#writingcommissions

The burden of the Zenin name had always been a gilded noose, but for you, it had tightened into a literal cage of silk and cedar. 

In the chaotic power vacuum following the Shibuya Incident, the clan elders had reached deep into the lineage, pulling your name from the archives as a potential successor—a move calculated to bypass Naoya’s volatile arrogance. 

It was supposed to be your death sentence. 

Naoya had arrived at your doorstep that first night not with a marriage proposal, but with a sharpened blade and the cold, surgical intent of a man removing a stray thread from his tapestry. 

How could it be you? What a fucking joke.

He had intended to watch your blood stain the tatami, a quick sacrifice to his own ambition, yet the moment he pinned you against the wall, something in the friction of your defiance sparked a hunger far more dangerous than simple fratricide. 

He had looked into your eyes and seen not a rival to be extinguished, but a rare, shimmering prize that only he was refined enough to truly possess. Maybe it was base, primal desire talking, or maybe something more meaningful was what he saw in you at that moment.

Either way, then and there he had decided it would be a waste.

…

The sun set over the Zenin estate in bruised purples and deep, bloody oranges, casting long shadows across the room where Naoya kept you. 

The sliding doors were reinforced, the talismans serving as a strong back-up if you somehow managed to get those open. He’d taken every precaution to ensure escape wouldn’t be easy for you, because if you managed somehow, then he’d really have no choice. What a shame that would be…

When he entered, he didn't bring the atmosphere of a killer with him, but that of a doting, suffocating sovereign. He moved through the room with the grace of his Projection Sorcery, appearing beside you in a blur of motion that left the air feeling static-charged. 

Naoya dropped a heavy, embroidered kimono onto the floor beside you, the fabric a shimmering, pale pink that felt like a mockery of your former status. It was beautiful, yes, but you hardly wanted to picture yourself wearing it.

"You’re still so angry," Naoya remarked, his voice a smooth, melodic drawl as he leaned against the doorframe. "That little spark of rebellion. It’s cute, really, but don't you think it’s getting a bit exhausting? The elders who championed you are gone, tucked away in their graves or hiding in fear of what I’ve become. There is no throne for you out there. There is only this room, and there is me."

He sank to his knees behind you, his hands resting heavily on your shoulders. There was no warmth in his touch, only the terrifying pressure of ownership. He leaned in until his cheek brushed yours, his breath ghosting over your ear. "Do you remember that night? How easily I could have ended it? I had the knife at your throat, and for a second, I actually thought about it. But then you glared at me—as if a mouse could actually defeat a lion—and I realized I didn't want you dead after all. I wanted you exactly like this. Things worked out in the end.”

"I am the head of this clan by blood and by right," you whispered, your voice trembling despite your efforts to remain steady, with both fear and rage. "You’re a traitor, Naoya. A traitor to all of us.”

Naoya let out a sharp, cold laugh. "A traitor? Darling, I’m the only reason you’re still breathing. You should be biting your tongue and thanking me on your knees for keeping you in this beautiful little box." He used his thumb to force your chin upward, to look into those sharp, wolfish eyes. "But maybe you need a reminder of who actually holds the power here."

His hands slid from your shoulders, tracing the line of your collarbone in a way that made your skin pimple. Naoya’s eyes darkened, his usual smirk softening into something far more predatory and hungry. He pulled you back against his chest, his grip tightening until you were molded against the firm lines of his body.

"You were meant to be the next head," he murmured, his lips grazing the sensitive skin of your neck, sending a shiver of pure, unadulterated terror and something far more traitorous through your frame. "The perfect, untouchable leader. It makes it so much more delicious to see you like this. Unraveling in my hands. Tell me, does your 'royal' blood boil when I touch you? Or is that just the realization that you’ll never belong to anyone else?"

He turned you around in his arms with a sudden, forceful push, pinning your wrists to the floor as he hovered over you. His fingers tangled in your hair, tugging just enough to force your eyes to meet his. "I think I’ll keep you here until you forget your own name," he whispered, his voice dropping to a gravelly, intimate heat. "Until the only thing you recognize is the sound of my voice and the way I make you feel when the lights go out. You wanted to lead the Zenin clan? Fine. You can start by learning how to serve its true master."

Naoya leaned down, his mouth hovering just inches from yours, his expression a volatile mix of worship and malice. "Show me that fire again," he challenged, his gaze dropping to your lips. "Fight me, or let me consume you. Either way, you aren't leaving this room tonight."

The damp chill of the Boiling Rock’s lower levels felt like a mockery of the Fire Nation's scorching reputation. 

Down here, in the shadows beneath the volcanic rim, your nose burned with the scent of sulfur and salt. You sat in the corner of your cell, the cold iron of your shackles biting into your wrists, listening to the rhythmic hiss of steam pipes. It was all you had to keep you company. All you’d had for a while.

Until you heard footsteps. Footsteps a shade different from the usual guard. They weren't the heavy, clanking boots of a prison warden. Somehow just from the sound, you could tell they had more authority…

The heavy metal door groaned on its hinges. Standing in the amber glow of the hallway lanterns was Prince Zuko.

He looked different than he did on the battlefield. The sharp lines of his red-and-gold armor had been switched for a more casual crimson cloth fit. His golden eyes, usually burning with a desperate, frantic need for honor, were now unnervingly calm.

Fixed. Entirely on you.

"Azula wants you dead," he said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp, husky in a way you couldn’t deny had an appeal. "She spent the morning describing the different ways she could make you scream before the end. She thinks you’re a loose end. A distraction."

He stepped into the cell, the heat radiating from his body instantly cutting through the subterranean chill. You scrambled back until your spine hit the jagged rock wall. Handsome as he may have been, nothing about this man was trustworthy.

"And what do you think?" you managed to whisper, your throat raw from days of silence. Any time you’d tried to speak to yourself for comfort, had earned you a sharp warning from your captors.

Zuko knelt, his shadow stretching long and distorted across the floor. He reached out, his hand hovering just inches from your face. You flinched and cowered, but he didn't pull back. Instead, he gently tucked a matted lock of hair behind your ear. 

Even just in a chaste touch like that, you could feel the heat. After so long alone, it took a little fight in you not to lean into it…

"Well, I think she’s right about one thing," he murmured, his gaze dropping to your lips before locking back onto your eyes. "You are a distraction. I haven't been able to focus on the Avatar, the war, or my father since we took you at the Earth Kingdom border. Every time I close my eyes, I see you looking at me the way you did then. All…defiant."

He leaned closer, his warmth becoming stifling. "I told her I would handle it. And right now, she’s waiting for the smoke to rise from this cell block."

Zuko’s hand moved from your hair to your throat suddenly, and while he didn’t squeeze, he clasped it just tightly enough to serve as a reminder of how easily he could crush the life out of you. Or, burn it out.

Whimpering, you reached up with your bound hands, the shackles clanking as your feeble grip wrapped around his strong wrist. If there were ever a time to appeal for mercy, it was now.

Tilting his head, he couldn’t hide a smirk. Cute.With his other hand, he ignited a small, concentrated flame, pulled forth from one of the torches outside. The heat of the fire danced between his fingers, illuminating the wine-colored scar that marred the left side of his face.

