly wrecked—

He whispered your name again.

This time, his voice cracked.

The moment was thick—heavy with longing, with emotions too raw to be spoken aloud. Blade’s body was still so close, the warmth of his embrace lingering against your skin, his face barely inches away from yours. His eyes—still yearning, still desperate, still so full of everything he refused to say.

His fingers twitched, reluctant to move, reluctant to put space between you. He was still drinking you in, memorizing you, as if letting go meant losing you all over again.

And then—the moment shattered.

“[NAME]!!”

A blur of motion—and then a weight slammed into you at full force.

“GAH—!”

Your breath was nearly knocked out of your lungs as a small but powerful force wrapped around you like a vice.

Silverwolf.

She latched onto you like a menace, clinging so tightly it was like she was trying to fuse into your very being.

Her arms around your waist, her head buried against your chest, shaking.

You barely had a second to register the warmth of her body against yours before—

Another impact.

A second weight barreled into your side, almost making you stumble.

Firefly.

She wasn’t nearly as aggressive as Silverwolf, but she was just as desperate. Her arms circled around you, her face pressing into your shoulder, trembling against your hoodie.

And then—you heard it.

The soft, muffled hiccup.

And then another.

And then—the quiet, shaky sobs.

Your eyes widened. They were crying.

Silverwolf—who always acted like she didn’t care, like she was too cool for emotions, was shaking in your arms.

Firefly—sweet, gentle Firefly—was holding you so tightly like she was terrified you’d slip away.

Your hoodie was getting damp from where their faces were pressed against you, their shoulders shaking as they sobbed into you, clinging to you like you were the last thing anchoring them to reality.

You felt something twist painfully inside your chest.

These two—these girls who had become your family—had suffered so much in your absence.

Their cries were quiet, muffled, yet so devastatingly broken.

Silverwolf’s grip on you tightened even more, her fingers digging into the fabric of your hoodie as she whispered through gritted teeth—

“You absolute… fucking… dumbass…”

Her voice cracked.

You exhaled softly, your own eyes stinging.

“…Yeah. I missed you too.”

Firefly sniffled, squeezing you even tighter. “…Don’t ever do that again. Please.”

You slowly, carefully, wrapped your arms around them.

And for a moment—nothing else mattered.

Not the city, not the Stellaron, not the battle you had just fought.

Only this.

Only them.

Only the warmth of family that you had lost—and found again.

But as you held them close, you felt something else.

A gaze. A presence—still near, still lingering.

You looked up—and Blade was still standing there.

Watching you.

His arms were stiff at his sides, his expression carefully blank—but his eyes.

God, his eyes.

So many emotions swirled in those crimson depths.

Love. Longing. Relief. And just a bit of heartbreak.

Because he wanted to be the one still holding you.

But he didn’t move.

Didn’t say a word.

Just watched—as if knowing you were safe was the only thing keeping him standing.

The air still felt thick, heavy with everything unsaid. Even as Silverwolf and Firefly clung to you like you’d disappear if they let go, you could still feel Blade’s stare burning into you.

But before you could say anything, Silverwolf abruptly pulled away, sniffing and wiping her face aggressively, as if embarrassed by her outburst.

“Ugh, enough of this emotional shit.” She cleared her throat and straightened up, brushing off her hoodie like she hadn’t just been sobbing into you. “You need food. We’re getting pizza.”

Firefly nodded furiously. “Yes. And you’re eating properly this time.”

You blinked. “I—”

“No arguments.” Silverwolf snapped her fingers, already turning on her heel. “Let’s go.”

Firefly was already pulling on your arm, her grip surprisingly strong. “Come on! You need something warm in your stomach!”

You sighed in defeat, but you weren’t really complaining. The idea of sitting down with them, eating something normal—it felt surreal.

Blade, however, still hadn’t moved.

You turned your head slightly, meeting his gaze.

“…You coming?”

For a moment, he just stared.

Then—he scoffed, looking away. “Hmph.”

But he still followed. ♥♥♥

The pizzeria was cozy, dimly lit, and smelled like heaven.

The moment you stepped inside, Silverwolf was already shoving a menu at your face.

“Pick something with a lot of protein and carbs. You look like a half-dead cryptid.”

Firefly huffed. “Don’t be mean. She’s been through a lot.”

“…And she looks like a half-dead cryptid.”

You just rolled your eyes and took the menu, but as you glanced up—you froze.

Across the table, Blade had just sat down.

In a disguise.

A terrible disguise.

A long, black coat, a dark turtleneck, and—oh god—

A hat. A baseball cap.

And sunglasses.

At night. Inside a pizzeria.

You stared.

You blinked.

And then—you laughed.

Loud.

Unrestrained.

A genuine, full-bodied, stomach-aching laugh.

Blade stiffened immediately, scowling. “What?”

You barely had time to catch your breath. “Are—are you serious? The hat? The sunglasses? Inside?”

Silverwolf snorted. “Yeah, he looks like he’s either hiding from the paparazzi or about to commit arson.”

Firefly covered her mouth, shoulders shaking. “I—I thought we agreed he didn’t need a disguise.”

You wiped a tear from your eye, still chuckling. “Blade. You look ridiculous.”

He glared, adjusting the sunglasses. “Tch. It’s for precaution.”

You only laughed harder.

The ride back to the Stellaron Hunters’ ship was quieter than expected. Firefly had been talking about the pizza for the first ten minutes, Silverwolf had been boasting about some new hacking achievement, but eventually, both of them began to doze off, exhaustion finally catching up.

