Consciousness was a curse. His brain remained stubbornly, cruelly wide awake, forcing him to register every data point. Within seconds, the thick, suffocating and depressing gray of pulverized concrete smoke and dust particles had swallowed the perfect Tokyo blue. The warmth of the day, the gentle sunrays has turned into lasers that cut the skin. Gone the beautiful summer weather, the warmth wasn't caressing his skin anymore, the light breeze wasn't there to take the heat off. Instead, it was scorching. The breeze was gone, replaced by a searing pressure wave that roared through the streets, born from the sudden displacement of the atmosphere.

Chishiya didn't scream when he felt the sharapnels tore his body, his weak, lean torso took the impact in three distinct pulses. Chest. Stomach. Flank? Perhaps kidney. Not fatal, he thought for the third sharapnel. His reaction was just a cocky grunt, a sharp, clinical sound of data being received. He collapsed onto the zebra crossing he had been crossing only seconds ago. The white stripes were already beginning to map a new geography of crimson. Yet, he didn't stay down.

The medical student in him, the grand legacy of three generations of the Chishiya lineage, overrode the inherent urge to curl into a ball. He forced his back against a jagged slab of what used to be a storefront, dragging himself into a rigid, upright tripod position. What was the tripod position? Sitting upright, crouched forward while his back is supported. In this position, sitting up and leaning forward, he was using gravity to keep the blood from pooling against his diaphragm, which made it easier to breathe despite the chest shrapnel. If he lay flat, the blood in his thoracic cavity would compress his lungs, tension pneumothorax.

Intern Doctor Chishiya Shuntaro, his ID card read. For once, he was glad to be a victim in this catastrophe. He didn't even want to think about the state of the hospitals. Around him, the world was in agony. A woman a few meters away was clutching a shredded thigh, her femoral artery geysering with every frantic beat of her heart.

"You," Chishiya rasped, his voice sounding like dry gravel. He pointed a trembling, blood-slicked finger at a dazed man standing nearby. "The belt. Take off your belt. High and tight on her leg. Turn it until the red stops. Now."

He couldn't help the doctor in him. How could he? He had been prepared for his vocation since birth. His parents got married to secure a prominent spot in the hospital, a bold career move. In his home, devoid of affection and founded on lies, the medical profession represented the sole tangible reality.

The man blinked, staring at the pale, platinium blonde haired boy who looked more like a ghost than a savior. He looked too young to take the lead. Yet the authority in Chishiya’s clinical tone acted like a credential, moving the man into action. Leaving the school, Chishiya didn't think he'd teach a civillian about how to save a life with a tourniquet but, here he was.

Chishiya turned his attention back to his own small frame. His hands, usually steady for the pediatric cardiovascular rotations, were slick. He could feel the warmth of the antidepressants still in his system. The chemical shield he used to survive his family’s otherwise fatal expectations. Now those pills were doing nothing to dull the cold, creeping reality of the shrapnel in his gut. No, Chishiya thought. Those pills were doing more harm than good, both physically and mentally. His baseline norepinephrine, stress hormone, was reacting differently. The massive load of adrenaline from the impact was working his brain over the clock. He should have been passed out, not witnessing his own demise.

"Class III Hemorrhagic Shock," he thought, his pulse thundering in his ears like a rhythmic, failing drum. "Heart rate approximately 130. Capillary refill delayed. Survival probability... declining."

He checked his watch, white apple watch. He needed a timestamp. He knew the ambulance wouldn't be fast, not with a casualty density this high, the traffic in Tokyo must also have been terrible, but he also knew exactly how many milliliters of blood he could leave on the asphalt before his heart ran dry. While the rest of the intersection dissolved into a primitive, high-pitched static of screaming and sirens, Chishiya retreated into the cold, orderly vault of his training. The medical dynasty he carried in his veins was a heavy burden, but here, in the wreckage, it was a suit of armour.

"Airway... Patent," he whispered, the sound vibrating against the grit on his tongue. He could speak, which meant his vocal cords weren't blocked, though the metallic tang of blood suggested his lungs were starting to weep into his bronchi.

