#ceilingworks

—

This was the end, wasn’t it?

Player stood there, shoulders sagging under a weight that wasn’t just his pack. His breath came uneven, chest rising and falling as though every inhale scraped against his ribs. The silence around him was heavy—thick with the kind of finality that made the air feel colder than it was.

He’d done it. Somehow. Against every staggering odd, every venomous whisper of doubt, every curse that bled from steel and shadow alike—he had dragged himself through it all and endured. His body should have failed him long ago; his mind should have cracked under the weight of the voices.

The frostbite that rested inside of his bones, the venom that burned through his veins, the hollow feeling that made every breath heavier than the last, the phantom fire that seared his conscience raw, the yearning for true freedom with the wind, the overwhelming darkness and overseering light attempting to puppet him unbearably so—each blade had left its mark.

They had wormed their way into him before—slithering, patient, insidious. The blades were never content with silence. They whispered, coiled around his thoughts, pressed against the edges of who he was until he couldn’t tell if the voice in his head was his own or something else entirely.

They wanted to make him theirs. Not a wielder, not a hero—just another husk. Another hollow shell twisted into something unrecognizable, just like all the other Robloxians who had fallen to their call.

And every day, he expected himself to join them.

He didn't think he’d last this long.

Truthfully, he had braced himself for an early end, the kind where no one would even remember the exact moment he was lost. He fully expected that somewhere along the way, his body would simply give out—the steel cutting deeper than his flesh could heal, the fatigue gnawing harder than his spirit could fight. Maybe it would be a strike too quick, a mistake too reckless, or worse—maybe it would be him, laying down his guard just once, finally answering when the swords whispered his name.

He thought his grave had been dug long ago. Carved not by heroism, but by arrogance. Written not in triumph, but in failure.

And yet here he was, breathing. Stumbling forward, somehow still carrying both his own weight and the blades’ burden, even when part of him wondered if this wasn’t survival at all—just prolonging the inevitable.

Not alive.

Surviving.

Barely breathing, but still upright, stubborn as ever. A husk walking forward because stopping wasn’t an option. The trials that should have crushed him hadn’t. The voices that clawed at his sanity hadn’t. The weight of blood-soaked choices, the kind that replayed in his mind at night until he woke choking on his own breath—none of it had broken him.

Against it all, he endured.

Sometimes he wished he hadn’t. Wished he had fallen sooner, cleaner, before the world around him had the chance to rot into this. Before the swords could fully spiral him. Before seeing the face of the people that stood by his side could make him feel the ache of everything he wasn’t.

And in the suffocating press of those thoughts, another voice rose unbidden from the dark corners of memory.

(“Hello, young man..”)

He remembered it clear as day.

(“I sense distress within your soul…”)

Back then, he hadn’t known whether to laugh or cry, standing there with blood still drying on his hands— a chilling sensation running through his veins from the very tips of his fingers. The same ones he used to wield the sword and kill off the King of the Blackrock kingdom.

The Guru's words had cut straight through the walls he kept around himself, made him feel seen in a way he hadn’t asked for.

(“Please, come sit with me.”)

The invitation had been gentle. He caught himself coming back every once in a while to confront his inner demons and overcome them with the help of the old man.

Yet even that memory now felt warped, dulled by the constant distortion of the SFOTH swords' whispers. What had been comfort once twisted in his head until he couldn’t tell if it was real or another lie.

The blades that was rested inside his battered backpack had their hilts jutting out in awkward angles yet somehow managing to stay put, their weight pressing into him with a constant, suffocating reminder of what they were. Each one carried a history, a venomous whisper, a shadow that had clawed its way under his skin during the long and brutal trek. They should have torn him apart. They almost had.

('I feel...')

And yet now the SFOTH swords sat quietly, tucked away among the mismatched chaos of other weapons he’d gathered along the road—each piece not just steel, but a scar, a ghost, a choice carved into him that he could never scrape away. Blades that weren’t just trophies but confessions, lined and jagged, buried in leather and cloth as though that could hide the blood they’d drawn.

His pack sagged against his back, heavier than it had ever been, though the weight wasn’t the steel. No—it was the knowing.

All of them. Gathered at last. Exactly as Shedletsky demanded.

The thought alone made bile rise sharp at the back of his throat. For a heartbeat he wondered if this was victory—or the sickest kind of trap.

He stood there, frozen in the silence, the pack digging into his shoulders as though he wasn’t carrying swords but the whole world itself, chained to him like an anchor he couldn’t cut loose. His mouth felt dry, cracked, his chest hollow and rattling, and the silence of the moment became unbearable.

''What now?'

The question pressed against his ribs like a blade turned inward. He wanted to spit it out, scream it, demand an answer from anyone—himself, the gods, the ghosts that lingered in the corners of his vision. From the blades themselves, who once never stopped whispering and now sat in eerie, suffocating quiet. Because if this was the end of the road—if this was what it had all led to—then what was left for him but the unbearable weight of carrying it?

And then—inevitably—the answer he wished for came.

Not from the voices in his mind, or from his own train of thoughts, but from the one who had set him on this cursed path in the first place. A voice that cut through the silence with ease, warm and playful, like an old friend who had been watching the whole time.

Shedletsky.

“Well, would ya look at that!” the adm’r’s voice rang out, casual and sing-song, dripping with feigned surprise as though Player was a magician that had just shown him a card trick. “You really did it, eh? Seven blades, all tucked away nice and neat. Hah! Not bad, kiddo."

The words came light, easy, almost fond—like he was talking to a student who had finally gotten their homework right after years of fumbling. His tone held no shock, no awe, no weight of disbelief. Just that amused lilt, the sound of someone who had expected this outcome all along, and was simply entertained by how long it had taken.

Player clenched his jaw. Because underneath that levity, he could hear it. The knowing. The way Shedletsky’s voice carried the edges of truths Player couldn’t yet name, the same ones that had haunted him since the very first blade fell into his hands. The same feeling of uneasiness every 'word of advice' the admin spoke of that only added more factors in his supposed adventure.

Shedletsky went on, chuckling under his breath, the sound warm. Classic Shedletsky.

“You know,” The brunette drawled, voice slipping into something almost indulgent, like an adult humoring a child who’d just done something clever most their age can't or simply wouldn't want to pull off. “Most people wouldn’t have made it this far. They fight,, they fly, they bleed, they fall—”

He chuckled, low and light, but it cut sharper than it should have, like the sound of glass chipping against stone. With the ease of someone who owned every space he walked in, the adm’r sauntered over, plucking the cap off Player’s head without asking. His fingers ruffled through the hero’s already-messy hair, careless and deliberate all at once, leaving it even more unruly than before.

“But you,” Shedletsky went on, tilting his head as though sizing him up, “you’re no ordinary Robloxian, huh?”

It sounded like praise.

It was praise— Or at least—that’s what Player tried to tell himself. Because beneath the lighthearted words, beneath the casual humor, there was something coiled and watchful. Something in Shedletsky’s tone that made it clear: he hadn’t just been waiting for this moment—he had been expecting it.

And yet Player felt a chill coil at the base of his spine. Because every word—no matter how casual—came threaded with knowledge. With weight. As though Shedletsky wasn’t congratulating him for reaching the end… but for stepping neatly into place where he had always been expected to. Something wasn't adding up. Even the voices of the swords were quiet.

“—Because you're a hero.” Shedletsky’s voice softened, a smile tugging on his face.

Hero.

It should’ve been a crown, something to wear with pride after everything he’d survived, but instead it slid down his spine like ice. His gut twisted. Because in Shedletsky’s mouth, the title didn’t sound like recognition—it sounded like a game piece being named, like he was just another move on a board that the admin had already mapped out years ago.

“And,, congratulations!— hero— For reaching the end of your path.” A pause, deliberate, the laid back tone of the brunette's voice slipping before quickly picking it up again.

Player's fists clenched

Hero.

The word was ringing in his ears. Mocking him on repeat. They rang hollow. He wanted to accept them, to let himself believe that after all the blood, the weight of steel, the scars carved into his body and his mind, this was validation. That it meant something. But no matter how hard he tried to hold onto that fragile thought, it slipped through his fingers like water.

“Buuut—” his tone tilted upward, a smirk hiding in the sound “—This end isn't necessarily the end-end, you know?"

Friendly. He tried to tell himself.

That tone—it was almost fatherly. Playful, indulgent, like someone watching a child finally manage to tie their shoelaces on their own. If Player closed his eyes, if he ignored the weight of the swords, he might have almost believed it.

Almost.

But somehow, that only made it worse.

Because there was something wrong.

He couldn’t shake it. Couldn’t ignore the way the swords writhed against his back, their whispers no longer divided but screaming together now, sharper, louder, demanding his attention. They didn’t trust Shedletsky. And maybe—just maybe—neither should he.

His heart hammered in his chest, not from exhaustion, not from triumph, but from the gnawing suspicion that he hadn’t won anything at all. That this wasn’t an ending. That it was a door, and Shedletsky had been waiting on the other side the whole time.

Nothing about Shedletsky was ever that simple. Nothing about the way his words curled in the air and lingered just a little too long was natural. It was as though every syllable hid something sharper, a blade pressed flat against his back, disguised beneath warmth and amusement.

And in that moment, the silence inside Player’s mind—hard-earned, brittle silence—shattered like glass under a hammer. At first it came as a faint tremor, a soft buzz, static curling under his skin. Harmless, almost ignorable. But then it grew. Louder. Sharper. A pressure that built in his skull until his ears rang, until every heartbeat felt like it pulsed through his teeth.

The swords in his pack—the cursed weight he had dragged across every battlefield, every town, every nightmare—stirred.

Then they awoke.

And they whispered.

And then they screamed.

It wasn’t the familiar noise he had grown grimly accustomed to, the constant bickering of blades like wolves tearing each other apart in his skull. Not the usual chaos, where each cursed edge clawed for dominance, begging for his will, his soul, his everything. Not the fractured lull of competing voices dripping venom into every breath he took.

This time, it was different.

This time, they agreed.

Their voices tangled together into one sound, a chorus of steel, cold, poison, numb, wind, light and shadow, iron scraping on iron, until the words were no longer words but a force pressed against his bones. The unity was worse than their wars. Unnatural. Wrong.

Their warnings clawed into him with perfect rhythm—unified, insistent, urgent.

And for the first time since carrying them, he realized just how much more terrifying it was when they stopped fighting each other… and turned everything toward him. Ever since he had gathered them, Player wished desperately that they would go back to arguing. Because at least when they fought among themselves, it meant he still had room to breathe.

Now, their unity meant only one thing:

They weren’t trying to take him.

It was different from all the other times they clawed at his thoughts, whispering hunger, urging him toward ruin. This time their voices struck together like a bell, warning, pleading.

The hero felt deja vu. It was the same way Fear once had pleaded —its purple silhouette still lingering in the back of his mind, fragile and desperate, before he’d struck it down and silenced it forever. He still remembered its voice breaking as it begged him to see the truth. He hadn’t listened then. Only to find out the truth for himself just a few moments later

Player clenched his fist—knuckles pale, nails biting crescent moons into his palm. The dread that had lingered at the edges of his mind, circling like a vulture, finally sank its teeth in. This wasn’t paranoia anymore, wasn’t a phantom weight conjured by exhaustion. It was real. Heavy. Suffocating. It coiled low in his gut like ice, pressing up against his lungs, making every breath drag like stone through his throat.

Every instinct screamed that something was wrong, even as Shedletsky’s voice cut through the silence—smooth, measured, wrapped in that same familiar playfulness that could have fooled anyone else. Casual warmth dripped from his tone, the kind that might have passed for comfort to someone unscarred, someone untested. The kind that sounded like an open hand but hid sharpened steel beneath it.

But not him. Not after everything.

Player had walked through too many ruins, had listened to too many liars dressed in smiles, had carried too many cursed voices clawing at the walls of his mind.

He wasn’t going to make the same mistake again. Not when the danger wasn’t hidden in the swords, but standing right in front of him. The man smiling at him like a mentor. Like a father. Like a friend— But that smile didn’t reach his eyes, and Player knew better now. He knew warmth could be a mask sharper than any blade. beneath the admin's easy smile, Player felt something vast, something watching.

The voices of the swords were trying to save him.

From 'Shedletsky.'

“Hand over the SFOTH swords.”

But what if his mind was just making it all up?

Twisting truth into lies, enemies into monsters, allies into traitors?

Villainizing Shedletsky? The same way the Firebrand had villainized him and Calypso in the eyes of Captain Trotter, weaving half-truths and shadows until trust became poison and loyalty bled away into nothing.

The thought coiled in his chest like a sickness. What if he wasn’t uncovering a trap, but inventing one? What if his paranoia had eaten so deeply into him that even the only man promising him a way home now looked like a devil in disguise?

His gaze blurred, focused, blurred again—locking on Shedletsky’s extended hand. Open, steady, patient. Expectant. Waiting.

The hero’s breath hitched.

“We’ll need it,” Shedletsky said, voice smooth as ever, nonchalant as if this moment meant nothing more than a simple transaction. Like a little kid exchanging crumpled tix for candy. “To bring you back to your original timeline.”

The words were so simple. Because that's how it's supposed to go. Collecting all seven of the SFOTH swords for the admin, then going back to his timeline. Shedletsky had insisted that he goes back to his timeline, as with the the SFOTH swords now in his grasp, finding Builderman would be a breeze.

Going back meant no longer spending another second in this timeline. Looking at the feats he'd done,he won't be surprised if a lot of things had changed in the future. Going back meant he'll leave everything he has here behind.

And yet,

Going back meant no one else would have to suffer because of him.

And so he took the blades out from his inventory—hands trembling, jaw tight—as the chorus of screams tore through him. The swords wailed, each voice clawing at his nerves, begging, warning, condemning, but he forced himself to ignore them. His fingers brushed cold steel for the last time before placing them in Shedletsky’s waiting hands.

The moment the admin had them, the noise stopped.

The silence was so sharp it almost hurt.

Shedletsky hummed, almost cheerfully, muttering a quick “thanks.” under his breath, like Player had just handed him a bunch of paperwork, not the culmination of a blood-soaked quest that had carved pieces out of his soul and many others'.

“Alright then, kiddo.”

He said it brightly, the smile on his face far too at ease for the weight of what just happened. One hand slipped casually into the pocket of his dark-light blue striped pants, the other twirling one of the swords as if testing its weight.

“Do whatever you want—” Shedletsky continued, tone light, careless, almost dismissive. “You’ve got three days until your grand departure, to continue your adventure in your original timeline.”

Player’s chest tightened.

Three days.

The words felt like a countdown.

It was too long. And yet at the same time, it was too short.

A pause. Then Shedletsky speaks up again

“I’d make the most of it if I were you.”

And so, like the very good temporary employee he was, he nodded along. Because that was it.

That was the role he’d been given, wasn’t it? Fetch the swords. Survive whatever comes in his way. Hand them over. And when the job was done, smile and nod, take orders, obedient as ever, until Shedletsky gives him some sort of speech after finally deciding where to shelve him next.

The nod came automatically, even though his stomach churned with the weight of it. Feeling empty without the whispers of the SFOTH swords gnawing inside of him. He wondered if Shedletsky saw through it—if the admin could tell how hollow the gesture was. Or maybe he didn’t care. Maybe the nod was all Shedletsky needed. That was the thing about being temporary: no one expected you to stay. Or to actually last good enough until the end.

'No one expected you to matter.'

And for all Player’s scars, all his fights, all the blood he had lost and spilled— just to be remembered as a guy that fetched seven legendary swords for an Admin like a lap dog.

He didn’t need to hear any more of what Shedletsky was gonna say. Not another word. Before the admin could lace his next sentence with that same easy smile, Player had already flicked through the fast-travel menu, his choice locked in without hesitation.

Turitopulis.

Not directly to Griefer’s crib. Definitely not.

Because if he fast-traveled straight to Griefer’s place, it’d be obvious. Too obvious. Like painting his intentions in bright neon over his head: Hey, I want to see you. I need to see you. And there was no way in hell he was going to give Griefer that kind of satisfaction, not when the man already had too much leverage over him.

So, Turitopulis it was. A detour. The kind of thing any normal Robloxian would do—walk the rest of the way, pretend it was convenience, or boredom, or just the scenic route. Anything but what it actually was.

The air shimmered as he reappeared in the bustling still forest-y center. Grass-filled streets stretched out under his boots, villagers hollering about whatever they were talking about, some of them greeting Player in recognition. Darting past in a blur of chatter and even more greens, he shoved his hands into his pockets and started walking, forcing his steps into a casual rhythm that he hoped looked natural.

But no matter how hard he tried to mask it, each step toward Griefer’s place felt deliberate. Weighted. Like gravity itself tugged him in that direction. And that was fine. As long as nobody else knew. He only had three days, anyway.

72 hours.

4,320 minutes was enough.

—

Player may have gotten sidetracked.

Only a teensy, tiny bit sidetracked.

The plan had been simple enough in his head: grab the bottled ship that took way too long to do so (as it was a certain genie's home), get the cookbook, all the ingredients needed for the cure, cure Griefer, snatch his callcard, then finally keep going with his quest for the Firebrand like the straight-laced, totally responsible and belonging-in-this-timeline hero he was supposed to be. 

Simple enough, simple checklist, it's even indicated in his little sidequest index.

But instead? Well, where was this so-called great hero now?

Was he out in the scorching desert, valiantly fending off those damned oversized skunks with their ridiculous stink attacks, always lunging towards him the moment he made a step too fast— with the sand beneath his feet alerting the pests?

Or maybe locked in some epic and annoying battle with the scuttling, spiky devils that swarmed out from under the rocks sometimes paired up with those skunks?

Or hell, perhaps facing down the ugly, so super annoying vultures that circled overhead, waiting for him to lower his guard, peck his face or fly straight up and scratch its nasty claws to the hero?

Maybe—just maybe—he should’ve been fighting off pirates, blades flashing in the sun, already ruffled yellow hair whipping in the wind from under his cap, dodging bullets and letting out a punch or two between sword clashes to parry. 

Or maybe he should’ve been traversing the endless dunes, heat biting at his heels, going deeper into the red sun temple, uncovering the kind of hidden passageways the hieroglyphs wrote prophecies about.

But no. Nope. None of that.

Because here he was.

Player was currently in Griefer’s crib, pinned down not by a monster or a curse, not some hieroglyph drawing came to life, but by the formerly-bubonic plant man himself.

The same man he was supposed to get the callcard from and then promptly go back to his adventure— Griefer throwing in some colorful words with how bad the cure tasted to be on their way here— asking him to hang out right after being cured a few moments earlier, then leading to this very moment.

Griefer had decided, apparently, that Player made for a perfectly acceptable pillow. Which was why the hero now found himself sprawled on the bed, half-smothered in a mess of leaves and vines, the weight of that annoyingly warm body draped across his chest.

It was ridiculous. It was impractical. It was everything not on his neat little hero checklist. It was

And yet.

The longer he lay there, the more Player found himself not exactly hating it. In fact, he realized with a sort of quiet dread that he might have been enjoying it. Griefer was warm—too warm, if he was being honest—but it wasn’t unbearable.

The faint smell of earth and greenery clung to the plant-man’s clothes, an aroma that seeped into the space between them and wrapped itself around Player like an old memory. It wasn’t just dirt, not just leaves or sap. It was something subtler, something familiar.

It reminded him of early mornings after a storm back in his own timeline, when the world felt scrubbed clean and the air hummed with that lingering freshness only rain could bring.

Back in his Bizville, when the streets were slick and shining, the storefront windows fogged, and he’d stand there just breathing in the scent of wet stone, asphalt, and life itself.

He never realized how much he relied on that familiarity until it was gone. Until he was ripped into this place—this broken shard of a timeline that looked like home but wasn’t— this was the past, to be built and innovated into what he's familiar with.

And now, lying here with Griefer, with that earthy scent clinging to his skin, Player felt the ache of it. The reminder of mornings that weren’t coming back. Of streets that belonged to a version of him he couldn’t touch anymore— at least for now until he finishes Shedletsky's quest.

The rustle of leaves caused by the man's every shift pressed into his awareness, like a damned parasitic plant trying to root himself there, right against him. It didn't help the fact Griefer was a semi(?) half--plant now, in which his analogy would be literal.

