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kaize-25 · 29 days ago

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4 days with Ren!- Ren REDACTED x G.N Reader part 2

Words:8000

Genre: Fluff

Summary: — you encounter Ren, a seemingly shy and awkward stranger who enters your bookstore. At first, his nervousness and fumbling words leave you uncertain about his intentions, but as the interaction progresses, you begin to notice subtle, yet familiar traits about him. His nervousness, his playful yet shy demeanor, and the blue eyes all hint at something deeper, but it isn’t until later that you realize the truth—

( Reader is a g.n!)

EXTRA: Let me know if I continue this! This is kind of a heart-felt shit so don’t worry.

Reader can be a idiot at times, Since we don’t know Ren’s real name. His real name is taken as [REDACTED]

There's mentions of gore, blood

Hehe, You thought? hahahahahahahaHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

Elanor’s voice cut through the moment like a blade, her timing impeccable as ever. You didn’t hesitate—you took the out she’d handed you, a convenient excuse to slip away before you had to sit with… whatever that had been. Almost missed it, the way he looked at you as you left. Almost didn’t realize the way you looked back.

The realization hit halfway down the hall.

Your pulse kicked up, stomach twisting, something crawling up your throat—no, no, no. You pushed through the restroom door, locking it with a sharp click. Deep breath. Another. Hands braced against the sink, knuckles white. You forced yourself to look up.

And there it was.

Your reflection stared back, lips curled into something unfamiliar, something wrong. A smile. Not just any smile—a disgusting, involuntary, giddy thing stretching across your face like it belonged there.

"What the fuck," you whispered, gripping the edges of the sink like you could steady yourself against the sheer absurdity of it.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

The smile didn't fade. If anything, it deepened, like your reflection knew something you didn’t. Like it was laughing at you.

You coughed, a sharp, startled sound that broke the quiet, but the tightness in your chest didn’t go away. What the fuck happened to you?

Your fingers twitched against the sink, breath coming out uneven. This wasn’t like you. Wasn’t normal. But then again… maybe it was. Maybe you weren’t that strange. Maybe this was just—what? A moment? A crack in the foundation?

You stared at yourself, eyes darker than usual, pupils swallowing the color. Your heart thudded against your ribs, steady, slow.

It almost felt like you'd found something.

No. Someone.

Your treasure.

After your talk with Conan, you almost missed the note tucked between your papers. At first, you thought it was from Elanor—her handwriting was messy enough—but no. This was different.

It was from him.

Mr. "Ren."

He’d scrawled a message, neat but hurried. Said he’d wait for you. Said if you didn’t show, he’d take the hint—you weren’t interested. Called himself the stuttering guy from aisle 8, like you weren’t the one practically choking on your own breath the moment you saw him.

But you were sure. A hundred percent certain.

He was REDACTED.

You swallowed, but the name stuck in your throat like something sharp. It felt wrong—not just in your heart, but in the way it lingered, like it wasn’t meant to be spoken. Like it was forbidden.

Your fingers curled around the note, pulse thrumming in your ears.

He was just a little silly. Nothing to worry about.

"It’s okay," a voice purred, too close, too sweet. "I’ll guide you. <3"

You froze.

What?

You heard that.

Didn’t you?

After the unfortunate experience of running into two of them back-to-back—Jae, your ever-loyal buddy, and Leon, your childhood best friend—you were already exhausted. But then there was him.

Ren—REDACTED.

And his face? Oh, he was pissed. Not just annoyed—no, no. He looked like a tiny, furious dog, all sharp glares and bristling energy.

Because his owner—

STOP COMPARING HIM TO CUTE THINGS.

Okay, but still. He was cute—ugh, no, not now. The show must go on.

So much for the tolerant left.

"What? Sorry, I spaced out…" you muttered, shaking off whatever that train of thought was. You needed to focus. You had to introduce— him.

Leon was already giving you that look. The one that screamed who the hell is this guy, and why is he standing so close to you? You couldn't just brush it off, not with how overprotective Leon was. He’d have a meltdown if you introduced REDACTED as a stranger—let alone the guy from childhood.

Not that you even knew how to say that out loud.

Strangely enough, Ren—

STOP CALLING HIM REN.