"Breathing... Compromised." He watched the left side of his chest. It didn't rise with the right. Instead, there was a wet, sucking whistle. He checked his neck in the reflection of a shattered shop window; his trachea was still midline. No tension pneumothorax. Not yet. The tripod position was helping him.

"Circulation... Critical." He didn't need a cuff to know his blood pressure was cratering. He pressed a thumb into his own palm; the skin stayed a stubborn, ghostly white for nearly five seconds. Capillary refill delayed. He ran a hand over his torso, mapping the three sites of shrapnel entry. The chest wound was the most urgent, but the stomach hit was the messiest, felt hot, a deep, rhythmic throb that spoke of a shredded mesenteric artery. If it was on his guts, the microbiome could spread to his bloodstream and give him sepsis.

"Estimated blood loss: 1200mL. Compensatory tachycardia. I’m running on a half-empty tank. Disability... GCS 15." He was fully aware, though he could feel the edges of his consciousness fraying. He wondered, with a flicker of dark amusement, if his daily dose of sertraline was the only thing keeping him from the hysterical "Red Tag" panic of the woman screaming nearby.

"Exposure: Penetrating torso trauma." He felt a sense of professional irritation when the ambulance sirens cut through. The paramedics were running, their movements frantic, their triage disorganized. God, if it was Chishiya, he would fail the class for being careless. So many people could get away with being average, Chishiya could never.

"Over here," he called out, though it was more of a wheeze. As they reached him, he didn't ask for help. He gave a report. "Male, early twenties. Three penetrating torso wounds. Tracheal deviation is negative for now, but breath sounds are diminished on the left. I’ve lost roughly 1.5 liters. Start two large-bore IVs. I’m O-negative. Bombay phenotype."

The paramedic paused, mid-bandage. "You’re a doctor?"

"Student," Chishiya corrected, his vision beginning to gray at the edges—a textbook sign of cerebral hypoxia. "And if you don't load me in the next sixty seconds, I’m going to be a was/were."

Asphalt to gurney, then in the ambulance. The paramedics weren't even pretending to care. Chishiya felt the sharp pain in his abdomen, yet he wasn't in the mood to complain. He had bigger worries. As the ambulance doors slammed shut, the sterile, claustrophobic interior of the vehicle became Chishiya’s entire universe.

The paramedics were moving fast, but to Chishiya, they were move like amateur actors in a poorly directed drama. He watched with a heavy, hooded gaze as they fumbled with the saline bags. "Norepinephrine... check the lead II," Chishiya rasped, his head lolling against the thin pillow. He wasn't looking at the paramedics anymore, they were annoying. Instead, he was staring at the cardiac monitor bolted to the wall.

Every jolt of the vehicle over the debris-strewn streets of Tokyo sent a spike of agony through Chishiya’s flank. Yet his eyes remained locked on the cardiac monitor. He watched the green line of his heart rate. The green line was a jagged mountain range, the peaks getting shorter and further apart. Sinus tachycardia, 145 beats per minute.

"Preload is too low," Chishiya rasped, his voice barely audible over the siren’s wail. The paramedic was fumbling with a bag of saline, his hands shaking. "The crystalloid isn't enough. I need whole blood. My phenotype... you heard me? Bombay. If you give me standard O-negative, I’ll undergo a lethal hemolytic reaction before we hit the ER."

"Kid, just breathe," the paramedic urged, pressing a mask over Chishiya's face.

Chishiya pushed it away with a blood-slicked hand. "I am breathing. I’m also calculating. My Mean Arterial Pressure is sliding under sixty. My coronary arteries are starving. Do you see the ST-segment elevation on the monitor? Lead II." He pointed a trembling finger at the screen. "That’s myocardial ischemia. My heart is about to quit because it’s pumping air."

"Kid, stop talking. You're losing too much air," the paramedic muttered again, trying to find a vein in an arm that had already shunted its blood to the core.

"It’s not... the air," Chishiya whispered, a thin line of blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. "It's the preload. My stroke volume is... non-existent. You’re pouring saline into... a sieve."