"You have two paths tonight," he stated, the flickering firelight making his expression look like a mask of tragedy and obsession. "The first is the one my sister demands. I leave this room, I turn up the heat, and I let the fire do its work. You’ll be nothing but ash by dawn, and I’m sure that’ll make Azula pretty happy.”

The flame grew larger, the roar of the heat beginning to singe the air between you. The very tips of your hair strands fizzled away where they were closest to it. Your eyes scrunched, as the heat hovering near your cheek began to sting your nerves.

"Or," he whispered, his thumb tracing your jawline with a possessive slow motion. "You realize that you belong to the crown. To me. You come with me now, and I will strike your name from every record. You’ll live in the shadows of my private chambers. And I’ll protect you. From everyone, but especially her.” Trust, he would need to. Zuko knew his sister well. She never let things go. “But, it’s only on one condition. You’ll never leave my side. You will be mine in every way a person can belong to another. How does that sound?"

The way he said it, it was almost poetic, almost twistedly romantic. Looking at his face though, you could see a dangerous, almost boyish glee. Sadistic desire.

Most of all, you felt confused. Lost. Why you? What was it that he saw in you that made him want you so? Why weren’t you as worthless to him as you were to Azula?

With time, you were sure you’d come to know the reason. Frankly, you weren’t sure if that was reassurance, or something you dreaded…

He extinguished the flame, plunging the cell back into a dim, suffocating orange glow. He leaned in until his forehead rested against yours, his breath hot against your skin. Intimate in a way you weren’t prepared for, enough to make you flush from something other than the temperature.

When all you could see were those increasingly crazed eyes, when the only life you had left to you now was as a prisoner, and perhaps soon, a dead one, some part of you…some part of you began to feel like maybe it wouldn’t be so bad?

Either way, you had to make your decision, and fast.

His command was simple.

“Choose.”

Chirp chirp.

“Aww. It's so cute.”

“You're okay to fly now, right?”

Armin was a very kind person. Not that you wouldn't have tried to help an injured bird yourself, you just wouldn't have even known where to start, and you might have only made it worse. Yet Armin knew exactly what to do. All his time spent reading those books had paid off in boatloads.

Now here you were. This once damaged little creature you had discovered by the stables one day was ready to fly freely again, and hopefully return to whatever family it had out there. Its wing was looking a lot better, and sure enough, it hopped around eagerly in his palms, ready to jet off.

“On you go then.”

The bird fluttered away just like that, flying up high into the blue, far above even the wall itself.

You smiled, before looking over at the hopeful blonde standing beside you. The light breeze ruffled his golden locks, his blue eyes sparkling.

It brought him so much joy, and in turn it did the same for you.

So that evening you walked back to the dorms quite happily, feeling the warmth of the sun as it spread its last few amber rays over the city before calling it a day, and revelling in the rare peace you had. Sure, you still had your training, but you didn't shy away from that. It was the duty you took on after all. A duty that would ensure you could keep having days like this...

“Shall we get something to eat before going to sleep? I think Sasha has some extra jerky that she stashed-”

You looked over at Armin with surprise when he suggested that. “Well! It's not like you to be so mischievous.”

“Hehe, ahh...” he sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck and looked at you with a blush. “We did a good deed today, so I feel like it's alright.”

Hell, you could run with that logic.

The two of you went to Sasha's room and Armin cautiously knocked, hoping she hadn't already scoffed it all. If she hadn't then it would be nice to spend the night eating it with you for company too. Yet when Sasha let you in with a smirk and a mouth already full of jerky strips, he spotted someone else in the room.

Someone he didn't really want to see right now. Not when you were around.

Eren. By all means, the two of them were best friends, and had been for years now. However...Eren was a little bit of a problem.

For you see, Eren had confidence. All the confidence that Armin didn't have. Eren was a lot smoother when it came to talking with, well, anyone. And while you seemed to like Armin well enough, he worried that you saw more appeal in his dark haired friend.

Dare he say it...preferred him?

Armin tried to take his mind off it. He tried to take his mind off it by eating that jerky with you. He tried to take his mind off it by chatting happily with you. He tried to take his mind off it by training to protect you.

But his mind was stuck to it like a moth in glue.

Jealousy.

Why couldn't he have been blessed with that confidence?

...He tried to take his mind off it by thinking only about him being with you.

…He tried to take his mind off it by forcing lucid dreams about you.

...He tried to take his mind off it by...building this for you.

A beautiful thing. That was what he called it.

Smooth iron bars he'd picked up from the scrap shed and worked on welding together. A base laden with the softest cloths and comfiest pillows he could find. A fine curtain draped around it like décor in the cities of Wall Sina.

It wasn't a cage. It was a home.

…

How fitting.

The dream you had that night was of the bird you had saved. You imagined you were up there flying with it freely. High above the world, looking down on the sprawling green lands and dense emerald forests, the sandy paths cut across the plateaus, your home within the supposedly safe stone confines of those walls.

It all looked so small from up here, like you could fit your entire life in a matchbox. All your problems seemed so petty then.

How nice it felt. To be truly free...

“Mmnn...”

A soft moan left you, [E/C] eyes fluttering open and settling upon a crimson color, a curtain around you. Frowning slightly, you sat up in the red glow and tried to ascertain where you were. Light was coming in from somewhere at least, illuminating this little cylinder.

It really was little. Maybe only a foot or two of extra space besides yourself in each direction, a circle of iron around you. You were sitting up on bundled cloth and various pillows, but it was still easy to tell you were located on a hard floor.

But...where the hell were you?

“...H...hello?” you questioned uneasily, and reached out to find a gap in the curtain, hand going between the suspicious bars that were arrange all around you. Pushing the fabric aside, you braced yourself for what you'd see.

A blue eye stared back.

“AH!” Crying out with shock, you recoiled and slammed against the other side of the cage, practically hyperventilating. Armin quickly pulled back from the bars too, gasping a little.

“Oh! I'm sorry, I-I didn't mean to scare you like that!”

...What? What the hell is going on here!?

“Armin, what is happening, what is this!?” you looked around yourself in utter disbelief. Your fingertips frantically felt up every polished confine you could see, it was easy to tell that this cage had been constructed with love.

A debauched, twisted sort of love.

“...I...I know it's a lot. A lot for you to take in right now, I'm sorry-” Armin stood up just so he could pull back the curtain fully and you could better see the room you were in. There was a simple white-sheeted bed pushed against the back wall, and a crudely made night-stand with an empty glass on it. The room was coated in a fine layer of dust which Armin kicked into motion when he walked around, dust motes drifting in what sunbeams made it through the partially opened window.

It was an old place. Like the attic of an abandoned home.

“...I uh...I made a lot of sacrifices for you...[Y/N]...” Armin spoke almost absently as he bundled up the curtain around his arms, having removed it completely from atop the cage so that you wouldn't have an obstructed view. It was only the morning after all, you ought to experience the rest of the day like he did, as close as possible anyway. That was only fair.

“-I was never really cut out for all that Titan business anyway. I'm glad I took you with me too, since, no offense, I don't think you are either.”

You might have taken offense to that indeed, if not for the far more insulting situation you were currently surrounded by.

