#ging

Kurapika is very patient and also does his best to make sure that you're comfortable when he speaks with you. Even if you don't voice yourself aloud, Kurapika will always seek your opinion and talk things over with you before going through with anything. He finds the quiet atmosphere that engulfs you peaceful and so comforting. Some days you'll catch him reading a book beside you or slyly draping his body across your lap as he dozes off to sleep.

If you’d been home right now, you could have been watching the latest episode of Found Girls. Fridays were release days, right? This was Friday, wasn’t it? The thought stumbles, almost derailing itself. Right—this wasn’t something you’d planned to watch alone. A whole group had been pulled together just for the season finale, an event carefully curated by friends who shared your obsession. Were they there now, crowding together on a couch, huddling with popcorn, sharing knowing looks and hushed commentary?

The image fogged to life in your mind, a fragile, half-real scene of warmth and closeness—an impossible offering of comfort that slips away as Razor reappears, his presence immediately overwriting your distraction. He strides in, doesn’t hesitate to snatch up your bags, hauling them out in one effortless go, offering you a brief flick of a glance—an expression you might call amusement, if only barely, before he moves on.

He’d been like this for some time now, charging forward through every task with boundless energy, his upbeat mood draped around him like a layer of armor. The ease of it made him feel more alien to you, impossible to connect with—if such a connection had ever been possible at all.

You already got nauseous if someone frowned while eating your cooking, or if you made a joke that didn't quite land. How did he violate you so thoroughly and still walk around with pride? 

You'd been crying for days, it felt like, and now you were lying on the floor, naked, cold and in a lot of pain. Your arms were bruised, your hip felt like it was being stung from every point it touched the ground, your skin in general felt burned and chafed. Despite it all, your legs-

No, no, no.

Don't think about it. 

He returns, likely here to haul you off the boat. You stay limp as he crouches beside you, too drained even to flinch when his hand finds your shoulder.

"Can you sit up for me?"

You don’t answer. There’s nothing left inside you to say to him. The fear gripping every cell of your body can’t override the dull, sullen acceptance that any resistance would be pointless. What was he going to do? Hit you? Threaten you? Call those things back to hold you down again? He’d already done it all. There was nothing left with which to terrorize you.

When he smiles softly and brushes a thumb along your cheek, a sickening revulsion claws up your throat. There isn’t a word that could describe it, nothing close to the fury twisting inside you. Hatred felt too small, disgust too mild. You only know that no one else in your life, from your first memory to now, has hurt you as deeply as this man.

That hatred surges, surging through you, though outwardly you’re still as stone, probably blank-faced and hollow to his eye. Watching his calm, satisfied smile, you can’t even begin to understand how someone could carry such cruelty in them. How he could sit here, so at ease with himself, knowing the extent of what he’d done. Death row was a mercy he didn’t deserve. His throat should have been slit the second he’d been caught.

Maybe then you’d still be home.

Your vision begins to swim, fresh tears falling before you notice them.

Routine by now, he wipes a few away. “I’ll carry you inside. Can you tell me if you’re injured so I know how to lift you?”

Who was this man? Where had he come from? How had he gone so far in life and not realized that there was nothing he could say to you right now? Smiling gently, wiping away your tears. Disgusting. 

"Don't want to speak? That's all right." The hand on your shoulder goes down to your elbow and squeezes a little. You flinch and your face can't help but frown in pain. "Okay, not there, then."

He goes by the rest of your body, another humiliation in itself, but pauses when he reaches your legs. You don't need to look to know that it's bad, yet when he squeezes, there's nothing. The pain starts and ends in your hips. Razor smile shrinks a little when he roams up and down both your legs and sees no response. 

"Oh..." He merely says, before taking a deep breath and linking his arms underneath your knees and lower back. White flashes in your eyes when your hip is lifted off the ground, and it takes everything you have not to scream out in pain, but you manage, despite breathing a lot more heavily. Razor looks down at you as if you are the most pitiful thing he's ever seen, and silently carries you off the boat. 

You hear your feet touch a fire-safety kit attached to the wall. 

You don't feel a thing.

Day 2.

You wake to the rough whispers of waves meeting the shore, a sound that you only recall from weekends away with family and a recent bad memory that you refuse to engage with. Your eyelids are heavy, and every muscle resists as you struggle to open them. Light filters through thin curtains, casting patches of light across the room.

Pain blossoms through your body as if it was dormant, waiting for you to acknowledge it. Your head throbs in a jagged rhythm, and your arms, when you try to move them, are stiff and uncooperative. You suck in a sharp breath that tastes of salt.

But it is your legs, or rather, the absence of their felt presence, that makes panic flare in your chest. You try to move your toes, your knees, anything—but there is nothing. No tingle, no faint prickle of awareness. Just a void that feels as endless and vast as the ocean you hear crash against the beach outside

You sniffle, looking up at the wooden beams on the ceiling, and cry silently.

It might have been minutes, it might have been hours, but the next time you feel any type of consciousness, a new presence announces himself.

Your heart stumbles over itself as a tall figure steps into the room. He’s holding a damp towel, its edges dripping onto the polished wooden floor. For a moment, his silhouette is more shadow than man.

Razor.

He looks at you and a flicker of surprise crosses his face, gone almost as quickly as it appeared.