He felt the sudden, terrifying coldness of Stage IV Shock. It started in his fingertips and climbed up his marrow. His vision, once sharp and analytical, began to tunnel, the edges of the ambulance dissolving into a grainy, flickering black. He felt the change before the machine did. It was a sensation of profound lightness, as if his soul was finally losing its anchor.

A cold, heavy void spreading from his center. It wasn't the dramatic elephant on the chest of a textbook, it was the silence of a machine running out of fuel. His vision began to tunnel, the edges of the ambulance cabin dissolving into a vignette of gray soot.

"Hey," Chishiya said, his voice eerily calm. "Listen to me," Chishiya said, the authority of the Chishiya bloodline cutting through the panic. "I’m going into V-fib. In approximately ten seconds, I will lose consciousness. My downtime needs to be under two minutes. If you lose my brain, you lose my career. Timestamp it... now."

"He's arresting! Get the pads! Charge to 200!"

Chishiya watched the lead paramedic’s face go pale—the reality hitting that the Chishiya heir was dying on his watch. Chishiya wanted to tell him that his hand placement was too high, that his compressions would likely fracture the third rib given the shrapnel's trajectory, but the darkness finally won.

The green line on the monitor suddenly shivered, losing its rhythmic peak and dissolving into a chaotic, vibrating mess of static. Chishiya’s last conscious thought was one of profound clinical disappointment. Ninety seconds, he told himself as the lights went out. You have ninety seconds before the neurons begin to liquefy.

The ambulance drifted into the trauma bay of the university hospital with a violence that nearly threw the staff off their feet. The doors burst open, and the lead paramedic began shouting the one name that every nurse and resident in the building had been trained to fear.

"Clear the bay! We have a Red Tag coming in!" the head nurse shouted, then froze. She looked down at the pale, platinum-blonde boy, his chest bared and slick with blood, the shock paddles already being prepped. "Wait... is that our Shuntaro?"

The room froze. Not another victim of the meteorite; the Director’s son. The intern who had spent the last month correcting the residents' suture techniques and pointing out obscure drug interactions with a smug, half-lidded gaze.

"The Director's son?" a surgical resident hissed, his face draining of color. "If he dies on this table, we're all going to be practicing medicine in the arctic circle by Monday."

"We have Chishiya Shuntaro! Traumatic arrest! Three penetrating torso wounds!" The ER erupted. Pure, unadulterated terror. Somehow, having Chishiya here was worse than the whole meteorite situation.

"Clear!"

The first shock threw Chishiya’s body off the gurney. The monitor remained a flat, agonizing hiss.

"Again! Charge to 200!"

Forty seconds of downtime. Fifty. The surgical team gathered, their faces a mask of professional terror. If they lost him, they’d have to answer to the Director. If they saved him, they’d have to listen to him tell them exactly what they did wrong during the resuscitation.

At the eighty-second mark, the monitor let out a solitary, hopeful beep. Then another.

"ROSC!" the resident yelled, sweat dripping into his mask. "We have a pulse. Return of Spontaneous Circulation."

Chishiya’s eyes flickered open for a fraction of a second. He was intubated now, a plastic tube wedged between his teeth, but his gaze was sharp—and utterly judgmental. He looked at the resident, then at the IV line, then at the monitor. Chishiya was hovering in that strange, lazarus like state of post-resuscitation. He could hear them. He could feel the cold bite of the trauma room’s air and the sharp, metallic scent of the scrubs. He felt the heavy pressure of a senior surgeon’s hands on his abdomen—hands he knew so well.

"He's... awake," a nurse whispered, leaning over him. "He's trying to talk," the nurse whispered, horrified. "He's trying to... is he trying to triage himself?"

Chishiya’s eyes flickered open, pupils blown wide from the adrenaline and the trauma. He looked directly at the Chief of Trauma, a man who had shared dinner with his father only last week.

"The... incision," Chishiya croaked, his voice a ghost of its former self. "Use a... midline laparotomy. Don't... nick the... hepatic artery. I’ve already... had enough... internal leakage... You’re... holding the blade... at the wrong angle," Chishiya whispered, his eyes narrowing with a flash of that signature, maddening arrogance. "And check... the Bombay phenotype... cross-match. If you... give me Type O... I’ll die of... hemolysis... before you even... close the skin..."