“But I suppose without those field based training missions I wouldn't have spotted this place out here. Do you remember that spot we went to just to the East a little, still within the walls?” Armin reminisced. “We came out here to practice horse riding over long distances. Anyway, I don't think anyone else did, but I spotted this cute little abandoned place while we were here and I knew it would be perfect...”

The curtain in his hands was suddenly gripped, his nails digging in. It felt delightfully like clawing at the scalp of a certain someone...

“I'd just hoped I could take you here under different circumstances. But...” he sighed defeatedly. “...I really had no other option. There was no way you were going to end up marrying me with the way things were going with him.”

While Armin walked over to lay the curtain atop the dull bed, you looked ahead vacantly, baffled.

“...Him?” was as much as you could manage, and Armin didn't so much as glance around as he answered curtly:

“Eren.”

...That was what this was all about!?

Armin kidnapped you...because you had a crush on Eren...

...This was really happening right now.

Suddenly, your sweaty hands clamped up onto the bars and gripped them tightly. The cage had a door but of course it was locked tight. Every ounce of strength you had was focussed on the sole goal of bending them apart somehow, because you couldn't see any other way out.

“Fuck! Come on!!”

Armin glanced over his shoulder and sighed when he saw what you were doing, shaking his head like he was watching a dumb toddler. “Come on [Y/N], I made that cage out of iron. It's not something you can just break with your hands.”

Ignoring him, you tried harder, and you ended up shaking them, rattling the whole cage with your desperate and frantic motions. All you cared about in that moment was getting out.

How could Armin have done this!? Not only did it seem so odd for someone like him to have done such a thing, but since when was blacksmithing his forte!? Armin was a wildlife expert and ocean enthusiast, how could he even have the time to learn how to do this?

Well as much as it seemed to be well constructed, this cage was indeed flawed. One hard tug and you felt something shift. Looking down, you noticed that one pole hadn't been welded down properly to the base, and only a thin piece of metal was keeping it attached. If you could successfully remove that, you'd be able to squeeze out of here!

“Good thing you're a heavy sleeper [Y/N]. Don't worry, I'm not saying you were heavy or anything...”

Armin still seemed to be busy tidying up the bed, not worrying about it, just chatting with you casually.

“No...you're perfect. Head to toe.”

You took your chance while you had it. Leaning back and gathering your remaining effort, your leg shot out like instinct and kicked hard against the cage. The pole scraped and bounced out of spot, still hanging from the top but letting you move it aside so you could then scramble out.

He heard you then of course. If not the impact of your boot, then the sound of you scrambling towards the door like a dog pulling against his leash. Armin closed his eyes and took a deep breath. This wasn't an option he had even wanted to consider, but in the end you'd really left him with no choice...

Foolish [Y/N].

You didn't account for there being a solid wooden bat under that bed he was fixing, so when Armin swung and slammed it against your ankle you buckled more with shock than the searing pain and numbness. Dropping like a rock, your jaw was agape, eyes wide. The room melted around you as you sank through the earth.

Only one sound echoed in your head.

A crack.

…

“Aww...you're so cute.”

Armin dabbed some tears away from your cheeks. The fact that there was a gap in the cage to go along with the locked door he'd already crafted didn't matter. It wasn't like you could go anywhere now.

“Can't move, right?” those deceptively innocent azure eyes flickered up to you and he smiled a little when you nodded weakly. Your face was red with tears after only just coming to a little while ago, but surely you had been happy to wake up and see how prepared he'd been. You were all bandaged up, and he'd even gone to the trouble of picking some natural herbs to ease the pain.

“That's just great then.” he purred, resting on his haunches outside the opening you'd made. He had since pulled the pole off, and he picked it up, tapping it against his palm a few times before giggling. “Hehe~ you should be glad I didn't use this on you instead. Your leg might've come clean off!”

He was laughing at you. Telling a joke at your own expense. Yet he expected you to love him back?

You just stared at him in hollow silence, and his wide smile gradually faded back to a jaded smirk as he set the pole down beside him again.

“I know you're angry right now, but it's okay. I forgive you for that.” his boyish face turned dreamy, “I do love you after all. In time you'll love me too...”

Armin reached up to gently grasp one of the bars, looking through at you with wide and serious eyes,

“...You'll forget all about Eren as well.”

You just kept staring.

“Won't you?” he started crawling in through the gap, never ripping his own unblinking gaze away from you either. You only looked back into it without relenting.

“Won't you?”

When you still refused to answer, Armin lost his temper. His left hand slammed down on your broken right leg, gripping it like he might one of his 3DMG blades during a tense battle.

“AAHHHG--!!” you screamed, trailing off into a guttural choke of pain. Armin's hold loosened but your limb was left throbbing, the sheer agony never subsiding. It likely wouldn't for another few hours at least.

Closing the remaining gap between you both, Armin tilted up your now sobbing and cringing face with two fingers, studying you for a moment before leaning in and tenderly kissing your cheek. No need to rush things after all. When he pulled back you were managing to look at him through a squint, but there was no tense fury in your eyes anymore.

Just fear, and sorrow. Begging in silence.

Armin couldn't give that to you though. What you wanted the most...it was an unfortunate impossibility. Kind of like an animal too badly maimed to truly function again. Your love for Eren was an abhorrence, it went against everything natural here.

So of course he had to destroy it.

“Shh...it's okay, don't cry...”

Leaning in again, the boy chastely kissed your other cheek this time, gracing his lips with tears in the process. You could hear his tongue licking them away as he leaned in close to your ear, resting his mouth against it and speaking in such a gentle tone that you might have fallen for his act all over again.

“You'll learn, little bird...”

He whispered.

“You'll learn.”

The rain in Edge never seemed to wash anything away. It only slickened the gray streets, and made all the shadows that much deeper.

Lately, there had been a lot of those shadows…

You pulled your hood lower, stepping over a puddle glowing with the oily sheen of spilled mako, wanting nothing more than to get back to your apartment and shut out the miserable world. These days it was becoming harder and harder to hold onto hope. 

But there was something that made you freeze, as you passed by one of the many, winding alleyways. A pained groan, true pain.

Normally, you’d keep walking. In a city still recovering from Meteor and plagued by Geostigma, minding your own business was a survival trait. Especially when you were on your own like this.

Yet, driven by a reckless spike of curiosity, you stepped into the narrow alley.

Leaning heavily against the damp brick wall was a young man. He wore a stark black leather coat, his silver hair plastered to his forehead by the rain. 

His frame shook violently, one leather-gloved hand clutching his chest as a harsh cough tore through him. That was alarming enough, considering the rampant sickness that had spread here before.

But it was his eyes that stopped your breath. Even in the dim light, they glowed with an eerie, luminous green. They seemed almost cat-like by design, he had a face like no other you had seen before.

And…it was a face you realized you recognized. From all the rumors you’d heard.

He was one of the Remnants. The dangerous, silver-haired trio that had been sighted terrorizing the outskirts of the city. This was Kadaj, you were fairly sure.

Before you could retreat, his head snapped up. Those glowing eyes locked onto yours, wide with a volatile mix of malice, but at the same time they looked strangely vulnerable. The last expression you would have expected from such a known menace.

"What are you looking at?" his voice hissed, sharp as a razor, though it cracked slightly at the end. He reached for the hilt of the double-bladed sword at his hip, but the movement exhausted what little strength he had left. 