“Look who’s awake,” he says, his tone almost casual, as he walks closer. His shoes thump lightly on the floorboards, and the cool confidence in his stride makes your breath catch. He leans over, pressing the damp towel against your forehead, and the chill sends a shudder through you. You’re aware of how vulnerable you are—helpless beneath the weight of the sheet, unable to move or defend yourself.

If he-

If he wants to hurt you again, there’s nothing you can do.

You open your mouth to speak, but he’s already talking. “I didn’t expect you to come around so soon,” he says, eyes narrowing with a mix of amusement and something colder. “Not after everything.”

The towel smells faintly of disinfectant, and he shifts it in his hand as he studies your face. His expression is unreadable, as if he’s calculating something just out of reach. “You must be wondering why you can’t feel your legs,” he continues, his voice low and measured. He speaks as if discussing the weather. “Recent activities,” he says with a half-smile, “left you a little… impaired. Temporary, I assure you.”

A stunned silence stretches between you. Your pulse races, and you search his face for some hint of humanity, something that tells you he’s joking, despite knowing better. His gaze remains steely.

“I hope,” he says, leaning down so that you can see the flecks of silver in his dark eyes, “that you’ve learned your lesson. I trust you’ll listen to me from now on.”

“You-” You’re unsure what you want to say, what would encompass the utter hatred you feel inside as you gaze up at him. “You-”

“Shh.” He says, dragging the rag away from your face and down your arms. “I know. I know. You can get it all out of your system when you recover. I won’t hold it against you.”

Your unspoken words shatter into sobs, raw and unstoppable. They erupt from deep within, clawing at your throat until breathing feels impossible. The effort to cry so fully sends sharp pangs through your chest, each breath a battle against the weight pressing down on you. The noise of your own suffering fills the room.

You want to rein it in, to pull back the pieces of yourself, but there is no control left. Each sob ripples out of you. Wetness clings to your forehead, where Razor pressed the damp towel, and spreads across your skin like oil—clammy and invasive. It all merges with the memory of hands on your body, of mouths lapping at every spot on you, leaving you feeling dirty, like something defiled.

Your body trembles, weakened by the pain and the overwhelming truth settling over you like a shroud. Even if Razor were to bring you back home at this very moment, it would be too late. The thought crashes into you, a devastating realization. The you that existed before this is gone, and you so desperately want to be her again.

You know with an aching certainty that you’ll never be the same. No matter where you find yourself, the scars would remain. You’d flinch at shadows, wake to nightmares and never never never never let anyone touch you ever again. The terror would linger, waiting in the dark corners of your thoughts to creep out when least expected.

“Just kill me,” you sob, lifting your arms a little off the mattress just to let them fall back down again, the thud enunciating your point. “Just- just kill me.” 

Razor’s eyes widen at your request, before softening into a worried frown. “Does it hurt that much? I’ll get you something for the pain.”

You scream. 

Day 4

"Razor?" Elena's voice resounded through his phone. "The girl you asked me to keep an eye on has been reported missing. Is she with you or is something amiss?"

"Everything's fine." Razor said, bouncing a baseball off his arms while he spoke. Some pirates were waiting for the game to continue, so he passed the ball to them, walking outside the lines to continue his conversation. "She took me up on my offer to come here. Didn’t you notice the system shift when I returned?"

"I see." A shred of hesitation could be heard, something that neither of the twins showed often. "Are you still positive this is the right course of action? For a non-nen-user, this place isn’t the most welcoming."

"She's free to leave at any point. I've made this clear to her." Razor lied, placating the worry he knew Elena felt regarding his guest. Elena had known him long enough to not even insinuate the possibility of him slacking on his work as a result of his soulmate having arrived. Both knew that was very unlikely. "We've mutually agreed that if there are difficulties in her stay here, she'll be brought home."

"Do you then give me permission to contact her family and tell them she's in good hands?"

"Is there a need to?"

"I do not think society will welcome her back readily if they assume she's dead or left the country." Came the immediate reply. "It would also be cruel to her remaining family, do you not agree? What is her own opinion on this matter?"

Razor closed his eyes and tried to keep his voice steady, even though his fingers tensed into a fist. As if he didn’t have enough to do already? Meddlesome bitch. "I’ll make sure she sends word home."

"Alright. Have a good day, Razor."

"You too."

Day 5 till 23

Despite your terror and hatred, the beachfront property you had ended up in is so awfully mundane and domestic it sickens you in its own right. 

The first few days are horrific. You’re in constant pain, your hip broken in several spots and your legs out of commission all together. Razor doesn’t call a doctor, but magics some pills from somewhere and they make it a bit more bearable. You thank god that he doesn’t touch you inappropriately, though the fear remains.

When your hip feels somewhat better, your relationship with your captor worsens. No longer are you confined to your bed, since you have enough energy to crawl out and try to find some way out. Like picking up an untrained cat, he grumbles whenever he finds you somewhere you’re not supposed to be, putting you back in bed with some annoying words that staying there ‘is for your own good’. 

The wheelchair he gets you is utterly useless. Whenever Razor isn’t around, he puts a lock on the wheels, detaining you to a single spot. It’s humiliating, but you prefer it to when he is around. 

In the mornings, Razor would enter your room without asking, a forced smile flickering across his face as he helped you up. He was careful, almost meticulous, as though trying to prove he could be gentle, though the task always seemed to test him. 