By the time you boarded the ship, Silverwolf and Firefly were barely standing. Yet, despite swaying on their feet, both stubbornly refused to go to sleep.

“We’re fine,” Silverwolf grumbled, rubbing her eyes as she leaned against a control panel.

“Yeah,” Firefly mumbled, “Not even tired.”

Kafka sighed, rubbing her temples before swiftly pinching their pressure points.

In a blink, both of them collapsed into unconsciousness.

You gawked. “Did you just—”

“They need sleep,” Kafka said simply, catching Firefly before she hit the ground. “You do too.”

Before you could argue, Kafka pulled you into a tight embrace.

Her warmth was comforting, the gentle way she held you—as if you’d slip away if she let go.

“Welcome back, dear.” Her voice was low, fond, but there was an edge of something deeper—relief, love. Like she had lost you once and refused to let it happen again.

Your arms wrapped around her instinctively, breathing in her familiar scent. “…It’s good to be back.”

Kafka smiled, then patted your head.

“Get some rest.”

With that, she turned away, carrying Firefly while Blade effortlessly picked up Silverwolf, disappearing into the ship’s quarters.

But sleep never came.

You stood on the balcony of the ship, overlooking the vastness of space. The stars stretched endlessly, glimmering against the dark abyss. You should’ve felt at peace.

But instead—your chest was heavy.

Too much had happened. Too much had changed.

And Blade—

“You should be resting.”

His voice cut through the quiet, deep and familiar.

You didn’t turn around. “So should you.”

He walked closer, his presence alone sending warmth through your cold fingers. Then, he stood beside you, gazing at the stars.

For a moment, there was silence. Then—

“I thought you were gone.”

You felt your breath hitch. The rawness in his voice—it wasn’t something he ever showed.

When you turned, you finally saw it—

The unguarded pain in his crimson eyes.

“…Blade.”

His jaw clenched. “You don’t understand.” He exhaled sharply, as if trying to control himself.

And then—his hands suddenly gripped your shoulders, pulling you closer.

“I thought I lost you.” His voice was hoarse, his fingers tightening. “I was ready to destroy anything—anyone—to bring you back.”

Your eyes widened. “…Blade.”

His forehead pressed against yours, and you could feel his uneven breathing, the sheer desperation in his touch.

“Don’t do that again.”

Your heart pounded. “…What?”

His hands trembled against your skin. “Don’t leave me again.”

Your breath caught in your throat. This was Blade—reserved, quiet, always hiding his emotions. But now—

He was breaking in front of you.

Your hands slowly came up, cupping his face.

“…I won’t.” Your voice was quiet, firm. “I won’t leave.”

Blade exhaled shakily. His eyes flickered to your lips.

And then—

He kissed you. It wasn’t gentle. It was raw, desperate—like he needed to feel that you were real, that you weren’t just another dream slipping through his fingers.

Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss.

He responded immediately, his grip tightening, his body pressing into yours. His lips moved hungrily, devouring you like you were the only thing keeping him alive.

You gasped against him, and he swallowed the sound, tilting your head back, deepening the kiss even more.

It was consuming.

Your fingers traced the scars on his arms, and he groaned against your lips, shuddering at the sensation.

He pulled back for a brief moment, eyes glazed with longing. His lips were slightly swollen along with his bottom lip bleeding a little, his breath ragged.

“…I love you, God I'm infatuated with you.” He groans out, burying his face in the crook of your neck again, this time letting himself get lost in you, your skin, your warmth, your scent. His lips latch on your neck, leaving feather-like kisses over your neck. And then his hands find yours, intertwining them as if to make sure you’re truly here. His fingers, rough and scarred from years of battle, tremble slightly as they weave between yours. He strokes your knuckles with his thumb, tracing the lines of your hand like he’s memorizing every detail. His grip is firm, but not suffocating—he just needs to feel you, to remind himself that you’re not slipping away again. Then, suddenly, his hands gripped your thighs. In one swift movement, he lifted you off the ground, his strength effortless, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. His grip on you was possessive, firm, his chest rising and falling as he walked—no, carried you—to his quarters. Each step was deliberate, his breathing heavy in your ear, the sensation of his warmth radiating through his clothes, through yours.

The door slid open with a quiet hiss, and the moment you were inside, Blade pressed you against it, lips finding yours again with even more urgency. His hands roamed, memorizing, worshipping, while his grip on you never wavered. His fingers ghosted up your spine, sending sparks down your body as he deepened the kiss. His heart was racing, his body pressed against yours like he couldn’t stand even an inch of space between you.

His lips trailed downward, along your jaw, down to your neck where he whispered your name, breath hot, voice wrecked. His grip on you never loosened, and as he carried you further into the dimly lit room, there was nothing but the sound of your mingled breaths, the quiet hum of the ship in the background, and the pounding of his heartbeat against your own.

He wasn’t letting go—not now, not ever.

OH MY FUCKING GOD FINALLY BRO I STRUGGLED SO MUCH WRIITNG KISS SCENES, I CANNOT WRITE KISS SCENES EVEN IFMY LIFE DEPENDS ON IT. im gonna write some sweetheart fluff after this I cannto deal with this shit any longer man 😭

While you were busy rushing off with a whine, overthinking and already planning how your funeral would go, because Flins was definitely following you around to kill you and quietly dispose of you body. You had upset some sort of lantern spirit and it had snitched to the one light keeper that it could talk to, and now your fate was sealed!

