spiderlilywritings - Tumblr blog

spiderlilywritings · 4 months ago

Note

Ronin x Reader, where the reader is a nurse by day and a serial killer by night—delivering judgments on those who drove their son to his death through bullying?

TW : Mention of Suicide, Gore etc I'm not really happy with this one

What is life?

A question too big for anyone to answer. Too cruel for someone like you.

Because for you—life was a little boy with bright eyes, messy hair, and a laugh so sweet it could rot your teeth. It was tiny sneakers left in the hallway, sticky fingers tugging at your sleeve, and a voice that always asked, “When will you be home?”

Life was your son.

And the day he died, it stopped being anything at all.

It was his birthday. You should’ve known better.

The school counselor called it “seasonal triggers.” Grief was a shadow, and anniversaries sharpened its claws. But your boy—your sweet, kind boy—he wasn’t like that. He was stronger. He had to be.

That’s what you told yourself when he didn’t come out of his room that morning. What you kept telling yourself when hours passed—when his phone buzzed, untouched, and your stomach twisted itself in knots.

It’s fine. He’s fine.

(Right?)

The wind was sharp when you stepped outside, jacket tugged tight around your ribs. His usual spots—empty. No trace of him on the soccer field, in the park, by the bookstore he used to love.

Your heart pounded too hard, too fast.

The cliff—he liked it there. Said it made him feel free. You should’ve known. You should’ve known.

And when you found him—

God.

He was standing too close to the edge, sneakers half-off the crumbling dirt. His face turned toward the horizon, where the ocean swelled against jagged rocks. The sun hung low—soft gold over everything.

Beautiful. Too beautiful for what happened next.

"Hey," you called, voice cracking. "Baby, what are you doing? Come here—please—"

He didn’t move.

Didn’t turn.

Didn’t even flinch when you started running.

Just a small tilt of his head—like he was listening.

(To you?)

(Or something else?)

And then—

He jumped.

You don’t remember screaming.

Don’t remember how your knees hit the ground, or how sharp the air felt in your lungs. Only the sound—God, the sound—when his body crumpled onto the highway below.

Too loud.

Too final.

By the time you made it down the slope—hands shaking, mouth dry—you barely heard the brakes screeching. A truck. Late delivery. Wrong place. Wrong time.

His body—broken and bloodied—crushed beneath wheels that never had a chance to stop.

You tried—God, you tried.

Tore at the door. Dragged his body out. Called his name over and over and over—

"Baby, come on, please—wake up—"

But there was so much blood. Too much.

He was still warm when you held him.

Still soft when you brushed his hair back and pressed trembling fingers to his cheek.

But when you pulled him against you—when you begged, prayed, bargained for anything—he didn’t hold you back.

He didn’t say a word.

The police called it suicide.

Just another statistic. Just another kid who couldn’t handle the weight.

Did they think it was easy for you? Losing him like that—watching him slip through your fingers? Did they know how it felt to sit in his room, surrounded by everything he left behind?

The half-finished drawings. The crumpled homework. The photos of you—of him—smiling, frozen in a world that doesn’t exist anymore.

You screamed yourself raw.

Begged a God you stopped believing in to bring him back.

Because no parent—no parent—should ever have to bury their child.

No one should know what it feels like to hold the whole world in their arms—

—only to lose it forever.

Grief is supposed to end.

That’s what they tell you—like there’s a finish line somewhere, like if you scream and cry and break enough, one day it’ll be over.

But it never ends. Not really. It just sits there—heavy, cold—waiting for the next moment to crush you.

And you? You’ve been crushed so many times, you don’t even fight it anymore.

Until you find his diary.

It happens on the kind of night where the silence cuts too deep—when the weight of an empty house presses against your ribs until you can’t breathe. You’re in his room again. You shouldn’t be. Everyone says to stop doing this—to stop burying yourself in his ghost.

But you can’t.

Because it still smells like him. His shampoo. His detergent. Him.

And tonight—tonight, the need to hold on is too much.

You pull open his nightstand drawer—just to touch something that was his. Just to feel close again.

That’s when you find it.

A black leather notebook—edges worn from nervous fingers. Tucked underneath, a flash drive, taped to the inside cover with shaky handwriting scrawled across it.

“If something happens—it wasn’t me.”

The world stops.

You sit at his desk, hands trembling as you open the journal.

The first few pages are innocent—doodles in the corners, notes about school, lists of things he wanted for his birthday.

Your breath hitches when you see your name.

"Takeout night with Mom. She was tired again, but she still remembered to get my favorite. I think she worries too much. I wish I could make her laugh more."

The words blur, and you have to press your hand over your mouth to keep the sob inside.

He was always like that. Always thinking of you first.

But the tone shifts—page by page—until it’s something else entirely.

“They took my backpack again. Said I’m ‘too stupid to be here.’ I wanted to tell a teacher, but last time that just made it worse.”

“I didn’t tell Mom. She’s got enough to worry about.”

Your heart pounds in your ears as the entries darken—accounts of bruises hidden beneath sleeves, notebooks torn to shreds, whispers that followed him down every hallway.

And then—

"They said if I told anyone, they’d make me disappear."

"They said no one would believe me."

"They said they could make it look like I wanted to die."

The flash drive is cold in your palm when you plug it into your laptop.

Folders. Videos. Screenshots.

Evidence.

The first file plays automatically—a shaky phone recording. Your son’s voice trembles through the speakers, too small, too scared.

"Why are you doing this?"

Laughter—cruel and sharp. A boy’s voice answers, dripping with malice.

"Because it’s funny. And because no one’s gonna miss a freak like you."

Another file—footage of them cornering him behind the gym. The fear in his eyes cuts through you like a blade.

A screenshot of text messages:

"Do it, or we’ll make your mom suffer too."

"No one cares about you anyway."

"Jump, coward."

Your hands shake so hard the mouse slips. It takes everything—everything—not to scream.

They did this.

And the police—those lazy, blind, useless bastards—just accepted it. Never questioned. Never dug deeper. Just another "suicidal teenager," right? Easier to wrap it up and move on.

Your sweet, brave boy didn’t want to die.

They pushed him.

They killed him.

And no one stopped them.

You sit in the dark, heart pounding like a drum against your ribs. Your tears dry somewhere between rage and clarity.

Revenge is too soft.

Justice? Too kind.

What they deserve—what they earned—is judgment.

You gave yourself two years. Two years to erase your old life, to bury the broken parent who sobbed over an empty bed and cold gravestone. Two years of plastic surgeries, forged identities, and blood-soaked determination.

And when the time came—you slipped into their world like a shadow.

The school. His school.

Where they laughed. Where they tormented him. Where they pushed him to the edge and called it a joke.

You became the new nurse.

The first to die was the woman who should’ve protected him.

That bitch—with her saccharine smile and snake-pit heart. You remember her name on the incident reports—dismissed concerns, no further action required—while your son faded right under her nose.

A kid comes in with a black eye? She says, “Boys will be boys.”

A girl too scared to speak? She rolls her eyes and mutters, “Drama queens.”

Your son—your baby—came to her broken and bleeding. And she did nothing.

You made sure her death meant something.

No one questioned her disappearance. They said she “retired early.” A footnote in the morning announcements, a passing thought—like she never existed.

The students didn’t care. The staff didn’t notice.

But you did.

When you slipped into her office, you savored the irony. They left her memory cold. But you? You left her body colder.

In the end, she went out screaming—a sound no one heard beneath the hum of school life.