At first, he’d linger, awkwardly hovering, eyes flicking over your face as if waiting for some signal or, worse, some gesture of gratitude that never came. He’d try to break the silence, clumsy questions that felt hollow even to him—“Do you need anything? Is the room too cold?”—but when your answers were curt or non-existent, he’d fall quiet, his expression hardening as he gripped the wheelchair handles a little too tightly.

Meals were a battleground of their own. He’d bring food to the table, the plates arranged with an attempt at care, an almost childlike neatness that bordered on overdone. Razor seemed to expect some acknowledgment, a flicker of appreciation, maybe even a “thank you.” When none came, frustration would tighten his jaw. Sometimes, he’d exhale sharply, muttering under his breath as he left you to eat in strained silence.

The rhythm of these days grew harsher with each passing week. He was unused to caring for someone, and that unfamiliarity bred a resentment that he tried, and failed, to keep contained. Sometimes his anger slipped out, brief flashes of temper when a task didn’t go smoothly, or when you dared to ask him to leave you alone. He’d slam a door or snap back, only to immediately regret it when you flinched or started crying, the annoyance at his own failing plain on his face as he clenched his fists, as though willing himself to stay calm.

But he always came back, determined and remorseful, trying to bridge the space with small offerings. He brought you books, clumsily chosen based on covers he thought looked “interesting,” and sometimes sat across from you as you read, his gaze flitting between you and the sea outside, waiting for some breakthrough. 

The days dragged on, blending together in a stifling sameness, punctuated only by Razor’s presence moving through the beach house like a storm trapped in too small a space. He was always near, too close or too distant, shifting between simmering frustration and moments of tentative, almost desperate attempts at connection.

And by god, did he want to fuck you again. 

Like clockwork, if you even accidentally touched him or looked at him while he was undressing you for bed, he’d excuse himself immediately after and you’d hear that awful wet clicking noise in the bathroom next to your room. 

In some way you were grateful for your broken legs, since they at least seemed to insure he wouldn’t try and touch you.

Small victories.

Over time, he stopped expecting any warmth from you, stopped asking questions you wouldn’t answer, but still, he stayed close. He lingered by the door when you sat by the window, or stood beside your bed after bringing in dinner, watching you with that cold stare you still couldn’t get used to.

Sometimes, his anger still bubbled over, spilling out in a flash when his patience frayed too thin. Like the night he’d tried to help you up after dinner, his hands gentler than usual, his voice low and hesitant. But the moment he’d brushed against you, you recoiled, flinching away as if his touch had burned.

He froze, his face twisting as he let go and stepped back. His voice, when he spoke, was choked, a mix of fury and hurt. “For fucks’ sake. I’m only taking you upstairs.”

You didn’t answer, turning away, unwilling to give him even a glance. The silence between you felt sharper than anything you could say.

He left the room, his footsteps loud and unsteady. You heard the door slam, followed by the crash of something shattering against the wall in the other room. Then, as always, he returned about an hour later, calmer, an apology hanging in the air that he never spoke aloud. Just like you didn’t need to speak aloud that you’d sat in the kitchen alone, unable to do anything but wait for him for an entire hour.

And so you both went on. 

Enduring.

Day 24.

Your fear of him, pathetic as you sometimes found Razor these days, is reaffirmed the day one of his underlings comes by. The mere sight of the white hat makes you scream and try to hide yourself, falling out of your wheelchair as you do so. The man, who had already seemed confused at your presence, tries to calm you down, to no avail.

"Hey, it's okay. I'm not here to hurt you," he says, his voice sounding off as he steps closer, like he’s for some reason excited to see you. But you can’t hear him, can’t focus on anything except the overwhelming panic flooding your senses. The thought of Razor, of those fucking monsters, is enough to paralyze you. The white hat pulling you back to a time you can’t escape from.

You struggle to push yourself back, your hands shaking as you attempt to get away, to hide. The underling’s face crumples in confusion and fake fake fake concern as he kneels, reaching toward you, but all it does is make you panic more. Your breaths come fast and shallow, every movement feeling like it’s closing in on you.

"Please, stop," you whisper, barely audible, but the words don’t seem to reach him. “Go away!”

He tries again, his hands hesitating in the air. "I just need the keys, okay? Razor sent me. I’m not gonna—"

Before he can finish, a sudden, piercing sound cuts through the air. The front door slams open with enough force to rattle the walls, and the underling’s words die in his throat. You turn, wide-eyed, to see Razor standing in the doorway. His gaze is icy as he sees the scene in front of him. The tension in the room thickens, and you can feel it—the deadly weight hanging around him.

It screams death to you.

Razor’s eyes flicker to you, then back to the underling, whose face has gone pale.The white hat raises himself from his crouched position, hands held up in a placating gesture. But Razor doesn’t hesitate. His movements are swift, predatory.

In one fluid motion, he crosses the room, and the underling doesn’t even have time to react before Razor’s fist connects with his chest. The sound is thunderous. White hat hits the wall with a sickening crack, his body slumping lifeless to the floor.

The silence that follows is suffocating. Razor stands over the body, his breath steady, his eyes fixed on the fallen underling. His fist twitches slightly, but instead he raises his leg and crushes the man’s face in one burst of violence, the skull crushing beneath the force. Blood and gore spread across the wood of the floor. Razor doesn't look at you. 

