#tr izana

You exhale. “A little. First ultrasound, you know?”

His hand finds yours. “It’ll be fine.”

That’s Izana-speak for I’m nervous too but won’t admit it. He’s still got that edge to him — Bonten’s leader, blood on his hands, chaos in his bones — but when it comes to you, everything softens. His thumb brushes the back of your hand in slow, absent-minded circles.

The doctor walks in with a smile and greets you both, making small talk as she sets up the machine. “We’re going to do a quick check today. We’ll listen for the heartbeat.”

Izana’s grip tightens slightly, and he scoots his chair closer.

You lie back and pull your shirt up, exposing your belly. The gel is cold — you shiver — and Izana mutters something about needing to install better heating in this place, as if he owns the clinic.

Then the probe touches your skin.

Static at first. A low hum. Then—

ba-bump. ba-bump. ba-bump.

Your breath catches. The sound is faint but steady, like a tiny drum inside you.

Izana goes still.

“That’s your baby’s heartbeat,” the doctor says warmly.

You look over at him — and the expression on his face nearly makes you cry.

He’s wide-eyed. No smirk, no arrogance, no aloofness. Just… awe.

“That’s them?” he murmurs.

You nod. “That’s our baby.”

He swallows. Slowly. Then leans in, hand still clutching yours. “You’re sure they’re okay?”

“Perfectly healthy,” the doctor confirms.

Izana doesn’t say anything right away. Just stares at the screen, at the blurry shape nestled safely inside you.

And then, quietly — softer than you’ve ever heard him — he whispers:

“…I didn’t think I’d get this far.”

Your heart twists. You squeeze his fingers, and he finally looks at you.

“You did,” you say. “We did.”

He leans forward and kisses your knuckles. “Guess I’ve got a reason to stop dying for things.”

You smile. “Now you live for them instead.”

He lets out a breathy laugh, brushing a thumb along your belly like he can already protect the tiny life inside. The terrifying Bonten executive who once ruled with fear now looks at you like you hung the stars — and at the screen like it holds his future.

“You’re gonna be spoiled, you know that?” he murmurs to your stomach. “I’ll make sure of it.”

- let's say you and him were childhood friends before you got together because I genuinely can't imagine him meeting someone and just dating them

- let's be fair he's not easy to date at first

- like he's never really felt like this towards anyone and the thought of being vulnerable scares tf out of him

- he also doesn't wanna get attached because of the fear that you'll leave him like karen did

- I think he'd be pretty cold towards you for the first few months

- but that doesn't mean he doesn't care for you

- he just has his own way of showing it !!

- for an example, I strongly believe he'd always, and I mean ALWAYS protect you from afar

- no one would DARE come near you, let alone even think about hurting you

- he wants to make sure you're safe and sound, but he does it quietly so you don't notice it's him

- after a few months of calling it 'dating' even though he's as cold to you as he is to everyone else, you don't leave

- you don't even think about it

- and he's weirded out by it, but not in a bad way..

- so one rainy night, while you're home alone doing your own thing, he'll come to your house unannounced and actually stay

- for the first time in months he's acting like a boyfriend and not an acquaintance

- he might trauma dump about his mother to you a bit too

- and despite all of that, you let him stay at your house, and you stay by his side, you take care of him, and that's the day he finally stops being a boyfriend on paper and becomes a real boyfriend

- I would love to lie to you and tell you he's a green flag, but if we're gonna be honest, he's definitely not

- of course, he does have his own green and red flags, but if we were to sum them up, I feel like he'd lwk not be the greatest boyfriend, atleast not in the beginning.

- he would absolutely NAWT want you to come to tenjiku meetings. like ever. and for multiple reasons

- first off, it's dangerous. as much as he is the leader of tenjiku, that can't always ensure your safety and he does not wanna risk anything happening to you

- secondly, he doesn't want anyone (COUGH COUGH ran haitani COUGH) flirting with you. even as a joke. he just can't help his jealousy.

- a green flag of his is that he'll always do everything you ask of him, even if it's a little weird.

- like, if you ask him to play his guitar for you, he might give you a weird look and a "why tf would I do that?" but does he reject you? absolutely not.

- he's the king of tenjiku, and you're his queen. how could he possibly say no to his queen?

- I feel like his main love languages would be acts of service (giving) and words of affirmation (receiving)

- as I've mentioned before, he'll always make sure you're safe. other than that, I imagine him as the type to hold things for you even if you don't ask for it.

- it might be a little embarrassing, but he would even hold your pretty pink purse while you're walking around the mall together!

- as for receiving, he needs, and I mean NEEDS you to tell him you love him and won't leave him.

- he's suuuper possessive, but can you blame him? after finding out the way his mother feels about him, after losing shinichiro and emma, he cannot risk losing you too.

- speaking of, he cannot STAND to see you near mikey.

- were you friends with him before? he doesn't care. cut him off.

- final timeline izana would not mind your friendship with mikey, but tenjiku!izana? oh, he'd hate it so much..