"I'm sorryyyyyy, lantern ghost!" you whined, footsteps leading to Paha isle.

Flins watched you run off, his gaze soft and curious, but a small pout on his lips that went unnoticed. His eyes snapped back to the old shopkeeper when the man began to speak again. "Stop scaring her away, Flins," he sighed and packaged the Rye before handing it to the light keeper, "Just get it done by today," he said, face darkening, almost grim, and placing something extra into the bag.

Flins hummed, his face straight, as he paid for the Rye and took the bag. His eyes downcast. "I will… after all, I know where my lady is going. I'll be a gentleman, as always. Have no worries, Mr. Aleksov." 

The old man nodded, handing Flins a packet of tissues. His grey, tired eyes only sparing Flins a glance before focusing on other customers. "Keep your hands clean, be quick and done with it." The words were quiet, but enough for a wandering Dori to hear, and look over confused with wide eyes.

"Are they… planning a murder?" she gasped, before smirking and looking off into the distance, rubbing her chin, "Heh, I could make good money selling caskets."

. . .

You had wandered over to Final night cemetery, walking slowly across the dark and gloomy terrain. There were ghost candles lit all over the place, and you could've sworn that you heard whispers around you. "save us… save ussss…" you shivered at your imagination, slowly walking up the hill area to try and find the lantern ghost you had seen last time.

"uheee…. mr. purple lantern ghost, where are you?" you whispered, shivering before looking up at the lighthouse. The fog closing in around you. 

The silence around you was deafening, and it was most definitely scaring you down to your bones. Taking you back to the night you had first seen that purple, glowing lantern. 

It had been almost two months ago, when you had wandered over to Paha isle. You had seen some of the wild hunt nearby and killed them, before hearing whispers and hallucinating ghosts in the fog from your sleepiness. You had rushed over to Paha isle by mistake, going the wrong way instead of making your way back to Nasha town in your confused state. 

"Oh," you had muttered, when the fog cleared up, and you had seen the lighthouse guiding you, instead of the comforting bustle of the town you lived in. You were about to turn around and make your way back, before you noticed the purple glow. Almost like it was calling your name, you followed and walked up to it through the fog, finding a floating purple lantern. 

It was almost like it was magical, just hovering there, glowing. No one around.

The words of Aino had drifted back into your mind, as she had made you read story books with her and one of them talked about a magical oil lamp that granted wishes. "No one uses oil lamps in in Nod Krai, I bet its the magical lanterns that carry genies and wishes!" she had nodded confidently. 

You weren't gullible, nor one to easily believe superstitions and follow them without question. Though… it couldn't hurt, right?

Your hands gently placed on the sides of the lamp, rubbing it gently, before you took them back and clasped your hands together. Squeezing your eyes shut and whispering, "puh-lease get me a beautiful boyfriend who's a gentleman and loves me and worships me, please, please, please!" you shook your hands before looking up at the sky with a sigh. 

The lantern had flickered a little, as you hesitated before leaning down and placing a gentle kiss on the handle of it. When you pulled back, the lantern shook a little, making you step back worried, and look around confused. You had rushed back to Nasha town after that, brushing off the experience as a dream, until now. 

"Am I gonna die? Oh mr. or mrs. lantern, I'm sorry for kissing your handle," present-day-you whined, before you felt a cold breath against your cheek. 

"What are you doing, Miss Y/N?"

You shrieked, freezing up and quickly back away from the man, holding up your hands in front of him. It was the light keeper. The one you always took a second glance at whenever you used your see him, because whoever got to call him as his partner was destined with unimaginable luck. Flins looked unbothered and even tilted his head to the side, confused.

"I know what you're gonna say!" You whined out, and dropped to your knees dramatically. Flins was strong, he was scary, and even if he took your life because you had upset some lantern ghost, you probably wouldn't fight back just because you didn't want to ruin his beautiful face.

"You do?" his eyes widened for a fraction, before he hummed and nodded, holding the small bag to his side. "I see, I thought I was more… quiet about my advances." he muttered, rubbing his chin gently, in thought.

You sighed and nodded, head downcast, pouting and already thinking over your death. "I didn't know what I was doingggg.. the lantern was just… calling my name!" you gasped out, as he shook his head. "It was not," he corrected bluntly, making you sigh wearily. Your hands buried in the soil. 

A few seconds passed, before you both spoke up at the same time. You blurting out your words. As he spoke eloquently.

"Please don't murder me!"

"Would you grace me with a potential romantic encounter, miss Y/N?"

You both froze, before meeting each other's eyes. equally confused. Flins eyes were narrowed, looking down in genuine confusion and slight shock. The most expressive you had ever seen him. Your eyes were widened, mouth agape slightly, and heat rushing to your face. Did… did the Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins just ask you out? On a date? Were you in heaven?

"What?" both voices spoke out at the same time.

Flins shook his head, looking at you utterly helpless and bamboozled as you stood up and dusted your hands off. “You’re not going to murder me…? B-but you were stalking me and obviously planning to kill me off because I upset the lantern ghost of Paha Isle!”

Flins looked side to side slowly before raising an eyebrow. “I beg your pardon?”

You sighed and lolled back your head before explaining to him exasperatedly. “Two months ago, I went to this place, like—“ you pointed over to some shrubbery alongside a crumbling stone wall, “—over there! I saw this glowing purple lantern and I walked up to it and rubbed it and wished for a boyfriend,” you nodded to him in complete seriousness.