You want to scream, to beg him to stop, not for worry or sympathy for the underling, but because you don’t want to be traumatized any further than you already are, but all you can do is sit there, frozen in place, eyes wide with horror. Razor’s gaze slowly shifts to you, and for a moment, there’s nothing in his eyes but an unsettling calm. His lips barely move when he speaks, but the words are clear.

“I won’t ever let anyone scare you like that again.”

It’s not a question. It’s a command.

You just hope it includes himself.

Day 48.

“I’ve never minded people hating me,” Razor said one afternoon, as if plucking the thought from mid-air. “But with you, I think I mind.”

You looked at him, unsure what he meant or why he’d chosen now to say it. You’d only been watching a bird drift past, idly trying to identify the species, when he sat beside you.

“I’ve spoken to someone, and they gave me advice to try and talk to you more,” he said, a note of self-consciousness creeping into his voice. “About you. About me. About whatever. I’m still not quite good with words, but I think we should try.”

You turned toward him, silence stretching between you, knowing he wanted a response, and knowing equally well that whatever you said wouldn’t matter to him. But a thought flickered through your mind: who on earth would give him advice? Razor rarely showed deference to anyone. Except for Ging. The lone figure he seemed to regard with even a flicker of respect. A shiver of anger rolled down your spine at the thought of them, whispering about you like you were a stubborn project to be managed.

You could only hope Ging didn’t have a soulmate, that piece of shit—though if he did, they were probably just as cursed as you.

“Tell me something about yourself,” Razor prompted, and then, as if remembering some distant concept of politeness, added, “Please.”

You offered him a smile, as hollow as the feeling behind it. “Like what?”

“Anything.”

The silence that followed felt sharp-edged, pressing against you both. You held his gaze, defying him to find what he wanted there. “I can’t think of anything,” you replied, truthfully. “I don’t really have anything to share.”

He fell quiet, an uncomfortable silence settling over the room. You half-expected him to try again, to press with some other benign question. But he only watched you, his face unreadable.

Somewhere in that silence, the memory of who you’d been before resurfaced, the version of yourself who was whole, unbroken, and full of things worth sharing. That self felt distant now, as if they belonged to someone else. Razor’s voice drew you out of the memory, an unwelcome tether pulling you back.

“That can’t be true,” he said, a shadow of insistence darkening his tone, though he softened it as he continued. “You must have plenty of things to say to me.”

But you only turned away, eyes sliding back to the window. The bird you’d been watching was gone now.

"I want to know you." He repeated, as if you simply hadn't understood him the first time. "I've realized I don't know all that much about you."

"We've got to know each other plenty, I think." It was kind of liberating to feel like you held the upper hand. He was the one who wanted your affection, seemed desperate for it even. "No need for anything else."

He looked uncertain, clearly out of his depth, and you couldn’t help but find relief in his hesitation. Razor could be terrifying when he had a goal set firmly in his mind, his intensity honing into something unstoppable. But here, with him stalled and unsure of what to do next, the threat dimmed. Part of you almost wanted him to snap, to shove you down, force answers out of you—anything to remind you that this was still a battle, and that he was still your enemy.

It wasn’t as if you could forget what he’d done; those memories lingered, pressing like shadows in the back of your mind. But months of relative peace had gradually settled over you, unwelcome yet insidious, allowing you to occasionally relax around him. You hated that. You knew you couldn’t stay braced for impact forever, but lowering your guard was a luxury you couldn’t afford. If he chose to strike again, you needed to be ready. Last time, you hadn’t been.

And that could never happen again.

“It isn’t supposed to be like this,” Razor muttered, more to himself than to you. “Why is it different for you? For me—” He broke off, as if unable to finish the thought.

“Has it?”

He looked at you, brow furrowed in confusion.

“Set in, I mean,” you clarified, keeping your voice flat. “Do you feel that soulmate bond you keep talking about?”

He held your gaze, a flicker of something softer passing over his expression. “I do.”

“Since when?”

“When you told me you trusted me. At the gas station.”

It took everything to suppress a snort. 

If there'd even been a molecule inside you that wished to forgive him, or to try and see if there was something correct about that claim of his that the two of you were soulmates- you still didn't truly believe that red line meant what he said it did, it died right at that statement.

Because it meant that when he'd hurt you. When he'd raped you. When he'd let those things touch you. When he'd wiped away your tears like they were inconsequential. When he'd smiled and hummed to himself after hurting you and humiliating you so deeply you wondered if you could ever trust or touch a man willingly again-

The bond had already been active for him. 

He already was supposed to love you. All that, and he claimed to have been in love with you already. 

While you tried to keep a level face, his frown deepened as he saw you process his words. "I regret doing that."

"Do you?"

Like he regretted killing all those people? Yeah, right.

"I do." He claimed. "I should've been more gentle with you. You had a... stress response, and I blamed you more for it than I should have. I won't do it again. If I promise you that, could you trust those words?"

"In a way." You said, already knowing your next words were meant to lash out. "I trust you to keep me alive, fed and trapped here. I trust you to leave me behind for hours in a room without windows and then get annoyed at me for not doing much with my time. I trust you to cook, clean and do the chores because you ruined my body so severely I couldn't do them even if I wanted to."