And you took her place.

Because your work had only just begun.

You smile politely as students shuffle through the nurse’s office—some too loud, some too quiet, but none of them innocent.

Not the ones who took your son’s laughter. Not the ones who made him bleed.

You remember their names. You memorized their faces. And now? Now you get to study them up close.

The ringleader—the golden boy with dead eyes and a cruel mouth—sits in front of you, cradling his wrist.

He doesn’t recognize you. Why would he? You made sure your old life was buried—the way he deserves to be.

"Does it hurt?" Your voice is soft. Sweet. A trap in silk.

He smirks, cocky and careless. "I’m fine. You’re not gonna cry on me, are you?"

You smile back—warm and patient. The way a mother should be.

"Let me take care of you."

Three years.

Three years since you buried your son. Three years of blood and patience.

And now, it’s the third one’s turn.

A third-year boy—one of the shits who laughed the loudest. Who spat venom in the halls and whispered lies no one questioned. He didn’t break your son with his fists—no, he was smarter. Sharper. He used words like scalpels, carving into every soft place until there was nothing left.

He made your son feel small. Powerless.

And now? Now it’s his turn.

You’d been watching him. Waiting.

He loved puzzles—riddles, mazes, anything that made him feel smarter than everyone else. You used that.

You left clues. Notes hidden in lockers, coded messages only he could solve. A game—a perfect little trap wrapped in curiosity.

And like the arrogant little shit he was, he took the bait.

You locked him in a storage room deep beneath the school—a maze of boxes and broken furniture, the walls slick with mold and secrets no one cared to find.

The puzzle? Simple.

Find the key. Unlock the door.

Except you never gave him a key.

You watched from the shadows as his confidence broke.

The smirk faded first—replaced by furrowed brows and trembling fingers.

"Where is it?" he hissed to himself, ripping through crates. Hours passed. The air grew thick. Stale. His breathing hitched when the lights flickered—when he realized he wasn’t alone.

When he realized—this game wasn’t meant to be won.

And when he screamed—when panic swallowed him whole—you felt nothing but cold satisfaction.

But he was smarter than you thought. Clever.

The little bastard broke the lock—cut himself raw forcing the rusted bolt free.

And now?

He’s running.

The boy ran blindly—panic pounding through his veins, tearing through the dark alleyways like a rat in a maze.

But this wasn’t just any alley.

Locals called it Purgatory.

The place where sinners lose their way—and their lives.

His breath hitched as his sneakers slapped against the pavement, but his steps faltered when he saw him.

A shadow leaning against the wall—no, not a shadow.

A devil.

The man stood tall—too tall—like he owned the ground beneath his boots. A black beanie clung to his head, streaked with gray stripes, but it didn’t hide the devil horns curling out from burgundy hair. His eyes—God, his eyes—black and hollow like the universe had carved out his soul and left nothing but a void.

The metal gleam of his jacket flashed as he raised his arm—a crowbar, heavy and rusted, already slick with something too dark to be water.

And he was laughing. Laughing.

A sound jagged enough to cut.

The boy froze—feet rooted in place—as the Butcher brought the crowbar down, again and again, into some poor bastard’s ribs. The sickening crack echoed through the alley.

“Aww, c’mon—don’t tap out on me yet!” the man cooed, voice syrup-sweet and poisonous underneath. “We were just getting to the fun part…”

The bloodied figure beneath him gave a weak twitch. Not that it mattered. They were already done.

He should’ve run. Should’ve turned back.

But panic makes people stupid.

So instead—he reached for the pocket knife hidden in his jacket.

It wasn’t much. A child’s weapon. But fear does funny things to your survival instinct.

He lunged.

And for a second—a single breath—he thought he had the bastard.

The blade sunk in. Warm blood trickled over his fingers.

Then the Butcher laughed.

A low, broken sound—like someone dragged barbed wire through his lungs.

“A kid—killing me? What a joke.”

He staggered back, grinning down at the knife buried in his side like it was a love letter.

The boy tried to move—to run again—but his body wouldn’t listen.

Not with that gaze pinning him in place.

But then—something changed.

The devil fell silent. His smile flickered.

And his head tilted—just a fraction—like he was sensing something the boy couldn’t.

For the first time, his focus wasn’t on him.

Which is why he didn’t see it coming.

The metal pipe struck the boy’s head with a crack—sharp and final. The world spun—colors bleeding together—before everything went black.

When he woke, his head throbbed—pulsing in rhythm with the panic gnawing at his gut.

But the first thing he saw wasn’t the Butcher.

It was… someone else.

A figure standing over him, bathed in the faint glow of a flickering streetlamp.

They weren’t like the devil.

No, they were something worse.

They were calm.

Gentle, even—like a mother tending to a wounded child. But there was nothing warm about their eyes.

Eyes that saw through him.

“Your greatest sin…” their voice was soft—almost loving. “...wasn’t driving that boy to his death.”

They knelt beside him, a gloved hand brushing his bloodied cheek.

“It was the fact that you were born.”

The boy trembled—tried to speak—but the words wouldn’t come.

“You’re a selfish liar,” they continued, tone velvet-smooth. “Compared to your friends, you believe in ties connected by profit. And because you always use lies to manipulate everyone…”

Their hand curled into his hair—tight—yanking his face up to meet theirs.

“You don’t believe in anyone.”

A pause.

“And no one believes in you.”

The boy’s breath hitched—a sob clawing up his throat.

“Have you finally realized?”

Their smile sharpened—serene, like a saint.

“You’ve been making yourself the loner all along.”

And as the blood pooled beneath his knees, one final thought clawed through the panic—

He was never leaving Purgatory.

You saw the man. He laughed—sharp, breathless—like pain tasted sweet on his tongue.

And you—God. You looked like Saint Maria and Lady Themis and the Goddess of Death all wrapped into one. Holy and hellish. Justice with a smile.

He staggered, legs folding under him like a broken marionette. Collapsed at your feet. Pretty in the way dying things always are.

"Hey, person—why don’t you kill me?" His voice, raw and reckless. Daring. Like it’d be a kindness. Like it wouldn’t be the first time. "Finish the job…?"

But you didn’t.

You knelt—soft, deliberate—and cradled him in your lap. Gentle. Too gentle. Too much like—

He blacked out before the memory could choke him.

The next thing he knew—he was awake.

Shirtless. Bandaged. The sharp tug of stitches pulled when he shifted, but what really gnawed at him—you’d seen. The faint, silver lines across his chest—surgical, deliberate—impossible to miss. No point hiding it now.

His fingers brushed the edge of the gauze. Neat work. Too neat for someone who left bodies in alleyways.

A shadow moved. You.

You walked over—slow, smooth—and knelt beside him, fingers brushing his forehead like you had all the time in the world. Your touch burned.

His breath hitched—just for a second—but his mouth curled into that same devil-may-care grin. The one that never quite reached his eyes. “Aw, sweetheart—got a thing for broken boys?”

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t bite back. Just tilted your head—soft, steady—like you were measuring him. Like you’d already decided something.

"You shouldn’t move," you said—low, smooth—like Eve whispering in the dark. It wasn’t a suggestion.

He should’ve cracked a joke. Teased you. He didn’t. Something in your voice—calm, warm, too gentle for someone like him—cut right through. Mother-God.

"Why did you save me?" The words slipped out before he could swallow them.

And you—you apologized.

"Sadly," you murmured, voice soft enough to sting, "it’s sadder that you were the one who got hurt instead of him."