REDACTED had moved in the same month as you. Same city. Same everything.

He’d told you that with this shy little stutter, like it was some bizarre coincidence. But… why did you feel like you already knew? Why was something tugging at the back of your brain—something oddly protective, like your instincts had already decided something for you?

Whatever. Jae was talking, suggesting clubbing, and—

REDACTED looked uncomfortable.

He hated smoking. Hated drinking. Because of his—

Wait.

How did you know that?

How did you—

"Ren doesn’t like that stuff," you said automatically, voice firm. "I’m drained from work anyway. We’ll both head out. Thanks, Jae. Leon."

Leon just smiled, tossing out a casual, "Alright, see ya, Ron."

Poor guy.

No need to feel bad—it's not like "Ren" was even his real name.

Oh, fuck. Ahaha.

WHY THE HELL ARE YOUR THOUGHTS SO LOUD? WHY DOES IT FEEL LIKE SOMEONE ELSE IS TALKING?

Something was seriously wrong with you.

REDACTED’s gaze lingered on the two of them for a little too long.

Not that it mattered.

HE DOESN’T CARE ABOUT ANYONE WHO ISN’T YOU—US—WHATEVER, HAHA—

"Let’s go home," you said, cutting off whatever strange spiral your thoughts were about to drag you into.

He blinked at you, confused.

"But, Angel—shouldn’t we go to the local locksmith? Isn’t that—"

"What are you whispering about, Ren?" You frowned, tilting your head. "Are you okay?"

He stiffened, like he hadn’t realized he’d said anything at all. A pause. Then he nodded, startled, and mumbled an apology—soft, almost cute.

And with that, the two of you left.

Your place wasn’t anything special—just your house. Your home. But standing in front of it now, with REDACTED at your side, something about it felt… different.

"I'm sorry if my place is messy," you muttered, suddenly self-conscious. Fantastic. You were about to show your absolutely chaotic apartment to your almost childhood fiancé. Way to go, Y/N.

"Hey, don’t worry about it." His voice was warm, too gentle for someone like him. "I know you're not a messy person."

Then he choked. Eyes widened, barely masked panic.

"I mean—!" He stammered. "You seem like… not that type of person."

You smiled.

His soft laughter filled the space between you, warm and familiar, almost loud enough to drown out the sound of your neighbor’s door creaking open down the hall.

They were all he could see. Fixed on them, like they mattered.

(They don’t.)

HE DOESN’T CARE ABOUT ANYONE WHO ISN’T THEM—US—WHATEVER, HAHA—

"Let’s go home."

A blink. Confusion flickering across his face.

"But, Angel—shouldn’t we go to the local locksmith? Isn’t that—"

"What are you whispering about, Ren? You okay?"

A flinch. A second too long before a response. Then, a quick nod—stiff, surprised. An apology, mumbled, soft. Cute.

And with that, they left.

Their home wasn’t anything special—just theirs. Theirs. But standing in front of it now, with REDACTED beside them, something about it felt… off.

"I'm sorry if my place is messy…" A hasty apology. REDACTED stepping over the threshold, eyes scanning the space. Fantastic. Just perfect. They were about to show off their absolute disaster of an apartment to their almost childhood fiancé. Way to go.

"Hey, don’t worry about it." His voice, warm. Too warm. "I know you’re not a messy person."

Then—a pause. A stutter.

A choke.

"I mean—!" A sharp inhale. "You seem like… not that type of person."

A smile. Their smile.

His soft laughter filled the space between them, warm and familiar, almost drowning out the creak of their neighbor’s door opening down the hall.

Violet

"Hello again, Y/n! We seem to be bumping into each other a lot today, huh? Oh—who's this?"

…How to explain that Ren wasn’t just some guy met at work today?

There’d definitely be a lecture about bringing a complete stranger home, no doubt. But still… It wasn’t like he seemed the type to murder anyone in their sleep.

If anything, he looked more like the kind of guy who’d sheepishly ask a waiter to take his order back because he specifically asked for no pickles.

STOP CALLING HIM REN

Ugh… Stop calling him a stranger. You and I both know—

Know what?