“…so what makes you assume that I’d hurt you for wishing upon a floating lantern?” He raised an eyebrow, beginning to smile a little, starting to understand what was happening. He really wanted to see the look on your face when he revealed the truth now. He had prepared a big speech explaining all of his feelings, but you had thrown his whole planned confession out the window.

You blinked, once, twice, before awkwardly scratching the back of your head. “I’m starting to see that I was being a bit… irrational,” you nodded slowly.

“A bit?” He smiled, before handing you the paper bag, to which you looked inside curiously. Rye, and…

“Cupcakes. I had Mr. Aleksov prepare them especially for your tastes,” he hummed to you, watching as your confused expression flickered up to him before your eyes widened. “Oh! Oh, right, because you were going to ask me out…” you nodded, before pursing your lips and looking up at him confused. “But we’ve barely spoken to one another before this, why the sudden interest in me?”

He curtly nodded, before taking out the familiar glowing purple lantern and fading before your eyes. It only took 2.3 seconds for you to connect the dots, his figure reappearing when he saw that shy, “oh my god, what have I done?” look on your face.

“I was the lantern you wished upon,” he told you gleefully, tilting his head to the side with a teasing smile.

A whine escaped your lips, as you were contemplating burying yourself in the soil right then and there. “After hearing about your wish, I thought that you were a gorgeous young lady that deserved love, and after the… kiss,” he nodded, watching your eyes squeeze shut and hand cover your face. “I thought that I deserved to give you love. I never planned to stalk you, per se, but every time I tried to strike a conversation or anything with you…”

“I ran away,” you nodded, letting out an embarrassed whine and finishing his sentence.

He hummed, before taking the bag from your hands and offering you the cupcake. “My hands are pretty dirty,” you shrugged, still embarrassed and hating yourself inside your brain. “STUPID STUPID STUPID” kept bouncing around in your head.

Before you knew it, the cupcake was pressed against your lips, heat rushing to your cheeks and the tips of your ears, you took a bite out of it. Being fed by possibly the most handsome man in all of Teyvat.

“I’ve had a crush on you for a while…” you mumbled, swallowing and beginning to talk to him softly, as he listened carefully. “You saved me from the wild hunt around a year ago, and ever since then I’ve just thought you were so cool, and strong, and handsome,” you were whining, hands covering your cheeks shyly.

He didn’t hesitate, leaning down and pressing a soft kiss against your lips.

You froze, before feeling his lips dart out and lick up the tiny bit of icing on the corner of your lips, making your squeal embarrassed and quickly look away from him. Hands covering your face, heart beating faster than it was when you thought he was about to kill you.

“I hope you’ll entertain me for that date, my lady,” he spoke softly against your ear, smiling as he knew exactly what he was doing.

Smug bastard.

More than amusing, if you were being honest. There was something deeply satisfying about watching someone so perfectly put together navigate everyday interactions. You found Flins to be an enigmatic creature, and something inside you just burned to get a rise out of him. Sure, maybe it was simply the thrill of the mischief, but you wanted to test him, push him a little, see how he would react to some casual flirting. 

And if you were particularly enjoying the challenge of trying to get a reaction out of him, well. That was harmless, wasn't it? Just a little teasing. Just a bit of flirtation to see how exactly this man—the one who managed to charm literally everyone around him with effortless grace—would handle being on the receiving end for once.

The fact that you were attracted to him was beside the point. 

It didn't matter that whenever you caught even a glimpse of his purplish-blue hair, your heart did something stupid. It meant nothing when he leaned down to hear you better, his voice dropping into that velvety register that made you feel like some fundamental part of you had just ceased existing. None of it mattered. Certainly not.

And hey, if nothing at all, what harm could some light flirting cause?

Your first opportunity for mischief, you were sitting together near the lighthouse. The evening light cast everything in soft amber. Conversation had drifted from topic to topic; nothing particularly important, just the easy back-and-forth of people comfortable in each other's presence. You'd been leaning against his side, playing with the cuff of his sleeve. He'd let you, the way he always did.

At some point, you'd mentioned something about having to leave soon. Return to your duties. The usual obligations that kept pulling you away.

"I'll be gone for a few days," you'd said.

Flins had simply nodded, listening.

And that's when the impulse struck.

"I bet you'll miss me," you said, your tone light but deliberately aimed. You tilted your head to look at him, watching for a reaction.

He turned to face you. His shoulder brushed against yours when he did, and you caught the faint scent of something cool and unfamiliar. Flins’ smile seemed to stretch just a little, his eyes narrowing. He reminded you of the Fae. 

"Of course," he said.

You'd expected a deflection. A joke. Instead, he'd just said it, and the weight of his attention suggested he meant it. That he understood exactly what you were doing and was letting you do it anyway.

So you pushed.

"Like, really miss me," you continued, letting your fingers trail down his sleeve. "You'll probably think about me the whole time I'm gone."

He watched you for a moment. "Likely."

"I'll be devastated without you," you added, testing how far you could take this.

"Will you?" he asked softly. And his gaze was fixed squarely upon yours. You seemed to pick up on the slightest lilt of teasing towards the end of that question. But still, the manner in which he faced you—the utter unabashed composure—seemed genuine. 

“That's interesting," he continued. 

Your heart was doing something ridiculous. "What's interesting about that?"

"That you're telling me you'll be devastated rather than simply asking," he said. There was no mockery in it. His tone was almost contemplative, like he was turning over a puzzle piece in his mind. "Though I suppose indirect approaches are more entertaining."