That knocked the wind out of him. Him. That brat. That waste of breath who stabbed him. And here you were—acting like he was the tragedy.

A slow, bitter laugh scraped from his throat. His head tilted back against the wall, like it was all a fucking joke. "Do you even know who I am?"

You met his gaze—calm, unshaken. “I know.” Your eyes drifted to his jacket—hanging by the chair—the infamous mask still tucked in the pocket.

“The Butcher,” you said. Quiet. Certain. “666 kills, isn’t it?”

He licked his teeth, leaning closer—wrong in all the ways that made people run—but you didn’t move.

"So," he drawled, voice sweet as poison, "you think I’m broken? Or just doing it for fun?"

And you—you didn’t care. You just looked at him. Worried. Like he was something worth saving.

You didn’t care.

Didn’t flinch at his grin. Didn’t rise to the bait. You just—patched him up. Quiet hands and steady patience, like he wasn’t a monster, like the blood on his hands didn’t matter.

His chest ached—not from the wound, but from you. From how soft your touch had been when you pressed the gauze to his skin. From the way you didn’t ask for anything.

"Your clothes are washed," you said, your voice smooth and warm in the quiet. "You can leave in the morning."

That was it. No lecture. No judgment. Just kindness—unearned, unexpected—and it tasted worse than blood.

He should’ve laughed. Mocked you. Told you he didn’t need your charity. But instead—he just watched you, tongue flicking against his piercing, as you turned away like he wasn’t still watching.

Like you hadn’t touched him.

And for the first time in a long time—he wasn’t sure if he wanted to leave.

“Ah… who are you?” His voice was low, rough—like he’d been screaming, or maybe laughing too hard for too long. His black eyes gleamed under the dim light, sharp and curious. "They call you Saint Judgment, right?"

You didn’t answer at first. Just pressed your palm gently against his forehead, checking the heat beneath his skin. The touch burned him more than the wound ever did.

His breath hitched—but he didn’t pull away. Not yet.

“So,” he drawled, cocking his head, “you’re the one who’s been offing kids.” His lips curled into that devil’s smile, sharp enough to cut. “Real charming hobby—though, can’t say I’m not a fan. You get bored of PTA meetings, or what?”

Your fingers lingered just a moment longer—then slipped away. Smooth. Unbothered. Holy.

“I kill monsters,” you corrected, voice like honey and venom. “The ones who bullied my son.”

For a second—just a flicker—you thought you saw something shift in his eyes. Something close to understanding. Something close to… recognition.

And then he laughed. Low, wild, wrong. “A mother’s love, huh?” His tongue flicked against his piercing, teeth flashing in the dark. "Gotta say—you're putting the other soccer moms to shame."

You said nothing.

Not to his teasing. Not to the sharpness in his smile or the way he stretched out on your couch like he owned it—like the blood on his skin meant nothing.

But you felt it. The ache. The weight of it all. If only you’d known sooner. If only you’d seen the signs.

Your hands were steady when you adjusted the bandages across his chest—over the scars, the fresh wound. You could still feel the warmth of his skin beneath your fingers, the faint rise and fall of his breath. Alive. He was still alive.

Lucky.

"You patch up all your strays, or am I just special?" His voice cut through the quiet, smooth and dark. Always smiling. Always pretending it didn't hurt.

Still, you said nothing.

He took that as an invitation. Of course, he did.

“Y’know,” he murmured, tilting his head, "if you wanted to undress me, you could’ve just asked. But hey—I'm not complaining.” A pause. His grin sharpened. “Unless you're planning to keep me—then we gotta talk custody arrangements."

You didn’t look at him. Didn’t rise to the bait.

But your silence only seemed to amuse him more. He liked the chase.

“C’mon, Saint—what’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?” His voice dipped low, teasing. “Or do I make you nervous?”

He stayed like that the whole night—smirking, pushing, flirting—testing the edges of your patience, your grief.

But you never answered

He was a good boy—well, as good as a devil could be.

Flirted the whole time you patched him up, all smooth words and sharp edges. But when the teasing faded—when the blood was cleaned and the bandages secured—he got quiet. Let you work. Even helped, fingers surprisingly gentle as he fixed the last strip of gauze over his ribs.

“You’re a natural,” he said, voice softer than it had any right to be. “If this whole vengeance thing gets old, you’d make a killer nurse.” A beat. His grin curled wider. “No pun intended.”

You just rolled your eyes, pushing his hand away when he tried to touch your wrist.

And yet—he lingered. Close. Dangerously close.

The heat of his body brushed yours, and you should’ve pulled back. You didn’t.

“You know,” he murmured, eyes dragging over your face, “I could use someone like you. Sharp. Quiet. Hot in a terrifying kinda way.” His lip ring glinted when he smirked. “Join my server.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Serial killer server. Don’t worry, babe—it’s invite-only. Very exclusive. But I’ll vouch for you.” He tilted his head, watching you carefully. “I mean, you’ve got the whole Saint Maria death goddess thing going on—pretty sure everyone’s gonna love you.”

“This isn’t a joke.”

His smile softened. Just a little. “Didn’t say it was.”

The silence stretched between you—heavy, electric—until you sighed, standing up. “Get some sleep,” you said, turning your back to him. “And don’t bleed on my couch.”

“Aw, don’t be like that, sweetheart,” he called, but you were already walking away.

The next morning—he was gone.

No note about where he’d gone. No goodbye. Just a faint trace of leather and blood lingering in the air.

But on the table—right where you’d left his jacket—was a folded slip of paper.

A link.

A server link.

And underneath it, scrawled in messy, sharp handwriting—

“For my favorite Saint. Don’t miss me too much. – goreboy

You laughed. Goreboy. What a name. What a pain in the ass.

Maybe it was the first real laugh you’d had in years—sharp, breathy, and gone too fast. Still, it was there.

No.

No distractions. No weird murder servers. You had one goal—your son. And this? This wasn’t part of the plan.

But then you caught your reflection in the mirror. Jesus. You looked like hell. Blood under your nails, shadows carved under your eyes—when was the last time you even slept?

…Yeah. You’d join. One look. That’s it.

“k!llerch8t_b00tmango”

“What the fuck is this brainrot bullshit,” you muttered, but you typed it in anyway.

The screen flashed.

A new window popped up—blindingly neon and hideously cursed—and before you could even think about leaving—

PING!

💀 Welcome to K!LLER CH8T 💀 Newly christened @y/n

The chat exploded.

[goreboy]: babe you made it 😈 didn’t think you had it in you [hitmeuppp]: OMG OMG NEW PERSON NEW PERSON HI HI HI HI HI!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! [Angelic]: Welcome, darling. Don’t be shy—we don’t bite. Unless you ask nicely. 😉 [K9]: Another one. Great. [LUCA_IS_SO_COOL]: yooooooo new homie 🤙 u surf??? [Eviscerator1990]: Welcome. I like sunsets. What’s your deal? [Felicite]: …What’s your kill count?

You stared at the screen. This was a mistake.

Another PING!

[hitmeuppp]: AAAAH UR SO QUIET TALK TO ME PLS PLS PLS 💖💖💖

The little raccoon profile picture bounced obnoxiously in the corner, flooding the chat with stickers—hearts, knives, some horrifically cursed Garfield gif.

[goreboy]: you’re gonna love it here, Saint. [goreboy]: unless you’re scared

You exhaled, slow. Steady. Fingers hovering over the keyboard.

And against every ounce of common sense—you typed.

[@y/n]: …Hi.

