#neutralground

Dazai appeared a moment later, his usually unreadable face pulled tight with tension. “We don’t have time. The longer that parasite stays latched, the more damage it’s doing.”

“Then let’s move,” Chuuya snapped, throwing his shoulder against the rusted door.

Inside, they found you.

You stood in the center of the room, still as stone, head tilted at a wrong, unnatural angle. Your eyes—usually warm, so full of fight—were dull. Off. Watching them with the eerie calm of something that wasn’t you.

“Ah,” your voice cooed, laced with something foreign. “The mafia's little dogs have come to fetch their pet.”

Chuuya’s knuckles went white. “Get the hell out of her.”

Dazai held out an arm, cautioning him. “That’s not her talking.”

You smiled, slow and venomous, and stepped forward. There was a twitch in your jaw, a brief flash of resistance that flickered and died just as quickly. It was like watching a puppet trying to chew through its own strings.

“She’s fighting it,” Dazai said quietly. “But not for long.”

The parasite wasn’t like Q’s ability—it wasn’t just about madness or manipulation. This was physical. A parasitic ability, burrowed somewhere inside your body, anchoring itself in your nervous system. Dazai’s nullification could work—but only if they exposed the core of the parasite.

Which meant hurting you.

Dazai pulled something small and black from his coat: a stun-needle Chuuya had stolen off the black market last year. “We don’t have another option.”

“I’m not hurting her,” Chuuya said immediately. “You know I won’t.”

“Then I will,” Dazai said softly. “But you need to hold her down.”

You lunged—too fast, too sharp—and Chuuya caught you mid-sprint, wrapping his arms around your thrashing form, trying not to hear the animal sounds you made as the parasite fought back.

“I’ve got you—I’ve got you, okay?” he whispered, holding on even as your body jerked violently in his arms. “You’re gonna be fine, just hold on—hold on for me, please.”

Dazai moved fast. Ripped open the back of your shirt, fingers pressing around your spine until he felt the heat—an unnatural pulse just beneath your skin. The parasite coiled there, near your shoulder blade, squirming at his touch.

“Here we go,” he murmured.

The blade cut deep. Chuuya flinched as you screamed—your own voice, this time, not the puppetmaster’s. Your head thrashed, your hands clawing at Chuuya’s sleeves, but he didn’t let go.

“I know, I know, I’m sorry,” he said, choking on the words. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

Dazai reached into the wound, fingers blood-slick and surgical. Then-

Got it.

The thing squirmed between his fingers, leech-like and black and twitching.

With a flick of his ability, it crumbled into dust.

You collapsed.

Silence.

You woke to soft light and sterile sheets. Your whole body ached—like fire under your skin—but you were warm, clean, and… safe.

The infirmary smelled like antiseptic and fresh linen. The steady hum of the ventilation above you was oddly comforting.

You blinked up at the ceiling, trying to steady your breath. Every muscle in your body ached, your back especially—an echo of pain radiating from the stitched wound. But compared to what you’d felt before, this was nothing. Just pain. Manageable. Real.

Your fingers twitched under the blanket.

A chair creaked beside you.

“Hey,” Chuuya’s voice was quiet, hoarse from disuse. “You with me?”

You turned your head and saw him slouched next to your bed, one hand buried in his coat pocket, the other clenching his phone like he’d been waiting for hours—for days.

Chuuya stood slowly and leaned over you, brushing a knuckle just barely over your temple, like he wasn’t sure if touching you would hurt.

“You had us scared shitless, y’know that?” he muttered, eyes narrowed but wet at the edges.

You tried to speak, but your throat was raw. All that came out was a rasp. Chuuya immediately reached for the water on your bedside table and helped you drink, steadying the glass with a hand that trembled just slightly.

“I… made it?” you croaked.

“Yeah. You did,” Chuuya said, and the tension in his shoulders dropped just a little.

On the far wall, Dazai looked up from a medical report, arms folded across his chest, expression unreadable—but softer than usual.

“You look terrible,” he said lightly, coming over. “Which means you’re going to be fine.”

You tried to sit up and winced. Pain exploded down your spine. Chuuya was at your side in an instant.

“Easy,” he said, gently easing you back down. “You took a blade to the back, remember?”

“I remember,” you whispered. “I remember everything. I couldn’t move. I was trapped inside my own body. I could hear you both, but I couldn’t… I couldn’t answer.”

Dazai leaned forward, expression more serious now. “That’s how the parasite works. Full override. You were lucky to stay conscious at all.”

You swallowed hard, voice cracking. “I tried to fight it. I did. But it felt like it was digging into me. Like it was part of me.”

“You fought harder than anyone else could have,” Chuuya said quietly. “We saw it. You slowed it down. You gave us the opening.”

