theofylaktos

“We both know they’re quite popular around here, and don’t you just find it sickening that everyone just, like, wants a piece of them?” He opens the folder, retrieves several papers, and hands them over to Vil. “I was thinking we could do something with the prefect that allows us to keep a bit of them for ourselves… and, you know, have fun with them.”

Vil takes the papers and examines them carefully. “A photoshoot?”

Cater nearly leaps from his seat at Vil’s mention of his grand idea. As he flips through the papers, he finds mood boards, images of clothing, makeup references, and light sketches portraying what the photoshoot could look like. Each element on the pages further piques Vil’s interest. The concepts are daring yet tasteful enough to ensure the prefect's comfort while still appealing to the duo.

“Of course, you can tweak some details! After all, you’re the expert when it comes to beauty!” His smile broadens as mischievous thoughts swirl in his mind, a finger playfully placed on his lower lip. “As I said, we can share some with everyone, but there are definitely a few we can keep just for ourselves...”

Vil met Cater’s gaze, a silent agreement forming between them. The prefect might be admired by many, but only they would hold the true essence of their beauty. Only they would have the power to capture and keep what others could only dream of.

₊˚✩彡

Right before the prefect could knock on the door, Cater opened it with a wide, toothy grin. The room they entered was an empty classroom, currently used by the Film Research Club to store their equipment, which had now been turned into a photo studio. It had already been a week and a half since Diamond and Schoenheit discussed the photoshoot plan. By now, everything was ready, including the outfits, makeup products, and the photoshoot setup.

As the prefect stepped into the classroom, amazement was evident on their face. However, they were slightly puzzled by the presence of only the two seniors and the fact that they hadn’t been informed about the photoshoot theme or whether the clothes would fit.

It wasn't like they possessed the skill or talent to be a model either. Sure, they had some photos taken by their friends in their previous world. Some were nice enough to be shared online, but they weren't professionally done. When Cater approached them the other day to request a photoshoot, they were initially hesitant. But due to the puppy-eyed stare he gave them and the questionable trust he had in them to pull off the photoshoot, they were left with no choice but to come along.

Now that they reflect on it more deeply, they realize they never actually inquired about the purpose of the photoshoot or why they were specifically chosen as the model. They chose to dismiss it as just another of their mini projects, knowing it was something both Schoenheit and Diamond were eager to pursue. Perhaps they saw something in them that the prefect isn't aware of.

“It’s just the two of you?” Cater asked, placing a hand on the prefect’s shoulder while Vil prepared the camera.

“Yeah! I’ll help you change into the outfits; Vil will do your makeup and take the photos! And of course, if you’re worried, I’ll guide you with the poses!” Although some concerns were raised, a lingering nervousness remained within the prefect.

“But shouldn’t there be a fitting first? What if the clothes don’t fit?” Vil set down the camera and approached the small makeup station they had set up, a smile on his face. They needed to ensure the prefect wouldn’t slip away during this opportunity.

“Thanks to Rook for taking your measurements, you don’t need to worry about that. We’re quite confident in the outfits we’ve selected, and if any adjustments are needed, we can experiment as we go along.”

The prefect appeared even more confused by the mention of Rook. They wonder when exactly Rook took their measurements and how is it that they are not aware of it? However, they decided to go along with it. Thinking that there’s no harm along the way.

“Why wait any longer? Let’s get you into those outfits!” The Heartslabyul third-year enthusiastically pulls them into a makeshift changing area, which is draped with a long curtain and features a tall mirror inside. Three distinct outfits hang on a small clothes rail, each adorned with a piece of paper detailing the order number and a sketch showing how the clothes should be styled.

“Let me know when you’re ready!”

₊˚✩彡

The prefect removes their uniform and picks up the first outfit they intend to try on. It is a two-piece. Upon inspection, they realize that the top garment appears to be quite snug. They also catch sight of another piece of paper affixed to the mirror, showcasing a mood board for the photoshoot. Whatever scheme the duo was concocting certainly seemed almost scandalous.

As they don the top, their initial suspicion is confirmed— it is indeed tight-fitting, especially around the chest area. Although it remains breathable, they feel as if they are encased in a vacuum pack. While putting on the bottoms, the button unexpectedly pops off with the slightest touch, sending them into a panic. They worry that these pieces might be borrowed from high-end brands and dread the potential cost of the damage.

“Prefect! Is everything okay? Do you need any assistance?” It’s almost as if Cater anticipated their need for help. But the timing relieves the prefect.

“Cater… could you assist me with the bottoms? I may have accidentally ruined them…” The curtain is swiftly drawn aside as Cater enters with a grin. He notices the button rolling on the floor due to the garment's poor construction. After inspecting it closely, he devises a solution almost too quickly. Kneeling in front of the prefect, he prepares to fix the problem using a trick he once saw on Magicam.

I just can't get you out of my head Your loving is all I think about

As he kneels, his eyes lock with the prefect’s, a complex gleam in his gaze that baffles the prefect. While the position they are in appears innocent to others, the more the prefect gazes at Diamond, the deeper his eyes seem to become, causing them to look away with a soft pink blush spreading across their face.

I just can't get you out of my head It's more than I dare to think about

It’s almost possessive, yet there’s something more beneath that gaze. Cater watches them, a sinister smile playing on his lips. It’s all going as he planned. His eyes linger on the prefect's attire as he works on the repairs, noticing the color of their undergarments with a quiet chuckle that sends a shiver down their spine.

“Is everything alright, Cater?” they ask, their voice tinged with nervousness.

Cater’s grin widens, and he lets his hands linger tenderly on the prefect’s torso, sliding beneath the fabric with a deliberate slowness. His touch is gentle yet insistent, teasing out a reaction. The chill of his hands sends a jolt through them, and just as they consider pulling away, he leans in and presses a soft, lingering kiss to their stomach. He draws in a deep breath, savoring their scent as if capturing it forever.

Every night, every day

“C-Cater!” The prefect’s voice trembles, their cheeks burning with embarrassment. But he only gazes up at them with a feigned innocence, his cheek resting against their skin, dangerously close to their undergarment.

Just to be there in your arms

“Sowwyyy... You’re just so perfect here; I couldn’t resist. And your scent... It’s soo-oo good. What soap do you use?” His question is unexpected, and the prefect stumbles over their words, unsure how to respond to such an unsettling compliment. Plus, they doubt they still carry the scent of their soap after a long, tiring day of classes.

“I-It’s just something from Sam’s... Please, just fix...” they manage to say, trying to regain control. Yet Cater’s gaze never wavers as he continues his task, his touch lingering a moment too long, as if savoring every second of their closeness, making it clear that this was far from ordinary.

The prefect steps out of the small changing room, letting out a sigh of relief after the recent events. As they approach, they spot Vil already settled at the makeup table. He greets them with a warm smile, pulling out a chair for them to sit. Facing the mirror, he begins to prepare his tools.

“What do you think of the first outfit?” Vil inquires while gently applying moisturizer with a cotton pad to their face. They respond with a shy smile.

“Well, I like it… It’s just that I’ve never worn a top this tight-fitting before. However, I really love the style you all are aiming for.”

Vil's eyes glint with an intensity that makes the prefect's heart flutter, a mix of admiration and something else entirely. His fingers move with practiced ease, smoothing the moisturizer over their skin with a touch that lingers, almost possessive in its tenderness.

"I'm glad to hear you love the style," he murmurs, his voice velvety and filled with a passion that seems to pulse beneath the surface. He leans in closer, close enough that the prefect can catch the subtle scent of his cologne, something rich and intoxicating.

"You know," he continues, selecting a foundation brush with deliberate care, "I think this look is perfect for you. It accentuates all the right features." His gaze flickers to the mirror, locking eyes with the prefect's reflection as if trying to convey something beyond mere words.

As he begins to blend the foundation onto their skin, his movements are meticulous, each stroke of the brush a gentle caress. The prefect feels a shiver of something indescribable, a mix of admiration and apprehension, as Vil's attention becomes singularly focused.

"You trust me, don't you?" he asks softly, almost a whisper. The question hangs in the air, an unspoken promise wrapped in his tender touch. The prefect nods, anticipating the artwork he will deliver.

₊˚✩彡

The makeup Vil had done on the prefect looks breathtaking. True to his word, it accentuates their features perfectly. The prefect admired their reflection, turning their head slightly to catch the play of light on their expertly contoured cheekbones. Vil's artistry had brought out the natural beauty in their eyes, making them sparkle with an almost ethereal glow. The colors were chosen with precision, each shade complementing their skin tone flawlessly.

“Wow,” the prefect breathed, running a finger lightly over their cheek. “I never imagined I could look like this.”

Vil smiled, a hint of pride in his eyes and a touch of playful arrogance. “Beauty is about enhancing what you already have,” he said, adjusting a stray lock of hair. “You have all the elements; I just helped them shine.”

“Thank you, Vil,” the prefect said sincerely, their eyes shimmering with appreciation as they walked towards the backdrop alongside him.

The prefect now stands somewhat awkwardly under the lights; Cater's eyes spark with a mischievous glint. He approaches with a calm demeanor, adjusting the prefect's posture with gentle, guiding hands. His voice, soft yet commanding, suggests they try a more daring pose, one that requires the prefect to lean ever so slightly forward, creating a tantalizing tension in the air.

"Trust me," Cater murmurs, his tone dripping with a sweetness that masks his deeper intentions. "This will make you look absolutely captivating."

Vil, ever the perfectionist, watches through the lens with a critical eye, capturing each movement with precision. He offers subtle nods of approval, his gaze unwavering. There's a silent agreement between him and Cater—a shared understanding of the power they hold in this moment.

Each adjustment, each whispered instruction from Cater, draws them deeper into a pose that borders on scandalous, yet undeniably captivating. Certain poses accentuate their torso, causing a hint of embarrassment due to the fitted top they are wearing.

Nevertheless, they manage to maintain their composure under Cater’s guidance, placing blind trust in the duo that everything will turn out fine. The prefect's inexperience becomes their advantage, as every slight hesitation is transformed into an enticing allure under Cater's careful direction.

₊˚✩彡

After completing the first outfit session, Cater enthusiastically pulls them back into the changing room for the second outfit. The prefect carefully removes the top to preserve Vil’s artistic work. Fortunately, thanks to the elastic fabric, the makeup remains intact, requiring only a few minor touch-ups.

The second outfit is significantly more comfortable than the first; however, the neckline is quite low, revealing more skin in the chest area. Though it isn't exactly a big issue for the prefect, as it doesn't cause too much discomfort for them.

The second session went smoothly and was completed more quickly than the first. The prefect now radiates a clear sense of confidence, effortlessly striking poses. However, there was a faint sense that something felt amiss in the studio as the session continued. Diamond and Schoenheit seemed a bit off, though the prefect couldn't pinpoint the cause. They chose to dismiss it, thinking it was nothing significant.

Comes the third outfit, one that is secretly most anticipated by the duo. The prefect carefully removes the previous outfit and takes the third one from the hanger. Upon putting it on, they immediately notice a significant issue: it’s backless. A wave of embarrassment washes over them as they catch their reflection in the mirror. Having never worn anything backless before, this feels incredibly new, to say the least.

“Everything okay, prefect? Do you want me to come in?” Cater calls out from outside, a slight pause lingering in the air after Diamond’s question.

“Cater... I’m not sure about this one.” The curtains part to allow him entry. Inside, he finds the prefect anxiously examining the backless feature of the top, appearing quite shy about it. With a mischievous grin, he gently places a hand on their shoulder.

“Prefect! You look absolutely breathtaking. This outfit is perfect for you!”

His voice dripped with honeyed reassurance, but there was an intensity in his gaze. “You know,” Cater continued, stepping closer, his presence almost overwhelming, “there’s something about this outfit that just... draws out your true beauty. It’s as if it was made just for you, and only for my eyes to see.”

His fingers gently glided over the fabric, a seemingly casual gesture that concealed a deeper intensity. He leaned in and whispered, “If I didn't know any better, I would have loved the idea of tracing a long stripe along your spine from top to bottom with my tongue.”

“W-what...!”

“Don’t worry about the backless design! It just makes you all the more gorg!” he murmured, eyes glinting with a fervor that made it clear he wasn’t just talking about the clothes. The prefect felt a mix of flattery and unease, as if trapped in the intensity of his admiration. “I knew this would suit you perfectly,” he added, his voice dropping to a whisper, “because I know you better than anyone else ever could.”

The prefect decided to trust Cater's words and go with the outfit. They stood in the center of the backdrop sweep, earning a thumbs-up from Diamond behind Vil.

While the photoshoot progressed, the prefect couldn't shake the feeling that Vil’s gaze was more than just professional scrutiny. It was like a burning spotlight, focused solely on them, as if the world around them had faded into mere shadows. Each click of the camera captured more than just an image; it was as if Vil’s attentive eyes were leaving an imprint on the scene.

Cater, once again, instructs them to pose in a series of increasingly suggestive positions. “Tilt your head a little more, prefect. Yes, just like that,” he says, his tone both sweet and unsettling. “Now, arch your back slightly. Perfect, perfect!”

The prefect follows each instruction, moving fluidly from one alluring pose to the next. With every shift, both boys' attention never wavers; their eyes drink in the sight as if committing it to memory.

₊˚✩彡

With the final session drawing to a close, the prefect feels a sense of relief wash over them. Cater begins helping with the packing, while Vil tidies up the makeup table. As they enter the changing room, a wave of comfort envelops them upon making eye contact with their reflection in the mirror.

Reflecting on their initial reaction to the clothing, they realize that they have grown more confident in their choice. While it might not be something they would wear daily, the entire experience has been enjoyable, and they feel they have discovered a new side of themselves.

Lost in admiration of their reflection, the prefect doesn't notice Vil quietly entering the changing room and silently drawing the curtains closed. He steps right behind them, placing a hand on each of their shoulders.

I just can't get you out of my head Your loving is all I think about

The unexpected contact catches them off guard, leaving them uncertain of his next move. Before they can utter a word, Vil leans in and kisses the back of their neck, sending a delightful shiver down the prefect’s spine. But he doesn’t stop there; he continues to plant a series of kisses along their spine, trailing down to the lower curve of their back.

I just can't get you out of my head It's more than I dare to think about

When he reaches that sensitive spot, he lingers with a deeper kiss. The Queen of Poisons would never kneel for anyone, but to him, the prefect is not just anyone. It is as though the photoshoot released a confined side of him.

There's a dark secret in me

With each lingering kiss, Vil's grip on their shoulders tightens ever so slightly. His breath is warm against their skin, and there's a hint of something unspoken in the air. It's intoxicating, and the prefect finds themselves unable to pull away.

Don't leave me locked in your heart

"You know," Vil murmurs, his voice a velvet whisper that dances along their skin, "you were truly captivating today. It’s as if the camera adored you, but not as much as I do." His fingers trace a gentle path down the prefect's arms, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. "I’ve watched you blossom, seen parts of you that no one else has. It’s something I could never tire of."

The prefect's heart races, a mix of exhilaration and uncertainty. Vil's eyes, sharp and intense, meet theirs in the mirror. "I want to keep seeing this side of you." His words hang in the air, a sweet yet dangerous melody that lingers in their mind.

He turns around to open the curtains. Before he leaves, he turns back to the prefect with a playful smile. Knowing exactly the effect he has on them. "Diamond and I are waiting outside to look through the pictures. Join us once you're done." With that he leaves the prefect in a frozen state in the middle of the tiny dressing room.

"... what just happened."

₊˚✩彡

It took a moment for the prefect to step out of the small changing room. After everything that had happened, they needed a moment to breathe. They noticed the duo huddled over a laptop, sifting through the photos taken. As both boys spotted them approaching, Cater swiftly pulled the prefect by the arm to view the images together.

Diamond held onto their arm firmly, while Schoenheit wrapped his arm around their waist. With both standing uncomfortably close, almost anchoring them in place, they examined the pictures with keen interest. Some of the images were stunning, leaving the prefect in awe of how truly remarkable they turned out.

However, an unsettling feeling lingered as they realized some photos captured angles that felt too.. provocative. They were aware that the poses Cater had suggested were quite daring, but they never anticipated it would reach this level in these angles.

Cater’s grip was gentle yet domineering, his fingers brushing against their skin with tenderness. Vil’s arm around their waist was like a velvet chain, both comforting and unyielding, keeping them right where he wanted them. The prefect couldn’t help but notice the intensity in their eyes, a mixture of admiration and something darker, as they scrutinized each photograph.

Cater leaned closer, his voice barely a whisper, “Aren’t they just perfect? Every shot is like a masterpiece with you in it!” His words were sweet, but there was an undeniable edge to them, a hint of something not quite right. Vil nodded in agreement, his gaze never leaving the prefect, as if committing every detail to memory. “It’s only natural for us to capture every facet of your beauty, isn’t it?” he said, his tone smooth as silk yet laced with an unmistakable fervor.

The prefect could feel their heart racing, a mixture of flattery and unease twisting within them. The world seemed to narrow down to just the three of them, the outside fading into insignificance.

Awakening did not come to him gradually, but in a violent lurch — the way one bursts from the depths when the lungs are already burning and the surface still refuses to appear. Y/N flung his eyes open and stared at a ceiling he did not recognize. Dark wood. Carved beams. Strips of light from a brazier dying somewhere behind a screen. The air smelled of incense and stale blood. Foreign air. Foreign scent.

He tried to sit up, and his body answered with such pain that his vision swam. His back. His back burned as though the skin had been flayed off and the wound then seared with something hot and rough. Y/N froze halfway, propped on trembling arms, and in that moment it came.

Not a memory. A blow.

Images flooded his consciousness — alien, repulsive, vivid to the point of nausea. There he was (not him, the body's previous owner) walking down a corridor, hips swaying like a courtesan in a cheap tea house, fingers reaching for the sleeve of a tall man with an icy gaze. There he was, whispering breathily, offering to "warm the master's bed." There he was, flying to the floor from a short, contemptuous shove. And there — the executioners, the bench, thirty strokes of the cane across his back for slipping something into the healer's tea. Xiao Yi. The name surfaced together with a face: pale, delicate, with the eyes of a doe and a smile that made Y/N's — the real Y/N's — jaw clench.

He had read this novel. Before sleep. The last thing he remembered before waking was a phone screen glowing in the darkness, and the irritation of yet another chapter in which the main villain (this very one, with the swaying hips) yet again schemed against the "white moonlight," and Regent Chen Mo yet again punished him with cold, ritual cruelty. The plot was stupid, predictable, but something about it hooked him. Maybe the atmosphere. Maybe the way the author described the Regent's hands — long fingers, always calm, even when they gripped a sword hilt.

Now those hands existed in the same reality as he did.

"Awake, young master?" came a creaking voice from the door.

Y/N jerked and instantly regretted it: his back exploded with pain. Slowly, controlling every movement, he turned his head. In the doorway stood an old woman with a wrinkled face and clouded eyes — not blind, but nearly. In her hands she held a clay bowl of something that smelled of herbs and rancid fat.

"Ordered to apply the salve," she said without any expression. "Lie still. I'll be quick."

She did not ask permission. She simply approached, flung back the blood-soaked coverlet, and set to work — roughly, deftly, without a shadow of sympathy. Y/N gritted his teeth. The cold ointment touched the welts, and he nearly screamed.

"How many?" he forced out when his voice returned.

"How many what?" the old woman did not understand.

"Strokes."

She grunted.

"Thirty. The Lord Regent was merciful. It could have been fifty." She smeared the salve without concern for the patient's pain. "You'd best lie quiet, young master, and stop angering your future husband. You might not survive the next time."

She left as silently as she had appeared, leaving behind the scent of herbs and the sensation of clammy cold on his back. Y/N remained lying there, staring at the ceiling and sifting through what he knew.

The novel's plot was already in motion. The body he found himself in had already managed to do plenty: nasty tricks aimed at Xiao Yi, attempts to seduce the Regent, some intrigues with the servants. Chen Mo had already meted out punishment — thirty strokes, publicly, in the estate courtyard. The "white lotus" Xiao Yi had surely stood nearby, watching with his innocent eyes as the executioners worked. And the Regent... the Regent had watched the flogging with the same expression he wore when reviewing tax reports or maps of military campaigns. Nothing personal. Ritual.

And according to the plot, this ritual was supposed to repeat until, one day, Chen Mo would kill his persistent spouse. Quickly, without emotion. Simply because he had crossed a line.

Y/N closed his eyes. Fine. He knew the plot. That meant he knew what not to do.

Do not approach the Regent. Do not seek encounters. Do not get entangled in intrigues. Do not cross paths with Xiao Yi. Become invisible — as much as was possible for a person whose name was already written into a marriage contract.

The plan was simple and, as it seemed to Y/N, the only correct one. He was a sensible person. He would not repeat the mistakes of the body's previous owner, who, judging by the memories, was not just stupid but pathologically incapable of learning from his mistakes. The swaying walk, the oily smiles, the theatrical hints — it all worked against him like a rusted mechanism that was impossible to fix, yet one that the previous owner kept trying to wind up over and over.

Y/N had no intention of winding up such a mechanism.

The first steps around the room were difficult — his back still ached, the wounds healing slowly. But he noticed something immediately upon rising from the bed and walking to the window: the body remembered. The muscles themselves tried to move in a certain way — hips slightly forward, shoulders back, chin lifted, steps from the hip, smooth and fluid like a snake hypnotizing its prey. It was so unnatural to Y/N himself that it made him shudder. He stopped in the middle of the room and forced himself to walk again. Heavier. Simpler. Without that foxy grace, without the attempt to coil around invisible legs. Step — a firm placement of the foot. Step — weight shifted without unnecessary movement. Step — shoulders still, hips not swaying.

The body resisted. The muscles ached, accustomed to a different mechanics. But Y/N was stubborn. He walked from wall to wall until the gait became his own — maybe not perfect, but human. Not animalistic. Not alluring.

The servants, rare in this wing of the estate, began glancing sidelong at him by the third day. He caught their looks — quick, surprised, cast from under their brows. They said nothing, but Y/N read the bewilderment in their faces. The young master had changed. The young master no longer floated down the corridor like a whore searching for a client. The young master walked as if he knew where he was heading.

He didn't know. But let them think that he did.

The first encounter with Xiao Yi happened on the fourth day.

Y/N went out into the garden — that very one, with the stunted pines and the dry stream — hoping for a quarter hour of silence. He was sitting on a stone bench, his face turned to the stingy autumn sun, when he heard footsteps on the gravel. Light, almost weightless. That is how those who wish to seem harmless walk.

"Young master," crooned a voice, soft as a silk pillow. "Are you feeling better?"

Y/N opened his eyes.

Xiao Yi stood three paces from him, and the sun shone at his back, outlining his silhouette with a bright halo — a picture worthy of a novel's illustration. A white hanfu with pale blue embroidery, hair gathered in a simple knot, in his hands a woven basket with some herbs. Skin like porcelain, almost translucent at the temples. Eyes — large, moist, with a hazy film, like a doe's that had accidentally wandered into a human dwelling.

In the novel, this gaze was described as "innocent, touched by a gentle sadness." Y/N, looking at it in person, saw something else: calculation. Cold, honed, like the blade of a scalpel hidden beneath silk.

"Thank you, better," he replied, trying to keep his voice neutral.

"I was so worried," Xiao Yi pressed his free hand to his chest, and the gesture was perfectly rehearsed: fingers trembling slightly, lashes lowered. "When the Lord Regent ordered you punished... I tried to soften his anger, but he was adamant. You must understand — he is not cruel, it is just that duty to the country demands firmness from him."

Y/N watched this performance, and inside him, slowly, like a bubble rising from the bottom of a swamp, a mixture of irony and disgust welled up. "Tried to soften his anger." Of course. As if he would believe that.

"I understand," he said.

"Truly?" Xiao Yi raised his eyes, and something flickered in them — for a split second, before the innocent haze returned. Surprise. Light, almost imperceptible. He had expected a different reaction. Spite. Resentment. Tears. The body's previous owner would surely have made a scene — would have screamed, accused, spat venom. But this one simply nodded and said "I understand." It did not fit the pattern.

"I am glad," the healer smiled, and the smile was like glaze on a stale cake: sweet, but not hiding what lay beneath. "I was afraid you would hold a grudge against me. After all, it is because of me that you..."

He broke off, biting his lip — a perfectly calculated pause portraying embarrassment. Y/N nearly snorted. Seriously, dude? You think this works?

"Not because of you," he said, and his voice was even, like water in a bowl. "Because of myself. I was foolish. Now I understand my mistakes."

Xiao Yi blinked. Slowly. Like a lizard that had noticed something unexpected.

"You are... different," he uttered, and the compliment sounded almost like a question.

"People change," Y/N shrugged. "Forgive me, I must go. My back still hurts — sitting for long is difficult."

He rose — smoothly, but without the former feline grace — and walked away. With a heavy, confident stride. Without looking back. Feeling the healer's gaze on his back — no longer meek, no longer innocent. Studying. Appraising. Dangerous.

The first meeting with Chen Mo occurred a day later — and in a manner entirely unlike what Y/N had planned.

He was walking along the covered gallery, returning from the garden to his chambers, when at a crossing of corridors he ran straight into the Regent. In the most literal sense: lost in thought, staring at his feet, and bumped his shoulder into someone's chest.

He raised his eyes. Met the gaze of Chen Mo.

Up close, the Regent looked different than in the memories of the former owner. Tall — taller than he had imagined. Black hair, smoothly combed back and tied into a knot at the nape, revealed a face that would have been handsome were it not for the scar. It stretched from the left temple, crossed the cheekbone, and disappeared somewhere under the collar — a long, even line, whether from a sword or an arrow. The skin around the scar was slightly darker, making it resemble a crack in a porcelain mask.

But more terrifying than the scar were the eyes. They did not bore, did not pierce, did not burn — all those verbs from the novel missed the mark. They simply... saw. They looked at you, and you felt transparent. As if all your thoughts, fears, secrets were written right on your forehead in large print, and only you yourself considered them hidden.

"Forgive me," said Y/N, stepping back a pace. "I wasn't watching my step."

The Regent did not answer. He simply stood and looked. The pause stretched — first to awkwardness, then to anxiety. Y/N felt goosebumps running down his back, over the healing welts. He was already about to apologize again and retreat when Chen Mo spoke.

"You did not look me in the eye."

The voice was calm, distinct — such a voice cannot be unheard, even if it sounds barely louder than a whisper. It penetrated not through the ears — through the skin, resonating somewhere in the bones.

"What?" Y/N did not understand.

"Before," said the Regent, and the word fell like a stone into water, "you always looked me in the eye. Too directly. Too insistently. As if you were trying to find something. Now you look at the floor."

Y/N swallowed. The previous owner's memories obligingly presented an image: there he is, the former one, standing before the Regent, chin tilted up, and staring, staring, staring — with an oily, beckoning, openly hungry look. Trying to seduce with a gaze. Trying to find reciprocity. Trying...

"I have changed," he said, repeating the phrase he had already used with the healer.

"I see." The Regent tilted his head slightly to the side, and the movement had something avian about it — sharp, precise, predatory. "The changes are noticeable. Your gait. Your gaze. You no longer try to touch me."

The last phrase sounded almost like a reproach. Almost.

"You were right," said Y/N, carefully choosing his words. "I behaved unworthily. I realized it and decided to improve."

"In five days?"

"Sometimes one is enough."

He did not know where this audacity had come from. Perhaps the remnants of irony, which had always been his defense mechanism. Perhaps an instinct suggesting that submission and flattery were what the Regent expected, and therefore the exact opposite might work better.

Chen Mo was silent. The corridor was quiet — only somewhere in the distance a floorboard creaked under the feet of an unseen servant. Then the Regent took a step. One. Closing the distance between them to half an outstretched arm.

"You are right," he said. "Sometimes one is enough."

And he walked on. Simply passed by Y/N and continued on his way, as if nothing had happened. The dark robe glided over the stone slabs, and the scent of sandalwood, barely perceptible, melted into the air.

Y/N remained standing. His heart was hammering somewhere in his throat. He could not understand what frightened him more: that the Regent had noticed the changes, or that he deemed them worthy of mention. Chen Mo, who had slaughtered entire villages, did not waste words on trifles. If he spoke — it meant he had taken note. If he had taken note — it meant Y/N was now within his field of attention.

This was precisely what he had been trying to avoid.

Three days passed after the encounter in the gallery. Three days during which Y/N left his room less and less, trying to become even more inconspicuous — a shadow among shadows, dust on a windowsill, unworthy of a stranger's glance. He almost believed that the meeting with the Regent had been an accident, bearing no consequences.

He was mistaken.

A servant appeared on the morning of the fourth day — not the old woman with the salve, but a young lad with the impassive face of a professional announcer.

"The Lord Regent invites you to dinner," he said, and it was not a question.

A chill settled inside Y/N. An invitation from the Regent was no invitation. An order. He could have refused, citing his sore back, but that would delay the inevitable, not cancel it. Chen Mo did not forget. Chen Mo did not forgive evasion.

"Fine," he said. "I will come."

The dining hall was smaller than he expected — not the ceremonial one, but a private one, for a narrow circle. And today that circle consisted of two: him and the Regent. A low table laden with dishes, two sitting cushions opposite each other, and no one else. Even the servants, having served the food, disappeared behind the door, leaving them alone.

"Sit," said Chen Mo, without raising his eyes. He was already seated at the table, sorting through some scrolls, and looked as if he had invited not a future spouse, but a junior official for a routine report.

Y/N sat. Silently. Not moving. Waiting.

"Eat."

He picked up his chopsticks. The food was excellent — thinly sliced duck in honey sauce, rice balls with sesame, stewed vegetables exuding the aroma of ginger and soy sauce. But Y/N ate mechanically, not tasting it. Every bite stuck in his throat, because the Regent was not eating. He simply sat and watched.