"And most of all," Your voice raises, anger pitching your voice for the first time since getting stuck in this godforsaken house. "I trust in the fact that if I do ever escape here, or do anything to upset you at all, you'll rape and punish me just like on the boat. Everything you say, even this attempt at bonding, is underlined with violence. You don't want me to fear you, because that makes you uncomfortable and because you want me to be affectionate towards you, but that'll never be possible because you've already proven that whenever I frustrate you, you will hurt me."

"I won’t hurt you."

"No, you won’t. Not now. Not when I’m crippled and trapped in a room, with only you to talk to," you replied, voice steady despite the fury smoldering beneath. "You’re probably just waiting for that bond to kick in, hoping I'll apologize one day for being so incredibly cruel. I’m telling you now, it won’t happen."

"I won’t. Hurt you again," he repeated slowly. "I mean it."

"Even if that’s true," you said, feeling a flicker of unease beneath your own words now that they’d surfaced. It was risky to push him, even if part of you burned to. "I won’t ever love you."

"Once the bond kicks in—"

"It won’t."

"It will." He looked at you, unwavering, and there was something fierce and final in his tone. "I’ll make it kick in."

You couldn’t help it—you laughed, an unexpected, dry sound tearing out of you. It was a humorless laugh, hollow, but the first that had ever come out in his presence. The impact of it must have been like a slap; you saw his eyes widen, shock breaking through his usual composure.

The look on his face lingered as he stared at you, rattled by the harshness of that sound, a shred of defiance that didn’t fit his vision of what was supposed to happen next.

You continued. "As far as I'm concerned, that little thread you like so much snapped the second you decided destroying my legs and raping me was a suitable response to me trying to go back to my friends, family and my fucking cat."

"...You had a cat?" Razor looked up at the new information, a little hopeful after having gained a new subject. "What was its name?"

The audacity makes you exhale furiously. "Fuck off."

Day 72.

There’s a certain common knowledge among prison life that is shared with every inmate at least once. 

To avoid recidivism, have convicts remain on the good path, there are three things needed to succeed. Of course, it’s not hard science, since there are people who make do with less, and there are people who have it all and still end up behind bars again. It’s more a general wisdom, something to strive for if you really, really don’t want to throw your life away in the concrete jungle. 

The first is pretty obvious: living arrangements. 

Sleeping on the floor ruins your back, and spending your days on the street constantly sick, either from colds or bad food is dehumanizing.

The lack of sleep, the constant judgment, the putrid smell of sweat. It’s all soul sucking, and small pleasures start to become the only pleasures, meaning addiction is right around the corner. It’s hard staying on the ‘good’ path, when that path means staying motionless as you die. 

With a house, all that is avoided, and there’s a place that’s just for you. Prison becomes less and less attractive when you own a bed, when there’s a place in this world that you call home. 

The second thing you need is work. 

It’s steady income, it’s public responsibilities, it’s a cure for boredom. Sure, the jobs inmates usually get aren’t bringing in loads of money, but it’s something. There’s a reason to get out of bed, and a reason to get back in before it gets too late. Often friends are made on the work floor, which means more social connection and less temptation to do something that would maybe offend these newly made relationships.

Razor had these two on hold. 

He had a lovely beach side house with enough windows to wake him up naturally each morning. Outside were several sheds he’d built himself filled with old cars and motorcycles he was fixing up. There was no point to this, of course, since he couldn’t ride them here and there was no way to sell them from the island, but it was something he was good at, which made it a good hobby to have on the side. 

A huge plot of land around the house was all his, not even players being able to cross into his territory. It made waking up each morning feel calm, as he could go about his business and not worry for even a second that he’d be forced to deal with something before he was ready for it. Things hadn’t been like this in prison, where he’d been constantly pushed around to another man’s agenda. Go here. Eat. Shit. Work out. Sleep. 

Here, it was all to his whims. 

Though he wasn’t the type to spend all day lazing away. From his youth it had been ingrained by his father that an hour spent relaxing was an hour wasted. Money wasted, more importantly. Razor had always found this to be hypocritical, seeing as all his father had ever done was lay around being drunk, but he still appreciated the wisdom. Money didn’t interest Razor in the slightest, but there was a certain happiness that came with always being active. 

A rewarding sense. 

Which meant he did well at his job. 

Carrying all the emissive systems on his back would be an impossible task for most nen-users, considering the scale of the game. Razor approximated about seventy percent of his nen was siphoned off daily to support the systems. Next to that, there was also a ton of technical upkeep, and to finish it all off he was also in charge of dealing with any and all intruders. 

They didn’t come by often, but it was something he was tasked with nonetheless. 

Together, it didn’t seem like something a normal human would be able to uphold day and night for years on end, but Razor didn’t even find it difficult anymore. It was good exercise, and the few days of updating where the systems were turned off and he got to use a hundred percent of his nen, felt unnatural. In those moments, he felt too powerful, which didn’t help with staying on the good path. 

If the world feels malleable, breakable, it’s only human nature to want to try it out. It was only through sheer determination Razor had managed to suppress the need to burn Soufrabi to the ground, if only to see if he could do it. After the system got back online, he’d dismiss the ideas as dark fantasies. Everyone had those. 

And yet the frequency of them didn’t make him feel secure. 