Heat crept up your neck. He'd just called you out. Gently, without any edge to it, but he'd absolutely just pointed out exactly what you were doing.

"I'm not being indirect," you said, but your voice had gone softer.

"No?" He tilted his head slightly, and in the amber light, you noticed the precise line of his jaw, the way his hair caught the glow. When he looked at you like that, with complete attention, it made you feel like you were the only thing worth looking at. "That is up for debate, then, I suppose.”

Well. There would be other opportunities. Plenty of them, actually. This whole one-sided “game” had yet commenced, and you were only just beginning. It didn't matter that you were getting quite the pleasant rise from being able to flirt so brazenly with a man you'd been quietly obsessed with for the past couple of months. It was harmless. Just teasing. 

Over the next few days, you made it your mission.

Make him crack. That was the goal now. Get something—a blush, a stumble, a clever comeback. Anything that suggested the composed exterior had a weakness.

You started with compliments, delivered casually while you were walking through the cemetery together. "You have nice hands, you know," you said, watching as he adjusted something on one of the graves. He simply thanked you, like you'd complimented the weather.

Then came the flirtation. You'd lean closer than necessary when you were standing beside him. Play with his sleeve. Find excuses to touch his arm. Every gesture was wrapped in humor, safely deniable if he called you out on it. And every single time, he met it with the same patient calm.

A brow raised here. A small smile there. An acknowledgment that he noticed what you were doing—because he absolutely did—but no matching energy. He didn’t stumble over his words, his pale skin didn’t darkened with the hue of red blush, and he most certainly did not tease you back. Intentionally, that is. Flins’ very existence seemed to upset your carefully curated balance. 

On the third day, you tried jokes. Teasing comments about how he was probably the type to be good at everything. How his composure must be exhausting to maintain. How it was unfair that he managed to make even mundane tasks look graceful.

He listened to all of it with that infuriatingly gentle expression, like you were providing him with observations rather than attempting to dismantle him.

The frustrating part was that he clearly knew. There was awareness in the tilt of his head, in the way his eyes tracked your movements. He understood exactly what you were attempting. He just wasn't playing along. And that made it worse. Better. You weren't entirely sure which.

By the fourth day, you were running out of ammunition.

The previous few days had been a study in futility. You'd tried everything you could think of. Compliments delivered with a knowing smile. Flirtation wrapped in humor. Little jokes designed to catch him off guard. Nothing had worked. He'd simply absorbed each attempt with that same unflappable grace, and somewhere along the way, it had stopped feeling like a game you were winning and started feeling like a game only you were playing.

The worst part was that he clearly knew what you were doing. You could see it in the way his eyes tracked your movements, in the slight tilt of his head when you said something particularly bold. He understood exactly what you were attempting. He just wasn't giving you the reaction you wanted. No flustering. No stumbling. No moment where his composure cracked and revealed something underneath. 

In fact, your attempts had been so famously (infamously) fruitless that even Illuga had made it a point of note. "You know, perhaps Mr. Flins simply enjoys the attention," he'd said when he'd caught you trying to get a rise out of Flins during a supply run. "Some people are harder to rattle than others."

You had huffed then, indignantly, “Sure, but it’s absurd how he treats every comment I make as though it is the most obvious thing in the world!”

Illuga smiled then. Conflict avoidant as always, and a tad bit skeptical of Flins, he kept his opinions to himself. But you could have easily guessed what he was going to say: this is pointless. Shouldn’t you be focusing on your patrols?

It was starting to make you wonder if there was anything underneath at all, or if he was simply always like this. Infuriatingly calm.

But then, there was Nefer. You didn’t even know why you bothered to hide anything from her at all. She always found out about your little schemes; even the tiny, playful ones. 

“Persistent, aren’t you?” She commented. “Are you quite sure your crush on Flins hasn’t driven you up a wall?”

“I do not—” You began, but then stopped abruptly as you came to the (very obvious) realisation that your face went hot the moment his name and “crush” were in the same sentence. “—fine whatever. Still! It’s so… strange, how he never reacts.”

“Aw, poor you,” Nefer purred. You shot her a look.

She tilted her head, considering you. "Actions speak louder than words sometimes, you know. Especially with someone like him." She paused, adjusting the items in her arms. “Besides… the Fae are rather adept at words, so…”

You spent the last day turning both conversations over in your mind. 

Towards the end of a particularly gruelling patrol is when your next, hopefully successful opportunity for teasing presented itself. You were sitting on a bench near the lighthouse, close enough that your shoulders were almost touching. The afternoon was quiet. The snow twirled in the sky, a transient, glacial staircase coiling into the wind. Nod-Krai’s frost always seemed to have a mind of its own. Conversation flowed the same way the snow did. Gently, with easy flow and expected lulls. Sort of the perfect moment for a detour, really. 

"You know," you said, your tone deliberately playful, "if you asked nicely, I'd hold your hand."

You were grinning. Already prepared for the laugh, the deflection, the way he'd turn it into something clever. You had your exit strategy ready. In all honesty, you expected Flins to look at you kindly. Make a small comment about “how that would be ideal, considering the cold” but then simply pocket his hands into his jacket. Or something that would reduce the simmer of the conversation into a still pool, like every other time.

Instead, Flins simply glanced down at his own hand. Then, without a word, he turned his palm upward and offered it to you.

Waiting.

Your grin froze.

"...What are you doing?" you managed.