It was not a gaze — a gaze glides, assesses, gets distracted. This was observation. Methodical, calm, like that of a naturalist studying a new species. Chen Mo watched how Y/N held the chopsticks (more firmly than before, not dropping them, not playing with them, not trying to touch his fingers across the table). How he chewed (slowly, not slurping, not talking with his mouth full — the previous owner hadn't done that). How he sat (straight back, shoulders squared, but not provocatively — just level). How he kept silent.

"You keep silent," the Regent uttered after a long minute. There was no question in his voice — only a statement of fact.

"I'm eating," Y/N replied.

"Before, you talked incessantly. About my appearance. About my hands. About how cold you were sleeping alone."

Y/N nearly choked. The previous owner's memories came alive again, thrusting forth a picture: he (the former) leans across the table, chest forward, lashes fluttering, and coos something about "the Lord Regent's strong fingers that hold a brush so skillfully." God.

"I understood that it was... inappropriate," he said, carefully wiping his mouth with a napkin.

"Inappropriate," Chen Mo repeated, and something in his tone changed — almost imperceptibly, like a crack running through ice. "You have become silent. Restrained. You no longer try to climb into my bed. You no longer look at me as if you want to swallow me."

"I have realized my mistakes, Lord Regent."

"Stop."

Y/N froze.

"Stop calling me 'Lord Regent' in that tone," Chen Mo continued, and his gaze grew a degree sharper. "You pronounce it as if I were your employer. Before, you purred 'my lord' in a way that made the servants blush."

Y/N felt the corner of his lip twitch — not a smile, more like a shadow of irony he hadn't managed to suppress. Yeah, he thought, the former me was a real piece of work.

"Perhaps I decided that the servants' nerves should be spared," he said.

The Regent blinked.

A pause hung in the room — thin as a silk thread stretched between two interlocutors. Chen Mo looked at him, and something in his face was changing. Slowly, almost imperceptibly. A predator who thought he knew his prey, and suddenly discovered that the prey had grown spines.

"You are joking," said the Regent. "With me. You have never joked with me before."

"There are many things I didn't do before."

Chen Mo set the scroll aside. For the first time during the entire dinner, he shifted his full attention to the person sitting opposite. His fingers — long, calm, the very ones the novel had described with such breathless admiration — came to rest on the table, palms down. The scar on his cheekbone seemed darker in the soft light of the brazier.

"What else have you stopped doing?" he asked. And it was not a rhetorical question. He was genuinely interested.

Y/N held his gaze. Didn't look away, didn't lower his eyes — just looked back. Not challengingly, not coquettishly. Calmly. As an equal.

"I have stopped trying to be who I am not," he said. "And stopped believing in what I see."

"And what is it that you see?"

Y/N fell silent. The answer was on his tongue — I see that your healer is playing a role — but he could not say it. Not yet. Not here. Not now.

"I don't know yet," he replied. "But it is no longer what it was before."

The Regent looked at him for a long time. Then he picked up his chopsticks and, for the first time during the entire dinner, placed a morsel of food onto his own plate.

"Stay for supper," he said in a tone that brooked no objection. "Here."

And Y/N understood: this was not an invitation. It was an order. But for the first time ever, the Regent's orders were not tied to punishment. For now.

The second encounter with Xiao Yi happened two days after the dinner, and it was even more telling than the first.

Y/N was sitting in the library — a vast hall with carved shelves, smelling of old paper and dust. He was searching for maps of the area — not because he was planning a new escape (although thoughts of it still smoldered somewhere at the back of his mind), but because he wanted to understand the geography of this world. Knowledge was a weapon, and he was in need of it.

The door opened without a knock. Xiao Yi entered — with the same basket, the same innocent smile.

"Young master," he purred. "I have been looking for you everywhere."

"You've found me," said Y/N, not looking up from the scroll. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Xiao Yi drew closer, and his steps were soundless — fitting, for a healer accustomed to walking quietly. He stopped at the edge of the table and placed his basket on a free corner.

"I heard the Lord Regent invited you to dinner," he said, and his smile did not waver. But his voice — his voice had changed. Ever so slightly. As if steel had shown through the silk. "That is so kind of him. He rarely invites anyone."

"Perhaps he was bored."

"Him? Bored?" Xiao Yi laughed quietly, and the laugh was like the ring of a porcelain bell: beautiful, but false. "You do not know him at all if you think that. Chen Mo knows no boredom. He always has business. Important business." He paused, and the next sentence was dropped as if in passing: "I was with him last night. He asked me to check his pulse. He says he has been sleeping poorly these last days."

It was a blow. Subtle, precise, calculated for jealousy. I was with him. At night. He asked for me. He trusts me. The classic "white moonlight" tactic from the novel — sow doubt, provoke, present oneself as irreplaceable.

The body's previous owner would have fallen for it. Would have made a scene. Would have run to the Regent demanding an explanation.

Y/N lifted his eyes from the scroll and looked at the healer. For a long time. Attentively. With that very expression — a mixture of irony and disgust that came over him when reading the novel. Seriously, dude? You think this will work?

"That is good," he said calmly. "It means you will promptly notice if something is wrong with his health. I thank you for your care for my future husband."

Xiao Yi's smile froze for a moment. Literally for a second. But Y/N noticed. Noticed how the corner of his lip twitched, how his pupils constricted, how the fingers clutching the basket's handle turned white from tension.

"You... are thanking me?" the healer asked again, and the mask showed a second crack: bewilderment, almost irritation, broke through his voice.

"Of course." Y/N set the scroll aside and rose. "You care for the Regent's health. You were by his side when he was wounded. You continue to be by his side now. That is worthy of gratitude." He took a step toward the door, then stopped and added, without turning: "By the way, about sleep. I've heard that a decoction of chrysanthemum with a drop of lavender oil helps with insomnia. You might offer it to the Lord Regent. That is, if you haven't already."

He walked out, leaving Xiao Yi standing in the middle of the library. And, already closing the door, he heard a quiet sound — as if something had cracked. Perhaps the basket's handle. Perhaps the healer's patience.

Another week passed. The wounds on his back healed, leaving behind thin pink lines, which the old servant continued to smear with the foul-smelling salve without saying a word. Y/N gradually grew accustomed to the body, to the estate, to the rhythm of life that pulsed here — slowly, measuredly, like the breathing of an enormous beast dozing at the center of a web. He was still planning his escape, but now he was not hurrying. First — information. First — to understand who was an ally here, who an enemy, and who merely a pawn.

Xiao Yi, by the way, had not appeared after the incident in the library. Y/N saw him a couple of times from afar — in the garden, in the gallery — but the healer did not approach. Only watched. Watched for a long time, without blinking, and in that gaze there was something that made one want to check whether the door was locked at night.

And the Regent... the Regent summoned him more and more often. Lunches, dinners, walks in the garden. Sometimes — simply "sit nearby while I work." And each time Y/N felt that gaze on him — studying, warm, hungry — and could not understand what troubled him more: the gaze itself, or the fact that he had begun to grow accustomed to it.

One evening — about ten days after the dinner — they were sitting in the Regent's study. Chen Mo was working; Y/N was reading a book he had taken from the library — a treatise on poisons, ironically enough. A fire crackled in the hearth; rain pattered outside the window; the room was warm and quiet.

"You do not ask why I summoned you," the Regent remarked, not looking up from his scroll.

"And you do not tell me," Y/N replied, turning a page.

"Are you not interested?"

"If you wish to tell me, you will."

Chen Mo set down his brush and looked at him. Y/N had already learned to recognize this gaze — the gaze of a collector studying a new specimen. But now something else was mingled with it. Something warmer. Or hungrier. He had not yet figured it out.

"You have changed," the Regent said for the third time overall. But now it sounded different. Not like an observation. Like an admission.

"You've already said that."

"I know. But I don't stop being surprised." Chen Mo rose from the table and walked to the window. The rain drummed against the wooden frame, and his silhouette against the gray sky resembled ink blurred by water. "Before, you were... predictable. Transparent. Your every thought was written on your face, and all those thoughts were about me. About how to drag me into bed. About how to get rid of Xiao Yi. About how to become the sole object of my attention. It was boring."

"And now?" Y/N asked quietly.

"And now," the Regent turned, and the firelight reflected in his eyes, "you sit in my study, reading a book about poisons and asking no questions. You do not try to seduce me. You do not try to provoke me. You simply... exist. Nearby. As if you do not care."

"Perhaps I do care," said Y/N. "Perhaps I have simply learned to wait."

Chen Mo moved away from the window and approached him — slowly, smoothly, like water flooding a sandbank. Stopped a pace away. Extended his hand and touched a strand of hair that had fallen onto Y/N's forehead. Did not brush it aside. Simply touched it — with his fingertips, barely perceptible.

"You never knew how to wait," he said. "You were impatient, like a hungry beast. You would have thrown yourself at me right here, had I allowed it. But now..." His fingers slid lower, along the cheekbone, along the jawline. "Now you don't even tremble."

Y/N indeed did not tremble. He sat motionless, feeling the Regent's touch — warm, dry, assured — and understood that the fear that should have paralyzed him had gone somewhere. In its place was something else. Curiosity. Tension. And — he did not want to admit it to himself — a response. His body remembered the past night in the bridal chambers — a night they had not yet shared, but which loomed on the horizon in this version of reality, inevitable and all the more unsettling for it.

"I am not a beast," he said, looking the Regent in the eye. "And not prey."

Chen Mo's hand stopped. For a moment. Then he withdrew it — not sharply, not with irritation. Slowly. As if with regret.

"No," he agreed. "You are not prey. You are something else." And he added, returning to the table: "Stay the night. You will sleep here. Just sleep."

It was a test. Y/N knew it. The Regent was testing him — would he try to seduce again once in the bedroom, or remain true to his new "self." And Y/N passed the test — lay down on the edge of the bed, covered himself with a separate blanket, and fell asleep without saying a word.

And in the morning he discovered that the blankets had tangled, and his head was lying on the Regent's shoulder, while Chen Mo's arm wrapped around his waist — possessively, firmly, as if he had held Y/N all night and had no intention of letting go.

The obsession was growing. Slowly. Inexorably. Like water rising in a well.

Several more days passed before Y/N became a witness to a scene that put much into place — and at the same time tangled things even further.

He had not planned to spy. He had not planned to leave his chambers at all that evening — but sleep would not come, and his feet carried him out into the garden, away from the stuffy walls, closer to the cold air and the quiet chirring of cicadas. He wandered along the path laid with gray stone, skirting the lotus pond, when he heard voices.

The voices came from behind a hedge — tall, trimmed, forming a secluded nook with a stone bench and an old lantern. The place was hidden, romantic — the kind that usually served for secret meetings in novels. Y/N stopped. His heart beat louder. He recognized both voices.

Chen Mo and Xiao Yi.

He did not mean to eavesdrop. Yet neither could he leave — his feet had taken root in the ground, and his body itself slipped into the shadow of an old cryptomeria, whose branches hung over the path. From here one could see — through a gap in the foliage — but he himself was hidden by the darkness.

Xiao Yi was sitting on the stone bench. His posture was unusual — not straight, not proud, but somehow broken. Shoulders slumped, hands resting limply on his knees, head bowed. Chen Mo stood nearby — tall, dark, like a tower against the starry sky. And he... he was speaking to the healer. Quietly. Almost tenderly.

"You are tired," the Regent uttered, and Y/N had never heard such a tone in his voice. Soft. Enveloping. Like warm water one sinks into after a long day. "You work too much. I told you — you don't need to carry medicines to distant villages yourself. There are other healers for that."

"I must," Xiao Yi replied, and his voice was quiet, almost resigned. "I promised them. Those peasants. They have no one else."

"They have no one, but I — I have only you," said Chen Mo, and Y/N felt something inside him clench. Not jealousy — no. More like cold. I have only you. Those words, spoken in the Regent's voice, sounded like an incantation. Like an oath.

Chen Mo extended his hand and touched the healer's shoulder. Not the way he touched Y/N — with hunger, with possessiveness. Differently. Carefully. The way one touches someone one is afraid of breaking.

"You saved me," the Regent continued. "I remember. I always remember. You are the only one who was by my side when I was dying. The only one who asked for nothing in return." His fingers slid higher, to the healer's cheek, and Xiao Yi lifted his eyes — moist, glistening in the lantern light. "You will stay with me," said Chen Mo. "Whatever happens."

"Whatever happens," the healer echoed.

Y/N stood behind the cryptomeria, not breathing. He saw the Regent lean down and touch his lips to Xiao Yi's forehead — lightly, almost ritually. A blessing. A farewell. A promise. Something Y/N could not find a name for.

Then Chen Mo straightened and left — soundlessly, like a shadow. Xiao Yi remained sitting on the bench. His face, just a moment ago resigned and meek, slowly changed. His lips stretched into a smile — not innocent, not meek. Triumphant. Like a gambler who had just made the decisive move.

Y/N retreated into the shadow and silently went back to his chambers. There was a coldness in his chest. He knew Xiao Yi — knew his game, his lies, his madness. But Chen Mo... Chen Mo did not know this. Or knew, yet still said, I have only you. And that meant the healer's position was stronger than Y/N had calculated.

But the strangest thing was something else. The coldness in his chest. Where did it come from? Why did the sight of the Regent showing tenderness to another evoke not relief (excellent, he's occupied with the healer, I can disappear) but this tightness, this vague, unformed bitterness?

Y/N did not answer that question for himself. He simply closed the door and sat for a long time on the edge of the bed, watching the moonlight fall upon the floor.

He was still planning his escape. But now something else was mingling with the plan. Something he refused to give a name to.

The next meeting with Xiao Yi was the most dangerous — and the most revealing.

The healer came to Y/N's chambers uninvited. Simply opened the door and walked in without even knocking. His face was no longer meek. His smile was no longer innocent. He resembled a man who had long played a role and suddenly decided to shed the mask — at least before the one audience member who never believed it anyway.

"You think you're smarter than me," he said from the doorway, and his voice was cold as a blade. "You think you've changed, and now the Regent will look at you differently."

Y/N was sitting at the dressing table, brushing his hair. He did not turn around. Simply continued to draw the comb through it rhythmically.

"Good morning, healer," he said. "You forgot to knock."

"You haven't changed," Xiao Yi continued, ignoring his words. "You've simply switched tactics. Before, you were an obnoxious fool; now you're playing hard to get. You think it will work? You think Chen Mo doesn't see that it's a game?"

Y/N slowly set down the comb and turned. His face was calm, but sparks danced in his eyes — those very ones, ironic, almost mocking.

"And you?" he asked. "Do you think he won't see through your game?"

Xiao Yi froze.

"What are you talking about?"

"About the fact," Y/N rose, and now they stood opposite each other — equal in height, equal in tension, "that I heard you in the rock garden. Ten days ago. You were talking with someone about Advisor Wei. About poison. And about me." He paused, letting the words settle. "'Getting rid of him will be even easier.' That's what you said, wasn't it?"

Y/N had been horrified upon overhearing that conversation late in the evening the previous day in the garden. It had made his entire body tense; it was becoming ever more dangerous, and he was grateful to have heard it.

The healer's face turned pale. Not from fear. From fury. The mask slipped off completely, revealing what had been hidden beneath it: madness. Cold, hungry, calculating madness of a man who had spun a web for years and suddenly saw that the wrong fly had landed in it.

"You wouldn't dare," he whispered. "You wouldn't dare tell him. He won't believe you. I saved him. I love him. He is mine."

"Yours?" Y/N tilted his head to the side. "Did he ever say that he loved you? Or did you make that up yourself while sitting by his bed and changing the bandages on wounds that you yourself arranged?"

Xiao Yi recoiled as if struck. His eyes — beautiful, doe-like, innocent — now burned like two coals.

"You can't prove anything," he spat. "You have no proof."

"Proof?" Y/N smirked, and the smirk was bitter. "I'm not going to prove anything. I will simply stay by his side. And you... keep playing your role. But know this: I see right through you. And the day will come when the Regent sees it too. If you want to keep your feigned face, don't discuss such things on the Regent's estate grounds with god knows whom, and don't barge into other people's rooms with a broken mask — after all, I might not have been alone here."

Xiao Yi stared at him for a long time. A very long time. Then his face smoothed over — slowly, eerily, like water calming its ripples. The smile returned. But now it was different — not meek, not innocent. Predatory. Sharp teeth beneath the silk.

"Fine," he said quietly. "Let's see which of us lasts longer."

He left — as soundlessly as he had appeared. And Y/N remained standing in the middle of the room, feeling his heart pound. He had just made himself a mortal enemy. But at least now he knew the enemy's face.

And yes, Xiao Yi was indeed as insane as Chen Mo. It was just that his madness wore a different mask.

The escape, which had seemed the only way out, now appeared in a different light. Not a retreat. A tactical maneuver. If he failed to get away — well, he would come back. But with new knowledge. With a new understanding of the rules of the game.

Too bad the rules were changing faster than he could learn them.

However, before the escape, one more event occurred. The Imperial Celebration.

The invitation arrived three days before the event — a gilded scroll tied with a purple cord bearing the imperial seal. "The Mid-Autumn Festival," it proclaimed, "in the Hall of Supreme Harmony. The attendance of all members of the court is mandatory." Y/N, as the Regent's future spouse, was a "member of the court" by definition. Refusal was impossible.

He had never been to the imperial palace. In the novel, this palace was described sparingly — a backdrop for political intrigues, nothing more. Reality proved overwhelming. The Hall of Supreme Harmony was vast as a cavern hewn from gold and cinnabar. Enormous columns, entwined with carved dragons, soared into the twilight beneath the ceiling, where painted beams floated. Hundreds of candles and lanterns flooded the space with a trembling orange light. The air was thick with the smell of incense, roasted meat, rice wine, and perfumes — musk, sandalwood, jasmine — blending into one stifling, intoxicating cocktail.

Officials, dignitaries, generals, their wives and concubines — everyone who held weight in the empire had gathered here. Silk rustled, fans fluttered, laughter rang, and beneath it all, like an undercurrent, tension pulsed: alliances, intrigues, hidden threats disguised as toasts.

Y/N sat at the table reserved for the Regent's close associates and felt uneasy. People were watching him. No wonder: the scandalous spouse of Chen Mo, the very one who had been flogged in the estate courtyard a month ago — now sitting at the imperial celebration, dressed in dark blue silk with silver embroidery, holding his back straight like a crown prince. Whispers crawled through the hall like snakes. Y/N caught fragments: "...he's changed...", "...they say the Regent no longer punishes him...", "...and where is the healer?.."

The healer was there. Xiao Yi was seated several tables away — in white, as always, with his unchanging meek smile on his porcelain face. Their gazes met. Neither looked away. It was a duel without weapons — quiet, tense, lasting several endless seconds — and Y/N was the first to break it, raising a cup of wine to his lips. Not because he surrendered. Because he noticed something else.

Chen Mo.

The Regent sat on the dais, beside the imperial throne — empty, since the emperor was still young and rarely attended feasts. Chen Mo was dressed in black with scarlet — the colors of power, the colors of blood. His hair was done up in a high knot, crowned with a silver pin. The scar on his cheekbone looked almost black in the candlelight. He was listening to a report from some minister, his head slightly inclined, and his face was motionless, like a mask.

But he was not looking at the minister.

He was looking at Y/N.

And it was not the same gaze as before. Not studying, not appraising. This gaze was heavy, like water pressure at depth. It was hungry, but not the way it had been that first night in the study, when Chen Mo had touched his face. Then there had been interest. Now there was something else. Obsession. Wild, no longer concealed, pulsing in the depths of his pupils like a second heartbeat.

Y/N felt it physically — as if the air in the hall had grown denser, as if an invisible hand had settled on the back of his neck and squeezed. He could not look away. Could not move. He simply sat, staring at the Regent, and felt goosebumps run down his back — no longer from fear, but from something else.

"Lord Chen looks... impressive today," rustled a female voice beside him.

Y/N flinched and turned. Next to him sat Lady Wen, the wife of one of the advisors — an older but still beautiful woman with a sharp gaze and a tongue known for its venom.

"Yes," he said neutrally.

"And he cannot take his eyes off you," she added, and in her voice was the interest of a naturalist observing the mating of rare snakes. "Before, he looked only at the healer that way. And now..." She fanned herself. "I wonder what has changed."

"I have no idea," Y/N replied.

Lady Wen smiled — thinly, knowingly — and said nothing more.

The feast continued. New dishes were served, toasts were made, the musicians played something slow and melancholy on the guqin. Y/N drank wine — in small sips, so as not to get drunk — and tried not to look in the Regent's direction. It was difficult. Chen Mo no longer looked at anyone else. Ministers spoke to him, Xiao Yi sent him meek smiles, but the Regent did not get distracted. His gaze was fixed on Y/N, and in that gaze there was something almost unhinged. As if he were holding himself back with the last of his strength so as not to rise, not walk over, not seize his spouse right in the middle of the imperial hall.

Xiao Yi also noticed this.

The healer stopped smiling. His face — for a second, while he thought no one was watching — twisted. Pure, unclouded hatred. It flickered and vanished, replaced by the usual mask, but Y/N had managed to catch it. Managed to understand: the healer was losing. And he knew it.

And then something happened that Y/N did not expect.

Chen Mo stood up. Right in the middle of someone's speech — the minister of finance, it seemed, was reporting on tax revenues — he simply rose and walked. Not toward the exit. Across the hall. Past the tables, past the frozen officials, past the petrified Xiao Yi. Straight to where Y/N sat.

The hall fell silent. Even the musicians lost their rhythm.

The Regent stopped before Y/N. Looked down at him — and Y/N tilted his head back to meet that gaze.

"You are tired," said Chen Mo. Not a question.

"A little," Y/N replied, and his voice, to his own surprise, did not waver.

"We are returning to the estate."

This was not said to Y/N. This was said for everyone. For the hall, for the imperial court, for history. The Regent was announcing his departure from the imperial celebration — an unheard-of breach of etiquette — because his spouse was tired.

A whisper ran through the hall. Lady Wen behind Y/N gave a soft gasp. Some official choked on his wine. Xiao Yi — Y/N saw from the corner of his eye — sat white as chalk.

"I can stay," said Y/N. "If you have business..."

"I have no business," Chen Mo interrupted. "I have you. We are leaving."

He extended his hand. Did not command. Did not demand. Simply extended it — palm up — and it was more than an order. It was a declaration. Before everyone. Before the entire court.

Y/N hesitated for exactly one second. Then placed his palm into the Regent's hand.

Chen Mo's fingers closed around his — firmly, warmly, possessively — and he led Y/N through the hall. Through the parting crowd, through the whispers and stares, through the incense smoke and candlelight. And at the very exit, Y/N turned around — just for an instant — and met Xiao Yi's eyes.

The healer was watching them. And for the first time, there was no meekness in his gaze, no innocence, not even madness. Only emptiness. As if something inside him had just died — or was preparing to kill.

In the palanquin, swaying along the winding road, Chen Mo sat beside Y/N and did not let go of his hand. He was silent. Stared at the wall before him. His profile in the moonlight, seeping through the gaps in the curtains, was sharp as a blade.

"Why did you do that?" Y/N asked quietly.

"Do what?"

"Left the celebration. Because of me. Now the whole court will talk."

"Let them talk." The Regent turned his head, and his eyes gleamed in the semi-darkness. "You are my spouse. You are more important than the court. You are more important than the emperor. You..."

He stopped short. As if he had said more than he intended. His fingers squeezed Y/N's palm tighter — almost painfully.

"You are mine," he finished. "And I will not let you go. Ever."

Y/N was silent. The palanquin swayed. The night outside the curtains was quiet and starry. And somewhere deep inside, beneath layers of caution and irony, Y/N felt that very seed sprouting — the one he had tried to tear out. The seed of understanding that this obsession was not a trap. Or not only a trap. Perhaps it was a key. A key to rewriting the plot. A key to power. A key to a life he would never have had in another world.

The decision did not come at once — it ripened over three days, while he gathered information, checked routes, and waited for the right moment.

Three days during which he continued to play the role of the calm, indifferent spouse. He attended dinners with the Regent. Read books in the library. Strolled in the garden. Even smiled at Xiao Yi when they happened to cross paths in the gallery — and saw how confusion mixed with suspicion flickered in the healer's eyes. The man could not understand why his threats weren't working. Why the target of his persecution did not flinch, did not get nervous, did not make mistakes.

And Y/N, meanwhile, prepared.

He found out that the back gate was the least guarded. An old guard named Jian — he had learned the name by pretending to be interested in the estate's history — usually stood watch there alone and had the habit of dozing off after midnight, especially on cold nights when joint pain forced him to take opium tincture. Y/N found this out simply by talking to him one afternoon — about the weather, about rheumatism, about how difficult it was to serve at his age. The old man softened, flattered by the young master's attention, and blabbed more than he should have.

He obtained a map — not very detailed, but enough to understand: ten li to the east of the estate there was a village called Shiqiao, where one could hire a cart. Further — more: a road, a city, perhaps a port. The main thing was to go far enough so the Regent would not search. And would he search? In the novel — yes, but the novel was already coming apart at the seams. In reality, Chen Mo might simply erase the runaway spouse from his life, just as he had erased entire villages.

This was what Y/N hoped for.

On the evening of the third day, he began his preparations. In an old trunk where the body's previous owner stored his outfits, he found a purse with silver — enough to live for several months if spent frugally. There was also a dagger with a jade hilt — small, ceremonial, intended more for beauty than for combat. But in a dark forest, even such a blade was better than nothing. Y/N tucked it into his belt and threw on a dark cloak — plain, without embroidery, unremarkable.

He waited until midnight.

The estate was quiet. Only the wind wandered through the covered galleries, making the lanterns sway and cast dancing shadows on the stone slabs. Y/N crept along the walls, choosing the darkest corridors, the most deserted passageways. A couple of times he froze, hearing the steps of the guard patrol, but both times the patrol passed by without noticing him.

The back gate was exactly as he remembered: a low arch overgrown with ivy, and a wooden door bound with rusty iron. Old Jian sat on a stool by the wall, his head dropped to his chest, snoring quietly. Beside him on the ground stood an empty cup — from the tincture, Y/N presumed.

He passed the guard, trying not to breathe. The door — he had checked earlier — was not locked with a key, only with a heavy bolt. Y/N grasped it with both hands and pulled. Slowly. Soundlessly. The metal slid in the grooves with a quiet, almost inaudible scraping. The old man did not wake.

The bolt gave way.

Y/N pushed the door — it opened, letting in the cold night air that smelled of rotting leaves, damp earth, and the smoke of distant fires. He stepped over the threshold and closed the door behind him — just as slowly, just as soundlessly. Then he turned and ran.

The forest began right outside the estate — old, wild, untouched by gardeners' care. There were no gravel paths here, no stone lanterns. Only trees — enormous, dark, with roots protruding from the earth like veins on an old man's hands. Moss sprang softly underfoot. Somewhere high above, an owl hooted, and its cry spread through the thicket like a warning.

Fog rose from the lowlands — whitish, dense, it crept between the trunks, snagged on branches, filled the hollows. Y/N ran through it, arms outstretched before him so as not to crash into a tree. Branches whipped his face, leaving scratches. Roots caught at the hem of his cloak; once he stumbled and nearly fell, but caught himself by grabbing a pine trunk. The bark was rough, cold, smelled of resin. He caught his breath and ran on.

He did not know how much time had passed. Perhaps half an hour. Perhaps an hour. His legs grew heavy, his lungs burned, but he did not stop. He was not running in any particular direction — simply away. Further from the estate. Further from the Regent. Further from Xiao Yi with his smile and his poisons. Further from this entire cursed novel.

Somewhere at the edge of his consciousness, a thought flickered: reach the village, hire a cart, disappear among the peasants. And then — he would see. He did not build long-term plans. He was no strategist at all. He was simply a person who wanted to live.

He did not hear the hoofbeats right away.

At first it was just a rhythm — distant, almost indistinguishable over the noise of his own breathing and the pounding of blood in his ears. Y/N did not even immediately realize what it was. And when he did — he quickened his pace.

The pounding drew nearer. Now it was distinct: a single horse, a heavy gallop, the rider experienced and not trying to hide. Hooves beat a tattoo on the frozen ground, and the sound carried through the forest, reflecting off the trunks, multiplying, creating the illusion that there were many riders.

Y/N zigzagged between the trees, hoping to throw the pursuer off the trail. He turned left, then right, leapt over roots, ducked under low branches. But the pounding did not fall behind — on the contrary, it grew louder, closer. Whoever that rider was, he knew the forest better. Or the horse knew. Or something else guided him — a sense, an instinct, an obsession.

Y/N did not look back. He was afraid. Afraid of losing speed, afraid of seeing what was galloping after him through the fog. He simply ran, until his legs began to tangle, until the air started tearing from his chest with a wheeze, until—

The horse burst out of the fog from the right — enormous, black, with flaring nostrils and foam at the bit. The rider leaned down, and Y/N only managed to catch a dark silhouette, long hair streaming in the wind, and the gleam of eyes — not human, bestial — before he was seized across the torso and hauled into the saddle.

The world flipped. Branches, sky, the black rump of the horse — everything blurred into one. Y/N cried out — not a scream, precisely a cry, short, strangled — and a moment later found himself sitting sideways in the saddle, pressed back against a hard chest. Someone else's arms closed around him like a trap.

He was suffocating. His pulse pounded in his temples, in his throat, in his fingertips. The cloak had bunched up, the hood had fallen, and the cold air seared his face. The horse slowed its run, shifted to a walk, and in the silence that fell, he heard the rider's breathing — even, calm, as though the man had not been racing through a night forest chasing a fugitive, but was simply out for a leisurely ride.