Player’s arms twitched uselessly at his sides, bandaged— a touch of coldness, greenery and a speck of numbness present as an impact from the SFOTH swords. He was caught between the urge to push Griefer off and the very wrong, treacherous, lingering thought of pulling him closer. 

The damned hero's heart was doing a very poor job of pretending this was still just a “sidetrack.” —this felt less like a detour and more like the kind of distraction you secretly wanted to indulge yourself in.

“So, uh, care to scoot off or..?”

Player trailed off, raising an eyebrow, his voice muffled by the broad leaf currently tickling his cheek growing with some strands of Griefer's hair. He tried shifting, only to realize his arms were also pinned beneath a rather inconvenient weight. A sigh pushed out of him, half-exasperation, half-resignation.

He already knew what the answer would be. And sure enough, Griefer’s reply came with all the enthusiasm of someone who hadn’t moved in hours, resting atop of the hero without a care with his vines poking at Player.

And to his audacity, Griefer let out a low, groaning sound that seemed to rattle from deep in his chest, exaggerated, drawled for dramatic effect.

“N0.”

Player blinked at the ceiling. Then looking back at the other man with a raised brow. “...That’s the twentieth time you’ve said that.”

“W3LL Y0U'R3 TH3 0N3 TH4T K33PS 4SK1NG.” Griefer’s voice was muffled, though the smirk in it was unmistakable. His vines shifted lazily, like they were making themselves more comfortable—one curling around Player’s wrist, another brushing against his shoulder.

“1F Y0U D1DN’T 4SK TH4T S4M3 QU3ST10N TW3NTY T1M3S, 1 W0ULDN'T H4D G1V3N Y0U TH3 S4M3 4NSW3R TW3NTY T1M3S, PUNK,” Griefer shot back, his words dripping with lazy finality. 

Player groaned, throwing his head back against the pillow with exaggerated despair. “Yeah, because I don’t really enjoy being crushed to death by a guy who smells like fucking petrichor,” he muttered.

That earned him a sudden scrunch of Griefer’s face—nose wrinkled, brows knit, lips twisting, red fangs showing as though Player had just insulted his entire bloodline.

"TH3 H3LL'S P3TR1CH0R?” he demanded, his own confusion crackling through the syllables, giving the word an even more alien shape than it already had.

Player blinked at him, momentarily thrown. “...Seriously?”

“Y34H. S3R1OUSLY.”

The look Griefer gave him was so earnest, so unfeigned, it cracked through Player’s usual defenses. He stifled a laugh, shaking his head with disbelief. He was pretty sure petrichor was already a thing in this timeline, so it didn't hurt explaining.

“It’s… ugh, it’s the smell of rain hitting dry earth, alright? That, like—fresh, damp, earthy scent after a storm. That’s petrichor.”

Griefer tilted his head, crimson eyes with hints of green narrowing slightly in thought. Then speaking in accusafton.

 “...S0 Y0U'R3 S4Y1NG 1 SM3LL L1K3 D1RT.”

Player's head immediately shot up, or as much as he could with Griefer's weight pinning him down, accidentally bumping foreheads with the other man—and jabbed a finger toward him.

 “No! That’s not—ugh, don’t twist it. It’s not dirt-dirt. It’s—poetic dirt! Pleasant dirt! Like, you know—nature-y and leaves and stuff..” 

His words trailed, fumbling over themselves as heat bloomed across his cheeks again. Realizing how bad he worded it because then he'd have to admit he liked the smell of petrichor. And liking the smell of petrichor would mean he liked Griefer's smell.

Griefer’s smirk returned full force, sharp and knowing. “S0 Y0U L1K3 TH3 W4Y 1 SM3LL, 1S TH4T 1T, PUNK?"

Player froze. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

“Dude, I did not say that!”

“Y0U D1D.”

“I did not!”

“Y0U JUST G4V3 4 WH0L3 D3F1N1T10N 0F WH4T Y0U TH1NK 1 SM3LL L1K3." Griefer points out, his smirk turning into a shit eating grin to emphasize his next words. "...P03T1C D1RT, 3H?"

Player buried his face in his free hand with a groan, glaring at the plant-man currently atop of him.

"This is exactly why I should’ve left you as a plant.”

But even as he said it, he could hear the laughter Griefer was stifling—the kind of sound that vibrated low in his chest, warmer than Player wanted to admit. And despite himself, he felt his lips twitch. Letting out a sigh instead.

“I had a whole heroic quest to get through this demo, you know. Bottle, cure, Firebrand, go back to Shedletsky—ring a bell?”

“N4H. 1 DON’T TH1NK S0.”

Player rolled his eyes, already priming a comeback, something sharp enough to jab but not too mean, the way he usually did when the banter reached its peak. The rhythm of it was second nature: Griefer pushed, he pushed back, and somewhere in the middle, the tension cracked into laughter. The words lined up in his head, sharp-edged and ready, balanced on the tip of his tongue.

He opened his mouth—

And stalled.

The rhythm faltered. The retort fizzled out like witch brew cooling too fast, collapsing into nothing before it even left his lips. What should have been effortless suddenly felt impossible, the syllables dissolving into static before he could grasp them. He sat there, caught mid-breath, mid-thought, as if his body itself had forgotten the next step.

Maybe it was the way Griefer was sprawled across him, heavier than he looked but not unwelcome, each ounce of weight sinking Player further into the mattress. The pressure wasn’t suffocating—it was grounding, anchoring him in place in a way that stole the fight from his limbs.

Maybe it was the vines. The steady thrum of them shifting against his sides, brushing here and there in lazy arcs, not constricting, not binding—just present. Just existing, alive and aware, curling with the kind of thoughtless familiarity that made his skin prickle.

Or maybe it was the look. The one in Griefer’s eyes, steady and unhurried, utterly unbothered, as though nothing outside these walls mattered. That look cut through everything else—banter, noise, excuses—and left Player with the unbearable awareness that he was being seen.

Whatever it was, it snared him. Wrapped around his chest, tightened in his lungs, froze the words in his throat before he could even try to wrestle them free. His pulse betrayed him, hammering in his neck and wrists, a steady thunder that made him feel exposed, as if Griefer could hear every uneven beat. His breath hitched, too shallow, too loud in the silence. His hand twitched at his side, unsure if it wanted to push away or reach closer.

All he could manage was a single breath that didn’t quite sound like laughter, thin and fragile and breaking halfway through.

The air thickened around them, stretched taut with a silence that wasn’t empty at all. It had weight, texture, the kind of silence that crackled, electric and alive, a silence that demanded notice.

And Player, against every instinct he’d sharpened to survive, let himself fall into it.

“PFFFT. D0N’T T3LL M3 Y0U'R3 R3GR3TT1NG G3TT1NG MY C4LLC4RD N0W, H3R0?”

Griefer’s grin stretched wide, fangs flashing as he threw it out there like bait, expecting Player to bite, to snap back with some quip about vines or bed-hogging.

That was how their game worked—push and pull, tease and retort, both of them circling the edge without ever tipping over. The rhythm was familiar, well-worn, something Player could usually slip into without thinking.

His lips twitched, breath caught on the edge of a laugh, shoulders tensing as though he were about to fire back. The words lined up, sharp and easy—except they refused to leave. Hung heavy in his throat, useless.

The silence stretched, longer than it should have, until even his own heartbeat sounded too loud in his ears.

And then, instead of a joke, instead of a jab, the words that slipped out next were low and muttered. The second they left his mouth he wished he could drag them back down his throat.

“It’s not just about getting your callcard, idiot.”  

Griefer blinked, and that was all it took for Player to notice it. A tiny hitch, a single stutter in the easy rhythm of that smirk. It faltered—not vanished, not gone completely—but wavered just enough for Player to see the space beneath it.

It was barely a second, maybe less, but Player caught it. Of course he caught it. He’d been staring too long, studying the curve of that stupid grin for hours now, memorizing its sharp edges like he needed them to breathe. To watch it slip, even just for a heartbeat, made the air in his chest lock tighter than the way it does everytime an enemy lands an attack right to his abdomen.

The room quieted around them, the playful rhythm dissolving into something slower, something that made Player too aware of how close they were.

He tried to scrape together any sorts of strings composed of words, anything to nudge the moment back where it had been seconds ago—but his chest felt tight, his thoughts not thinking how he wants them to think, his tongue more useless than ever.

And suddenly the space between them felt smaller than it had any right to be.

Griefer's vines shifted lazily across Player’s sides, brushing against fabric and skin in a way that felt casual—too casual, almost forced.

Somewhere between the exchange and the sound of that laugh still lingering in the air, the banter already slipped into something else. Something quieter. Better(?). He realized Griefer hadn’t moved off him, hadn’t loosened his hold, and he didn’t feel the need to shove him away. They made eye contact,

And Griefer's eyes gave him away.

His gaze, usually dripping with mischief, with the smug certainty of a man who thinks he's the shit didn’t quite hold that same careless luster now. 

They sharpened instead, honed in on Player with a kind of weight that was impossible to shrug off. Searching. Caught between suspicion and something else Player couldn’t name, something that made his stomach twist in knots. Griefer moved slow, as if to mask the crack in his usual bravado with motion.

And Player felt it.

Felt the shift crawl across his skin like static, prickling, undeniable.

His pulse tripped, ran and did cartwheels right in his throat, his mouth gone drier than the desert he'sesuppoosed to be traversing. He couldn’t look away—not when he was the one who had shattered first the moment Griefer stared at him like that.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward; it had weight, as if it carried meaning Player didn’t dare acknowledge out loud. Although it should've been a bit weird to go from teasing banter to just silence, it wasnt at all. His throat worked around words that never left. Hesitation brewing up and tying his tongue.

The air was warm. Not stifling, not suffocating—just warm enough that Player became acutely aware of every small detail. The faint rustle of leaves when Griefer’s chest rose and fell.He tried to focus on anything else at all but nothing helped as he was currently in Griefer’s room— everything practically screaming the other man's presence with Griefer right on top of him.

The steady, grounding weight of the fanged robloxian sprawled across him. The scent of earth clinging to his clothes from Griefer's own made his head stir and heat creep up his face. He could see pink dusting the other man's cheeks from his peripherals, and the hero was pretty sure he had his fair share of pink dust on his cheeks too.

Player’s eyes drifted to the ceiling, though his attention was anywhere but there. His pulse had long since betrayed him, beating faster than he’d like, though there was no battle here. No enemies. No new quests demanding his immediate attention as his main one is currently on standby— his character index flickering, but he ignores it for now, overshadowed by the presence right on him.

Griefer shifted a little, his head pressing more firmly against him. Slotting a hand to rest on the side of Player's waist.

Totally not a deliberate gesture—more of... Instinct than intention. Which didn't make it better— but the hero would rather not put his mind on the implications of it too much.

Maybe it was Griefer's half-plant side acting up as Player technically is the holder of the Venomshank, or maybe not. Either way, whatever the reason was?, It rooted Player in place all the same, like the vines curling faintly around his wrist.

And it felt belonging.

So much that neither of them spoke.

Neither needed to.

Player let the quiet stretch on, realizing how strange it felt to not want to break it.

Strange,

but not unpleasant.

His usual excuses—checklists, quests, responsibilities— all seemed so far away now, as though they belonged to another segment of another demo entirely. The same way everything seemed so far away when he was within his mindscape, giving himself a DIY lobotomy by killing off all his emotions. 

Everything else was a blur.

Right now, there was only the steady rhythm of another heartbeat pressed close to his own.

Not just his Hatred's pulse aligning with his own— churning his gut and making his vision flash red with every beat, knocking him off his feet everytime he was a few seconds off from using the Ghost potion and knocking himself to his feet. No, this one was albeitly more tolerable. 

Player found himself listening again—counting heartbeats, the rustle of leaves, the way Griefer’s breath slowed as if he might actually be also listening in Player's own.

For a moment, he thought that was it. That maybe they’d just stay like this, quiet and still, beautifully so until the world barged in again.

But Griefer decided to break the silence. Voice coming low and drawn out, like he was rolling the words around on his pierced tongue to see how they’d taste in the open air.

“Y0U KN0W.…”

A faint crease tugged at the white-haired man's brow that wasnt paired with a scowl of indignation but rather one of thought— an expression that didn’t quite suit him, or maybe it was only because player hadn't seen that look on Griefer's face at all.

For a heartbeat, Griefer looked as though he might actually let something real slip free—something unguarded. But of course, just as quickly, the other man wrestled it back into the crooked and very much Griefer-like expression Player knew too well: that cocky, sharp-edged fanged smirk, but Griefer didn't quite make it enough to hide the flicker of something raw beneath it.

The hero would be lying if he said he didn't hold his breath watching his face like a mesmerized fool.

He braced himself for something he wasn’t exactly sure what.

A confession?

A cutting joke?

Something heavy and dangerous, the kind of words you couldn’t take back once they were out?

Instead;

“Y0U’R3 R34LLY W31RD.”

Player snapped out of his mesmerized stupor, dumbfounded by his words. Rightfully so, because Griefer, with audacity, without hesitation, without shame at all— tilted his head, vines continuously shifting languidly around him, and stared with thhe same fanged smirk thats somehow more soft than usual.

Unabashed. Unapologetic. A stare oh so heavy as if Player was a relic to be seen as a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. As if Player was a loot with a 0.016% drop rate Griefer finds mid-match during his videogame grinds.

And Player felt pinned by it. He could practically feel those crimson eyes swirling with now bits of green hooking into him the way the SFOTH swords whispered into his very mind, rattling his bones, making himself not be able to think straight.

Except this wasn’t like the swords. There was no hunger in that gaze. No malice. No gnawing compulsion.

This was different.

Griefer looked at him like he was something carved from light and shadow both, like he was a puzzle worth unraveling, something worthwhile— something worth keeping. As though Player were one of the legendary swords themselves all to be tucked away, not to be wielded for battle but used for guidance, protection, and to be protected by a sword guardian. Griefer looked at him as if he was not only in it for the love of the game.

Player’s throat went dry. His body betrayed him, heat climbing his neck, pooling at the tips of his ears. He forced himself to swallow, but it didn’t help—the lump in his throat refused to budge.

Griefer beat him to it.

“1 TR13D T0 K1LL Y0U 4TL34ST THR33 T1M3S,” he said suddenly, his voice lower than before, quieter, the hesitation apparent, pulling it like static between his words. “4ND Y3T Y0U ST1LL M4D3 Y0UR W4Y T0 CUR3 M3.”

The words hung in the air like a weight. A cherry on top of everything Player has to go through (and had gone through) to finally relish in comfort and that sweet sweet rest.

He looked again, and for once, there was no smirk to soften them, no exaggerated drawl to turn Griefer's current look into nothing more but a jest. The white haired man's gaze wavered, just slightly, red-green eyes flicking aside as though he couldn’t quite bring himself to keep staring when the truth spilled out raw like that.

The (half) plant man let out a breath—half a sigh, half something closer to surrender.

“…TH4NK Y0U....”

The sound of it knocked the wind from Player’s chest. The words weren't mocking, it wasn’t reluctant, because , it wasn’t even laced with the smugness that usually carried every word out of Griefer’s mouth. It was just—honest.

The hero stared, blinking once, twice, as if the meaning would change or the letters would rearrange itself into something easier to handle. Hell, he'd might as well take "Y0U, TH4NK." as Griefer's actual answer even if it didn't make sense both grammatically and with the context of the conversation they're currently in.

Except it didn’t change nor rearrange itself at all, obviously.

The quiet stretched, thick and fragile all at once. Glass canon would've been a nice word to describe it but he didn't want to assume the silence had that much strong of an impact on Griefer's point of view.

Player could hear the faint creak of the bed beneath them, the rustle of leaves as Griefer shifted, the faint pulse of their heartbeats overlapping in the stillness. For reasons unknown, the hero couldn’t explain the way his chest tightened.

Not like fear, not like HATRED. 

Something else.

Something harder to shake off.

He wanted to say something back—to tell Griefer it hadn’t been about debts or obligations, that it wasn’t just another quest to check off—but the words tangled on his tongue because it  was the case.

So instead, his hand moved before his mouth could.

A small, hesitant shift. Scarred fingers, his hand still having fingerless gloves brushing up against Griefer’s arm, to his shoulder, because he didn't want to risk resting it nor letting them wander to the other man's neck.

The corner of Griefer’s mouth twitched upward, less of a smirk and more of something dangerously close to a smile, Player pretended not to notice. Because then it'll stir something he didn't want to indulge himself too deep into. It was blatantly obvious that Griefer knew what was going on in his mind.

“..'M N0T 4SK1NG Y0U T0 S4Y 4NYTH1NG 4BOUT TH4T, PUNK.” His vines curled closer, not tight but steady. Even fixing some of the creases on Player's jacket.

“JUST.. S4Y1NG. F0R TH3 R3C0RD."

Player exhaled, the sound shaky in a way he hoped went unnoticed. His checklist—character index flickering and demanding him to pay attention to his quests, the Firebrand—but  they felt like distant noise compared to the weight of that quiet confession(?) and the other man pressed so close to him.

And though his mouth refused to form the words, his hands betrayed him yet again, inching just slightly—hesitant, almost clumsy— until it passed by Griefer's neck, and instead brushing against Griefer’s cheek. A touch light enough to be excused as nothing. But both of them knew there was an underlying meaning that came along with it because of the way he pressed the palm of his hand closer.

The warmth that met Player's cold fingers startled him. He expected roughness, the leafy scrape of a plant-like texture against his fingertips that he grew somewhat accustomed to due to Griefer's vines on him for the past few minutes now. But instead there was softness—warm skin beneath the greenery, the faint hum of life thrumming through veins just beneath the surface.

It was a reminder that Griefer wasn’t just a plant-man to be used as a meatshield for his battles, Griefer wasn't just a walking mess of vines and and even more leaves thats all bark with a C00L typing quirk.

Griefer was alive, half plant— but alive within his reach— huddled up on top of him.

Griefer wasn't just another Robloxian from a timeline that wasn't his own to leave right after completing a quest from an admin. Griefer was his own person too, and he was starting to grow on the hero, the realization of it made Player’s chest ache.

After their last battle, the bubonic plant looked like it had wilted down. He was sure it was about to die, and he only did cure Griefer just to get his callcard and because he felt a tad bit bad for the mayor— which doesn't make it any better as he didn't cure Griefer simply to cure him.

Player tried to retreat his hand, to pass it off as an accident, but the movement stalled halfway, his fingers hovering against Griefer’s cheek as though something inside him refused to let go. Tracing the vines trailing from the leaves covering the right side of the other man's eye.

The hero's pulse raced, practically being able to hear his own heartbeat thrumming in his ears, a storm of contradictions— he should pull back. And yet something within him whispered, demanding he doesn't put any distance between them at all.

Griefer tilted ever so slightly into the touch. Not enough to be obvious, but enough for Player to feel it. Enough to confirm it wasn’t one-sided. His heart betrayed him just as badly as his hand had. 

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

The blonde swallowed hard, adam's apple bobbing, throat tight. He told himself he should say something, to make a joke, toss out a bait, anything to break the heavy stillness that had settled over them.

But nothing came. Words felt clumsy compared to whatever it was that lingered in the atmosphere between them.

He let yet another silence stretch. He let it linger. He let himself memorize this moment: the faint rustle when Griefer shifted, the steady warmth pressed into his side, and atop of himself, the way their breaths seemed to find a rhythm together without either of them trying.

And damn it, Player realized he didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to ruin this fragile, stolen peace by pretending it was meaningless.

Player’s hand continued lingering against Griefer’s cheek, thumb brushing lightly over warm skin. And Griefer was just letting him. He told himself he should pull back, that this was already far too much, that he shouldnt indulge after the line, but his body betrayed him, staying put as though it had found something it couldn’t let go of.

Then Griefer shifted.

No, wait—

Griefer leaned in.

The movement was slow, deliberate, closing the already thin space between them. Player’s breath caught instantly, his chest tightening as heat climbed his neck. Every thought fled at once, leaving behind a dizzying rush—was this it?

Was Griefer actually going to—?

His pulse was a wild, frantic drum in his ears, drowning out everything else.