The attending surgeon, a man who had been corrected by Chishiya during a pediatric cardio round only three days prior, looked at the med student’s defiant, conscious struggle and made a swift, tactical decision.

"He’s fighting the ventilator and his heart can't take the stress. He’s going to backseat-drive his own surgery if we don't stop him," the surgeon snapped. "And frankly, I can't operate with a Chishiya watching my every move. Increase the Propofol. Heavy sedation. Put him in a medical coma. Now."

The tension in the room was a physical weight. The nurses were trembling; the residents were paralyzed. Every move they made was being narrated by the half-dead genius on the table. It was impossible to work. The Chief of Trauma looked at the Anesthesiologist, a silent plea in his eyes.

"He’s too stable to be this annoying," the Chief muttered under his breath. "If he says one more word about my technique, I’m going to drop the forceps."

"Agreed," the Anesthesiologist replied, reaching for a vial. "For his own safety, and for our sanity, let’s put him under. Deeply."

"Wait—" Chishiya started, sensing the shift in the room's chemistry. "The Propofol dose... you need to... account for the... Sertraline... the metabolic..."

"Goodnight, Shuntaro-kun," the Anesthesiologist said, pushing the plunger.

The last thing Chishiya felt was the cold rush of the sedative entering his vein. A chemical darkness far deeper than the one he had just returned from. Hours later, the surgery was finished. The shrapnel was gone, the dried blood in his abdomeb had been suctioned from his stomach, and the his rare type of blood had been painstakingly sourced.

Chishiya laid still in the ICU, a forest of tubes and wires connecting him to the world. He was stable, but the staff had kept the sedation levels high.

"Is he waking up?" a nurse asked, checking the IV pump.

"No," the resident replied, looking at the door to ensure the Hospital Director wasn't lurking nearby. "And keep it that way. If he wakes up and realizes we missed a single suture on his mesenteric repair, he’ll have our licenses. Let him sleep. We need a few more hours of peace before the 'Chishiya Committee' starts their rounds."

While the discussion was ongoing, Chishiya surfaced from the anesthetic fog not into the warmth of a bedside vigil, but into the rhythmic, sterile clicking of an IV pump. His eyes, heavy and dry, flickered open to the sight of the ceiling of the ICU room. His brain, stubbornly intact despite the 90-second flirtation with the void, immediately began to scan. Mean Arterial Pressure: 72. Heart rate: 88. Oxygen saturation: 96% on the vent. He was alive. It was a statistical success.

The peace the doctors spoke about lasted exactly for forty—two minutes before the double doors of the ICU hissed open with the sharp, rhythmic clacks of a woman's kitten heels. She didn't seem to hurry. She walked with cold, authoritarian steps.

His mother, Dr. Chishiya, stood at the foot of the bed. She didn't look at his face, which was pale and bruised from the resuscitation. She snatched the digital tablet from its dock, her eyes skimming the vitals with the predatory speed of someone looking for a mistake to correct. She adjusted her glasses, her expression the same one she used when reviewing a mediocre research paper.

"Vitals are holding," she noted, her voice as crisp and cold as a fresh lab coat. "The pH is still slightly acidic. 7.32," she noted, her voice a flat, melodic chill that cut through the hum of the ventilators. She didn't address the nurses; she addressed the air. "And the lactate levels are lagging. Why is the infusion rate still at 100cc?"

The resident who had earlier prayed for silence stepped forward, his spine stiffening. "We’re titrating for renal response, Dr. Chishiya. Given the mesenteric repair, we wanted to avoid volume overload."

"The mesenteric repair is holding," she said, her voice a flat, professional monotone. She was speaking to the attending surgeon, Dr. Sato, who stood beside her. "It’s a conservative approach. Predictable," she replied, finally looking up. Her gaze didn't soften as it landed on Shuntaro. She didn't acknowledge the boy in the bed as her son. To her, he was just a high-stakes liability in a hospital her husband directed. "Shuntaro-kun has a high baseline metabolic rate. You’re under-resuscitating him."