"There are wolves in these woods."

The voice struck his nerves like a whip. Calm, distinct — such a voice cannot be unheard, even if it sounds barely louder than a whisper. It penetrated not through the ears — through the skin, resonating somewhere in the bones.

Y/N froze. He recognized that voice. He had always known it — from the first minute of waking in a strange body, from the first memories of the former owner, from the first glance in the gallery. Chen Mo.

He slowly, very slowly, turned his head.

The Regent looked down at him. Black hair tied into a knot, but several strands had come loose and fell across his face, crossing the scar on his cheekbone. In the dim moonlight filtering through the treetops, his skin seemed almost gray, and his eyes — so deep that one's gaze drowned in them, finding no bottom. He was not angry. He was not irritated. His face was calm, like water in an old well — dark, still, concealing unknown depths.

"You thought I would not know?" he asked.

Y/N swallowed. His mouth was dry, as after a long run through a desert.

"I..."

"My spy reported to me the moment you stepped out of the gate," Chen Mo interrupted, and his voice was still just as even, just as calm. "I rode out after you. Not immediately. I gave you a head start. Wanted to see how far you would go."

He leaned a little closer, and Y/N caught a scent — sandalwood, metal, horse sweat, and something else, elusive, like the smell of a thunderstorm when the clouds have already gathered but the rain has not yet begun. Something that was Chen Mo himself — his essence, his aura, his predatory nature.

"You went further than I expected," the Regent continued, and his fingers, holding the reins, tightened slightly. "You are fast. Enduring. You did not stop, did not panic, did not run back. You ran to the end." A pause. "That is worthy of respect."

Y/N was silent. What could he say? I didn't want to die? Your healer is trying to kill me? I am not who you take me for? All those words had lodged in his throat like a bone.

"I didn't want..." he began and stopped short.

Chen Mo did not let him finish. His hand settled on Y/N's waist — did not squeeze, did not yank, simply settled — and in that gesture there was more threat than in any blow.

"You didn't want?" the Regent repeated. "What didn't you want? To be my spouse? To live at the estate? Or perhaps," he leaned even closer, and his lips nearly touched Y/N's ear, "you didn't want me?"

The last word fell like a stone into water. And by the ripples spreading from it, Y/N understood: this was not a question. It was a statement. And everything depended on the answer to it.

He closed his eyes. Inhaled. Exhaled. And told the truth — the only truth he could tell without revealing himself:

"I didn't want to die."

The Regent's hand on his waist stilled. A pause hung — long, tense, like a string pulled to its limit. Then Chen Mo leaned back — just a little — and looked at Y/N as if seeing him for the first time.

"To die?" he asked again. "Who said you would die?"

"The plot," slipped from Y/N's lips before he had time to think.

"The plot?" The Regent tilted his head to the side, and something new flickered in his eyes. Not interest. Not suspicion. Confusion. Almost human. "What are you talking about?"

Y/N bit his tongue. Too much. He had said too much. Now he had to wriggle out of it, and quickly.

"I thought you would kill me," he said, and that, too, was the truth. "Sooner or later. As you would kill anyone who stands in your way. You are the Regent. You slaughter entire villages. And I am just..."

"You are my spouse," Chen Mo cut him off. And it sounded like a sentence. Or like an oath. "You are not 'just.' You are what belongs to me. And I do not kill what is mine."

The horse snorted and shifted its weight from foot to foot. The fog swirled around, hiding the forest, making it look like an underwater kingdom where there was no up or down, no direction, only cold and silence. And these two — the rider and his captive — lost in the white haze.

"Why did you come after me yourself?" Y/N asked quietly. "You could have sent guards. Could have ordered me caught. Why did you come yourself?"

Chen Mo was silent for a long time. The wind stirred his hair, and in the moonlight it gleamed like wet silk.

"Because you have changed," he said at last. "Because you stopped swaying your hips and started walking like a human being. Because you stopped looking at me like a hungry dog and started looking at me like an equal. Because you keep silent, and your silence is louder than all your words ever were." He took a breath. "Because I want to understand who you are now. And I want you to stay."

"You never asked if I want to."

"And I am not asking."

His hand moved from Y/N's waist to the back of his neck — gently but inexorably — and he pulled him closer. Now they sat face to face, separated by a distance of just a few cun. Y/N felt his breath on his skin. Saw every detail of his face: the scar crossing the cheekbone — old, whitened at the edges; the crease between his brows, deep as a crack in stone; the pupils, dilated, dark, with golden sparks in their depths.

"You ran away," said the Regent. "Now you will not run. Ever." He turned the horse and headed it back toward the estate. "We will marry today."

And it was not a question. Not a proposal. An order. The same as those he gave to his generals before battle — calm, assured, brooking no objection.

Y/N sat in the saddle, pressed to his chest, and felt the last hope of escape melting like fog at dawn. He had lost. He had gotten himself stuck in this plot right up to his neck.

He understood it when they dressed him in red garments. The wedding. Swift, without all those traditions. Merely the cementing of what was inevitable.

The bridal chamber. And the kiss — the first truly possessive kiss, from which Y/N's breath caught and his head spun.

All of it flashed by in one long, blurred movement — from the escape to the fall onto silk sheets. And now he lay, staring at the dark canopy, feeling the Regent's fingers glide over his skin — still not tenderly, but no longer coldly. Exploratory. Hungrily. As if Chen Mo had only now understood exactly what he held in his hands, and the understanding pleased him more and more.

The night was long. And by morning Y/N knew two things.

First: the Regent was obsessed. Not with Xiao Yi — with him. With his new "self." With his silence. With his irony. With his walk that no longer swayed. With his gaze that no longer tried to seduce.

Second: this obsession could become either his death or his shield. There was no third option.

The morning after the wedding night arrived gray, quiet, smelling of the rain that was drizzling outside the window, drumming against the tiled roof. Y/N did not wake at once — first he simply lay there, feeling the heaviness in his body, that very sweet, aching weariness that comes after a night full of frantic, hungry intimacy. The sheets were crumpled, the pillow knocked askew.

Chen Mo was not asleep. He sat on the edge of the bed, already dressed in dark colors, fastening an embroidered belt. His movements were unhurried, precise — just like during the night, when his fingers had glided over Y/N's body, exploring, claiming, leaving invisible marks.

"You are awake," he said without turning.

"Yes," Y/N replied, and his own voice seemed foreign to him — hoarse, low, somehow... satisfied? He pushed the thought away.

"Lie down. I will order breakfast brought."

Y/N wanted to object — he was not used to being served — but his body was too heavy and the bed too warm to argue. He remained lying there, watching as the Regent finished dressing, adjusted his collar, ran a hand through his hair, pushing it away from his face. The scar on his cheekbone seemed paler in the morning light, almost silver. His movements were smooth, like those of a predator that had just fed and now rested in blissful repose.

There was a knock at the door.

Y/N instinctively pulled the blanket up to his chin. Chen Mo cast him a brief glance — something akin to a smirk flickered in it — and said:

"Enter."

The door opened. On the threshold stood Xiao Yi.

He was dressed in his usual white, but today — Y/N noticed it immediately — something in his appearance had changed. Not subtly, but distinctly: shadows under his eyes that had not been there before; slightly sharper movements; a smile that was still meek, but one that came with visible effort. Like an actor who has played the same part for too long and is beginning to tire of the role.

In his hands he held a tray with a porcelain bowl. Light steam rose from the bowl, and with it — a scent. Herbal, sweetish, with some floral notes. Almost pleasant. Almost.

"Good morning, Lord Regent," the healer intoned, and his voice was soft as ever. "I have brought a tonic for your spouse. After such a night, he surely needs to restore his strength."

He bowed — gracefully, with dignity — and took a step into the room. His eyes quickly swept the chamber: the crumpled bed, the scattered clothing, the traces of a night unmistakable for anything else. And although the smile on his face did not waver, Y/N noticed how the knuckles of the fingers gripping the tray turned white. Noticed how the neck tensed beneath the white collar. Noticed how the pupils constricted, turning into two pinpricks.

"I did not ask for a tonic," said Chen Mo, without turning. He was adjusting a cuff, and his voice was distracted.

"I took the liberty," Xiao Yi replied softly. "Caring for the health of the members of your household is my duty." He bowed again and moved toward the bed.

Y/N watched him like a snake slowly crawling across the floor, pretending to be just a branch. Every movement of the healer was perfect, every gesture refined. But something was off. Something in the way he held the bowl — too carefully, as though it contained not an herbal decoction but liquid fire. Something in the way he looked at Y/N — furtively, through lowered lashes, and in that look there was neither meekness nor care. Only coldness. Only calculation.

"Set it on the table," said Chen Mo, and Xiao Yi froze mid-step. "I will give it to him myself."

"But my lord, the tonic must be drunk warm," the healer objected, and in his voice a barely perceptible note broke through — not insistence, but something close to it. "When it cools, the healing properties..."

"I said: set it on the table."

The Regent's voice had not changed — it was just as even, just as calm. But something in it made Xiao Yi stop short. He halted. Looked at Chen Mo — quickly, appraisingly. Then smiled — even more meekly, even more innocently — and placed the tray on the low table by the window.

"As you command," he said and stepped back a pace.

A silence hung in the room — dense as cotton wool. Y/N stared at the bowl. Steam still rose from it, and the smell of herbs, so pleasant at first glance, now seemed cloying to him. Too sweet. Like perfume trying to mask the smell of decay.

He drew the air through his nose — instinctively, like an animal that has sensed danger. And something in that scent was... wrong. Not overt, not crude. A barely perceptible note hidden beneath a layer of herbs and flowers. Bitter almonds. Or something like it — faint, almost indistinguishable, but distinct to one who knew what to look for.

And Y/N knew. He had read the treatise on poisons cover to cover. "Night Fog," that was what the healer's accomplice had called it. Odorless, tasteless — so the man had claimed. But the authors of the treatise had been more precise: "Night Fog" had a faint smell of bitter almonds that could be masked by herbs with a strong aroma. That was precisely what Xiao Yi had done.

Y/N's stomach clenched. Not from fear — from disgust. This man was standing two paces away from him now, smiling his false smile, waiting for his enemy to drink the poison. Waiting with anticipation. With relish. Like a gourmet watching the main dish being served.

"Lord Regent," Xiao Yi spoke when the pause had stretched too long. "The tonic truly is better fresh. I used rare herbs — astragalus root, goji berries, ginseng from the Wudang Mountains. They lose their potency with every passing minute." He spoke softly, solicitously, but Y/N heard beneath this layer of honey something else: impatience. Hunger.

Chen Mo finally turned around. His gaze slid over Xiao Yi, then over the bowl, then over Y/N. And something in his face changed — for a split second, almost imperceptibly. But Y/N noticed. Noticed how the Regent drew in air almost imperceptibly — sniffed. Noticed how his pupils dilated, then constricted, turning sharp as blades.

"My spouse will decide for himself when to drink," said Chen Mo, and his voice was calm, but that very edge Y/N had already learned to recognize had crept into it: danger. A predator who had scented another predator. "Wait outside the door."

Xiao Yi blinked. A shadow flickered across his face — surprise? alarm? — but he quickly collected himself.

"As you command," he repeated, and with a bow, he left.

The door closed. Y/N and the Regent were left alone.

"You do not want to drink it," said Chen Mo. It was not a question.

Y/N looked at him. At the scar on his cheekbone. At the dark eyes, which now resembled two wells — deep, impenetrable, full of something unspoken. Something in those eyes had changed since the night. Or perhaps it had changed from the moment the Regent had sniffed the air and sensed something.

He knows, the thought flashed. He knows about the poison. Or he suspects. But why is he silent? Why isn't he accusing Xiao Yi right now?

"I do not want to drink it," he said slowly, "because it smells strange."

The Regent was silent. His face was motionless. Then he turned to the door and raised his voice:

"Enter."

Xiao Yi came in — with the same smile, the same meek posture. But now Y/N saw the cracks even more clearly. The healer was nervous. His fingers, hidden in his sleeves, trembled. His breathing was slightly faster than it should be. He sensed that something was going wrong, but did not understand what exactly.

"Will you drink the tonic, young master?" he asked, and his voice was still soft, but now a strained note was audible in it.

"Smell it," said Chen Mo.

Xiao Yi froze.

"What?"

"Not you." The Regent nodded to the guard standing by the door. "You. Smell the bowl."

The guard stepped forward. He was an older man with a face cut by scars — one of those who had gone through more than one campaign with Chen Mo. He took the bowl, raised it to his nose, and drew in the air. For a long time. Slowly. His face, impassive until now, changed — his brows drew together at the bridge of his nose, his nostrils flared. He smelled again, more deeply, and set the bowl aside.

"Bitter almonds, my lord," he said flatly. "A very faint smell, almost covered by the herbs. But it is there. 'Night Fog' poison. Deadly. Acts quickly."

Silence fell in the room.

Not the silence of before — tense, but neutral. This silence was different. Ringing. Like the air before a lightning strike. Like the pause between a sentence and the fall of the sword.

Xiao Yi stood motionless. His face changed slowly — like a mask slipping from an actor's face, layer by layer. First, the meek smile vanished, leaving behind only pale, tightly pressed lips. Then — the innocent gaze; the healer's eyes, which had always seemed moist and warm, suddenly became dry and sharp, like two shards of glass. What remained was something hard. Something predatory. Something that had been hiding beneath the silk all this time.

"Chen Mo," he said, and his voice was no longer soft, no longer enveloping. It was taut as a bowstring, ready to snap at any moment. "You cannot..."

"I can," the Regent interrupted. He rose. Slowly. Smoothly. Like a beast that has spotted its prey. "I can do anything."

"You love me!" Xiao Yi shouted, stepping back a pace. His voice cracked, and hysterical notes broke through it. "You have always loved me! You said it! That night, in the tent, when I was changing your bandages! You said — 'you are the only one I have'! You said — 'I will never leave you'!"

Y/N froze. Those words — that night, in the tent — rang out like a slap. He did not know this story. The novel had not described it in detail. But now he understood: there, in that tent, something had happened between the wounded Regent and the healer who had himself arranged that wound. Something that bound them more tightly than gratitude. More tightly than debt.

Chen Mo took a step toward the healer. His face was motionless, but something burned in his eyes — not fury, not anger. Coldness. The terrible, all-consuming coldness of a man who had just learned the truth.

"You saved me?" he asked, and his voice dropped to a whisper. "You?"

"Yes!" Xiao Yi cried out, and tears streamed down his cheeks — real tears, not feigned. "Me! I found you on that road, bleeding out! I carried you on my back for three li to the nearest village! I didn't sleep for nights, changing your bandages! I nursed you back to health when everyone else had already written you off for dead!" He sobbed, and his voice became pleading. "I love you, Chen Mo. I have always loved you. I dedicated my whole life to you. I..."

"You bribed the man who wounded me," the Regent interrupted. His voice was still as even, but now something was audible in it that sent chills down Y/N's spine. Not anger. Not pain. Disappointment. A dull, heavy disappointment, like a gravestone. "You went out onto that road knowing that I would be there. You played me from the very beginning."

Xiao Yi's face turned white. Not metaphorically — literally. The blood drained from his cheeks, and he began to look like a ghost — white hanfu, white face, only his eyes burning with mad fire.

"Where did you..." he whispered and stopped short.

"I know everything," said Chen Mo. "I have known it from the very beginning." He took another step, and now there was no more than an arm's length between him and the healer. "You thought I don't vet those who approach me? You thought I would believe in a random traveler on a road where there wasn't a soul? You thought I wouldn't make inquiries about a village healer who suddenly turned up in the right place at the right time?" He spoke calmly, almost lazily, but every word struck like a lash. "I have known everything from the very beginning. I simply observed. Waited for you to reveal yourself. And you have."

Xiao Yi stumbled back another step. His face twisted — now there was no meekness on it, no love, no fear. Only hatred. Pure, unclouded hatred.

"You... you used me?" he whispered. "All this time..."

"You were useful," said Chen Mo. "You healed my people. You gave information about those who tried to poison me — about your own accomplices, though you didn't know it. You were convenient." He stopped a step away from the healer and looked down at him. "Now you have ceased to be convenient."

Xiao Yi trembled. His lips quivered, his eyes darted around the room, searching for an exit, but there was no exit. The guard at the door. The window behind him, barred with a grate. And the Regent before him — tall, dark, with a dagger in his hand. That very one, with the jade hilt.

"It's all him!" the healer suddenly shouted, jabbing a finger toward the bed. "It's him! This unclean son of an advisor! He poisoned you against me! He..."

He did not finish.

Chen Mo struck him — briefly, economically, without a wind-up. Simply a sharp movement, and Xiao Yi flew against the wall, clutching his stomach. On the white hanfu, just below the chest, a red stain was spreading. Small at first, like a peony petal — then wider, darker, until it turned into a huge, hideous flower.

The healer slid down the wall to the floor. His hands, pressed to the wound, turned red. Blood flowed between his fingers, dripped onto the wooden floor, gathered in a small puddle by his knees. He raised his eyes to the Regent, and in those eyes there was so much — pain, disbelief, hurt — that Y/N, against his will, felt a prick of pity. A very small one. Almost imperceptible.

"I loved you," Xiao Yi whispered. Blood bubbled on his lips, and the words came out gurgling, indistinct. "I did everything for you. I killed for you. I lived for you. And you... you chose him." He shifted his gaze to Y/N, and in that gaze there was so much hatred that the pity vanished without a trace. "You... you are nothing. You are just a body. You don't know him. You don't know what he is. You think you're safe? You think he won't kill you like he killed me?"

"Be silent," said Chen Mo.

"He will kill you!" Xiao Yi cried out, and blood sprayed from his lips. "He will kill you like he killed everyone who came before you! Like he will kill—"

He did not finish. Chen Mo flipped the dagger in his hand and struck again — backhanded, across the throat. A short, choked wheeze — and Xiao Yi went silent. His body went limp, slid down the wall, and remained lying on the floor, in a spreading pool of blood. His eyes — wide open, full of pain and disbelief — stared at the ceiling. And there was nothing left in them. Only emptiness.

The Regent wiped the dagger on his sleeve — slowly, almost ceremoniously — and turned to the bed. Y/N watched him, unable to tear his gaze away. His heart pounded somewhere in his throat. He had just witnessed a murder. Not a ritual one, not a political one — a swift, cruel, personal one. And the man who had committed it now stood before him and looked as though nothing had happened.

"Are you all right?" asked Chen Mo.

His voice was calm. Almost tender.

Y/N swallowed. His mouth had gone dry.

"I... yes," he forced out. "I am all right."

The Regent lowered himself to his knees before the bed. His hand — the very one that had just held the dagger — took Y/N's hand. The fingers were warm, dry, surprisingly gentle for a man who had just killed. He raised Y/N's palm to his lips and kissed it — first the knuckles, then the center of the palm, then the wrist, where the pulse beat beneath the thin skin.

"I told you," he said quietly. "I will protect you. From everything. From everyone."

Y/N looked at his bowed head, at the black hair scattered over his shoulders, at the scar crossing his cheekbone — and felt something inside him shift. Fracture. Reforge.

Here he was. A man who had just killed another man. Who had slaughtered entire villages. Who was cold, cruel, calculating. And who was now kissing his hand as though it were the most precious thing in the world.

"I'll remember that," he said. And smiled.

Rain drizzled outside the window. Xiao Yi's corpse lay on the floor, and his blood was slowly soaking into the wooden boards. And Chen Mo kept kissing his spouse's hand, and in that gesture there were more promises than in a thousand words.

ೄྀ࿐ ˊˎ-

「จะทำทุกๆอย่าง จะทำทุกๆทาง」

“Where’s the rest of the money, you little bitch?”

“What, are you waiting for that savior of yours?”

「ให้เธอได้รู้สึกอบอุ่นหัวใจไปกับฉัน」

“How deep should I cut, Boss?”

An uncomfortable silence filled the room. Everyone’s eyes focused on the man sitting on the makeshift bed in the apartment. Every item of any significant value trashed or pocketed in their pockets.

A pained gasp left the withering body in the middle of the room, his eye swelling black. Despite himself, his one good eye stared defiantly at the man sitting in the center of the room. Portraying a last ditch effort of strength.

The boss slowly rose up. Eyes followed him as his loafers stepped across broken class. The crunch filling the room as he stared down at his victim.

「แต่เราเพึ่งรู้จัก แค่มองด้วยสายตา」

He slowly reached into his pocket, pulling out a short blade. It shined underneath the blinking light from the ceiling. His gaze watched as the victim began to struggle against the lackey’s grip.

“Stop struggling. You’ll only make me enjoy this more,” the lackey whispered in the victim’s ears.

The victim could only watch as the boss handed over the short blade.

“Leave a mark.” Was all the boss said. He walked out to the open door. A group of residents stood nearby—the crowd quickly cowering at the sight of him. His head was held high as they bowed theirs, not even daring to catch a glimpse into his eyes.

A sharp piercing scream filled the apartment complex located in the slums of Chiang Mai, Thailand.

And the residents could only offer a prayer to his screams.

「มันทำให้ฉันนั้นรู้คีว่า จะเป็นเช่นไร」

A round of applause set off just as you finished your song. A wide grin spread on your lips. The applause was the best part of being a singer. To hear the appreciation for your artwork. You slide your guitar to rest on your back as you got off your stool.

“Thank you, Thank you. The last song was Everything by Scrubb. Enjoy the rest of your night everyone!”

You immediately got off stage and went to the bar’s owner. She was speaking to one of her employees before catching sight of you. A wide grin appeared on her lips as she began to shoo away the bartender to handle some customers.

“Nong~!” She cheered, engulfing you into a hug as soon as you were near. You eagerly returned the hug, giggling when she pressed a kiss on your cheeks—red lipstick now staining it. “You were great, as always. Let me get your pay for this week.”

“Thank you, P’Janine.” You bowed your head slightly, pressing your hands together. Janine handed over some money that she pulled out of her bra. You blinked but took the money away—used to her quirks by now.

Janine offered you a wide grin and only nodded, “of course, of course. Oh? Nong, I’ve heard you’ve been working extra shifts.” She said, a sudden seriousness to her expression. “You haven’t…” her voice trailed off, letting you connect the dots.

The people here were even scared to utter her name, as if she would appear behind them.

You frowned, “Phi” you said with an exasperated sigh, “why would I be dumb enough to borrow from her? I’m fine, I don’t need anything.”

“Is it for Plawan then? He hasn’t come visited me in a while, is he bored of me?” She whined, obviously trying to left the mood.

“Yea. Wan… His dad,” you shook your head. “He wouldn’t want me to blabber about his business.” You muttered.

Janine nodded. “Of course. Tell him to visit me soon. I always have a spot open for him to work here. I’ll pay him double!”

You grinned and nodded, “Okay, I’ll tell him. I better go now, it’s getting late.”

“Right, right. Go! Make sure to eat dinner! Stop skipping your meals!” Janine yelled just as you left the bar.

Your feet barely touched the ground as you sprinted over to your moped, immediately mounting it with ease. You hastily fastened your helmet and rolled the handles, blasting off to return home.

You made a sharp left and slide into your usual parking spot, killing the engine. There was a sinking feeling in your stomach.

And unfortunately, it was never wrong.

“Wan,” you called out before you even reached the fourth floor, frowning at the sight of his apartment door wide open. Inside, everything was trashed. Valuables all gone. You stepped inside, pausing when glass crunched underneath your sneakers.

“Plawan! Where are you?” You rushed to the only room of the apartment, pushing the door open to see it empty. “Wan..? Plawan?!”

“P’(Name)!”

A hushed voice suddenly called out. You walked out of the bedroom to see Star, a little girl that lived next door to Plawan. She was dressed in her elementary uniform still. Her hair messy from the neat pigtails you saw her with this morning.

“Star,” you sighed in relief, rushing over to her.

Star shushed you, motioning for you to lower your voice. “Come, P’Wan is with my mommy.” She grabbed your hand and began leading you to the apartment right next door. The apartment was bare with only old and fraying furniture.

Star’s drawings were plastered all over the walls, the one thing that breathed life into the decaying room. “Mommy!” Star called out, pulling you to the bedroom.

She pushed open the door and your sight was immediately set on Plawan lying down on the bed. He was badly beaten, a bandaged over his eye. Star’s mother, Pearl, glanced back at you with a glare, her body covering Plawan as if she was protecting him until she noticed it was just you.

“(Name),” she sighed, pulling away. Her hands were covered in blood, her blue nurse scrub darkened in certain areas. “I was able to stop the bleeding but he should visit a real hospital in case of internal bleeding. I heard from the neighbors that they were beating him for at least an hour.”

You frowned, pulling off your guitar as you placed it against the wall. Pearl moved away—giving you space.

“I would’ve left him in his room but… they broke the locks. I didn’t want him to stay in there.” She said, giving you a comforting smile. You tried your best to return it.

“I’ll take him to my room tomorrow.”

She nodded and walked away, guiding Star with her. As the door closed, you couldn’t help but sigh once more. Of course those loan sharks wouldn’t honor the deal they made. They were supposed to come tomorrow morning—not tonight.

“Hia…”

You gazed down at Plawan, sighing in relief to see him staring up at you. “Wan, are you okay? I didn’t think they’d come tonight, if I’d—”

“It’s okay.” Plawan muttered, his voice hoarse. “It’s not your fault. They’re loan sharks.”

“Yea.” You let out a bitter laugh. “True. What did they do? What did they take?”

“Everything. I was only able to keep my phone… so they can keep contacting me.” Plawan sighed. “They even took our photos, what are they gonna do with that?”

“Anything to torture you…”

“Hm.” He sighed, closing his eyes. “He came this time. Told them to mark me.”

“He?”

“The boss.”

You frowned. “He came? Your debt is hardly anything extravagant, you’re always on time.”

Plawan attempted to shrug only for him to curse, “ow… I don’t know, it felt like… it was to show the others just how scary he is. He hasn’t visited our complex in two years.”

“Wait, he told them to mark you?”

“Mhm. It’s on my chest.” He whispered, looking away from your stare.

Your eyes flickered to the bandage on the left side of his chest. All you could really do was just stare and possibly hope he would heal without a scar.

“And…” Plawan suddenly added, catching your attention.

“And?”

“My face. He… he ruined half of my face.”

ཆི❤︎ཆྀ

1 year later

“Wan, what should we do with the ashes?” You asked, staring at the urn resting on the ground in front of you.

Plawan signed, pushing back his bangs. His left side of his face that had a jagged line running from his hairline down to his chin had finally healed after a full year. He frowned at the urn of his deceased father and glanced back over at you.

“Shouldn’t I just flush it down the toilet?”

“Hm, wouldn’t that clog the toilet? That thing can hardly handle your poop. You’re gonna give it a bigger shit to handle?” You joked, grinning at the slight laugh you earned from Plawan.

It was rare from him these days.

“Maybeeee,” you hummed, closing your eyes as you thought long and hard. “You can pour it over some of the loan sharks?”

Plawan frowned. “You can do that. I don’t talk to those bastards unless I have no choice.”

“Hm. I’ll do it for you, in honor of your dad being on his knees for those suits since he was a drunk.” You nodded, already having a plan of when to do it.

It wasn’t a shock that Plawan had developed a phobia over loan sharks. He practically froze up whenever they walked into the complex. Everyone living at the complex in someway owed debt to the same woman. After the incident a year ago, the big ‘boss’ that left a mark on Plawan hadn’t come back.

You wondered why he even came. The lackeys were already terrifying to most of the residents. It got to a point where they even flinched at the sight of any man in a suit. Plawan now being one of those unfortunate people.

He couldn’t even wear a suit for his father’s funeral. Though it wasn’t like the bastard deserved it. After his death, he managed to rack up a debt of 1,299,700 baht, an added 120,000 balance.

Just to think you and Plawan were almost out of those scumbags clutches. If only his father didn’t make his debt default to Plawan.

Plawan yawned, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I think I’m going to go to bed, Hia. I’m tired.”

“Course. Want me to stay the night or go to my room?”

“You can go. I wanna be alone.”

You hummed, comfortingly patting his shoulder. As you got up, you grabbed the urn from the floor and walked out, closing the door behind you. The urn was heavy in your arm as you walked downstairs to the third floor.

Your free hand reached into your back pocket, fishing for your keys when a yell caught your attention. You looked behind yourself only to get slammed into as a man pushed past you. The urn’s lid popped open and fell to the ground, remains beginning to coat the concrete.

“Khun!” You called after the man, snarling. “Watch where you’re going!”

“Move!”

A deep voice yelled. You were harshly pushed onto the ground as three loan sharks chased after the man. The urn shattered beneath you, the shards cutting into your skin. You hissed at the pain and immediately pulled away, blood and human remains now coating you.

“Seriously…” you whispered to yourself, dusting off the ashes. Your left hand’s palm was cut open, dripping blood onto the ground. You quickly tried to wipe the ashes off the hand so the wound wouldn’t get infected. “Those suits.. no respect.. should’ve thrown this stupid asshole at them.”

As you continued cursing out Plawan’s father’s ashes, footsteps echoed behind you. You glanced behind yourself to see a man dressed in a white button up and black slacks. Another man stood behind him, dressed oddly casual in comparison.

The casual man, dressed in a black wife beater and jean pants, stared you down, “who are you?” He asked, his eyes narrowing at you suspiciously. “Did you just move in?”

You glared at the man, shocked at his audacity to use casual speech in reference to you, “Hey, it’s ‘Khun’ not ‘mung.’ Why should I tell you anyway? You’re not the landlord.”

“What did you just say?” The man growled, looking ready to cross over to you when the other man held his hand up. Like a dog, the man stopped in his tracks.

