Vanille♡Rose

In the rugged, secluded world of the Higashimura village, Yuru has always been a pillar of stoic responsibility. 

As the son of the village leaders, he was raised to be a protector—not just of the village, but of the secrets it keeps. When your parents were lost to the mountains and his family took you in, Yuru took his role as your "elder brother" figure with a gravity that bordered on the holy.

But in the quiet corners of the village, where the shadows of the Daemons linger, that protective instinct has curdled into something far more restrictive...

…

The mountain air was crisp, and for the first time in weeks, you felt a flutter of excitement that had nothing to do with training or talismans. 

You were standing by the village well, talking to Kaito, a boy from a neighboring hunting family. He was funny, kind, and—most importantly—he looked at you like a person, not a precious relic to be guarded.

"I could show you the clearing where the blue lilies bloom," Kaito said, his face reddening. "If...if Yuru lets you off your chores tomorrow?"

You laughed, feeling a flush of your own. "I think I can manage my own schedule, Kaito. I'll meet you by the eastern gate at noon."

As Kaito waved goodbye and walked away, the warmth in your chest was suddenly snuffed out by a bone-chilling cold. The shadows stretched unnaturally long across the dirt, something eerie grew in the air, the mountains looming dreadfully.

"The eastern gate is dangerous this time of year."

Yuru was standing on the porch of the main house, his arms crossed over his chest. His Daemons, Left and Right, were not visible, but you could feel their presence. You'd come to recognize it. That spiritual aura, ever lingering behind him.

"It’s just a walk, Yuru," you said, trying to keep your voice light. "Kaito is a good tracker. I’ll be fine."

Yuru didn't move. His gaze was fixed on the path Kaito had taken, his eyes flat. No more of that caring brotherly warmth. "A good tracker for deer, perhaps…”

…

The next day, you waited at the eastern gate. Noon came and went. The sun began to dip behind the peaks, casting long, jagged shadows across the path. Kaito never showed up.

Frustrated and worried, you headed back toward the village, only to find Yuru sitting by the hearth, calmly sharpening his blade. There was a stench in the air, not just wet earth, but something like iron. With a shudder, you dismissed it, too glum to focus on it very much.

"He didn't come," you muttered, sitting across from him. "I thought he was different." "People are disappointing," Yuru said softly, his voice a low drone. "They make promises they cannot keep. They encounter things they aren't prepared for. It’s better this way."

"What do you mean, 'it’s better'?" You looked up, a sudden prickle of dread on your skin. "Yuru, did you see him?"

Yuru stopped sharpening. He looked at you, and for a moment, you saw the flickering shapes of Left and Right looming behind him—massive, silent, and predatory.

"I saw him," Yuru admitted. "I explained to him that your spirit is...fragile. That being near you puts a person at risk of drawing the attention of the Shadow Realm. When he realized the danger he was in just by knowing you, his 'courage' vanished quite quickly."

"You scared him off!" you cried, standing up. "You had no right—"

"I have every right!" Yuru’s voice didn't rise greatly, but it gained a terrifying, resonant edge. He stood up, towering over you, his shadow swallowing yours completely. At a time like this it served as a reminder of just what a difference there was between the two of you.

He had the kind of face that was boyish and seemingly innocent. But at this moment, he was unrecognizable. Those crimson eyes had lost whatever softness they had, and become sharp. 

Frightening.

"My family took you in. I fed you, I trained you, I kept the Daemons from tearing your soul apart while you slept. You belong to this house. You belong to me."

He stepped closer, his hand reaching out to grip your shoulder. Heavy pressure dug into your bone as he pressed his fingers taut against your shirt.

"You think you want a 'normal' life with a 'normal' person?" Yuru leaned down, his eyes locking onto yours with a manic kind of focus. "You wouldn't last a week. The world outside these mountains is a cage of a different sort. Here, you are safe. Here, I can watch you every second of every day."

"...I'm not a prisoner, Yuru." It was defiance, but it left your lips mousily, as if you weren’t even sure of it yourself. Because, weren't you? Was that not the perfect word for it?

"No," he whispered, his thumb brushing the line of your throat, mirroring the way he might handle a delicate bird. "You’re a treasure. And treasures are kept under lock and key. Kaito won't be coming back. In fact, I’ve made sure no one in this village will look at you that way again."

He smiled, and it was only small, but chillingly calm. Almost as if those words were nothing to worry about. As if none of it was. As if you ought to accept it as a new norm, no questions asked.

"From now on, your world is this house, these spirits, and me. I am the only one who can truly see you. I am the only one who knows what you’re worth. Isn't it a relief? You don't have to choose anymore. I’ve chosen for you."