His knees buckled, and he slid down the brick wall, a snarl twisting his pale face as he hated himself for his own weakness. There was nothing he despised more.

You should have run. This man was a known danger, but still…he didn’t seem that way in this moment.

Instead, you took a step forward, your hands raised in a peaceful gesture. To a fault, you were someone who struggled not to intervene when you saw someone suffering right in front of you. That was why you tried to keep your head down most of the time so you wouldn’t see it at all.

It rarely led to anything good. "Are…are you okay? You look like you’re hurt…”

"I don't need pity," Kadaj spat, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He leaned his head back against the brick, staring up at the dark sky as the rain washed over him. Rather than trying to hurt you, he instead attempted to ignore you.

Softly, he began to murmur under his breath. "Mother...why haven't you called for me yet? Am I not good enough?"

The raw despair in that slight voice struck a chord in you. He wasn't just a threat; he was a terrified child trapped in a lethal body, desperately searching for a mother who would never truly love him back.

And he had become so weak, he wasn’t even able to hide it.

"Hey," you said softly, kneeling in the wet dirt a safe distance away from him. "The rain isn't helping. If you stay out here, you're just going to get worse."

Kadaj let out a mocking, breathless laugh, his eyes slitting as he looked at you. "And what do you care? You should be running to your savior. Go find Cloud Strife. Tell him I'm here. Tell him to come get it over with."

"I'm not looking for Cloud," you replied quietly, holding his intense, glowing gaze. "I'm looking at you. And right now, you look like you need a place to dry off."

Your kind of kindness was something he was unprepared for. 

Kadaj looked at you fully. Stared at you, searching your face for deceit, mockery, or fear. Finding none of them (well, perhaps a little nervousness), his sharp features contorted with confusion.

He wasn't used to kindness. He was used to being a weapon, a brother, a leader—but never someone worth looking after. Least of all by a stranger, by a human.

Slowly, testing his limits, Kadaj pushed himself up from the ground. He swayed on his feet, his hand dropping away from his sword. While he didn’t say yes, he still made no move to hurt you.

"If you're lying to me," Kadaj whispered, leaning in close enough that you could see the faint luminescence of his mako-infused skin, "I'll make sure you regret it. You keep that in mind"You swallowed tightly, but didn't flinch. Somehow you had the feeling that was all talk. "Fair enough. Follow me."

The courtroom was a battlefield of words and evidence, and you had somehow ended up right in the middle of it. 

As a junior analyst for the prosecutor's office, your days were filled with sifting through documents, verifying alibis, and occasionally testifying on minor details. But today felt different. The case was high-profile—a murder tied to corporate espionage—and Miles Edgeworth, the legendary demon prosecutor, was leading the charge.

You'd seen him in action before, his sharp suits and sharper gaze commanding the room like a conductor wielding a baton. There was something magnetic about him, the way his cravat fluttered slightly with each precise gesture, his voice cutting through the chaos with unyielding authority. 

But you'd never spoken to him directly. Until now.

“Miss [Y/N],” Edgeworth's voice echoed through the chamber as he turned to you on the stand. His steel-gray eyes locked onto yours, piercing and unblinking. “Your analysis of the financial records is pivotal. Walk us through the discrepancies again.”

Your heart raced, not just from the pressure of the testimony, but from the intensity of his stare. You explained the forged transactions, the hidden accounts, your voice steady despite the knot in your stomach. 

He nodded once, a faint approval in his expression that made your cheeks warm. The defense attorney tried to trip you up, but Edgeworth dismantled their objections with ruthless efficiency. 

By the end of the day, the verdict was a conviction, and as the gavel fell, you caught him watching you again—from across the room, his lips pressed into a thin line.

…

That should have been the end of it. A win for the office, a notch in your resume. But the next morning, as you arrived at work, there was a package on your desk. No sender's name, just a neatly wrapped box containing a first-edition law textbook you'd mentioned in passing during your testimony. 

Your brows furrowed in confusion. Who could have known? You shrugged it off as a colleague's gift and dove into your next assignment.

Weeks passed, and the coincidences began to pile up. A late-night coffee run after crunching numbers? There was Edgeworth in the lobby, 'coincidentally' grabbing his own. He nodded politely, but his eyes lingered a fraction too long. 

A threatening note slipped under your apartment door, anonymous and vague? The police dismissed it as a prank, but Edgeworth appeared at your office the next day, insisting on reviewing your security. 

“It's my duty to ensure the integrity of my team's safety,” he said, his tone clipped, but there was an undercurrent of something fiercer, more personal.

You started to notice the patterns. Your schedule seemed to align with his more often than chance allowed. Files you needed appeared on your desk before you requested them, always with his meticulous annotations. 

And then there was the way he spoke to you now—direct, almost possessive. “You've been working too hard,” he'd say during breaks, his gloved hand brushing yours as he handed over a report. The touch was brief, electric, sending a shiver down your spine. 

You told yourself it was admiration, professional respect. But deep down, a thrill stirred, mingled with unease.

…

One rainy evening, after a particularly grueling day, you decided to walk home instead of taking the subway. The streets of Tokyo were slick with water, neon lights reflecting in puddles like shattered glass. 

Your mind wandered to Edgeworth—his unwavering focus, the rare glimpses of vulnerability when he thought no one was watching. You'd caught him staring at you during meetings, his expression softening just enough to hint at the man beneath the prosecutor.

A shadow detached from the alley ahead, and your steps faltered. Two men, rough-looking, blocked your path. “Hey, miss, you look like you could use some company,” one leered, his breath reeking of cheap sake. Panic surged as the other grabbed your arm, yanking you toward the darkness.

“Let go!” you shouted, struggling, but their grip tightened. Rain poured harder, muffling your cries. Then, a voice sliced through the storm like a prosecutor's objection.

“Release her. Now.”

Edgeworth emerged from the downpour, his coat billowing like a cape, umbrella discarded at his feet. His face was a mask of controlled fury, eyes narrowed to slits. The men laughed at first, but something in his stance—the coiled readiness, the aura of unyielding authority—made them hesitate.

“Walk away,” he commanded, stepping closer. 

One man shoved you toward his partner and lunged at Edgeworth, but the prosecutor sidestepped with grace, delivering a sharp strike to the assailant's knee. The man crumpled with a yelp. The second hesitated, then bolted, his accomplice scrambling after him into the night.

You stood there, drenched and trembling, as Edgeworth turned to you. Without a word, he shrugged off his coat and draped it over your shoulders, the fabric warm from his body heat. “Are you hurt?” His voice was low, urgent, his hand hovering near your cheek as if afraid to touch.

“I-I'm fine,” you stammered, but your knees buckled. He caught you effortlessly, pulling you against his chest. The scent of his cologne—crisp, like polished wood and faint spice—enveloped you, steadying your racing heart.

“This cannot happen again,” he murmured, his breath warm against your hair. “I won't allow it.” There was a possessiveness in his tone that sent a confusing mix of fear and warmth through you. He hailed a cab, bundling you inside, and gave the driver your address without asking.

The ride was silent, save for the patter of rain on the roof. Edgeworth sat rigidly beside you, his gaze fixed on the window, but you felt his awareness like a tangible force. When the cab stopped, he paid and escorted you to your door, scanning the hallway with predatory vigilance.