- please reassure him :( tell him you don't like mikey more, he really needs it

- I feel like he's the type to get cuteness aggression, but not in a way most of us do.

- like, he isn't the type to grab you and squeeze until you can't breathe, but he'll just.. stare.

- you often find him just staring at you with those giant ass eyes of his. it's cute, of course, but also a bit.. creepy.

- I mean, imagine you wake up in your shared bed in the middle of the night and you just see him hovering over you staring at you like (O_O)

- again, can you blame him?? you're his precious queen, and you look sooo damn adorable when you're asleep

- he's new to love, okay? bear with him please.

- I'm a full supporter of the headcanon that izana can speak tagalog. like fluently.

- BUTTTTT contrary to popular beliefs, he wouldn't teach you.

- and I don't mean he wouldn't offer it, I mean, even if you ask, he'd literally just say no.

- why? it's not cause he doesn't like you or something.

- it's because he gets most vulnerable when he knows you can't understand him.

- going back to that cuteness aggression, I think he'd find your confused expression after he said something to you in tagalog. that's kinda the reason he does it in the first place.

- I also feel like he'd be super clingy in private. he's not the biggest fan of pda, but when you two are alone? ohh hun you CANNOT get this man off you!

- you're cooking? he's hugging you from behind. doomscrolling in bed? he's cuddled up to you. movie night? you best hope you do not need to use the bathroom, cuz he's not letting you go.

- speaking of food, I can definitely see him being the type of boyfriend to inhale anything you give him. even if your cooking is.. not the best, it'd still disappear from his plate in mere minutes.

- after he makes sure you're not leaving him despite his rough past and sometimes hard-to-handle personality, he doesn't hesitate to propose to you.

- after all, he needs to make you his official queen!

- to finish it off, I'd like to state my opinion on how he'd feel about children!

- personally, I don't think he sees it as a necessity. infact, I think he'd find people who claim that you haven't fulfilled your "duty" as a human because you're childfree annoying.

- I think he'd be against it at first. not because he necessarily does or doesn't want kids, but because he fears he wouldn't be a good father because of his rough past.

- if you insist on it, he'll give in. although he'll need a whole bunch of your reassurance.

- I've seen this headcanon once and I haven't been able to let go of it, but I think he'd prefer to adopt a child rather than have one biologically.

- to me, izana gives me more girl dad vibes, but I don't think the child's gender rlly matters to him, as long as the child is healthy

that's all I have for today! hopefully I did good lol 🥹 also I'm really sorry for how inactive I've been, I feel super guilty and I promise I'll try to be more active!!​

All of your memories of him start in the exact same way. In the dark.

Thin blankets. Rusted bed frames. Kids breathing around you in uneven patterns; soft snores, muffled whimpers, the occasional creak of springs when someone turned over too hard.

You, Izana, and Kakucho shared the corner beds, pushed together so close they may as well have been one. Three spaces assigned, one shape formed.

You still remember the first night you ended up there.

You’d arrived late, after sunset. A new donation of unwanted things. The woman from child services had a tired look and a clipboard she clutched like it held her together. The head caretaker had smiled too wide and said there was “always room for one more.” They’d handed you a plastic bag with a toothbrush, a bar of soap, and a pair of socks that weren’t your size.

Then they’d led you to the sleeping room.

Rows of beds like teeth. Kids staring. Kids not caring.

You’d stood there, trying to look smaller than you already felt, while the caretaker pointed to an empty mattress near the door. “You’ll sleep there,” she said, and started to walk away.

“Wait.”

The voice had come from the corner. You turned.

A boy stood on one of the far beds, bare feet on a thin mattress, white hair sticking up at odd angles. His eyes were a color you didn’t have a word for yet, too sharp to be soft, too soft to be cruel. Next to him, another boy sat cross-legged, watching you with wide, dark eyes. That one you’d later know as Kakucho. The first one, you’d come to wish you’d never known at all.

But that night, he was just a boy looking at you like you mattered.

“Put them over here,” he said, chin lifting at the caretaker. “We have space.”

The woman frowned. “Izana, that’s not-”

“She’ll sleep with us,” he interrupted, as if it were already decided. “It’s warmer in the corner. You want her to get sick?”

The caretaker looked between you and him, like she was debating whether it was worth arguing with a child past her pay grade. Then she sighed.

“Fine. But you’re responsible for them.”

His mouth tugged into a small, satisfied smile. It wasn’t kind, exactly. But it was something. He hopped down, padded across the floor, and stopped right in front of you.

Up close, he was all sharp edges and stubbornness in an oversized t-shirt, little hands clenched at his sides like he was perpetually ready for a fight.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

You told him, voice barely above a whisper.

He repeated it back to you, like he was trying it on. Like he was deciding whether it fit on his tongue.

Then he nodded once, decisive.

“Okay. You can stay.”

As if he’d been the one signing your intake forms. As if he’d been the one given custody of you.

That was the first time you followed him to the corner and crawled into a bed that wasn’t supposed to be yours.