"Asking nicely," he said, smiling at you, elfishly.

Oh. Oh no.

You stared at his hand like it had personally betrayed you. Because this wasn't supposed to happen. He was supposed to laugh it off. Instead, he'd somehow turned your own joke into something sincere, and now you were sitting there unable to do anything but take his hand because the alternative was admitting that you completely miscalculated this entire interaction.

So you did. 

Your fingers found his, and his grip was warm and certain. His thumb brushed gently across your knuckles in a gesture that felt far too intentional for someone who was supposed to be unaffected.

You spent the next twenty minutes very carefully not combusting, acutely aware of every point of contact, every small movement of his hand against yours, every time his thumb made that gentle pass across your skin.

This was fine. Completely fine. You'd simply bitten off more than you could chew, that was all.

You thought you were recovering. You were not recovering.

The problem was that you'd learned absolutely nothing from the hand-holding incident. If anything, it had made you more confident. More reckless. You'd convinced yourself that you could still win this game, that one successful moment of sincerity didn't change the overall trajectory of your campaign to crack his composure.

So when you'd finally extracted your hand from his (after what felt like an eternity of trying to act unaffected), you pushed just a bit more. Surely, it could not get worse from now, could it?

"You know..." you started, already smirking.

"Hm?" He turned to look at you, waiting.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd think you actually liked me."

You grinned. You were expecting a smile. A laugh. Maybe something playful that would let you both pretend this had all been harmless banter.

Instead, Flins went quiet. An awful kind of silence. The kind of silence that realistically only lasts a couple of seconds, a minute at max, but in your head rang for an hour. It seemed to consume you, settle the snow around you. What was most awful though was the fact that Flins was actually considering it. You could see the cogs turning in his head. The way he was turning over your comment, looking at every square inch of it.

Then he turned fully toward you, giving you his complete attention in a way that somehow felt worse than any response could have been.

"You needn't be so indirect," he said.

Your heart stopped. Actually stopped. "...What?"

"If you're asking whether I have feelings for you, you may simply ask."

If you thought the previous silence was bad, this was worse. Your brain had essentially ceased functioning. Flins simply waited, patient and composed, like this was a perfectly reasonable conversation to be having.

Then he tilted his head slightly. "Go on," he said, and his voice was gentle. Encouraging, even.

You'd walked directly into this. Deliberately constructed your own trap and then stepped into it with both feet while grinning the entire time.

The frustrating thing was that Flins didn't seem remotely aware that he was holding your entire nervous system hostage. Or perhaps he was aware. That possibility was somehow worse. While your thoughts scattered in every conceivable direction, he remained exactly as he'd always been—patient, attentive, and entirely willing to wait for an answer. There was no pressure in his expression, no trace of triumph at having finally cornered you. If anything, he looked faintly curious, as though he'd simply presented you with an obvious solution and couldn't quite understand why you were struggling to take it.

You swallowed. And then: "Do you?"

The question came out embarrassingly quiet.

For a moment, he simply looked at you. Then something softened in his expression, subtle enough that you almost missed it. "I've been quite fond of you for some time."

The words settled between you with alarming ease. That was it. He spoke as though he were commenting on the weather, or confirming some small detail you'd already known. As though admitting he liked you was not, in fact, causing every coherent thought in your head to immediately abandon ship.

You stared at him. Flins stared back. The snow continued drifting lazily through the air. Somewhere in the distance, waves crashed against the shoreline.

"You can't just say that,” you said, heat flooding your cheeks.

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "You asked."

"That doesn't mean you were supposed to answer so easily."

"I wasn't aware there was a correct amount of difficulty involved."

The laugh that escaped you sounded slightly hysterical. Of course that was his response. Of course.

The realization struck all at once then, arriving with the force of a physical blow. Every conversation from the past week rearranged itself inside your mind. Every compliment. Every flirtatious remark. Every ridiculous thing you'd said in the hope of getting a reaction. Not once had he denied any of it. Not once had he brushed you off. The problem was that you'd spent so long trying to make him flustered that you'd never stopped to consider the possibility that he simply wasn't interested in pretending otherwise.

"Oh my god."

His smile widened.

"Oh my god."

"You seem distressed."

"You like me."

"I do."

The immediate confirmation nearly killed you.

Your hands flew to your face. Some distant part of your brain registered that you were behaving like a complete fool. Unfortunately, that same distant part of your brain had become vastly outnumbered by the much louder part that was currently screaming.

When you finally lowered your hands, Flins was still watching you with that infuriating calm.

Suspicion immediately took root. Narrowing your eyes, you pointed accusingly at him. "What if you're teasing me?"

That earned a quiet laugh. "And what would lead you to that conclusion?"

"Because this feels suspiciously convenient."

"I see."

"You've spent days letting me embarrass myself."

"I never asked you to."

"That is not a denial."

The amusement in his eyes deepened. For a moment he simply regarded you, and then, to your immense frustration, his gaze dropped briefly to your mouth before returning to your eyes.

"Would this convince you?"

You opened your mouth, fully intending to answer. To say something clever, preferably. Something capable of restoring at least a fraction of the dignity you'd lost over the past ten minutes.

Unfortunately, you never got the chance.

Flins leaned in and kissed you.

His lips were warm against yours, soft in a way that felt unfair after all the time you'd spent trying not to think about them. For one dizzying moment, all you could focus on was the sensation of him—the brush of his mouth against yours, the faint pressure of his thumb where it rested against your knuckles, the cool air gathering at your cheeks while everything else felt impossibly warm. It wasn't a long kiss. It wasn't demanding. If anything, it felt terribly, devastatingly fond. Like a question he'd already known the answer to. 