Behind him, the Daemons hissed in low, guttural agreement, their forms finally bleeding into the physical world to block the exit. All the while he looked at you, his handsome features distorted by a hideous, growing grin.

A grin that told you all you needed to know. He was satisfied. Sickly satisfied.

You weren't an orphan anymore; you were a permanent fixture of his realm, and Yuru was never going to let the sun set on his prize again.

The bespoke alloy of the collar hit the stained carpet floor of the PC room with a dull thud.

For six months, that piece of metal had been a second skin. It was forged by Valko’s own hand—an elegant, seamless band of silver and dark chrome that looked like high-end EonCore tech to the untrained eye. 

To you, it was a leash, no better than something you’d chain up a dog with. It read your pulse, monitored your temperature, and broadcasted your exact coordinates to the apex predator of Linkon City.

No matter where you were, what you did, who you tried to beg to save you, all of it was fed back to him. Delectable information that ensured you were never out of his claws.

"I…I think we did it," Toby, one of your only friends, dared to whisper, his hands visibly shaking as he tapped away on his keyboard, running some final diagnostics. The glow of the monitors showed the sheen of sweat on his panicked face. The other two regulars, a pair of brilliant but naïve hackers who practically lived in the back room of this neon-lit arcade, looked just as terrified. 

They had managed to scramble the biometric locks and fry the GPS transmitter using a localized EMP rig. Magnificent work, really. They were wizards when it came to this stuff.

But they had good reason to be so on edge. Valko was cruel, yes, even to you. But not the kind of cruelty he could freely inflict upon anyone who wasn’t. That was so many leagues worse, you didn’t even want to imagine it.

You touched your bare throat, feeling raw skin for the first time in what honestly felt like eons.

"Thank you," you breathed, grabbing your stashed duffel bag from under the desk, meager money and belongings inside, enough to tide you over. "If anyone asks, I was never here. Wipe the security feeds."

"Already running the script," Toby said, giving you a tight, nervous smile. "Get out of the city. EonCore has eyes everywhere."

You didn't need to be told twice.

…

The Linkon City subway system at this hour was a desolate, liminal cavern of white tiles and flickering fluorescent lights. For such a chic, sleek city, there was a certain hour when everything became eerie. 

You swiped a pre-paid transit card, your heart hammering rapidly against your ribs as you descended the escalator to the deepest platform. The express train out of the city limits was due in three minutes.

Three minutes to freedom. Three minutes until you were out of his territory.

You didn’t want to get your hopes up too hard, but it was a challenge not to at least indulge your fantasies a little. Picturing you, finally on your own, finally in a place where you could be at peace. Somewhere rural, picturesque, green trees and fields. 

The chance to have friends again. The chance to feel true love. Not whatever this was. Not what he had mistaken for it. 

You paced the edge of the yellow warning line, gripping the strap of your bag so tightly it was a wonder it didn’t rip. You were just starting to believe it was real—that you had actually slipped through the fingers of the Chairman—when the burner phone in your pocket began to vibrate.

The harsh buzzing made you flinch, and nausea pooled in your belly. What if it’s–-

You pulled it out to check. The caller ID was Toby’s number, but that wasn’t any more reassuring. A spike of dread pierced you like a skewer. Why was he calling? Had the wipe failed? Or something worse?

You pressed the phone to your ear, answering despite the risk. 

"Toby? I'm almost on the train, did something—"

The sound that poured through the speaker made your blood run freezing cold. It was a wet, heavy crunch of machinery and bone, followed by a scream so raw and ragged it barely sounded human. 

Glass shattered in the background, what must have been a massive pane of it. You heard metal warping, bending and creaking in response to the sheer force of an Evol manifestation.

Then, the screaming abruptly choked out, replaced by the heavy bootsteps that seemed to haunt you anywhere and everywhere, no matter how you tried to escape.

"Where are you?"

Valko’s voice rattled deep, right through your ears and down to your frantic little heart. It wasn't the polished press-ready tone of the EonCore Chairman. It was the feral, guttural snarl of a beast that had just found its companion’s cage empty.

You couldn't breathe. Your throat locked up.

"Did you really think a few rats with keyboards could hide my scent from me?" he asked softly, almost in a tender way. But you heard the shriek of metal being crushed in his hand. "Hear that? That’s your collar. But you aren’t here wearing it…that’s strange…”

A little whimper choked up from your throat. Though he paused, you could simply feel it then. That sick smirk curling on his lips.

“Well, [Y/N], you decided you don’t love me anymore, that you don’t want to be together. That’s what this is telling me. And now, it’s time for you to make another decision.”