His palms tingled, restless, caught between the urge to grab on, to pull Griefer the rest of the way, and the fear of what that would mean if he did. The seconds dragged, thick and heavy, stretching into something unbearable.

He could feel it—Griefer’s breath ghosting against his skin, the closeness that bordered on suffocating but not enough, never enough.

His mind twisted itself into knots, torn between disbelief and reckless hope.

This was stupid. It had to be. Griefer didn’t look at him like that. Didn’t want him like that. And yet—here they were, so close Player could count the faint flecks of green in Griefer’s formerly-otherwise dark red eyes, so close the warmth radiating off his body made Player’s stomach flip over itself and do a fatality cutscene.

Every muscle tensed, caught in the limbo between anticipation and dread. Player's throat worked around a lump he couldn’t swallow, his lips parting just slightly, betraying him, ready to meet what might never come.

He was sure feeling a lot of chest pains as his chest ached for the nth time with the weight of Griefer's action for the past few minutes, the fragile, dangerous wanting that had been gnawing at him longer than he took finishing off a battle.

The world narrowed, pressed down to the thinnest thread stretched between them—waiting, trembling, burning—

And then it didn’t come.

The absence hit like a crack through glass, the breath he’d been holding wrenched out of him too fast, shaky, uneven, like his own body was mocking him for expecting more.

His heart stuttered, stumbling over itself, caught somewhere between relief and disappointment, the two clashing so violently he felt almost as dizzy, as exhausted as he does everytime the effects of the ghost potion wears off in fights.

Instead, there was only a shift in weight, the faint rustle of leaves and those stupid vines again, shortly followed then by the warmth of Griefer leaning further into his palm. Pressing the side of his face more firmly against Player’s hand, nestling there like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Not his mouth. Just that quiet, grounding touch of his face to the hero's palm as if this—the stillness, the contact, the unspoken trust—was enough for him.

Player blinked, his breath catching in the hollow of his chest. He hadn’t even realized he’d been holding it, waiting, ready to be caught in the momentum of something bigger. His throat worked around the lump forming there, a tight knot that refused to budge.

It wasn't there because of 'rejection' with the way griefer didn't actually lean in to kiss him. Because it was worse, somehow—it was the ache of yearning, the hollow pang that came with recognizing too late what he had been holding out for. What he had been hoping, gnawing, clawing his cold, scarred fingers at the bedsheets for.

A kiss.

Swords, he wanted the damn kiss.

Player wanted it so badly his body had already betrayed him—leaning forward, drawn in by gravity or longing or something dangerously in between.

His lips tingled with anticipation, his nerves thrummed like struck wires beneath his skin, every beat of his heart screaming closer before his mind could catch up. He could almost feel it—the warmth of Griefer’s mouth, the taste of something he wasn’t sure he deserved.

And now, with nothing but the weight of Griefer’s cheek pressed into his palm, the absence of it burned hotter than he’d prepared for. It wasn’t rejection. It wasn’t even avoidance. It was just… not that. And somehow, that was worse.

His chest ached, expanding too tight with every shallow, unsteady breath, pressing hard against a truth he wasn’t sure he could stand to look at.

He wanted Griefer in a way that went far deeper than banter and grudges, bad jabs, jokes, and whatever this was. He wanted him in a way that made his stomach twist and his thoughts blur and his carefully built walls crack apart like an enemy's shield after a few too many hits from Player's steel sword.

Now that he’d tasted the disappointment of not getting it—of feeling the almost and being denied the actual—the wanting only grew sharper.

It gnawed at the edges of him, raw and restless, like a hunger that wouldn’t be quieted, not by logic or shame or the thousand reasons he’d told himself this wasn’t supposed to happen.

And the worst part? The touch, as simple as it was, still felt good.

Too good. The press of Griefer’s cheek against his hand was grounding in its steadiness, tender in a way that felt uncharacteristically intimate. It unraveled him slowly, breath by breath, making his pulse stutter and his thoughts scatter all over the place, messier than the vines sprawled everywhere from the other man himself.

If something this small could undo him like that… he wasn’t sure what a kiss would do— Which only made the yearning worse, feeding it, sharpening it, until all he could think about was the closeness he didn’t have yet.

The closeness he doesn't deserve just yet.

The weight of that truth crashed down on him in silence. Griefer wasn’t kissing him. He wasn’t even trying. But the simple act of leaning into his touch, the easy trust of it, was enough to unravel Player in a different way. Enough to make him see that somewhere between their previous battles and banter, something had shifted inside him.

He cared. More than he’d let himself admit. More than he was ready to say aloud. And now, sitting there with Griefer’s cheek warm against his hand, the absence of that kiss felt louder than words.

Player's fingers twitched against Griefer’s skin, betraying him before his mind could catch up. He told himself it was nothing—a reflex, a slip—but the warmth seeping into his hand made it impossible to dismiss so easily.

His chest tightened in a way he didn’t like, a way he wasn’t used to. Not the sharp edge of Hatred gnawing at him, not the cold clarity of battle. This was… gentler. Dangerous, because it left him exposed. In the best way possible.

He tried to summon thoughts of his checklist, the neat order of his quests: bottle, cure, Firebrand, to try and get himself to pull away and not go on with whatever this was escalating into. But all his excuses felt flimsy, paper-thin. They crumbled under the weight of the moment, under the pressure of Griefer leaning into him so naturally.

His priorities blurred until all that remained was the warmth against his palm, the faint rasp of breath, and the realization that he didn’t want to pull away.

The silence pressed close, thicker than he liked, but he couldn’t bring himself to break it.

His heroic facade—the shield he always had ready, always equipped like a damn starter card remained lodged behind his flesh. Not wanting to get out of his skin. He was left with nothing but the steady, unyielding truth searing inside him, Player wanted to stay like this. He wanted Griefer closer.

Player's hand was trembling. Not enough for most to notice, but Griefer felt it clearly where their skin met. The hero wasn’t the kind to show weakness lightly—he’d sooner laugh in the face of pain or crack a joke in front of his enemies followed up by somehow adapting into their moveset and taking the win than to admit vulnerability and loss.

 And yet here it was, humming through his fingertips, betraying him in a way words never could.

Griefer should’ve made a joke of it. Should’ve curled his lip and turned the whole thing into another round of banter, back and forth mockery. 

The words never came.

He didn’t want to chase Player off with laughter or fangs. He wanted—against his better judgment—to keep this. To see how long the hero would let him stay pressed this close. So he leaned in even more, slow and deliberate, letting the warmth of Player’s hand anchor him. It felt strange, terrifying even, to let himself melt into a touch rather than recoil from it.

Griefer could feel the thud of Player’s heart, uneven. And something inside him twisted at the thought that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t the only one who wanted this nearness. Drawn into the hero's presence the same way he was with the Venomshank— If not more.

The vines around him adjusted, shifting against his body, draping around him like loose threads, curling in quiet patterns and tracing shapes that felt less like a trap and more like an embrace.

Player's breath caught. This was choice. This was Griefer keeping him there—not out of malice or whatever—but because he wanted him there. The realization was a sharp ache, and Player didn’t know what to do with it.

His pulse hammered wildly, too loud in his ears, too loud in his chest. He could smell the faint mix of soil and witches brew clinging to Griefer, sharp but not unpleasant, tapping into his very soul him in a way that made him dizzy. He wanted to tell himself it was nothing, that it was just proximity, exhaustion, coincidence. The swords messing with his head. But the lie crumbled too easily. 

When Griefer dared to peek at the hero’s face, it nearly stole his breath. Player wasn’t his usual mischievous grin when facing off foes or gritting his teeth the way he always did when things grew too close for comfort— may it be an attack he barely dodge or a punch he barely parried.

The hero wasn’t wearing that brittle mask of his. Player's gaze lingered, heavy, fixed on him in a way that made Griefer’s chest ache.

The plant-man fought he urge to smirk, to break the tension with words that would cheapen it. Instead, Griefer let himself stay still, breathing in the closeness.

The warmth of Griefer’s skin against his palm spread through him, chasing away the chill of doubt he never let anyone see. It burrowed deep, curling in the spaces between his ribs until it hurt.

He should’ve let go. He should’ve laughed it off. He should’ve shoved Griefer away with some careless remark and pretended the moment never happened.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he stared. Memorized. The flicker of light in Griefer’s lashes. The faint crease by his mouth that spoke of words unspoken. The way his presence filled the room without smothering him, like air he couldn’t help but breathe.

Player swallowed hard, but the lump in his throat stayed. He wanted—swords, he wanted something more. A kiss, maybe. The thought was wild, dangerous, unthinkable. Yet it hovered there, pulsing at the edge of his mind with every second Griefer stayed close. 

He tried to tell himself it was fine. That this was enough. That Griefer’s weight on him, the heat of his skin, the lazy thrum of vines curled around his sides, the press of his cheek into his palm—it should’ve been enough.

But it wasn’t.

Every excuse Player reached for crumbled before he could even finish the thought. He told himself it was stupid, that kissing Griefer was the last thing he should be thinking about in this mess of a timeline.

His hand stayed, he couldnt let go. His pulse thundered, and his heart whispered what his lips refused to. His body betrayed him, leaning forward, slowly closing the distance until every inch nearer felt like a confession. Until they were face to face. Griefers hand on his waist tightened ever so slightly.

Griefer didn’t pull away. Didn’t tease him. Didn’t even smirk. He just stayed there, vines draped like a lazy net, his head tilted faintly into Player’s palm. Waiting.

And that waiting was unbearable.

He told himself it didn’t mean anything.

Except it did.

His body wouldn’t let him lie. The way his lips still tingled, like they’d already been touched. The way his chest tightened, stretching too tight, as if bracing for something that wasn’t coming.

The way his hand, traitorous and trembling, wanted to pull Griefer closer, wanted to force the space between them into nothing.

He wanted that kiss with a hunger that scared him. And now that he’d realized it, there was no undoing it. No unknowing.

The silence between them wasn’t empty—it was thick, humming, filled with everything Player couldn’t say out loud. And the more he sat in it, the more he felt the ache bloom, spreading slow and unbearable through his chest.

Swords, he wanted him.

Wanted him so badly it hurt.

Player’s heart slammed against his ribs, loud enough to drown out every excuse he might’ve thrown up. He wanted to say it didn’t mean anything, that this was a fluke, that he’d blame the atmosphere, exhaustion the swords or whatever later. But none of those lies felt sharp enough to cut through the truth blooming in his chest.

Before his (already supposedly dead) fear could strangle him, before he could retreat into deflections and bravado—

Player leaned in to close the final distance instead, closing his eyes to savor the feeling.

The kiss wasn’t clean. Not practiced, not perfect. His lips caught awkwardly against Griefer’s at first, a brush too clumsy, too rushed, slow and sloppy like he was terrified of getting bitten by the man he was kissing if he moved wrong.

But once it landed—once the heat of it seared through him—the hero leaned in harder, steadier, his hand holding Griefer’s cheek and then gently cupping his face as he anchors himself to the only thing that mattered in that moment.

Griefer stilled.

The change was immediate, sharp enough to lance through the haze of heat Player had drowned himself in. His lips went slack against his, not pushing forward, not pulling away—just frozen. A pause that lasted longer than it should have, long enough for doubt to claw its way into Player’s chest.

He could feel it—the way Griefer’s breath caught, the tiny hitch of surprise vibrating through his jaw. His vines, once draped loosely across Player’s side, gave a faint twitch, curling in half-formed hesitation. Griefer’s whole body seemed caught between instinct and indecision, like he hadn’t expected this, hadn’t dared even imagine it.

And that look. Swords, that look.

Up close, Player could see his eyes go wide, pupils flaring, lips parted like he wanted to speak but couldn’t get the words out. It wasn’t rejection—not outright—but it wasn’t the return Player had been aching for, either.

A cold spike of fear drove itself through him and his heart plummeted, dragging his stomach with it. Already his hand twitched where it cupped Griefer’s cheek, his thumb brushing once before retreating as if scorched. His body screamed to pull away, to shove this moment into a box, seal it, pretend it never happened.

And so, with his chest caving in, Player let himself retreat.

Slowly, carefully, lips unlatching, dragging against Griefer’s mouth as he drew back. The world sharpened unbearably in the gap opening between them—the loss of warmth immediate, gutting. A thin, glistening string of saliva stretched between them before breaking, catching the faintest glimmer of light.

Player wanted to say something, anything, but his throat locked tight. His gaze dropped, shame curdling hot in his chest, already bracing for the sting of rejection.

Cringing internally at himself, because he clearly wasn't thinking straight. The hero gulped down his pride and blurted out a quick "Look— I'm so sorry-" only for Griefer to move, cutting him off.

No words. No warning.

Griefer let out a soft groan, annoyed by the hero pulling away and then leaned forward, closing the distance with a certainty that knocked the breath clean out of Player’s lungs. The kiss landed rougher than before, not slow, not sloppy as Griefer was the one that initiated the kiss—answering fire with fire. Where Player had faltered, pulling back in doubt; Griefer took it upon himself to be the one to lean forward, catching his lips in a seal.

Player's eyes widened— shock spilling into relief so violent it almost hurt. Blue eyes fluttered shut the next, his hand instinctively finding Griefer’s jaw again, clutching like he’d drown if he let go. The warmth returned, doubled, flooding his body in dizzying waves.

He tasted warmth, softness and the faintest bitterness of witch brew on Griefer’s lips, and instead of pulling back, he chased it. His pulse roaring like fire. Time blurred. The kiss stretched, stumbled, deepened in small bursts, broken only by sharp breaths against each other’s mouths.

They both pulled away for air, only to go back kissing right after each took their respective breath. Griefer prodded Player's mouth with his tongue the next.

Slow, deliberate, answering him with a gentleness that made Player’s knees weak. The world seemed to tilt, narrow, until there was nothing but this—the brush of lips, the shared breath, the warmth of being wanted in return.

The kiss deepened with every heartbeat, gathering urgency like a storm rolling in. What began as soft, tentative brushes of mouths became something sharper, hungrier—Player pressing forward, Griefer meeting him halfway, their rhythm stumbling and catching but never breaking.

"34SY, PUNK,"

Griefer’s tongue teased, then dipped right in, slipping against his in slow, deliberate strokes that sent sparks flaring through Player’s chest. The gentleness was still there, but threaded now with something hotter, something that tugged at the edges of whatever casual-thing they had going on. He could feel Griefer's tongue piercing.

Player responded in kind, fingers curling into the tangled mess of Griefer’s hair, letting his and Griefer's cap fall down to the side of the bed, pulling him closer, closer, until there was no space left to question. The blonde's body arched with the momentum, leaning into the heat, the press, the sheer overwhelming presence of him.

The air between them burned. When they pulled apart for the briefest inhale, it was ragged, messy, desperate—and before either could steady, this time it was the hero that dove back in, his mouth crashing the white-haired man's as though breath itself was secondary to this.

Griefer’s vines stirred restlessly across the sheets, coiling tighter around Player’s waist, his grip not binding but anchoring, instinctive in their need to keep him close. And Player let them, let himself sink into it, surrendering to the grip, the heat, the sharp ache of being wanted this much.

His thoughts blurred, breaking down into sensation—the wet glide of tongues, the sudden jolt of cool metal as Griefer’s piercing slid against his tongue. The contrast making him shiver followed up by the scraping of teeth, deliberate enough to leave him breathless, followed by a low groan that vibrated in Griefer’s throat and spilled into the kiss, reverberating against Player’s lips.

It was too much and not enough all at once. Each brush, each shift, stretched the seconds into something unbearably fragile, as if the moment itself might shatter if he pulled away too soon.

His chest ached, not from lack of air, but from the rawness of it—the sheer force of feeling that had him clinging closer, desperate to hold onto it before it slipped away.

It was reckless. Dangerous. The kind of thing that could topple every wall he’d spent the last few months in this timeline building.

And Player couldn’t bring himself to care. Not when Griefer kissed him like this.

Not when it felt like everything he hadn’t let himself hope for was finally here, burning against his mouth.

Player’s chest ached, too full, too tight, like his body didn’t know how to hold everything surging through him. Relief. Hunger. Fear. And something softer, more dangerous than all of it.

He broke away only when breathing once again became impossible, their foreheads brushing, strands of hair sticking where sweat clung. His voice came out rough, a whisper cracked down the middle.

He broke away only when breathing once again became impossible, their foreheads brushing, strands of hair sticking where sweat clung. His chest heaved, lungs raw, heart clawing its way up his throat. His voice came out rough, a whisper cracked down the middle.

“…Holy shit.”

But he didn’t let go. Couldn’t. His hand still cradled Griefer’s cheek, thumb twitching like it wasn’t sure whether to retreat or dig deeper into the warmth there.

Griefer’s laugh came low, still rough around the edges of his own breathing. "W3 JUST K1SS3D F0R 4TL34ST THR33 M1NUT3S STR41GHT 4ND TH3 F1RST TH1NG Y0U S4Y W4S 'H0LY SH1T'?"

Player’s mouth opened, ready to snap something back, something sharp and clever to pull the spotlight off his own racing pulse. But nothing came. His brain sputtered, words stalling at the tip of hpreviously.

He tried again. "Yeah, well—" His voice cracked, broke into a half-cough. Heat rushed to his ears, and he forced a shaky laugh to patch it up. "You taste like.. Like dirt and metal.

The words tangled in his mouth, hollow even to his own ears. He grimaced, fumbling, and the usual rhythm of their banter refused to click back into place. He couldn’t chase the words fast enough, couldn’t pretend his chest wasn’t still hammering, couldn’t hide how wrecked the kiss had left him.

Griefer tilted his head, vines twitching faintly against Player’s side as if amused by his struggle. "D1RT?" His grin was fanged but softer than usual, eyes scanning his face with that same unbearable honesty from before.

"1 M34N, M3T4L CH3CKS 0UT, BUT D1RT? TH4T'S WH4T Y0U G0T?"

Player squeezed his eyes shut for a second, wishing the floor would swallow him whole. His brain still looped the same sensation—Griefer’s lips, the press of his tongue, the raw heat—and it drowned out everything else.

“Shut up,” he muttered, but it came out half-breathless, half-pleading, lacking any real bite. His banter was gone, stripped down to bare nerves, and for once, he had no armor to hide behind.

Griefer chuckled under his breath, the sound low and warm, vibrating where his chest pressed against Player’s.

“Y0U’R3 R34LLY B4D 4T TH1S, Y0U KN0W.”

"Oh really?” 

“Y34H. R34LLY. Y0U KN0W, K1SS1NG. PRET3ND1NG Y0U’R3 N0T BL0WN T0 H3LL 0V3R 4 L1TTL3 K1SS 1S K1ND4 FUNNY.”

Player groaned, the sound low and half-hearted as he let his head sink back against the pillow. At least their banter didn’t change. That was something—something familiar to cling to when everything else felt like it was quietly shifting under his feet.

Griefer didn’t move away, didn’t shift the weight of his body sprawled across him. If anything, he seemed to melt deeper into the space they shared, vines loosening their hold only to curl lazily across the sheets. A few refused to leave entirely, still draped over Player’s waist and shoulders like they were too lazy—or too content—to bother letting go.

Player told himself he should shove him off. Really, he should. But the thought scattered as quickly as it came, dissolving into nothing against the steady warmth of Griefer’s weight and the faint, earthy scent clinging to his clothes.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward.

It wasn’t even heavy. It was something.. Softer, something that hummed between them like a secret neither of them was ready to speak aloud.

The hero swallowed, but the lump in his throat didn’t budge. He told himself he should be restless, that his mind should be racing with quests and obligations and checklists— But none of it surfaced. Not when the world had narrowed down to his current state; the weight pinning him, the vines curling lazily against him, the heartbeat steady and close enough to sync with his own.

Player’s hands twitched uselessly at his sides, caught between wanting to push Griefer away and wanting to pull him closer.

The worst part was, the second option was winning. His pulse hadn’t slowed, and every time he caught the faint sound of Griefer’s breathing against his chest, it jumped all over again.

“...You’re not gonna move, are you?” he asked finally, his voice quieter than he meant it to be.

“N4H,” came the lazy reply, a small, content sound following it. “G0T 4LL 1 N33D R1GHT H3R3.”