And the worst part—the absolute worst part—was that you could feel him smiling. The faint curve of his lips brushing yours, as though he found your complete inability to function endearing. By the time he pulled away, your heart had lodged itself somewhere in your throat, and you were left staring at him with the distinct sensation that something irreversible had just occurred.

You stared at him, owlishly.

And, for the first time in days, you caught something in his expression that hadn't been there before. Or perhaps it had always been there, hidden beneath the effortless composure you'd spent so much time trying to unravel. The fondness in his gaze was almost unbearably soft now, no longer filtered through amusement or polite patience. It was simply there, warm and open and directed entirely at you.

And then there was the faint dusting of pink at the tips of his ears.

You blinked.

Flins, apparently realizing exactly what had captured your attention, looked away for the briefest of moments.

But you saw it.

After days of teasing him, days of trying to make him crack, days of wondering whether anything could possibly ruffle that impossible composure, there it was. Not embarrassment, exactly. The discovery hit you harder than the kiss had.

"Oh my god," you whispered, for the third time that day.

His gaze flicked back to yours. The corners of his mouth curved upward.

"What?"

You pointed at him immediately. "You are blushing!"

"Am I?"

The smile threatening at his lips made the response entirely unconvincing.

"You are."

"A little, perhaps."

It occurred to you then that perhaps Flins had been right all along. You needn't have been so indirect. The realization should have been embarrassing. Instead, it only made you smile.

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His flame is dangerously low, barely a flicker inside the chamber; you'd be a fool to even try using it to light your way. It's pitiful, really, the flame looks to be dying out, and nothing you've tried has helped. You thought maybe he needed some time away, so you let him be— which unsurprisingly didn't work. Then you tried placing the lantern near the warmth of a fire, though it earned no reaction. You cradled the lantern in your arms and spoke to him like he was still here, telling him about your day, which always ends up with you teary-eyed and asking him to give you at least a sign of life. After all your attempts, it's still that all-too-familiar azure, but now pale and small, barely lighting up the frame around it. Your throat tightens at the sight. How have things become like this?

You curl your arms around yourself more, the lantern held against your body heat like someone would hold a sickly animal. Your tears have run dry; crying would be unproductive in this situation, as you've learned after days of no response. After the attack, you've been quiet, too quiet. Your personality has dimmed, just as Flins' has.

The Wild Hunt is a wretched thing; it offers mercy to none and takes from all. The Ratniki and Lightkeepers, as well as all of Nod-Krai, know this all too well, familiar with the grief of losing those around them to the hands of the abyss. And perhaps now, you too, are familiar with it.

On that unsuspecting night, you watched your beloved's chest be ripped apart by abyssal claws. This would've never happened, had he not had eyes in the back of his head. You saw the ambush before it happened, just for a split second, the purple ooze manifesting behind him plunged into his chest. It was graphic and horrific. You ran at him the moment you saw the abyss energy, but you were too late. Rather than blood, you saw a ghastly flame erupt from him, spewing hot in all directions as he fell to the cold ground. Before you could defeat the corrupted energy and run to his side for assistance, he disappeared into his lantern, becoming almost lifeless.

After the battle, the members of the Lightkeepers questioned his whereabouts. Nobody saw him helping out with the aftermath as they usually would. There was no Flins tending to the injured; he was at neither Piramida nor Nasha town— though most who knew him suspected he returned to the lighthouse, which wasn't entirely false. Finally, they asked you, and you had to bite your tongue and tell them he went on his merry way— all to preserve his identity.

Now, you're wondering if you should've said something. Others knowing his identity in exchange for help with saving him is surely worth it, right? You were almost certain that the troops' perception of him would not change for the worse. But is that what Flins would've wanted? Perhaps it was his time to return to the headstone with his name written on it. Hes mentioned wishing to fall into a slumber as he had before, and maybe that forsaken event is just around the corner. Your heart aches at the thought of having to hang his empty lantern on his grave...

You glance back down at him, stroking the handle with your thumb in hopes he can sense your affection despite his lack of reaction. "Kyryll," You've called out to him many times before, and you've been met with the same answer every time. Silence. The flame doesnt even respond; it's like hes not even there.

The snow falls quietly outside. Its peacefulness is similar to Flins. Deathly quiet, and eerily still. With a shaky sigh, you stand, tucking the lantern inside the opening of your coat. Despite being inside the lighthouse, it's barren and cold without Flins' warmth or presence. It feels as though something crucial is missing from here, like a bike with no wheels or a flower without the petals. Your feet patter on the metal floors, climbing up the steep steps to the top of the lighthouse, heading to the quietest room in the home—his room— where there are no drafts, voices of the dead, or windows creaking as the wind howls.

He rarely uses his room, aside from the times you stay over. His bed is neatly made (It usually has a thin layer of dust on the sheets, but you've been using his bed as your own during these hard times), and it looks as though nobody lives here (aside from your few belongings scattered about the room). The air is still inside; you are the only disturbance. "Kyryll, please come back to me." Your voice is hoarse from being silent for so long, holding an ache in your tone. You settle on the floor, hunched over and taking him out of your coat. He hasn't changed. Still pale, weak, and cold. Sighing out a shaky breath, your hand grips the top capsule of the lantern. A beat of hesitation hits you as you open the top of the lantern.