Violet giggles, her eyes twinkling with amusement. “Oh? So this is the boyfriend you mentioned this morning?”

Your mouth opens, stretching into a slow, peaceful smile.

——

"Tall guy? Wearing a dark slasher hoodie? Probably into either alt fashion or bondage with the crazy amount of belts and loops wrapped around his leg?"

Violet tilts her head, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "Oh, and he had dark black hair. Pretty striking, honestly."

Your stomach lurches. A memory flashes—soft laughter, small hands clutching a silver ring, a promise whispered in the naivety of childhood.

Could it be… him? The boy who vanished so long ago?

Before thinking, your voice stammers, "I-It’s my boyfriend!" The words tumble out, cracking just enough to make you cringe internally.

Violet blinks, caught off guard, before her lips curl into a teasing smirk. "Ohhh, really? Your boyfriend, huh? Well, now I definitely need to meet him. You should introduce him sometime."

You nod frantically, desperate to steer the conversation anywhere else. "Y-Yeah, sure, I’ll… I’ll do that."

——

Now, standing before Violet, you repeat those words without hesitation. "This is my boyfriend."

She hesitates, concern flickering in her eyes, but before she can voice it—

He had dark black hair. Maybe Vi's confused.

"I was sulking over work since yesterday, but then… REDACTED had appeared, cosplaying as your favorite anime character, like some dream made reality, I'm so, so lucky to have him.

A warm hand envelops yours, and a flustered noise escapes him. "O-Oh… Uh-! That’s… Um-!"

"Isn't he so pretty?" You’re practically swooning now, and Ren—REDACTED looks torn between catching you or letting the ground swallow him whole.

"I’m reeeally into the whole 'goth e-boy' style… But I love all sides of him! It's just temporary, though. Nothing compares to—"

Nothing compares to REDACTED.

You smile, almost innocent.

It’s 50/50—you don’t know if it’s really him. But still, the promise lingers. You would find those piercing blue eyes, no matter where you go.

Ren—REDACTED stiffens, his face flashing through a dozen emotions before settling on shock.

Violet, oblivious, grins. "Such a good boyfriend."

Then—"Childhood, huh?"

Since then.

REDACTED… smiles. But it’s nervous.

Violet waves, stepping back with a wink. "Guess I’ll be heading out. No funny business, you two."

And then, she’s gone.

But REDACTED is still standing there—staring at you.

Stunned.

REDACTED stands there, staring—staring at you like he’s seeing something he can’t bring himself to believe. His lips part slightly, but no words come out. Just silence.

And you—you look at him just as sadly.

"Come inside."

It’s soft, almost pleading. A whisper meant only for him.

His body tenses, fingers twitching at his sides. The weight of the past clings to him, heavy, suffocating. He hesitates—but you already know.

It’s you. I know it’s you.

He looks down, overwhelmed by something neither of you can name. And then, his hands shift, pulling back the sleeve of his cardigan ever so slightly—just enough for you to see.

Scars. Hideous, jagged reminders of everything that had happened to him. To you. To both of you.

Most were hidden beneath soft fabric, but the few stray patches of burned, discolored skin still peeked through. You barely register the way he flinches at his own vulnerability because your chest is already tightening.

He looks at you, almost broken.

"Come inside," you repeat, voice trembling, but you don’t wait for him to move. Your hands reach for his—scarred, shaking hands that you press against your chest, right over your heart.

His breath hitches.

And then, you break.

Tears slip down your cheeks as you hold his hand there, gripping it like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded. Like letting go means losing him again.

"I won’t run away this time."

You swallow hard, forcing the words past the lump in your throat.

"Leon isn’t here. He’s not here to take me away. Not this time."

His body trembles. His fingers curl slightly against your chest, like he’s trying to convince himself you’re real. That this is real.

And slowly—so, so slowly—his other hand rises, touching your face with the gentleness of someone terrified to break the very thing they’ve been searching for.

REDACTED stands there, staring—staring at you like he’s seeing something he can’t bring himself to believe. His lips part slightly, but no words come out. Just silence.

And you—you look at him just as sadly.

"Come inside."

It’s soft, almost pleading. A whisper meant only for him.

His body tenses, fingers twitching at his sides. The weight of the past clings to him, heavy, suffocating. He hesitates—but you already know.