And just like that, Player forgot why he’d even wanted him to move in the first place. It was almost cruel with how natural it felt.

Griefer shifted faintly, nestling further into the crook of Player’s neck with a muffled grumble. “S33? C0MFY,” he mumbled, smug like he was declaring it point as fact.

“…You’re heavy,” Player said finally, though his hand hadn’t moved from where it still rested against Griefer’s jaw. His voice lacked bite, the words landing softer than any real complaint.

“1 B3T Y0U L1K3 1T,” Griefer shot back, smirking into the curve of his neck. His breath brushed warm against Player’s skin, enough to send a shiver down his spine.

Player rolled his eyes, though the corners of his lips betrayed him, twitching upward. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

The silence between them shifted again, not empty but weighted with something Player didn’t have the vocabulary for. He found himself tracing it in fragments instead, clinging to whatever his senses gave him.

The way Griefer’s hair smelled faintly of leaves and smoke. The way his skin radiated warmth like he’d pulled the sun down and bottled it under his ribcage. Even the subtle twitch of his jaw, like he was fighting back the urge to say something—some sarcastic jab, probably—but hadn’t yet found the energy to ruin the moment.

Player’s fingers, traitorous as ever, lingered against his cheekbone the same way it did a few minutes prior. He pretended it was absentminded, casual. But really, he was memorizing the slope of it even though one could argue he already spent a good amount of time feeling him up earlier.

The ridges, the heat. His pulse thumped loud in his ears, telling him every second that he was crossing a line that couldn’t be uncrossed.

Griefer didn’t call him out. Didn’t flinch. If anything, he leaned just a fraction closer, eyes half-lidded, vines shifting with the lazy rhythm of his breathing.

Player’s chest tightened. He almost hated how… safe it felt. Not the kind of safety he’d carved out in solitude, with walls and weapons and plans that kept everyone else at arm’s length. This was different. Messier. Like standing on the edge of a cliff and realizing that maybe, just maybe, falling wouldn’t kill him.

“Y’know…” Player started, his voice a rasp, “you’re not supposed to be comfortable like this.”

Griefer hummed, a low vibration that sent a shiver straight through him.

“S4YS WH0?”

“Me.”

“TH3N Y0U'R3 WR0NG.”

Griefer mumbled against his skin, his words softened by the closeness, blunted into something that didn’t sting. And Player let out a short, shaky laugh. His throat was too tight for anything steadier.

The vines curled slightly tighter at his waist, like they were echoing his pulse, and he didn’t have it in him to fight it. Not when every part of him wanted to stay pressed into this warmth until the rest of the world gave up trying to find them.

He tilted his head, just enough that their foreheads brushed again.

It was stupid. Reckless. Intimate in ways he had no business indulging in.

And yet..

He didn’t pull away. Not when Griefer’s breath skimmed against his lips. Not when his heartbeat steadied beneath the weight of another’s. Not when—for the first time in a long time—silence didn’t ache.

It was unbearable. It was perfect. And he couldn’t stop soaking in every second.

—

Player's quest index looms, and so he rolls his eyes and dismisses it simply. Stirring up the other man clinging onto him, grunting softly.

"Hey, dude."

"MHM...?"

"Whatever happened last night was no homo right?"

The faint hum of the radio leaked in from the other room, a broken melody choked by static. Every so often, a voice tried to claw its way through the distortion—half-sentences, warped laughter, fragments of some forgotten broadcast. None of it made sense, but it filled the silence like an omen.

The lights overhead sputtered. Fluorescent tubes whined as though they, too, were straining under the weight of what hung in the air. Each flicker carved the room into alternating slices of shadow and clarity, and in those shifting intervals, the bodies on the floor seemed to twitch, to breathe, though they were long past breath.

The stink of them was unbearable—copper, sweat, gunpowder, and rot blended into a suffocating perfume that coated the inside of his mouth no matter how shallow he dared to breathe.

Seven. That was how many had been here when it began. Seven living bodies, nervous laughter, and hollow bravado trying to mask the horror of what they signed up for. Chance easily saw through all of them.

The first round: one bullet, five blanks.

The second: two bullets, four blanks.

Now, the final round: three bullets, three blanks.

Simple math. Half chance of death, half chance of survival. But the numbers didn’t matter anymore. They never really had.

All that mattered was the revolver. Its weight. Its inevitability. The thrill of the game.

Only two remained. Him—and the other man.

The last survivor was a pitiful sight. A drooping mustache curled above lips drained of all color, plastered to a face slick with sweat. His hands shook violently around the weapon, so much so that every twitch seemed like it might trigger the hammer before he was ready. His eyes, wide and bloodshot, couldn’t settle on one thing—darting to the ceiling, the corpses, the door, anywhere but at the gun in his hands.

A bead of sweat rolled down the unnamed man's temple, lingered at the edge of his jaw, then fell. It hit the floor with a sound that felt deafening in the silence, louder even than the crackling radio. A contrast to Chance's own laid back demeanor that's been surfing through the rounds like all was a controlled tide.

The man’s breathing was ragged, each inhale like a sob he was too proud—or too broken—to release.

And him? He sat still. Watching. Listening. Even more humming. Every nerve raw and electric, every second stretched into eternity. His mind replayed the last gunshots—each thunderclap still echoing in his skull only in pity. The flinch of those around the ones that had their brains blown out, the moment of release, the body slumping like discarded meat to the floor or to the table.

Russian roulette.

A cash prize of $10,000 sat waiting—dirty money, bundled in crumpled stacks, held by an underground syndicate that orchestrated the spectacle inside of a VIP party. It wasn’t just a game; it was entertainment for those faceless shadows behind the mirrored glass, dancing the night away with rich people jokes and class, the ones who thrived on watching desperation gnaw away at poor people’s souls.

Itrapped had been the one to coax him into this mess, all sweet smiles, smooth words, and golden hair catching the dim light like it belonged in a cleaner world than this. Chance never needed the cash prize for this game—he never even wanted it. But refusing the blonde had never been his strong suit. If it meant spending an hour or two with Itrapped’s company, then why not? A little gamble, a little bloodsport, just another night and maybe something more afterwards.

Playing the game was unfortunate for the others.

Because Chance was here. And Lady Luck had always been on his side, brutal in their simplicity.

One bullet.

One blank.

A revolver sat on the table, gleaming dully beneath the flickering light. Its cylinder spun with a metallic hiss, then clicked into place with the sound of inevitability. Around them, the stench of old gunpowder, sweat, and the iron tang of fear weighed on the air, heavier than the stacks of cash ever could.

He remembered the first round. Seven seats, seven players. Some eyes hungry for the prize, some eyes already drifted downwards in regret. Fingers twitched nervously on laps, feet tapped against the stained concrete floor, breaths staggered and uneven after the first body thudded against the floor.

And Chance? He leaned back in his chair, casual as ever, a ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips. As if this wasn’t a death game. Because it was a game of Chance. And that was his game.

His gaze slid to Itrapped, to the way the blonde lingered close by, watching him. That was all the incentive he needed. Money, thrill, gamble—it was all secondary. The only thing that mattered was the spark in Itrapped’s beautiful, beautiful eyes, urging him on, daring him to test his luck, steering him to the edge just the right amount, and winning in the end as usual.

The unnamed man’s hands shook so violently the revolver rattled like loose change. His knuckles were bloodless, straining white as he gripped the handle too tightly, as if sheer force could make his courage real.

He raised the muzzle, pointing it squarely at Chance—just above his glabella, the most direct route to erase him from existence in a single trigger pull. His lips trembled, muttering half-choked apologies under his breath.

"I..I-Im sorry—"

The words came out broken, breathless. Each repetition weaker than the last, as if he were trying to convince himself that the apology might absolve him before the inevitable. Only one of them would leave the table alive.

The audience—hidden in shadow, concealed behind smoked glasses frilly dresses and neatly tucked suits—watched in silence. Their attention was suffocating, pressing against the room like an invisible weight. The lights flickered overhead, casting harsh, stuttering illumination across the would-be killer’s face. Sweat streamed down his temple, dripping onto the revolver’s frame.

And Chance… felt bad. Almost.

The man was nothing more than another desperate debtor, clawing at survival for the faint chance of ten thousand dollars that wouldn’t even scratch the surface of his ruin. Chance didn’t need the money. He never did. That alone made the imbalance almost cruel. But it's not like he'd die for some stranger begging in crippling debt. He's seen these types of people in his casino before.

So he sighed, the sound oddly casual in the thick tension, and shifted in his seat, fixing his posture as if preparing for nothing more serious than a card game. Then, with a lazy flick of his wrist, he waved off the man’s hesitation.

“Heya, pal,” Chance said, voice smooth and steady, carrying a weight of certainty that didn’t belong in a room like this. He smiled—confident, practiced, though not unkind. “Don’t sweat it.”

The man blinked at him, gun quivering harder, unsure if he was being mocked or granted mercy— which was odd as he was the one holding the gun. Chance leaned forward ever so slightly, smirk sharpening as the words rolled off his tongue with dangerous ease.

“If you feel like Lady Luck’s on your side… pull the trigger on me.”

50/50

For a heartbeat, the room froze. The air itself seemed to hold its breath.

And that was the curse of Chance: his calm wasn’t just his own. It bled outward, seeping into the bones of the people around him, twisting fear into hesitation.

The muzzle didn’t move. The man’s finger twitched, hovering, paralyzed between survival and doom.

Chance’s gaze drifted to the side once again, hidden behind the sheen of his sunglasses. From the far right, lounging like royalty, his best buddy sat spectating with a glass of champagne in hand. The blonde’s smile was faint, amused, golden hair catching the dim light as though none of this ugliness could touch him.

For a moment, Chance almost forgot the weight of the revolver in the debtor’s hands.

Click.

The sound was sharp, metallic, cruel in its finality. The man was still pointing the gun at Chance when it happened, trembling, eyes screwed shut as if bracing for the blast. But there was no blast. No spray of blood. No thud of a body collapsing to the floor. Just a hollow click.

A blank.

And the gambler let out a soft chuckle. Because he knew he was favored by the deity more than anyone.

The man opened his eyes, wide and wet, horror crashing down on him with the realization. His mouth fell open, a strangled gasp tearing free as if air itself betrayed him.

And then, the cylinder was turned.

It was Chance’s turn—with the last bullet in the chamber.

The debtor’s face crumpled. His chair screeched against the floor as he bolted upright, voice shattering the tense silence.

“No! Please!”

The rawness in his cry echoed against the stained walls, rattling the thin light fixtures above. Tears welled hot in his eyes as his chest heaved, his body betraying him with sobs he couldn’t suppress. He staggered, knees buckling beneath the weight of despair until he sagged back down, collapsing like a puppet with its strings cut by a toddler who deemed it useless and to be thrown out.

“I—I have a family!” he choked out, hands clawing at the table as if clinging to something solid might anchor him to life. But in the end it was his choice. It was his fault, wasn't it?

“My wife—she’s waiting for me at home! I promised her I’d pay my debt, that I’d—be better, that I’d— I'd treat her right..! I won't ever cheat on her again!"

His voice cracked, breaking entirely under the weight of his pleading. Eyes wide— desperately searching for Chance's gaze from behind his sunglasses against the blood-splattered room.

“P-please—”

The revolver sat on the table, cold steel glinting in the fractured light, waiting.

The man’s sobs drowned the room, thick, desperate, animal-like. His palms pressed together in prayer, his forehead bowing low against the scarred wood of the table. His shoulders quaked with each broken syllable.

“I’ve come so far..!”

The man’s voice cracked apart, collapsing into sobs too jagged to form words. His cries bled into the room until they were the only sound that existed, raw and ugly against the steady hum of the overhead lights.

Then—silence.

A silence that had teeth, sharp and merciless. It gnawed at the walls, at the gamblers watching from the shadows, at the man on his knees. But not at Chance.

Because the gambler remained still, unmoved by the storm of despair at his feet. Slowly, his head turned, sunglasses and fedora tilting just enough for his gaze to meet the crowned blonde on the far side of the room. Blue eyes—serene, detached, unyielding—found crimson with that fleck of gold, glittering with thrill of the game.

Itrapped gave him a smile.

And in that wordless exchange, everything was decided.

Chance let the silence linger a moment longer, stretching it taut, until even the debtor’s sobs faltered into hiccuping gasps. And then, softly, he spoke.

“I’ll send flowers to your wife.”

The words landed heavier than any bullet. More brutal than the sight of the rest of the Players' corpses thudding to the floor, Chance rose from his chair, brushing imaginary dust from his shoulders and fixing his sleeves as though he were taking up nothing more than a casual exit in a card game after winning. He moved with measured calm, claiming the spot where the debtor knelt, his hands steady where the other man’s had faltered.

The revolver felt normal in his grip as he didn't hesitate.

BANG!

And the man’s life ended as swiftly as the game itself. Blood splattering and adding to the crimson of Chance's tux.

Clap.

Clap.

Clap.

Itrapped’s applause cut through the smoky air like the sound of silk tearing—smooth, mocking, inevitable. He walked forward at an unhurried pace, the golden gleam of his hair catching every flicker of the failing light, as though even this bloodstained room bent to illuminate him.

Chance’s heart stirred—not from the kill, not from the money-laden suitcase pressed into his hand by trembling officials, but from the figure now standing before him.

“As expected,” Itrapped murmured. The words carried the warmth of recognition for his victory— and the 10,000$ inside of the suitcase.

The champagne glass clicked gently against the table as Itrapped set it down. From his pocket came a handkerchief, immaculate and folded with precision. His left arm slid around Chance’s waist, drawing him closer with a gesture that felt both protective and possessive. His right hand lifted the cloth, touching Chance’s cheek with infuriating delicacy as he wiped away the spatter of someone else’s blood.

Chance’s breath caught despite himself. So close, he could smell Itrapped’s cologne—sharp, expensive, vanilla, the same ones he bought for him when they hung out and the casino owner shopped more than a few limiteds that for sure would've made any other normal Robloxian's pocket cry.

His sunglasses hid his eyes, but behind them, Chance's gaze softened as Itrapped continued gently wiping blood off of him, muttering about 'stains' and it being an 'awful addition' to the gambler's already-red-and-white tux.

(If only this moment was real.

If only Itrapped’s touch meant more than control, more than manipulation.

If only he truly did love the casino owner, maybe they'd have a happy ending.)

“You never run out of luck, do you, Chance?”

The words, smooth as velvet, brushed over him like praise. Yet beneath them, Chance could hear the truth: he was useful. He was valuable. And Itrapped was never one to waste an asset. But Itrapped doesn't consider him as an asset, they were best buddies. So Chance leaned into the touch ever so slightly, betraying himself with the smallest tilt of his jaw.

“Lady Luck’s always on my side, Trap. Same way you’re always with me.”

Chance’s words left his lips lighter than air, but his chest felt heavy. He chuckled to sell the line, though it was shaky at the edges. A deep blush colored his cheeks, uncharacteristic for a man who had just stared down a gun and lived. The revolver hadn’t rattled him. The death throes of a debtor hadn’t rattled him.

But Itrapped did.

For the first time since walking into this now-blood-soaked room, Chance felt sweat bead along his brow. He swiped at it, hoping the gesture seemed casual. His sunglasses hid the dart of his eyes, the shadow of his fedora helping along, but those little things simply cannot hide the way his shoulders stiffened when Itrapped’s smirk grew sharper then relaxing afterwards. Because he was getting worked up over nothing.

The blonde leaned forward, champagne still abandoned, cologne heavy in the air as if Chance could feel it looping around his neck and forcing him to inhale more until he's completely intoxicated— Only for a kiss to be brushed at the side of Chance’s face. It was light, fleeting, precise.

It was a hunter’s touch disguised as affection. He knew Chance would lean in for more so Itrapped made him chase for it. Chance’s pulse skipped violently. His lips parted, then shut again. He gripped the suitcase too tightly, the material biting into his palms. The fedora wearing man's crimson eyes now gleaming with a shine of gold as he considered this moment and the other man himself as a jackpot from behind his sunglasses.

Itrapped’s timing was always perfect. Always standing close when the prize was handed over, always smoothing Chance’s image before the audience, always tightening his hold in public while keeping his distance in private. It was too neat. Too deliberate. Carefully planned, carefully calculated, and carefully orchestrated.

But Chance crushed the thought as quickly as it surfaced.

It could be applied to anyone. But not to Itrapped.

No, not him.

Itrapped wasn’t just anyone—he was his best friend.

His best buddy. The one who clapped for him when no one else did whenever he won way too many matches in other casinos, the one who vouched for him and never did call him a cheater for his luck, the one who wiped the blood from his face like it mattered, the one who stood up for him and de-escalated the situation whenever things got physical after a few players accused him of cheating for having too high of a winstreak. Itrapped was the one who kissed him—as though Chance meant something beyond being a gambler lucky enough to always walk away alive.

As if Chance was someone, and not just a filthy rich nepo baby that owns a casino having a neon sign draped over himself 'to be used as a wallet' for gold diggers to leech on for the rest of their lives.

Itrapped’s blue eyes glimmered, dangerous and unreadable. When their gaze met, the blonde's smirk softened into something that looked like warmth, something that could almost be mistaken for fondness. Tucking the handkerchief back to the pockets of his pants.

“Of course, dear friend,” he murmured. His arm pressed tighter around Chance’s waist before retreating, leaving behind an absence colder than steel after flashing that smile. “I’ll always be there.”

One way or another.

Chance unconsciously found his hands sliding against Itrapped's. Chasing after for more contact. The words should have reassured him. They echoed sweet, steady, certain. But they weren’t promises. He could easily tell there was some underlying meaning to it.

Still, Chance believed them.

Because he wanted to. So he put on his poker face once more, letting out a loud laugh just then.

"I knew I could always count on you."

achance told himself the unease in his chest was just adrenaline. That the shadow in Itrapped’s smile wasn’t real. That the way his gaze lingered on the suitcase and not on him didn’t matter.

And yet, the cracks were there. Small. Subtle. Growing.

he ignored them, and it clung tighter, he let himself sink into the illusion—because to admit the truth would mean losing the only person he couldn’t bear to lose. Because for all his luck at the table, this was the gamble he could never win.

And so, in a room that stank of death and tension, he smiled. Even as his heart whispered that Lady Luck’s favor wouldn’t last forever.

The heavy door shut behind them with a metallic clang, sealing off the echo of applause and the stink of blood. Chance still hadn’t let go of Itrapped’s hand. Their fingers were laced, a grip more intimate than necessary, and though the blonde could have pulled away at any time, he didn’t. Instead, he let Chance cling, even guided him with casual confidence down the hallway and into the bathroom. The faint sound of the ongoing party still able to be heard.

Clean marble tiles. Golden fixtures. A place meant for indulgence, not cleansing sin. Yet here they were, blood on Chance’s clothes marking him like a scarlet badge.

Itrapped stopped at the sink, finally turning to face him. His azure gaze slid over Chance’s dirtied designer suit before returning to his face, amused. Then pulling out a sleek black bag from one of the locked bathroom bag holders.

“You.. brought spare clothes?” Chance asked, blinking in genuine surprise.

The question slipped out sheepishly. It wasn’t the kind of detail he ever thought of—his life was luck, not planning. His mom and dad were the ones that usually does the planning, after all. Itrapped chuckled, low and smooth, like smoke curling from a match.

“Ah, no,” he said. “These are my gift for you. I bought them before the party started, because I was certain you’d win every round of Russian roulette.”

Chance froze for a beat, heat crawling to his ears. His heart stuttered. Itrapped thought about him. Bought something just for him. Anticipated his victory like it was never in doubt. The thought filled him with warmth so strong it almost hurt. He scratched the back of his head, trying to play it cool, though the nervous chuckle that slipped out betrayed him.

“Ha… you didn’t have to, y'know..”

His voice trailed off as he reached for the bag. The suitcase clunked softly against the bathroom floor as he set it down, replaced by the weight of Itrapped’s gift in his hands. The leather felt expensive. Not expensive enough to actually hurt his pocket money with how loaded he is, but still expensive for regular robloxians. Although it was a luxury, what made it so invaluable was simply because it was from Itrapped.

"Not at all."

One look at the gambler. The blonde rolled his eyes then continued.

"I insist."