Distantly, you could hear bones grinding again, and someone groaning, pleading weakly.

“...Which one of your little ‘friends’ would you miss the least?”

Pure, unadulterated panic. You hit END and hurled the burner phone onto the tracks, watching it shatter against the rails.

But as the plastic broke apart, it all hit you at once. EonCore owned the cell towers. They owned the infrastructure. By answering that call, you hadn't just spoken to him—you had given him an active, localized ping. He didn't even need the collar anymore.

Pointless. It had all been pointless.

Now, because of you, your friends were going to die. Now, because of your own stupidity, it was likely you would too. 

Or, at the very least, you’d wish you could.

You spun around, looking desperately down the dark, cavernous tunnel. The digital board overhead flashed: TRAIN ARRIVING IN 1 MINUTE.

Run. You had to run.

But before you could take a single step toward the emergency exit stairs, the ambient temperature on the platform plummeted, and a predatory aura filled the air. The fluorescent lights overhead flickered wildly, buzzing with electrical interference, before popping out one by one in a rapid cascade down the platform.

Darkness swallowed the station, leaving only the dim, emergency red glow. Trembling, you cowered backwards as you heard something coming.

Not running. More like the heavy impact of something dropping down from the high maintenance shafts—a shortcut no human could survive taking.

But he could. There was so much he could do.

"I can smell you, [Y/N]. You’re afraid, aren’t you?"

The voice came from the shadows to your left. Too close. Impossibly close.

You backed up rapidly, your heel catching on the tactile paving at the edge of the platform. Down below, the tracks awaited. The distant, blinding light of the incoming train appeared in the tunnel, a distant roar as it approached.

It all happened so fast, but in a moment of blind, absolute terror, the tracks looked like a better alternative than whatever was waiting for you in the dark. The torment he might put you through if he got his hands on you again.

If the end came now, then…at least it would be on your own terms.

At least you’d finally be free.

You leaned back willingly, gravity pulling you toward the edge, an embrace you welcomed. You’d let it take you. You’d let the train do the job. And then—

A hand, cold as ice and hard as steel, clamped around your throat.

Windpipe near crushed, you were hauled forward with enough force to give you whiplash. The world blurred as he threw you against the tiled wall of the station, the impact knocking the air from your lungs. 

“ACK–!!”

Before you could even gasp for another breath, a heavy, solid body pressed flush against yours, caging you in completely.

The train roared past on the tracks behind him, the blinding lights strobing over Valko’s face.

He was a terrifying sight. His tailored, charcoal suit jacket was ruined, torn at the shoulders to accommodate the sheer, bulky expansion of his muscles. 

His golden eyes caught the flashing lights of the train, glowing with an unhinged intensity, worse than any you’d seen from him before. Sharp, prominent canines pressed against his lower lip as he panted, his chest heaving against yours.

There was blood on him. Under his nails, splattered on his cheek, soaked into the fabric. Just the smell of it alone set every nerve of your body alight.

“Don’t be fucking stupid. I’d never let you get away that easy…”

Valko leaned down, his face burying into the crook of your neck. He took a deep, shuddering inhale, inhaling your sweet scent, before pressing his sharp teeth lightly against your pulse point, and whispering…

"Never.”

The coffee shop was charming, the sunlight was hitting the table just right, and your date—a perfectly nice accountant named Sato—was halfway through a story about his weekend. It was the most normal, healthy interaction you’d had in weeks.

But it couldn’t last, could it?

Wintergreen marked Gero's entry. From the corner of your eye, you spotted a tall, slender figure in a high-collared jacket standing by the condiment stand, his face partially obscured by his long fringe. He was fiddling with a small, pressurized spray bottle, his movements twitchy and nervous.

"And then I told my boss—hic—I told him—hic—"

Sato stopped. His face went from a healthy tan to a violent, blotchy purple in seconds. His eyes began to stream with tears, and a series of violent, uncontrollable hiccups shook his entire frame.

"Are you okay?" you asked, reaching out.

"I—hic—I don't—HIC—" Sato gasped, suddenly clawing at his throat as a swarm of hives erupted across his neck. He looked like he was having a simultaneous allergic reaction to every substance on earth.

"Oh shit!" you shot up, "Somebody--!"

Gero appeared at the table as if by magic. He just materialized, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, a gesture uncomfortably casual. He looked down at Sato with a mask of absolutely feigned sympathy. "He looks...contagious. Or perhaps it’s a localized neuro-toxin? No, no, surely just a very, very bad case of the flu. You should probably head home, sir. Immediately."

Sato didn't need to be told twice. He stumbled out of the shop, tripping over his own feet, leaving you sitting alone with your cooling latte.