“Huh? Are you his mutt?” You couldn’t help but whisper, moving to stand up.

“Hope,” the other man said, ignoring what you said, “make sure they catch him.”

“But—” Hope muttered, his glare focused solely on you. He didn’t want to let you disrespect him without any consequences.

“It wasn’t a suggestion.”

That shut Hope up immediately. He slightly bowed his head and immediately walked away, leaving you with the other man. You raised an eyebrow—wondering if it would be smart to even talk to this man after seeing how easily he commanded another.

You glanced down at the mess around you, sighing. The cut in your hand burned. You had the ashes of a deadbeat coating your clothing, you were pretty sure you could even taste a bit of it.

“You’re not in debt.” The man suddenly said, catching your attention.

“Huh?” You whispered, glancing up at him.

“I know everyone who lives in this complex. You’re not in debt, so why do you live here?”

“Oh. You’re a loan shark.” You rolled your eyes, no longer interested in figuring the guy out. “No, I’m not in debt. So you don’t scare me. Just go focus on getting your money.”

“I don’t scare you?” He asked, tilting his head slightly. You got a good look at him and was almost disappointed. A good looking guy being a loan shark, a shame. His black hair looked silky smooth, probably soft to the touch. A strong nose and almond eyes that were naturally scrutinizing you without even moving.

It was as if his neutral face was scary, no, scary felt juvenile to describe his neutral face. It was unsettling.

As if he couldn’t emote.

The thought of him smiling sent shivers down your spine.

You stepped back. Sure, he had no reason to do anything to you. But loan sharks weren’t exactly known for being law abiding citizens. And this one didn’t seem like a lackey at all. He seemed to be someone of higher status. Only an idiot would mess with someone like that.

“As you can see,” you whispered, waving at your soiled clothing. “I need to get cleaned up. Excuse me.”

His eyes flickered down to your clothing. They slowly trailed up your entire body to your face, staring at you as if he was taking you in. You felt like a mouse, staring at a cat was its tail slowly began to sway, their pupils dilating.

If you stayed here any longer, you were sure you would be eaten alive.

You quickly turned around and tried to keep a brisk pace while walking away.

“You’re staying here for someone.”

Your body froze.

“Plawan Nakhun Laedeke.”

It felt as if time was frozen. He knew Plawan’s full name.

“His father recently died. The service was today, if my memory serves me well. Shame the ashes met a fate on the dirty ground.”

You glanced back at the man, fighting the urge to punch him right in the face. “What? Are you threatening me?” You walked right back over to him, your fists clutching on your sides.

He didn’t flinch even as you got close to him, his hands still resting in his pockets. “Move out. Only residents in debt to Khun Lily stay here.”

“No.” You answered without a second thought. “I’d be a fool to leave Plawan with someone like you and your mutts.”

“You may think staying close helps, but you weren’t able to him save a year ago, were you?”

You blinked, staring up at the man in shock. The dots connected immediately as you subconsciously stepped back. It was him. The boss that ordered Plawan’s humiliation. Anger bubbled up inside you—your past fear all gone at the thought of finally getting revenge for Plawan.

“No. I’m not leaving, I’m staying right here. You’ll have to drive me out,” you said, glaring at the monster in front of you. With a shaky hand, your voice threatening to crack, you pressed your bloody hand right on his crisp white shirt.

His eyes immediately glanced down at your hand. You took a deep breath, leaning in closer as you dragged your hand down his chest. Blood coated the shirt, soiling it with blood and ashes.

“I’m not one to back down.” You whispered, pulling your hand away. “Try to learn more about me, try to make me scared of you, none of it’ll work. I’ll stay by Plawan’s side until the day I die.”

You quickly took a large step backwards, eyes wide as you tried thinking about what you just did. What you just said. Needing to get away, you only shook your head and walked away—leaving the broken urn and ashes of a deadbeat on the floor.

“Saint,” Hope sighed, walking up the stairs. His face was twisted in anger as he wiped off blood that coated his cheek. “I managed to get him—not sure if he’s still alive though.”

Saint kept his gaze in your retreating back, taking note of which direction you went. He looked back at Hope and hummed. “So long as you got the money.”

“Mhm, of—woah, woah, what the hell happened to your shirt?” Hope blinked in shock, seeing the bloody hand print that was on Saint’s shirt.

“Hm,” Saint reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. “My first gift from a new plaything. You’ll start collecting money from Plawan Nakhun Laedeke.”

“Huh, Plawan? I thought Drake was handling him.”

Saint only had to give Hope a look before the man quickly nodded. He hummed and began typing in his phone. “Don’t just collect the debt, get close to him. I need to know information about that friend he keeps around.”

Hope nodded. “Okay. What happened to your last one, bored already?”

A slight chuckle left Saint’s lips as he began walking downstairs, not waiting to see if Hope would follow. Everyone followed him.

“You could say that.”

ཆི❤︎ཆྀ

Plawan sighed, staring at the bucket of ice in front of him. The sound of music was beginning to bother him. Why did P’Janine like playing English rock music on Sunday’s? She was a bit too eccentric for his liking. The loud instruments were begging to give him a headache.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose as he finally grabbed the scooper, shoveling some ice into the glass nearby him. The patrons were talking amongst themselves behind him—speaking louder so they could each other over the music.

“Here, call me if you want more.” Plawan said, giving a faint smile as he handed the drink over.

After another hour or so, the music finally wined down to some American R&B. Plawan sighed in relief. A few patrons began leaving—it being a Sunday night after all.

“See ya, Plawan!”

“Bye.” He nodded towards the door, not making effort to look over.

“Plawan,” Janine came over, a grin on her lips. “I think I might close a little early. There’s hardly anyone here. You can start cleaning up. If anyone walks in tell them we’re closing.”

“Okay.” He waved her off, just happy to make it home quick. His phone rang just as he began putting away the bottles. It was you. “Hello, Hia? Need something?”

“What do you want for dinner?” Your voice was cheery. “I’m stopping by this Chinese shop that recently opened up. It’s the real deal, I can make a traditional dinner that my mom taught me.”

Plawan hummed. “Okay. Anything is okay.”

“Hm, okay. What time are you getting home? Should I do my apartment or yours?”

“Let’s—”

“Scotch whisky.”

Plawan frowned, looking back to see a man near the bar. The man placed his empty glass on the hardwood as he stared at Plawan. Every bone in Plawan’s body immediately stiffened.

“Excuse me?” Plawan managed to mutter, staring at the man in confusion.

The man pointed at the bottle in Plawan’s hand, “before you put it away, pour me some.”

“What happened, Wan?”

Your voice suddenly cut through, gaining Plawan’s attention. He turned his back to the man and sighed slightly, calming his nerves.

“It’s okay, Hia (Name). I’m at work, I’m supposed to get off at 11 pm. It’s only a thirty minute walk back to the apartment. P’Janine should be in her office.” He breathed out.

You were silent for a second. “Okay. 11:30 pm. No later than that. Meet me at my apartment.”

Plawan hung up the call and stuffed his phone back into his pocket. He debated what he should say to the man but decided to just to satisfy him. With a shaky breath, he slowly turned back to face the stranger. His footsteps felt heavy as he walked over and poured a generous amount in the man’s glass.

“It’s quite dark in here.” The man suddenly said as Plawan kneeled down to put the bottle in the cabinet. “Does the owner like it dark? I can hardly see your face.”

“I..” Plawan coughed, standing up as he kept his gaze down, switching to polite speech. “I don’t think it’s necessary to see the bartender’s face. If that’s all, I’ll settle your tab. We’re closing early tonight.”

“I heard. But there’s no need to settle a tab. Just put it under Khun Lily’s checking.”

Plawan only nodded. The man was a loan shark. Only a loan shark would say that… but usually one of higher standing. Plawan began to busy himself, feeling the man watch his every move.

“It’s interesting. From what the others described you as, you aren’t like anything I imagined. Or really remember.” The man downed his drink, resting his glass on the hardwood with a particularly heavy force. Plawan flinched from the sound, his body freezing.

“What did they say, you would fight with us sometimes. You were often held back by that friend of yours. Did one little visit from my boss put you in your place?” He laughed as he pushed away the bar.

Plawan quickly moved to the other side of the bar, checking the stock, mentally taking note of which liquor that needed to be replenished. Foot steps behind him caught his attention as the overhead lights were suddenly turned on.

“Wha—?”

A hand grabbed his shoulder and roughly spun him around, slamming into the wall behind him. The bottles shook and clinked against each other. One slid right off its shelving and came tumbling down. It shattered on the ground, somehow able to drown out the music.

With the lights finally on, Plawan was able to get a good look at the man in front of him. Messy black hair with fox like eyes. He had a single earring in his right ear. Compared to the other loan sharks, he looked like a delinquent—different to the type of style she usually wanted her men to have.

Did being a higher up means you didn’t have to follow the uniform?

“He really did fuck you up.” The man laughed, staring at the scar on Plawan’s face. His hand slowly reached out to grab his chin. Plawan quickly looked away—shame and embarrassment pooling in his stomach.

Janine was nice enough to keep the lights low whenever he worked his shift. The patrons were smart enough to not question it. To think he’d be getting made fun of like a kid in high school by a loan shark.

The man scoffed, harshly gripping Plawan’s chin as he forced him to look at him. “Are you five? Do you plan on hiding in the dark for the rest of your life? What, feeling self pity for yourself?”

Plawan glared at the man but it hardly packed any punch. He was all out of anger by now. Because the man was right, Plawan did pity himself. Only someone like him would get stuck with a dead father who drowned him in debt over liquor and gambling.

“I want to see you.” The man suddenly said, his free hand coming to rest right near Plawan’s head. Plawan blinked as he tried to ask what the man was insinuating but he was shushed by the tight grip moving to his jaw. “It must’ve been, ages since I last saw you. You don’t remember me at all?”

Plawan frowned, reaching his free hand to press against the man’s chest. He tried to push him away with as much strength as possible but the man hardly budged.

The man let out a breathless sigh, his gaze felt as if he was drowning Plawan. He was staring at Plawan with a sort of fondness that he wasn’t used to. Maybe you would stare at him lovingly sometimes but it was family like.

This… This was filled with tenderness and a type of warmth Plawan didn’t think was possible for someone like him.

Plawan stiffened as the man’s hand slowly loosened its grip on his jaw, his thumb pressing against his lips. He pressed down on his bottom lip, parting them open. Plawan stared up at the man in shock—wondering what type of humiliation was this supposed to be.

“I want you, Plawan. Even with the burn marks on your arms.” He leaned down and captured Plawan’s lips into a searing kiss. Plawan’s hands tightened their grip on the man’s shirt as his eyes widen.

How’d he—?

The kiss was hungry, as if the man was kissing Plawan like he’d never get to ever again. Plawan reached up and tightly squeezed the man’s nose, gasping when his lips were finally free.

The man cursed, rubbing the tip of his nose as he slightly glared at Plawan. But it hardly felt scary—just a glare you’d give a loved one after they slightly pissed you off.

“Plawan—”

“P’Hope?” Plawan cut him off, knowing there was only two people in the world who knew about his burn marks.

You….

And his ex-boyfriend.

ཆི❤︎ཆྀ

“Where is he?” You frowned, watching the clock on your phone. It was reaching 11:20 pm. It couldn’t really take thirty minutes to walk back home.

You were sitting at the small water fountain in the center of the complex. The complex used to be more luxurious until the original owner crossed paths with Lily. After that, it went downhill. At least that’s what people that have lived here for over thirty years attest.

You only moved here for Plawan. Your family wasn’t rich or even comfortable by any means. They just never got into debt by pure luck. You knew many people who unfortunately fell for loan sharks for medical debt, house loans, and other financial crisis.

To say your parents didn’t want you to move here was an understatement. But you’d do anything for Plawan. Your mom joked that he was practically your son, even if you were only two years older than him.

It was the least you could do for him, at least that’s how you thought about it.

You tapped away at your phone—debating if it’d be smart to call him again. Loan sharks wouldn’t usually follow you to work unless you leave them no choice. But they didn’t follow their own rules half of the time.

“Waiting for someone?”

An immediate frown pulled in your lips at that voice. You hadn’t seen him for over a month now—almost believing you imagined the whole situation.

“Why are you here?” You managed to whisper, still not able to look him in the eye. “Collecting late night debt?”

The man only hummed as he walked over to you, sitting down on the edge of the fountain. You immediately scooted over. He let out a humorless chuckle. Great, you certainly showed him that you didn’t fear him at all.

“(Name) Piniwat.”

“Scary, you know my name now. Should I search for yours now too?”

“Saint.”

You scoffed. “Your parents were funny giving you that name.”

“They were no saints themselves.”

You rolled your eyes and checked your phone again. “Where’s your lackeys?” The time read 11:28 pm.

“Why, did you want an audience?”

“Audience?” You finally looked over at Saint, seeing him look straight ahead as he pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He was calm as he lit it up with a lighter—leaving you to just stare at him in confusion.

Whatever goes on in that man’s head wasn’t something you wanted to really learn more about it. It must be like opening a Pandora’s box.

Seeing no point in entertaining him any longer, you moved to stand up only for his hand to grab the back of your collar. A gasp left your lips as you stared at him shock.

One minute you were staring at him—the next, you were underwater.

His left hand held your collar, the right gripped your neck. Your hand dropped your phone onto the ground as you immediately gripped at his arms and shoulders. They travelled frantically across his body.

You took a deep breath just as he brought you back up. Your chest heaved as you greedily took in as much air your lungs could bear. Saint stared down at you, his cigarette between his lips. Smoke blew from his nose as he let out a slight chuckle.

“You look good wet.” He said just as he dunked you back into the fountain.

Your legs flailed, sneakers scrapping against the concrete as you dug your nails into his arms. You tried to keep your lips closed to prevent yourself from drowning but it was easier said than done.

He pulled you out with just one hand, tightly grasping your t-shirt. His gaze was neutral as he watched you gasp for air.

“I’ll give you one more chance,” his voice didn’t waver as he kneeled down close, your nose bumping into his. “Leave or I’ll have my fun with you.”

You gritted your teeth, mustering your best glare. Your body was shivering now due to the cool air that swirled around you. “I’ll never abandon Plawan.”

Saint leaned away, pulling the cigarette away from his mouth. He blew out a puff a smoke and sighed. The cigarette fell to the floor as he stepped on it with his loafers.

“You’re already more fun than he was.” He said.

Water filled your lungs. This time his hand was pushing down at your neck, applying pressure. You couldn’t think straight and began panicking. Your body shook and flailed against his as you essentially fought for your life.

The thought of being murdered in a fountain that hadn’t been cleaned in years was an embarrassing thought.

But it was less than the fear of leaving Plawan alone with someone as sick and twisted as Saint.

Just as it felt like you were losing the fight, you were harshly pulled out. Your t-shirt had tore from the force of his strength. It was an old thing—no wonder it tore so easily. Your chest was fully free to the cool air as you coughed and heaved.

A hand cradled your head, holding it high just as you felt yourself being lifted up. You coughed, spitting out water and spit onto your chest. Your eyes struggled to stay open as footsteps filled your head.

You took another greedy gasp for air, resting your head against the solid wall you were pressed against. It felt warm. You could’ve sworn you were hearing a heartbeat. The rhythmic sound of a beating heart brought a sense of peace.

Your hand shakily pressed against the wall, your finger beginning to tap in harmony with the beating.

“Wan…” You whispered as your body officially lost the battle against the fatigue.

“High school sweethearts? Hm. If it works, it works. Whatever you do with Plawan is none of my concern—so long as you do your work. Do I have him? Mhm, I took him for a swim, he didn’t disappoint.”

Don’t be too harsh? If he breaks too early then it’ll be his fault. Did you get a copy of his key? No, I’m not at the complex. Why would I willingly stay there? Am I keeping him here?”

Can’t say. He’s currently listening in. If you’re waiting until I fall asleep—no need. The door can’t be unlocked without a key.”

Saint ended the phone call, watching as you quickly burrowed yourself underneath the comforter. He couldn’t help but smirk slightly. Were you stupid? Possibly.

He carelessly tossed his phone onto the nightstand beside him and got up from the chair. He had brought you back here after you fainted. His apartment. It wasn’t lavish by any means but it was decorated with furniture that only someone with money could afford.

The bed slowly dipped as Saint leaned onto the bed, hovering over you. He stared at you before pulling down the comforter, enjoying the surprised look on your face.

Your eyes were wide—body curled into yourself. But even then, he could tell that you had a growing anger in your eyes. Good, you would be fun.

“Did you collect any useful information?” Saint asked, sitting down on the bed. His hand slowly moving to brush your hair. “Unfortunately for you, your movement quickened at the mention of Plawan. He really is your weakness.”

You mustered a glare, moving to sit up. “Don’t touch me. It’s not a weakness to care about someone.”

Saint hummed, he moved his hand away. His eyes flickered to your neck. “It’s lightweight.”

“Huh?” You glanced down before touching your neck, noticing a collar was there. Your fingers tried to tug underneath it but it was as if it was stuck to your skin. “What—what the hell is this?”

“Don’t speak so loudly—it’s 3 am.” He reached over and pushed your hands away, looping his finger around a metallic item hanging off the collar. “Skin tight, you can hardly feel it. Does it scare you?”

“Take it off.”

“Hm. The padlock is small, to break it, you’d have to be careful to not accidentally cut yourself.” He continued, ignoring your words. “Though, if I find you with it off,” his voice lowered as his hand gripped your hair, pulling you in close harshly. “I’ll dispose of you.”

Saint released his grip on you, glancing back at his phone once it began to ring. You coughed slightly and rubbed the back of your head. He was insane—to think he actually collared you like a dog. You were his mutt, just like that Hope guy.

“Hm? He wants to talk?”

You flinched when he tapped your cheek, glancing over to see him hold up his phone. He lazily shook his phone when you didn’t make any attempt to grab it. Deciding to keep him as calm as possible—you grabbed the phone.

“Hia?”

“Plawan?!” You yelled, a wide grin immediately spreading on your lips. “Where are you? Are you okay? Did you make it home?”

“Mhm. I’m okay. I got home by midnight… you weren’t at the fountain.” Plawan sighed slightly. “I’m sorry. I dragged you into this mess—he has you, right?”

You glanced over at Saint, seeing him tilt his head at your gaze. He looked unfazed by your eyes. You quickly looked away. “It’s ok. I can handle myself. Who are you with? They aren’t bothering you, yea?”

“Plawan is the safest he can be right now. Hope wouldn’t hurt his little boyfriend,” Saint suddenly chimed in. “Oh, of course, unless I tell him to. Maybe then you should be worried.”

“You…” You glared at Saint, wanting nothing more to strangle him to death. “Little boyfriend? Did you sell Plawan into—” the thought made you sick to your stomach that you couldn’t even finish it.

“Hia! It’s not like that.” Plawan quickly placated you. “I know Khun Hope.”

“Khun Hope?” A voice said, startling Plawan. “I’m suddenly Khun Hope?”

You frowned. That voice sounded familiar. “That mutt guy?” You whispered, hearing Plawan say something to Hope that you couldn’t decipher.

“I’m ok, Hia (Name). There was a pearl on the ground that I came across earlier. Before I came home I saw a black bird and this guy selling pig meat so late at night, weird right?”

“Mhm.” Pearl, Nok, and Muu. You let out a slight sigh in relief. Those three would be able to watch that mutt for you. Until you found a way out at least. “Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow. Tell that mutt that if you have any new scars I’ll kill him.”

Plawan laughed slightly. “Okay. Do you want shrimp for dinner?”

Gung. “Yea. Make sure to buy it in the morning. It gets sold out quickly.”

You sighed just as the phone call ended. It hardly did anything to bring you any sense of relief but it was better than nothing.

Saint hummed beside you. “Tomorrow? You think you’ll be going home tomorrow?”

“Yes. Do I have to ask?”

“You enjoy acting like a brat,” Saint said, taking his phone from your hand. “Fine. You can go home tomorrow. It’s like aftercare.”

“Aftercare?” You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “Just let me go to bed.” You moved to lay back down when Saint gripped your arm.

“I’m interested in you.”

You blinked, staring at Saint with a confused expression. “Wha, What do you mean interested?”

Saint gazed down at your arm, his grip loosening as he moved down to your wrist. He gripped your wrist and pulled it close to his face. His thumb pressing down onto the edge of your palm.

“I’m interested in seeing how you’ll react to pain. Interested in why you risked everything for one boy. The way the blood flows through your veins.”

“I’m not a science experiment.” You tried to pull your hand away but his grip only tightened.

“Mhm. More like a toy. I’ll enjoy you until you break.”

“Then you’ll be dealing with me until you get bored.”

Saint looked away from your wrist. He reached over and grasped your shirt. You flinched and wondered what he could be doing when he pulled the already tattered shirt further apart.

You tried pulling away again as he harshly pushed you onto the bed, moving to hover over you. His bangs almost tickled your forehead. His eyes stared down at you—he was silent as he seemingly took in your face.

“Even in submission,” he whispered, releasing your shirt, his hand resting on your collarbone. “You glare at me.” His hand slowly tightened its grip before shooting up, grasping your neck.

A choked gasp left you. He mad no effort to tighten his grip. His gaze simply watching your reaction.

“I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction of being scared.” You grunted out.

Saint hummed, releasing your hand as he reached into his pants pocket. “It’s good that you don’t. Then it wouldn’t be fun.” Your eyes narrowed at the moment just as he pulled out a switchblade.

Any feeling of defiance was long gone. Your eyes widen in terror as you began thrashing underneath him. Your hands pushing at his chest, your legs kicking and trying to help you use your lower body to toss him off.

The thought of the knife touching your skin terrified you to death. A slight wet whimper left your throat. You were awaiting the cool blade to touch your skin. Until you noticed he had stopped moving.

You slowly opened your eyes, having not realized they had closed. His hair tickled your nose as he stared down at you. The knife was no where to be found. His hand was empty. The only thing you received was a slight calculated smirk on his lips.

“Thought so.” He said, reaching up to wipe away your tears with his thumb. You hadn’t even noticed that you were crying. “You’re scared deep down.”

“What is wrong with you?” You managed to grit out, your voice shaky.

“Many things. Though if I told you,” he leaned down, his breath tickling your ear. “I’d have to kill you. I’m still Khun Lily’s mutt, that’s what you call us, right?”

You watched as he pulled away. A mutt? Saint didn’t say anything else, getting up and began to taking off his suit.

“What do you mean?”

“What I said.” Saint bluntly said, tossing his tie on the chair. “What, do you really think I call the shots here?” For the first time since you’ve seen him, his face actually contorted into a human expression. One eyebrow rose, eyes wider, a jester like grin on his lips.

He turned his back to you, slipping off his button up. Your eyes widen at the sight—scars, burn marks, and something that resembled a whip, coated his back. They were healed but a few looked recent.

“You’re my toy for a reason.” He said, turning over to face you after having his pajama shirt on. “I’m Khun Lily’s toy, it’s only fair I get to have my own to relieve some stress. I think I’m quite nicer than how she treats her own.”

Saint sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He began to unbuckle his pants. You couldn’t help but watch. There were the same marks littered all over his legs. The sight made you question the rest of his body.

Compared to the other loan sharks, Saint wore a button up that covered his neck. You didn’t get to see his arms as he changed—too focused on the shocking sight of his back. Was there scars all over him?

Just how dangerous was Khun Lily?

“I get it.” You said, watching Saint. “You’re already damaged goods so you just want to make others hurt just like you. What, do you don’t feel lonely, huh?”

Saint didn’t say anything, continuing on with his routine. He diligently put away the knives that were hidden in his pants, jacket, tie, socks, and shoes in a drawer. You were uncomfortable at the fact he could hide so many so easily.

You scowled at the lack of reaction. Just because you were technically under his thumb right now didn’t mean you couldn’t push back. You slipped out of the bed and walked over to where he was.

“I should’ve known that some loan sharks might’ve had their own debts. How much do you owe her? More than Plawan’s debt? Since you essentially sold your body to her.”

No reaction. You almost pouted.

Saint began folding his pants and shirt, placing them on the chair. You groaned in frustration and reached over, roughly pulling his shoulder. He looked back at you with a slightly raised eyebrow as you began pushing him back against the wall.

“I’m not the first person to say that, huh?” You asked, glaring up at him. “Others must call you a whore behind your back—”

“Is this your attempt at provoking me?”

“You know the answer.”

Saint hummed, crossing his arms across his chest. “I’ll give you this—no one has ever been brave enough to say that to my face.”

“I have more than just words.” You said. Your hand moved up to hold the back of his head as you pulled him into a kiss. Saint immediately uncrossed his arms and gripped your shoulders. Without much effort, he pushed you away.

You stared up at him in confusion. “What? Isn’t this what you wanted out of a toy? Sexual pleasure? Is it not fun if it’s not forced onto me?”

Saint glowered at you. “I don’t have sex with toys.” He harshly gripped your face, pushing you with just one hand. You gripped his hand as you glared at him, forced to move back towards the bed. “Sex is pointless. When I could gain satisfaction from seeing you plead for your life.”

Sex is pointless? You blinked, the cogs in your brain turning.

He’s a virgin.

“Was I your first kiss?” You muttered, fighting the urge to smirk if he wasn’t squeezing your face.

Saint scoffed, pushing you down on the bed. “Why, would that make you happy?”

You grunted at the force. His answer was all you really needed as you smirked up at him. You leaned further back on the bed, purposely spreading your legs to allow your shorts to ride up.

“More than happy.” You whispered, catching his gaze flickering down your thighs. But any slight of arousal you thought he would show was nowhere to be seen. He almost looked bored at the sight as he simply shook his head and walked off to the bathroom.

You had a plan to survive Saint and get him and the other loan sharks off Plawan’s back.

You’d get him to fall for you.

Or at the very least, get him obsessed with you.

Shouldn’t be hard enough… right?

lol. Plot twist? Don’t worry, he’s gonna get freaky later. Just wanted to do a little set up. If yall liked Plawan’s PoV, I’ll add a bit more next time, but I’ll make sure he doesn’t take over you. Ask to be tagged for part 2

ps. Nok, Muu, and Gung is the word for bird, pig, and shrimp in Thai. These can also be someone’s nickname. Pearl is already mentioned. But Plawan is basically hinting that Nok, Muu, and Pearl (residents at the complex) saw Plawan get home and know that Hope is with him, meaning they’ll keep an eye out. Him telling Gung is for part 2~

Then you had stepped out of the shadows with blood on your sleeve and a voice like warm rain.

“Can I help them?” you had asked.

Batman had turned on you like a weapon. He had not known you then. He had only known you were there, unaccounted for, unafraid, standing in the wreckage of a Talon cell with trembling hands and eyes too old for your face. You should have looked like a survivor. You should have looked like another person who needed carrying out.

Instead, you had looked at the people in the cages and cried for them without making your grief the loudest thing in the room.

“What can you do?” Batman had asked.

“Comfort,” you said.

It had sounded too small for what happened next.

You had knelt outside the first cage and asked the man inside if he wanted you to come closer. He had spat at you. You had nodded like that was answer enough and stayed where you were, hand open on the stone floor, palm up, no demand in it. The air around you had changed by degrees. Batman remembered that most of all: not light, exactly, not a visible glow, not magic in the theatrical way Gotham sometimes spat up from its cursed old foundations. Just warmth. Shelter. The impossible sensation of standing in a room where fear had been the only language spoken for weeks and hearing, suddenly, a second language answer it.

The man had stopped shaking. Then a woman in the next cage began to sob. Then a child crawled toward the bars and reached for your hand.

Batman had watched you give something away. He had watched the tremor start in your fingers and climb up your arms. He had watched the colour drain slowly from your mouth. He had watched every person in that room breathe easier while you became colder and quieter, while the hurt lifted from them and settled somewhere inside you where no one else could see.

Afterwards, you had refused medical transport with a politeness so brittle it nearly cut.

Batman had followed you into the alley behind the church. Rain had been falling in thin, mean sheets. Your breath had fogged in the cold. You had leaned one shoulder against the brick and pressed both hands to your sternum like you were trying to put yourself back inside your own body.

“You’re a metahuman,” he said.

You laughed once, exhausted and humourless. “Usually people say thank you first.”

“Thank you.”

That had surprised you enough to make you look at him.

Batman stood in the rain with his cape dripping black onto the pavement, unreadable and enormous and too still. You could feel the grief in him even then, though you had not known its shape. It was old. Armored. The kind of pain that had built a city inside itself and populated it with rules.

“You helped them,” he said.

“They let me.”

“You asked.”

“I always ask.”

His silence had shifted. You had not known him well enough then to translate it, but later you would understand. Batman trusted rules more than people, and you had just offered him one.

“I don’t control anyone,” you said. “I don’t erase pain. I don’t force forgiveness, or happiness, or obedience. I can make the fear loosen. I can make someone feel safe enough to choose what they do next. That’s all.”

“That’s not all.”

“No,” you admitted. “But it’s the part that matters.”

He had studied you through the rain. “What does it cost?”

You had smiled at him then, which was unfair, because the smile made you look gentler than the answer deserved. “More than people like to hear.”

Batman had not pressed.

That was why, years later, when Bruce Wayne called and asked for your help, you picked up.

Not because you trusted Batman completely. You had worked with him enough times to know trust with Bruce Wayne was less a door and more a series of reinforced checkpoints. But he had never tried to put you in a lab. He had never asked you to use your power on someone who refused. He had never called you an asset to your face, which, for a man with contingency plans for his contingency plans, probably counted as emotional growth.

So when he said there was a case involving Lazarus contamination, you came to Gotham.

You should have known better.