Deep beneath the chemical fog, Chishiya felt a flicker of recognition. That voice. . . It was the sound of his childhood. . . The sound of dinner parties where he was a prop and clinical rounds where he was a student before he was a son. He tried to move his hand, to signal that he was here, that he was listening to her critique his own life support, but the paralytics held him in a leaden grip. "Mother," Chishiya tried to rasp, but the intubation tube made the word a wet, pathetic gargle.

Mother, his mind whispered into the dark. Check the PEEP. The ventilator is set too high for my compliance.

She finally looked at her son. She was calculating the cost of the repair rather than mourning the break. "Shuntaro was always too aware for his own good. He doesn't know how to be a patient."

"He’s been trying to surface, Dr. Chishiya," the resident , Dr. Sato, whispered, standing at attention. "He’s... vocalizing. Trying to direct the nursing staff."

She finally flicked her gaze to his eyes. There was no warmth there, only a flicker of irritation. "Don't try to speak, Shuntaro. You’ll cause a laryngeal spasm. You were careless to be in that intersection. Your father is already dealing with the PR fallout of the Director’s son being a Red Tag."

"He’s becoming a liability to his own recovery, Doctor," Sato pitched, his voice dripping with feigned concern. "His neurological state is hyper-reactive. Every time he drifts toward consciousness, he spikes his heart rate trying to audit the monitors. For the integrity of the mesenteric sutures, and to prevent a secondary cardiac event, I suggest we induce a deeper, proper medical coma. We should keep him under for at least forty-eight hours."

He knew the man was lying. He knew his heart rate was only spiking because he could feel the brain zaps of his missing Sertraline. Don’t, Chishiya tried to scream, but the tube in his throat turned the thought into a wet, pathetic rattle. The metabolic load... Sato, you bastard... check the GCS...

Chishiya’s eyes narrowed. He wasn't struggling. He was perfectly still, his mind already calculating Sato’s hidden agenda. Sato didn't want him awake because an awake Chishiya was a witness. An awake Chishiya was a critic who would notice the slight tremor in Sato’s hands or the shortcut he took on the drainage placement.

Dr. Sato who had felt the sting of Chishiya’s arrogance more than once during the semester, looked at the Director’s wife, then at the boy on the bed. He saw an opportunity. Then he looked at Chishiya with a simmering resentment that the medical mask couldn't quite hide.

"He’s incredibly agitated, Doctor," Sato said, his voice dripping with a false, oily concern. "The neurological impact of a ninety-second arrest can be unpredictable. Not to mention the psychological trauma of the 'gray-out' in the ambulance."

Chishiya’s mother finally stepped to the side of the bed. She didn't take his hand. She didn't brush the platinum hair from his forehead. She adjusted the tension of his arterial line, her fingers cold and dry.

"He was always too cerebral for his own good," she said, her voice devoid of any maternal tremor. "He’ll try to self-diagnose until he triggers a secondary arrest."

"Exactly," Sato pushed, sensing the opening. "I recommend a formal induced coma. Keep him at a RASS score of -5 for at least forty-eight hours. Let the inflammation in the brain subside. It would be... safer. For everyone."

The subtext was loud enough to vibrate the glass partitions: Keep him under so we don't have to deal with him.

"Ninety seconds of downtime," she mused, ignoring the monitor's alarm as if it were a faulty sensor. "The risk of cerebral edema is non-zero. If he wakes up and fights the vent, he’ll cause more harm than the shrapnel did."

She handed the tablet back to the resident. "I agree. The psychological stress of the arrest is likely causing emergence delirium. Put him back under. Induce a proper medical coma until the post-operative inflammatory window closes. I have a symposium on cardiovascular trauma in an hour, and the Director is in a board meeting regarding the meteorite’s impact on the hospital’s insurance premiums. We don't have time for Shuntaro-kun’s... theatrics."

"Understood, Doctor."

Sato didn't hide his satisfaction. He reached for the infusion pump, his fingers dancing over the keypad. "Increasing the Midazolam. Adding a Fentanyl drip for autonomic stability."