…

"That’s the third one, Gero," you spoke dully, your voice flat and weary as you stared at the seat Sato had just vacated.

Gero flinched, his shoulders hiking up to his ears. He sat down in Sato’s chair, his eyes darting around the room before settling on his own interlaced fingers. "The third what? People are so sickly these days, [Y/N]. It’s the pollution. The...environmental factors. Nobody washes their hands properly. It’s a dangerous world."

Oh? Bullshit excuses, huh? Yeah, no.

"The first guy got a nosebleed that wouldn't stop. The second girl started sneezing so hard she fainted. And now Sato looks like he swallowed a beehive," you said, leaning over the table. "And every time, you’re standing right there with that little spray bottle. Little too much of a coincidence if you ask me."

Gero’s facade cracked with that jab. The "shy guy" persona didn't disappear entirely, but there was a strangely dark expression on his face when he reached across the table, his hand trembling as it covered yours. His grip was light, but felt like it could tighten any instant.

"I can't help it," he whispered in a pathetic way. "I see them looking at you...smelling your scent...and I realize how unprotected you are. They have so many germs, so many hidden cruelties. They aren't like me."

"Gero. You're a professional assassin. You're literally the most dangerous person I know."

"Exactly!" Gero’s eyes snapped up to yours, wide and shimmering with a frantic, tearful light. "I know exactly how easy it is to break a person. I know a hundred ways to stop a heart with a single drop of liquid. So when I see a 'normal' man near you, all I see is a threat. I see someone who doesn't know how to keep you safe."

He squeezed your hand, his breathing becoming shallow, verging on a panic attack.

"I’m not killing them, [Y/N]. I'm a good man! Kinosaki told me a good man protects his partner. So I just...I adjusted their chemistry. A little airborne irritant to make them leave. A little paralytic to keep them from touching you."

"You're stalking me." So matter of fact was the way you said it, he recoiled, and had to compose himself.

"I'm guarding you," Gero corrected, a small, terrifyingly sweet smile touching his lips. "I’ve mapped out your entire social circle. I’ve identified the 'allergens'—the people who might try to take you away from the safety I’ve built. Don't worry. I’ve already prepared a special incense for your apartment. It’ll make anyone who isn't me feel...well, quite nauseous. You’ll have so much more peace and quiet now."

He leaned in, his forehead almost touching yours, the scent of chemicals and desperation clinging to him. Attempting to pull back only made him hold you tighter.

Between the two of you, he'd always been the one who lost composure. Yet seeing the mania so clearly made you feel it. Afraid. Enough to shake.

Enough to feel truly vulnerable.

"You don't need those 'normal' people." As he spoke, his breath was hot against your quivering lips. "They're fragile. They get sick so easily. But me? I'm immune to everything. I'm the only one who can stay by your side forever without rotting. Doesn't that make me the perfect candidate?"

Mei sat on your kitchen counter, legs crossed, idly swinging a stiletto heel. They were busy peeling an orange with a small, silver pocketknife. By the way they did it, it was clear they knew how to handle a blade.

"You’re being very quiet, my darling," Mei said, not looking up. The blade hissed through the citrus skin. "Is it the architect? I told you, the hospital said he’ll make a full recovery. Well, physically. He might have a phobia of dessert trolleys now, but that’s hardly my fault, is it?"

Hardly your fault? How can you say that..?

"I saw you trip the waiter, Mei," you said, your voice trembling as you stood by the sink, clutching a cold cup of tea. "I saw the way you looked at him when he fell, too. You weren't surprised. You were satisfied. Weren't you?"

Mei paused. They looked up, and for the first time, they didn't bother with the bubbly "matchmaker" mask. Their expression was flat, their eyes reflecting the dim kitchen light like pink, polished stones.

"Satisfied? That’s a small word for it," they murmured. 

They hopped off the counter and stepped toward you. The knife was still in their hand. "You want the truth? I was relieved. Seeing him crawl away in a puddle of wine and shame...it just confirmed what I already knew. He wasn't fit to breathe your air, let alone touch your hand."

"Who are you to decide that?" you snapped, backing up until your hips hit the counter. "You’re a matchmaker! Your entire job—the reason we even met—was to find me a partner. You've spent months 'optimizing' my life for a relationship!"

Mei laughed. But their eyes, they remained dull. Placid. They stepped into your personal space, the tip of the pocketknife clicking shut as they folded it away, but knowing it was handy was enough of a threat anyway.