He couldn’t fuck this up. Ging had believed in him, trusted him with forming and now the upkeep of this massive game, and he’d be damned if he’d let the man down. This project was dear to him, and he couldn’t give into old habits

Which left Razor thinking about the things he needed to keep on the good path. 

Housing he had, work he was swarmed with, which meant he only needed the last ingredient. 

A wife. 

It sounded old fashioned, but inmates he’d known had turned over a whole leaf in the name of ‘not disappointing the missus. Razor had never cared much for romance, but he could understand the idea that men tended not to want to disappoint the people they still wanted to fuck later. 

These thoughts honestly hadn’t played at the forefront of his mind when he'd gotten leave to try and find his soulmate.

Mostly, it was a practical decision. The game had regular updates that increased the amount of nen needed for upkeep by a few percentages each time. Razor knew he could easily go on for another few years without trouble, but after that, if there still was no winner, it'd all crash. That shouldn’t- couldn’t happen. 

It was common knowledge that soulmates, while not really increasing the amount of nen a person had, refined the nen to a fuller potency. The calculations made by Elina showed that if he found his soulmate, they could probably keep on running the game indefinitely, or at least for another twenty years. It harrowed him in some ways, to think of it lasting that long, but on the other side, it was all he had, so he didn't know what he'd do without.

And even without the use for the game, the trips to the mainland to try and find whomever was linked to him were... nice. It was odd, to feel nostalgia for sights he'd never seen before.

Rubbing the back of his neck, Razor looked over the scene he'd caused.

You were sprawled over his bedsheets, clutching a pillow like it was a lifeline, dried cum between your thighs and your eyes peacefully closed. Your chest rose and lowered gradually, and the only movements you made were those in search of even more comfort.

It was hot today, which meant that search caused you to push away the blanket at some point, revealing even more to the convict. The sight made his mouth water, despite already having taken more than what he should’ve.

This had been a bad call.

It was a sporadic thought as he cleaned up your torn clothes from the floor. Razor didn't like living in a messy environment, so he wouldn't allow himself to attempt to sleep next to you before it was all tidied up.

You'd struggled, cried even.

Again.

Razor had chalked it up to you being angry at him once more, before finally accepting that this was how things were meant to be.

It had been so long already. He’d been patient, kind, pushing himself to be everything he wasn’t by nature. Yet day after day, month after month, you still looked at him as if he was the devil himself. No softening edges, no longing stares he’d been promised. The only thing holding him back so far was the belief that one day, somehow, you’d find the bond.

Each time he failed, whether by scaring you or making you cry, he saw it as another month added to an invisible clock wrapped around your heart. Each added day was another in which your body would not let him in, would not feel for him what it was meant to.

Today had probably added a few more months to that clock.

You hadn’t done anything wrong. Nothing he could use to claim this as a justified punishment. That very thought made his exhale as well. He didn’t want sex with you to be a punishment of all things. He just… needed to touch you, every now and again. It wasn’t something he could ignore indefinitely, like you apparently could.

You’d simply been reading your book while he was in the other room, and you’d giggled. The sound had been beautiful, so pure that it jarred Razor with months of pent-up bitterness and longing. You’d never laughed like that with him. If you had been incapable of joy, that would be one thing, but this moment proved that happiness lived within you even now.

You just didn’t want to share it with him.

Desperation and frustration pushed him to his feet. The moment he entered the room, you silenced yourself, eyes wary. Razor had thought fuck it and decided that if this clock would never run out, he might as well try different methods. For weeks he’d stroked his cock in the shower, imagining if fucking you gentle and slow would fix it, if it would override your reluctance and make your body accept him. 

It was a stupid thought.

But one he couldn’t stop himself from testing out.

Compared to last time, you’d been much more angry. It was easier to detain you, seeing as you couldn’t move your legs anyway, but in turn your mouth ran rampant, hating him with every syllable that came out. Razor had decided to just push through it, imagining it would slowly and softly fade away when the pleasure amped up.

You had no nen, no combat ability, no background in crime. You'd spent your life in nice, sweet environments, his disturbance the only harrowing thing you'd ever had to endure. Of course sex would scare you, especially with him involved. Still so terrified of him even as you continued to mouth off at him whenever he presented the opportunity. 

And he allowed it all, if only because it felt like it was the sole thing he could grant you. Freedom was out of the question, and there were things he'd done that you probably couldn't deal with even if he gave you all the time in the world. Letting you yell and curse at him as if it'd make any difference was the sole gift he could give. 

Though, deep inside, he knew it was a sick lie. 

Every curse you spouted, every sneer you sent his way, every humorless smile. It all felt like you wanted him to get angry. If he truly terrified you so much, surely you would cower like you had at the start, when you'd barely been able to look at him. No... Now you met his eyes and you waited and wanted him to get angry.

You wanted him to snap.

You wanted him to touch you and break through whatever kept that fucking bond on lock.

Razor knew he was lying to himself, but he clung to it anyway. The idea that you might be at war with yourself—that somewhere beneath your hostility, you wanted him too—was a thread he gripped tighter every day. A sick comfort, an excuse, maybe even a delusion, to imagine you taunting him only because it was the closest you’d allow yourself to get..