"Wait—" Chishiya’s hand twitched, fingers grasping at the air, trying to sign a protest. He knew his labs. He knew his brain was fine. They were muting him.

"It’s for the best, Shuntaro-kun," Sato whispered, leaning over him. The doctor's eyes sparked with a petty triumph. "You always said a good doctor knows when to step back. Now it’s your turn to be the quiet one."

He looked at his mother. She was already halfway out the door, her back turned as she consulted her tablet. She hadn't touched him. Not once. She hadn't even called him by his name without a belittling suffix. She had a ward to run, a legacy to protect, and a son who was finally, mercifully, quiet.

Chishiya felt the cold rush of the new cocktail entering his veins. It was a chemical execution of his will. Why did you have me?' the 23-year-old inside the genius whispered to the void. 'If you just wanted a machine, you should have built one. If I’m just a system to be managed, why give me a voice at all? '

Then, quiet and darkness enveloped him.

The blond man cards shaky fingers through his hair, pulling the locks into a haphazard bun at the base of his neck. Anxious sweat beads at his forehead, the drops glistening under the harsh lights of the room he'd woken up in.

Not your shared bedroom. Not even a room that he recognized, not really. A cold, bright white room with a single table sprawled in front of him, a tripod outfitted with a camera mirroring his position. The red light on the front blinks methodically - menacingly - letting the man know that he's being recorded. But for what purpose?

Worst of all, you're nowhere to be found. You had just been here, hadn't you? But now that he thinks about it, when was the last time he had truly seen you?

The heavy metal door to his left creaks open slowly to reveal a man in a crisply-pressed black suit, an air of familiarity surrounding his poised form. When Chishiya's chestnut eyes meet the man's blackened ones, he's instantly ripped once again from reality and slammed harshly into the barely-lit hallway of the prison that had haunted his dreams for months. The blond blinks rapidly to clear his blurry vision, finding his gaze still locked with the man's once he does. The taller man leans non-chalantly against a door frame across the room, a smirk growing slyly across his face as if he's noticed that Chishiya is finally back again. After what feels like an eternity of tense staring between the men, he breaks their eye contact to turn his attention back to the petite woman in front of him.

Chishiya's head throbs, threatening to explode, as ghost-like visions of a life once lived fade in and override his senses. A shredded red and yellow striped shirt flutters to the ground at his feet. The faint banana taste of biscuits that had once been his favorite, but had inexplicably made him gag lately, dances on his taste buds. The sickly sweet, coppery stench of blood overwhelms his nose. A far too giddy mechanical voice coupled with a bright chime only increases the intensity of his headache, the sound echoing through his skull as if it wanted to crack it open and peek inside.

And you. Your shaking body falling out of a prison cell once the door buzzes open, dropping weakly into his embrace. Between your fingers you hold a bloodied Jack of Hearts card. "We have to get all the cards, Chishiya," you tell him, voice scared but determined, "I think it's the only way out."

He shakes his head in disbelief, trying once again to push away the delusions. The blond knows this isn't really you. You were somewhere safe, not stuck in a weird post-apocalyptic dream with him. "I want to wake up," Chishiya mumbles to no one in particular, squeezing his eyes shut and begging to be finally be released from this prison. Wake up.

The frequency at which these breaks in reality were happening to him had become alarming in the last few weeks. At first, it had been just during sleep that he visited these false memories. And now it was happening at a near constant, the visions of death and destruction and betrayal all but consuming him. The line between reality and Borderland (where had he even gotten that name?) had become heavily blurred. It took everything inside of him to keep it from spilling on to you, to protect you from whatever disturbance the incident in Shibuya had caused inside his head.

As long as you were safe, he would fight whatever demons he had to.

When Chishiya blinks again, he's back in front of the camera with the man in the suit studying him intently, a crooked grin plastered on his face. "It will all come back to you soon," he drawls, making a slight adjustment to the camera before snapping his piercing eyes up to meet Chishiya's again. "You just have to collect the Final Card."