"Oh, I did optimize you," Mei giggled like this was all endearment, "I fixed your wardrobe. I curated your social media. I made sure you went to the right cafes at the right times. But a funny thing happened during all that research, [Y/N]. I realized I was building a masterpiece. A perfect, beautiful, precious soul...and then I was expected to just hand you over to some salaryman with a boring hobby and a receding hairline?"

They leaned in closer, their face inches from yours. You could see the faint shimmer of their glittery eyeliner and the absolute, terrifying clarity in their gaze. Almost like mania. 

"The doctor? He would have made you move to the suburbs and give up your dreams for his career. The architect? He talked about himself for forty minutes straight. I watched him do it. He didn't ask you a single question about your day, about what you like, about how you feel. Not one."

"It was a first date, Mei! People are nervous!"

"No," Mei hissed, their voice dropping into a commanding tone. "They were tests. I gave them every opportunity to prove they were worthy of the 'you' I helped create. And they failed. Every. Single. One."

They grabbed your wrists, their grip surprisingly strong—the strength of someone who lived in a world of assassins and specialists. They pulled your hands up, pressing them against their chest. Beneath your fingers you could feel a rapid, thundering heartbeat.

"I’ve spent more time thinking about your happiness than you have," Mei said, their breath shuddering almost as if it were a pleasurable concept. "I know your favorite coffee temperature. I know which side of the bed you sleep on. I know that you cry at the end of that one old movie but pretend it’s just allergies. I have a 400-page file on your heart, [Y/N]. Do you really think I’m going to let some stranger walk in and ruin all my hard work?"

"You're insane," you whimpered, trying to pull away, but they only tightened their hold, pinning you against the cabinetry.

"I'm a specialist," they corrected with a manic grin. "And specialists get what they want. I decided tonight: the 'Marriage Project' is over. I'm canceling the contract. I’m the only one who knows the 'real' you, because I'm the one who helped you find them. Therefore, I’m the only one who gets to keep you."

They let go of one wrist to cup your face, their thumb dragging roughly over your lower lip.

"From now on, the doors are locked. Not to keep you in—though, let’s be honest, you’re safer here—but to keep the world out. You don't need a candidate, my darling. You have the matchmaker themselves. And I've decided we are a perfect, 100% compatibility, match."

"And if I say no?" you challenged, sounding like a mouse.

Mei’s expression softened into something pitying, patronizing, almost maternal. They leaned in and kissed your forehead, a lingering, possessive seal.

"You won't," they whispered. "Because I've already handled your phone. I've sent the 'break-up' texts to your friends. I've told your family you're going on a long, private retreat with your 'new partner.' You’re already gone, [Y/N]. You just haven't realized that the only person left in your world...is me."

They smiled, and in that moment it was all too clear to you that there really was no judging a book by its cover. The sweetest could be the most dangerous of all.

"Now," Mei chirped, their voice suddenly returning to its playful, high-pitched lilt as if the last five minutes hadn't happened. "Should we order Thai food for dinner? I already know exactly what you want."

The scent of rain and crushed sage always preceded him. 

It was a comforting scent, or at least, your body had been conditioned to believe so.

You sat by the window of the Great Hall, a blank sheet of magical parchment resting on your lap. You held a quill, but your hand hovered aimlessly. 

There was a nagging itch at the back of your mind, like a word on the tip of your tongue that refused to form. You felt as though you were waiting for someone—someone who wasn't here—but when you looked around the Atelier, everyone was accounted for.

"You’re brooding again, my dear. It doesn't suit the brightness of your eyes."

Qifrey’s voice was like silk, smooth and deceptively strong. He stepped from the shadows of the corridor, his white cloak fluttering behind him like the wings of a moth. His glasses caught the candlelight, obscuring his gaze for a fleeting second before he leaned down, pressing a hand to the table beside you.

As ever, he looked quite ethereal, in a way.

But it was hard to focus on the way he looked, when your mind was so bothered. 

"I...I feel like I've forgotten something important, Master Qifrey," you whispered, looking up at him. "A name. Or a place. Every time I try to grasp it, it melts away like ink in a basin."

Qifrey’s expression softened into that trademark look of gentle concern—the one that made his students trust him with their lives. He reached out, his thumb brushing your temple, trailing just along your hairline.

"It’s the aftereffects of the Brimmed Caps' attack," he said softly. "The trauma was deep. My memory-mending charms are simply helping your mind seal the wounds. If it hurts to remember, it’s because those memories were meant to harm you. Trust me to hold them for you instead."

You leaned into his touch, seeking stability. "You're always so kind to me."

He didn't respond immediately. Instead, he guided you back toward your private quarters—a room that had become increasingly filled with his things, his books, his presence.