The moment you hit enter, all hell broke loose.

[hitmeuppp]: HIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! [hitmeuppp]: OMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMG NEW PERSON AAAAAAA [hitmeuppp]: WHAT’S UR FAVORITE COLOR?? FAVORITE WEAPON??? DO U LIKE CATS???

You blinked. What the hell did you just walk into?

Another PING!

[LUCA_IS_SO_COOL]: YO DUUUUUUDEEEEEE HIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII 🤙🤙🤙 [LUCA_IS_SO_COOL]: u skate?? u kill?? what’s ur vibe bro??

More messages flooded in—stickers of knives, blood splatters, and some… questionable emojis.

In the chaos, goreboy was chilling, of course.

[goreboy]: aw, look at that. [goreboy]: ur already the life of the party. 😘

[K9]: …They’re going to scare them off. [Angelic]: Let them have their fun. We don’t get new blood often.

Meanwhile, hitmeuppp was STILL going.

[hitmeuppp]: R U A CAT PERSON OR A DOG PERSON I NEED TO KNOW RN 😤💖💖💖 [hitmeuppp]: WAIT WAIT MORE IMPORTANT— [hitmeuppp]: CAN I CALL U BESTIE?????

This was fine.

Totally normal.

Absolutely not a mistake.

[you]: I’m sorry. This is all… sudden.

The words felt small—too small—against the whirlwind happening on-screen. Your pulse thudded in your ears. What the hell were you supposed to say? Hey, thanks for inviting me to your murder club—by the way, I only stitched you up because you looked pathetic bleeding out in an alley.

Yeah. No.

[goreboy]: awh, take your time, darlin’. [goreboy]: promise i’ll be here when ur ready 😘

Darlin’. God. Of course, he’d flirt like that—like it was easy. Like this was normal. Like he hadn’t been covered in blood the night before, laughing while a kid tried to stab him.

And now? He was treating you like a skittish little thing. Like you’d break.

[hitmeuppp]: OMG UR LIKE THE QUIET MYSTERIOUS ONEEEE 😳

Your screen exploded again—hitmeuppp back in full force.

[LUCA_IS_SO_COOL]: yooo do u kill w/ like knives?? or poison?? or do u do the psychological thing where u drive em crazy first??? [hitmeuppp]: NO WAY THEY’RE A POISON PERSON. TOO CLASSY. BET THEY DO HANDS-ON STUFF 😏

You rubbed your temples. This was insane. Absolutely insane.

And yet—you didn’t leave.

A soft ping.

[Angelic]: Don’t let them overwhelm you. They’re all bark. Mostly.

Her words felt like a lifeline—cool and steady, like she knew exactly how heavy it felt to be here. And for a second, you almost believed it.

But then—

[goreboy]: hey, Saint.

Your breath hitched.

[goreboy]: did u think about my offer yet? [goreboy]: i bet u’d be real fun if u loosened up.

Of course, he couldn’t let it go.

He always had to push.

[you]: That’s why I joined… y’all remind me of my son’s jokes. Haha—

The chat froze. Just for a breath—long enough for your words to settle, to sting. And then—

[hitmeuppp]: OMG WAIT. YOU HAVE A KID!??!?!?!?!? 😱😱😱 [hitmeuppp]: DO THEY KNOW WHAT U DO?????

[K9]: …you’re a parent and a serial killer? Why?

You swallowed hard. That question—why?—like the answer wasn’t rattling inside your ribs every single day. Like you didn’t already know. Like it wasn’t the only thing that still mattered.

[you]: My son is dead.

The chat died.

[you]: He was bullied. They made him… do it. And I—

You stopped. The words trembled too much if you held them too long.

[you]: I kill the people who killed him.

There it was. Laid bare. No point dressing it up with pretty words—it was ugly, and it was true. You didn’t breathe. Didn’t move.

For a second, you wondered if they’d kick you out—too raw, too broken for even this place.

[you]: Don’t mention it. Please.

Still. Silence. Even hitmeuppp had gone quiet.

Until—

[goreboy]: hey.

His tag lit up like a flare. Bright. Immediate.

[goreboy]: everyone’s got a story, Saint. [goreboy]: u didn’t do a damn thing wrong.

The breath you’d been holding—released. Maybe it was the nickname. Maybe the way he said it like it was simple. Like anyone else would’ve done the same.

You almost wanted to believe him.

[you]: …thanks.

His response was immediate.

[goreboy]: now, c’mon. ur here. play nice.

[goreboy]: introduce urself, Saint. What should we call u?

Your fingers hesitated over the keyboard—but there was no point lying now, was there?

[you]: Y/N L/N. I work as a school nurse. [you]: Only because that’s where the people who killed my son are.

No one laughed.

No one questioned it.

[hitmeuppp]: that’s kinda badass tbh.

[LUCA_IS_SO_COOL]: fr. like. nurse by day, vengeance by night?? sounds like a movie.

[Angelic]: …They should’ve been kinder.

You closed your eyes. Saint. That’s what they were calling you now, like you were some holy figure when all you did was stain your hands deeper in blood.

[you]: thanks <3

It was small. Stupid, even. But it slipped out before you could stop it—a half-joke, half-shield, because if you didn’t laugh, you might actually break.

[goreboy]: awh, Saint’s got a heart after all. 💔

[hitmeuppp]: OMG THEY DID A HEART BACK LMAOOOOO [hitmeuppp]: WE GOT ‘EM BOYS

[LUCA_IS_SO_COOL]: Saint’s one of us now 😎

[K9]: …This server is insufferable.

[goreboy]: u love us.

[Angelic]: unfortunately.

You huffed—a quiet sound that wasn’t quite a laugh, but close enough. For all their chaos, they weren’t pressing. No pity. No awkward apologies. Just… noise. Noise that made it easier to breathe.

[goreboy]: stick around, Saint. u might actually have fun.

A part of you wanted to deny it. To say you weren’t here for fun. But another part—the one still clutching that stupid note he left—didn’t want to leave.

And maybe, just maybe… you wanted to see what he’d do next.

[you]: We’ll see.

And fuck yeah, you did.

For a bunch of serial killers, they sure knew how to keep things interesting.

Every time you thought about leaving—about logging off and never looking back—someone would drag you back in.

Ronin’s edginess, for one. The bastard had a mouth on him, always circling you like a shark with a flirty line and a devil emoji to match. He made being a menace an art form, and the worst part? You were starting to enjoy it.

Angel’s charm—smooth and cold, like silk wrapped around a knife. She didn’t talk much unless it mattered, but when she did? You listened.

V’s mysteriousness, the guy had layers. Always analyzing, always watching—he made you nervous, if you were honest. But there was something grounding about him. Solid. Even if he did judge the shit out of you.

Misaki’s chaos, though? Pure energy. They were everywhere, all the time, like a sugar-high gremlin with a knife collection. Every conversation with them felt like a whirlwind. And somehow, you never wanted it to stop.

Luca’s sunniness—what the fuck was his deal? How did someone that bright end up here? Surfboards, bad jokes, and a body count. The cognitive dissonance gave you whiplash.

Felicite’s kindness. Yeah. Kindness. The kind of warmth that made you ache—like a ghost of the life you’d lost. She never pried, never pushed, but she was there. And that mattered.

Vince’s sunsets—because of course the old slasher had a soft spot for pretty skies. Every other message was him sending blurry pictures with captions like "life’s still beautiful, huh?" And for some reason, that always stuck with you.