Because if it was all a lie, if you truly did hate him as deeply as you claimed, what was left for him? There would be no forgiveness, no reconciliation. The soulmate bond he once thought would mean everything had become his chain, tethering him to your anger and resentment. He was powerless in the face of it, driven to soak in your disdain like some masochist clinging to the one feeling he could still have from you. And if the bond really didn’t affect you at all—if none of it reached you—

Then he’d done the unthinkable. He’d destroyed the life of the only person he’d ever loved, with no hope of mending it, condemned to be hated for as long as he loved in the only way he knew how.

Razor finished cleaning up in silence, then returned to your side, sitting down carefully on the edge of the bed. He looked at you, watching the slow rise and fall of your breath as you slept, your face softened and unreadable in sleep, the harsh edges of your waking words smoothed out for now.

“Please…” he whispered, though he didn’t know to whom. “I don’t deserve it, but—”

You shifted, rolling away from him, your back now to him. The small movement might as well have been a rebuke.

His hand dropped, fingers curling into a fist that ached with the tension he forced into it. The silence closed in around him, heavy and suffocating.

“I don’t know how long I can take this,” he murmured, voice barely audible, swallowed by the empty quiet of the room.

Day 84

Despite his frustration at your behaviour, finding the house empty makes him feel a panic he hasn’t experienced since his childhood. The wheelchair is left by the door and some strewn about items make it look like you crawled outside after falling out. Was there anyone who’d helped you go out? A rat he’d need to string up after finding you again? His suspicions are proven wrong when he sees a key on the inside of the door.

He felt his own pockets. Had you somehow managed to swipe the key yesterday? It wasn’t impossible. He’d perhaps grown complacent, thinking you wouldn’t be able to do anything regardless of his vigilance. Fuck. 

He runs out, eyes scanning the surrounding land. Even if you’d escaped the second he left this morning, you couldn’t have gotten far. His biggest concern was you coming across some rogue players, or worse, some part of the game. This wasn’t a low-level area, any nen beast that roamed Soufrabi would kill you within seconds.

Some players look up as he sprints through Soufrabi. He had a game master card that could locate every player, but you didn’t have any nen or a ring, so that wasn’t an option. Old-fashioned turning over every tile he found was the sole course of action. When two sweeps of Soufrabi didn’t give any results, he moved to the perimeter. 

And there, in the sand, he suddenly spotted a trail. Someone had come by here, dragging their legs. Razor sprinted along the trail with a one-minded focus. He sees the trail lead to the edge of the forest. Fuck. If you’d gone in there, you were dead. He could still feel you, though, in some way. You were alive. You had to be. 

A single tree on the edge of the forest had its roots growing out over the edge of the beach, and Razor saw a familiar face between the roots. An immense surge of relief washed over him. Thank you. 

He stopped running and walked to your position slowly. You were watching the sea, despite clearly knowing he’d arrived. Razor sat down in the sand, a foot away from your position, a curtain of roots keeping the two of you apart. There was nothing he wanted to do more than to tear the tree away and hold you against him, solidified in the knowledge that you were still amongst the living.

“What were you thinking?” he sighed.

You looked his way for a second, but didn’t speak.

“You could’ve died. There are beasts in that forest that would’ve murdered you within a split second,” Razor continued.

“I know,” you mumbled. “You mentioned it before.”

Words died in his mouth. “...What?”

He didn’t wait for your response, instead tearing away the roots and coming closer to you, grabbing you and holding you like he’d wanted to from the beginning. His eyes were wide as he processed your words. You seemed uncomfortable, but like him, too exhausted to really fight him anymore.

His breath hitched as he held you tighter, resting his chin against your shoulder. 

For a moment, neither of you moved. The crash of the waves and the distant cry of seagulls filled the silence, leaving only the tension of unspoken words between you. Finally, you sighed and allowed yourself to lean into his hold, if only slightly, the weight of the day settling on you both.

As he held you tightly against his chest, fearing you’d up and disappear if he let go, he shakily exhaled. “Why did you stop here?”

“I got scared.” You slowly admitted, following the look of anguish forming on Razor’s face before he buried his face in your neck. “There was a loud noise.”

His breath was warm on your skin, and the goosebumps that followed were automatic.

“I don’t know what to say.” He replied softly. “I have no clue.”

You looked out over the sea.

“I know.”

Day 89

"I think I’ve found a solution for us,” Razor said, his voice steady but tinged with something unreadable as he stepped into the dimly lit bedroom. The door creaked slightly as it closed behind him, shutting out the faint sounds of the world beyond.

You were tied to the bed, the soft but unyielding restraints biting into your wrists and ankles. The room was painfully silent, save for the faint rustling of Razor’s clothing as he moved closer. Ever since your last escape attempt, he had tightened his control. Even the simplest freedoms, like drinking from a proper glass, were stripped away. Every cup you were given was paper now.

“You’ll let me go?” you asked, your voice strained with a mix of hope and apprehension.

Razor paused.

“In a way,” he said quietly.

You watched him warily as he took a deep breath. “It’ll be like a second chance, for the both of us,” he continued.

Your eyes narrowed, suspicion flaring in your chest. “It sounds an awful lot like you’re going to kill me, Razor.”

His shoulders stiffened, and for a moment, he looked as though you had struck him. He sighed deeply, the sound more tired than exasperated. “I knew you’d say that.”

He moved closer to the bed, sitting down in the chair he had dragged to your side days ago. His gaze flicked to your restrained wrists before settling on your face, searching for something in your expression.