The cave had not changed. It was still cold stone and colder light, a cathedral built for secrecy, humming with machines that looked expensive enough to develop opinions. Bruce stood near the main computer in a black sweater instead of the suit, which should have made him seem less like Batman and somehow did not. His face was tired in a way money could not soften. Alfred gave you tea with the solemn expression of a man who knew the whole truth and had been quietly disappointed in everyone for years.

“There have been three incidents,” Bruce said, pulling up footage on the screen. “Low-level criminals exposed to a modified compound derived from Lazarus Pit residue. Heightened aggression, regenerative instability, temporary dissociation, violent emotional amplification.”

You watched a man in a convenience store rip a steel shelf from the wall with his bare hands while screaming for someone who was not there. The footage changed. A woman in restraints wept green-tinged tears and begged the doctors not to let her sleep because something was waiting under the dark. Another clip showed a warehouse fight, shaky security footage catching a flash of red helmet and gunmetal before the camera cut out.

Your eyes moved back to Bruce.

“There’s more,” you said.

Bruce did not answer quickly enough. Alfred’s expression, somehow, became even more disappointed.

You set your tea down untouched. “Bruce.”

His jaw tightened. “Jason has been affected by Lazarus exposure before.”

The name landed carefully, like something fragile placed on a table.

Jason. You knew of him, of course. Everyone in Gotham who knew Batman’s world knew of Jason Todd in pieces: the dead Robin, the resurrected son, the Red Hood, the boy who came back wrong because Gotham had never met a tragedy it could not make worse with time, magic, or parental failure. You had never met him properly. You had seen him once from a rooftop across a street, red helmet shining under rain, moving through Crime Alley like a warning with a heartbeat.

Bruce continued, “The recent incidents have aggravated his episodes.”

Your stomach sank. “Episodes.”

Bruce’s eyes flicked away. Only for a second. “Lazarus episodes. Rage spikes. Dissociation. Sensory distortion. He becomes more reactive after exposure to certain compounds, especially when the residue has been altered.”

“And you want me on the case because I can stabilise victims.”

“Yes.”

The answer was too clean.

You waited. Bruce closed his eyes for the length of one breath. When he opened them, Batman looked out through Bruce Wayne’s face. Not the cowl. Worse. The will. The fear pretending to be strategy.

“I also want you near Jason,” he said.

There it was. The real mission. The ugly little bone under the offered hand.

“Near him,” you repeated.

“Your presence alone has had measurable effects in past cases. Victims calm faster when you’re in proximity, even without direct contact.”

“I know how my power works.”

“I believe you could reduce the severity of his episodes.”

“Does Jason know you’re asking me this?”

Bruce said nothing.

You laughed softly, but there was no humour in it. “No, then.”

“He won’t accept help if he knows.”

“Then that’s his choice.”

“He’s suffering.”

“So are most people in Gotham. I don’t sneak into their nervous systems because someone with a cape thinks they’d be more convenient if they stopped hurting so loudly.”

Bruce flinched. Good. Some anger in you wanted him to. Another part of you hated that you knew exactly why he was doing this.

Because Bruce loved like a man trying to defuse a bomb with his bare hands. Because Jason was both his son and his failure, and Bruce could not look at one without feeling the other cut through him. Because he would rather turn the whole city upside down than ask Jason for permission to care and risk being told no.

“I’m not asking you to alter him,” Bruce said.

“You are.”

“I’m asking you to help him.”

“You’re asking me to make him easier to survive.”

The words went cold between you.

Alfred looked down. Bruce’s face tightened, and for a moment, he looked less like Batman and more like a father too exhausted by fear to dress it properly. “I can’t keep watching him destroy himself.”

“And you think I can fix him.”

“No.”

The denial came fast. Too fast. You stared at him until he looked away.

“I don’t agree with that word,” you said. “People aren’t broken appliances. His rage might be hurting him, but it also belongs to him. His pain belongs to him. You don’t get to decide he’d be better without it.”

Bruce’s voice dropped. “If he kills someone during an episode—”

“Then that still doesn’t make his consent optional.”

Silence spread through the cave, wide and echoing.

You should have walked out. You almost did.

But then the footage on the screen flickered back to Red Hood in the warehouse, his body jerking mid-fight as if something inside him had pulled hard on a chain. You watched him slam one hand against a wall, watched him shake his head like he was trying to dislodge a voice, watched him turn away from an unconscious man with visible effort. You saw the restraint. Not ease. Not goodness handed down like a verdict from someone safer. Choice. Brutal, shaking, deliberate choice.

And you hated Bruce a little for knowing you would see it.

“I won’t use my power on him without permission,” you said.

Bruce looked at you.

“I mean it. Not targeted. Not deliberately. Not because you ask, not because you worry, not because you think his emotions are inconvenient.”

“I understand.”

“No,” you said. “You don’t. But you’re going to pretend you do because that’s what men like you do when you want something badly enough to call it necessary.”

Alfred made a small sound that might, under different circumstances, have been approval. Bruce absorbed it without defending himself.

You hated that too.

“I’ll help with the case,” you said. “I’ll help contaminated victims. If Jason wants to know what I can do, I’ll tell him. If he asks for help, I’ll help. That’s all.”

Bruce nodded once.

You wanted to believe that was an agreement. Looking back, you would understand it was only a strategy changing shape.

You met Jason Todd in a safehouse kitchen at three in the morning with a knife in his hand and blood on his shirt. The blood was not all his. That seemed to be a theme with him.

You had been told the safehouse was empty. That was the first lie. The second was that Bruce had asked you to drop off containment samples there because the cave systems were compromised, which sounded plausible only because Batman had a lifelong commitment to making logistical nightmares seem professional. You let yourself in through the back with the access code Bruce had given you, carrying a sealed case of Lazarus residue samples and a paper bag from a twenty-four-hour diner because Alfred had muttered something about you forgetting to eat.

Jason was standing in the kitchen when you entered, shirt half-unbuttoned, helmet on the counter, dark curls wet from rain or sweat or both. He had a combat knife in one hand, and a look in his eyes that made the whole room feel suddenly smaller.

You froze. He froze.

Then he looked you up and down, slow and unimpressed. “You the delivery guy?”

You lifted the sealed case. “Do I look like the delivery guy?”

“You look like someone who should know better than to walk into my safehouse.”

“I was told it was empty.”

Jason’s mouth twisted. “Yeah, well. People lie.”

You thought of Bruce and nearly laughed. Instead, you set the case down carefully on the table. “I’m working the Lazarus contamination case.”

His expression changed by half a degree. With Jason, you would learn, half a degree was basically a monologue. “With B?”

“With Batman,” you said, because you had not earned the right to make that wound casual.

Jason saw the distinction. Of course he did. His eyes sharpened. “And you are?”

You gave him your name.

He waited.

“That’s usually where people say theirs,” you added.

“You broke into my kitchen.”

“Technically, I used a code.”

“That makes it worse.”

“Fair.”

He stared at you for another long second, knife still loose in his hand. Then his gaze dropped to the diner bag. “That food?”

“Yes.”

“For me?”

“Alfred said someone here would be unpleasant if unfed.”

Jason blinked. Then, to your surprise, he laughed. It was a rough little thing, dragged out of him against his will. “That old man’s a menace.”

“I’m getting that.”

He set the knife down.

Not far. Not out of reach.

But down.

It should not have felt like something.

It did.

The first thing you noticed about Jason was that his pain did not ask politely to be seen.

Jason’s pain was a house fire. It filled the room even when he smiled. It lived in the set of his shoulders, in the way his eyes tracked exits, in the fury that rose too quickly when fear touched it, in the green-black pulse beneath his skin that was not emotion exactly but something older and uglier wearing emotion as armour. The Lazarus Pit in him felt like standing near a storm drain during a flood: a pull under the surface, a pressure that wanted to drag everything down.

Your power reacted before you gave it permission.

That frightened you. Not because Jason seemed monstrous. He did not. That was the problem. He felt violently, painfully human beneath the contamination, and the part of you that had first manifested your gift for an injured alley cat wanted to reach for him with both hands.

You did not. You sat across from him at the kitchen table while he ate fries with the intensity of someone pretending not to be starving. He watched you watching him.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You got a face.”

“Most people do.”

“Yours is doing a thing.”

You looked down at your untouched coffee. “I was trying to decide whether asking about the blood would get me stabbed.”

Jason glanced at his shirt. “Not mine.”

“Congratulations.”

“Some mine.”

“Less congratulations.”

His mouth twitched.

You should not have liked him so quickly. Jason Todd was all sharp edges and guarded spaces, sarcasm like barbed wire, eyes that dared people to come close just so he could prove they would regret it. But he was also the kind of man who ate diner fries from a paper bag in a safehouse kitchen at three in the morning and quietly slid the second burger toward you when he noticed you were not drinking your coffee.

“Eat,” he said.

“I’m fine.”

“Didn’t ask.”

“That’s rude.”

“That’s dinner.”

You stared at the burger, then at him. He looked away first, pretending to study the rain streaking down the dark window.

You ate.

He did not smile, but he looked less irritated by existence afterwards.

That was how it began: not with comfort, not exactly, but with a burger offered like a challenge and a knife left close enough to matter but not close enough to threaten.

Bruce kept assigning you to the same routes after that. Not openly. He was subtler than that, which somehow made it worse. A contaminated weapons cache in Crime Alley. A possible victim near Jason’s territory. A safehouse debrief Red Hood “might attend.” You were not stupid. Neither was Jason, though his suspicion aimed itself mostly at Bruce and therefore missed, for a while, the exact nature of the trap.

“You and B joined at the hip now?” Jason asked one night from the roof of a closed pawn shop, where the two of you were watching a suspected Lazarus courier enter a bar across the street.

You were crouched beside an air-conditioning unit, cold wind cutting through your jacket. “No.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“I work cases involving emotional destabilisation and meta-chemical contamination. This case has both.”

“Fancy way of saying you’re here because people are losing their minds.”

You looked at him. “People don’t lose their minds. They get overwhelmed. There’s a difference.”

Jason’s helmet turned toward you. You could not see his face, but you felt his attention settle heavier than before. “That your professional opinion?”

“Yes.”

“What’s your unprofessional opinion?”

“That Gotham has a bad habit of calling people crazy when it means inconvenient.”

The silence that followed had teeth.

Then Jason said, “Careful. Talk like that and the Bats might start liking you.”

“Too late. Alfred gave me biscuits.”

“Shit. You’re family now.”

You laughed before you could stop yourself.

Jason looked away quickly, but not before you caught the slight tilt of his helmet, the surprise of it. Like he had not meant to make you laugh. Like he had not expected to want to do it again.

You did not use your power on him. You did not reach into him, did not quiet the Pit, did not smooth the rage when it rose. When his breath hitched after exposure to residue, you kept your hands to yourself. When his fingers tightened around his gun until the leather of his gloves creaked, you stood near but did not touch. When he paced a safehouse like a caged thing after a bad fight, you sat on the counter and talked about books until he either told you to shut up or threw one at you.

But your power had always been more than touch. It lived in your voice when you softened it. In your proximity when you let yourself care too loudly. In the air around you when someone’s pain called to yours and your body answered before your ethics could catch up. You did not direct it at Jason, but sometimes the room got warmer. Sometimes his shoulders loosened after twenty minutes beside you. Sometimes the green edge in his presence receded by a fraction, and he would blink like he had just remembered the world did not have to be fought every second.

You told yourself that was not the same thing.

You were lying. Maybe not the way Bruce had lied. Not with plans and omissions and a chessboard where his son’s pain had become a problem to solve. Your lie was softer. Worse, maybe, because it came wrapped in tenderness. You wanted Jason to sleep. You wanted the tremor to leave his hands. You wanted his laugh to come easier. You wanted the Pit to stop using his body like an old crime scene.

You wanted to help. Gotham was built on horrible things done by people who wanted to help.

Jason got close to you like a stray animal deciding the porch light was not a trap. Slowly. Suspiciously. With a lot of biting.

He started appearing when Bruce had not assigned either of you anywhere, leaning in the doorway of your temporary apartment with takeout and a scowl.

“You eat today?”

You looked up from the case files spread across your floor. “Hello to you too.”

“That a no?”

“That is none of your business.”

“So no.”

He stepped inside without waiting for permission because he was rude, then paused halfway through the motion and glanced back at you, jaw tight. Waiting.

It took you a second to understand.

The big, terrifying Red Hood, crime lord of Crime Alley, had remembered to ask with his body even when his mouth forgot.

You softened. “You can come in, Jason.”

He grunted, like permission was annoying because it mattered, and entered.

He learned your tells, too. That was the danger of him. People underestimated Jason’s perception because he wore anger like a warning sign large enough to distract from everything else. But he noticed. He noticed when your fingers went numb after helping contaminated victims. Noticed when you smiled too quickly after a debrief. Noticed when Bruce’s voice got careful and your shoulders rose half an inch. Noticed when you did not eat unless someone put food directly in front of you.

So he put food in front of you. Aggressively.

One night, after you spent two hours calming a girl who had been dosed with Lazarus residue and kept screaming that her dead brother was calling from the walls, Jason drove you back to your apartment in silence. You were cold all the way through, coat wrapped tight around your body, hands tucked under your arms. You had used your power with permission. The girl had begged for help. You had given it.

Jason had watched from the doorway.

He had not said anything until you were inside. Then he took one look at you trying to unlock your door with shaking fingers, gently pushed your hand aside, and unlocked it himself.

“I had it,” you muttered.

“You were about to fight the keyhole and lose.”

“Rude.”

“Accurate.”

Inside, he made tea with the grim competence of a man who had survived on worse things than caffeine and spite. He placed the mug in front of you, then draped his leather jacket over your shoulders without asking. You should have objected. You did not. It smelled like smoke, rain, gun oil, and something faintly warm underneath that was only Jason.

He leaned against the counter, arms folded. “That what happens every time?”

“What?”

“You go all corpse-cold after doing your Care Bear routine?”

You huffed a laugh into the mug. “Care Bear routine?”

“Don’t dodge.”

You looked down at the tea. Your reflection trembled faintly on the surface. “Not every time.”

“Lie.”

“Sometimes.”

“Better.”

You were too tired to be careful. “It depends how much pain there is.”

Jason’s face shifted.

You realised the mistake too late.

“How much pain,” he repeated.

“It’s not— I don’t take it exactly.”

“But you feel it.”

You stared into the tea. Jason swore quietly.

“It’s not as bad as you’re thinking,” you said.

“Considering you don’t know what I’m thinking, that’s a dumbass thing to say.”

“You think loudly.”

“Yeah? What am I thinking now?”

That Bruce was right and wrong at the same time, you thought. That Jason was angry because anger was easier than fear. That he wanted to ask whether you had ever used it on him but did not yet know there was a question to ask. That some part of him, the part that had been treated like a weapon by enemies and family alike, knew something in this whole arrangement was rotten even if he could not see where.

You said none of that.

“You’re thinking I should eat something,” you said.

Jason narrowed his eyes.

Then he opened your fridge. It was, tragically, mostly condiments and one heroic apple.

He stared inside for a long moment. “This is a hate crime.”

“It’s minimalism.”

“It’s a cry for help.”

“You’re very dramatic.”

He closed the fridge. “I’m ordering food.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Didn’t ask.”

The warmth in your chest then was not your power.

That was the problem. Somewhere between stakeouts and diner bags, between his sarcasm and your tired smiles, between the way he never called you soft like it was an insult and the way you never looked at him like rage made him less worthy of tenderness, Jason became more than Bruce’s son, more than Red Hood, more than the case’s unspoken centre of gravity.

He became Jason. He became the man who read battered paperbacks while sitting on your fire escape because he claimed your apartment was too quiet. He became the person who fixed your loose window lock without mentioning it. He became the voice saying “You good?” in your comm after every mission, rough and casual and not casual at all. He became the one who called you Sunshine like an insult until one night it slipped out soft and both of you pretended not to notice.

He became dangerous to want. Because wanting made you selfish. Because sometimes, when the Pit scraped under his skin and his eyes went distant, you let the room warm by a degree.

Just a degree. Just enough.

The field mission that ruined everything took place beneath the old Monarch Theatre. The building had been abandoned since No Man’s Land, left to rot in a neighbourhood that had learned not to look too closely at places with locked doors and fresh tyre tracks. The Lazarus compound had been moving through the city in coded shipments, and every trail led back to the theatre’s flooded basement, where some offshoot of the League had apparently decided Gotham needed one more basement full of bad decisions.

Bruce wanted Batman and Robin on the perimeter. Jason told him to go to hell.

Bruce told him he was compromised. Jason told him to go to hell twice, with better punctuation.

You ended up in the passenger seat of Jason’s car, watching rain streak across the windshield while he drove with one hand and checked his gun with the other like a man actively trying to shorten Bruce’s lifespan through stress.

“You know,” you said, “when Batman says someone is compromised, usually there’s at least a little data behind it.”

Jason snorted. “B says compromised when he means disobedient and emotionally inconvenient.”

“Those are different things.”

“Tell him that.”

You looked at him. The greenish glow of passing traffic lights moved over his face, catching the white streak in his hair, the hard line of his jaw, the bruise half-hidden near his temple. “Are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Compromised.”

His hand tightened on the wheel. For a second, you felt it. The Pit, restless under his skin, reacting to the name without being named. A dark tide under a locked door.

“No,” he said.

The lie sat between you, breathing.

You did not challenge it. That was your mistake.

The theatre basement smelled like mould, rust, old velvet, and chemical rot. Water pooled ankle-deep across the cracked floor, reflecting the sickly green glow of containment tanks set up beneath the stage. League symbols marked the walls in black paint. Men in tactical gear moved between crates, their veins lit faintly green beneath their skin. Not League proper, you realised quickly. Deserters, maybe. Fanatics. People scavenging from sacred horrors and pretending that made them priests.

Jason was quiet in the way he got before violence. Not calm. Never calm. Focused. The difference mattered.

You moved through the shadows behind him, one hand near your belt, the other gloved and flexing at your side. Your job was to stabilise victims if any were present. That was what Bruce had said. That was what you told yourself.

Then Jason saw the tank. It was smaller than the others, built upright like a coffin, full of green liquid and suspended wires. Inside floated a body. Not alive. Not fully dead either, maybe. A failed resurrection. A test subject. A boy, no older than fifteen, with dark hair drifting around his pale face.

Jason stopped moving.

The whole basement changed. You felt the Pit in him wake. It turned inside him like something with teeth, recognising itself in the glow, in the rot, in the impossible wrongness of a body kept between states. Jason’s breath hitched once. His gun lowered by an inch. Then his shoulders went rigid, and the air around him seemed to snap tight.

“Jay,” you whispered.

He did not answer.

One of the deserters spotted you. Shouted.

The basement erupted. Gunfire cracked against concrete. Jason moved like a storm given bones, violent and efficient and too fast, dropping the first three men before you had fully taken cover. You pulled two exposed civilians—lab techs, unwilling or not, you could not tell—behind a stack of crates and pressed warmth into the air with your voice, keeping them from panicking as bullets tore through the dark.

“It’s okay,” you said, though nothing was. “Stay low. Breathe. Hands over your head. Don’t move unless I tell you.”

Across the room, Jason slammed a man into the side of a tank hard enough to spiderweb the glass.

The man laughed.

“You’re proof it works,” he choked. “The dead can come back angry enough to be useful.”

Jason froze.

Then he hit him again. Harder.

“Jason!” you shouted.

He did not hear you. Or he did, and the Pit heard first.

The man’s head cracked against the glass. Once. Twice. The tank alarm began to shriek. Green light strobed across Jason’s face, and when he turned, his eyes were not glowing, not exactly, but the rage in them had gone bright and terrible, edged in something that was not fully his.

A deserter lunged at you from the side. You ducked too late. Pain burst across your shoulder as you hit the floor. Water soaked through your clothes. Your power flared instinctively, warming the terror of the civilians behind you, calming the attacker for half a second—long enough for you to kick his knee out and scramble back.

Jason saw you fall.

The Pit surged.

It was like being near a furnace door thrown open. He crossed the basement in three strides and put the attacker through a rotted wooden partition. The man went down hard, groaning, weapon skittering away. Jason grabbed him by the collar and lifted him again.

“Don’t,” you said.

Jason’s helmet had been knocked away in the fight. His face was bare. Wet hair clung to his forehead. Blood marked his mouth. His expression was not blank. That would have been easier. It was full of too much. Rage, fear, memory, death, the boy in the tank, you on the ground, Bruce’s voice in his comm telling him to stand down, all of it collapsing inward until there was only the hand around the man’s throat and the terrible need to make something stop.

“Jason,” you said again.

His fingers tightened. The man clawed at his wrist.

You knew, with absolute clarity, that Jason would hate you for what happened next. You also knew he would hate himself more if you let him kill that man while the Pit had its hands inside him. So you reached.

Not gently. There was no time for gentle.

Your power slammed into him across the flooded basement like a door blown open by light. Jason staggered as if struck. The man dropped from his grip, gasping, and crawled away. You pushed warmth into the green-black storm inside Jason, not to erase it, not to fix it, not to make him docile, but to quiet the thing that had wrapped itself around his choice and was squeezing.

Jason turned toward you.

The look on his face gutted you. He knew. The rage was still there. You could feel it trying to rise, huge and wounded and rightful. He wanted to be furious. He wanted to snarl, to curse, to demand what you had done, to shove your power back out of his skin with both hands.

But your comfort was already moving through him.

His breath steadied against his will. His shoulders lowered. The green edge in his eyes dulled. His anger hit the warmth you had poured into him and softened before it could become sound.

Horror entered his face. Not fear of the Pit.

Fear of you.

“What,” he said, voice too calm, too even, trembling underneath because the emotion had nowhere to go, “the fuck did you do?”

Your hand was still extended. You could feel him inside the reach of your power, feel the rage trying to form and being soothed, soothed, soothed before he could choose whether he wanted it eased. The wrongness of it hit you so hard you almost pulled back.

Then Jason’s gaze flicked to the fallen man. To the boy in the tank. To his own bloody hands.

His jaw clenched.

“Stop,” he said.

You tried. The second you loosened your grip on the power, the Pit roared back through him. Jason doubled over with a strangled sound, one hand going to his head, the other reaching blindly for the gun at his hip. Not aimed at anyone. Not yet. But the violence in the room answered him like an echo.

You pushed the warmth back in, sobbing once from the effort.

Jason went still again. Too still.

His eyes lifted to yours.

“You’re keeping me calm,” he said.

It was not a question.

You could barely breathe. “I’m keeping you here.”

“Don’t dress it up.”

“I’m sorry.”

His mouth twisted. You felt the apology hit him and fail to land. How could it? You were apologising while still doing the thing.

Somewhere behind you, Batman’s voice cracked through the comm. “Status.”

Jason’s eyes did not leave yours.

You said nothing.

Jason answered, voice level in a way that made the skin on your arms prickle. “Ask your specialist.”

Bruce went silent.

Jason laughed once. It sounded almost gentle, because your power would not let it sharpen properly.

That was worse. That was so much worse.

The rest of the fight ended around you in fragments. Batman and Robin breached from above. The deserters surrendered or fell. The tank systems were shut down. The boy inside was gone in the way bodies were gone when people had tried too hard to drag them back. You held the warmth around Jason until the Lazarus residue was contained, until the active compound stopped pulsing through the room, until the Pit inside him retreated from a roar to a low, hateful growl.

Only then did you let go.

Jason stumbled back like a cut string. For one suspended second, he simply stood there, breathing hard, staring at you with his own anger finally returning to him.

Then his face changed. The rage arrived.

Fully. His.

He looked almost relieved to feel it.

“You,” he said.

You took one step toward him. “Jason—”

“Don’t.”

The word cracked across the basement.

You stopped.

He looked past you at Batman, who had gone utterly still near the edge of the flooded stage. Damian stood behind him, sword lowered, eyes flicking between all three of you with the sharp, uncomfortable awareness of someone realising the adults had made a mess with consequences.

Jason’s laugh came out raw this time. No magic softening it. No warmth sanding down the edge. “You knew.”

Batman said nothing.

Jason’s eyes burned. “Course you did.”

“Jason,” Bruce said.

“No.” Jason pointed at him, hand shaking. “No, you don’t get to do the voice. You don’t get to stand there like this is a mission that got complicated.”

You felt cold spreading through you now, the aftershock of overuse. Your knees trembled. You barely noticed. Jason’s hurt filled the basement louder than any alarm.

He looked back at you. The anger in his face almost broke you because underneath it was betrayal so young it might as well have had dirt from a grave still under its nails.

“How long?” he asked. Your throat closed. “How long have you been doing that to me?”

“I haven’t—”

His eyes flashed.

You stopped. Started again, worse and more honest. “Not like tonight.”

Jason went very still.

Batman’s head turned toward you. You ignored him.

“I didn’t target you,” you said, voice shaking. “Not deliberately. Not before tonight. But my power responds to pain, and yours—” You swallowed. “Yours is loud. Sometimes being near me probably helped. Sometimes I let it.”

Jason stared.

The silence after that was worse than shouting.

“So all those nights,” he said softly. “All those times I thought I could breathe around you.”

Your eyes burned. “That was still you.”

“Don’t.”

“It was.”

“Don’t you dare.”

You flinched.

Jason stepped closer, not enough to threaten, but enough that every line of him felt like a wound held upright by fury. “I thought I was getting better.”

“You are.”

His laugh was vicious. “Was I?”

“Yes.”

“Or were you just putting a blanket over the monster so nobody had to look at it?”

“You’re not a monster.”

“You don’t get to decide that either.”

The words struck like a slap. You had no answer.

Jason looked at Bruce again. “This your plan?”

“Jason—”

“This why they’re here?” His voice rose. “You bring in your little miracle worker to fix the bad Robin? Make me quieter? Easier? Less embarrassing at family dinners?”

“That’s not what this is,” Bruce said, but there was guilt in his voice, and Jason heard it like a gunshot.

“Bullshit.”

Damian said, “Todd—”

“Stay out of it.”

For once, Damian did.

Jason backed away from all of you, shaking his head. His anger was wild now, but it belonged to him, and you understood with terrible clarity why he clung to it. After what you had just done, anger was proof he still had something no one else could touch.

“I didn’t agree to this,” he said.

You felt tears slip down your face. “I know.”

“I didn’t ask you to save me.”

“I know.”

“You don’t get to crawl inside my chest and turn the volume down because you’re scared of what I’ll do.”

“I know.”

“Then why did you?”

The question broke open in the basement, raw and enormous.

Because Bruce asked, at first, some ugly part of you thought. Because you were afraid. Because the Pit was eating his choice alive. Because you loved him. Because you had wanted to help for so long that you had stopped asking whether help without consent was just another kind of harm.

You said the only answer that did not try to make you look better.

“Because I thought I knew better than you.”

Jason’s face changed.

It hurt him that you told the truth. Good, maybe. Terrible, definitely.

“And because I care about you,” you said, quieter. “But that doesn’t make it right.”

“No,” he said. “It really fucking doesn’t.”

Your legs nearly gave then. You grabbed the edge of a crate, fingers slipping on wet metal.

Jason saw. He looked like he hated that he saw.

His body moved half an inch toward you before he stopped himself with visible effort. Even furious, even betrayed, even gutted by what you had done, some part of him still wanted to catch you.

That was what finally made you cry.

Jason’s expression shuttered. He reached down, picked up his helmet from the flooded floor, and put it on. The red faceplate came between you like a door slamming shut.

“Tell B to find a new specialist,” he said.

Then he left.

The cave was silent after Jason’s departure in a way you imagined battlefields were silent after everyone had stopped pretending victory was clean.

You sat on the medbay cot with a blanket around your shoulders, IV fluids running into your arm because Alfred had taken one look at you and said, very calmly, “Sit down before I make Master Bruce regret several of his life choices in chronological order.” You had sat. Bruce had not argued. Damian had disappeared somewhere, likely to report to the others or sharpen something in disapproval.

Bruce stood across from you, hands braced against the counter, head bowed.

You stared at him.

“No,” you said.

He looked up. Whatever he saw in your face made him go still.

“No,” you repeated, because the word was the only thing keeping you from falling apart. “You don’t get to be quiet right now.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened. “You need to recover.”

“You used me.”

His expression fractured, but not enough. Not yet.

“You knew he wouldn’t agree,” you said. “You knew if you told him what I could do and why you wanted me near him, he would tell you to go to hell. So you put me in his path and let the case do the rest.”

“I didn’t ask you to use your powers without consent.”

“You built a situation where you hoped I would.”

Bruce flinched.

There. There it was.

The truth beneath the strategy.

You laughed weakly, coldly. “God, you’re good. You didn’t even have to order it. You just put everyone in the right places and trusted fear to make the choice for you.”

“I was trying to protect him.”

“You were trying to control him.”

Bruce’s face hardened.

You had seen Batman’s anger before. It was a terrible thing, disciplined and glacial, sharpened by righteousness. But you were too tired to fear it.

“He almost killed someone,” Bruce said.

“And now he gets to wonder whether the only reason he didn’t is because someone violated him.”

The anger left Bruce like air from a punctured lung.

You pulled the blanket tighter around your shoulders. “He was fighting it before I touched him. Did you see that? Did you actually see him, or were you too busy waiting for proof that he needed intervention?”

Bruce said nothing.

“He was fighting it,” you whispered. “The Pit was loud, but he was still there. I should have trusted him longer. You should have trusted him period.”

That one landed.

Bruce turned away.

For a long while, the only sounds were the hum of the cave and the slow drip of water somewhere in the dark.

“What did it feel like?” Bruce asked eventually. You looked at him. “When you used your power on him,” he said. His voice was rough. “What did it feel like?”