Chance’s chest tightened. He wanted to say something—thank you, or maybe you’re too good to me, or maybe something far more dangerous. But the words tangled in his throat.Chance shoved the doubt away, forcing his usual smug smile back on as he looked back at his best friend—his anchor, his weakness, the man he’d already fallen for too deeply to climb back out.

"Yeah, yeah.."

—

Itrapped leaned lazily against the marble counter, the cool gold fixtures glinting under the bathroom lights. He watched as Chance fiddled with the bag, hesitant like a boy unwrapping a gift at his first birthday. The gambler’s sunglasses hung low on his nose, his movements clumsy in a way they never were at the table.

'Cute,'

Itrapped thought. Cocking his head to the side as he watched the man change— The bathroom door was locked, anyway.

Chance unbuttoned his blood-soaked red vest, peeling it off with slow, deliberate care. The crimson stains stood out like flowers on fabric—gaudy, ugly, and yet strangely fitting for him. He dropped it onto the counter with a wet slap, revealing the white shirt beneath, streaked through with crimson. Taking off his fedora and headphones temporarily to fix his hair next.

Clumsy always made them easier to hold. Easier to steer.

Itrapped tilted his head, his eyes narrowing with faint amusement.

Chance never looked more human than when he was vulnerable. Without cards in his hand or dice at his fingertips, he was just a man—nervous, sweating, still pink in the face from that half-joke about Lady Luck and friendship. And here he was now, tugging his shirt over his head, grey skin gleaming faintly under the harsh light. All for Itrapped to exploit. All for Itrapped to use.

Itrapped smirked, letting the silence stretch. Letting him squirm under the weight of blue eyes. The new suit was sleek, sharp, black with subtle stitching, tailored to flatter. Itrapped had picked it days ago, knowing full well Chance would wear it. It was his style, in celebration, because Chance always won. And yet Chance always let himself be blinded by their 'friendship'.

When the gambler finally slipped the jacket over his arms and smoothed it across his chest, he looked back, eyes behind sunglasses flicking up nervously to meet his.

Itrapped straightened, stepping closer, closing the distance until the faint scent of blood was drowned out by the cedar cologne he wore. Putting the bloodied tux in the black bag and trashing it. His hand rose unhurriedly, smoothing the lapel of the suit, brushing away invisible dust. Putting Chance's earphones and fedora on after he helped him fix his hair.

Perfect.

Like a doll dressed for display.

“You wear it well,” Itrapped whispered, voice low, velvet wrapped around steel. And he could feel the darkheart thrumming at its sheath, attached to his belt. His fingers lingered a moment longer than necessary before retreating, though his arm brushed deliberately against Chance’s.

The suitcase still sat at their feet, heavy with bills, heavy with meaning. And yet Chance would rather pay attention to the man in front of him instead.

“You’re the one that picked it out for me.”

Chance’s voice matched his, low, almost intimate, as he stooped to lift the suitcase from the bathroom floor. The heavy latch clicked faintly in his grip.

“‐Of course it’s gonna look great.”

Chance never realized it—never seemed to notice how every gift, every suit, every word of reassurance stitched him tighter into Itrapped’s hand. How every victory in those filthy rooms wasn’t just his, but a victory the hacker had already prepared for him.

Still, there was something charming in the way he said it. Like he actually believed his own words. Like he thought the suit was chosen out of care, not calculation.

Itrapped let his eyes linger, blue glimmering with that familiar fleck of gold as he stepped forward, his voice dropping further.

“Maybe,” he said smoothly, fingers brushing Chance’s sleeve as though adjusting it. “But it’s not the suit that makes the man. It’s the man that makes the suit.”

Itrapped’s lips curved into the faintest smile.

So easy.

A lie sugarcoated and dipped with enough cinnamon to hide poison. A thread tugged just enough to make Chance flush again, to keep him tethered. And it worked. The gambler’s blush deepened although his poker face remained almost-intact. His grip on the suitcase tightened as though it could steady him.

Itrapped leaned back, satisfied. The man in front of him would wager his life a hundred times over for approval. For closeness. For a touch mistaken as love.

And so, Itrapped let him keep believing.

Because belief was the most profitable bet of all.

“After you, Chance.”

Itrapped’s hand hovered just briefly at the small of his back before falling away, a courtly gesture cloaked in command. Chance nodded and let himself be steered out of the quiet, sterile bathroom and into the cacophony of the party beyond.

The air changed instantly—thicker, warmer, sticky with the scent of liquor, perfume, and sweat. Laughter pitched too high, coins clinked, glasses chimed. Filthy-rich Robloxians mingled with silk-draped mistresses, gold-diggers draped over diamond-laden wrists, and alcohol flowed like blood down the throat of the beast that was this underground empire.

Chance adjusted his sunglasses, his fedora not doing enough as though they might shield him from the sudden brightness of chandeliers and the stares that followed them in. He carried the suitcase at his side, his other hand still faintly brushing Itrapped’s until the blonde let the distance grow.

They didn’t get far before the sharks circled.

A ginger-haired woman in a scarlet dress slipped neatly into their path at the barista’s counter, her perfume sugary and cloying, her smile practiced to perfection. Her hands—too jeweled to belong to anything but desperation—rested lightly on Chance’s arm as though she’d known him forever.

“Well, hello there, handsome,” she purred, eyes darting over his new suit with a spark of recognition. “That’s quite the look you’re wearing. Care to buy a lady a drink?”

Chance stiffened, blinking down at her with that same somewhat awkward half-smile he always wore when he gets caught off guard that isn't while gambling. He wasn’t used to being the prize, not like this—not outside the game. His free hand twitched, hovering like he might rub at the back of his neck, but the lady anchored him in place.

Itrapped watched it all unfold from a step away, his blue eyes narrowing with the faintest glimmer of amusement only for it to transition into a frown just as quickly as it appeared. He saw a blush of embarrassment creeping back over Chance’s cheeks as even more women flock him, the hesitation in his body language, the way his voice caught in his throat before he could stammer out a polite response.

"Well, ladies–"

The woman leaned closer, brushing against Chance as though she already owned him. The other women following suit as if they're attacking as a pack. An intruding hand tracing the tips of Chance's fingers, obviously aiming to 'smoothly' hold hands.

And that was when Itrapped finally moved.

A single step forward, smooth and unhurried, until his shadow fell over them. His arm draped lazily across Chance’s shoulders, pulling him away from the prying, elegantly gloved hands of the women. The gesture casual but staking claim all the same. His smile was easy, practiced, but there was nothing soft about the way his blue gaze cut into the ginger-haired woman that was the closest to where his friend was.

“Careful,” he drawled, voice just enough that only she and Chance could hear, politeness threaded with warning, the smile on his lips not at all genuine. “This one’s spoken for.”

The woman faltered, lips parting as if to protest, but the sharp glimmer in Itrapped’s eyes cut her down before the words could form.

Her confidence wilted in an instant. With a tight smile and a muttered excuse about seeking out a “less preoccupied gentleman,” she slipped back into the sea of bodies.

And, just as Itrapped expected, the others followed. The whispers and fluttering lashes of would-be suitors scattered like smoke in the wake of his presence, leaving Chance untouched—his prize, his possession, his partner for the evening.

Chance blinked, still stiff beneath the weight of Itrapped’s arm until the silence settled in around them. Then, at last, his shoulders eased. A chuckle escaped him, high and awkward, cracking into a tiny squeak before he swallowed it down.

Itrapped’s lips curved faintly. He didn’t know if the sound was from nerves, fluster, or something else entirely. He only knew it was his—and that was enough.

"Thanks, man."

But there was more to the equation. Another thing for certain.

"Of course."

Chance would take this for affection.

And Itrapped would let him.

Just as he planned.

—

The barista slid two crystal glasses across the counter, the golden liquid inside catching the chandelier light like molten fire. Chance tried to distract himself with the drink, but his grip on the glass betrayed him—fingers tapping, restless. The faint blush along his cheekbones hadn’t faded since the ginger-haired woman and co. had walked off.

Chance fiddled with his sunglasses again, pushing them higher up the bridge of his nose as if the gesture could hide the warmth still clinging to his face. His voice dropped into a low mutter, words spilling out without much direction.

“Man, I just don’t get it, ’Trapped. I mean, sure, I’m pretty hot and all but—”

The rest trailed off into half-formed thoughts, excuses tangled with self-conscious laughter. He was blabbering, trying to mask the rush of nerves with humor, the way he always did when the silence pressed too heavily.

Itrapped didn’t hear it. Or rather—he didn’t let himself. He had no patience for Chance’s fumbling attempts at honesty. What mattered was control, not sentiment.

Still, his lips curved into that signature “soft” smile he’d perfected over the years, a mask that gave nothing away. Inside, there was nothing but quiet calculation. But outside—he looked every bit the friend Chance believed him to be.

He remembered the way that woman’s hand on Chance’s arm had been too bold. Her lips, too close. And the way Chance froze under her touch—it sparked something sharp in Itrapped’s chest, something that didn’t belong.

Jealousy.

No. He refused to call it that.

He told himself it wasn’t the woman herself that bothered him. It was the interruption. The intrusion. Chance was his piece on the board, his doll to dress, his gambler to parade. A living, breathing vault that always cracked open under the pressure of luck and chance.

And yet.

When that ginger-haired parasite leaned in close, when Chance’s nervous smile almost slipped into something else—it had burned. He had wanted to snatch Chance away, to remind the good for nothing— lesser gold diggers and whores that this man belonged to him.

All for him to exploit.

All his.

So, no. It wasn’t jealousy. What curled in his chest was something colder, sharper— It was the threat of Chance slipping through his carefully woven strings, a puppet daring to notice the pull of its own threads. He couldn’t afford that. Not now. Not ever.

Chance couldn’t catch on to the truth—that their friendship was nothing more than a mask, a ploy for money and, eventually, the location of the Banlands key. Chance couldn’t be allowed the space to entertain someone else, to replace him, to strip him of the role of “best buddy" and "only friend"

He needed Chance to depend on him. He needed Chance to need him.

Itrapped thought for a moment, eyes narrowing as laughter echoed around the bar as his mind keeps bringing up what happened a few moments prior. Chance was his—his to direct, his to ruin, his to puppet and drain money off of.

So he raised the glass to his lips, swallowing deep. The champagne fizzed, but the bubbles did nothing to soften the taste. The bitterness clung to his tongue, as heavy and sour as the lie he wore. Only to realize the silence wasn't working in his favor.

“You sell yourself short, my dear Chance,” Itrapped murmured at last, turning to Chance with a smile too polished to be entirely sincere. His hand lingered a second longer on Chance’s shoulder before retreating to his glass. “Women notice winners and rich men."

Chance gave a small, sheepish laugh, rubbing the back of his neck as though the gesture alone could wave away the heat rising in his face.

“Winners, huh? Dunno about that. Felt more like she was trying to… ehh, y’know.”

The words stumbled into the air and broke apart, unfinished, before he covered them with another laugh—louder this time, almost forced. Chance's eyes darted around, hiding behind dark lenses that didn’t quite mask the nervous glitter of what was underneath.

Itrapped’s smile faltered, a shadow cutting through its edges. The sound of Chance’s laugh didn’t soothe him; it grated. If anything, it only stoked the storm already twisting in his chest, every beat whispering that he could lose him, that his personal VIP free pass buy-everything card—Chance could drift beyond his reach with nothing more than a smile from someone else.

And that was unacceptable.

So he steadied his glass, took one slow breath, and resolved himself. He had to act. To anchor Chance, to tie him tighter to the strings he’d spent years threading.

Secure his place.

He rose from his seat with the kind of grace that turned heads without trying. Crystal glass set aside, he extended a hand, palm open, posture regal yet casual—practiced. Controlled. The move of a king claiming his pawn before anyone else dared touch it.

And the universe seemed to conspire in his favor.

The chandeliers dimmed, bathing the ballroom in a warm, honeyed glow that clung to every polished surface. The hum of chatter softened, replaced by the swelling notes of strings as the orchestra shifted seamlessly into a slower rhythm. Velvet skirts brushed against tailored suits, jewels sparkled under the golden light, and one by one the crowd gravitated toward the dance floor, drawn like moths to the rhythm.

Itrapped’s gaze cut through it all. His sharp, ocean-blue eyes found Chance across the table, lingering on the faint pink dusting the gambler’s cheeks. The red in his face glowed all the brighter in contrast to the glint of gold that always seemed to shimmer in his expression—a radiance Chance never seemed aware of. The kind of effect he had on the blonde— in which Itrapped desperately tried to kick and dismiss as a vile, tainting parasite.

A smile, smooth and practiced, graced beautifully onto Itrapped’s lips. The kind of smile that disarmed, persuaded, claimed. He tilted his head ever so slightly, voice low and coaxing, each syllable sinking into the lull between music and silence.

“May I have this dance?”

The words carried, soft but commanding, impossible to refuse. Chance froze, fingers tightening on the suitcase until his knuckles whitened. He blinked behind his sunglasses, heart tripping over itself. Dancing? Here? Now? His instinct screamed to laugh it off, to decline, but the weight of Itrapped’s eyes, the open hand waiting for his, made his pulse hammer like the trigger of a loaded revolver. And he would pull the trigger on himself anytime if given the chance.

Around them, whispers stirred. The gambler, the golden boy of luck himself, being led onto the dancefloor by the crowned prince of the underground. Some watched in envy. Others in curiosity. All of them in acknowledgment. Chance was a well known figure, afterall. And so was Itrapped.

Chance swallowed, nervous chuckle breaking the silence. “Alright then," He hesitated. Then, with a shy smile tugging at the corner of his lips, he slid the suitcase under the bar counter for safekeeping and placed his hand in Itrapped’s.

"Yes, you may."

Chance's hands were warm. And Itrapped’s was cold.

Itrapped pulled him closer with unshakable confidence, leading him through the crowd toward the center of the floor. And as the music swelled, his arm slid firmly around Chance’s waist, pressing them together.

The room blurred at the edges. For Chance, it felt like a dream—dangerous, dizzying. For Itrapped, it was strategy. A public claim, a visible tether, a message to every pair of wandering eyes: This man is mine.

And yet… beneath the calculation, beneath the smirk, something sharp still twisted in Itrapped’s chest as Chance blushed and dared to look at him like no one else did. His eyes didn’t leave Chance’s face, even when the rest of the room dissolved into smoke and chatter.

They danced.

As if the music bent to their will, the orchestra’s strings melted into something darker, more indulgent. A lullaby for liars. A waltz for wolves.

Itrapped’s left hand pressed firm against Chance’s waist, steering without effort, while his right settled on his shoulder with the kind of intimacy that didn’t need to be rushed. Chance’s palm rested awkwardly against his arm at first, stiff and uncertain, but soon he allowed himself to be guided—step after step, sway after sway. Around them, other dancers moved like glittering ghosts, but they blurred into nothing. The spotlight, imagined or real, seemed to fall only on the two of them.

Chance’s laughter—nervous, shaky at the edges—spilled out when Itrapped spun him in a sudden twirl. His suit flared with the motion, sharp lines briefly undone, and his fedora nearly toppled as his sunglasses slid precariously down his nose. Normally, he’d recover with ease, flash a grin, toss out some slick remark. But this time—he stumbled.

Then Itrapped’s hand caught his wrist, anchoring him, and reeled him back in. The motion was seamless, practiced—almost like Itrapped had choreographed it from the start. Their chests brushed as Chance steadied, and for a dizzy second, he swore he felt the thrum of a heartbeat that wasn’t his own.

“Woa—OH—!” Chance blurted, far too loud, far too uncollected. His cheeks flamed, betraying him.

“Careful,” Itrapped murmured, his voice low, lips hovering dangerously close to Chance’s ear. The air between them buzzed. “I’d hate for you to fall.”

Chance let out a chuckle—soft, breathless, not nearly as smooth as he wanted it to be. His mouth moved before his brain caught up, and the words tumbled out, crooked and awkward:

“Yeah. ’Cuz you’d be enthusiastic..”

It wasn’t suave. It wasn’t clever. Around anyone else, he’d have nailed it—turned it into a line, a flirt, something effortless. But with Itrapped, the polish slipped, leaving only the raw, unsteady honesty of someone who cared too much. And even as he laughed again, sheepish and flustered, Chance couldn’t help thinking that Itrapped must know it.

The words lodged somewhere deeper than they should have.

Itrapped’s smirk held, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of something else—something he refused to name. Those.. Feelings still gnawed quietly at him, the ghost of the ginger-haired woman’s touch flashing in his mind.

'Focus, Itrapped.'

And yet here he was, holding Chance tighter, moving him across the floor like they were the only two in existence, the music obeying their every step.

Each sway, each turn, each breath between them blurred the lines further.

It was just the two of them.

'He’s holding me.'

The thought kept pulsing through Chance’s mind, growing louder with each beat. His heart hammered. It wasn’t just the dance. It was the way Itrapped’s crimson eyes gleamed under the chandelier glow, the way his touch felt protective even when it was meant to control. Chance wanted to believe it was real. That the kiss on his cheek earlier hadn’t been just a move, that the suit wasn’t just a gift born of expectation, that this—this—meant something more.

'He’s my best friend,'

Chance thought, tightening his grip as Itrapped spun him again. Eyes watching the two— beautiful, handsome men dancing with eachother.

'And I.., I think I’m in love with him.'

The spin ended with Chance falling right back into Itrapped’s arms, their chests brushing, heat sparking at every point of contact.

And Itrapped smiled.

To anyone watching, it looked like something out of a fairytale or a romance novel. But inside, it was something Itrapped didn't want to talk- or even think about.

'Ridiculous.' His thoughts snapped sharp, almost bitter.

This isn’t romance.

He’s just a gambler who can’t stop winning.

A vessel to siphon wealth through.

Someone that knows about the banlands key.

Someone to be discarded after use.

That’s all he’s ever been, all he’ll ever be.

But his hand refused to let go of Chance’s waist. His arm held him a beat too long after the twirl, savoring the warmth. Pulling him close. Itrapped’s jaw tightened, though the smile never faltered, biting the inside of his cheeks. He finds himself unconsciously leaning in closer, voice sweet, words chosen not for truth but for control.

"You dance so beautifully on the palm of my hands."

Chance flushed, sunglasses barely concealing the raw hope in his eyes. His breath hitched. He wanted to answer, wanted to say everything sitting heavy on his chest—but fear kept him silent. And oh, by Telamon's name, the gambler was so gullible.

So they swayed. Step by step. Beat by beat.

The room moved around them, but for the two of them, there was nothing else. The orchestra’s melody stretched into something syrupy, almost drugged, and the chandeliers above cast halos of gold that flickered with each sway. Each step left an echo in their chests, rhythm bleeding into heartbeat.

Chance’s hand tightened just slightly in Itrapped’s. His palm was clammy, betraying nerves, but his movements had steadied—less clumsy, more certain the longer he let himself be guided. The warmth of Itrapped’s touch at his waist grounded him, or maybe unmoored him entirely.

One convincing himself this was love.

Multiple thoughts pulsed through Chance’s head like a prayer, like a gamble he couldn’t afford to lose. He stared up into blus eyes, searching for the gold fleck in their depths that he always loved as it reminded him of his own, the spark that made him believe this was more than performance. That they can be morr than just friends.

Chance told himself the closeness meant something. That the hand at his waist lingered not because of control, but because of affection. That the twirl and catch, the brush of their chests, the velvet of Itrapped’s voice—it was all proof. Proof that maybe, just maybe, his best friend was more than that.

The other convincing himself it wasn’t.

Itrapped’s smile stayed, sharp as ever, but beneath it a storm twisted. He knew this was performance. Knew the room was watching, knew the whispers circling like vultures: the golden gambler and the crowned king of vice. A perfect pair. A dangerous duo.

And yet—when Chance’s golden eyes met his with that raw, open vulnerability, his chest betrayed him. A hitch in his breath. A falter in the mask. 'This isn’t love,' he told himself. 'It’s strategy. It’s possession. It’s leverage.' But the lie rang hollow against the heat between them.

And as the song drew to its final notes, they found themselves at the center of it all. The other dancers fell back, the spotlight cutting down like a blade, isolating them in a circle of brilliance. The music swelled, then softened, the last notes stretching thin

Chance swallowed hard, throat dry, sunglasses sliding lower as though to expose the trembling, now-gleaming gold of his eyes.