It’s you. I know it’s you.

He looks down, overwhelmed by something neither of you can name. And then, his hands shift, pulling back the sleeve of his cardigan ever so slightly—just enough for you to see.

Scars. Hideous, jagged reminders of everything that had happened to him. To you. To both of you.

He looks at you, almost broken.

"Come inside," you repeat, voice trembling, but you don’t wait for him to move. Your hands reach for his—scarred, shaking hands that you press against your chest, right over your heart.

His breath hitches.

And then, you break.

Tears slip down your cheeks as you hold his hand there, gripping it like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded. Like letting go means losing him again.

"I won’t run away this time."

You swallow hard, forcing the words past the lump in your throat.

"Leon isn’t here. He’s not here to take me away. Not this time."

His body trembles. His fingers curl slightly against your chest, like he’s trying to convince himself you’re real. That this is real.

And slowly—so, so slowly—his other hand rises, touching your face with the gentleness of someone terrified to break the very thing they’ve been searching for.

"It’s fine," you murmur, the words trembling on your lips. "Maybe it’s hard to talk about...?"

You search his face, hoping—praying—for something. A flicker of recognition, of confession, of anything that could bridge the years between you. But he doesn’t answer.

Silence settles between you, thick and suffocating, like dust in an abandoned room.

"It hasn’t been that long," you say, voice barely above a whisper. "But… it’s been long enough."

The memories flood in like a tide you never learned to hold back. You exhale shakily, stepping into the past as though you had never left it.

"There was a kid," you begin, staring past him, through him, into something far beyond the present. "A kid who always stayed by my side. Even after everyone else had gone home."

His breath hitches, but he stays silent.

"That kid was always with me," you continue. "When I cried, when I smiled, when I was angry. When I felt anything. Even when the world burned them alive, they still came back."

A memory rises—soft laughter under a summer sun, the warmth of tiny fingers pressing a bandage onto your scraped knee.

"They had pigtails back then," you murmur, half to yourself. "Pigtails and colorful bandages—bright, ridiculous things. They always carried extra, just in case I got hurt."

The warmth of that moment—of little hands pressing a neon pink bandage over your skin, eyes bright with devotion—crashes against the cold, aching truth of the present.

"And I never realized," you whisper.

His shoulders tense.

"I never realized," you repeat, voice cracking, "that I was the first thing they saw and knew—knew in their heart, in their soul—was a treasure."

A bitter laugh escapes you, choking on regret.

"There was another kid, too." The words taste like rust on your tongue. "A nosy one. Always in the middle. Always dragging me away. Always saying he knew better. And maybe he did, or maybe I was just a coward, but this kid—"

You suck in a sharp breath, hands clenching.

"That kid—" you force the words out, voice trembling, "showed me a ring."

The room stills.

You don’t have to look at him to know his breath has stopped.

"Alone, in the park, just the two of us," you say, a tear slipping down your cheek. "They called me over, smiling. Giddy. Nervous. But I was so, so stupid. I let the nosy one win. I let him decide for me."

A sob rips from your throat, hands gripping your hair as if the pain could rewind time.

"Maybe if I had told Leon off, maybe if I had just—just said yes—"

The words dissolve into broken breaths. You lift your head, tears spilling freely as you meet his eyes—those same, familiar eyes. Blue as the sky on the day you lost him.

"Did it hurt you that much?"

He flinches as if struck, lips parting in silent devastation.

And you don’t think.

You reach for him, pull him in, despite the height, despite the years, despite the scars that tell stories you weren’t there to witness. Your arms wrap around him, fingers curling into the fabric of his cardigan, grounding yourself in the fact that he is here. He is real.

He doesn’t move at first.

Then—slowly, hesitantly—his hands rise. Trembling fingers ghost over your back before clutching onto you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.

He’s silent. Overwhelmed. But he doesn’t push you away.

And you wonder if maybe, just maybe, after all this time—he’s still waiting.

"Why...?" Your voice breaks, unraveling like thread in trembling hands. "Why did you disappear?"

His silence is a knife, sharp and merciless.