It wasn’t the last.

--------------------------------

It’s the storm you remember most vividly.

You must’ve been eight. Maybe nine. The summer heat had been heavy all day, air thick and buzzing, the sky bruised with clouds. By night, the world finally opened up and started to fall apart.

Rain. Loud. Relentless. Thunder that shook the thin window glass.

You curled into yourself, blanket over your head, hands over your ears. You weren’t scared, you told yourself. You were just… uncomfortable. Alert. Hyperaware of every crack of sound splitting the air.

Across from you, Kakucho sniffled, trying to muffle it in his pillow. Lightning flashed, briefly lighting up the room in skeletal silhouettes.

Izana didn’t hide.

He sat upright on the mattress, knees drawn up, eyes trained on the window like he was daring the sky to come closer. His silhouette was outlined in each burst of light, thin shoulders rigid, jaw set.

He noticed you shaking before you did. The mattress dipped. A warm hand tugged the blanket down from your face.

“Hey,” he whispered. “Look at me.”

You did.

His hair was a mess. His eyes were bright. He was a little boy trying very hard not to be one.

“You’re scared,” he said. It wasn’t an accusation. Just a fact.

“I’m not,” you lied.

He stared for a moment, and you realized, way back then, that he hated lies. Especially from you. Especially about this.

His pinky reached for yours, hooking around it. The grip was tighter than usual. So tight you almost winced.

“If you ever feel like you’re falling…” His voice softened, thin and serious in the dark. “…I’ll catch you.”

It sounded like a promise. Like safety. You didn’t know yet that it would grow into something else.

That catching could become holding. Holding could become gripping. Gripping could become never letting go.

Back then, the words felt like a blanket tucked up to your chin. Like a hand over your eyes, blocking out lightning.

You believed him. You still do.

--------------------------------

You were ten when a new girl arrived.

She had a lopsided ponytail and a chipped tooth, and she smiled at you in a way that made your chest ache with something unfamiliar. She offered you half her candy at recess and asked, so casually, if you wanted to play.

You’d said yes before you thought about it. Before you felt the weight of eyes on you from across the yard. You looked up.

Izana stood by the fence, Kakucho next to him, watching. Kakucho looked curious. Izana looked… wrong. Too still. Too intent.

Later that night, when the lights were out and you were folding your blanket at the foot of the bed, Izana spoke.

“You don’t need her.”

You blinked. “What?”

“The new girl,” he clarified, voice flat. “You don’t need her.”

“She’s just being nice,” you said, defensive without knowing why. “It’s not a big deal.”

He stared at you, lips pressed together.

“You have me,” he said finally. “And Kakucho.”

His tone was sharp in the middle, softer at the edges. Like it hurt him to say the next part.

“That’s enough.”

You frowned, irritation bubbling up.

“What if I want more?”

You’d meant more friends. More hands to hold at recess. More laughs that didn’t feel like they cost something.

But Izana went quiet in a way that made your skin prickle. His gaze slid away from you, toward Kakucho, sleeping soundly, oblivious.

The next day, the girl wouldn’t meet your eyes. You tried to wave, but she turned away. Her shoulders were tense. Her hands twisted in her shirt.

You felt Izana come to stand beside you, his presence a familiar weight at your side.

“See?” he said quietly. “You don’t need her.”

You never asked what he’d said. He never told you. You tried not to think about the way his hand brushed yours, fingers hovering just shy of a grip.

--------------------------------

Another night, Kakucho got sick.

It was bad, fever-hot skin, shaking hands, eyes glassy. The orphanage staff shrugged and said it was “probably a bug.” They gave him water and left him there.

You didn’t.

You stayed awake with him, switching out damp washcloths on his forehead, whispering made-up stories in a low voice so you wouldn’t get yelled at for talking after lights-out. You refilled his cup from the tap, guided it to his mouth when he was too weak.

Izana sat against the wall, feet up on the bedframe, watching.

When Kakucho finally stopped trembling and slid into a soft, even sleep, you let yourself sag a little.

“Finally,” you whispered, shoulders slumping.

The mattress dipped. Izana moved closer, folding himself beside you on the narrow bed. His head rested against your shoulder, his hair tickling your cheek.

“You’re always like this,” he said.

“Like what?” you breathed.

“Picking other people first.”

It should’ve sounded accusing. Maybe it did. But underneath, there was something else. Something raw, scared, needy.

“You’re both important to me,” you said automatically, covering his hand with yours. “You know that, right?”

His fingers curled around yours, nails digging into your palm just enough to sting.

“Then don’t make me choose,” he murmured.

You didn’t understand.

You laughed it off. Promised you never would. Told him that wasn’t how this worked, the three of you were a set, a package deal.

You didn’t realize until much later that Izana didn’t believe in things he couldn’t own.

--------------------------------

Years later, you’re not in a cramped orphanage bedroom anymore. You’re in Tenjiku’s HQ. Concrete walls. Low ceilings. The air thick with smoke and sweat and the metallic tang of blood.