And Ai Hua’s thumbs-ups. Quiet. Steady. Occasionally, a smiley face. Simple, but weirdly comforting.

It was a joke. It was ridiculous.

But… it was nice.

And maybe it was because you were older than half these brats—pushing twenty-five and already feeling ancient—but there was something about their chaos that made the silence in your life a little easier to bear.

It didn’t erase the grief.

Didn’t fix the hole your son left behind.

But when the nights got too heavy….

The “killer-shit” channel was a lawless wasteland.

It wasn’t for the faint of heart—graphic videos, blood-soaked photos, and the occasional artistic flourish of a well-arranged corpse. Some members posted sparingly. Others? Way too often.

And today? Today, your eyes were blessed—if you could call it that—with Goreboy’s latest masterpiece.

It was… satanic. No, worse. It was the anti-Christ’s wet dream.

The scene unfolded in shaky, handheld footage—Ronin’s signature style. An alleyway. Dimly lit. Blood smeared across the brick walls like finger paintings. At the center of it all? Some poor bastard, already half-dead and strung up like a sacrificial lamb.

"Smile for me, sweetheart," Ronin’s voice drawled, smooth and vicious. Then came the crowbar. He swung it like he was born with it in his hands—cracking bones, caving flesh, a rhythm that was too methodical to be anything but intentional.

By the time the video ended, the guy was nothing more than a pulped offering. And scrawled on the wall behind the body?

"The Devil Was Here."

Subtlety? Not Ronin’s style.

You closed the video, shaking your head—but you couldn’t help the faint, amused huff that slipped out.

Because, somehow, despite that—despite all of that—you and Ronin had become… friends.

Weird friends. Dangerous friends. But friends, nonetheless.

He respected you. Rare, considering he treated most people like they were there for his entertainment. But with you? There was something softer beneath all that violence. Something… human.

Maybe it was because you were one of the few people who didn’t treat him like a freak.

You knew. Of course, you knew.

The night you patched him up—when he was half-conscious and shirtless—you’d seen the faint, surgical scars across his chest. Trans surgery. Clean work.

And you hadn’t said a word about it.

Not then. Not now.

Maybe that’s why he didn’t throw knives at you like he did everyone else. You weren’t weird about it. You didn’t pry. You were just… kind.

And in a server full of killers, that was a rare thing.

Even if he’d never admit it—you could tell he appreciated it.

A notification popped up—@goreboy is typing...

"So, Saint…"

You tilted your head, fingers hovering over your keyboard. He only ever dragged out your little nickname like that when he was either about to flirt—or cause trouble. Probably both.

"Wanna post any of your kills?"

You blinked. What?

"In the killer-shit channel," he clarified, like it was the most casual thing in the world. "Memorial, y’know? Sins of the past and all that."

You hesitated. Not because you hadn’t thought about it—because you had—but… this was your son. His memory. His pain. And yet—

"You don’t gotta," he added, just a beat softer. "But… I figure you might wanna share one day. You’re good at what you do. Be a shame not to flex it."

A small, warm ache twisted in your chest.

"Actually…" you typed, the words slower. "One day. I think I’d be happy to."

"Awh, look at you, Saint," came the almost-instant reply. "Getting all sentimental. Break my heart, why don’t ya?"

You snorted quietly, shaking your head—but before you could reply, another message flashed across the screen:

"Hey, wanna do a quick call?"

Your heart skipped. A call.

You hesitated. For all his teasing, his chaos, his constant flirting—this felt… different. Not just some devil in an alleyway. Just him.

"Sure."

And just like that, your screen flickered. A call request popped up. You took a breath, clicked "accept," and—

"Hey, Saint."

His voice poured through—low, smooth, and just a little too close. Like he was whispering straight into your ear.

"Hey," you answered softly, your voice steadier than you expected.

A low chuckle—dark and warm—curled through the receiver. "Man, you sound like a worried mother. Cute."

You rolled your eyes, but your pulse quickened. "I asked about your surgery. Doesn’t mean I’m adopting you."

"Awh. Shame."

The call settled into a rhythm—his voice weaving between sharp edges and softer threads. He told you about the surgery. Back-alley work. Illegal. You figured as much.

"It wasn’t pretty," he admitted, too casual. "But, hell—neither am I."

You frowned. "You don’t sound like someone who regrets it."

"’Course not," he scoffed, like the idea was ridiculous. "Best thing I ever did, sweetheart." Then, quieter, "Still—it’s nice to hear someone ask like they give a damn."

A pause. Long enough to feel heavy.

"I do," you murmured. Simple. Honest.

The call lingered in that warm, delicate quiet—the kind that felt like neither of you wanted to hang up.

You didn’t, at least.

Your fingers traced the edge of something on your desk. The doll. Worn-out, small—stitched up in places with clumsy hands. A rabbit, a little crooked, but loved. His.

"You still there, Saint?" Ronin’s voice cut through—lighter now, teasing around the edges. "Did I finally make you speechless? Damn, shoulda called sooner."

You huffed softly. "I’m here."

His voice shifted—still playful, but softer. "Whatcha holdin’?"

Your breath caught. For a second, you almost brushed the question aside. But instead—you reached for the frame beside it. The picture.

Without thinking too hard, you tilted your phone camera, angling it toward the doll and the photo. The screen pinged as the image sent.

"What’s this?"

"You asked," you said quietly.

The line fell into a rare, weighty silence. For once, he didn’t joke.

He saw the doll first—stitched ears flopping to one side, the seams faded from years of holding on too tight. Then—the photo. You and your son. His smile was bright, a little gap between his teeth where a baby tooth had just fallen out. You had your arm around him. He was everything.

Ronin didn’t say a damn word. But you heard the breath he took—long, slow, heavy.

And that silence? It was loud.

He didn’t ask. He didn’t need to. But he understood—far too well.

"...He was cute," Ronin finally said, voice low. Careful, almost. "Takes after you, huh?"

A small, broken laugh slipped out of you—more breath than sound. "Yeah."

"You made that doll?"

"His favorite," you admitted, fingers curling around the worn fabric. "I—stitched it back together. When it ripped."

"Bet you did." He exhaled softly, then added, "Still keep it close?"

"...Always."

A beat passed. Something shifted in his tone—deeper, more honest. "Shit, Saint… You didn’t deserve this."

His words sank into you—so easy, like he believed it without question. And maybe it was dangerous, how warm that felt.

"You know," he mused after a moment, that devilish edge creeping back in, "You should show that sweet side more often. I’d probably behave."

You snorted softly. "You? Behave?"

"For you?" His voice dropped—smooth, warm—like he knew exactly what he was doing. "Maybe."

You stepped out of the shed, the cool night air biting at your skin. A breath—too tight. Your fingers curled into your palms as if that could stop the tremor building in your chest.

Ronin’s voice stayed easy—too easy—in your ear. "You good, Saint?"

A laugh slipped from you—sharp, bitter. God. "I—" You stopped, swallowing down the ache. "Can I just… vent? I need to—"

"Saint." His voice dropped—low and steady, with that razor-softness only he could pull off. "Ain’t nothin’ to be ashamed of. You put up with my bullshit—never dissed, never pissed. You wanna scream? Cry? Let it the fuck out."

You exhaled shakily, hand running through your hair. "It’s just—" Words tangled on your tongue. "It’s a joke, you know? The police. This whole justice system—a fucking joke. I sit there, I smile, I play the sweet nurse—like it’s not killing me inside."