You're unsure of how long it's been since this thing was opened, as Flins doesn't necessarily need to open it to stoke the flame. But as the top comes off and the frame is now in two pieces, the glass chamber inside is open. This feels wrong; it's invasive. Would this hurt him? Is this uncomfortable to him? Being open and exposing your already weak self to the outside is a dangerous thing. "It's been days since you've come out. Give me a sign, anything..."

The flame flickers out of the glass chamber as your hands cup around it, sheltering the tiny thing in the warmth of your palms. He didn't feel much warmer, which only weakened your hope. "Kyryll, please," You beg, the blue flame reacting to nothing. Your throat tightens at the lack of a response.

You inhale a deep breath, sending a prayer to whatever god will listen as your lips near your cupped palms. With a steady and gentle breath, you breathe against him. The warm arm circulates in the capsule of your hands, and you can't help but notice the flicker of blue. You breathe once more, still as gentle as ever and cautious of his weak form. The flame burns on the oxygen that feeds it, growing bigger and brighter. Steadily, the heat returns, and your hands warm with the proximity of the flame. Hope returns, and you breathe against him for a third time.

The weak and dying flame is now replaced with a growing, warm one, one that's reinvigorated as it feeds off your oxygen. The fire is now burning continuously, the hot flames burning your palms. Your hands tremble as you ignore the sting, doing anything to keep breathing life into Flins. He grows and brightens; now a vibrant azure color slips from the cracks between your fingers as you stoke the flame.

You try to not let your mind get ahead, keeping yourself hopeful without celebrating too early. After all, the flame could die back down as soon as you stopped. The flesh of your hands singes; instincts tell you to rip your hands away and press them into the snow outside, but you persevere, breathing into him repeatedly.

The heat has become unbearable, the flames dance over your fingers, and you wince. It's too hot. The smell of burnt flesh hits your nose, your face scrunching as you feebly try to keep your breathing stable to give him ample oxygen. Groaning, your eyes tear up at the scorching pain— before your instincts force you to pull away, the blazing heat is gone, and a gentle light and warmth envelop the room.

A familiarity steals the breath from your lungs, just as Flins was doing moments ago. There's a pause, and everything in your head seems to still for a moment. Dark charcoals and indigo flood your vision as a heavy weight presses into you; the feeling of the embrace you've longed for wraps around your frame, a steady and tight grip. Wisps of faded hair tickle your cheeks as a hand cups the back of your head and presses you into the crook of his neck.

You're met with a gentle whisper of your name; his voice is low and oozing with affection as his breath ghosts over your ear. It feels as though you're in a dream— is this really Flins? It's not a prank or a hallucination? Your arms reach out and find that they don't phase through his body, but rather loop around his solid form.

And now, here you are, falling apart in his arms. Your tears return as you clutch him close, the burns on your hands forgotten as you grip his coat tightly, doing anything to bring him impossibly closer. He accommodates you, his arms holding you steadily as he presses his lips into the crown of your hair. "Kyryll— I-I thought you were gone—" He shushes your panicked words, stroking your hair as he whispers sweet nothings to soothe you.

"My light, I apologize..." He holds you dearly, his chest achy with almost a sense of guilt. "It was never my intention to cause you so much distress." He releases his hold on you, and you peer up at his saddened face. How bittersweet...

"You didn't say a-anything since it happened...! You never came out, you never responded— I-I had no clue if you were still with me...!" His gaze softens as you choke back sobs, your cheeks wet from the tears dripping down. He parts his lips to speak before sighing, cupping your cheek and wiping your tears with his thumb.

"Im so sorry." He hesitates. You've never heard his voice this fragile and desperate before; it makes you hold your breath for a split second. His knuckles brush the hair away from getting caught in your tears. "I was in no condition to be conscious... I focused my energy on the wounds."

Yes, the wounds. The ones you watched rip him open— shredded, even. The claws from that beast pierced through his chest and tore through his body. You shudder to even think about it; the terrifying clarity it still leaves in your mind festers as anxiety.

Your gaze flicks down to his chest, which offers you nothing as his thick layers cover his wounds. He huffs out a small breath, releasing his hand from your face. "Please, do not fret over me so much. I'm much better than I was." You simply don't believe him.

Even though he can sense that you don't entirely believe him, he instead wraps his arms around your body once more and pulls you back into a tight embrace. "I apologize...deeply." His whispered voice ghosts over your ear again, and you don't have the heart to hold it against him. It was a rather unfortunate series of events, which led to pain and confusion everywhere. You go to hug him back, but wince and jerk your hands away at the contact with the burns.

Almost immediately, Flins takes notice. He pulls back with his brows knitted in sorrow and worry, his hands tracing down your arms to flip your palms up for him to see. The burns required medical attention, and Flins' guilt increased tenfold. "Are these from me?" He questions with the softest voice, afraid that anything louder will shatter the moment. You glance away. You know that he will never let this go, that he will always feel remorseful for causing you such pain. You don't respond.

His grip on your hands is gentle as he examines them, determining the urgency with which he must act to help you. "Once again, I apologize..." He lets out a defeated huff, keeping his head down. "Though, the feeling of my entire being cradled in your hands, breathing life into me, is something I never thought I would experience. And I must say, it was most invigorating, and yet, was one of the most comforting things I may have ever had the fortune of experiencing." He leans in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper.

"I would let it happen all over again to be nestled in the palms of your hands, feeding on your breath as though you were my only salvation once more."