…

That night, the "rest" Qifrey promised didn't come. You awoke with a parched throat and a heavy heart. The Atelier was silent, save for the rhythmic ticking of a clock and the distant lap of waves against the cliffs.

As you reached for the water pitcher on your bedside table, your hand knocked over a small, unassuming wooden box tucked deep under the bedframe. It wasn't yours—or was it?

Inside was a stack of parchment scraps, bound by a fraying ribbon. The handwriting was frantic, jagged, and unmistakably yours.

Day 14: He used the silver ink again. My mother’s face is blurring. I tried to draw her, but my hand wouldn't move. He’s watching the pen.

Day 22: I asked about Olruggio today. Qifrey told me Olruggio left the Atelier months ago. But I found a warm pipe in the workshop. He’s lying. He’s making them disappear from my head.

Day 30: If you are reading this, don’t drink the tea. The blue tea. It tastes like sage, but it smells like memory-rot. Run before the ink dries.

The air left your lungs in a painful rush. The "trauma" he mentioned...the "attack"...it wasn't the Brimmed Caps. 

It was him. 

You looked at your pillows and saw the faint, shimmering stains of silver-blue ink—the residue of magic poured into your ear while you slept, rewriting the architecture of your soul.

"It’s a heavy burden, isn't it? Knowing the truth."

The voice came from the doorway. Qifrey was standing there, devoid of his usual warmth. He wasn't wearing his glasses, and his one visible eye was sharp, piercing, and terrifyingly focused. He held a small crystal vial filled with a swirling, iridescent liquid.

"Qifrey," you gasped, clutching the notes to your chest. "You...you stole them. My family, my friends...you’ve been erasing them."

He walked toward you, his footsteps silent. He didn't look angry; he looked pitying. "The world is a cruel place for someone as talented and soft-hearted as you. They would have taken you from me. The Council would have used you as a tool. The Brimmed Caps would have turned you into a monster."

He stopped just inches away, his shadow looming over you.

"I am the only one who truly wants you for you," he whispered, reaching out to take the notes from your trembling hands. You tried to pull away, but your limbs felt heavy, as if the very air had turned to lead. "Not for your magic. Not for your potential. Just to have you here, safe in the quiet of my home."

"This isn't a home," you choked out. "It’s a birdcage."

Qifrey smiled, a small, heartbreakingly beautiful tilt of the lips. He uncorked the vial. The scent of sage filled the room, thicker than ever.

"A cage keeps the predator out as much as it keeps the bird in," he murmured. He dipped a fine-tipped brush into the vial. "You’ve had a nightmare, my dear. A terrible, confusing dream brought on by exhaustion."

"No...please..."

"Shh," he hushed you, his hand cupping your cheek with terrifying tenderness. He began to draw a small, intricate circle on your forehead, the ink cool against your skin. "Tomorrow, you’ll wake up, and the sun will be shining. You’ll remember how much you love the library, and how much you trust your Master. And these ugly, jagged thoughts...they'll be nothing but smoke."

As the magic took hold, the terror began to ebb away, replaced by a forced, hollow peace. The notes in your hand felt like gibberish. The man in front of you felt like your entire world.

"Who am I?" he asked, testing the limits of the spell as your eyes began to glaze over. Your voice was a whisper, vacant and sweet. "You're…Qifrey. My protector."

He leaned down, kissing your brow where the ink was still wet, his expression one of absolute, obsessive triumph.

"Exactly," he whispered. "And I'm never letting anyone hurt you again. Especially not yourself."

You should have listened.

As soon as you and Yuno started making romantic plans, others had been quick to warn you:

“I wouldn't trust her [Y/N]...” “She seems a little crazy, right?” “I don't think she's safe!”

Honestly, you were guilty of ignoring it all. Brushing it off like you'd never believe it. Everyone was just jealous because someone as beautiful and sweet as her had ended up falling for you.

That was what you had convinced yourself of.

Yet...that wasn't true.

The truth was often a bitter pill. In this case, it was lethal.

The innocent facade of that pink-eyed girl faltered the moment she found the message on your phone. Some indication that you had been...talking...to another person.

Someone else you liked? That could only be the case, surely, given the abundance of hearts you tapered off with at the end of your last message.

Saying goodnight to them? At 3AM? How long had the two of you been talking, exactly?

Truth be told, you were faithful to Yuno. It was impossible not to be, given that she was by far the best girl you'd ever met. So for her to even assume such a thing about you...you would never even think for a moment that she would. It was just too unlikely, right?

Your own naivete came back to bite you with a vengeance, almost as aggressively as her knife blade came swinging up against the front of your neck.

It was a miracle she even managed to stop it from plunging right through the front of your gullet.