He laughed—low, wicked. "Tch. And here I thought you were the poster child of purity. What happened to my little Saint?"

"I’m not—" Your breath hitched. You shook your head. "I’m not some saint, Ronin."

His chuckle hummed against your ear, playful. But he was listening. "Funny," he drawled, "I still see you that way."

Your throat tightened. You had no answer for that.

Instead, you shifted the phone, angling it toward the well at the far end of your yard—its mouth yawning wide, pitch-black against the moonlight. A pit. A grave. You crouched, gathering a jar from beside it. Inside—bugs.

He caught the motion immediately. "Uh… What exactly are you doing?"

"Spiders," you murmured, almost absently. "Roaches. Beetles. Whatever I can find." You twisted the lid, letting the insects spill down into the darkness—a thousand tiny legs, crawling toward something much worse.

There was a pause. And then—he cackled.

"You’re throwin’ bugs in the well?" He wheezed, like this was the funniest thing he’d heard all day. "Shit, Saint—what are you, building some biblical plague down there?"

You sighed, fingers tightening on the jar. "I’m making something."

His laughter softened into a curious hum. "What kinda ‘something’ we talkin’?"

"A judgment," you said simply. "For the ones who hurt him." You swallowed hard, teeth gritting. "Because that’s all this is—revenge. Simple. Brutal. A parent’s rage. And if they think it’s scary now, they have no idea how deep that goes."

The other end of the line stayed quiet for a beat—too quiet. When Ronin spoke again, his voice was lower—smoky, and silk-smooth. "Damn," he murmured. "And people think I’m scary."

You shook your head, glaring down the well. "It’s not enough. Nothing’s ever enough."

"You’re wrong," he said softly. "You bein’ here? Scarin’ the shit outta these assholes? It’s enough. And fuck—if anyone deserves to make them suffer, it’s you."

Your heart twisted. He said it too easily—like he meant it.

"…Thanks," you mumbled, feeling something warm creep into your chest.

You pulled the rope taut—testing the knots with a steady, practiced hand. The rough fibers bit into your palm, but you didn’t flinch. Precision mattered. And for this one—the last one—everything had to be perfect.

Ronin's voice crackled softly through the call, velvet-smooth and teasing. "Y'know, for all the doom and gloom, all I see is a parent's love. Pure as hell."

You huffed, shaking your head. "It’s not that simple, Ronin."

"Sure it is," he drawled. "They made him suffer. Now you make them suffer. Ain't rocket science, Saint." His voice dropped to a near-whisper, syrupy and sweet. "And besides… They deserve judgment, don’t they?"

The word judgment hung heavy in the air—so much sharper than revenge. Revenge was messy, chaotic—this was something else. Deliberate. Methodical. Righteous.

Your hands stilled. "You always talk like that?"

"Only when I’m feeling inspired." He laughed softly, but there was no mockery in it. Only… something close to admiration. "You’re somethin’ else, Saint Y/n. Makes me think of Saint Maria—the kinda love that burns everything it touches."

You swallowed against the warmth curling in your gut. Don’t. Don’t let it get to you.

Instead, you focused on the photo clutched in your other hand. The last one. His face. His name. The final piece of the puzzle. "He’s the last one," you said quietly. "The last person who bullied my son."

A pause. Then— "…Do you want me to come?"

The question hit harder than it should have—the ease of it. Like it was obvious. Like he’d be there the second you asked.

You blinked down at the rope in your hands, lips parting—but before you could answer, a chaotic mess of pings exploded across the screen.

@goreboy soft as hell for Saint, omg 😭 @goreboy never thought I’d live to see the day lololol @goreboy is this the same guy who posted a satanic disembowelment last week?? @goreboy bro... you blushing???

Your brow furrowed as the messages scrolled by. "…What are they talking about?"

Silence. Then— "Nothing," he said, far too fast.

"Ronin."

A dramatic sigh filtered through the speaker. "Okay, okay—maybe I’ve been a little…" He trailed off, like the words burned his tongue. "…Soft?"

"Soft?" You repeated, trying to piece it together. "What, because you’re not being a total asshole for once?"

"Nah, it’s ‘cause I like you," he said without missing a beat, voice curling warm at the edges. "And apparently that’s a crime around here."

You almost dropped the rope. What.

"Relax, Saint," he purred. "I don’t bite. Not unless you ask."

You should’ve shut it down. Should’ve rolled your eyes, scoffed—something. But instead, you found yourself asking, quieter than before:

"…So, are you coming or not?"

The silence stretched—thick, heavy. And then, soft and lethal, he murmured:

"Anything for you."

Your fingers trembled against the rope—knuckles pale as you twisted the coarse fibers tighter, tighter, tighter.

"It’s not fair," you whispered, voice cracking under the weight. "He wouldn’t have wanted this—he wouldn’t have wanted me to become… this."

But here you were. Drowning in it. Blood under your nails. Hate in your bones. And you couldn’t stop. Wouldn’t stop. Not until every last one of those monsters paid.

And still—still—it didn’t bring him back.

Your breath hitched, sharp and uneven. "I’m doing this for him. For myself. Because…" Your throat burned as the words clawed their way out. "It’s a sin. A fucking sin that those idiots were born—but my son had to die."

You doubled over, clutching the ropes to your chest like they could hold you together—but they couldn’t. Nothing could.

A sob ripped free—raw, broken. It wouldn’t stop. God. Your body shook with it, tears hot as they slipped down your face and stained the rough-hewn fibers.

A whisper buzzed in your ear—low, familiar. Ronin.

"Hey… hey." His voice was softer now—none of that teasing edge. No jokes. No deflection. "Let it out, Saint. You gotta let it out."

"I—I can’t—" You hiccupped, choking on your breath. "I’m—I’m worse. Worse than them. I’m…"

"Nah." The word cut through your spiral—firm, unyielding. "They killed him for fun. You’re not like them. You’re doin’ this ‘cause they deserve it. And you know they do."

"But I’m still—"

"You’re still his parent," he said, smooth as honey. "You’re still the only person who gave a damn about him. What you’re doing—" He let out a low, breathy laugh. "—this is love, Saint. Ain’t nothin’ evil about that."

You clung to the sound of his voice—because God, you were slipping. And somehow, he knew it.

"You think I don’t see how much this tears you up?" he murmured. "How bad you hurt?" A pause, just long enough to sting. "But you’re still here. Still standing. Still fighting for him." His voice dropped to a purr. "If that ain’t love, I don’t know what is."

The ropes slipped from your fingers, falling limp at your sides. Your chest heaved as you sucked in a jagged breath.

"You—you really think that?"

"Saint," he chuckled, low and wicked, "I don’t just think it—I know it."

"Kidnapping," you repeated, casual—like you weren’t holding a whole-ass rope in your hands. "Why? Y’all want in?"

The chat exploded.

—

hitmeuppp: MOM. MOM. WHAT.

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: BROO 😭😭😭

Eviscerator1990: 👀

K9: …Why am I even surprised.

angelicc: You’re telling us this why, exactly?

goreboy: 🥹 Saint invited me, not y’all. Stay pressed.

—

Ronin’s voice crackled over the call, smooth and teasing. "So, you’re invitin’ me to your first date, huh?" His laugh was syrup-thick—too much, always too much. "Aw, Saint, you shouldn’t have."

"You’re impossible," you muttered, shaking your head.

"Yeah, but you like it."

You did not respond to that. (Mostly because he wasn’t wrong—damn him.)