"Why did you leave me—only to come back as this?" You stare at him, breathless, shattered, eyes searching his face for something familiar, something that hasn’t been stolen by time and distance.

"Why are you still hiding?" You whisper. "Like you used to. Always with me, always just close enough to touch—but never reaching."

His lips part, but no words come.

"I’m sorry." The words taste like regret, bitter and thick. "I moved away. I left. I shouldn’t have—I never should have. There were things I should’ve stayed for, things I should’ve fought for—"

You suck in a shaky breath, hands trembling as you clutch at his cardigan, at the past that slips like sand through your fingers.

"If it’s you—" Your voice quivers, barely holding on. "If you were the one who came yesterday—"

You choke, breath stolen, tears burning down your cheeks.

"Did I ruin your life?"

The question hangs, unbearable. The room warps around you, grief curling at your throat like ivy.

A sound rips from your chest—raw, broken. A wail, a cry, a thing beyond words. You clutch at your chest as if the pain is something that can be pulled out, torn away, but it stays—it stays, like him, like the weight of a thousand unsaid things.

Tears fall, heavy as dying stars.

Even when fallen, you are still beautiful.

And he—he is the moon, distant and silver, lovely in his sorrow. He shines in the dark, not because he was born to, but because he must—because he has convinced himself he can be the sun, even as the light burns him alive.

You hold him tighter, pulling him against you, grounding yourself in the weight of him, the reality of him.

"Say it," you plead, voice hoarse, breath uneven. "Tell me. Tell me that it’s you. Are you—are you REDACTED?"

A pause—too long, too cruel.

His fingers twitch against your back.

"You must be," you whisper, desperate. "Please—tell me."

"I can’t."

Two words. Soft. Wrecked. The death of a prayer.

He almost chokes on your name.

"Angel..." His voice is unsteady, caught between a whisper and a plea.

He can’t speak, not fully—not yet. His throat bobs as he swallows hard, searching for words that refuse to come.

You shake your head. "I want to see the real you." Your voice is quiet but firm, filled with a certainty he doesn’t know how to handle. "I don’t know why you chose this—why you’re hiding behind it—but I don’t want Ren, or anything else." Your fingers tremble slightly as you reach for him, cradling his face as if to anchor him in place. "I want REDACTED."

His breath stutters, and for a moment, his wide blue eyes look impossibly lost.

Slowly, you lean up and press a kiss to his forehead—a quiet, lingering touch that speaks of all the years lost between you.

He stiffens under the affection, blinking down at you as though he can’t quite believe you’re real. A muscle jumps in his jaw as he scratches absently at the side of it, careful to avoid the empty spaces where his snakebite piercings once were. The action is automatic, a nervous habit, but his gaze remains soft.

Then, he exhales and steps back. "I should go."

Your heart twists. "Huh? Redacted, don’t—"

His hands come up, gently but firmly cupping your wrists as you reach for him again. His touch is hesitant, conflicted.

"No, Angel," he says, voice raw. "I won’t run. Not this time. But…" A thin, bittersweet smile tugs at his lips—one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. "I can’t be that person for you yet."

His fingers tighten, just for a second, before he lets go.

"Go rest." His voice is quiet, almost tender. "We’ll see each other tomorrow."

But even as he says it, he hesitates, his uncertainty bleeding through in the way he lingers at the door. His fingers twitch at his sides, his posture shifting as if part of him is waiting for you to stop him again.

Instead, you inhale, steady yourself, and meet his gaze.

"Are you okay with…?" He starts, but his words trail off, unfinished.

"I’m okay with the real you, Redacted."

You close your eyes as you say it, letting the words settle between you. A finality. A promise.

When you open them again, he’s still watching you—something unreadable flickering in his expression.

Then, finally, he nods.

And he leaves.

Your sobs come in shuddering waves, tears slipping between your fingers as you cradle your face in your hands. The weight of everything—the past, the present, him—it crashes down on you, leaving you gasping, drowning.

And then—

"Not bad."

A voice, low and smooth, echoes in the silence of your room.

Your breath catches. What?

Your hands slowly fall away from your face, trembling as you look around, pulse hammering in your ears. There’s no one here.

Except—

A shadow lingers just beyond the dim glow of the lamp. A figure, sitting. Watching.