“Thank you,” you whispered, fumbling with your keys. “How did you...?”

He met your eyes, his expression unreadable. “I was following you. For your protection.” The admission hung between you, heavy and undeniable. Before you could process it, he stepped closer, his fingers tilting your chin up gently. “You have no idea the dangers out there. Or how much I…” He trailed off, his thumb brushing your lower lip, a spark igniting in the air.

Your breath hitched. This was Edgeworth—stoic, impeccable Miles Edgeworth—looking at you like you were the only truth in a world of lies. “Miles,” you breathed, the name slipping out unbidden.

His eyes darkened, and he leaned in, capturing your lips in a kiss that was both tender and fierce. It was a claim, soft yet insistent, his mouth moving against yours with a hunger he'd kept leashed for too long. 

Your hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer, the world narrowing to the heat of his body, the subtle press of his frame against yours. It ended too soon, leaving you both breathless, foreheads touching.

“I cannot lose you,” he said softly, his voice raw. “Not to this city, not to anyone. You're mine to protect.”

The words should have alarmed you, but in that moment, wrapped in his coat and his gaze, they felt like a promise. You nodded, dazed, and he pressed another kiss to your forehead before stepping back. “I'll see you tomorrow. And every day after.”

As he walked away into the rain, you touched your lips, heart pounding. He had ensnared you with all the skill you’d expect, and strangely, you weren't sure you wanted to escape.

The Camaro's engine growls softly as Billy pulls up to the curb outside your dorm, the headlights cutting through the misty haze of the college parking lot like twin beams in the fog. 

It's late—past midnight—and the campus has emptied out, leaving only a few stragglers chatting on the steps, and the occasional rustle of leaves in the autumn wind. 

You slide into the passenger seat, the door thudding shut. The interior smells familiar: leather worn from years of use, a faint trace of his cologne, sharp and musky, and the lingering smoke from the cigarette he probably crushed out before arriving. 

That’s his way. He does what he wants. Whether his father hates it or not, and all the better if he does.

Billy doesn't look at you right away; his hands rest easy on the wheel, fingers drumming a lazy rhythm as he waits for you to buckle in.

"Rough night?" he asks, voice casual, almost lazy, as he eases the car away from the dorms and onto the main road leading out of town. His profile is sharp in the glow of the streetlights, blond curls catching the orange hue, but there's a tightness in his shoulders that you can't quite place. 

He's dressed in his usual—faded denim jacket over a black tee, sleeves pushed up to reveal the corded muscles of his forearms—but tonight, he seems weirdly tense, more tense than usual. Like a coiled spring disguising itself as a slouch.

You settle back, the seat conforming to your body, and let out a sigh. Small talk it is, much as you hate it. "Yeah, exams are kicking my ass. Spent the whole evening cramming with some people from class." 

The words tumble out easily; this has always been your buffer with Billy, a way to navigate the edges of his intensity without diving straight in. Just…discussing the mundane. It’s harmless, right?

The radio crackles to life as he fiddles with the dial, settling on a low station playing some classic rock—Springsteen, the guitar riff weaving through the air like a threadbare comfort.

He nods, eyes on the road as the campus fades in the rearview. "College life's treating you good, then? All those late nights, parties..." There's a lilt to his tone, teasing but not pressing, and he shoots you a quick glance, the corner of his mouth quirking up in that half-smile that could charm or cut, depending on the day. 

The highway stretches out ahead, sodium lamps casting rhythmic shadows over the dashboard, and for a few miles, it feels almost normal. Billy's Camaro eats up the pavement smoothly, the tires gliding smooth against the asphalt, and you let the conversation drift. Talking about your professors, the cafeteria food that's somehow gotten worse, a funny story about a group project gone wrong…

"Sounds like you've got a full plate," he says after you finish laughing about the mishap, his voice warm but with an undercurrent you can't ignore, like the way the engine's rumble vibrates.

He reaches over briefly to adjust the heat, his arm brushing yours in the process. Accidental, or so it seems…and the contact lingers in your mind, a spark of warmth in the cooling night air. Circumstance may have brought the two of you together somewhat unwillingly, but there’s no denying that you’ve always felt attracted to him.

The miles tick by, the town lights dimming as you head toward home, but then something shifts. The exit for the usual route—the one that loops through the suburbs and drops you at your apartment—approaches, and Billy doesn't signal. 

Instead, he keeps straight, veering onto a less-traveled artery that snakes away from the familiar path.

You sit up straighter, glancing at the signs whipping by. This road leads out toward the old quarry, empty and forgotten at this hour, lined with dense woods that swallow the moonlight. "Billy? This isn't the way home," you say, keeping your tone light but laced with confusion, your fingers twisting in your lap. 

His hands stay steady on the wheel, but you notice the way his jaw ticks, a muscle jumping under the skin, even if he doesn’t look your way. The radio dips lower, the song fading into a murmur as the road narrows, pavement giving way to patches of gravel that rattle under the chassis. 

"Needed a change of scenery," he replies finally, voice even, but there's a deliberateness to it now, like he's choosing each word with care. "Too many lights back there. Thought we'd take the long way. Clear your head after that study session." His eyes flick to you then, blue and piercing under the dim interior light, holding yours for a beat too long before returning to the windshield.

There’s something about this you really don’t like.

The detour settles over you like a weight, the trees closing in on either side, their branches forming a tunnel that blocks out the stars. The Camaro's headlights probe the darkness ahead, illuminating fleeting glimpses of deer eyes reflecting back or the glint of a discarded beer can on the shoulder. 

You shift in your seat, the leather sticking slightly to your jeans, and try to shake off the unease prickling at your neck. "Okay, but...why now? It's late. I just want to get home. Don’t you?"

Billy lets out a soft exhale, almost a chuckle, but it doesn't reach his eyes. He slows the car around a bend, the engine's hum the only sound breaking the silence for a moment. 

Then, as if the words have been simmering just beneath the surface, he speaks again. "That study group...it include that guy Steve? The one with the perfect hair? Steve Harrington, right?" The question lands casual at first, tossed out like an afterthought, but there's a probe in it—a hook disguised as idle curiosity. His fingers flex on the wheel, the veins standing out against his skin, and the air in the confined space of the car feels suffocating all of a sudden, clammy, and not just because of impending rain.

You hesitate, watching the dark road unspool before you, the white lines blurring into a hypnotic streak. Steve's face flashes in your mind. Easy smiles during lectures, shared notes in the library…a charmer for sure, but you push it down, not wanting to feed whatever this is. "Yeah, he was there. But it was just group work, Billy. Nothing big."

He hums again, the sound low in his throat, and the car straightens out onto a straighter stretch, the speed picking up just enough to press you back into the seat. 

"Just group work," he echoes, tasting the words, his tone still light but with edges sharpening. "He always that helpful? Lingering after, making sure you're 'taken care of'?" 

The jealousy creeps in now, not a flood but a slow seep, coloring his voice with a roughness that wasn't there during the small talk. His gaze darts to you again, assessing, the dashboard lights casting shadows that hollow his cheeks, making him look both familiar and dangerously unfamiliar.