The breath catches in the blond's chest upon hearing that - collecting cards. That's what the fake you had said in the dream. Could you have been right - the only way out is through? Or maybe even this white room with the blinking camera and the man in the suit is a part of his delusion. How could he be sure? Chishiya opens and closes his mouth several times, trying to find the right words to get the answers he desperately seeks. Before he can, however, the man has turned on his heel to head back toward the exit.

"I have to gather the others," he says offhandedly, offering an explanation to the question Chishiya hadn't even asked out loud. Where are you going? "Oh, and your beloved will be participating as well," he offers again, barely turning over his shoulder to look at the shorter man. He barks out a cold laugh, slamming the door on his way out. A too loud click of the deadbolt indicates that the man had locked Chishiya inside.

But the blond is too distracted to worry about being locked in this room, his entire body stiffening as he processes this information - you would be participating too. Had you been suffering alongside him all this time that he thought he'd been protecting you?

He knew in that moment that he would give everything in this final fight - even his life - if it meant he had a chance to save you from hell.

Let the games begin.

♤ ♡ ◇ ♧

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you were known around the beach, specifically for being on the quiet side, avoiding any compromising relationships, platonic or not, with people around you, knowing that would only be a flaw between others, especially in a place like the borderlands. people like this always managed to stand out more than intended between others.

it only half worked, though. when you first arrived in this sick world, it didn't take long for you to get invited to the beach, which you reluctantly accepted since there weren't that many options for you.

everyone there seemed untrustworthy and deceitful, especially the group of militants. so you decided to keep to your side, having a few acquaintances here and there but nothing too profound.

that was until a blonde guy named chishiya decided to do the job himself and approach you. you were never aware of the reason, but at this point, you didn't care. your only goal in a place like this was to never let your guard down next to others, but unfortunately, this man managed to make you. he could be using you all this time just to have someone to sacrifice when the needed time comes, and you would fall right onto it given how much trust you had put in him.

being friends with chishiya later on drove you to become friends with kuina as well, but still, you weren't as close to her as you were with the guy.

it turns out you were simply introverted, and having someone to confide in ended up helping you in a place like this, contrary to your beliefs. you'd continuously get teased by niragi for being so shy and reserved with yourself, but that didn't happen with chishiya. you could tell he was quite curious about your behavior as well; however, he didn't press it on you. 

this reflected on the time you two spent together. you ended up sticking next to him more than you realized. people around the beach would be surprised if they went on a walk and saw one of you both alone. kuina was also after him sometimes, but it didn't compare to you guys's proximity. this only made him seem more suspicious, given that he only kept two people close, and even so, he would appear slightly reluctant to anything you guys did together.

before you could realize it, you were practically blabbering your mouth out whenever you were both alone, contrasting the personalities you made up around other members. and surprisingly, chishiya didn't complain, instead just staying silent for most of the time you talked. you weren't sure if he was even listening most of the time, apart from some occasional comments he decided to add when wanting to share his opinion about whatever matter caught your eye that day.

as of now, chishiya was sitting on the chair by his desk as you lied down on his bed, looking at the ceiling. his hands were moving around on a device, and you had no idea what half of its purpose was. sometimes, you would try and peek to see whatever he was doing with it, but upon recognizing the usual pliers and wires he must love so much, given he "spends more time with them than with you" (as you dramatically proclaimed a few days ago), you just gave up.

he looked very focused right now, and you knew better than to disturb him at times like these, but your boredom somehow managed to get the lead as your mind looked around for a chat theme.

"did you know that the human stomach can dissolve razor blades?" you ask out of the blue, your gaze still fixated on the ceiling.

he did not answer. instead, he stopped his movements around the device in his hands and gave you a side look. you could feel his gaze, so you immediately tried to explain.

"i'm not planning on anything!" you said it with a hurried voice, coming out with a tone of humor. "it's just a scientific fact."

he sighed, his attention turning back to the box to which he added two metals. it was now much harder to guess what the hell he was trying to make out of it.

"no, i did not know that." chishiya replied, his eyes never leaving the gadget he held as he kept fixing it. his voice was heard again shortly after. "but it's quite obvious, actually. the ph level in a human stomach varies between 1 and 3, which means it is very acidic. you could get away with swallowing a lot of things."

you could tell by the way he spoke that he tried to use easier words to make you understand, and honestly, that only made your heart beat faster and your cheeks redden. 