You thought you’d left that smell behind when you left the home. Turned out, you didn’t.

You stand near the back wall, hands tucked into your jacket sleeves, watching Izana like you always have. Like you’re afraid if you look away, he’ll vanish. Or worse, transform into someone you don’t recognize.

You’re losing that fight anyway.

Today’s reason is stupid. Pointless. Some guy said something snide about Tenjiku in the wrong alley to the wrong person. Izana heard about it. Now the guy is on his knees in the middle of the room, hands tied behind his back, lip already split.

You tell yourself you’ve seen worse. You also tell yourself that doesn’t matter.

“I warned you,” Izana says, voice calm. Too calm. “You thought I was bluffing.”

The boy on the floor mutters something, too quiet for you to catch. You don’t need to. Whatever it is, it makes Izana’s head tilt in that way you recognize all too well. Curious. Detached.

Kisaki stands off to the side, glasses flashing as he smirks at the spectacle like it’s theater. Some of the other guys snicker. Others look away.

Kakucho doesn’t. He watches Izana. Then he glances at you. His brows pull together, the faintest shake of his head saying, Don’t.

But you’re already here. You always are.

Izana’s fist connects with the boy’s face with a sickening sound. Once. Twice. Three times. Methodical. Efficient. There’s no rage in it, no wildness. Just control.

That’s what makes your stomach twist.

He doesn’t stop when the boy slumps, barely conscious. Doesn’t stop when blood spatters his shoes. Doesn’t stop when Kakucho reaches out, hand closing around Izana’s wrist.

“Izana,” Kakucho says. “That’s enough.”

For a moment, everything tightens. Izana could yank away. Could swing on him instead. You’ve seen him turn on his own men for less.

But he doesn’t.

He just exhales, lets his arm fall back to his side, and looks down at the boy like he’s a stain that needs scrubbing.

Then, slowly, he turns his head.

And his eyes find you.

It’s always like this. No matter how many people are in the room, no matter how loud it gets, at the end of everything, his gaze goes looking for you like a compass.

You meet it. You wish you didn’t.

His eyes search your face, lingering on your mouth, your jaw, the way your fingers curl into your sleeves. You know what he’s looking for.

Approval. Permission. Redemption. Proof that he hasn’t gone too far.

You force your face into something neutral. Not recoiling, but not smiling either. You’re not sure what shows through.

Maybe it’s enough. Maybe it isn’t.

“Don’t look away,” he says softly, just for you.

The words hit you like a memory. Stormy-night whispers, pinky hooked around yours, don’t be scared.

But you are.

Not of him, you tell yourself. Not exactly. You’re scared of how much of him is still wrapped around your ribs like barbed wire. Scared of how deeply his voice lives in your bones. Scared of the way every part of you leans toward him automatically, the way plants grow toward light even when it burns.

You drop your gaze anyway.

Just for a second.

Just long enough.

Something in his expression flickers. Cracks.

He wipes the blood from his cheek with the back of his hand, slow and controlled, never breaking eye contact for long. But the damage is done. The quiet shatter inside your chest answers something in him.

You don’t say anything. You don’t have to. The space between you speaks for you.

--------------------------------

The toxic parts didn’t start with blood.

They started with calls.

Missed ones, at first. Your phone lighting up with Izana across the screen, over and over, until the vibration felt like it was rattling your teeth. You silenced it and told yourself you had a right to a night alone.

The next day, he’d shown up at your place.

You remember it with uncomfortable clarity.

You’d opened the door, and there he was, hands in his pockets, eyes flat.

“You didn’t answer,” he said.

“I was busy,” you tried. “I needed-”

“With who?” he cut in.

The question was simple. The silence after was loaded.

“With… no one,” you said.

He’d looked past you then, into the apartment. The bare walls. The single mug in the sink. The unmade bed. His gaze softened.

“You hate being alone,” he murmured.

It sounded like concern. It wasn’t.

“I’m allowed to be busy, Izana,” you’d said, little sparks of irritation lighting in your chest. “You don’t have to know where I am every second of the day.”

“I do,” he replied, without missing a beat.

You’d blinked.

He’d stepped closer, lifting a hand to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture was gentle. The look in his eyes wasn’t.

“How else am I supposed to keep you safe?” he asked.

And the scary part was: Some part of you believed him.

--------------------------------

You don’t decide to leave him in a single moment.

It’s not as clean as that.

It’s a hundred little things piling up: the way he insists on walking you everywhere, even when you say you’re fine. The way you catch Tenjiku guys hovering at the ends of streets you frequent, pretending not to watch you. The way he says I love you like it’s the same thing as you’re mine.

It’s watching him hurt people and expecting you to smooth the blood back into his skin.

It’s looking at your reflection and not recognizing yourself.

It’s the way your stomach drops when your phone buzzes, because it might be him, and if you don’t answer, he’ll show up.

It’s realizing that the only time you feel relief is when he’s holding you so tight you can’t breathe.

You tell yourself you’ll talk to him. You’ll ask him to stop. To slow down. To listen.