His chest pounded—

Ba-dump.

“Itrapped…”

His voice cracked on the name, fragile but desperate.

Ba-dump.

“I—”

Itrapped froze. The storm in his chest roared louder than the music ever had. His breath hitched, his smirk faltered for half a heartbeat.

He felt the weight of the unfinished words before it even left Chance’s mouth.

Ba-dump.

The orchestra’s final note lingered like a held breath.

Then the world crashed back.

A blaring intercom crackled overhead, harsh and cheerful, slicing the moment clean in half:

“Dance over, fellas! Those moves were sooooo romantic! Now let’s move on to the best part of the party!"

The moment— oh so fragile, precious, and utterly dangerous—shattered under the weight of the intercom’s cheer. The spotlight snapped away, instead focusing on the waiters delivering even more food to the long table.

"—Feast!"

Applause and chatter returned in a roar. Laughter. Glasses clinking. The circle around them broke as dancers scattered toward the banquet tables, silk skirts and velvet jackets brushing past without a second thought.

Chance blinked, breath still caught in his throat, the word unsaid burning on his tongue. His chest rose and fell with the pounding of his heart, and for a second he thought he might still say it. That maybe if he looked Itrapped in the eye, the noise around them would fade again, and he could speak the truth.

But when he turned his head, he saw Itrapped already moving.

The blonde’s expression was unreadable, the practiced smile slipping back into place as easily as a mask. The hesitation from moments before, the almost imperceptible hitch in his breath—it was gone. Buried under years of control.

Inside, though, Itrapped's chest still tightened.

He was about to say it. He almost said it.

The thought lingered like a brand. Because the hacker didn’t want to hear it. Didn’t want to feel the tug it left in his stomach. What was wrong with him?

“Come,” Itrapped said smoothly, his arm falling away as though the dance had been nothing but performance. “They’ll expect us at the table. It's tallied."

Chance nodded, a smile tugging at his lips as he adjusted his fedora this time around, the hat a bit tilted due to the spins of their performance— still burning through him. “Yeahh,, right, of course,”

"I—"

Itrapped led the way through the sea of bodies, his crimson gaze fixed forward, his hand brushing Chance’s wrist just enough to guide him. Outwardly composed, inwardly restless.

"—love you."

Oh. What a Foolish man.

Ba-dump.

Foolish, foolish man.

Ba-dump.

Itrapped rather flatline than feel the way his heart was beating this fast.

Ba-dump.

'I love you'

Oh please. The words had no place in his mouth, no business in a mind like his. Love was for fools, and Itrapped was no fool.

And yet—when his gaze slid back, catching the faint flush still painted across Chance’s cheeks, he felt the foundation of his certainty quake. It wasn’t just the alcohol, nor just the afterglow of their dance. No, it was softer, more dangerous: the kind of smile Chance didn’t offer to anyone else.

Not the cocky gambler’s grin, not the mask of bravado, but something unguarded, something perilously close to genuine happiness.

Itrapped’s throat tightened. For the briefest, reckless heartbeat, he almost wished the intercom hadn’t shattered the moment. Almost wished he’d let the silence stretch long enough to hear what Chance had been about to say. Even when he knew what the man's next words was.

Almost.

—

The night blurred past in streaks of neon and city glow, muffled by the tinted glass of the casino owner’s luxury car. Plush leather seats separated them, yet the air felt unbearably close. Chance leaned back, sunglasses pushed up onto his head now, fingers drumming restlessly on his thigh.

Across from him, Itrapped sat with perfect composure, champagne calm still clinging to his every gesture. But his eyes—those sharp, calculating blues—never left Chance.

“...Care to continue what you said earlier?” he asked at last, voice smooth, unhurried, as if he were inquiring about the weather.

Chance stiffened, breath catching before he laughed too quickly, too loud. “..Hey, man, I say a lotta things, y’know? You’ll have to be specific.” His fingers kept drumming, faster now, betraying him.

Itrapped tilted his head, the practiced mask he wore beginning to crack. The smile faltered into something thinner, sharper, until the faintest frown carved its way across his face. Patience had limits—and Chance was pressing against them.

“I think you know.” His voice was soft, but there was an edge to it, a steel hidden beneath velvet.

The words hung in the air like smoke, curling into the silence that followed. Chance felt it press down on him, heavy and suffocating, until all he could hear was the thunder in his own chest. His heartbeat was frantic, rattling his ribs as though trying to claw its way out.

He wet his lips, sunglasses forgotten at his crown, every instinct screaming to laugh it off, to drown the moment in his usual charm. A gambler’s trick. A bluff. Because that’s what he was good at.

But this—this wasn’t a table with cards and chips. This was Itrapped. And the words he’d almost spoken on the dance floor still lingered, weighing down his tongue, threatening to break free.

I love you.

The fedora'd man swallowed hard, eyes darting anywhere but Itrapped’s piercing blue stare. The silence grew teeth, and he could no longer tell if he was more afraid of speaking the truth—or of what Itrapped might say if he did.

And before he knew it—before he could even draw breath to confess, to drag the words up from where they burned in his chest—the blonde moved. Smooth, decisive, as though he’d been waiting for this moment all along.

Itrapped leaned forward, closing the space in an instant. His hands slid up to loop around Chance’s neck, fingers firm yet deceptively gentle, guiding rather than forcing. Chance barely had time to gasp, to process, before his head was tilted down, the brim of his fedora brushing against the icy crown atop Itrapped’s hair.

Then their lips met.

It wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t questioning. It was a searing collision, heat striking against the cold perfection Itrapped wore like armor. Chance’s heart roared, his whole body jolting with the contact, every thought scattered like playing cards thrown to the wind.

The world outside—the hum of the car engine, the city lights bleeding past tinted glass—vanished. There was only this: the press of Itrapped’s mouth against his, the weight of his hands at his neck, and the dizzying rush of something Chance had long denied but could no longer contain.

At first, it was a move. A carefully chosen play, another thread to knot Chance tighter to him. Itrapped pressed even more forward with practiced ease, as though sealing a bargain with skin instead of words. The kiss burned, designed to overwhelm, to brand himself into Chance’s memory so nothing else could take root there.

But then—something slipped.

The moment stretched, heat sparking where it shouldn’t. Chance’s stunned stillness gave way to the faintest, nervous press back, and suddenly Itrapped was drowning in it—the warmth, the sincerity, the want. His chest tightened, pulse stumbling as he lost the steady rhythm of his own design. What began as a calculated move twisted, tangled, until it no longer felt like control at all.

Itrapped’s hands lingered at Chance’s neck, fingers tightening as if anchoring himself there, unwilling to loosen his grip. The kiss had gone deeper than he intended, stealing the air from them both, until Chance groaned low in his throat—a sound that seemed to vibrate straight through Itrapped’s chest.

He pulled back at last, lips parting, breath ragged. For a heartbeat they just stared at each other, the hush between them broken only by the harsh rise and fall of their chests.

But Itrapped didn’t give him a moment to catch it. Not a second to sort through the storm in his head. His mouth returned, though not to Chance’s lips this time. He lowered his head, pressing a line of searing kisses to the underside of the gambler’s jaw, grazing his slight stubble with every brush of his lips. Chance’s skin was warm, salt-tinged, alive beneath him.

Itrapped’s pace was steady, deliberate—measured, like every kiss was another claim laid. But the way his breath trembled, the way his lips lingered too long, betrayed him.

Itrapped lingered at the hollow of Chance’s throat, feeling the erratic drum of his pulse beneath thin skin. His lips brushed there once, testing, then pressed harder, heat searing against the frantic rhythm.

“F–fuck…” Chance’s voice spilled out, low and drawn, the word unraveling into a sharp breath. His head tipped back almost instinctively, baring more of his neck, surrendering without thought. Letting his sunglasses slide askew, only to be shoved away to the floor of the car by both of them to be forgotten, while his chest rose and fell in uneven bursts.

Itrapped waited, hovering like a predator ready to strike. And then he heard it.

“Go on.”

The words came shaky, fractured at the edges, but it was all the permission he needed.

He sank in. Teeth catching skin, lips pressing hard, leaving trails of bruised heat down the column of Chance’s throat. Each bite was precise, placed with the same intention he brought to every move in their dangerous game—only this time, the mask cracked. The sound of Chance’s ragged breathing filled the space between them, the faint groan curling out of him with every suck and press of Itrapped’s mouth.

"So beautiful,"

Purple marks bloomed where his lips lingered, a constellation of hickies etched into skin too pale to hide them. With each one, Itrapped’s control slipped further, until it was no longer about calculation or ownership but about the sheer, consuming need that clawed at him the longer Chance leaned into his touch.

Chance’s fingers twitched at his side, gripping the edge of the leather seat like it was the only anchor he had left. His breath stuttered out in half-laughs, half-curses, breaking in the back of his throat as Itrapped’s mouth dragged along his skin.

A shaky chuckle slipped between groans, heavy with heat and disbelief. Everything forgotten in the haze and yet—

“Jackpot.”

The word left the gambler's lips unguarded, breathless, almost slurred with the mix of adrenaline and want. His head tipped further against the seat, eyes gleaming an even brighter gold as it was now his turn to move.

For a moment, Itrapped expected him to stay pliant, to let himself be consumed. But instead, Chance’s hand shot up, catching the blonde’s jaw with a rough, almost desperate grip. Fedora slipping lower, he leaned forward, closing the space in one reckless surge.

Their mouths crashed again, this time on his terms—messy, heated, unpolished. Chance kissed like he gambled: all in, no hesitation, no second thought. His other hand finally found Itrapped’s shoulder, clutching at the velvet of his coat like he’d fall straight through the world without it.

Itrapped’s pulse spiked, a mix of triumph and something dangerously close to panic. He wanted this control, had planned for it—but the moment Chance kissed him back like that, like he meant it, without knowing the full truth of Itrapped's actual intentions, the strings he thought he held so tightly tangled around his own throat instead.

He was a goner.

The second their mouths clashed again, Chance knew it—knew there was no coming back from this. His heart wasn’t just pounding anymore; it was rioting in his chest, wild and reckless, louder than the hum of the engine, louder than the world itself.

Every brush of Itrapped’s lips felt like a gamble he couldn’t win, and yet he kept betting, kept leaning in deeper, kept clutching at the blonde like letting go would mean folding his entire life. His fedora joining his sunglasses to also be long forgotten, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t care.

“Trap…” he whispered against the other’s mouth, breathless, ragged. It wasn’t just want bleeding through anymore—it was devotion, confession, every unspoken word he had buried beneath his jokes and bravado spilling out between gasps.

Because he was already ruined. Already claimed. Already lost.

And for the first time, Chance didn’t care about the odds.

Before he could say what hes about to say, he gets interrupted again.

By Itrapped this time.

"I love you."

—

“I love you too.”

The words slipped out, fragile and raw, carried by steam from his lips as it mingled with the cold air.

But no one answered back.

Not really.

The warmth, the kisses, the champagne glow of chandeliers, the dizzying swirl of slow dances—all of it fractured like glass the longer he stared up at the sky. There was no ballroom, no luxury car, no steady hands holding him like he was something worth cherishing. Only the white of snow, endless and pitiless, blooming red where it swallowed him whole.

The only real thing that had happened was the russian roulette. 

Chance blinked, and suddenly the weight on his chest wasn’t desire, but blood. Thick. Hot at first, already cooling as the wind stole it from him. His sunglasses sat cracked in the frost, fedora lost to the storm. The last thing he remembered—the only thing that was real—was Itrapped’s smile, sharp and cold, the muzzle of the gun flashing in the dark. How the blonde desperately tried to make him lose. The plunge of the Darkheart in his chest right after they exited the casino.

Everything else? Just a trick his mind had played to keep him from facing it. A last-ditch gamble against despair.

His fantasy of love.

His coping mechanism as he lay discarded, betrayed, and forgotten.

Snowflakes clung to his lashes, heavy, dragging him down into sleep he wouldn’t wake from. Still, with his final breath, Chance whispered the words again, as if saying them could make them true:

“...I love you too, Itrapped.”

And the snow swallowed the sound whole.

—

—

Player felt… neutral about the color green.

Everywhere he went, it was there. The bright green of the zombie costume guy who always seemed to hang around outside his apartment supposedly also going to the VIP convention.

The soft, fresh green of grass in meadows, swaying lazily in the breeze. The leafy, almost overwhelming dark green of Turitopulis, where the rainforest seemed determined to remind everyone that plants and insects ruled the place.

Of course, not all shades were pleasant. There was the sour, rotting green of zombies in Telamon’s manor, the kind that made you wrinkle your nose, and the dull, drooping green of plants at the dunes that had clearly given up on life.

After his so-called “rest day”—which had ended in the chaos of accidentally summoning Griefer—Player gave up on the idea of shaking him off as both of them have no idea on how to get the man back.

Instead, he let the him tag along and crash at his apartment for the night.

It wasn’t like Player didn’t have options.

Sure, he could’ve fast traveled at his apartment home in a blink, skipped the whole walk back, avoided the sidelong glances, the running commentary, the way Griefer’s footsteps always seemed to match his no matter how many times he sped up.

Or fast travel to Griefer's crib and dump him back there.

(Throwback when Player had recently just found out he's able to fast travel with other people if he has their callcard.)

But for some reason, the thought of mentioning the fact made something in him.. Sadden(?) ever so slightly.

He can feel the way the words hovered at the back of his throat uncomfortably for the entire trip, the offer to fast travel to Griefer's crib, or either the fast travel to his apartment. An easy escape ready to go.

Yet when he opened his mouth, he wasn’t able to say what he wanted to say.

The words he meant to let out — something casual, something safe — got caught in his throat, tangled up with the weight of his thoughts. And instead, what slipped free was something else entirely.

Something… softer.

“You know,” he muttered, eyes flicking toward the vines curling lazily up Griefer’s arm, the blossoms glowing faintly in the dim light of the streetlamp, “your flowers are really pretty.”

'It’s okay, Player,' his brain rushed to justify, tripping over itself.

(Griefer tried his damned hardest to stop Player from seeing the way a few bud or two bloomed after those words left his mouth)

'You can play it off as teasing. Or mocking. Whatever Griefer buys, just roll with it.'

Except.

When his mind replayed the words again — the tone, the weight, the way it had tumbled out before he could catch it — even he couldn’t defend how it sounded.

It wasn’t sharp like his usual banter.

It wasn’t mocking.

It wasn’t even remotely playful.

It was… out of the blue. Unsteady. Almost reverent.

And that softness, that undercurrent of something he’d rather not name, clung to the syllables like dew to petals.

Griefer blinked.

Then again.

His head tilted, a vine shifting with the motion, petals brushing faintly against his cheek as though the flowers themselves were reacting. His mouth opened, closed, then finally —

“WH4T?”

It came out more startled than angry. More disbelieving than smug.

Player’s heart skipped. His ears burned. Panic clawed up his chest.

“…Nothing, dude,” he forced out, scrambling for cover. “The voices are getting to you again or something."

But his attempt of a banter/excuse landed weak, flimsy, like paper trying to pass for steel. And judging by the way Griefer’s eyes narrowed — bright, sharp, almost suspiciously amused — the other man could too.

Griefer didn’t buy it.

He never bought excuses that thin.

The silence stretched, and when it finally broke, it wasn’t with laughter or a jab. It was with a low hum, a thoughtful noise that sent a shiver down Player’s spine.

“…HUH,” Griefer muttered, red eyes glinting as they studied him — not with mischief this time, but with a weight Player wasn’t used to being on the receiving end of, followed by a statement. Not a question, but a statement.

“Y0U’R3 N0T J0K1NG."

Player stiffened, and then scoffed, still trying to play it off. Praying to whatever being from up above or down below could hear him would be merciful enough to grant him this one slide from his slip up.

"The hell makes you say that?”

But the rest caught in his throat the same way he'd tried suppressing whatever he was feeling for so long.

Because Griefer was still looking at him. Not smirking. Not laughing. Just looking— like the words had sunk deeper than Player had intended. Like he wasn’t planning to let him wriggle out of it.

Griefer leaned in, just slightly, enough for the faint glow of his flowers to brush against Player’s shoulder. His voice dropped somehow even softer, though the grin never fully left.

“Y0U D0N’T H4V3 T0 PR3T3ND, Y0U KN0W.”

Player’s breath caught. His mouth opened, closed, but nothing came out.

And Griefer, of course, noticed.

The grin returned, sharp as ever — but this time, it carried something else beneath it. Something almost… careful.

And Player knew he was doomed. By fate. By spawn. By Telamon. By the fucking narrative itself.

How was he supposed to move on from this?

—

So then, by the time they reached his place, Player—determined to salvage at least a shred of dignity—decided he’d cook dinner. Anything to get his mind off of whatever that was that happened earlier. Maybe even a snack, too, since he actually had groceries now.

It couldn’t be that hard,

right?

Wrong. Predictably, disastrously wrong.

He grabbed the brand-new salt and sugar shakers he’d bought earlier, both sleek, unlabeled twins sitting innocently on the counter. In his defense, they looked identical—perfectly polished little traps waiting to ruin his evening. Without thinking twice, he tossed a generous sprinkle into the pan, feeling oddly proud of himself. Competent, even.

That illusion lasted all of three seconds.

One taste test later, and his face twisted up like he’d just bitten into pure betrayal. Sweet. Sickly, cloyingly sweet.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Player muttered, glaring at the supposed snack as if it had personally chosen violence against him. His stomach sank. Of course he’d mix them up. He didn’t cook—everybody knew that. So why was he surprised?

From behind him came the unmistakable sound of choking—no, laughing. Loud, wheezing laughter that echoed off his apartment walls like it owned the place.

“H4H4H4! Y0U C4N’T B3 S3R10US, PUNK!”

Griefer practically doubled over, pointing at the doomed fries like it was the greatest comedy routine he’d ever witnessed. His shoulders shook, vines curling like they were laughing too.

“SUG4R?! 1NSTE4D 0F S4LT?! H0W D0 Y0U 3V3N—” He cut himself off mid-sentence, wheezing, before collapsing into another round of uncontrollable laughter, nearly sliding off the counter.

Player groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Glad to know my humiliation’s your new favorite show.”

“1T’S 4 M4ST3RPI3C3,” Griefer gasped out between snickers, grabbing one of the sugar-crusted fries and holding it up like fine art. “TRULY. Y0U’V3 R31NV3NT3D D1NN3R. P4STRY FR13S!”

Once the fit of laughter died down, the infuriatingly beautiful half-plant man just scooted over to where the fries sat, plucking one up with long fingers and popping it into his mouth. He chewed once—then promptly burst into laughter all over again, nearly choking as he bent double against the counter.

Player pinched the bridge of his nose, already regretting every decision that had led to this moment. “Don’t. Say. Anything.”

“TH1S T4ST3S L1K3 CR1SPY SW33T P0T4T03S.” Griefer leaned against the counter dramatically, hand pressed to his chest as if the fry had personally betrayed him. “H0W B4D 4R3 Y0U 4T C00K1NG T0 M3SS UP M4K1NG FR13S??”

Player groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “They’re fries, Griefer. Just fries. Normal, perfectly fine—”

“—SW33T, CRUNCH1NG, SUG4R DR0WN3D FR13S, SUR3.” Griefer cut in before he could finish, pointing the half-eaten fry at him like it was Exhibit A. His tone was equal parts scandalized and smug, as though this culinary crime deserved its own trial.

“They’re edible!” Player snapped back, though the way his ears were burning under Griefer’s grin didn’t exactly help his defense. “People eat sweet potatoes all the time—”

“Oh, SW33T P0T4T03S? SUR3.” Griefer nodded with exaggerated seriousness, crunching another fry obnoxiously loud, clearly savoring the way Player twitched with each bite. “BUT W3 W3R3 SUPP0S3D T0 B3 M4K1NG FR13S. R34L ON3S. N0T WH4T3V3R TH1S… EXP3R1M3NT 1S.”