"that doesn't mean you can do it." he stopped his movements for a second, talking with a stern voice, but quickly went back. he really looked more preoccupied with the piece of equipment.

you gasped as if you were offended by his remark, a chuckle leaving your lips right after as you rolled around on his bed. "i would never swallow anything suspicious. i'm not that insane."

"you considered pressing a button that had "don't press" written on top of it." he answered without thinking twice.

you laughed it off again, remembering how he had to physically pull you away from the tempting button you found together on a game you played. it consisted of finding the exit to a labyrinth as a killer chased the players. you knew where the exit was from the very beginning since, before entering the game, chishiya had the brilliant idea of going to a point high enough to study the whole arena. when you both finally finished the game, someone ended up pressing it, and the whole place blew up. at least you found out what it did.

"come on, i was curious!" you complained, still giggling, when the memories of chishiya being so done with you came back. "i would never swallow a razor blade, you know that."

"not even if it had "don't swallow" written on top of it?" he ironically asked, doing his best to make his voice come out nonchalant, but you could basically hear the smirk he held.

"chishiya!" you whined out louder, starting to laugh again.

after your fun died out, you got up from the bed and stopped beside him, a hand holding onto the back of his chair. "what miraculous electrical device are you making this time?"

at this point, chishiya didn't even question your choice of words, instead keeping his gaze on the item. "it's a taser," he replied sharply. "so i can bring some sense into the heads of idiots like you."

"i hate you." you admitted, rolling your eyes and turning around with a sigh, lying flat dead on his bed again. both of you knew you were not telling the truth, and he was about to tease you for it.

until he was brutally broken out of his line of thinking by an equally brutal niragi slamming the door open. you flinched at the sound, while chishiya just closed his eyes and sighed, frustrated.

"oi. executive meeting by eight o'clock. make sure not to skip it again, or the hatter might not like it." he exclaimed, referring to chishiya, not bothering about keeping his voice down or even lowering his gun to appear a bit more sociable. "oh. look who we have here..." now referring to you.

as niragi's eyes fell upon you, your eyebrows immediately furrowed as you looked away, sitting up on chishiya's bed, avoiding as much contact with him as you could. 

"why are you always after this guy? there are so many better men in a place like this, and you choose him?" niragi asked with that sharp voice of his, which you profoundly despised, as he approached and pointed his gun at you. you didn't bother looking at it.

your cheeks were pretty warm from this whole interaction. you weren't scared of him physically hurting you, since chishiya wouldn't allow it and niragi knew it, but confrontations were always awkward with him.

you didn't even realize that chishiya finally let go of the device in hand, turning around in the chair and watching the scene with not too much interest. "she isn't that fond of me. actually, she just claimed to hate me."

your mouth fell agape as you looked his way with a gaze that could kill. you noticed he had a smirk, and all you wanted to do in that moment was wipe it out of his face, but you knew best with niragi there. 

"oh, so she talks? now that's a surprise." niragi lowered his gun to his sides, chuckling at the end of his sentence. you could only lower your head in embarrassment and avoid any more conflicts.

"well, i'll be taking my leave. thanks for the attention, you both!" niragi yelled ironically, slamming the door shut behind him.

and as soon as he made his way out of the room, you turned your attention to chishiya, who had already mentally prepared himself to deal with your talking.

"i might not be the one dissolving a blade in my stomach, but i know who will." you said, trying your best to sound mad, which probably didn't work out because he didn't move a bit from his usual position.

"well, niragi might need to take care then." he said, turning around in his chair, back to his own world.

"i wasn't talking about him!" you rolled your eyes, fuming and concluding that it was useless to argue with him. 

in truth, your tantrum didn't last much longer than 5 minutes, since soon you were already chattering about whatever came into your mind next. even if it seemed like not, chishiya was always listening, often adding a comment or two, but at this point, it was routine for both. it was entertaining to him to see how different you could be depending on the people present in the room and how you became much more comfortable with him around. he took pride in that.