But then Tenjiku burns brighter. Kisaki whispers in his ear. Plans get bigger. Violence gets louder.

And you get smaller.

The night before you leave him, you dream of the storm again.

But this time, when Izana hooks his pinky around yours and says I’ll catch you, his fingers squeeze tight enough to bruise. When you try to pull away, you realize there’s nowhere to go.

You wake up with your heart in your throat and the imprint of his touch throbbing in your palm.

The sun hasn’t risen yet.

You sit up, press your hand to your chest, and for the first time, you say it out loud in the quiet of your room, to no one but yourself:

“I don’t want this anymore.”

Your voice shakes. You’re not sure whether you mean Tenjiku, or the blood, or Izana. You’re not sure if you can separate them.

--------------------------------

You don’t go to Tenjiku with a plan.

You don’t rehearse what you’ll say. You don’t brace yourself. You don’t scribble words into a notebook or practice in a mirror. You just… walk there, feet moving on instinct, the way they always have.

The building is loud when you arrive, shouting echoing off the concrete, footsteps pounding up and down the hallway. But the moment you step inside, the noise shifts, muted, wary. Everyone looks at you.

Everyone knows who you are.

Izana’s favorite. Izana’s soft spot. Izana’s exception.

You move past them with your head down.

His door is cracked open. His room is dim, lit only by a single bulb hanging crookedly from the ceiling. He sits on his mattress, elbows on his knees, hands clasped.

He doesn’t look up when you enter. He doesn’t need to. The air tightens around you, familiar and suffocating.

“Izana,” you say softly.

He lifts his head.

His expression is unreadable, but his eyes. God, his eyes, brighten in that quiet, unsettling way that has always made your chest ache. Not joy. Not relief.

Recognition.

“You came,” he murmurs.

You nod. “I need to talk to you.”

At that, a faint frown touches his mouth. His fingers still intertwined, knuckles pale from the pressure.

“About what?”

You sit across from him, keeping space between you that feels like a lie.

“Izana… I don’t recognize you anymore.”

For a moment, there’s no reaction.

Then his eyes lower. His fingers loosen. The frown smooths out into something unbearably soft.

“I figured this was coming,” he says quietly.

The calmness hurts more than anger would have.

He lifts his gaze again, and when he does, something inside you stutters. His expression is… gentle. Too gentle. The kind of softness that always follows a storm.

“You’re the only one who ever did,” he adds.

The words are a knife wrapped in silk.

You swallow. “Izana, I-”

“You’re leaving,” he finishes.

Your breath trembles. “I need space. Time. I need to think clearly. Without all of this.” You gesture around the room. “Without Tenjiku. Without the violence.”

His head tilts a fraction.

“So… without me.”

Silence wraps around you.

You don’t say yes. You don’t say no. You don’t have to.

He nods once. Slow. Controlled.

“I won’t stop you.”

You weren’t prepared for that.

“Izana-”

He lifts a hand, palm out, almost tender.

“I said I won’t stop you,” he repeats. “If you’ve decided you need to fall, I won’t catch you.”

His voice doesn’t rise. His posture doesn’t tense. But something in the air goes cold.

It takes everything in you not to cry. You stand because if you stay seated, you’ll fold. You turn toward the door.

Just before you step through it, he speaks again.

“When you come back…” His voice is faint, almost curious. “…try not to make me wait too long.”

Your heart drops. Because he believes that. Because he expects it. Because some part of you knows he’s right.

You leave anyway. He doesn’t follow.

--------------------------------

Your apartment is too quiet.

You close the door and the silence hits you like a hand to the chest. You stand there for a long time, staring at the floor, unable to force yourself to move.

Then you slide down the wall, knees pulled to your chest.

You tell yourself you did the right thing. You tell yourself you’re free. You tell yourself breathing shouldn’t feel like drowning.

Sleeping becomes impossible.

The first night, you close your eyes and see his face. Expression calm in the dim light, the faint crease in his brow when you told him you didn’t recognize him. His fingers intertwined tightly, like he was holding himself still for your sake.

You roll over, burying your face in the pillow.

“I don’t miss him,” you mumble to the empty room.

The lie tastes bitter.

The dreams start on the second night.

In one, you’re back in the storm-lit orphanage. Izana hooks his pinky around yours and says I’ll catch you, but this time his grip bruises.

In another, you find yourself walking through Tenjiku’s halls, following a faint trail of blood, only to realize it ends at your feet.

In the worst one, he doesn’t speak at all. He just stands across the room, looking at you with eyes so hollow and desperate you wake up gasping.

Every morning, you’re exhausted. Every night, you dread sleep.

Your body operates, but you don’t feel present in it. You stop cooking. You forget to eat. Your phone buzzes with messages from people you used to know; classmates, coworkers, neighbors, and you ignore them all.

You were raised in isolation. You know how to survive alone. But it never felt like this before.

Empty. Unmoored. Like the moment you walked out that door, someone cut a tether you didn’t know was holding you up.