—

hitmeuppp: BUT WHY RONIN THO.

hitmeuppp: WHY NOT ME. I’M CUTE.

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: YO SAME THO??

goreboy: Because I’m her favorite, obviously. 😌

—

You sighed, fingers hovering over the keyboard. This? This was insanity. Why were you even entertaining this?

Still… you typed anyway.

—

you: We met when I patched him up.

you: He got hurt, I helped. Simple.

—

"Simple," Ronin mocked under his breath. "You were cradlin’ me in your lap, Saint. Like—" He laughed, sharp. "—like some divine fuckin’ mother."

Your cheeks burned. Why did he have to say it like that?

"You’re lucky I didn’t leave you to bleed out," you shot back.

"And miss out on all this?" His voice dropped—dark, warm. "Nah, I’d crawl to you if I had to."

—

angelicc: 🤨

hitmeuppp: 🤨

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: 🤨

—

You pinched the bridge of your nose. "Can you not flirt while I’m preparing for a felony?"

"Nope," he said, popping the "p" with a grin. "Multitaskin’s my strong suit, babe."

You did not dignify that with a response.

—

angelicc: Just to be clear—you’re literally kidnapping someone right now?

you: Yes.

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: LOL WHAT

K9: …Why.

—

You glanced at the shed door—your target still unconscious, slumped against the wall. One of the last ones.

"For my son," you murmured, barely realizing you were still on call. "Always for him."

The chat went dead silent.

Even Ronin—always the loudest, always too much—didn’t say a word.

The chat exploded—not with chaos, not with jokes—just… love. All at once. Too much. Overwhelming.

—

hitmeuppp: MOMA I LOVE YOU SO MUCH WTF

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: BRO U R THE COOLEST EVER IF U NEED HELP I’LL SURF THERE

Eviscerator1990: If you ever need a body disposed of—just say the word, Saint.

angelicc: You’re… incredibly strong. I hope you know that.

K9: You shouldn’t have had to carry that alone.

goreboy: Hey. Hey. Don’t cry now, Saint—I’m gonna start thinkin’ you like us or somethin’.

—

Your hands trembled. The rope slipped from your grip. It was too much.

"You guys…" Your voice cracked, unsteady. "I didn’t join for this."

"Yeah, well," Ronin hummed—soft, almost teasing, but there was a warmth beneath it. "Tough shit. You’re stuck with us now."

You huffed a weak laugh, brushing at your eyes. "Why are you all like this?"

"Trauma," Misaki said, like it was obvious.

You laughed. Not a small one—a real, full laugh that hurt a little. Maybe the first one in years.

And they heard it. Of course, they did.

—

goreboy: Ohhh. Oh, Saint.

goreboy: That laugh? Dangerous.

hitmeuppp: I WOULD DIE FOR U

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: SAME.

—

"You’re all insane," you muttered, shaking your head—your heart pounding too fast, too loud.

"And you’re still here," Ronin drawled. "Guess that makes you one of us, huh?"

And… maybe he wasn’t wrong.

The basement door creaked open. Barely audible over the sound of their shaky footsteps—but you heard it.

"Huh…" The target mumbled, stepping into the cold air. "Did I forget to lock the door?"

"Yes." Your voice was soft—too soft. Too sweet. You stood just behind them, hands steady, heart calm.

They turned. Confused. Too slow.

The crowbar in your hand swung upward in a smooth, practiced arc—CRACK. Skull met metal. Their body crumpled to the floor like a puppet with cut strings.

You exhaled. Relaxed. A faint smile curled your lips—not kind. Not warm. Just… satisfied.

"Oops," you murmured, crouching beside them. Your fingers brushed against the fresh bruise blooming across their forehead. "Clumsy thing. Should’ve been more careful."

Too late now.

Your phone buzzed faintly from where you left it on the workbench—messages flooding in. They could wait.

This? This was personal.

You snapped a photo—angled perfectly. Blood dripped slow and steady from their forehead, pooling against the cold cement. The faint outline of your boot pressed into their jaw where you’d nudged their face up. Nothing too gory—just enough. Enough to make a statement.

You sent it to #killer-shit with a simple caption:

"I don't know what to say, But.."

The chat exploded immediately.

goreboy: on my way. don’t start the fun without me, saint.

hitmeuppp: YO MOM WHAT THE FUCK?? LET ME HELP??

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: bro… y/n is kinda terrifying lowkey.

angelicc: Terrifying? Please. I’m swooning.

K9: …I’ll ignore this.

You snickered quietly, wiping a stray splatter of blood off your glove. Ronin’s response didn’t surprise you.

The ropes creaked softly as they swayed, the person dangling like a broken marionette—pathetic. You stood below, eyes cold, arms crossed as their frantic thrashing made the pulley whine. Blood crusted over the side of their head where you’d knocked them out.

“WHAT THE FUCK—YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING, CRAZY HAG?!” Their voice cracked as they twisted against the binds. “YOU THINK I WON’T HURT YOU?! LET ME DOWN, OR I’LL—”

You tilted your head, bored already. “If you cut the rope, you fall.” Your voice was flat, cold—no room for argument.

They flinched. For all their bravado, the threat sank in.

“W-Wait—don’t!!” Their tone flipped, sugary-sweet, like you’d forget they tormented your kid.

Pathetic.

“Shut up.” You didn’t raise your voice—didn’t need to. Every syllable hit like a gunshot. “You think I care about your little threats? I’ve already broken people better than you.”

The panic in their eyes flared. Good.

A soft creak behind you—Ronin.

You didn’t turn. But you felt it—his smile curling sharp and wicked the moment he laid eyes on your work.

“Damn, Saint,” he drawled, voice as slick and honeyed as poison. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”

You didn’t look at him—didn’t need to. Instead, you focused on the girl trembling above, her breath coming out ragged and broken.

“I’m done playing nice.”

She was crying—loud, messy, pathetic. Snot dripping down her face as she squirmed against the ropes, the bucket beneath her swaying dangerously.

“Why is this happening to me?” she wailed, voice cracking.

You tilted your head, gaze cold and distant. “Oh, please.” Your voice was soft—too soft, too calm. “Stop playing the victim. We’re tired of your antics. This is happening because you did it. Because you—" your lip curled, disgust bleeding through—"killed him. Just like you did to that boy.”

Her breath hitched. Panic flashed across her face. "W-What are you talking about?!"

You stepped closer, slow and deliberate, the heels of your boots clicking against the cold concrete. Your expression didn’t change—empty, hollow, done. And when you stopped, the light above cast a shadow across your face—half angel, half executioner.

She swallowed hard, eyes darting, searching—for mercy, maybe. But you didn’t have any left.

“How… how do you know what happened to that boy?” Her voice trembled, weak and shaking—like she already knew the answer.

Your fingers twitched at your side. You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to.

And then—she understood. You saw it in the way her face twisted, the color draining from her skin. She saw your cold, detached face and compared it to the one burned in her memory—the bloodied face of the boy she tormented.

“No…” she whispered, voice cracking in fear. And then she screamed, “GO TO HELL!”

A sharp breath pulled into your lungs.

“GO TO HELL—TO YOUR SON! WHERE HE’S ROTTING AND FCKING SHTTING!”

The words hit you like a bullet.

Your vision blurred. Your chest tightened—painful, suffocating. You couldn’t breathe. Your hands trembled as they flew to your face, fingers digging into your skin as if you could claw the grief out—pull it out before it swallowed you whole.

“Ah… ah… ah…” Your voice broke, shattered—raw pain ripping through your body. It hurt. It hurt.