Your stomach churns as the dim light flickers, revealing—

Yourself.

No—something wearing your face.

The reflection of you across the room is wrong, warped. The skin stretched too thin, lips pulled into a too-wide, decayed grin. It watches, hunched and still, bones protruding from papery flesh, the edges of its form flickering like a dying film reel.

"You’re good at this."

The thing’s voice is like dead air, static crackling beneath the surface, mimicking yours—but hollow.

Your fingers twitch toward your phone. You need to call the police. You need to run. You need—

But something in your chest lurches.

Why is your face… smiling?

Your lips are trembling, you’re crying, but your reflection is smiling.

And that’s when the realization slams into you.

This thing. It’s been watching.

No.

It’s been waiting.

It’s you.

Your breath is shallow, barely there. The air feels wrong—too thick, too heavy, pressing down on your lungs like a weight you can’t shake off.

And your reflection—no, the thing sitting across from you—it’s broken.

The bandages around your throat are darkened at the edges, as if they’ve been soaked through before, a deep wound barely held together beneath them. Your hands, stitched up in jagged, uneven lines, tremble faintly where they rest. Like something had chewed through them, like something had tried to take you apart and didn’t quite finish the job. (LIKE A FISH'S)

Your head throbs at the sight of the gash along your temple, the kind of injury that comes from falling, from being pushed, from hitting something unforgiving on the way down.

And in its palm—your palm—rests a ring.

Small. Golden. Drenched in red.

Your mouth opens, a dry, shuddering breath escaping as you take a step forward. Your knees threaten to give out beneath you.

What happened to you?

The thing across from you tilts its head—your head—lips still curled in that wrong, stretched grin.

"You tell me," it whispers.

The jagged edges of the broken bottle glint under the dim light as you tighten your grip. It feels cold. It feels right.

Your smile stretches, mirroring the twisted one on the decayed version of yourself. "It’s a gift," you say, voice eerily calm. "Got this from that glitching—"

You pause.

A static flicker crawls through the other you—limbs twitching, head jerking at an unnatural angle.

Then, it laughs.

Not just a laugh—a rupture. A sharp, splintering sound that digs into your bones and takes root.

"Ahaha...!! Another end not to him..."

The laughter warps, cracking at the edges, as it leans forward, skin peeling in places where decay has eaten through. Its dead, glassy eyes lock onto yours, and for the first time, you feel like you’re being seen.

"Do you know your situation?"

Your fingers tighten around the bottle. "...What?"

The grin widens, splitting skin.

"You don’t get it, do you? Oh, Angel... you never do."

The thing that is you—but not you—tilts its head, neck creaking like rusted metal. The decayed flesh around its mouth stretches, torn lips pulling into something too wide, too knowing.

"I am you. You are me."

It reaches forward, skeletal fingers hovering just above your cheek. Not touching—but close enough to feel the cold radiating from its decayed skin.

"Just another version... another path. A choice made, a choice regretted. I am the weight of what you never said. The hands that never reached. The love you were too afraid to claim."

The golden ring in your palm burns, slick with something warm, something red.

"It took me so long to make that entity see, to bring it to my side. To carve a way to you. But it’s fine."

Your breath hitches.

"This? This is just a version of events. Even this will end soon. But for now?"

It moves closer, forehead nearly touching yours, its breath cold against your skin.

"Happiness can exist... for a while."

Your vision swims, the room distorting—walls bending inward like lungs gasping for air.

"Until then..."

The not-you presses a finger against your chest, right where your heart beats too fast, too fragile.

"I'll be you."

The grin widens—too much, splitting skin down to the bone.

"And I’ll make your decisions."

Your pulse stutters.

"There’s no logic in this."

It leans in, voice dropping to a whisper, reverent and fevered.

"Only love."

The lights flicker.

"Only love him."

The shadows grow deeper.

"Love him."

Something inside you cracks.

"LOVE HIM."

You laugh.

No—you cackle.

A shrill, broken sound rips from your throat, echoing against the warped walls of your mind. It hurts, but you can’t stop—won’t stop.

"HAHAHAHAHA—!"

Your other self tilts its head, watching—no, admiring—your unraveling.