You closed your eyes. Jason’s rage. Jason’s horror. Jason trying to get angry and finding your warmth wrapped around the anger before he could choose it.

“Like holding a door shut while someone was trapped on the other side,” you said. Bruce’s face went pale. “Does that sound like help to you?”

He did not answer.

You slid the IV from your arm before he could stop you.

“Where are you going?”

“To apologise.”

“He won’t want to see you.”

“I know.”

“You should rest.”

You looked at him then, and maybe for once he saw why Jason had been so angry. How awful it was to have someone decide your needs for you and call it love.

“Don’t,” you said.

Bruce stepped back.

You left the cave with Alfred’s coat around your shoulders and Jason’s hurt still burning in your hands.

Jason did not answer the first time you knocked. Or the second. The third time, something heavy hit the inside of the door hard enough to rattle the frame.

“Go away.”

His voice was rough. Not helmet-filtered. Bare.

You stood in the hallway of his safehouse building with Alfred’s coat wrapped around you and a paper bag of food slowly cooling in your hand. It was nearly dawn. Crime Alley had that bruised, grey look it got before the city remembered to be cruel again. Somewhere down the hall, a radiator clanked like an old ghost with unfinished business.

“I brought food,” you said.

Silence.

Then, “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“No.”

“You think soup fixes this?”

“No.”

“Then why are you here?”

Because I love you, you thought, but that felt like the kind of truth that asked for something, and you had no right to ask.

“Because you were right,” you said.

The hallway went quiet.

You rested the paper bag against your hip because your hands were shaking again. Not from power use now. From fear.

“I’m not here to make you forgive me,” you continued. “I’m not here to explain it until it sounds better. It doesn’t sound better. I used my power on you without consent. Before tonight, I let it help you in ways you didn’t know about. Maybe not like that, maybe not directly, but enough that you’re allowed to feel violated by it. You asked if your progress was real, and I know I don’t get to be the person who answers that for you right now.”

Nothing.

“I’m sorry,” you said, voice breaking. “Not because you found out. Because I did it.”

Behind the door, you heard movement.

Then Jason said, “Did Bruce send you?”

“No.”

“Did he know you came?”

“Yes.”

“Did he try to stop you?”

“Yes.”

A pause.

“Good.”

Despite everything, a miserable little laugh left you. “Yeah.”

The door opened. Jason stood there in sweatpants and a black T-shirt, barefoot, hair a mess, eyes bloodshot. He looked exhausted. Human. Furious. Beautiful in the worst possible way, because your heart clearly had no self-preservation instincts and deserved to be studied by professionals.

His gaze dropped to the food. “What is it?”

“Soup.”

His mouth twisted.

“And bread,” you added.

He stared at you. You stared back.

Finally, he stepped aside. Not much. Just enough.

You entered carefully, because every inch of his space felt like a privilege you had lost and been loaned temporarily under strict supervision. His apartment was dim, curtains drawn, books stacked in unstable towers near the couch, weapons cleaned and arranged on the kitchen table with the tenderness some people reserved for family photos. There was a cracked mug in the sink. A blanket on the couch. A helmet on the floor by the window, faceplate turned away.

Jason closed the door.

You set the food on the counter. Neither of you moved toward it.

For a moment, the apartment was full of everything you had ruined.

Jason leaned back against the door, arms folded. “You gonna do it now?”

Your stomach dropped. “Do what?”

“Make this easier.”

“No.”

“You sure? I’m real fucking upset. Must be uncomfortable for you.”

You deserved that. 

You nodded. “It is.” His eyes narrowed. “But I’m not going to touch it,” you said. “Not your anger. Not your pain. Not anything. I don’t care if I’m uncomfortable. It’s yours.”

Jason looked away first. The muscle in his jaw jumped.

You swallowed. “I know that’s late.”

“Yeah,” he said. “It is.”

He dragged both hands over his face, then pushed away from the door and paced toward the window. His whole body looked like it wanted a fight and could not find one that would not make the hurt worse.

“I thought it was me,” he said. The words were quiet enough to bruise. “I thought I was doing better. Around you. Sleeping more. Not snapping so fast. Not feeling like my skin was trying to crawl off every time the Pit got loud. I thought—” He laughed, low and ugly. “I thought maybe I was healing. Stupid, right?”

“No.”

He turned on you. “Don’t.”

“It wasn’t stupid.”

“You don’t get to comfort me.”

“I’m not using my power.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

You shut your mouth.

Jason breathed hard through his nose, eyes bright with anger he was finally allowed to feel. “I thought I was safe with you.”

Your eyes filled. You did not let yourself look away.

“You were,” you said, then immediately shook your head. “No. That’s not fair. You weren’t safe from me. I wanted you to be, but wanting didn’t make it true.”

Jason stared at you like that answer had gone somewhere neither of you expected.

You kept going before fear could stop you. “You were right in the basement. I don’t get to decide you’re not a monster. I don’t get to decide what parts of your pain matter or what parts should go quiet. I don’t get to make you easier because I care about you.”

His face tightened.

“You’re not an episode,” you said. “You’re not something to manage. You’re not Bruce’s failure with a pulse. You’re Jason. And I should have treated your anger like it belonged to you even when it scared me.”

Jason’s eyes went wet. He looked furious about it.

“You and Bruce talk about me like I’m a bomb,” he said. “Like sooner or later I’m gonna go off and prove everyone right.”

He looked away, breathing unevenly.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

Then he said, “Was any of it real?”

You had expected the question. It still hurt worse than expected.

“My feelings were real,” you said. “My choices were the problem.”

Jason’s laugh broke halfway through. “That sounds like something a therapist would say right before charging two hundred bucks.”

“I can try saying it worse.”

“Please don’t.”

A tiny, awful smile tugged at your mouth and vanished. Jason saw it. His expression cracked for half a second, not into forgiveness, not into softness, but into grief. Like he missed you already and hated you for being in the same room.

“Did B call me broken?” he asked.

“No.”

Jason’s eyes sharpened.

“He thought it,” you admitted. “Or close enough. He wanted you safer. Quieter. Less hurt. He didn’t say fix, not exactly, but he meant it somewhere underneath.”

Jason nodded once, sharp and unsurprised. “And you?”

You looked at him. He held your gaze like he needed the answer and dreaded it in equal measure.

You could have said no. You could have said you never thought of him as broken. It would have been almost true.

Almost.

“At first,” you said, hating yourself with every word, “I thought of the Pit as something I could help quiet.”

Jason’s face closed.

“But I didn’t understand what that meant,” you continued quickly. “I thought if I could take away the worst of it, I was helping you. I didn’t think enough about the fact that I was deciding what counted as worst.”

“Yeah,” he said coldly. “You didn’t.”

“No.”

He looked down at his hands.

You wanted to touch him so badly your fingers ached.

You did not move. That was all you could offer now: the absence of taking.

Jason noticed. He always noticed. It made him angrier, maybe. Or sadder. Sometimes those were cousins in his body.

“Why does it not work on you?” he asked abruptly.

You blinked.

His gaze lifted. “Your power. You give everybody else the warm fuzzy bullshit. Why do you look like death every time?”

The question knocked the breath out of you. “That’s not—”

“Don’t lie.”

You closed your mouth.

Jason’s voice roughened. “I’m pissed at you. Doesn’t mean I stopped noticing.”

That was unfair. That was Jason.

You looked down at your hands. “It manifested because I was alone. When I was younger. I wanted someone to comfort me so badly that it felt like my chest was going to crack open. No one came. An injured cat did. I wanted it to feel safe, and then it did.” You swallowed. “After that, I could give comfort to other people. Animals. Anyone, if they let me. But it only goes outward.”

Jason was very still.

“I can make someone feel like the next minute is survivable,” you whispered. “I can’t make myself believe it.”

The apartment changed. Not magically. You kept your power locked down so tightly it hurt. But Jason’s anger shifted around the new information, not gone, not softened, just forced to make room for another wound.

“That’s fucked,” he said.

A laugh escaped you, startled and wet. “Yeah.”

“Real eloquent, I know.”

“No, it’s accurate.”

Jason looked at the floor, jaw tight. “So Bruce found the one person in Gotham who can comfort everybody except themselves and decided, yeah, let’s use that.”

“He was scared for you.”

“I don’t care.”

“I know.”

“No, I mean I don’t care why he did it. Fear doesn’t make it less shitty.”

You breathed in slowly. “You’re right.”

“And you.” His voice cracked on the words, anger struggling under hurt again. “You don’t get a pass because you were lonely.”

“I know.”

“You don’t get to be sad enough that my consent stops mattering.”

“I know.”

Jason stared at you. You let him.

Eventually, he dragged a hand through his hair and looked toward the counter. “Soup’s getting cold.”

You blinked.

He glared. “Don’t make that face.”

“What face?”

“That kicked-puppy, hopeful face.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. It’s annoying.”

You looked down quickly.

Jason swore under his breath. Then he walked to the counter, unpacked the soup and bread with jerky, irritated movements, and pushed one container toward you. “Eat.”

Your throat tightened. “Jason—”

“I’m still mad.”

“I know.”

“I don’t forgive you.”

“I know.”

“I might not.”

Your fingers curled around the warm container. “I know.”

He looked at you, eyes dark and tired and unbearably alive. “But you look like you’re gonna fall over, and I don’t want that on my floor.”

A tear slipped down your cheek.

He pointed at you with a spoon. “Don’t make it weird.”

You laughed, brokenly. He looked away, but not before you saw his mouth tremble.

You ate soup in silence on opposite sides of his kitchen.

It was not forgiveness. It was not absolution. It was not even peace. But it was food. Warmth you had not created. Care you had not earned by emptying yourself first. Jason sat across from you, furious and hurt and still there, and maybe that was the cruellest mercy of all.

He did not come back all at once. Jason Todd was not a door that opened because someone apologised properly. He was a city after a siege, checking every road for traps. He stopped answering your calls for a week, then answered one with “What?” so aggressively you nearly cried from relief. He refused to work cases with you, then appeared on a rooftop two buildings away during one of your field assignments and pretended that it did not count. He returned the jacket you had forgotten at his apartment washed, folded, and smelling like his detergent. There was a protein bar in the pocket with a sticky note that read: Eat before you faint, dumbass.

Bruce, to his credit or perhaps merely his survival instinct, tried to apologise to Jason. Jason broke his nose.

Alfred, you heard, allowed it.

You did not use your power on Jason again. Not once. Not when he was angry. Not when the Pit surged. Not when his hands shook after a contaminated weapons bust. Not when he looked at you like he hated you for being the person he wanted comfort from most. You learned the shape of restraint properly, not the soft, self-serving version you had practised before. You learned to sit on your hands. To ask with words instead of warmth. To let silence hurt. To let Jason be ugly with pain without trying to make it beautiful enough for you to hold.

It was the hardest thing you had ever done. It was also the only apology that mattered.

Months later, he asked.

It happened in his apartment during a storm, because apparently Jason’s emotional breakthroughs required rain for dramatic integrity. The Lazarus compound case had ended three weeks before. The deserters were in custody. The modified residue had been neutralised. The boy from the tank had been buried under a name no one knew was his, with Jason standing far back beneath a tree while Bruce stood even farther away and looked like grief had invented new architecture inside him.

You and Jason were not fixed. But you were something.

You were sitting on his couch with a book in your lap, not reading, while Jason paced near the window with the restless energy of a man trying to outrun his own nervous system. His eyes had that green-edged brightness they got when the Pit was not loud enough to take him but loud enough to make staying in his body feel like a fight.

“You want me to go?” you asked softly.

“No.”

The answer came fast.

You nodded and stayed seated. He paced another line into the floor. Rain hit the windows hard enough to blur the city lights.

“Can you ask?” he said suddenly.

You looked up. Jason had stopped moving. He stood with his back to you, shoulders tense, hands flexing at his sides.

Your heart began to pound. “Ask what?”

His voice was rough. “You know what.”

You set the book aside carefully. “Jason.”

“Don’t make me say it if you already know.”

“I need you to say it.”

He turned then, anger flaring, but this time it was not at you. Not really. It was at the humiliation of need. At the vulnerability of wanting the very thing that had hurt him. At the terrible work of choosing something instead of having it chosen for him.

His jaw worked. Then, through clenched teeth, he said, “Ask me if I want help.”

Your eyes burned. You kept your voice steady. “Do you want me to use my power to help quiet the Pit?”

Jason closed his eyes. A tremor moved through him.

“Yes.”

“How much?”

His breath shook. “Not gone. Don’t make it gone.”

“I won’t.”

“Just enough that I can breathe.”

“Okay.”

“And if I say stop—”

“I stop.”

“Immediately.”

“Immediately.”

He opened his eyes. The trust there was not whole. It was not easy. It had scars and conditions and a knife hidden in its boot. But it was trust because he was choosing it, and because you understood now that choice was the whole sacred thing.

You held out your hand.

Jason stared at it for a long moment. Then he crossed the room and took it.

You let the power move slowly this time. Carefully. Not like the basement. Not like a door forced shut. More like opening a window in a room full of smoke. Warmth passed from your palm into his hand, then no farther than he allowed. You could feel the Pit recoil, restless and ugly, but you did not chase it. You did not smother it. You did not decide what Jason needed removed.

You gave him exactly what he asked for.

Jason’s breath caught. His fingers tightened around yours.

“Okay,” he whispered after a few seconds. “Stop.”

You stopped. The warmth withdrew immediately.

Jason swayed.

You did not grab him. He noticed that too.

After a moment, he sat beside you on the couch, not close enough to touch except for your still-linked hands. His breathing was uneven, but his eyes were clear.

“Was that me?” he asked.

The question was so quiet it nearly broke you.

You turned toward him. “Yes.”

His mouth twisted. “You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Because it feels easier to believe when I’m pissed at you.”

“I know.”

That earned you a tiny, reluctant huff.

Then he looked down at your joined hands. “I still hate what you did.”

“I know.”

“I still hate what Bruce did.”

“You should.”

“I still don’t like people messing with my head.”

“I wasn’t in your head,” you said softly, then corrected yourself before he could. “But I was too close.”

Jason looked at you. You held his gaze.

He nodded once.

“Yeah,” he said. “You were.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

It was not forgiveness. Not exactly. But it was the first time the words did not bounce off a wall.

Jason leaned back against the couch, still holding your hand like he had forgotten to let go or decided not to. “You look tired.”

“I’m fine.”

“Lie.”

You smiled faintly. “Sometimes using it makes me cold.”

“Yeah, I noticed.” His jaw tightened. “Does it hurt?”

“Not like pain.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It feels like giving away the last blanket in winter.”

Jason went still. Then, with his free hand, he reached for the throw blanket folded over the back of the couch and dropped it over your lap with aggressive precision.

You looked at it. Then at him.

His ears had gone faintly pink. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Your face did.”

“My face is touched.”

“Your face is annoying.”

You smiled. He rolled his eyes, but his hand stayed in yours.

After a while, you said, “You don’t have to let me help like that again.”

“I know.”

“You don’t have to forgive me to ask.”

“I know.”

“You don’t have to be less angry because I’m sad about it.”

Jason looked over at you, something quiet and fierce in his face. “Good. Because I’m gonna be angry for a while.”

“Okay.”

“But I missed you,” he said, like the words personally offended him. “And I’m pissed about that too.”

Your laugh came out soft and shaking.

He looked away, scowling at the window. “Don’t get smug.”

“I’m not.”

“You are spiritually smug.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“It is when you do it.”

The rain kept falling outside, turning Gotham’s lights into rivers against the glass. Jason’s apartment was dim and cluttered and warm in the way places became warm when someone let another person stay. The Pit had not disappeared. The hurt had not vanished. Bruce’s fear had not become harmless because he meant well. Your love had not become innocent because it was love.

But Jason’s hand was around yours. No force. No hidden warmth. No secret easing. Just his thumb, rough and hesitant, brushing over your knuckles because he chose to do it.

And you, who had spent your life giving comfort you could not keep, let yourself sit beside him beneath the blanket he had thrown at you like a threat.

For once, the warmth in the room belonged to both of you.

Not fixed. Not quieted. Not saved.

The family watched Damian meet you and did not understand, at first, that they were witnessing the beginning of his undoing.

It happened slowly. Quietly. In fractions too small to recognise until the shape of him had already changed. Damian began returning from patrol before sunrise instead of lingering on rooftops until his muscles stiffened in the cold. He stopped treating injuries as inconveniences and allowed Alfred to examine them because you had once looked at the blood soaking through his shirt and said, very softly, You do not have to prove you can survive everything.

He began carrying snacks in his utility belt that had no nutritional efficiency whatsoever because they were your favourite. He rolled his eyes whenever anyone pointed this out, but he never removed them.

He permitted your feet in his lap while you read on the sofa. He allowed you to interrupt his work, to touch his hair, to steal the blankets, to speak to him when he was angry and remain beside him when he could not find words gentle enough to answer.

You were the only person who had seen him wake from a nightmare with his hands already shaped around an invisible throat. The only person who knew he sometimes stood in the doorway of your shared bedroom simply to assure himself you were still there. The only person who could say his name in a way that made it sound like a life rather than a legacy.

To everyone else, Damian remained composed. Dryly amused on good days, insufferably arrogant on most, and frighteningly controlled whenever something went wrong.

With you, he was different. With you, he rested his head against your chest and listened to your heartbeat as though committing it to memory. He kissed the inside of your wrist where your pulse fluttered beneath the skin. He let you hold his face between your hands, let you see the fear he had been trained to murder before it could fully form.

He told you things he had never said aloud. That sometimes he worried love was simply another weapon someone might eventually use against him. That he did not know how to be gentle without feeling exposed. That every good thing he possessed seemed temporary, and he had spent most of his life braced for the hand that would rip it away.

You had kissed the crease between his brows.

“Then we’ll be temporary together,” you whispered. “For as long as we get.”

He had hated the answer. He had held you tighter because of it.

Years later, when the universe finally came to collect, Damian remembered those words with such perfect clarity that he wondered whether some cruel part of you had always known.

The mission was supposed to be routine. That was what they always said after disasters, as though tragedy were more offensive when it arrived without proper ceremony.

There had been reports of unstable energy beneath Gotham’s east end. Strange electrical storms in cloudless skies. People vanishing from one street and appearing several blocks away with no memory of crossing the distance between. Windows reflecting rooms that did not exist. Shadows moving a heartbeat out of time with the bodies that cast them.

Tim had called it a spatial fracture. Bruce had called the entire family in.

You had insisted on coming. Damian had objected, which meant the argument lasted nearly twenty minutes and ended with you standing in the Cave in your suit, arms folded, watching him grow increasingly furious because neither of you was willing to admit the fury was fear.

“You are not invulnerable,” he snapped.

“Neither are you.”

“I possess considerably more training.”

“And I possess the specialised equipment Tim needs carried into the fracture zone.”

“Drake can carry his own equipment.”

Tim, who had been standing three feet away, wisely pretended not to hear.

You stepped closer to Damian. His jaw was tight enough to ache, and his gloved hands flexed at his sides as if he wanted to grab you, shake you, or pull you against him until the world reconsidered its plans.

“I’m going,” you told him. “You can either spend the mission fighting beside me or waste it fighting with me.”

His eyes narrowed.

You lifted a hand and pressed two fingers to the centre of his chest. “I’ll be careful.”

“You say that as though the universe has ever rewarded caution.”

“Then you’ll just have to watch my back.”

“I always do.”

The answer came too quickly. Too honestly.

Your expression softened, and Damian hated that too because tenderness made him feel as though his ribs had been pried open.

You leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth. It was brief, little more than a promise pressed into skin. “Come on, Robin.”

He followed you because he always did.

He would spend the rest of his life wishing he had locked you in the Cave.

The fracture was beneath an abandoned rail terminal, buried deep under rusted tracks and old Gotham stone. By the time the family reached its centre, the laws of reality had begun to buckle. The tunnel stretched and contracted around them. Concrete flickered into marble, then steel, then something wet and organic before snapping back into place. Their comms filled with voices that sounded like their own but spoke words no one had said.

Damian heard Bruce shout his name from somewhere behind him. Then from somewhere ahead. Then in his own voice, directly beside his ear.

He turned and saw himself standing at the end of the tunnel. Older. Bloodied. Dead-eyed.

The apparition vanished before he could raise his sword.

“Do not engage with anything you see,” Bruce ordered through the static. “Stay focused on the device.”

Tim’s stabiliser had to be anchored at four points around the fracture. Once activated, it would force the overlapping realities apart and seal the breach. Simple in theory. Catastrophic if mistimed.

Damian remained at your side as the others separated.

He could hear your breathing through the comms. Quick, but controlled.

He counted every inhale.

One.

Two.

Three.

The tunnel shook. A fissure of white light split the air in front of you, and for half a second, Damian saw another Gotham on the other side. Its skyline burned green beneath a violet sky. Wayne Tower had been cleaved in half. The Batsignal shone upside down through the clouds.

Something moved within the opening.

A figure in black and red.

Damian’s own face looked back at him. This version was smiling.

Then the fracture collapsed inward with a sound like a scream being swallowed.

“Anchor three is placed,” you said.

Damian released a breath. “Return to my position.”

“I’m ten metres away.”

“Return to my position.”

There was a pause.

Under any other circumstances, you might have teased him. Instead, you only said, “On my way.”

The stabiliser activated before you reached him.

Tim shouted something through the comms. An error. A power surge. One of the anchors had been compromised. Damian never learned which words came first because the world erupted around him.

The fracture expanded. The tunnel disappeared into white.

Damian felt the ground leave his feet. He saw pieces of other worlds overlapping one another in impossible layers: the Manor abandoned and choked by ivy; Gotham flooded to the rooftops; Bruce kneeling in an alley over the bodies of two children; Dick wearing a cowl that had never belonged to him; Jason laughing at a kitchen table with white in his hair and a baby on his knee.

Then he saw you.

A thousand versions.

You, beside him at the altar. You, holding his hand in a hospital room. You, old and silver-haired beneath a flowering tree. 

You walking away. You dying. You killing him. You cradling his body and screaming.

Damian reached for you.

The stabiliser’s central core tore loose from its housing. It came towards him like a meteor, metal burning blue-white, fast enough that even his reflexes could not save him. His body twisted, but there was nowhere to go. The fractured air held him suspended.

He saw it coming. He understood, with perfect clarity, that he was about to die.

Then you hit him from the side.

Your shoulder struck his chest. The force threw him beyond the core’s path, and for one suspended, eternal second, your eyes met.

There was no time for words. Only the widening of your eyes. Only Damian reaching. Only the stabiliser core passing through the space where your body had been.

The light vanished.

Gravity returned.

Damian struck the ground hard enough to crack his shoulder. Dust filled his mouth. His ears rang. Somewhere, Tim was shouting that the fracture was closing.

Damian pushed himself upright.

You lay several metres away. Too still. There was blood beneath you.

At first, his mind rejected the sight. It sorted the details without understanding them—the angle of your arm, the ruined section of your armour, the dark pool spreading through the dust.

You could not be dead. The thought was not denial. It was fact.

You had kissed him less than an hour ago. You had promised to be careful. You were temporary together, but this was not long enough. This was not what the words had meant.

Damian crawled to you. His damaged shoulder screamed. He did not feel it.

He turned you over with shaking hands and saw the wound. “No.”

The word was quiet.

Almost calm.

Your eyes fluttered. For one delirious second, hope detonated inside him.

“Damian,” you breathed.

“I am here.” His hands moved over you, searching for pressure points, for something to bind, something to repair. There was too much blood. It slipped between his fingers, hot and impossible. “Do not move. Father is coming. Drake will stabilise you.”

You looked at him.

Not at the injury. Not at the blood.

Only him.

“Are you hurt?”

His breath caught. “You—” His voice fractured. He forced it steady. “You do not concern yourself with me.”

“Are you hurt?”

“No.”

It was a lie. It did not matter.

Your face softened. “Good.”

“Do not.” Damian pressed both hands against the wound. “Do not speak as though— You will conserve your strength.”

You coughed, and blood touched your lips. Something primitive tore through him.

“Father!” Damian screamed.

The tunnel had gone silent around them.

Bruce was already running. Dick was behind him. Tim stumbled through the dust, mask cracked, one hand clamped around his ribs. Jason emerged from the fading light with his helmet missing.

They all saw you.

They all stopped.

Damian understood their expressions. He hated them.

“No,” he said, louder now. “Do not look at them that way.”

Bruce dropped to his knees beside you. His hands replaced Damian’s, pressing hard against the wound, but Damian would not move away. He held your face. His thumbs smeared blood across your cheeks.

“Stay awake,” Bruce ordered.

You barely seemed to hear him. Your gaze remained fixed on Damian.

“I love you,” you whispered.

His entire body went cold. “No.”

“I love you.”

“You may tell me when we return home.”

“Damian.”

“That is an order.”

You smiled. It was small. Trembling. It was the smile you used when he was being impossible and you loved him anyway.

“You never could order me around.”

“Then I am asking.” His voice shook despite everything he did to control it. “Beloved, I am asking you.”

Your fingers twitched against the floor.

Damian caught your hand and pressed it to his mouth. You breathed in.

You did not breathe out.

For several seconds, Damian continued holding your hand.

Bruce’s hands had stopped moving.

No one spoke.

The fracture sealed itself with a distant, thunderous crack, and the tunnel became only a tunnel again.

Damian stared at your face.

He waited. Your eyes remained half-open, fixed on nothing.

“Continue,” Damian said.

Bruce looked at him. “Damian.”

“Continue compressions.”

Bruce’s mouth tightened. “Damian, the damage—”

“Continue.”

“There’s nothing—”

“Do not tell me there is nothing.”

The words came out low and deadly. Bruce did not flinch.

Damian grabbed his wrist and dragged his hand back towards the wound.

“You have survived worse,” Damian said. “Todd has survived death itself. There are Lazarus Pits. There is magic. There are alien technologies capable of cellular reconstruction. We will take them to the Cave and determine—”

“Damian,” Dick whispered.

He reached towards him.

Damian struck his hand away. “Do not touch me.”

Your hand was growing colder in his.

He looked down at it. His mind supplied the biological reasons automatically. Circulation had ceased. Heat was dissipating. Muscles would slacken before stiffening. Cells were already dying from oxygen deprivation.

He knew death. He had been raised by people who dispensed it. He had watched it happen in a hundred different ways. He knew exactly what it looked like.

“No,” he said again.

This time the word collapsed. His chest seized.

He pulled you into his arms so abruptly that Bruce nearly fell forward. Your head rolled against his shoulder. Damian adjusted it with unbearable gentleness, tucking your face into the space beneath his jaw as though you had merely fallen asleep.

“Wake up.”

No response.

“Beloved.”

Your blood soaked through the front of his uniform.

“Wake up.”

His voice rose.

The sound that tore from him next did not resemble language. It was not a sob. Not yet. It was something rawer, dragged from a place beneath speech, beneath dignity, beneath everything the League had trained into him. Damian curled around your body and screamed until the tunnel threw the sound back at them.

Dick covered his mouth. Jason turned away. Tim sank to the floor.

Bruce remained beside his son with blood on his hands and helplessness hollowing his face.

Damian screamed your name. He screamed at you to wake up. He screamed at Bruce to do something. He screamed at the sealed fracture, at the universe, at God, at every dead ancestor who had ever claimed Wayne blood was destined to suffer.

His body began to shake. Not delicate tremors. Not tears slipping quietly down a composed face. His entire frame convulsed so violently that your armour rattled against his. He clutched you tighter, one hand locked behind your neck, the other fisted in the ruined fabric at your back.

“No, no, no, no—”

The words fell apart beneath his sobs.

No one had ever heard Damian sob. They had not known he could make sounds like that.

He bent over you, forehead pressed against yours, and wept with his mouth open because he could not breathe through the grief. Tears poured down his face unchecked. Saliva and blood shone at his lips. Every attempt to draw air ended in another broken cry.

Bruce reached for him. Damian tried to shove him away, but there was no strength in it.

“You were supposed to save them,” he choked out. The accusation struck Bruce like a blade. “You save everyone. You always— You were supposed to—”

“I’m sorry.”

“Do not apologise.” Damian’s voice became a shriek. “Fix it!”

Bruce said nothing.

That silence was the final confirmation.

Damian looked at you again. Your face had gone slack against him.

He made a small, wounded sound, then turned abruptly and vomited onto the tunnel floor.

His body heaved until there was nothing left. He never released you. Even while choking, even while Bruce braced a hand between his shoulders, Damian kept one arm locked around your body, as though loosening his grip would permit death to take something it had not already stolen.

When the spasms stopped, he sagged over you.

His forehead rested against your chest. There was no heartbeat beneath his ear.

For years, he had listened to it in the dark.

Now there was only silence.

They had to sedate him to remove your body from his arms.

Jason was the one who finally did it.

Bruce could not. Dick could barely stand. Tim had disappeared into the Cave’s laboratory, already searching for answers no one had asked him to find.

Jason knelt in front of Damian while he rocked on the floor of the transport, your body held against his chest.

“Demon,” Jason said quietly.

Damian did not react.

Jason swallowed. “Little brother.”

Damian lifted his head. His eyes were swollen nearly shut. Blood had dried across half his face. There was vomit on his uniform and a smear of red beneath his mouth where he had kissed your forehead again and again during the journey home.

“They will be cold,” Damian whispered.

Jason’s expression crumpled. “I know.”

“They dislike the cold.”

“I know.”

“I must take them upstairs.”

“You can’t.”

Damian’s arms tightened.

Jason glanced at Bruce. Bruce looked away.

“Damian,” Jason said. “You’re hurt. Let us help.”

“I am not leaving them.”

“No one’s asking you to.”

“You are.”

The tranquiliser entered Damian’s neck so smoothly that he did not feel the needle.