You whisper into the dark one night, voice cracking:

“I guess I need you, Izana…”

You press your hand to your mouth immediately, horrified at yourself.

But the truth echoes anyway.

--------------------------------

The signs don’t come all at once.

First: a Tenjiku boy across the street, pretending to check his phone while glancing at your building.

Second: someone knocks on your door at 2 a.m. You freeze, listening. No voice, no footsteps. Just a single knock, specific and strangely familiar.

The next morning, a note is slipped under your door.

Be careful who walks behind you. -I

Your hands shake.

You crumple the paper into a fist and press it against your forehead, heart pounding.

You left him. You left.

So why does it feel like he’s still holding you by the wrist?

Kakucho appears on your doorstep three days later.

He knocks softly, almost apologetic. When you open the door, his face falls the second he sees you.

“You look awful,” he says gently.

You let out a shaky laugh. “Thanks.”

“I mean it. Come on.”

He walks inside without waiting for permission. He always used to ask. Another difference you can't ignore.

You sit together on the couch. He doesn’t speak at first. He just studies you, your hollow cheeks, tired eyes, the slight tremor in your hands.

“He shouldn’t have let you leave like that,” Kakucho says eventually.

“He did,” you whisper.

“That doesn’t make it right.”

A painful silence stretches.

“Has he… asked about me?” you ask, hating the way your voice breaks.

Kakucho sighs. Runs a hand through his hair.

“He’s not himself.”

You huff a shaky breath. “He hasn’t been himself in a long time.”

“That’s not what I mean.” Kakucho looks at you, expression tight. “He’s unraveling.”

Your stomach twists. “Because I left?”

“Because he doesn’t know what to do without you,” Kakucho says. “He doesn’t know how to exist without someone anchoring him.”

You swallow. “That’s not my job.”

“I know.” He leans forward. “But it’s how he thinks.”

You look down at your hands.

Kakucho continues, voice quieter:

“He’s been sending people to watch you.”

“I know,” you whisper.

He nods once, jaw tightening.

“What he feels for you- it’s not normal. It’s not healthy. But he believes it is.” Kakucho hesitates. “I’m not telling you to go back. I’m telling you to be careful. The more lost he feels, the more dangerous he gets.”

Your pulse stutters.

Kakucho reaches out, gently, placing a hand over yours.

“You’re not alone,” he says. “Even if he made you feel like you were.”

Your eyes burn.

For a moment, you lean into the warmth of his hand.

For a moment, you let yourself breathe.

But even then, even in that quiet, safe moment, you feel it.

A presence like a shadow at your back. A tether pulling faintly at your ribs.

A whisper you’ve been trying not to hear: You’ll go back.

All it needs is the right push.

And you don’t know yet that it’s coming. Not from Izana. Not from Kisaki.

But from a girl with blonde hair and a soft smile.

A girl whose death will shatter everything.

A girl named Emma.

--------------------------------

You don’t hear about Emma from Izana.

Of course you don’t.

You hear it from Kakucho. His voice shaking in a way you’ve never heard before, breath uneven, eyes blown wide with something between disbelief and devastation.

He knocks on your door without warning. Not the soft, guilt-laced knocking from before.

This time it’s frantic. Urgent. You jerk the door open, startled.

“Kakucho-?”

He grabs your shoulders. Not rough, but desperate.

“She’s dead.”

Your mind stutters. “What- who-?”

“Emma,” he rasps. “Emma Sano.”

You freeze.

Your hands go cold. The world narrows to a pinpoint.

Emma. Sweet, gentle Emma. Mikey’s sister.

You shake your head. “No. Kakucho, that-”

“She was attacked,” he cuts in. “She didn’t make it.”

Your breath catches painfully in your throat. You feel yourself sinking, vision wobbling. But Kakucho isn’t done.

“And there’s something else.”

“…what?”

He hesitates.

And that’s when the memory hits you- something Izana once said in passing, quiet and offhand:

“Emma and I… share blood. Same mother.”

A small confession. A rare moment of softness. A truth you’d tucked away without knowing how important it was.

Your stomach twists violently.

“Kakucho,” you whisper. “Emma is his sister.”

He closes his eyes, guilt tightening his features.

“I know.”

“Then why… why would he…?”

“He didn’t stop it,” Kakucho says, voice breaking. “He didn’t stop Kisaki.”

Your pulse roars in your ears.

“He LET Kisaki kill her?”

“He approved it,” Kakucho answers. “He said it was… necessary.”

Your knees buckle.

Kakucho catches you before you hit the floor.

Your voice cracks open inside your throat. “But she’s his sister.”

“I know.”

“He lost her too. He- he lost her too.”

“I know,” Kakucho repeats, pained. “But he doesn’t process family the way other people do. Not you. Not me. Not Mikey. Not Emma.”

Tears spill down your cheeks, silent and hot.

“He killed his own sister,” you whisper. “His own blood.”

“He didn’t see her that way,” Kakucho says softly. “Not like he sees you.”

The implication hits like a knife.