You turned away slightly, tears slipping past your lashes before you could stop them. “I’m sorry. I—I could’ve hurt you. I wanted to. I wasn’t in control but it was like… part of me was still trying.”

“Don’t do that,” Chuuya said firmly. “Don’t blame yourself for something someone else did to you. You didn’t fail. You made it home.”

You wiped at your eyes, but Dazai’s coat was already tossed over you like a blanket, warm and worn. “We’ve all been there. Mind control, possession, psychological torment—it’s practically a rite of passage in our line of work.”

Chuuya gave him a sharp look. “Maybe don’t say it like that while she’s literally full of stitches, dumbass.”

But you smiled faintly. “Thanks. Both of you.”

Dazai shrugged one shoulder, but he didn’t hide the flicker of relief that crossed his face. “Just don’t make a habit of getting brain-hijacked. It’s bad for morale.”

Chuuya pulled up the blanket around you a bit more. “You’re gonna be out for a while. We’ll be here.”

“You don’t have to stay,” you murmured, though your voice betrayed how much you didn’t want them to leave.

Chuuya scoffed. “Not a damn chance.”

Dazai moved to the empty cot beside yours and flopped down onto it like it was his personal couch. “Wake me up if she tries to dramatically code out again.”

“Real comforting, jackass,” Chuuya muttered, but he didn’t move from your bedside.

There was a long, quiet moment.

Then Chuuya leaned forward, resting his arms on the bed rail, close but not touching you unless you reached first.

“You scared me,” he said, voice almost inaudible. “And I don’t scare easy.”

You blinked at him, startled. He wasn’t looking at you—just watching the blanket rise and fall with your breath.

“I’ve seen a lot of shit,” he continued, “but watching you hurt, knowing you were still in there, trying to get out…” He clenched his jaw. “If we’d been a minute later—”

“But you weren’t,” you said softly.

Chuuya finally looked at you, then down at your hand resting on the blanket.

He covered it gently with his.

“No,” he said. “We weren’t.”

A few days had passed.

Your body was healing, slowly. The pain in your back dulled from white-hot to a deep, manageable ache, and the worst of the muscle spasms had stopped. You could sit up now without help—though Chuuya still hovered like a bodyguard with a nursing license.

He was surprisingly gentle with the bandage changes.

“Try not to flinch,” he muttered as he peeled the gauze away, careful not to tug too fast. “You’ll just reopen the scab if you jerk around.”

“I’m not flinching,” you said, biting your cheek. “I’m wincing. Very different.”

“Tch. Don’t sass your medic.”

“You’re not a medic.”

“I am now.”

Chuuya dabbed antiseptic over the edge of the stitched wound, brows pinched in focus. He looked exhausted, circles under his eyes and a faint scab healing along his neck—your doing, probably. He hadn’t once brought it up.

You glanced past him, across the room.

Dazai was sitting in the windowsill, flipping through a thin paperback he hadn’t turned a page of in ten minutes. His long coat was draped over the back of your chair, his scarf still hanging from one sleeve.

“Why are you still here?” you asked suddenly.

Dazai looked up, surprised. “You trying to get rid of us already?”

“I just…” You hesitated. “You don’t usually stay for cleanup.”

Chuuya snorted, not looking up. “Believe me, I was shocked too.”

Dazai stretched out one leg and tilted his head lazily. “Normally I’d say something flippant—‘I was bored’, or ‘the vending machine here has better snacks’—but…” His gaze met yours. Calm. Honest.

“You’re part of the team,” he said simply. “Even I don’t walk out on that.”

The words settled in your chest like warmth spreading through your ribs. No dramatics, no false cheer. Just truth, the rare kind Dazai only gave when it mattered.

He turned back to his book like it hadn’t meant anything. “Besides, if I left you alone with Chuuya, you’d be bored to death by his micromanaging.”

“You say ‘micromanaging,’ I say ‘doing it right,’” Chuuya grumbled, taping a fresh bandage in place. “There. All done.”

You sat up slowly and let out a shaky breath. “Thanks.”

Chuuya looked at you, really looked—his eyes scanning your face like he still didn’t quite believe you were okay. Then, softly:

“You scared the hell outta me, y’know.”

You opened your mouth, but he shook his head.

“Don’t say sorry again,” he added. “You already did. Just…” He reached out and adjusted your blanket without meeting your eyes. “Don’t do it again.”

You nodded. Quietly. “I’ll try.”

There was a silence. Comfortable, now.

Then Dazai stood, brushing nonexistent lint from his shirt. “Since you’re no longer writhing in agony, I assume it’s safe to bring you real food again.”

Chuuya arched a brow. “You mean instead of smuggling in all those horrible convenience store snacks?”

“I’ll have you know she requested those,” Dazai said airily. “Apparently the hospital miso soup was offensive.”

“It was,” you agreed, grimacing. “I’m still traumatized.”