His eyes narrowed, mischief flickering in them like sparks. “S0, PUNK— 1S TH1S Y0UR S3CR3T W34P0N? Y0U K33P TH3S3 AB0M1N4T10NS 1N Y0UR B4CKP4CK T0 F0RC3 F33D Y0UR 3N3M13S 1N B4TTL3? TH3Y’D SUR3LY SURREND3R.”

Player’s jaw dropped. “They’re not that bad! You're just my number 1 hater!"

“Y0U’R3 R1GHT, 1 4M," Griefer said 'solemnly', holding another fry up to the light like some rare specimen. Then, grinning ear to ear, he popped it into his mouth. “ 4ND TH3S3? TH3S3 4R3 W0RS3.”

Player snatched the plate away before Griefer could grab another, glaring daggers. But Griefer only laughed harder, doubling over and clutching his stomach like this was the best entertainment he’d had in weeks.

Player wanted to argue. He really did. But the more Griefer grinned, the more words refused to form, and all he could manage was an incoherent grumble as he stabbed at the air with a fork.

“Okay, you know what? Next time, you’re cooking.”

Griefer’s grin widened, sharp and shameless. “0H, N0W Y0U'R3 B31NG 4 B4D H0ST. SUMM0N M3 1N 4 GR0C3RY ST0R3, DR4G M3 1NT0 Y0UR 4P4RTM3NT, 4ND N0W—” he paused, gesturing grandly with the mangled fry still in his hand, “—N0W Y0U'R3 F0RC1NG M3 T0 C00K F0R Y0U?”

Player crossed his arms, scowl only half-convincing. Trying to keep up with their usual banter. “Sure am. Go on, cook for me. And don’t half-ass it either—make it five-star Michelin worthy or you're fired."

Griefer barked out a laugh that carried just enough mockery to sting. “WH4T3V3R. Y0U JUST G0TT4 S1T ST1LL 4ND L00K PR3TTY, PR1NC3SS.”

Player nearly choked on his own spit.

But his protests were drowned out by the sound of drawers sliding open and the clatter of utensils as Griefer made himself far too comfortable in the kitchen. With casual, practiced movements, he rooted through the cabinets like he owned the place, every action dripping with infuriating confidence.

And then, as if fate was personally conspiring to bury Player six feet under in humiliation, Griefer pulled out a pink apron. Not just any apron—bright bubblegum pink, with the bold text Kiss the Cook stitched across the front in loopy cursive complete with hearts and glitters.

Player’s jaw dropped. “I— what— how the hell is that in my apartment?!”

Griefer slipped it on with no hesitation, tying it around his waist with a flourish. The contrast between his current 'cool' and badass attire and the ridiculous apron should’ve been comical, but somehow, impossibly, he managed to wear it like it belonged on him.

He shot Player a look over his shoulder, eyes glinting with mischief. “D0N’T W0RRY, PUNK,” he drawled, lips curling into a grin sharp enough to cut. “CH3F GR13F3R’S 0N TH3 H0US3.”

And as he adjusted the apron strings with one hand and gave Player a wink.

Oh, lord.

Player groaned, throwing a dish towel in his direction. “You’re going to burn my kitchen down.”

“B3TT3R TH4N Y0U P0ISON1NG 1T W1TH SUG4R,” Griefer shot back without missing a beat, catching the towel in one hand like it was all part of the act.

The kitchen filled with their usual rhythm: Player’s exasperated mutters, Griefer’s relentless teasing, the sizzling from the pan competing with laughter that lingered far longer than either would admit. It was loud, ridiculous, comfortable—so familiar it almost felt like ritual.

But rituals don’t last forever. And he meant that in the best way possible. Because by the time the night slowed, the kitchen chaos had dulled into quiet clinks of plates being put away, into lazy yawns Player swore he could fight off, into the faint hum of the city bleeding through thin apartment walls.

And somewhere between sitting down on the couch “just for a second” and half-heartedly arguing about whose cooking had actually been worse, Player’s eyes had fluttered shut.

When he stirred again, it wasn’t to the kitchen, but to warmth.

The neon green of Griefer’s jacket, sharp even under the dim apartment light. On his bed— presumably where Griefer had carried him safely to.

His arms, steady, wrapped around Player.

The green of sprouting vines curling and winding, tangled with the hero's limbs as though the plant itself refused to let go. Leaves scattered in lazy arcs around them, brushing against the floor.

And somewhere in the mess of it all, Player realized—

He’d changed his mind about the color green.

“Y0U’R3 ST4R1NG, PUNK."

Griefer’s voice cut through the quiet, smug and lilting, like he’d been waiting for the perfect moment to strike. His grin was all teeth and mischief, his tone dancing on that razor-thin edge between taunt and invitation.

The vines coiled lazily around Player’s wrists and waist tightened just enough, not in threat, but in reminder—gentle pressure that said, you’re caught, and I know it.

Player didn’t flinch. Didn’t even look away. Instead, he let a smirk tug at the corner of his mouth, smooth as he shot back, “Sure am.”

His tone was casual, but his eyes gleamed with challenge. Voice a bit groggy from his nap. “I love staring at my talking, walking plant buddy. It’s like free entertainment, right in my apartment because someone didn't know how to go back to his own crib.”

“0H PL34S3,” Griefer drawled, his grin wide and infuriating, “1T W4SNT MY F4ULT Y0U US3D MY C4LLC4RD B3C4US3 Y0U M1SS3D M3. TH3N W3 W3NT 0N TH3 M0ST R0M4NT1C GR0C3RY D4T3 3V3R."

Player groaned, dragging a hand down his face, looking back at him afterwards.

“That is not what happened.”

But Griefer only tilted his head in mock thought, neon green jacket catching the light in a way that made his smirk even more obnoxious. His eyes narrowed, like a predator locking onto prey, like he’d just struck gold.

“Oh, SUR3,” he crooned, leaning in just enough for the vines around Player’s arm to tighten playfully. “K33P L00K1N' 4T M3 L1K3 TH4T, PUNK. R34LLY M4K3S M3 W0ND3R—” his voice dipped lower, teasing, deliberate, each syllable drawn out, “—1F Y0U W4NN4 K33P M3 4S 4 P3RM4N3NT H0US3PL4NT 0R S0M3TH1NG.”

The hero huffed a laugh, rolling his eyes, but his smirk didn’t falter. “You’d die in a week. I can barely keep a basil alive. And besides—”

His gaze flicked over Griefer. The hero smirks.

“You take up way too much space to be a houseplant.”

For a moment, silence. And then—

Griefer let out a loud 'HUH?!', and Player half-expected him to sprout a fainting couch alongside his vines. His hand flew to jab at the hero's chest, as though accusing a random woman in a witch trial. “4RE Y0U C4LL1NG M3 F4T?!”

Player shrugged nonchalantly. Not at all denying his accusation, humming 'innocently', looking at his nails like it was the most interesting thing ever. “Hmmm I dunno…You literally sprawl across my entire couch every time you come over.”

“TH4T’S C4LL3D C0MF0RT, PUNK!” Griefer barked back, but the smirk tugging at his lips betrayed him. His vines flexed around Player’s waist again, tugging him just slightly closer, as if to punctuate his words. “Y0U’D M1SS 1T 1F 1 STOPP3D.”

"I'd rather for you to stop so I can actually sit down in my own couch." He pointed out, going on with their banter, then giving Griefer a smack to the face due to being too close.

"You know, sitting like a normal robloxian doesn't hurt anyone, stop manspreading your legs everywhere."

“1M 4 SP3C14L K1ND 0F R0BL0X14N,” Griefer shot back instantly, grinning wide enough to show teeth. “Y0U’D S1T R1GHT B3S1D3 M3 ANYW4Y.”

Before Player could retort, the vines gave another playful squeeze, sudden enough to throw off the hero's composure, letting out a small yelp, and the smug bastard didn’t waste a second seeing that it was now his chance to turn their banter to his control.

“4ND N0W Y0U'R3 BLUSH1NG 4G41N,” Griefer purred, the words sharp but smooth, each syllable dripping with mockery. He tilted his head just slightly, as though to savor the sight, his grin curling wider.

Player’s throat worked, willing his smirk to stay, though his ears betrayed him by burning red— alongside his face heating up, forcing a scoff out. “Blushing? Dude. All your stupid vines are blocking the airflow.”

Griefer barked a laugh, leaning closer, the neon edge of his jacket brushing against Player’s arm before the vines also curled around him. “1TS A S1GN TH4T Y0U SH0ULD 1NV3ST 1N 4N 41R C0ND1T10N3R... BUT H3Y, M4YB3 Y0U JUST C4N’T H4NDL3 M3.”

“Oh, I can handle you just fine,” Player shot back before he could stop himself. The words slipped out too easily, too sharp, and his smirk faltered the second Griefer’s grin widened like he’d just been handed the best gift in the world.

“0H? D1D Y0U H34R TH4T, V1N3S?” Griefer said, gesturing at the greenery sprouted from himself, coiled around them, his tone dripping with mockery. “L0C4L PUNK S4YS H3 C4N H4NDL3 M3.”

The vines shifted again, brushing against Player’s wrists until his own hands entangled with his own. at the same time, the vines snaked to Player's waist, curling tighter like a mischievous cat refusing to be ignored.

“Obviously," Player muttered, rolling his eyes slightly, though his voice betrayed him by catching on the edges. His vheeks dusted with pink now that he's practically cuddling with Griefer alongside his vines binding him down.

"You’re just being annoying, that's for sure.”

“4NN0Y1NG, HUH?” Griefer leaned in closer, his jacket brushing against Player’s arm. The neon green seemed almost to glow now, like it was laughing at him too. “FUNNY CUZ Y0U’R3 N0T PULL1NG 4W4Y.”

Player’s lips parted, but nothing came out. Because Griefer was right. He wasn’t. And he didn’t think he ever would.

“Not like I can pull away, genius!” he shot back, though his voice lacked the usual bite, the words landing softer than intended.

Griefer’s smirk deepened at the edges, but he didn’t push further this time. Instead, the vines slackened slightly, curling more lazily around Player’s arms, not binding so much as resting.

Comfortable. Familiar.

And for the first time, maybe ever, the color green didn’t just remind him of the world he had to fight through. It wasn’t just a color anymore. Not just grass on a meadow or moss on forgotten stones.

Not the sickly hue of some monster he had to fight or the dull shade of dying weeds. No—this green was alive. Warm. A shade that pressed against his skin, steady and grounding, like it belonged there.

It reminded him of this—this ridiculous, smug, impossible man who made his chest feel like it was about to burst and his thoughts tie themselves into knots.

“H3Y.” Griefer called out after a while.

Silence.

He waited, but nothing came back. No sharp retort, no muttered complaint, not even a lazy shove of protest.

Of course. The hero was already asleep right after taking a damn nap. Every time they hung out, Player would always end up like this—burnt out, stubborn enough to deny it until his body decided otherwise.

Griefer let out a low breath through his nose, half amusement, half something gentler. His vines shifted on instinct, adjusting to cradle the other man closer. And though he’d never admit it out loud, not even under threat—he didn’t mind at all.

Griefer leaned back against the couch, his grin softening into something less teasing to something more soft. He didn’t mind. Not one bit. Because when the hero fell asleep like this, tucked into his vines like they belonged there, Griefer could finally watch.

He noticed everything. The way Player’s shoulders eased, no longer weighed down by whatever battles he’d been fighting in silence.

The faint crease in his brow that only smoothed when sleep claimed him. Even the steady rise and fall of his chest—it was the only proof Griefer needed that Player trusted him. Trusted him enough to let go.

Hell, Griefer knew the guy barely got enough rest as it was. He pushed himself too hard, carried too much, kept moving like if he stopped, the whole world would collapse. So seeing him sleep so soundly here, of all places—in his hold, surrounded by his vines—felt like a victory Griefer would never admit out loud.

His vines shifted unconsciously, curling closer, adjusting their grip with a tenderness that betrayed every mocking word he usually threw. He needed to prune soon; all the buds had bloomed, petal after petal unfurling without restraint, bright against the hero’s dark clothes.

It figured, didn’t it? That his body would betray him like this. Blooming whenever Player complimented him. Blooming whenever Player's near. Blooming whenever he simply thinks about the hero.

And damn it, he was happy.

The white-haired menace tilted his head, watching the way a leaf brushed against Player’s cheek like it couldn’t help itself. His own smirk softened further, almost wistful.

“L00K WH4T Y0U D0 T0 M3, PUNK,” he whispered, voice barely more than a vibration in the quiet.

He knew Player couldn’t hear him. That was the point.

Because if he were awake, Griefer would never say it. Never admit that every time the hero dozed off on him, he felt like the most trusted bastard alive. That he liked the warmth pressed against him, the smell of cheap detergent clinging to Player’s hoodie, the way his vines bloomed like they knew something he refused to put into words.

So instead, he let the silence hold them. Let the flowers bloom unchecked, wild and vibrant, all because the one person who made him laugh, fight, and curse in equal measure had also made him feel… safe.

“Y0U R34LLY 4R3 4 P41N,” Griefer murmured, more fond than annoyed. His voice, usually sharp with mockery, was low now—almost tender.

The vines shifted again, curling with the slow deliberation of something alive and protective, cradling the sleeping hero like he was something worth guarding. A secret.

So he leaned down, his wild grin softened to nothing more than the barest curve of his lips. Almost routine by now, almost instinct, he pressed a kiss against Player’s forehead. Light. Careful. The kind of gesture he’d never, ever let the punk catch him doing if he could help it.

Everytime Player falls asleep and he doesn't properly gives him a goodnight, he makes sure to press a kiss to the hero's forehead as a compensation.

Except Player had stirred awake just moments before, heart stumbling against his ribs just like every other time Griefer gave him 'secret' forehead kisses.

He didn’t move though. Didn’t flinch or open his eyes. No—he stayed perfectly still, kept his breathing even, playing the role of “fast asleep” with the kind of stubborn determination only he could manage. Because if there was one thing he’d never admit, it was how much he loved this part.

Every damn time.

That goodnight peck. That fleeting press of warmth on his forehead that burned hotter than any of Griefer’s snide remarks. It wasn’t about being caught—it was about savoring it, holding onto the one piece of proof that beneath all the banter and sharp edges, Griefer cared.

And so he let it happen. Let the villain’s vines hold him steady, let the soft brush of petals bloom around him, let Griefer believe he was still asleep. His smile was hidden, buried against his own arm, but it was there. Small. Secret.

Because the truth was? He wouldn’t trade those stolen goodnights for anything.

Not that he’d ever tell him.

—

"Goodmornin' handsome."

"....WH4T"

"I was talking to myself, you idiot." Player says as he brushes his hair in front of his mirror.

Cultists bowed low before him, their foreheads pressed against the fractured ground leaking the essence of the void, whispering prayers that dissolved into static as they left their lips— The same static that the now-deity emits in all the presence of his glorious power.

His followers' trembling adoration echoed through the hollow expanse of the void temple, yet Noli did not so much as turn his gaze. To him, their reverence was nothing more than background noise—fleeting sparks against the infinite dark. Not even worthy enough to be considered worthwhile, not worthy enough to consider one of his stars.

He drifted above them, weightless and untouchable, as the void itself had chosen him as its center. His form had become more than human, more than flesh; he had ascended, shaped and crowned by the abyss.

The cloak upon his back that wrapped around his form rippled like a living tide, its folds spilling and shifting as if woven from liquid shadow, and with each idle step, the void glittered of stars and purple hues blending as though bowing to his presence.

The Void Crown, wrested and taken under 007n7’s constant nagging, had completed its work: the coronation of a god. The coronation of Noli.

Yet divinity carried its price.

The moment he placed the crown atop of his head, half of Noli’s body had begun to wither, eaten away by the very power he now commanded. His once-pristine black mask cracked and then sundered in two, the broken side exposing purple flesh warped and rotting, veined with lightless cracks, warping alongside every shift of his code.

Noli's frame had stretched taller, still lanky, but it was now almost statuesque, his figure inscribed with shifting binary that coiled together with the jagged symbols of the cult he now owns, scriptures of the void splayed across his decaying half in a language he'd never seen before and yet understands, his own emblem burned within him—etched deep as if branded by eternity itself. The void staking its claim.

Recalling the events, he should have been angry.

After all, 007n7 had vanished the moment he took the Void Crown, only leaving the sound of his c00lgui executing a hacking commaand and Noli himself alone to ascend into something neither man nor mortal— Leaving him to rot. Yet anger never came. How could it? He had become both creation and ruin, a deity veiled in contradiction, a living paradox of the void itself—endless, all-consuming, divine.

All because of 007n7.

He can hear all the prayers from the cultist that was meant only for him, whispers running through his ears like black water, his beautifully corrupted flesh burned with silent authority, and in that stillness Noli understood:

This path was never an accident.

He was sculpted for it, shaped by every fracture and loss, pulled toward this destiny as surely as a star is pulled into collapse. He was born to inherit the stars. And if he knew it now, then 007n7 must have known it long before, pushing him onward with relentless teasing. His silence, his absence—it was not betrayal, but confirmation. The very reason why he tracked down the crown and make him be the one to grab it was to make Noli who he is now.

A God,

Complete with prowess.

Sure, he had a good amount of power thanks to his own hacking panel that matched 7n7’s, being a duo that caused terror throughout Robloxia, but 007n7 must have seen the dormant potential, the fault line inside Noli that could split open into something greater than the confines of code.

Perhaps every nudge, every taunt, every carefully chosen word had been less about just being partners in crime and more about setting him on a path that neither of them could return from.

What once began as lines of code flickering against a holographic screen that executed feeble commands to troll the average robloxian had expanded into something vast, immeasurable, and terrifyingly beautiful.

Where his GUI once mirrored 7n7’s ingenuity, a battlefield of codes and commands—After getting the void crown, whole constellations now bent like easy-soft circuits, galaxies shuddered as if waiting for his input, and reality rippled beneath his fingertips like a system begging to be rewritten. The same familiar rhythm from his hacking skills that was now also so powerful.

Noli realized the truth late.

7n7 hadn’t simply wanted him to win. He had wanted him to ascend. To become something beyond victory or defeat, beyond hacker and a college roommate. 007n7 wanted him to be something eternal.

Something divine.

A God.

Complete with worshippers.

He felt the truth of it in every protocol he could summon—the way his commands bent probability, how a single line of rewritten code could silence the whole experience or make the stars themselves hesitate. Power pooled at the edge of his consciousness like mercury: beautiful, cold, and impossible to hold without cutting yourself. Each ritual the cult enacted only amplified that force, their pledges spoken to his will, their fear refining the sharpness of his authority.

And yet, even as he learned to script storms and bend faith into protocol, a quieter code pulsed beneath everything: the private syntax of two friends who spent cold nights lounging across eachother in a dimly lit college dorm. His best friend's words barbed encouragement —“Don't you want to become God?” —had been both prophecy and provocation. Stealing a kiss right after he'd answered yes.

The brunette had never forced him. 007n7 had never shoved the Void Crown into his hands, nor demanded his submission to it. Only now, wreathed in the majesty of godhood, did the veil fall from his eyes. Every word, every jab and tease, every so-called nagging command had been an arrow pointing toward this throne in the void. 007n7 had not been pressuring him—he had been shaping him, sculpting him, setting him up for a greatness Noli himself had been too small, too bland,

And far, far too human, to ever imagine.

That realization was not what unsteadied him. It was not the weight of the Crown on his head, nor the paradox of creation and ruin etched into his flesh, that made his rotting heart falter. It was something far simpler.

He can only imagine what 007n7's face would look like once the sees him now.

After years—years of quiet longing hidden beneath sharp banter, mouth-to-mouth kisses that both swore were platonical, and the chaos of their shared world—Noli finally admitted to himself what his soul and code had always known. The fact that he loved his best friend.

007n7

His roommate.

His partner in crime.

Shit.

The Void Cult leader’s chest ached with a rhythm both broken and eternal, his half-decayed form trembling under the truth he could no longer deny. He remembered the laughter between codes, the sharp edge of competition that always concealed an unspoken care, the way 007n7’s voice had haunted his decisions long after days of no-contact because of some stupid argument. It was maddening.

His hands were easily cold, Noli wished 007n7 was here to hold them, to keep them warm.

Divine power surged through his veins, yet what shook him was not the infinity of the void, but the memory of a mist, a glance, a presence now absent.