Izana chooses family in a way that’s warped and transactional. Conditional. Possessive.

Emma was expendable.

But you.

You are not.

And that realization chills you more than the grief.

--------------------------------

That night, you can’t breathe.

You pace your apartment, barefoot on cold tile, hands shaking. Every time you blink, you see Emma smiling, twirling her hair as she teased Mikey. You see her laugh. You see her hope.

Gone.

Because Izana let her die.

Your chest twists painfully, like something sharp is lodged between your lungs.

How could he? How could he? How could he?

The boy who held your hand during storms. The boy who whispered that he’d catch you if you fell. The boy who once spoke of Emma with softness, reluctant, but present.

He let someone murder her.

You slump onto your bed, gripping the edge so hard your knuckles go white.

He broke something inside his own bloodline, and he didn’t even flinch.

A sob tears out of your chest, muffled against your sleeve.

You want to hate him. But you miss him.

You want to scream. But you want to hear his voice.

You bury your face in your pillow.

“Why can’t I stop wanting you?” Your voice cracks. “Why can’t I stop needing you?”

Your phone buzzes. You flinch. An unknown number.

Come to me.

Then another.

We need to talk. —I

Your stomach twists, a sickening drop.

Because now you know exactly what kind of man he is.

And yet… You’re already getting dressed.

--------------------------------

Tenjiku HQ is silent when you walk inside.

Not tense, silent. Like the whole building is holding its breath.

You step into his doorway.

Izana sits on his bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor.

His hair is messy. His hands tremble, subtle, but you know the signs.

He senses you before he sees you. He lifts his head slowly.

His eyes lock onto yours, and something fragile passes through them, a flicker of pain so quick you almost doubt it.

“You came,” he murmurs.

Your voice shakes. “What did you do?”

His expression doesn’t change.

“About what?”

“Emma,” you whisper. “Izana- she was your sister.”

A beat.

He inhales softly.

“Yes.”

A simple confirmation. Detached. Cold in its quiet acceptance.

“And you let Kisaki do it?” Your voice breaks. “She was your family.”

He stands. Slowly. Deliberately.

“My family,” he says, stepping closer, “is complicated.”

“She didn’t deserve that!”

“She was in the way.”

Of what? You don’t even get the question out.

He continues:

“Mikey keeps taking everything from me. Every legacy. Every connection. Every blood tie that should have been mine.”

“That doesn’t justify-”

“She was his weak point,” Izana says plainly. “So I removed it.”

A sound escapes you. Small, strangled, halfway between a sob and a gasp.

He reaches you in two steps. His hand cups your jaw.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“Izana… she was your blood too.”

“And she meant nothing to me,” he says, voice soft, too soft. “Not in the way you do.”

Your blood runs cold.

He strokes your cheek, thumb brushing away a tear before it can fall.

“She never belonged to me,” he murmurs. “Not the way you do.”

You jerk back slightly, but he follows your movement, closing the distance with a precision that feels predatory.

“Izana-”

His forehead presses to yours.

“You’re trembling.”

“Because I’m scared,” you whisper.

A small, haunting smile touches his lips.

“You’re scared of losing me,” he decides.

Your breath stutters.

“No,” you breathe. “I’m scared of you.”

His smile doesn’t fade. He likes that answer. He likes it too much.

His hand slides to the back of your neck, fingers cold against your skin.

“You came back,” he whispers. “Even after everything. Even after you learned what I did.”

“T-that doesn’t mean-”

“It means you belong with me,” he says. “It means you always have.”

Your heart slams against your ribs.

“This isn’t love.”

“It’s the only kind I know,” he murmurs, voice trembling with emotion he barely contains.

That softness. that trembling. that breaking-at-the-edges desperation.

It ruins you. It pulls you closer. He holds you like something precious and doomed.

“I can lose Emma,” he whispers. “I can lose Mikey.” His grip tightens until you gasp. “But I can’t lose you.”

And the terrifying part? Your fingers curl into his shirt.

And you let him hold you.

--------------------------------

You don’t know how long Izana holds you.

Minutes. Hours. A lifetime compressed into the shape of two bodies pressed together in a room that suddenly feels too small to breathe in.

His forehead stays against yours. His hands stay on your neck and waist. His breath stays uneven.

You should pull away. You should run.

Instead, you freeze. Not because you want to-

but because you’re afraid that if you move, something inside him might snap. And worse, you’re afraid of how much you want to stay.

Izana pulls back just enough to see your face. His eyes search you with devastating intensity, as if memorizing every tremor, every pore, every sign that you’re really here.

“Don’t leave,” he whispers.

You swallow. Your throat is raw.

“Izana, I didn’t say-”

“You didn’t have to.”

His fingers tighten at the back of your neck, not painful, but final.

“You came back,” he repeats. “That’s what matters.”

You shake your head. “Izana, coming here doesn’t mean I’m staying. It doesn’t mean I-"

His expression softens in a way that turns your blood cold.

“Yes, it does.”