The face you saw reflected in that metal was still tender enough, but you could spy the tiny twitches here and there that hinted towards something else. Lurking...just beneath…

“Who's that you were talking to, [Y/N]~?”

How she could still sound so saccharine was miraculous. She seemed fit to kill you on the spot, and all you could do was stand there and brace yourself. Her other hand was keeping both your wrists taut behind your back, her strength certainly proving to be something you had never predicted.

“Well?”

She prompted harder, squeezing firmly, digging in her nails and causing you to wince with pain.

“My friend! We've known each other for a long time, that's all! We just care about each other a lot!”

It was true. You'd send affectionate messages only because they'd been by your side for eight years. It didn't mean anything more than that.

Yet her darkened voice in your ear suggested she didn't exactly think so.

“...You care about each other? What about me, hmm? Why don't you care about me anymore?”

The knife pressed harder. Your breath hitched and heart stopped, time freezing still for one petrifying moment.

“Please Yuno--”

You were willing to beg her if it meant you'd live. Even just for one more minute…

“...I'm being silly, huh?” “H...huh?” “Of course you care about me!”

Suddenly, the atmosphere switched. Yuno's weapon dropped to her side again, still held by her hand, but accompanied by a friendlier face. You could see as much when she circled round in front of you, beaming ear to ear, her rose-hued eyes no longer hollow and dull, but sparkling with enthusiasm.

Speechless, you couldn't get a word in before she closed the gap and kissed you. Her tender lips on yours were usually a comfort. Now they felt like something you'd dread.

Everything about her had changed in one single moment.

All because you dared to do anything but dedicate your life to one person.

Yuno.

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.

Lumiose at night glittered like a circuit board.

Prism Tower throwing light across the boulevards, taxi horns echoing between the cafés and boutiques. It was beautiful from the street.

It was suffocating from the inside of Corbeau’s letter.

A crisp black envelope, delivered by a grim-faced Syndicate grunt. No return address, just a stylized rust-colored logo and a single line written in a precise, almost calligraphic hand:

“Come. Your presence is required.”

— C.

There was no threat written, but the threat radiated from the paper like static.

You shouldn’t have gone. You knew you shouldn’t have.

But ignoring a Syndicate summons in Lumiose? People whispered about what happened when you did, and some risks, frankly, weren’t worth taking.

So you went.

…

The Rust Syndicate building didn’t look like a criminal hideout.

It looked like a luxury bank: sweeping glass doors, marble floors, minimalist lighting. Everything so sterile and polished.

You expected a receptionist. A grunt. Someone to size you up, but there was nobody when you entered. A little awkwardly, you made a beeline for the elevator, figuring it was alright.

As soon as the doors slid smoothly open, there he was. 

Corbeau.

Small but sharp. Pale as a ghost beneath the neon lights of the display panel. The poison-drip tails of his jacket swayed slightly as he turned his head, violet eyes narrowing with polite annoyance.

“You kept me waiting,” he said softly, as if he couldn’t decide whether the idea amused or insulted him.

His Scolipede curled against the back wall, huge body coiled like a trap sprung halfway. Its mandibles clicked once, and caused you to flinch.

You swallowed in an effort to stay composed. “The letter didn’t have a time.”

“Everything has a time,” Corbeau murmured, adjusting his glasses with two fingers. “Did it not sound like a request to see you immediately?”

Apologetically, you dipped your head. Maybe he was right, maybe it did…

As the doors closed, you felt cramped. His presence didn’t take up physical space; it took up psychological space, thought-space, breath-space.

You had the sudden feeling you’d just been sealed into a vault.

…

After an uncomfortably silent ride, the elevator chimed and opened into a dim concrete hallway that didn’t match the expensive lobby at all. It was far more industrial and cold, greyish, and you could hear machinery humming behind the walls.

Corbeau stepped out first, hands clasped behind his back, posture perfect. Scolipede scraped out behind him, the sound of its armored legs skittering across the floor echoing in the tight space.

Corbeau didn’t look at you as he spoke.

“You handled my prior tasks efficiently,” he said. “Your work in the old apartment complex, the sewer system, the Connoisseur situation.”

He paused, lip curling a touch.

“You understand how to follow instructions.”

You frowned. “Those weren’t instructions. Those were jobs to clear someone else’s debt.”

“Semantics,” he said lightly. “You performed well. Accept the praise.”

He led you through a hallway of locked doors. You noticed each one had heavy steel bars. Reinforced hinges. Security panels. It did not feel like a typical office environment.

“What’s behind—?”

“Nothing you need concern yourself with yet,” he cut in, voice clipped. “Classified.”