His gaze flicked towards Jason’s hand. Betrayal moved over his face.

“You—”

“I’m sorry.”

Damian lunged. His body failed him halfway.

Jason caught him as the sedative took hold, absorbing the first furious strike and then the second, weaker one.

“No,” Damian slurred. “No, give them back. Give—”

His knees buckled.

Bruce caught your body. Jason caught Damian.

Damian fought even as consciousness left him, his hands clawing towards you, his mouth shaping your name.

Then he went limp in his brother’s arms.

Jason lowered his face into Damian’s hair and cried.

The funeral took place beneath a grey sky.

Damian did not cry. The family had expected him to. They had prepared themselves for another collapse, though no one knew what preparation could possibly mean. Dick remained close enough to catch him. Bruce watched every movement. Jason had removed all weapons from Damian’s room without mentioning it.

But Damian stood beside your grave perfectly still.

His face was blank. His hands were clasped behind his back. Anyone who did not know him might have called the posture dignified.

His family knew it was the stance he used when awaiting punishment.

When the service ended, everyone left except him.

Rain darkened his suit. It gathered in his hair and traced cold lines down his face. He stood before your grave until the soil became mud and the flowers bowed under the weight of the water.

Bruce returned at dusk. “Damian.”

Damian did not turn.

“You’ll become ill.”

“I am aware.”

“Come inside.”

“No.”

Bruce stood beside him.

For several minutes, there was only rain.

“I should have stopped them from coming,” Damian said.

Bruce closed his eyes. “This was not your fault.”

“They were only present because I failed to persuade them.”

“They made their own choice.”

“They chose to save me.”

“Yes.”

“I should have been faster.”

“You could not have been.”

“I should have anticipated the core’s trajectory.”

“No one did.”

“I should have died.”

Bruce’s head snapped towards him.

Damian continued staring at your name carved into stone. “They would have survived had I not been there.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I saw the path. It was intended for me.”

“They chose to push you out of it.”

“They made the incorrect choice.”

Bruce grabbed his shoulder.

Damian turned with sudden violence, knocking his hand aside. “Do not.”

“They loved you.”

“Then they should have allowed me to die.”

Bruce recoiled as though Damian had struck him.

The rage vanished from Damian’s face as quickly as it had appeared.

What remained was worse. A terrible, exhausted emptiness.

“They would have survived,” Damian whispered. “They would still be here.”

Bruce’s voice failed before he forced it steady. “And you would not.”

“That is the point.”

Grief did not make Damian kinder.

It made him precise.

He returned to patrol eleven days after your death and broke three men’s bones before Bruce ordered him back to the Cave. He dismantled criminal operations with the cold efficiency of an executioner. He stopped speaking unless information was required. He slept less than two hours a night and woke from those hours with your name tearing out of him.

He could not enter the bedroom you had shared. The first time he tried, he made it three steps past the door.

Your clothes remained folded over the chair. A mug sat on your bedside table with the faint print of your mouth still visible on its rim. Your book lay open, facedown, exactly where you had left it the morning of the mission.

Damian stood in the centre of the room. He stared at the depression your body had left in the mattress.

Then he folded to his knees.

The family found him an hour later with your pillow crushed against his face, shaking so hard he could not speak.

After that, he slept in the Cave. Sometimes in the chair beside the Batcomputer. Sometimes curled on the medical cot where Bruce had first placed your body after bringing you home. Once, Dick found him beneath the display case containing his old Robin uniform, staring into the dark.

Titus searched for you.

That nearly killed him. The dog wandered from room to room, sniffing beneath doors and whining whenever footsteps approached. He slept outside the bedroom for weeks. Alfred the cat sat on your side of the bed and hissed at anyone who attempted to move him.

Damian began leaving the bedroom door open.

“For them,” he explained when Dick noticed.

Not for himself. Never for himself.

He fed the animals. He continued your routines. He watered your plants according to the schedule on your phone. He answered the messages sent by people who did not yet know you were dead until Bruce gently took the device away.

He spoke to you when he believed no one was listening. He told you about patrol. He told you Titus had finally eaten a full meal. He complained that Drake had reorganised the computer files incorrectly.

He stood in the doorway of your room each night and said, “I have returned.” Then, after a pause, “You need not worry.”

As though you might still be somewhere, waiting. As though the dead could be reassured.

Tim became obsessed with the fracture. It was, perhaps, the only form his own grief knew how to take.

He reconstructed every energy reading. He ran simulations until the Cave’s systems overheated. He mapped the brief glimpses they had seen of other realities and theorised that the fracture had not truly sealed. It had scarred.

“A weak point,” he told Bruce. “Like tissue that heals badly. It could reopen.”

Bruce looked towards Damian.

He stood at the edge of the platform, listening. Hope was too bright a word for what appeared on his face. It was hunger stripped of all humanity.

“Can it be reopened deliberately?” Damian asked.

Tim hesitated. “Maybe.”

Bruce said, “No.”

Damian did not look at him. “What would be required?”

“Damian,” Bruce warned.

“What would be required, Drake?”

Tim’s eyes dropped. “More power than we can safely generate. A dimensional anchor. A way to select a specific reality out of an infinite number of possibilities.”

“Then begin.”

“We don’t know what opening it could do.”

“I do not care.”

“It could destroy this universe.”

Damian’s gaze sharpened. “Then improve your design.”

Bruce stepped between them. “We are not tearing reality apart.”

“You have violated the laws of nature before.”

“And paid for it.”

“You permitted Todd to return.”

“I did not bring Jason back.”

“You have worked beside magicians, gods, time travellers, and beings who rewrite existence according to whim. Do not stand there and tell me death is immutable when our lives have proven otherwise.”

Bruce’s voice softened. “They would not want you to risk the world.”

Damian laughed. The sound had no humour in it. “Do not use them against me.”

“I’m trying to protect you.”

“You are attempting to make my grief convenient.”

Bruce flinched.

Damian moved closer, eyes burning. “You want me to accept it. To sit quietly in a chair and discuss my emotions with a stranger until I can say their name without making you uncomfortable. You wish me to return to patrol, to attend dinners, to continue breathing as though that is not an obscene thing to ask of me.”

“No one expects you to be fine.”

“Then stop asking me to survive them.”

He turned away.

Tim watched him leave.

That night, he continued working on the fracture.

It reopened three months after your death.

Not because of Tim. Not because Damian had found some forbidden Lazarus ritual or threatened a magician into cooperation.

It opened on its own. A vertical wound of white light appeared in the middle of the Cave at 3:17 in the morning. Alarms screamed. The ground shook. Glass shattered in the trophy cases.

Damian was awake before the first siren.

He reached the central platform with his sword drawn as Bruce descended from above. Dick and Jason arrived seconds later, Tim stumbling behind them with his laptop clutched against his chest.

The fracture widened.

A figure fell through. They struck the stone floor and rolled, coming to rest beneath the Batcomputer.

The fracture sealed behind them.

Silence followed.

Damian stopped breathing.

You lay on the Cave floor.

Your hair was longer. Your suit was unfamiliar, black threaded with gold instead of the colours he remembered. A scar cut from your temple to the edge of your jaw.

But it was your face. Your hands. Your mouth.

For one impossible moment, Damian’s mind removed the differences.

You were alive.

The sword fell from his hand. It struck the floor with a ringing clang.

Your eyes opened.

You inhaled sharply and pushed yourself upright, one hand reaching for a weapon at your hip. You scanned Bruce, Dick, Jason, Tim.

Then you saw Damian.

Every part of you went still.

His name left your mouth like a prayer. “Damian?”

He crossed the distance before anyone could stop him.

You rose to meet him.

His hands closed around your shoulders, hard enough to bruise. He stared into your face as if searching for seams, for a mask, for evidence of illusion. His fingers moved to your jaw, your throat, the scar at your temple.

Warm skin. A pulse beneath his thumb.

“You are alive,” he whispered.

Your eyes filled. “So are you.”

Damian’s face twisted.

He pulled you against him.

The sound you made was strangled and desperate. Your arms locked around his neck, and you buried your face against his shoulder. Damian held you with enough force to hurt, one hand cradling the back of your skull while the other pressed flat between your shoulder blades.

His knees gave way.

You fell with him.

Damian struck the floor and did not seem to notice. He dragged you into his lap, touching your face, your hair, your wrists, unable to stop confirming you existed.

“You returned,” he breathed. “You returned to me.”

Your expression changed.

The grief within it became visible all at once.

“Oh,” you whispered.

Damian froze.

You lifted a trembling hand and touched his cheek.

It was the same gesture. The one you had used when nightmares pulled him awake. The one you had used before kissing him in the Cave on the day you died.

But something in your eyes was wrong.

Not absence.

Recognition. You knew his face, but you were looking at it like a ghost.

“You’re not mine,” you said.

The words entered him slowly.

Damian’s hands loosened.

Around them, the others remained silent.

Tim’s face had gone pale with understanding.

Damian stared at you. “What?”

Your thumb traced the edge of his cheekbone.

“My Damian had a scar here,” you whispered. “From when we were twenty. He tried to stop a blade with his face because he was showing off.”

“I did no such—”

His voice failed.

You laughed once, brokenly. “He always said that too.”

Damian looked down at your suit.

Black and gold.

Not yours. Not the one they had buried.

The scar on your face had not existed before.

He noticed the ring hanging from a chain around your neck.

His ring. A simple dark band engraved on the inside with words no one else knew.

You saw him looking and closed your fist around it.

“He died,” you said.

Damian’s body became rigid.

Your tears spilled over. “The fracture opened beneath Gotham. The core came for me.” Your breath hitched. “He pushed me away.”

No one moved.

The symmetry of it was too cruel to interrupt.

“I held him,” you continued. “I kept telling him Bruce was coming, that we had help, that he only needed to stay awake. He asked if I was hurt.”

Damian made a sound as though the air had been punched from his lungs.

You gripped the ring more tightly.

“He said, ‘Good.’ Then he—”

Your voice shattered.

Damian stared at you. You stared back.

Two survivors facing the shape of the person they had failed to keep.

Your hand slipped from his cheek.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I thought you were him.”

Damian’s face emptied.

He released you. The absence of his touch seemed to wound you both.

He moved backwards, only half a metre, but it looked like an ocean opening.

Dick stepped forward. “Damian.”

He did not respond.

Your eyes moved over him with aching hunger. You knew the angle of his shoulders. The severe line of his mouth. The tiny crease beside his right eyebrow that appeared when he was fighting not to show fear.

“You look exactly like him,” you said.

Damian’s chest rose once. Twice.

Then the air stopped reaching him.

His hand went to his mouth.

The first sob came quietly.

A small fracture in the silence.

You stared.

Damian folded in on himself.

The grief he had spent months forcing into narrower and narrower spaces exploded. He bent forward until his forehead nearly touched the floor, his fingers clawing at the stone as if the Cave had begun to tilt beneath him.

You moved without thinking.

Your arms wrapped around him.

Damian fought you for one startled second.

Then he realised how you were holding him.

One hand behind his neck. The other spread between his shoulder blades.

Exactly as you had held your Damian. Exactly as his you had held him.

He broke. His body convulsed against yours. He seized the front of your suit and screamed into your shoulder, the sound muffled by fabric but no less terrible. Months of silence poured out of him in great, tearing sobs.

“They died,” he choked.

“I know.”

“They died for me.”

“I know.”

“I could not save them.”

“I know.”

You were crying too.

Damian clung to you like a drowning man clinging to the reflection of land.

“I buried you,” he gasped.

Your hand tightened in his hair. “I buried you, too.”

That sentence destroyed what remained of him. He sagged fully into your arms. You held his weight and rocked with him on the cold stone floor while the family watched two people mourn the same love through different faces.

No one tried to separate you. No one pretended it was a reunion.

It was not.

It was something stranger. Something crueller.

Something sacred.

You stayed at the Manor because there was nowhere else for you to go. Your universe had not vanished, as far as Tim could determine, but the fracture that had brought you here could not be reopened safely. You existed in their world without documentation, without a home, without anyone who knew you except for the shape of the person they had lost.

The first few days were unbearable.

Dick cried when you entered the kitchen wearing one of Damian’s old shirts. Jason avoided looking directly at you. Bruce became so formal that every conversation sounded like an interrogation conducted at a funeral. Tim asked questions until you snapped at him, then apologised for snapping, then wept when he apologised because your voice sounded exactly like the one in his memories.

Damian disappeared.

He remained in Gotham for four nights.

On the fifth, you found him seated beside the grave.

Your grave.

The sight of your own name carved into stone stole the strength from your legs.

Damian heard your breath catch and turned.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

Then you sat on the wet ground beside him.

The grave was covered in flowers. Fresh ones, despite the rain.

“They hated lilies,” Damian said.

You glanced at him. “My Damian hated lilies.”

“They smell like funerals.”

“That’s what he said.”

Damian’s mouth tightened.

You looked back at the stone. Your date of death stared at you.

Three months ago.

In your world, Damian’s grave bore the same date.

“What were they like?” you asked.

His eyes sharpened.

You almost withdrew the question, but then Damian looked at the grave again.

“They sang badly,” he said.

A wet laugh escaped you. “So do I.”

“They knew. This did not deter them.”

“It never has.”

“They cheated at card games and claimed that noticing was proof I lacked commitment to the spirit of entertainment.”

You smiled through the tears. Damian’s gaze lingered on it.

“They disliked tea unless it contained enough sugar to qualify as syrup. They stole my clothing despite owning more than I did. They spoke to animals as though expecting a response.”

“I do expect one.”

“Titus encouraged this delusion.”

You touched the grass near the headstone. “My Damian pretended not to enjoy dancing. He did, when no one could see him.”

Damian looked offended. “I do not dance.”

“You do in the kitchen.”

“I have never—”

“When you’re cooking, and you think I’m reading.”

He stared at you. You stared back.

Something fragile passed between you.

Not recognition, not exactly. The echo of it.

“He drew me,” you continued. “Constantly. I used to find sketches tucked into books and case files. He acted annoyed whenever I mentioned them.”

Damian’s eyes lowered. “I drew them.”

You nodded. “I know.”

The rain began lightly, whispering against the leaves.

Damian looked at your hand resting in the grass. There was a pale band around your finger where a ring had once sat.

“You were married,” he said.

“Engaged.”

He touched the inside of his coat, where the ring he had planned to give you remained hidden in a small velvet box. He had carried it every day since your death.

The universe had almost been symmetrical.

Almost.

“I intended to ask them,” he said.

Your face crumpled. “When?”

“The night after the mission.”

You pressed your fist to your mouth.

Damian turned away, but not before you saw the tears gathering in his eyes.

“My Damian proposed two weeks before he died,” you whispered.

“Were you happy?”

“Yes.”

The answer came instantly.

Damian nodded. “So were they.”

“You know that?”

“They told me.”

He did not explain when. He did not need to.

You sat beside one another until the rain strengthened.

Before leaving, you placed your hand against the carved version of your name.

Damian watched your fingers trace the letters.

“I’m sorry I’m not them,” you said.

His brow furrowed. “You have no reason to apologise.”

“Sometimes you look at me like you’ve forgotten.”

His gaze dropped. “I know.”

“And sometimes I look at you and forget too.”

Damian’s voice was almost inaudible. “I know.”

You stood first.

After a moment, you offered him your hand.

Damian stared at it.

Then he took it.

There were rules. You created them together because grief made careless people of you both, and neither wanted to turn the other into a mausoleum.

No entering bedrooms without permission. No using private nicknames from the other universe. No asking the other to recreate memories. No pretending.

The rules lasted three weeks.

The first one broke when Damian woke screaming.

You heard him from across the hall. By the time you reached his room, he was on the floor beside the bed, breath coming in ragged bursts. His hands were pressed over his ears. Sweat soaked through his shirt.

You stopped in the doorway. “Damian.”

“Leave.”

You did not.

His eyes lifted. For a second, they were wild with hope.

Then the hope died.

You felt it die.

“I said leave.”

“I heard you.”

“Then obey me.”

“No.”

His face twisted with anger. It was so familiar that your chest ached.

“You are not them,” he spat.

You flinched. Regret struck him immediately, but Damian had always been better at drawing blood than bandaging it.

You stepped into the room. “And you’re not him.”

The words silenced him.

Your own tears rose. “I know that every time you speak. Every time you stand too far to the left because he favoured his right knee after an injury you never had. Every time you call Tim ‘Drake’ with a different inflexion. Every time you look at me and I think, for one second, that the nightmare is over.”

Damian’s anger collapsed.

You knelt several feet away.

“But you’re still in pain,” you whispered. “And so am I.”

His breathing remained too fast.

You placed your hand on the floor between you, palm up. “May I?”

Damian stared at it.

Then, slowly, he crawled forward.

He did not take your hand. He pressed his forehead into your palm.

You closed your fingers carefully against his hair.

His breath stuttered.

“You do not have to be him,” you said. “I don’t need you to be.”

Damian’s eyes closed. “And you do not have to be them.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

You looked at him.

“No,” you admitted. “Not yet.”

His hand closed around your wrist.

Neither of you pretended the touch belonged to anyone else.

Spring arrived. The flowers around your grave began to bloom. You visited Damian’s grave in your own world through photographs Tim had managed to recover from the energy residue embedded in your suit. They were distorted and incomplete, but one image showed a grey headstone beneath a cedar tree.

You kept it beside your bed. Damian kept your counterpart’s photograph on his desk.

The Manor slowly learned how to contain you both. Jason began arguing with you about books. Dick stopped going silent whenever you laughed. Tim discovered that your technological knowledge had developed along a different path than theirs and recruited you into dimensional research. Bruce began saying your name without hesitation.

Titus followed you everywhere. The dog knew. Perhaps not the details, not the impossible mathematics of parallel worlds, but he knew you had the same hands. The same voice. The same habit of scratching beneath his collar before smoothing the fur between his ears.

The first time he fell asleep with his head in your lap, Damian stood in the doorway and stared.

You looked up. “I can move.”

“No.”

Damian entered the room and sat in the chair opposite you.

For several minutes, he sketched Titus.

Then his pencil shifted.

You noticed but said nothing.

When he left, the page remained on the table.

It showed your hands resting in the dog’s fur.

Not your face.

Not yet.

But yours.

Love did not return like lightning. It did not rise from the graves fully formed and demand to be recognised.

It came quietly. Guiltily. In moments neither of you trusted.

Damian began making your tea the way you liked it in your universe, not the way his you had taken it. You learned that he preferred silence after patrol, whereas your Damian had always needed music to come down from the adrenaline.

He discovered you hated being touched unexpectedly. You discovered he needed to know where you were in crowded rooms.

You did not fit into the spaces your counterparts had left. The edges were wrong. The weight was different.

Slowly, painfully, you made new spaces.

One night, nearly a year after you fell through the fracture, you found Damian on the roof of Wayne Manor.

Gotham glowed in the distance, ugly and golden beneath the clouds.

You sat beside him. Your shoulders did not touch.

“It is the anniversary,” he said.

“I know.”

In both universes.

One year since you had died. One year since Damian had died.

You took the ring from beneath your shirt. His counterpart’s ring turned slowly between your fingers.

Damian reached into his coat and removed a small velvet box.

Your breath caught.

He opened it.

Inside was the ring he had never given you.

“I considered burying it,” he said. “It seemed dishonest. They never wore it.”

You looked down at the band. “It’s beautiful.”

“They would have complained that it was too expensive.”

“I would have.”

“You are not helping your argument.”

A laugh escaped you.

Damian’s expression softened.

The silence that followed was not empty.

That was new.

“I loved him,” you said.

Damian looked out over Gotham. “I know.”

“I still love him.”

“I know.”

You swallowed. “Sometimes I think loving anyone else would mean I’m leaving him behind.”

Damian turned the velvet box between his hands.

“I once believed grief was the final proof of love. That if I permitted it to lessen, it would mean they had mattered less than I claimed.”

“What do you believe now?”

His gaze found yours. “That grief is not love. It is merely the shape love takes when it has nowhere to go.”

Your eyes burned.

Damian looked back at the ring. “They would despise what I became after their death.”

“That isn’t fair.”

“They would say the same.”

“My Damian would be furious with me for spending a year wishing I’d died instead.”

Damian’s jaw tightened. “As he should be.”

“You’re one to talk.”

“I have never claimed not to be a hypocrite.”

You smiled. Then the smile faded. “What do we do with it?”

“With what?”

“All this love.”

Damian was quiet for so long that you thought he would refuse to answer.

Then he closed the box.

“We carry it.”

“And if it gets heavy?”

“We allow someone to help.”

Your heart beat painfully.

Damian heard the change. You knew he did from the slight shift in his posture.

You reached for him slowly, giving him time to move away.

Your fingers touched his. Damian looked down at your joined hands.

“This does not belong to them,” you whispered.

“No.”

“And it doesn’t belong to him.”

“No.”

“It’s ours.”

His fingers tightened around yours. “Yes.”

You leaned closer.

Damian’s eyes closed before your forehead touched his.

For a while, that was all it was.

Warm skin. Shared breath. Two people alive beneath an indifferent sky.

“I have loved you in another world,” you whispered.

Damian’s throat moved. “As I have loved you.”

“I think part of me always will.”

“I would not ask you to stop.”

You drew back enough to look at him. “What are you asking?”

Damian opened his eyes. There were tears in them, but he did not turn away.

“For the opportunity to know you in this one.”

Your breath shook. “That sounds suspiciously vulnerable.”

“Do not ruin it.”

You laughed, and Damian smiled.

It was not the smile your Damian had worn. There was no scar at his cheek. No old injury in his knee. His mouth tilted differently, and sorrow had carved unfamiliar lines around his eyes.

He was not the man you had buried. You were not the person whose name waited in the cemetery below. Perhaps that was why you could finally lift your hand and touch his face without pretending.

Damian leaned into your palm.

“I cannot promise this will not hurt,” he said.

“It already hurts.”

“I cannot promise I will never look at you and see them.”

“I’ll probably look at you and see him.”

His hand covered yours.

“But I will learn the difference,” he said.

“So will I.”

When he kissed you, it was not a resurrection.

The dead did not rise. The universe did not apologise.

Your Damian remained beneath a cedar tree in a world you could no longer reach. His love remained in the ring against your chest, in the memories no new touch could erase.

Damian’s beloved remained beneath spring flowers on the Wayne estate. Their laughter still lived in the Manor walls. Their unfinished book still waited beside a cold bed.

Nothing was repaired. Nothing was replaced.

But Damian kissed you with tears slipping down his face, and you kissed him back with grief trembling between every breath.

You loved the dead. You loved the living. Neither love diminished the other.

Perhaps, in another universe, there was a version of you who had grown old beside him. Perhaps somewhere beyond the fractures and branching stars, Damian was grey-haired and irritable, still stealing the blankets while accusing you of doing the same. Perhaps there were worlds where you never met, worlds where you hated one another, worlds where one of you arrived a moment too late.

There were infinite possibilities. Infinite endings. Infinite graves. But here, in this wounded world, Damian held your face between his hands as though life were something precious precisely because it could be lost.

“I found you,” he whispered.

You pressed your forehead to his.

“No,” you said softly. “We found each other.”

The sky over Blüdhaven had split open at 11:42 p.m.

There had been no warning. One moment, Dick was balancing on the edge of an apartment building, arguing through his comm with Barbara about whether a hot dog technically qualified as a post-patrol meal. The next, lightning had lanced across a cloudless sky in colours that lightning had no right to possess—violet, silver, a blinding blue that seemed to reach behind Dick’s eyes and scrape at the inside of his skull.

Every window within six blocks shattered simultaneously.

The sound rolled through the city like an avalanche of bells.

Dick had thrown himself from the roof before the first scream reached him.

You were already there.

He found you in the centre of the street beneath the impossible wound in the sky, helping a woman pull two children from an overturned car. Your face was streaked with soot. One sleeve of your jacket had been torn away, and blood ran in a thin line from your hairline to your jaw.

Dick landed beside you. “You’re hurt.”

“So romantic,” you said breathlessly. “Hello to you too.”

Above you, the fracture widened.

The darkness inside it did not resemble the night. It had depth where there should have been distance, an endless corridor crowded with brief flashes of unfamiliar worlds. Dick saw a Gotham where the skyline burned red. A city beneath the sea. A figure wearing Batman’s cowl who was too small to be Bruce. Himself, perhaps, older and grey at the temples, turning toward something beyond the tear.

Then the images vanished in another detonation of light.

The shock wave threw Dick into the side of a parked car. His shoulder struck metal hard enough to dent it. Before his body had finished falling, you were beside him, your hands moving over his chest and neck.

“Dick. Look at me.”

“I’m fine.”

“You just got thrown through a Toyota.”

“It was a Honda.”

You laughed, ragged with fear.

He wanted to kiss you. It was a ridiculous thought with the city screaming around you, but it arrived with perfect clarity. He wanted to take your face between his hands, kiss the cut on your temple and the soot from your mouth, and bring you home.

You would shower together because you always did after the bad nights. You would complain about his shampoo. He would insist yours smelled like a fancy haunted forest. You would climb into bed, and Dick would rest his head over your heart, listening to the soft proof of you until morning.

There was a future waiting for him. There had always been a future waiting for him where you were concerned.

Then Barbara’s voice sharpened in his ear. “Nightwing, the energy is converging on your position. You need to move. Now.”

Dick looked up.

The fracture was collapsing.

Not closing. Collapsing. Every streetlight curved toward it. Glass lifted from the pavement. Cars shifted sideways, tyres squealing against asphalt as the force at the centre of the tear dragged everything inward.

Dick grabbed your wrist. “Run.”

You ran.

For three seconds, you ran together.

Then the road beneath Dick’s feet disappeared.

It did not crack or buckle. One instant, there was asphalt beneath him, and the next there was nothing except white-blue light and a pull so violent it wrenched his hand from yours.

Dick knew how to fall. Falling was the first language his body had ever learned.

He twisted in midair, reached for the grappling line at his hip and fired toward the nearest building. The hook caught the corner of a roof, but the fracture pulled harder. His shoulder screamed as the line snapped taut. The mechanism groaned beneath his palm.

Below him, the street had become a storm of wreckage. Metal, glass and concrete spiralled upward into the opening.

“Dick!”

He found you through the chaos.

You had anchored yourself to a fire escape, one arm looped through the railing. Your free hand was extended toward him.

Too far.

The cable in Dick’s grip began to tear.

“Stay there!” he shouted. “Do not let go!”

Your eyes met his.

He saw the exact moment you understood.

Not the danger. You had understood that from the beginning.

You understood the distance. You understood that the cable would break before the fracture closed. You understood there was nothing close enough for him to reach, nothing strong enough to bear the force, no time for Barbara or Bruce or anyone else to find another answer.

Dick watched terror move through your face.

Then he watched love swallow it whole.

“No,” he said.

You released the railing.

“No. No, don’t—”

You flew toward him.

For one impossible moment, Dick thought you had miscalculated. That the fracture would take you both, that he would spend his last seconds holding you and screaming into the light.

Then you collided with him.

Your arms locked around his chest. Your momentum swung his body sideways, close enough to the jagged remains of a balcony that Dick could see the individual splinters in the broken stone.

You reached past him.

Your grappling hook fired.

It struck the balcony’s support beam and held.

Dick’s line broke.

Yours did not.

The fracture pulled you apart.

His fingers closed around your wrist. Your hand clamped around his. The muscles in Dick’s shoulder tore beneath the strain, but he held on. He held on with everything he had ever learned, every impossible act of balance and strength his parents had written into his bones.

Your grip began to slip.

“No,” Dick gasped. “No, no, no. Hold on to me.”

Your face was inches from his. Tears streamed sideways from the corners of your eyes, caught by the wind and carried into the light.

“I’ve got you,” you said.

Then you let go.

Dick screamed your name.

Your hand vanished from his.

You were pulled into the fracture so quickly that there was no falling body, no final arc, nothing his mind could follow. There was only the impression of your face illuminated in blue-white light and the shape of your mouth forming something he could not hear.

The fracture snapped shut. Every object suspended above the street crashed down.

Silence followed.

For one heartbeat, perhaps two, the whole city seemed to pause.

Dick hung from your grappling line, staring at an empty sky.

Barbara was shouting in his ear. People were crying below him. Sirens rose in the distance, one after another, but every sound reached him as though filtered through deep water.

The sky was whole again.

You were gone.

They never found a body.

Bruce called that a reason to continue searching. Dick called it cruelty.

For thirteen days, the Justice League scanned every energy signature left behind by the fracture. Zatanna performed spells that made the air taste of copper and thunderstorms. Barry ran calculations faster than any computer could process them. Clark listened to the atmosphere for a heartbeat he had only heard a handful of times.

Nothing. There was no trail to follow. No world to identify. No proof that you had landed somewhere else, and no proof that you had not been torn apart between realities.

Dick participated in every search. He reviewed every scrap of data. He watched the footage until individual pixels burned themselves into his dreams. He stood in the Cave with his arms crossed over his chest while Bruce explained temporal decay rates and dimensional displacement as though the correct sequence of numbers might turn back time.

On the fourteenth day, Dick broke the main computer.

He did it with one punch.

The screen fractured beneath his fist, and the Cave filled with a soft electronic whine. Blood ran over Dick’s knuckles and down his wrist.

Bruce did not reprimand him.

That made Dick angrier.

“Say it,” Dick demanded.

Bruce stood across from him, still and shadowed beneath the enormous clock.

“Say they’re dead.”

Bruce’s mouth tightened. “You want me to lie to you?”

“I want you to stop giving me hope like it’s a life-support machine.”

“There are variables we don’t understand.”

“They’re dead.”

“We cannot confirm that.”