Dazai smiled faintly and turned toward the door. “I’ll be back in ten. Don’t let her escape.”

“She’s not going anywhere,” Chuuya said, nudging your shoulder. “She’s got stitches the size of a freight line.”

“Still faster than you,” you mumbled, and Chuuya let out an incredulous laugh.

When Dazai returned, he brought soup, rice, and some weird sugary drink he claimed would “restore your will to live.”

You sat between them, shoulder brushing Chuuya’s, knees tucked up under the blanket Dazai had thrown over you earlier. No one spoke much, but you didn’t need to.

The worst had passed.

And even though you still ached, even though the memory of that thing inside you made your skin crawl, you felt grounded. Steady. Because they’d pulled you back, piece by piece. And they were still here—not because they had to be, but because they chose to be.

That was something stronger than any parasite. Stronger than fear.

That was family.

The apartment wasn’t big, but it was warm. Lived-in.

Sunlight filtered through gauzy curtains, casting soft gold across the low coffee table and the rumpled blanket someone had tossed over the back of the couch. You sat cross-legged on the floor, nursing a mug of tea that had gone lukewarm while you zoned out watching the steam fade.

Your body still ached if you moved too fast. The wound along your back pulled when you bent a certain way, and your sleep was fractured—shadows of the parasite’s control sometimes chasing you into half-lucid dreams. But it was better. Every day a little more of yourself came back.

The TV played something low and mindless. A nature documentary. Chuuya was sprawled sideways on the couch behind you, one arm hanging off the edge, absentmindedly twirling a pen between his fingers.

“You’re staring again,” you said, not turning around.

“I’m not,” he lied smoothly.

“You are. I can feel it.”

“I’m just making sure you’re not about to keel over and smash your head on the table.”

You smirked faintly into your mug. “That would be impressive considering I’ve been sitting perfectly still for the last hour.”

“That’s exactly when people do dumb shit.”

You looked back at him over your shoulder. “You can stop hovering, y’know. I’m not gonna drop dead on your carpet.”

Chuuya gave you a look. “That’s exactly what someone who’s about to drop dead would say.”

You laughed, dry but real. The sound seemed to settle something in him—he shifted down onto the floor beside you, close but not crowding, and took a sip from his own mug. Coffee, probably. Chuuya didn’t do herbal.

“Where’s Dazai?” you asked.

“Out,” Chuuya said, rolling his eyes. “He left a note that said ‘Don’t wait up’ and drew a little octopus with sunglasses.”

You snorted. “Was he… okay? Lately?”

“He’s Dazai,” Chuuya said with a sigh. “Which means yes, and also no, and also probably setting something on fire just to see how long it burns.”

But his tone wasn’t bitter—more resigned. Familiar. Like he knew Dazai’s rhythms better than anyone and didn’t expect them to change, only to cycle.

“I think it shook him,” you said quietly. “What happened. With me.”

Chuuya was quiet for a beat.

“Yeah,” he said. “It did.”

You looked down into your tea. “He hides it better than you.”

“I don’t hide anything,” Chuuya said. “I just swear a lot instead.”

The front door clicked open a moment later.

Speak of the devil.

Dazai stepped in, coat slung over one arm, scarf missing. He looked slightly windblown, one hand holding a plastic bag that he dramatically wiggled in the air.

“I come bearing gifts,” he said. “And by gifts, I mean sugar.”

He set the bag on the table, revealing a lopsided assortment of mochi, cream puffs, and some neon-pink drink that probably shouldn’t be legally ingestible.

Chuuya made a face. “That’s not food. That’s a health hazard.”

“That’s joy, Chuuya. You should try it sometime.”

You smiled tiredly and reached for one of the mochi. “Thanks.”

Dazai sat on the arm of the couch, eyes flicking over you. “How’s your pain today?”

“Manageable. Still sore. Still tired.”

He nodded. “That’s human, at least.”

The three of you sat in the soft quiet that came after shared catastrophe—no urgent mission, no blood in the air, no need to speak just to fill silence. You leaned sideways until your shoulder pressed against Chuuya’s, and he shifted just enough to steady you.

Dazai, surprisingly, didn’t make a joke. Just rested his chin in his hand and watched the light play across the hardwood floor.

“I know I said it already,” you murmured, “but… thanks. For not giving up on me.”

“Please,” Dazai said, voice mild. “Do you know how hard it is to find people who don’t scream when I walk into a room?”

Chuuya rolled his eyes. “He means ‘you’re welcome.’”

You grinned.

Outside, a breeze rustled the balcony plants you hadn’t managed to kill yet.

Inside, you sat between two dangerous, complicated men—one a walking contradiction, the other a knife in a velvet glove—and for the first time in weeks, the weight in your chest didn’t feel unbearable.

You were healing.

And you weren’t doing it alone.