You didn’t like the ‘yet’.

Not at all.

…

His office opened at the end of the hall, revealing a room with massive windows overlooking nighttime Lumiose. The city lights refracted through the glass, shimmering like gems, but Corbeau’s presence sucked all warmth out of the view.

He moved with elegant efficiency: pulling out a chair for you, brushing invisible dust from the edge of his desk, adjusting the angle of his chair by a fraction of a degree before sitting.

“Do you know why you are here?” Corbeau asked, lacing his fingers. His nails were so clean they almost gleamed.

“To threaten me?” you said before you could stop yourself.

His lips twitched. “If I intended to threaten you, you would not feel safe enough to speak.”

A pause.

“Or to breathe. Or do anything, really.”

Scolipede slid into the room with a low hiss. Corbeau placed one hand on its neck plates, lightly stroking. You realized — with a jolt — that the Pokémon relaxed under his touch like a loyal dog.

“Then why am I here?” you pressed.

He leaned forward.

“You took initiative,” he said softly. “You performed tasks meant for Syndicate members. You handled volatile spaces with caution but without fear. That interests me.”

Your throat tightened.

“And interests incur interest,” he added. “What kind of interest?” you asked.

He smiled. Thin. Precise. Concerning.

“Proximity.”

Without breaking eye contact, Corbeau opened the top drawer of his desk. Then he slid a folder across the surface toward you.

Your name was written on the tab. All you could do was just stare at it for a long, worried moment.

“You keep files on people?” you whispered. “I keep files on potential threats. And potential assets.”

He steepled his fingers. “You are…unusually difficult to categorize.”

You didn’t open it. You didn’t want to know what he’d observed.

But he told you anyway.

“You battle with hesitation,” he murmured. “But not out of fear. Out of empathy, no?”

He tilted his head, glasses glinting, momentarily obscuring his gaze.

“Your Pokémon trust you. A rare trait. Potentially exploitable by enemies.” “That’s not a bad thing.” “It is if others notice.”

His voice dropped. “And others have noticed. I felt I should inform you of that.”

Your pulse quickened. “Who?”

He leaned back, crossing one leg over the other in a way that seemed relaxed but wasn’t.

“People who want your potential,” he said. “People who want to manipulate it. People who want to destroy it.”

Corbeau’s eyes lowered, drifting over your posture, your bag, the scuff on your shoe from earlier.

Every detail. Every little inch of you.

“I won’t allow it.”

At that moment, it seemed like a good time to leave. But like it read your mind, Scolipede immediately shifted to block the door. A massive wall of poison and chitin you couldn’t hope to penetrate no matter how you tried.

“Don’t,” Corbeau spoke simply. Curtly.

And you didn’t. 

He rose from his chair and paced towards you, around you, observing you…

“When something interests me,” he said in a low voice, “I protect it. How one should.”

You tried to form a response. Your mouth was dry.

Eventually it became a struggle even just to look at him, and your eyes dove for the floor, head tilting completely downward. But his delicate, gloved fingers, dipped beneath your jaw and lifted it again.

He had no right to touch you so softly.

“You have no allies in this city,” Corbeau murmured. “No roots. No safety net. Nice as you are.”

Quickly, you jerked away from him. How could he speak like that? Like he knew you so well, inside out? Well, he didn’t.

“…Corbeau, I’m not joining the Syndicate. If that’s what you’re trying to do, then I’ll just tell you now that I refuse.” “That is your decision,” he said calmly.

“So let me leave.”

The smile he gave you was patient enough to get right under your skin, you hated it.

“...You’re not going to?” “You misunderstand,” he said. “You may walk anywhere you like.”

His lips fully curved into the smirk he’d been holding back. With such sharp features as his, it only looked all the more sinister.

“So long as it is within my sight.”

Immediately, your heart plummeted.

“You can’t—” “I can,” he said simply. “And I will.”

His voice went soft, velvet-dark, as he began walking the room again, framed against the glittering windows, the world beyond that now seemed unreachable.

“You have already proven your loyalty once. You will not disappear into the back alleys of Lumiose like so many foolish, lonely souls.”

His eyes sharpened when he stopped, and looked right at you again.

“I will not lose something I have invested in.”

With a shudder, you practically collapsed into the chair at his desk. You wished you would have had the bravery to refuse, but all you could do was sit there, weakly.

“I don’t belong to you,” you whispered.

His expression did not change, but there was a cold fierceness behind those lenses of his, a predatory look in the amber.

“No,” Corbeau agreed simply, and walked back over to you, until he loomed over you, taller and more imposing than he had ever looked before.

“Not yet.”