Dick laughed. The sound was ugly. It did not belong to him.

“You’re really going to do this? You’re going to keep saying we don’t know until I rot waiting for them?”

Bruce stepped closer.

Dick backed away.

That stopped Bruce more effectively than any shouted command could have.

Dick looked down at his bleeding hand. You would have taken it immediately, exasperated and gentle, cleaning the cuts while informing him that billionaire technology was expensive and punching it was, in your professional opinion, extremely dramatic.

You had always liked him dramatic. You had liked him angry too, although you rarely said so. You had loved every inconvenient, contradictory piece of him—not because you were blind to his fractures, but because you had mapped them so carefully that you knew where to place your hands without making them worse.

“I can’t do this,” Dick whispered.

Bruce’s voice softened. “You do not have to do it alone.”

Dick looked at him then. “That isn’t the same thing.”

Bruce had no answer.

No one did.

Grief rearranged Dick’s life without asking permission.

Your mug remained beside the sink for three months because Dick could not decide whether washing it would be an act of devotion or betrayal. Your shoes stayed by the door. Your side of the wardrobe remained crowded with clothes that still held a trace of your detergent, although the scent faded every time he opened it to breathe you in.

There were parts of you everywhere.

Your handwriting on the grocery list attached to the fridge. Your bookmark halfway through a novel on the bedside table. A voice note you had sent while he was on patrol, complaining about a neighbour’s dog and then stopping halfway through because you had become distracted by a song playing somewhere in the background.

Dick listened to the message every night.

At the end, you said, “Come home safe, okay? I love you.”

He never played the automatic silence that followed. He always stopped the recording immediately after the word you, preserving the illusion that your voice had not ended.

The family visited in shifts. No one admitted there was a schedule, which meant there definitely was one.

Barbara brought food and sat with him without trying to fill every silence. Jason repaired the window latch you had complained about for nearly a year, muttering that Dick had apparently never heard of a screwdriver. Tim helped organise the dimensional research into files that Dick pretended he no longer read. Damian appeared every Thursday evening with Titus and acted as though the dog had independently demanded a walk through Blüdhaven.

Bruce came less often. Dick suspected that Bruce understood his presence made grief feel like a mission, and some wounds could not survive being treated as problems to solve.

There were days Dick managed almost convincingly.

He returned to patrol. He joked with criminals. He flirted with paramedics. He somersaulted between rooftops and let the city wind rush through his hair, pretending the exhilaration still reached the places it once had.

Then he would return to an empty apartment and forget how to breathe.

Six months after your death, he finally washed your mug.

He sat on the kitchen floor afterwards and sobbed until his ribs hurt.

A year passed. Then another.

People stopped lowering their voices when they said your name.

Dick hated them for it. He hated himself more for occasionally going hours without thinking of you.

The first time he laughed without guilt arriving immediately afterwards, he almost called you. The movement was so instinctive that he had already pulled his phone from his pocket before he remembered.

He stared at your contact photograph. You were laughing in it. Dick could no longer remember what he had said to make you laugh, and the realisation hollowed him out with surgical precision.

He had believed grief meant remembering too much.

No one had warned him it also meant forgetting.

The sky split open again two years, seven months and eleven days after it took you.

Dick was in Gotham when the alarms began.

Every screen in the Cave flashed with the same warning: dimensional energy, atmospheric distortion, convergence point over Bristol Township.

For one second, Dick could not move.

Then he was running.

He reached the manor grounds before Bruce.

The fracture hovered above the eastern lawn, smaller than the one in Blüdhaven but unmistakably the same. Violet lightning crawled over the clouds. Wind bent the trees toward the tear, stripping leaves from branches and carrying them upward in a spiralling column.

Dick stood beneath it with his escrima sticks clenched in both hands.

His heart battered against his ribs.

He had imagined this moment in a thousand forms. He had imagined you falling through the sky into his arms. He had imagined finding you injured but alive, furious that it had taken him so long. He had imagined you unchanged. Older. Scarred. Forgetful. He had imagined kneeling in the wet grass and holding you until every missing year disappeared beneath the pressure of his embrace.

A figure dropped from the fracture.

Dick moved before he could think.

He threw one stick aside, fired his grappling line and launched himself upward. He caught the falling person around the waist. Their momentum wrenched at his shoulders, but Dick twisted, pulled them against his chest and guided them toward the lawn.

They hit the ground together.

The fracture flickered.

Then it sealed with a low thunderclap.

Dick rolled to absorb the impact, ending on his back with the stranger held above him.

For a moment, neither of them breathed.

Then they lifted their head.

Dick’s entire world stopped.

Your face stared down at him.

Not similar. Not close.

Yours. The same curve of your mouth. The same line between your brows when you were confused. The tiny mark near your chin Dick had kissed so often he could have found it blindfolded.

Even your eyes were the same.

But the expression inside them was not.

You had once looked at Dick as though he were sunlight breaking through stained glass.

This person looked at him as if they had seen a ghost crawl from its grave.

Their hand rose shakily toward his face. “Dick?”

His name broke in their mouth.

Dick could not answer.

The stranger made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob, and then they collapsed against him, arms wrapping around his neck with desperate, bruising strength.

Dick’s body reacted before his mind did.

His hand came up to cradle the back of their head.

The gesture was automatic. Familiar.

Wrong.

The stranger trembled against him.

“You’re alive,” they whispered. “Oh, my God. You’re alive.”

Dick stared past their shoulder at the empty sky.

His fingers loosened.

The stranger felt it. They pulled away just enough to look at him, and something in their face shattered when they saw his expression.

“You’re not mine,” Dick said.

The words came out colder than he intended.

The stranger recoiled as though struck.

Bruce landed beside them, cape settling around him.

Dick barely noticed. He was still staring at your face.

The face of someone who was not you.

“No,” the stranger said quietly. “I don’t think I am.”

Their molecular structure matched yours. Their fingerprints matched yours. Their DNA was yours down to the smallest measurable sequence, except for faint traces of dimensional radiation threaded through every cell.

They had your memories until the realities diverged. They remembered being raised in the same place, meeting many of the same people, choosing the same favourite films and carrying the same scar on their knee from an accident during childhood.

They remembered meeting Dick Grayson. Their Dick Grayson.

The differences began there.

In their world, Blüdhaven had never suffered the fracture that killed you. Instead, three years later, an experimental device built by a version of the Justice League had destabilised during an attack.

Their Dick had died shutting it down. The explosion had thrown them between worlds.

One Earth had lost you. Another had lost him. And the universe, with all the sensitivity of a knife, had decided to introduce the survivors.

They sat opposite each other in the Cave’s medical bay.

The alternate version of you wore borrowed clothes and held a cup of tea Alfred had made. Both hands remained wrapped around it, although the liquid had long since stopped steaming.

Dick could not stop watching them.

Every movement hurt. They rubbed their thumb along the side of the cup exactly as you had. They tilted their head when listening. When Alfred asked whether they needed anything, they smiled with your mouth and said, “A functioning grasp of reality would be great, but I imagine you’re fresh out.”

Jason went rigid.

Tim looked at Dick.

No one laughed.

The stranger’s smile disappeared.

“Sorry,” they murmured. “He always laughed at that kind of thing.”

Dick’s chest tightened. “Your Dick?”

They looked down. “Yeah.”

The word carried years inside it.

Bruce stood beside the computer, speaking in the controlled tone he used when every possible answer was dangerous. “We will attempt to identify your Earth and create a stable route home.”

The stranger nodded. “What happens if you can’t?”

Silence settled through the Cave.

Dick saw their grip tighten around the cup.

“We’ll figure it out,” he said.

Everyone looked at him.

The stranger looked last.

For one heartbeat, hope transformed their face into something so achingly familiar that Dick wanted to run.

Instead, he stood. “You can use one of the manor’s guest rooms.”

“Dick,” Bruce cautioned.

“What? Are you planning to put them in containment?”

“No.”

“Good.”

Dick turned to leave.

“Wait.”

Their voice stopped him at the doorway.

When Dick looked back, they were staring at him with an expression he could not read.

“Did they—” They swallowed. “The version of me from here. Did they know you loved them?”

Dick felt the question enter his body like a blade sliding between his ribs. “Yes.”

Their shoulders sagged with something resembling relief.

“Good,” they whispered. “Mine knew too.”

Their name was the same as yours.

Dick avoided using it. He referred to them as you when speaking directly to them and not at all when speaking to anyone else. It was cowardly, but grief had stripped away his patience for pretending otherwise.

They remained at the manor while Bruce, Tim and the League searched for their Earth. Days became weeks. The dimensional signature embedded in their cells did not correspond to any world currently mapped within the multiverse, and every attempt to open a route collapsed within seconds.

Dick kept his distance.

At least, he tried to. The universe conspired against him in small, vicious ways.

They could not sleep in the manor, so Dick encountered them one night sitting on the kitchen counter at three in the morning, eating cereal directly from the box. You had done the same thing whenever insomnia followed you out of bed.

They hated the same tea. They laughed at Jason’s insults and understood Damian’s affection when it arrived disguised as criticism. They knew Alfred’s birthday and the hidden cupboard where he kept the good biscuits.

But there were differences, too.

Small ones at first.

They drank coffee without sugar. You had claimed unsweetened coffee tasted like “burnt existential dread.” They had a thin scar across their left palm from an injury you had never received. Their hair had been cut differently before the explosion, although it was growing out now. They knew how to play the piano, which you never had.

They looked like you. They were not you.

The distinction should have made everything easier.

It did not.

One night, Dick found them in the trophy room.

They stood beneath the glass case containing his old Nightwing suit, staring at the blue emblem across the chest.

“My Dick wore red,” they said without turning.

Dick stopped in the doorway. “Nightwing’s colours?”

“Yeah. Red bird across the chest.” A fragile smile touched their mouth. “He said blue made him look too approachable.”

“That doesn’t sound like me.”

“No.” Their smile faded. “He was a little angrier than you.”

“You’ve known me for three weeks.”

“I knew him for nine years.”

The response was sharper than anything they had said to Dick before.

He flinched.

They closed their eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologise.”

“I keep doing that. Comparing you.”

“I do it too.”

They turned.

The room was dark except for the light illuminating the suit, painting half their face in electric blue.

“Do you?”

Dick laughed quietly, without humour. “Every time you enter a room.”

Pain moved across their expression.

He hated himself for causing it, even if it was true.

“They died saving me,” Dick said.

Their breath caught.

He had not spoken to them about your death. He had not told the story in years. The words had calcified inside him, too sharp to remove without tearing something vital.

“There was a dimensional fracture,” he continued. “I was being pulled into it. They could have stayed anchored. They would have survived.”

“But they let go.”

Dick nodded. “They got a line around us. Then the fracture started pulling them away.” His throat tightened. “I held their hand.”

The alternate you stared at him.

“I couldn’t keep them.”

“You were not supposed to.”

The certainty in their voice startled him.

“What?”

“They weren’t asking you to.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do.”

Anger flared hot and immediate through Dick’s grief. “You are not them.”

“I know.”

“Then stop speaking for them.”

“I’m not.”

They stepped closer. Their hands remained at their sides, as though they were afraid any sudden movement might send Dick fleeing.

“I’m speaking as someone who loved you,” they said. “A version of you. Someone who made the same choice.”

Dick’s anger vanished.

The room seemed to narrow around them.

“How did he die?”

They looked past Dick toward the dark windows. “The machine was collapsing. There were civilians trapped in the building. I stayed behind to get them out, and he went to shut down the core.” Their voice thinned. “He knew it was going to explode.”

Dick could picture it. He hated how easily he could picture it.

“He locked the door behind him,” they continued. “I kept trying to open it. I was screaming at him, and he put his hand against the glass.”

Their eyes glistened.

Dick knew what came next before they said it.

“He smiled at me.”

Of course he had. A performance offered in the last terrible moment. A final attempt to soften death for the person left behind.

Dick had smiled through broken bones and gunshot wounds. He had made jokes with blood in his mouth. He had spent his whole life turning pain into something lighter so no one else would have to carry its full weight.

“What did he say?” Dick asked.

They wiped impatiently at their cheek.

“He said, ‘I’ve got you.’”

The room tilted.

Dick closed his eyes.

For years, he had wondered what you had mouthed before the fracture took you. He had replayed the moment frame by frame, trying to read the shape of your lips.

Perhaps there had never been any mystery. Perhaps love made the same promise everywhere.

When Dick opened his eyes, they were crying.

He crossed the distance between them before he could reconsider.

His arms wrapped around their shoulders.

They froze.

Then they held him.

It was not the same. Their body fit differently against his. Their grip was tighter than yours had been, as though loss had taught them anything held gently might disappear. Their cheek rested against another place on his shoulder.

Dick noticed every difference.

He also noticed the same quiet sound they made when trying not to sob.

He held them while they grieved a man with his face. They held him while he grieved a person wearing theirs.

Neither pretended it was enough.

For that night, it was something.

After that, you became friends.

The word you inadequate, but it was safer than every alternative.

Dick took them to Blüdhaven.

It began because the manor had grown oppressive, crowded with familiar rooms belonging to a life that was not yours. Dick understood the need to escape other people’s sympathy, so he offered you his spare room.

He had moved apartments after your death. He claimed it was because the previous building had developed structural issues. Barbara knew better. So did Jason. Neither challenged him.

The new place contained fewer ghosts.

Not none. Never none.

The alternate you stood inside the doorway with a bag over one shoulder and glanced around at the bright windows, the mismatched furniture and the ridiculous chandelier Dick had rescued from an estate sale.

“My Dick would have hated this.”

Dick dropped your second bag. “Excuse me?”

“The chandelier. He hated fancy light fixtures.”

“He sounds tasteless.”

“He owned seven nearly identical black jackets.”

“A tragedy.”

“One had red stitching.”

“Revolutionary.”

You smiled. The expression reached your eyes this time.

Dick felt something inside his chest loosen, then tighten twice as painfully.

Living together formed a rhythm neither of them acknowledged.

The two of you cooked. Argued over films. Patrolled together once Dick learned that you had operated as a vigilante in your own world, although your methods were cautious and calculated where his your had been instinctive.

You learned each other as strangers. Dick discovered you hummed when nervous and went silent when angry. You discovered he reorganised the kitchen whenever he could not sleep and avoided the street where the fracture had opened.

You did not speak about the people they had lost every day. You did not have to. Grief sat at the table with you. It travelled in the back seat of Dick’s car and waited outside the bathroom while you showered. It lay between your separate bedrooms at night, vast and listening.

There were moments when the boundaries blurred.

One morning, Dick entered the kitchen and found you wearing one of his shirts, hair disordered by sleep. His heart leapt before reality caught up.

On patrol, you shouted his name when a bullet passed too close, and Dick heard his old you in the panic.

Once, you fell asleep against him during a film. Dick remained perfectly still for forty-seven minutes.

When you woke, they pulled away so quickly their elbow struck the side table. “I’m sorry.”

“You were asleep.”

“I shouldn’t have—”

“It’s okay.”

“It isn’t.”

Your breathing had become uneven. Dick recognised the beginning of panic and reached out before remembering himself. His hand stopped halfway to you.

You stared at it.

Slowly, you placed your palm against his.

Your hand was warm. The scar across it pressed into his skin.

Different. Real.

“I’m not them,” you whispered.

Dick curled his fingers around yours. “I know.”

“You looked at me like I was.”

“I know.”

You tried to withdraw.

Dick held on. “But then I remembered you weren’t,” he continued. “And I was still glad you were here.”

Your eyes closed, and a tear slipped free.

Neither of you mentioned the moment afterwards, but something had shifted.

Not healed. Grief was not a bone that could be set straight and left to mend. It was weather, changing shape while remaining the same sky.

The following week, Dick said your name aloud for the first time.

You were standing on a rooftop after patrol, city lights spread beneath you. You had taken a hit to the shoulder and were insisting it was only bruised.

Dick touched your wrist. He said your name.

You went completely still.

Dick felt it too—the sharp wrongness followed by something quieter. He had spoken that name thousands of times to another person. He had laughed it, shouted it, breathed it against skin.

Now the name belonged to the person standing in front of him. It had always belonged to them, too.

“Let me look at your shoulder,” Dick said.

You nodded.

The world did not end.

Bruce found a route home eight months after your arrival. Dick knew before anyone told him.

He returned to the apartment after patrol and found you sitting on the sofa with your hands clasped between your knees. You looked up when he entered, and grief had changed its clothes.

This grief contained hope. It was somehow worse.

“They found it,” Dick said.

You nodded. “My Earth. Or what they think is my Earth.”

“When?”

“The window will be stable tomorrow night.”

Dick removed his mask. He placed it on the kitchen counter carefully because, if he did not, he might throw it through the window. “That’s good.”

“Yes.”

“You can go home.”

“Yes.”

You stared at each other across the apartment.

Dick wanted you to stay. The knowledge arrived without mercy.

He wanted you in his kitchen drinking bitter coffee. He wanted your bag hanging beside his by the door. He wanted to hear you complain about Blüdhaven’s traffic and laugh at jokes you pretended not to find funny.

He wanted to keep learning you. The desire made him feel faithless.

You had died saving him. How could he love another version of your face without reducing you both to interchangeable parts?

You looked down. “I don’t know what I’m going back to.”

“Your home.”

“My home exploded.”

“Your friends are there.”

“Versions of them.” Your mouth twisted. “Maybe. Bruce said the dimensional coordinates aren’t exact. It could be my Earth several years later. It could be an adjacent reality.”

“Then don’t go.”

The words escaped before Dick could stop them.

Your head lifted.

Dick’s pulse thudded painfully in his throat. “You don’t have to,” he said more quietly. “Not until you know it’s safe.”

“The window may not open again.”

“I know.”

“If it is my world—”

“I know.”

“My family could be waiting.”

“I know.”

They rose. “Then why are you asking me to stay?”

Because I love you. The answer stood between you, impossible and alive.

Dick stepped back from it. “I don’t know.”

You laughed once, bitterly. “Yes, you do.”

“Don’t.”

“You think I haven’t felt it?”

Dick turned away. “Felt what?”

“The way you look at me and then hate yourself for it.”

“I don’t hate myself.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“You deserve someone who sees you.”

“You do see me.”

The words stopped him.

Behind him, you voice trembled. “That is what makes this so awful. At first you didn’t. At first, every time you looked at me, you were looking for them. But you stopped.”

Dick faced you.

Tears shone in your eyes, but your chin remained lifted. “You know how I take my coffee,” you said. “You know I hate being touched when I first wake up. You know I always check the locks three times and that I pretend heights don’t bother me even though they do. You know I play the piano when I miss him. Those things aren’t theirs. They’re mine.”

“I know.”

“And I know you. Not my Dick. You.” Your voice cracked. “He hated cereal. You could live on it. He never sings in the shower. You turn every shower into a concert no one bought tickets for. He fought like he was angry at gravity, and you—”

You smiled through the tears.

“You fight like you’re in love with it.”

Dick’s eyes burned.

“I loved him,” you whispered. “I still love him. I think part of me always will.”

“I still love them.”

“I know.”

The room seemed very quiet.

Dick took one step forward. You did not move.

“I don’t know what this is,” he admitted.

“Neither do I.”

“I don’t know whether loving you means I’m holding on or letting go.”

“Maybe it isn’t either.”

He stopped in front of them. “What if we’re only doing this because we miss them?”

“We are.”

The honesty hurt, but it did not destroy him.

You lifted their hand, hesitated and touched the centre of his chest. “But that isn’t the only reason.”

Dick covered your hand with his. Your scar pressed against his palm.

“I don’t want to be a replacement,” you said.

“You aren’t.”

“I don’t want you to love me because somewhere in your head, you think I’m them coming back.”

“You didn’t come back.”

Your face crumpled.

Dick brought your hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss against your knuckles.

“You came here,” he said. “You stayed. You became someone I know separately from every memory I have of them.”

A tear slid down your cheek. “And if I go?”

The question broke something open inside him.

Dick remembered your hand slipping from his. He remembered begging you to stay.

For years, he had believed love meant holding tightly enough to defeat every force trying to take someone away. Perhaps that had never been true. Perhaps love was also opening your hand.

“Then I’ll miss you,” he said. “And I’ll be grateful I knew you.”

Your eyes closed.

Dick pressed his forehead to theirs.

“I think I love you,” you whispered.

His breath shuddered out. “Me or him?”

“Yes.”

Dick almost laughed. A sob caught inside it.

You leaned closer, your nose brushing his.

“Both,” you said. “Differently. Completely. I don’t know how to explain it.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Do you?”

Dick thought about his you. He thought about the life you had shared and the future you had lost. He thought about the stranger who had arrived with your face and slowly become familiar in entirely new ways.

Love had not replaced love. It had grown beside it. A second tree from the same impossible soil, roots tangled beneath the earth but reaching toward its own sky.

“Yes,” Dick said. “I love you.”

You kissed him.

It was nothing like kissing his you. The angle was different. Your mouth trembled. Your hand caught in the front of his suit with a desperation that belonged to another lifetime.

Dick kissed you back. Not because they resembled someone he had lost. Because you were here. Because he knew you. Because the universe had taken two love stories, broken them in opposite places and scattered the survivors across realities—and somehow, against all reason, they had found each other in the wreckage.

When you separated, both of you were crying.

“This is incredibly messed up,” they murmured.

Dick laughed, wet and breathless. “Objectively, yeah.”

“Your family is going to have opinions.”

“My family has opinions about breakfast.”

You smiled against his mouth. “Dick?”

“Yeah?”

“I still think I need to go tomorrow.”

The pain was immediate, but it did not surprise him.

He nodded. “I know.”

“I need to see if it’s home.”

“I know.”

“And if it is…”

“You should stay.”

Your fingers tightened around his suit. “What if I never see you again?”

Dick thought of the thousands of worlds hidden beyond the sky. Somewhere, perhaps, his parents had never fallen. Somewhere, Bruce had never taken him in. Somewhere, you and Dick had grown old together. Somewhere, you had never met at all.

And somewhere, in more worlds than he could ever count, you had found each other.

Perhaps not in the same bodies. Perhaps not with the same names. But love had always been larger than recognition.

Dick touched your cheek.

“Then love me there,” he whispered. “And I’ll love you here.”

The portal opened above the same lawn where you had first arrived. It shimmered silver at the edges, revealing a hazy image of a city beyond. Familiar buildings pierced the horizon. A red symbol glowed from the side of a distant clock tower.

Your world. Perhaps.

The family gathered at a respectful distance. Alfred embraced you. Damian pretended not to. Jason told you that your version of him had better not be an asshole, and you informed him that some things apparently remained constant across every universe.

Then you stood before Dick. You wore the same clothes you had arrived in, repaired where the explosion had torn you. A bag rested over one shoulder.

Dick wanted to memorise you.

Not the shape of your face.

The details that belonged only to this version of you. The scar on your palm. The nervous rhythm of your fingers against the strap. The way you held yourself slightly forward, always prepared to run toward danger rather than away from it.

“You have your comm?” Dick asked.

“Tim modified it.”

“If the portal destabilises—”

“I know.”

“And if anything looks wrong on the other side—”

“I know.”

“You could let me finish one safety lecture.”

“I’ve heard your safety lectures. They’re ninety per cent hypocrisy.”

Dick smiled.

The portal’s hum deepened.

Bruce glanced at the readings. “The window is narrowing.”

Your expression changed.

Dick stepped forward and pulled you into his arms.

You held him fiercely.

For several seconds, neither spoke.

Then you whispered against his shoulder, “I’ve got you.”

Dick closed his eyes.

Once, those words had meant goodbye. He refused to let them mean that again.

“No,” he murmured. “We’ve got each other.”

You pulled back.

Dick kissed you. It was brief and soft and full of every impossible thing you could not promise.

Then you walked toward the portal.

At the edge, you turned. The silver light framed your body, making you look half-real already.

“Dick?”

He forced himself to smile. “Yeah?”

“I think I would have loved you in any world.”

His throat tightened. “You did.”

You looked at him, grief and wonder woven together in your eyes.

Dick placed a hand over his heart. “And you will.”

You stepped through. The portal vanished. The lawn fell silent.

Dick stood beneath an ordinary sky. He waited for the old emptiness to consume him, but it did not. There was pain. There would always be pain.

But there was something else threaded through it now—a thin silver certainty, delicate and unbreakable.

Love was not a single life. It was not one body, one world or one ending. It was a pattern repeated across infinity. A hand reaching through the dark. A promise spoken at the edge of death. Two souls finding each other beneath unfamiliar stars and recognising, not a face, but the shape of home.

Dick looked up.

Somewhere beyond the sky, you were gone. Somewhere beyond the sky, you were alive. Somewhere, another Dick Grayson was falling.

He has his favorite pieces of you, the soft plush of your cheek when you smile, the curve of your neck when you're facing away from him, the bite of your ankle bone digging into him as you drag him closer, in whatever endeavors you two find each other in.

But, his all time favorite had to be the lithe expanse of your legs.

Softened from your volleyball hiatus made no difference to Suna and his poorly veiled infatuation with your legs. He loves the tone of your thighs, the strength in your calves, that flex when you tip toe, after you’ve been running around during practice, up and down the gym stairs, and busy tending to the team, your vastus medialis head pumps up, out and above your knee adding to the glorious sight of your legs that has his hazel eyes roaming all over you.

Blunt nails dig into your skin as what was a light grip on your inner thigh turns firmer as he sighs. You're currently standing at the bench, back turned to your boyfriend as you survey the court, clip board in hand you make a note as another, more audible sigh is heard behind you. Suna is sitting at the bench, forehead against your lower back and hand gripping at the softness of your gracilis muscle located in your inner thigh. Normally, you would have swatted his hand away by now, he’s being quite clingy in public, at school nonetheless, and you would very much like to avoid another lecture from Atsumu. (he caught the two of you kissing one time after school…and you hardly make a day without hearing about how much it scarred him).

A groan, and the desperate nudge of his head against your back finally makes you turn to peer at him over your shoulder. Reaching back, you slide your fingers into his hair and scratch lightly at his scalp. A murmur sounds as you sigh before tugging gently on his brown strands. “Hey, you need to get up, break is almost over too.” Another groan, longer and more whiney. “Rin… c’mon Atsumu is glaring.” The bleach blonde snarks something as he runs past chasing a stray ball while Osamu glances over quizzically as he seems to have come to the realization Suna hadn’t been on the court running extra drills with them. Your poor leg is relinquished from his iron grip with a grumble as he stands behind you trudging onto the court as he sends you a look of a kicked puppy being forced into the rain. “Atta boy rin” You tease, giving his backside a light smack with the clipboard as he scowls at you while he assumes his position at the net.

Grinning cheekily at him you return to your managerial duties while the team starts up another practice game.

Practice has concluded and the third years are walking together on their journey home. Well it's more like the twins are walking home and you're going over to Suna’s. The sun is low on the horizon and you're laughing with Atsumu in stride, Suna and Osamu walking at a leisurely pace a few steps behind. It’s not unusual for there to be a lull in conversation between Osamu and Suna, even though the two are close friends. But Suna seems extra preoccupied by his thoughts today, which has surprisingly been noticed by Osamu. Glancing at his friend, Osamu looks at the blank expression Suna’s got on his mug and follows his line of sight to the backside of y/n. “Dude are ya seriously pervin’ on y/n right now?” Osamu says a sigh of exasperation tinting his tone. “Ya were all over ‘em during practice too” An unimpressed look from Suna “What? Nah…was just… zoning out” Osamu grins at the sheepish way Suna looks away when saying that. Also the fact that statement was so unconvincingly delivered it didn’t take a rocket scientist to know that Suna wasn’t being entirely truthful. “Riiiight…” Osamu says, looking off as he tunes into the rapidly changing conversation of mindless topics between Atsumu and yourself. Osamu's laughter ringing out with yours as Atsumu complains about something trivial.

Much too soon, it's time to part ways with the twins. The four exchange pleasantries and plans during lunch hour tomorrow as the twins go right and you're tugged to the left by Suna. “Geez, Rin slow down..!” You’re practically jogging to keep up, your hand gripped tightly in his as he speed walks towards his house. He’s all too eager to usher you upstairs past his jovial little sister, who quickly starts competing for your attention against her brother, who in turn, shoos her off with his tongue sticking out immaturely at her while you laugh and promise to help her study later.

In the safety of his bedroom, he finally has you, all to himself. No distractions.

Suna had excused himself to wash up and to allow some privacy for yourself to change out of your school uniform and into a set of comfortable clothes you keep at his house. You're relaxing on his bed when Suna returns to his room, face damp as he wipes at himself with a towel. Leaning back on his pillow, legs stretched out in your old volleyball shorts with your notebook in hand Suna feels his stomach twist and adam’s apple bob as he takes in the majestic sight of your casual self. Two fingers skim up the side of your leg making the muscle in your thigh jump as you quickly meet his gaze. “Yer so pretty…” Instantaneously warmth rushes to your cheeks as you gaze up at him stupidly. His hand has stopped at your hip, gentle pressure keeping you down as he stares at your face before crawling over you and flopping unceremoniously onto you. As the weight of him lowkey crushes you, you wiggle around so you can rest more comfortably and actually breathe beneath him. His head against your chest, one muscular leg between yours, an arm around your middle, and his hand grasping at the firm biceps femoris as he presses your other leg into himself. “Happy..?” You grumble weakly, desperately trying to smooth out the wrinkled pages of your notebook as your boyfriend clingmaxxes on you. “Very happy.” His words are punctuated by a squeeze to the back of your thigh as you roll your eyes. Carding your fingers through his hair you smile as he basks in your affection.

It’ll suck to get up when you need to start heading home, but having you in his arms is all he’s been thinking about today. You, and your wonderful, amazing legs..

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