You turn toward the window, the glass cool against your temple as you try to create some emotional distance, to diffuse the building tension with nonchalance. "Come on, it's not like that. Steve's just...around. Drop it, okay? Let's just get home."

The response is swift, visceral. Billy's right hand snaps across the console in a blur, fingers closing around your wrist with a grip that's ironclad and anchors you instantly in his orbit.

“Billy!?”

He tugs you closer across the bench seat, the motion abrupt and commanding. Your body angles toward him involuntarily, the seatbelt straining, and the world outside the windshield tilts for a split second before he rights the wheel with his left hand. 

His hold is firm and increasingly painful, thumb settling over your pulse point and pressing just enough to feel the frantic thrum beneath your skin. An intimate reminder of his control in this claustrophobic cocoon of metal and night.

"Drop it?" He repeats, his voice dropping to a murmur that's controlled, threaded with that dangerous calm that sends a shiver racing down your spine. 

The thumb strokes once, tenderly tracing the vein in a way that's almost soothing despite how he’s hurting you, holding you fast as the car barrels onward. Fear coils low in your belly, twisting with a tension that's sharp and unwelcome, a heat that blooms despite the dread, making your breath come shallow and uneven.

He doesn't release you, doesn't soften the grip as the road curves gently, the headlights sweeping over a faded billboard long abandoned to the weeds. His eyes stay mostly forward, but they flick to your joined hands, then to your face, intense and unblinking. 

"I'm looking out for you, that's all. Always have. Steve...he's a problem waiting to happen. Thinks he can slide in, play the hero, but what does he really know about you? The real you—the parts that keep you up at night?" 

His words build slowly, each one measured, but the restrained temper simmers beneath. You want to snap at him, remind him that he doesn’t know the ‘real you’ either.

You tug experimentally at your wrist, but his hold tightens fractionally, thumb pressing deeper, as if to say not yet. 

The questions pivot, turning inward, invasive. "Tell me—does he get it? The way things are for you? Or is it all just easy talk, surface-level bullshit? You trust him with your secrets? With what makes you feel safe?" 

"Billy, let go," you murmur, voice strained, but he shakes his head once, sharp, eyes locking onto yours for a longer moment this time.

"No," he says simply, the word final, laced with that possessive edge that brooks no argument. "Not until you say it. Who do you feel safe with? Me...or him? Be honest, baby…”

His hand loosens from the wheel a touch. Panic begins to swell, as you feel the ribboning road beneath start to slip away at an angle under the wheels. “I know when you're lying–" 

The words cut off mid-sentence as the Camaro drifts, tires skimming the gravel shoulder with a gritty whine that slices through the charged silence. His prized vehicle lists to the right, the world outside tilting in a nauseating sway: the dark treeline rushing closer, branches clawing at the periphery of your vision like skeletal fingers. 

Your heart slams against your ribs, a wild drumbeat drowning out the engine's roar, and you yank harder at his hold on your wrist, the pressure of his thumb now a vise that anchors you even as everything else spins toward chaos. “Billy please–!!”

The headlights sweep wildly across the underbrush, illuminating twisted roots and the glint of wet leaves, the road's edge crumbling away into a shallow ditch that looms like an open maw. Gravel sprays up in a staccato patter against the undercarriage, the steering wheel vibrating under Billy's lax grip as the car fishtails, rear end sliding out in an arc.

Your free hand shoots out instinctively, slamming against the dashboard for purchase, nails digging into the cracked vinyl as a scream builds in your throat, raw and desperate. The air whips through the cracked window, carrying the sharp tang of earth and impending disaster, and in that split second, the claustrophobic intimacy shatters into pure, visceral terror.

“BILLY! Stop—pull over, you're gonna—” 

Your voice cracks, high and frantic, the words tumbling out in a rush as the front tire catches the lip of the shoulder, jolting the frame with a bone-rattling thud. 

The Camaro teeters, suspension groaning, and you can feel the momentum pulling you both toward the drop-off, the darkness swallowing the beams of light. 

Panic surges hot and blinding, flooding your veins with adrenaline that makes your captured wrist throb under his fingers. As you shut your eyes tight, Steve's face flickers in your mind, irrelevant now, a distant spark against the immediate threat of twisted metal and shattered glass. 

You don't care about group studies or easy smiles; survival overrides everything, and the words spill from you in a breathless plea, laced with the fear that's twisting your gut into knots. 

“Okay, okay! I won't— I swear, Billy, I'll never hang around Steve again! Never talk to him, nothing! Just you, only you—please, God, get us back on the road!”

Your voice breaks on the last word, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the sheer force of the terror, body rigid against the seat as the car hangs on the precipice, engine revving uselessly against the angle. 

Billy's gaze sharpens, drinking in your capitulation like it's the sweetest surrender, a flicker of satisfaction cutting through the intensity. 

His thumb presses once more against your pulse, feeling the erratic hammer of it, before he lets go and both hands snap back onto the wheel with a decisive twist. Tires screech as he corrects the drift, muscles in his arm bunching under the denim sleeve, hauling the Camaro back onto solid asphalt with a jolt that snaps your head forward against the seatbelt.

The car straightens, engine settling into its familiar growl as the road reclaims its steady path, the ditch receding into the shadows behind you. He exhales slowly, the tension bleeding from his shoulders like air from a punctured tire, his jaw unclenching as the half-smile returns, softer this time, edged with triumph. 

The radio, forgotten in the chaos, crackles back to life with a tinny guitar solo, filling the cabin with a mundane normalcy that clashes against the pounding of your heart.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, voice low and approving, the words wrapping around you like smoke—possessive, soothing in their finality. He steers the car with one hand now, the other trailing lightly up your arm in a gesture that's almost tender, thumb brushing the inside of your elbow before withdrawing to rest on his thigh. 

The road ahead smooths out, the detour forgotten as he loops back toward the familiar highway, town lights twinkling on the horizon like a promise of safety. “See? Wasn't so hard. Knew you’d see it my way.”

You slump back into the seat, breaths coming in shaky pulls, the adrenaline crash leaving you hollowed out and trembling. 

Billy glances at you sidelong, eyes softer in the dashboard glow, and cranks the heat up a notch, the vents sighing warm air over your chilled skin. The miles unwind in relative quiet, small talk absent as the Camaro swallows the rest of the distance, pulling into your apartment complex in no time.

He kills the engine, the sudden silence amplifying the faint tremor in your hands. Billy turns to you fully then, reaching across to unbuckle your seatbelt with efficient fingers, his touch lingering at your shoulder. 

“Get some rest,” he says, voice rough but steady, the storm in his eyes banked for now. “We’re good. Yeah?” 

Still shaking, fit to cry, all you can do is give him the answer he wants.

“Y…yeah.” “And? What do you say?”

You can barely ‘say’ anything. You feel sick. But you do. Because it’s what he wants. “…Thank you for the ride…”

The announcement came on a dull Wednesday morning, right after midterms.

Your homeroom teacher tapped a stack of papers against the desk, calling for quiet — though it wasn’t necessary. Everyone had that post-exam foggy dread.

“Shujin is participating in the Tokyo Youth Ethics Initiative this winter,” she said, sounding rehearsed and strained, probably hungover. “As high-achieving students, some of you will be paired with external representatives. Consider it…an academic exchange.”