Noli had ascended. But divinity had not purged his humanity. It had amplified it. It had burned away every excuse, every barrier, until only truth remained: his heart, rotting yet relentless, beat for the one who had led him here. Noli had ascended as the god of the void. And yet at the same time right after, he became a new-god undone by love, a deity haunted by the absence of the only soul who had truly known him.

And so, even with eternity bowing at his feet, his own prowess making the void itself bend and ripple to accommodate his presence, the thought of 007n7 lingered above all else—like a bright, untouchable star, like a destiny he had been too cowardly to face. His ascension was supposed to silence such frailties, to burn away the remnants of human longing, but instead it magnified them until they throbbed louder than the chants surrounding him.

“O’ great lord, heed our prayers, forgive us for our sins—” the cultists wailed, their voices rising as one, desperate, trembling, filled with awe and fear. Their bodies pressed lower against the shifting ground, as if they feared being swallowed whole by the void should he refuse them. “—We are to serve the void forevermore!”

But their words dissolved into weak gusts of wind against the roar of his thoughts. Hollow. Meaningless. As though the void itself mocked them, throwing back their cries as nothing more than distorted echoes. Their voices rose, yet none of them could pierce the storm in his mind.

A cultist rose from their kneeling position.

“...My lord, I have sinned...”

The confession cracked through the silence, trembling, desperate. The cultist’s voice was raw, straining beneath the weight of reverence and fear. She pressed her forehead to the cold surface beneath them, knuckles white as she begged for absolution. To them, sin was a wound only their god could close, their trembling bodies the offering, their devotion the plea.

'Olivia.' The voidstar supplied.

That was the sinner's name.

Noli’s eyes lingered, not on the penitent, but on the futility that dripped from their every word. The void pulsed around him, the binary scars across his body flickering with uneven rhythm. Was this what godhood meant? To preside over the broken and fearful, to collect their guilt like a ledger while the one voice he sought remained silent?

“The Void isn’t pleased with you.” Noli dismissed, his tone sharp, cutting away at their reverence as quickly as it came, silencing the first cultist who dared confess. His voice reverberated through the black expanse, deep and layered, like a choir of shadows speaking through him.

Because what was divinity worth, when every prayer, every bow, every voice meant nothing compared to the silence of the one who had left him? Their worship could not fill the void 007n7 had carved into his being.

"You do not deserve the blessing of the stars."

The wails of the congregation broke. Their devotion tipping into hysteria. Fingers scraped the fractured floor until they bled, as though flesh and bone alone could prove their loyalty. Some muttered broken prayers, others dared not speak at all, their silence heavy with terror.

Above them, the void swelled and recoiled like a living sea, its currents bending around Noli’s form. Streaks of violet light of different shades forked in the distance, illuminating his figure in flashes that burned into the eyes of all who looked up.

To them, he was both savior and executioner, a God whose mercy was thinner than glass.

The space between each and every one of their forms stretched unbearably long, until even the air seemed unwilling to exist without his command. Then, with the faintest curl of his fingers, the pressure lifted, and the void stilled once more. The cult remained on their knees, broken and trembling, afraid to raise their eyes lest they be found unworthy.

And yet, for all their terror, their devotion was shallow to him. Their cries did not stir him, their obedience meant nothing. For in the quiet that followed their worship, only a specific someone's lack of presence thundered through his being—an absence the void itself refused to fill.

Beneath the grandeur of such dominion, a silence gnawed at him. The voices of mortals were pale echoes compared to the void left by a single missing name. Their hymns, their cries, their trembling reverence

They were good-for-nothing currencies— overprinted money that could not buy what he sought. For gods did not need devotion. Gods required truth. And his truth had abandoned him.

Their worship was a hollow performance of loyalty.

007n7’s absence was the only truth he could not swallow.

His curled hair shifted with the phantom winds of the void, his torn mask glinting the crown's emitted glory, his face lit by the same luminosity. The binary etched across his decayed side pulsed in rhythm with the void's emptyscape—the 1's and 0's flickering purple, staggered, uneven, glitching, betraying his inner conflict.

Noli drifted past the cultists,  his form floating above the pavement, it was as though reality itself rippled to accomodate his godly presence. Air threatening to shatter and punish those who took the wrong breath within his vicinity.

The void parted before him, stars bending into streaks and hues, leaving a trail to mark his path then returning as ot was before, their brilliance eaten alive by the endless black, what shone through were stars that now are his own. He did not need their prayers—he had long since surpassed the fragile comfort of devotion. Worship was for men who wanted to be God.

Men yearn to be gods.

Gods yearn for what men have.

What gnawed at him was not his cultists' fear, but the empty chasm where a single voice should have been. That familiar timbre, sharp and grounding, that once cut through chaos like a blade—it was absent, and the silence screamed louder than any chant. The more they praised him, the more counterfeit it all seemed, as if the void itself mocked him with hollow echoes of his adoration for his college dorm mate.

His rotted half twitched, the symbols carved into his flesh burning, shifting faintly, spilling a violet glow that contrasted and bled into the shadows. The glitching rhythm across his body surged like a failing heartbeat, each pulse jagged and unpredictable, the soundless crash of code unraveling into fragments. He clenched his hand against the voidstar, it stung, and the entirety of the void trembled.

"Sev.."

Still, no answer came. No presence. No trace of the one who mattered. And Noli could feel the fractal cracks starting to form.

His gaze fell to the kneeling figures behind him, eyes burning through the half-mask. They were small, pitiful, bound by their own illusions of faith. He could crush them with a word, unmake them with a gesture, yet none of it would bring him closer to 007n7.

The void was endless, yet in its infinity, it offered him nothing but the absence of the other hacker. And so, in the hollow majesty of his throne, Noli realized the bitter truth: godhood had given him everything except the one thing he truly desired.

007n7

—

The first time he tried to reach 007n7 was a goddamned failure.

He tried to access the panel he used for hacking—trying to locate where his best friend was and teleport on over to him. Only to be met with 'Teleportation Error // Object: Null.'

The words flashed through the GUI like a sentence, a denial sharper than any blade. His chest tightened. For a god crowned by the void, nothing should have been unreachable. And yet, in that single phrase, the universe itself told him otherwise. In the midst of endless devotion, cloaked in divinity and crowned by the void itself, he was lost.

No matter how he rewrote the query, no matter how he forced the panel to obey, the response came back with cold finality. Null. Absence. Erasure. Gone.

'He's dead' The voidstar supplied, the same way it did with that sinner's name.

Each attempt cut deeper than the last, the flashing denial gouging into him like a blade across the ribs. He was a god now, crowned by the void, cradled by infinity itself—yet the system that once bent at his fingertips refused him the one answer he sought.

And it wasn’t helping that time itself betrayed him. The void was treacherous, its currents flowing in ways that mocked mortal measure. A couple of minutes in his realm unraveled into days back in the origin dimension. Hours here could mean weeks there. What more, when the newly-crowned deity had lingered for days within the void temple, indulging in the coronation that sealed his divinity?

The realization twisted in his chest: if the panel’s null meant what he feared, then his hesitation, his silence, his arrogance of timelessness had cost him. Entire years might have slipped away while he floated above the cultists’ worship, wrapped in glory.

Years in which his best friend’s world had flowed on forward without him. Years in which something could have happened.

Still, he tried again. Again and again. Each attempt cracked deeper into him, his voice breaking into snarls as the panel refused him. Null. Null. Null. It was merciless, mechanical, absolute. The silence from the other end was worse than death—it was as though the universe had conspired to erase 7n7 from existence. His own power howled inside him, but it could not reach what was gone.

Then the GUI flickered. For one horrifying second, it betrayed him. Flashing not null, but an image. The corpse of the brunette, sprawled on a concrete floor, blood spilling in a widening pool. A gun clenched in his limp hand. His pink glasses crooked, shattered at the corner. His messy hair matted dark with red.

Noli wasn’t stupid. He knew what happened with just the imagery alone, the crown’s hum dimming to silence as if even the void itself mourned—or mocked—his loss. The panel didn’t glitch. The GUI didn’t falter. That image of 7n7’s body was no error in the code. It was truth, stripped bare and shoved into his hands.

And still, he couldn’t accept it.

Noli turned to the void star. The raw core of his ascension pulsed like a heart in his grip, resisting as if to warn him, but he sank his will into it without hesitation. Commands blurred into pleas, logic into obsession. He demanded that the void yield, that it give him something—a path, a trace, a signal—anything that proved his best friend still exists somewhere.

Noli’s fingers shook as the void star pulsed violently, reacting to his desperation. Its glow grew fevered, frantic, answering his refusal to bow to what he knew was final. He would not accept death as an endpoint, not when he was god, not when the void belonged to him.

If his own dimension had erased 7n7, then he would claw through infinity itself to find one where he still existed. One where he could try again.

Noli bent his will into the Void Star, no longer commanding but clawing, tearing, demanding. He forced his essence into the core, urging it to behave as his old panel once had, twisting its functions into something alien.

His body threatened to break even more under the sheer power, rot, 1's and 0's spreading further up his arm as the star screamed against his intrusion. The void itself quaked, snapping like glass shards beneath his command.

The Void Star screamed as it bent under the weight of his desperation, light breaking into jagged streaks. His body rotted further, code crawling across his skin in jagged bursts, but he pressed harder. He was not merely querying; he was tearing open the fabric of reality itself. And then, at last, the void relented.

A response.

Not null.

Coordinates—raw, jagged, unstable, tearing through the GUI like lightning across broken glass. They burned against the darkness, not clean lines of code but erratic pulses, trembling with static as though the void itself resisted giving them up. And yet, there it was. Real. Palpable.

A presence flickered across his vision, faint but undeniable. The GUI surged in protest, symbols spilling across it in unfamiliar scripts, alien characters that writhed and glitched before finally locking into place.

And then he saw it.

A trace. A signature. A heartbeat where there should have been silence. 

007n7.

Alive.

Not gone, not erased, not condemned to null but tethered elsewhere. A realm the GUI labeled in broken, fractured white letters to contrast against the white background—Forsaken.

Noli didn't hesitate to click whatever the hell it was that had 7n7's user ID inside of its file, the GUI buzzing before its screen expanded, the coordinates burning themselves into Noli’s vision, searing across the GUI until his body moved on instinct alone. He summoned the void around him, folding space as though it were parchment, and stepped through the fracture.

The whispers of his supposed 'duty' as a deity dimmed behind him, the said words collapsing into silence as the void devoured the background. All that mattered was forward—all that mattered was 007n7.

The air was different. Heavy, unfamiliar, tinged with the static of a world that wasn’t quite his own. Someone else pulling the strings. He could feel its looming presence everywhere. But none of it mattered. For there, in front of him, was 007n7. Facing his back, kneeled down, fixing a generator with one hand, his figure familiar in a way that carved into his very being.

Noli moved as if in a dream. The small differences— new clothes, stubble, the careful way 007n7 worked at the generator—should have been flags, but they blurred into insignificance beneath the tide of recognition. This must've been his 007n7 after a few years have passed.

So, where others might catalog inconsistency, Noli felt only the loving geometry of a shape that fit him: the slope of a shoulder, the rhythm of a breath, the particular tilt of a head he had mapped into memory a thousand times.

Although 007n7 now wore an expression of wary—fear?—something Noli hadn’t seen on his best friend’s face at all,

It was still 007n7, so he closed the distance without thinking.

The void shifted with him, bending like a curtain torn aside, his every step pressing eternity into the cracks of this world. He felt his throat tighten, laughter clawing up from his chest again, this time sharp, frantic, desperate to mask the fragile thread of hope trembling inside him.

Fear didn’t belong on 7n7’s face. Fear was for the weak, for strangers, for those who had never stood shoulder-to-shoulder with him against the chaos of systems and gods. Yet here it was, carved into his features like a scar. Noli’s mind reeled, but the thought was quickly smothered, devoured by the need to believe.

'Of course he’s afraid,' Noli rationalized, his thoughts twisting to suit the narrative he needed. 'He’s been alone. For years. Waiting for me to find him. He’s only cautious because I’ve taken too long.'

But now Noli had ascended. He won't ever leave his best friend's side.

The void-star pulsed warmly in his palm, reinforcing his delusion, whispering certainty into the cracks of his faith. He reached out, trembling fingers grazing the fabric of that blue button-up, the unfamiliar cloth sending shivers through him. His breath hitched as though touching proof of a miracle.

The void-star pulsed in his hand, a steady, burning weight, urging him forward. Noli’s fingers twitched as if pulled by something greater than choice, reaching out—desperate to confirm with touch what his eyes swore to him. The thought of contact consumed him: the rough edges of calloused skin, the strange warmth that had always lingered beneath 7n7’s defenses, the faint trace of cider that once clung to him now tangled with the fresh scent of grass underfoot. It was real. He was real.

Noli opened his mouth, but the void tore the sound apart.

“BY tH€ $t☆R[s]—”

The words glitched, fractured, too loud in the silence. A laugh followed, jagged and unsteady, a broken current crackling out of him before he could rein it back in. Half-joy, half-madness.

This was 007n7.

“SeVe7Ɲ7..."

His voice distorted again, static stretching the syllables, but Noli didn’t care. His chest heaved, his eyes bright with something raw, unbearable. Even as the man before him flinched, even as wary eyessearched for escape, Noli only saw the familiar—the anchor he had ached for through eternity.

A heavy presence tugged on his own. And yet Noli marched forth. Alhough the man before him recoiled, flinching as if struck, scanning the unseen boundaries of the void like a prisoner measuring his cell for exits, Noli did not see it. He did not want to see it. His eyes burned past the foreign edges—the stubble, the wariness, the careful distrust—and fastened only on what he recognized.

The messy hair. The crooked glasses. The stupid burger hat. The weight of a presence he had craved through silence and eternity.

And then, only when they were face to face—when the void’s illusions no longer had the chance to blur his vision—did Noli see it. The way 007n7’s hand pressed hard against his side, fingers trembling as they tried to hold himself together. The blue button-up was already ruined, drenched with crimson spreading like ink across fabric, every breath forcing another pulse of blood through the wound.

For a moment, the sight didn’t register. Noli’s mind refused it, rejected it, scrambled to overwrite the reality as though it were just another line of faulty code. But the void did not glitch this time; the wound was real. The blood was real. His best friend—his star—was broken before him.

The laugh that had lingered in his throat curdled into silence, static swallowed whole by the gravity of what stood in front of him.

And 007n7 ran.

—

The air in was heavy, metallic with the scent of rust, grass and blood. 007n7 had grown used to that.

He was categorized as a survivalist, find the generators, fix them, stay quiet, and for the love of everything, don’t get caught. Because his kit wasn’t made for saving others. It wasn’t even made for saving himself. Clones, misdirection, a slim window of escape if he played it just right, teleportation from his formerly-powerful C00LGUI that now takes more than a few seconds than necessary to execute the command.

But beyond that? Every scrape, every slash, every ounce of damage stuck to him like tar. His abilities weren’t meant to benefit anyone but him, and everyone else knew it.

This round had already gone to shit faster than most. They’d started as seven. Seven was manageable sometimes, but eight was most definitely better. Odds weren’t good, but they weren’t terrible either. Then he checked the roster on his watch, the names blinking across the cracked screen—and his stomach dropped.

Elliot wasn’t there.

No healer.

Not even Builderman, too.

The layout was him, Guest 1337, Shedletsky, Noob, Taph, Two Time, and Chance.

He was lucky enough to have spotted a medkit along the grass, holy grail in rounds like these, enough to buy him and his teammates precious seconds. 

He deployed his clone first, a perfect decoy intercepting the daemonshank’s slash from 1x, metal shrieking against fabricated flesh. 007n7 didn’t waste time to lose the killer—his watch blinked with the survivors’ statuses, Guest’s health bar flashing low, and he searched for the soldier then veered towards him without hesitation. His readout was at 30% meanwhile 007n7 was at 27%, dangerously close to collapse, but Guest had to be the one to keep fighting.

After finding the blue-haired man and semi-arguing on who should heal up, the Soldier finally relented and let 007n7 use the medkit on him. The heal was sloppy, hands shaking, nerves frayed from the chase, Guest gave a smile and muttered a thank you before goong on to the frontlines again, checking in on Chance who had just got hit by entanglement.

Recklessness made him careless—a strike clipped his side moments right after, crimson splattering across his already bloodstained shirt. He hissed, pain white-hot, but thankfully now his ability' cooldown was over, his clone bought him just enough cover to slip free, vanishing into the shadows as 1x’s weapon carved the decoy's instead of his flesh.

007n7's breath came ragged, chest tight. Looking back and seeing Guest block the mass infection and punch 1x before the projectile reaches him. But it wouldn't have made much of a difference. Because he was at a 1%. One wrong move, getting caught by an entanglement, a stray mass infection or just one smack from 1x4's minion will be the end of him for this round.

But he pushed back into the cycle. Find items to help others. Hide. Generators. Always generators. That was survival. That was the rhythm of this hellhole alongside die and revive, die and revive again, die and die, and die, and die infinitely.

But then the rhythm broke.

The thing standing there wasn’t like the usual killers. He kept track of them quite easily, always repeating, but in cycles. 

1x1x1x1, John Doe, Slasher, and his own son.

But this one was different. Half-rotted, tall, cloaked in black that shimmered like liquid. He wasn’t just here—he warped the world around him, the air rippling as if reality was too weak to contain him. 

The sky itself split—not with lightning, not with scripted terror he’d seen a hundred times before, but with something wrong. The stars bent in directions they shouldn’t, dragging streaks of light into spirals that defied gravity. The air pulsed like it was alive, pressure shifting so violently it rattled in his teeth. And from that collapse, something formed.

A figure. Tall. Cloaked. Half-rotted and yet radiant, divine, as if the higher beings in the name of Roblox had sculpted it and then cursed it halfway through.

That thing wasn’t one of them.

He’d been in too many rounds to mistake it for another survivor— survivors bled, stumbled, screamed. They weren’t born out of ruptured skies. They didn’t carry that kind of weight, a presence that made the ground groan and the stars warp into spirals.

The rules of this realm were cruel, but they were rules. Survive until the time bled out, keep the generators humming to decrease the time needed to survive, dodge the killer’s blade long enough to outlast the round as a survivalist. There was no escape. No door at the end, no salvation waiting past the timer. You survived, or you didn’t. Either way, you always come back unharmed in the cabin.

But this?

This wasn’t part of the game.

His hand snapped to his watch, thumb flicking across the glass. seven survivors dwindled to four—Noob and Taph gone, Two Time reaching their 2nd life only for their HP bar to flicker to 0%. 007n7's own HP was still hovering at 1% from daemonshank’s last near-hit. He couldn’t afford another mistake. The thing stepped closer. Not fast, not lunging like 1x, but deliberate, its gaze fixed squarely on him as though the rest of the realm didn’t exist.

“BY tH€ $t☆R[s]—” it croaked, voice glitching, static curling through the syllables.

His blood ran cold. 007n7 clutched his wound letting his stamina bar fill up before starting the chase, staying for too long that he heard it laugh. Not the manic bark of a killer chasing blood, not even human laughter, but something glitchy, metallic, fractured. It rattled in 7n7’s bones, a broken machine choking on sound.

Then came the word. His name.

The new killer knew his name. Which was bad enough, but then he saw the look in its eyes—desperate, starved, fixated. It wasn’t random. It wasn’t coincidence. Whatever this thing was, it knew him. It wanted him.

And 007n7 didn’t wait to figure out why.

His feet moved before his mind caught up, tearing through the grass, lungs burning, side screaming with pain from the earlier injury. He didn’t dare look back. Maybe this new killer had tricks, maybe it could bend the rules, maybe it was worse than anything this hellhole had thrown at him before—but the one truth he clung to was the same as always: if something knew your name here, it meant you were already marked. It meant you are connected, one way or another.

The same way 1x1x1x1 always goes for Shedletsky, driven by Hatred.

The same way John Doe always becomes even more enraged whenever it's Builderman he's chasing.

The same way Slasher kills off Guest 1337 with more brutality than he does with other survivors.

The same way his own son had considered him his 'favorite playmate' and hug 007n7 whenever he 'tags' him because he was his dad.

007n7 bolted.

—

"Mass Infection!"