“It’s not like that,” he said after a long pause, though his voice lacked conviction. He placed his hand on your cheek, cupping your face, his eyes hardening when you flinched away from his touch. “It’s not.”

Day 1

The first thing you became aware of was the sound of the waves. Your eyelids fluttered open, and the bright sunlight pierced through, forcing them shut again. The sand beneath you was coarse and damp, sticking to your skin as if trying to anchor you. Everything felt foreign, disjointed, and wrong.

You blinked again, this time managing to keep your eyes open. The sky above was a pristine blue, dotted with faint clouds. You turned your head slightly and winced; every muscle in your body felt heavy, though none of it hurt as much as the pounding in your head.

The smell of salt and seaweed clung to you. Your hair, drenched and tangled, clung to your face and neck. As you tried to sit up, your hands sank into the wet sand, trembling as they struggled to support you. Your clothes were soaked, the fabric clinging to your skin and amplifying the chill that had settled deep into your bones.

You looked around, dazed. The stretch of beach seemed endless, bordered by dense, towering trees, though you think you see a lighthouse in the distance. The tide rolls in and out lazily, but there is no sign of a boat, no wreckage, nothing to explain how you had ended up here.

You try to piece together a fragment of memory, anything that could tell you who you were or why you were here. But your mind is a blank canvas. Fingers trembling, you pressed them to your temples, as if willing the memories to return. Nothing. No name, no faces, no landmarks. 

The sun’s position shifts slightly overhead, and the dampness of the sand beneath you turned from a numbing chill to a clammy warmth as the sun dried it. You still have no plan, but you’re still too dizzy and disoriented to do anything but sit up and gather your bearings.

“Are you all right?”

The voice startled you. You swiveled your head sharply, wet hair slapping against your cheek as you searched for the source.

Standing at the edge of the tree line was a man. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with wild, spiky purple hair. His sharp features were framed by the shadows of the forest, but his eyes were focused directly on you. There was an intensity to his gaze, his head tilted slightly forward as though trying to decipher what exactly he was looking at.

“How did you end up here? This is private property,” he said, his tone curious but not unkind.

Your mouth opened, but words failed you for a moment. Everything was a blur— how could you explain that? Finally, you managed to stammer, “I… I don’t know? I think I washed up?”

The man’s expression shifted, softening just a fraction. “Oh.”

He took a few cautious steps forward, his boots sinking slightly into the sand, and then knelt down beside you. Up close, he seemed even more imposing. Yet, despite his size and the unfamiliar situation, you didn’t feel the immediate fear you thought you should. There was something about him—an inexplicable, almost instinctive sense of safety.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, his voice gentler now. “Are you hurt?”

You shook your head hesitantly, as if unsure of your own answer. “I don’t think so?”

His eyes scanned you quickly, not in a way that felt invasive but with the efficiency of someone used to assessing situations. His hands twitched as though he wanted to reach out, but he restrained himself.

“My house is close to here,” he said after a moment. “You should dry off there. We can figure out what happened and… what to do next.”

You hesitated, glancing from him to the beach behind you. The thought of staying here, drenched and exposed, was uncomfortable.

“Okay,” you said finally, your voice small. “That seems like a good call.”

He stepped forward, extending a hand toward you. For a moment, you stared at it, apprehension warring with the instinct to trust him. But as your trembling fingers reached out and met his, his grip was firm and steady, his touch grounding you in a way you hadn’t expected. With surprising care, he pulled you upward. Your hands, perhaps still cold, seemed to have an effect on him—his body gave an involuntary shiver when your fingers had touched him.

The moment your weight shifted to your legs, a jarring realization struck—you couldn’t feel them. Panic flared as you wobbled uncontrollably and nearly collapsed back into the sand, the grip Razor had on you the sole reason you were still up right. 

“What…?” you stammered, your voice cracking. “I… I can’t—”

The man hooked his arm underneath your legs and smiled. “I’m sure it’s just something to do with the shock. I’ll carry you for now, is that okay?”

You blinked up at him, still processing the weightlessness of your body in his arms, the way your legs refused to obey even the simplest commands. “I… yes?” you managed, though your voice wavered.

He adjusted his grip slightly, ensuring you were secure before he began walking toward the treeline. His movements were smooth and steady, and you reckoned he was quite strong, since you couldn’t feel him even slightly exert himself in carrying you.

“I’m Razor,” he said after a moment, breaking the silence.

“What’s your name?” he asked, his tone calm but tinged with curiosity as he glanced down at you.

You hesitated, your brow furrowing deeply. “I… I don’t know,” you admitted.

Razor’s gaze lingered on you for a moment, before he nodded slowly. “Let’s get you warm first,” he said, his voice quiet but certain. “We’ll figure the rest out later.”

“Okay. That’s good,” you replied, your voice shaking slightly. As he started walking, you looked up at him, offering a grateful smile. The panic still gnawed at the edges of your mind, but the presence of a stranger willing to help eased the sharpness of it. “Thank you for helping me. I really appreciate it.”

Razor froze mid-step.

Confusion flashed across your face. “Is something wrong?”

For a long, tense moment, he didn’t meet your eyes. His jaw clenched as if he were fighting some internal battle. Then, just as quickly as the tension had appeared, it vanished. He turned toward you with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.