"Ahh, now you’re getting it."

Its voice drips with satisfaction, a twisted sort of approval.

"Redacted is Redacted. No matter what name, what face, what mask—he is him."

You suck in a breath, shivering, exhilarated.

"And you? You belong to him."

The glass bottle in your hand trembles as you tighten your grip. Your reflection, that thing, that you, grins back, stitches stretching.

"So love him."

Your laughter turns breathy, feverish.

"Love him."

Your head tilts, fingers curling around the ring—his ring.

Your chest rises and falls, erratic, desperate.

"LOVE HIM."

Your other self shudders, glitching, its voice breaking into static and sobs and delight.

"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA—!"

REDACTED, REDACTED.

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You woke up slowly, your body still heavy with the remnants of sleep, but something felt... different. A sensation at your feet stirred you—soft, almost jumpy. The faintest whisper, a barely audible "I'm sorry," grazed your ears. Your heart skipped a beat as realization struck you.

Who was it?

You rubbed your eyes, blinking away the fog, and turned your head, the room still dim. There, at your feet, a figure lay—dark, layered hair with a gradient that faded into pink at the tips, bangs hanging low, almost hiding the sharpness of his gaze. His eyes were half-lidded, like he'd been watching you for a while, though his face was soft, almost shy.

He looked... almost unreal, like some dangerous, beautiful thing come to life. His pale skin contrasted with the vibrant tattoos that wrapped around his arms, swirling black, white, and red designs as if telling a story of rebellion, of danger, of something far too chaotic to be controlled.

He was lean yet muscular, his collarbones sharp against the fabric of his tight, dark clothing, the kind of aesthetic that screamed goth, punk, and everything in between.

And there he was, his head resting on the bed by your feet, looking... almost like a puppy, but one with fangs.

He met your gaze, eyes softening despite his usual sharpness, and shyly murmured, "Hi..."

You blinked, trying to make sense of it, your heart racing in confusion. Redacted...?

It's you...?

The weight of his presence filled the room like an electric charge, and you felt your breath catch in your throat. How? Why?

Everything felt wrong, surreal, and yet so painfully real. Your pulse quickened. You wanted to reach out, touch him, but your fingers trembled, unsure.

His voice again, soft, almost shy but still carrying that same familiar, dangerous edge: "I'm sorry... I didn't mean to wake you." He was at your feet, but he looked like he was waiting for permission to come closer.

You couldn't believe it. Was this really happening? Was this really him?

You couldn’t help it. He was cute, in the most unexpected, chaotic way. There was something about the way he looked at you, that shy, almost nervous energy, mixed with the dangerous, rebellious undertone he exuded. The contrast was magnetic, like fire and ice, pulling you in even though you knew the rules, even though you knew better.

Without thinking, you reached down, your hands trembling as you gripped his wrist, pulling him up onto the bed with you. His surprised expression only made your heart beat faster, but you couldn’t stop yourself. You wanted him there—right next to you—his warmth seeping into your skin.

He blinked at you, the shy boyish charm flickering in his eyes, and for a moment, it seemed like the world outside the room didn’t exist. It was just the two of you, tangled in the mess of your own chaotic desires.

He looked at you, confused, maybe even a little unsure, but you couldn’t help but smile softly, pulling him closer. "Redacted," you whispered, still stunned by his presence, "you... you're here."

It felt surreal, like this was some twisted dream where your fantasy and your reality collided. But it didn’t matter, not anymore.

He was there, and you weren’t about to let him go. His breath hitched as you gently tugged him toward you, the tension between you crackling in the dim light. His face was flushed, his hair messy, and his body warm against yours.

It was so wrong, but it felt so right.

He didn't fight you. Instead, he let himself fall into your arms, his own hands reaching to trace the lines of your skin, cautiously but with an intensity that made your heart race. "Are you sure about this?" he whispered, his voice barely audible, yet it made your chest tighten in the best way possible.

You smiled softly at him. "I’m sure. I've never been more sure of anything in my life."

"WAIT, I'M SURE I LOCKED THE DOOR..?"

"WHAT, ARE YOU THE STALKER?!?!?

Ah...

Bad end </3

Jk, Part 3 soon if this does well

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