There was a murmur, but you kept your head down, doodling in the margin of your workbook.

You didn’t care, really. Until she said his name.

“And…Akechi Goro will be partnering with—”

Your attention snapped up.

Please no. Please…

She read aloud:

“…[Y/N].”

A small collective gasp broke out. A few envious groans. Someone whispered, “Lucky…”, which was particularly hilarious. What exactly was ‘lucky’ about that??

You blinked, processing. And in that blink, the classroom door slid open.

He walked in.

Perfect posture. Perfect smile. Perfectly rehearsed charm.

As always.

“Apologies for my late arrival,” he said, bowing slightly. “There was a scheduling conflict with my agency.”

Everyone straightened. Some girls tried to fix their hair in their phone screens. It was clear how many folks he had smitten.

He scanned the room politely and pleasantly, until his gaze reached yours. And there it held.

Longer than polite. Longer than pleasant.

But he smiled charmingly, disarmingly. Something about the smile made your stomach twist.

…

You and Akechi were given a shared binder and a thick packet of instructions.

Topic: “The Role of Ethics in Civic Responsibility.”

You could practically feel his boredom radiating off him. To be fair, it wasn’t all that riveting for you either. Even if it had been, though, how were you supposed to focus when he was the one you’d been glued to?

“Quite the surprise,” he said lightly, when class wrapped up and it was just you two packing to go. “I never thought Shujin would pair us.”

All you gave him was a tight-lipped, curt little nod. There was no strong attempt on your end to hide your disdain.

“They must think highly of you,” he continued. “Or perhaps they enjoy watching capable people suffer together.”

“That’s…encouraging,” you finally said, and dryly too.

He laughed softly. It was startlingly gentle, and real. Not nearly the arrogant sort of chuckle you’d expect from his sort.

“Shall we begin tomorrow?” he asked. “Kichijoji’s library seems quiet enough. I’ll rearrange my schedule.” “You don’t need to do that. I can work around—” “I insist.” His tone was syrup-sweet, but his auburn eyes said: It’s not a request.

“I want to give this partnership the attention it deserves…”

The way he said “attention” felt loaded. The way he looked at you felt even more so.

…

Kichijoji’s library smelled like old paper and pine cleaner, and it was nice and quiet at this time of day. Akechi arrived exactly on time to meet you, not a minute early nor late.

He removed his gloves before sitting, placing them perfectly aligned on the table. Then he opened your shared binder and scanned your notes like he was searching for flaws. You watched him leaf through it, expecting at any moment that he’d start getting critical.

But instead, he paused.

“Your handwriting is…” He tapped the margin. “Unpredictable.” “Unpredictable?” you echoed.

“Yes.” His gaze flicked to you.

“Half the strokes are hesitated. Half aren’t. You switch between two writing styles depending on the content. People don’t usually do that.”

He said it like he was revealing your blood type. You squinted at him though, scrunching your brow, finding it nonsensical. Pretentious.

“I didn’t know you analyzed handwriting.” “I analyze everything,” he said simply.

So it seemed…

As the hours ticked by, you began to notice he had the most irritating habit of watching you while you worked. Not discreetly, either. He observed you like he was constructing a psychological profile.

Every time you wrote a sentence, his eyes tracked the movement. Every time you phrased an argument, he paused to absorb your logic. Every time you shifted in your seat, he adjusted too. Mirroring without conscious thought.

At one point, when you challenged his assumption about moral absolutism, he went utterly still, looking shellshocked enough you’d have thought you’d just revealed the meaning of the universe.

“I’ve never heard someone disagree with me quite like that,” he said softly. “That’s never happened before. It’s…refreshing.”

He meant: You’re the first person who ever surprised me.

And he didn’t know what to do with that.

…

Over the next week, Goro became…

Different.

Not outwardly — everyone else saw the same polite, charming, well-spoken boy who could talk circles around a politician.

But with you? It was like he had begun to slip, just a little. 

He started showing up five minutes early to every meeting. Then it became ten, and fifteen, and so on, and so on. You’d always find him waiting for you, hands clasped and patient. A twinkle in his eye you hadn’t noticed before.

When you mentioned you liked a certain café near Inokashira Park, he “coincidentally” suggested working there the next day. He would correct your grammar, but then apologize immediately after. This was a guy you would never expect to apologize for anything.

But he seemed pleased — genuinely — when you snapped back at him. The questions that prodded you and poked at you and got a rise out of you, you were never shy about showing it. Yet he strangely seemed to like that fire in you.

He asked questions no normal partner would ask:

“Why do you hesitate before stating your opinion?” “Do you always rub your thumb against your palm when you’re thinking?” “You avoid topics about fairness. Why?” “Who taught you to write in such careful margins?”

“Why do you leave things unsaid?”

Individually, each question was nothing. You could even call any one of them stupid. Who cared? Big deal?

But together? It felt like he was peeling you open like a case file. All these minute, specific little details, the nuances of you. Akechi seemed to want to know it all.

…

It finally happened when you were in Leblanc.

A study session turned into an argument about one of your project’s examples. It was nothing serious, just a tiff about approach. But Akechi froze when you retaliated this time, not smirking the way he usually would when he was so clearly amused by you.

Then he said, very quietly:

“Why does it bother me when you disagree?”

You stared at him. He stared back, expression too raw for the mask he usually wore. Speechless, you wondered why he was asking you? How the hell were you supposed to know what was going on in his head? 

“This is absurd,” he murmured, almost to himself. “You’re just a classmate. A partner. This shouldn’t matter.”

His fingers tightened around his pen until his knuckles whitened.

“But it does,” he said, meeting your eyes. “You matter. And I don’t know why.”

The café buzzed softly with background noise. You felt the world shrink to his confession.

“Goro…” You said his name carefully. “...I don’t know what’s been going on with you lately, but it’s weird, ok?”

His breath caught, but you carried on, leaning across your side of the cafe table and looking into his eyes quite seriously.

“You’re right that it shouldn’t matter. We barely know each other, we aren’t friends. So…I don’t understand where this is all coming from—”

“No,” he said, almost desperately soft. “Don’t say it like that.”

He placed a hand on your notebook. Not touching you, but close enough that you shied back a little bit. “I don’t want this to be complicated,” he whispered. “But you’re unpredictable. You’re intelligent in ways I can’t categorize. You challenge me. You see things I don’t.”

His eyes darkened.

“And that terrifies me.”

He paused, and wrapped his hands deliberately around the coffee cup in front of him.

“But it also…anchors me.”

For a moment, he almost looked boyish. Innocent in a way that didn’t suit the haughty attitude he usually had. 

A shaky laugh followed.

“You’re becoming the control variable in an otherwise chaotic equation,” he said. “Something stable enough to measure myself against.”

Then, softer. “No one has ever done that for me.”

You weren’t sure whether he was confessing affection or dependency. Maybe both.

But one thing was unmistakable:

Goro Akechi — brilliant, volatile, elegant liar — had begun to orbit you.

And he had no intention of stopping.

…

A week later, your teacher announced that your project draft was the strongest in the cohort.

The class murmured when the results were announced. You couldn’t help but shoot Akechi a small, rare smile, you were actually proud about this. But he didn’t smile back.