There’s no arrogance in the words. No anger. Just certainty.

Certainty built from childhood storms and shared beds and whispered promises in the dark.

Certainty built from you being the only person he ever let close enough to hurt him. Certainty built from the way you came back after everything.

“Izana…” Your voice cracks. “Emma was your sister.”

His jaw tenses, but the softness doesn’t leave his eyes.

“I know.”

“And you let her die.”

“I know.”

“Doesn’t that haunt you?”

His fingertips trace your cheek, featherlight.

“No,” he says. “But this does.”

His thumb rests just below your bottom lip.

“The idea of you walking away again.”

Your breath catches.

This is the moment you should run. This is the moment you should scream. This is the moment you should tell him the truth. You’re terrified of him, of yourself, of the gravity between you that feels less like love and more like drowning.

Instead, you whisper:

“You can’t keep me here.”

He leans in, lips grazing the shell of your ear.

“I don’t need to keep you,” he murmurs. “You stay on your own.”

A shiver runs through you. Because he’s right.

Some part of you is anchored to him. Has always been. No matter how violently you try to sever the thread, it knots itself back together the moment you see him.

That’s the part that scares you more than his violence.

Izana steps back, but only enough to cup your face fully in his hands. His eyes are burning now, bright in a way you haven’t seen since childhood.

“Promise me something.”

Your stomach knots.

“Izana-”

“Promise,” he insists softly, almost tenderly, “that you won’t leave again.”

Your heartbeat stutters.

You open your mouth.

But before you can speak-

the door flies open.

Kakucho.

He looks between you and Izana, and his face drains of color.

“(Y/N)… what are you doing?”

Izana’s expression shifts instantly, warmth draining, replaced by something cold and sharp.

“Kakucho,” he says, voice quiet. “Leave.”

“No.” Kakucho steps inside, shutting the door behind him. “Izana, she can’t stay here. Not like this.”

Izana turns fully toward him. And suddenly, the air in the room becomes dangerous.

“Be careful,” Izana says softly. “You’re close to overstepping.”

“I’m already overstepping,” Kakucho fires back. “Because someone has to. You’re scaring her.”

Izana’s eyes flick to you. You look away. That’s all it takes.

Something cracks in Izana’s expression, silent, small, lethal. He takes a step toward Kakucho.

“You think you get to decide what scares her?”

“I think someone has to protect her,” Kakucho says, voice steady despite his trembling hands. “Especially from you.”

Izana laughs.

It’s quiet. Empty. Unhinged around the edges.

“Protect her from me?” Izana repeats. “She came here on her own.”

Kakucho looks at you again, pleading.

“(Y/N)… tell him. Tell him you want to leave.”

You open your mouth. Izana’s hand finds your wrist.

Gently. But unmistakably.

You freeze.

Kakucho’s face breaks.

“Oh God,” he whispers. “He’s got you again.”

Izana’s grip tightens, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you it’s there.

“She’s not a hostage,” Izana says calmly. “She’s here because she needs me.”

Kakucho steps closer.

“No. She needs help. She needs space. She needs someone who won’t use her fears to keep her close.”

Izana doesn’t even flinch.

“You don’t understand,” he says. “She can’t leave. She falls apart without me.”

Your pulse spikes.

Kakucho turns to you again.

“(Y/N), please. Say something. Tell him you want to go.”

Your mouth opens. Your throat closes.

Izana’s hand slides down your arm, intertwining your fingers with his.

Warm. Familiar. Final.

Your breath trembles.

And the truth. The horrible, pathetic truth is that your legs give out at the thought of walking away.

You hang your head.

“Kakucho,” you whisper. “I… I can’t.”

Not I don’t want to. Not I’m staying by choice. Just-

“I can’t.”

Kakucho’s eyes fill with something like mourning. Izana smiles.

It’s soft. Triumphant. Haunting.

He pulls you a half step closer, hand on your waist.

“See?” Izana murmurs. “She’s mine.”

Kakucho’s voice cracks.

“She’s scared of you.”

“I know,” Izana says. “But she still came back.”

He cups your cheek again, turning your face toward him, his gaze unbearably tender.

“You always come back.”

Your breath is shaky.

“And you’ll always fall,” he whispers. “I just need to be here to catch you.”

The words, once a childhood promise, now sound like a sentence. Kakucho backs toward the door, pain written across his face.

“I’ll try again,” he says quietly. “Even if you hate me for it.”

Izana doesn’t even look at him.

“You won’t succeed.”

Kakucho leaves. The door shuts.

Silence.

Izana exhales, relief washing over his features as he slips an arm fully around you, drawing you into his chest.

His heartbeat is steady.

Yours is not.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, kissing the top of your head. “It’s alright. You’re safe with me. You always have been.”

You close your eyes.

Because the truth feels like a tide pulling you under:

You are not safe. You are not free. You are not choosing him. You are remaining.

Izana rests his chin atop your head. His hand threads through your hair. His arms tighten. And your breath stutters in your throat. because you finally understand: You didn’t come back to him.