His gaze was fixed—not on you—but on a student across the room who had whispered:

“Figures. Akechi carried them.”

A flicker of something murderous crossed his expression.

No one else saw it. But you did.

And Goro saw you seeing it.

When he approached you after class, he was perfectly, stiffly smiling. Without hesitation, he addressed the elephant, or rather, the classmate in the room.

“Don’t listen to them,” he said quietly. “They’re wrong.”

“I didn’t care what they thought,” you said. “Did you?” His breath shook. “I care when someone diminishes you.”

You froze, and squinted at him a bit. Had he forgotten the many times he had done that himself in the past?

He continued,

“And I won’t let anyone take credit for what you’ve achieved. Not my reputation. Not theirs. Not the world’s perception of us.”

Us.

The word lingered like smoke from a gun, and your mind flashed back to the way he had blurted out “you matter” back at the cafe. These pieces that had been perfectly lined up, you couldn’t ignore them anymore like the obvious wasn’t obvious.

Akechi took just a step closer in his polished school shoes.

“I won’t lose ground to anyone,” he murmured. “Not academically. Not emotionally. And certainly not when it comes to you.”

You hesitated, glancing up at him through your lashes. “You keep talking that way…why don’t you just come out and say it?” But he stepped back with a soft smile, almost bashful. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t be late.”

As he left, you stood bewildered, alone in the corridor.

Strange as it was, you were beginning to see it clearly. The truth of the matter.

The teacher had stuck you together against your will.

But Akechi wanted this partnership to last.

Forever.

The endless reflection of the mirror room didn’t just multiply Jiji’s face; it multiplied the claustrophobia. It multiplied the dread.

It multiplied every awful feeling that surrounded you and consumed you in that place. 

In every direction, thousands of versions of him held thousands of versions of you, creating a seamless, terrifying horizon of your own hopeless captivity.

As the days—or what felt like days—bled together, that initial desperate panic you’d felt began to numb until you felt like a ghost in your own body. 

And as you grew quieter, Jiji’s delusion didn’t stabilize; it mutated. The bright, lopsided grin of the boy you used to know was entirely gone, replaced by a restless, hyper-vigilant intensity. 

He was unraveling in the very paradise he had constructed for you. He treated you like glass, but glass he was entirely willing to shatter if it meant you wouldn’t slip through his fingers.

That was perhaps the most terrifying part of all of this. That, even if he claimed to love you, he would so easily, quite happily, hurt you, if it meant he could get what he wanted.

He would spend hours braiding your hair, his hands trembling slightly, whispering apologies for how rough he had been when he pinned you against the station wall.

"I didn't mean to squeeze your wrists so hard," he would murmur, pressing his lips to the faint, fading bruises. "You just...you make me crazy when you run, [Y/N]. You know I only did it to keep you safe. If you just stop trying to leave, I’ll never have to hold you like that again. Promise."

But the moment you pulled away, even a fraction, the tenderness evaporated. If you stared at a mirror for too long, trying to find a flaw in the glass, he would suddenly grab your face, forcing your gaze back to him.

"What are you looking for?" his voice would drop, losing all its warmth, his pupils dilating into sharp, dark points. "An exit? There isn't one. I told you. Are you looking for him? Is that it? You think he’s going to break through the glass like some kind of hero?"

Jiji would shake you, just enough to make your teeth click, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "He doesn't care about you. He’s out there with Momo. They forgot about you the second the doors closed. I’m the only one who stayed. I'm the only one who loves you!"

Then, seeing the terror in your eyes, he would break down, burying his face in your lap, weeping violently and begging you not to hate him. Again and again, over and over.

It was an exhausting, inescapable cycle. He was losing his grip on reality, and he was dragging you down with him.

…

To understand how someone like Jiji could become this kind of terrifying creature, it was necessary to look back in time…

Jiji had loved you since the beginning. It wasn't the loud, theatrical affection he threw around to mask his insecurities; it was a heavy, consuming thing. 

For months, he had played the role of the loud, goofy childhood friend, the reliable comic relief, because he thought it was the only way to keep you close. He forced himself to be loud so you wouldn't hear how fast his heart beat when you leaned against him.

And then, Okarun happened.

In reality, your bond with Okarun was built on shared trauma, survival, and a deep, platonic camaraderie. It was hard to find fellow humans who understood you so well, but Okarun was that rare kind of person.

You looked to him because he understood the supernatural madness tearing your lives apart. You didn't love him romantically. It was a different kind of affection.

But to Jiji’s fragile, deeply insecure ego, every look, every whispered plan, and every brush of your shoulders with Okarun was a trial by fire.

Jiji’s mind, poisoned by jealousy, began to distort every memory. Nothing was sacred.

When you laughed at Okarun’s awkward stuttering, Jiji didn’t see friend-to-friend reassurance. He saw a secret language he was locked out of. Something he wasn’t allowed to be a part of.

Every time Okarun stepped up to fight an alien or a spirit, Jiji felt a visceral, sickening wave of inadequacy. Why is it always him? Why does she look at him like he’s the savior?

The day Jiji truly lost it was a week before you got trapped. You had been hurt in a skirmish, a minor scrape on your cheek. Okarun had handed you a tissue, looking worried. You had smiled up at him—a tired, grateful smile.

Jiji, watching from the doorway, felt something physically snap in his brain. 

She never looks at me like that. I crack jokes, I act an idiot to make her happy, and she looks right through me. But he does the bare minimum, and she looks at him like he’s her entire world.

From that moment on, Jiji’s internal monologue was a relentless, frantic, paranoid loop.

Every time he saw you and Okarun in the same room, his blood boiled. He would feel a physical phantom itch under his skin, a desperate urge to physically wedge himself between you two, to scream at Okarun to get away from what belonged to him. 

He started staying up at night, staring at the ceiling, convincing himself that Okarun was actively trying to steal you away, that everyone was laughing at "good old, harmless Jiji" behind his back.

When the ghost station trapped you both, Jiji didn't see a curse. He saw a miracle. He saw a clean slate where Okarun didn't exist.

…

Back in the mirror room, Jiji was currently resting his head on your chest, listening to your erratic heartbeat. His eyes were wide open, staring at one of the infinite reflections of you both.

"You know," he whispered, his voice dangerously serene, "I used to hate myself. I used to hate that I wasn't enough for you. But this place...it showed me the truth. You just needed to be isolated from the noise. Out there, everyone was poisoning your mind, making you think you needed him."

His hands roamed over you like he was staking claim, sliding a little under your clothes as they ventured over your body. He had never gone so far as to take all of you, but the worst part about being touched like this was knowing that he could.

In here, in this cage, Jiji could do anything he desired. 

He sat up suddenly, his fingers gripping your jaw with that terrifying strength, forcing you to look at the mirror. 

"Look at us, [Y/N]. Just look. There's no Okarun here. No Momo. No ghosts. Just me. Forever."

You looked into the mirror like he wanted, but with no joy, no love. Just eyes hollow and brimming with tears.

In the reflection, Jiji leaned in, kissing your cheek with a soft, reverent sigh, completely blind to your despair. Or perhaps he could see it clearly, but nevertheless chose to ignore it, accept it. 

He was entirely, beautifully, and irreversibly insane—and in his mind, you were finally exactly where you belonged.