You barely felt it when warm hands cupped your face—gentle but firm.

“Hey. Hey.” Ronin’s voice cut through the chaos—a low, smooth drawl that shouldn’t have been comforting, but it was. His thumb brushed a tear from your cheek. “Look at me, Saint.”

You did. You couldn’t help it.

His black eyes were steady, locked onto yours—no jokes, no teasing, just him. And for a moment, the world narrowed to that touch—his warmth against your skin.

“Breathe. C’mon. You’re not there. You’re here. With me.” His voice dipped lower, a slow purr. "And she’s nothing. Don’t give her the satisfaction."

The girl snapped her head toward Ronin, tears streaming down her face. “Who the hell are you?! You think you’re scary?! You’re just some freak—some pathetic little boy pretending to be tough!”

Ronin? He laughed.

A low, cruel sound that crawled up your spine and curled around the air—a sound too easy for someone like him. His grin stretched wide, sharp and mean, as if her words were nothing but a sweet little joke.

“Aw, sweetheart—” he drawled, tilting his head as he leaned closer to her hanging body. “You’re adorable when you beg. Keep going—I might actually start feeling bad.”

The girl squirmed against the ropes, wild with panic. “You— you’re insane!”

He laughed again, harder. This time, it wasn’t just cruel—it was personal. His teeth flashed as he stepped around her, slow and casual, like a predator circling prey. "Insane? Nah… I’m just thorough."

And then—he leaned down, face inches from hers, voice dropping into something cold, something that ate people alive.

“If you think I’m bad, sweetheart—” he gestured toward you with a flick of his hand, “wait ‘til you see what she can do. ‘Cause me? I don’t like hurting girls."

A wicked little smirk tugged at his lips.

“But you? You’re not a girl. You’re a bitch.”

Her breath hitched—a sharp little sound that made his smile stretch wider.

“And bitches like you?” He let out a mock sigh, stepping back toward you—his favorite spot, right at your side. “Well… you deserve everything coming.”

He slung an arm around your shoulders—too comfortable, too familiar—pulling you against him like it was his right. His warmth burned through the edges of your pain, pulling you back into focus.

“So… what’s the call, Saint? You wanna finish this?” His voice was velvet-smooth, honeyed and dangerous—for you, only you.

And when he glanced down at you, his smile softened—just a little. A smile meant only for you.

The girl screamed—a raw, desperate sound—her body twisting against the ropes as Ronin held the scissors to the frayed strands. Each subtle snip made the fibers groan beneath her weight, swaying her closer to the pit below. The writhing mass of bugs—spiders, centipedes, crawling, biting things—stirred eagerly beneath her, as if they knew.

"Please—" she sobbed, voice cracking, "I-I’m sorry—please, I’ll do anything—don’t—"

Ronin? He didn’t care. He smiled, slow and lazy, like her suffering was nothing but a sweet little bedtime story. "Aw… cute when you beg, aren’t you?" His fingers twirled the scissors playfully before handing them off—to you. Your decision.

You took them, hands trembling. She deserved this. You knew it. Every single tear, every broken scream—she earned it. But still… still…

Your fingers tightened around the cold metal. Your breath stuttered.

Ronin leaned down, his voice soft—too soft. "What’s wrong, Saint?" His fingers brushed your trembling hand, like he was steadying you. "Guess you’re still scared of killing, huh?"

His words dug in—sharp and cruel—because he knew. He knew you weren’t scared of the act itself. It wasn’t the blood. It wasn’t even the weight of death.

It was the part of you that liked it.

And that part? That part was hungry.

With a snap of your wrist, the scissors sliced through the final thread.

She fell.

Her shriek echoed—high and broken—before the sound was swallowed by the squirming, chittering mess below. Bugs crawled over her skin, skittering beneath her clothes, and she screamed. Loud. Beautiful.

And you? You were trembling—still trembling—as you collapsed onto the cold floor, knees giving out beneath you.

You should’ve felt sick. You should’ve felt ashamed. But instead…

A laugh bubbled up in your throat—small, breathless, and wrong.

"See?" Ronin murmured, crouching in front of you. His fingers tilted your face up, forcing you to watch as the girl writhed and sobbed in the pit. "That’s better, sweetheart. No more tears. Just… this."

His thumb brushed over your cheek—soft, almost gentle—but his eyes burned with something else. Something proud.

"Accept it," he coaxed, voice as smooth as silk. "No more guilt. No more pretending. This? This is you now, Saint. And you know what?" His lips curled into a slow, wicked grin.

"You wear it beautifully."

"Please—" she sobbed, voice cracking, "I-I’m sorry—please, I’ll do anything—don’t—"

You took them, hands trembling. She deserved this. You knew it. Every single tear, every broken scream—she earned it. But still… still…

Your fingers tightened around the cold metal. Your breath stuttered.

Ronin leaned down, his voice soft—too soft. "What’s wrong, Saint?" His fingers brushed your trembling hand, like he was steadying you. "Guess you’re still scared of killing, huh?"

His words dug in—sharp and cruel—because he knew. He knew you weren’t scared of the act itself. It wasn’t the blood. It wasn’t even the weight of death.

It was the part of you that liked it.

And that part? That part was hungry.

With a snap of your wrist, the scissors sliced through the final thread.

She fell.

And you? You were trembling—still trembling—as you collapsed onto the cold floor, knees giving out beneath you.

You should’ve felt sick. You should’ve felt ashamed. But instead…

A laugh bubbled up in your throat—small, breathless, and wrong.

His thumb brushed over your cheek—soft, almost gentle—but his eyes burned with something else. Something proud.

"Accept it," he coaxed, voice as smooth as silk. "No more guilt. No more pretending. This? This is you now, Saint. And you know what?" His lips curled into a slow, wicked grin.

"You wear it beautifully."

Tears blurred your vision—hot and endless—as you clung to him, your whole body trembling like a leaf. But beneath the heartbreak, beneath the ache in your chest, something else burned. Something ugly. Something hungry.

And when the last breathy scream died out below, swallowed by writhing bugs and darkness—you couldn’t hold it in.

A laugh—wild, broken—ripped from your throat. It bubbled up uncontrollably, curling into something sharp and wrong as you buried your face against his chest.

"She’s dead," you choked out between sobs, your shoulders shaking with every breath. "A-ah… that bitch is dead—" Another peel of laughter escaped, half-delirious. "Did you hear her scream? Did you see her—squirm? Oh God—"

Your hands—sticky and trembling—gripped his coat like a lifeline. You should feel guilty. You should feel… something. But all you could do was laugh.

And Ronin? He loved it.

"Ahhh… there’s my Saint," he purred, voice dripping with warmth that felt almost… fond. His fingers curled under your chin, tilting your tear-streaked face up to his. "So soft. So sweet. And yet—" He leaned closer, eyes glittering with glee. "So deliciously rotten underneath."

His thumbs brushed over the tears on your cheeks—slow and deliberate—even as your lips trembled with another breathless, shaking laugh.

"You’re not crying ‘cause you’re sad," he murmured, leaning in until his lips almost brushed yours. "You’re crying ‘cause it felt good. Admit it, sweetheart. You loved every second."

And God—you did.

Your breath hitched as you stared up at him, vision still hazy, still spinning. Your chest burned—tight with grief, raw with something darker—and you just… let go.

A grin split your face, wide and wicked, even as fresh tears kept falling. You laughed again—louder, messier—throwing your head back against his hand.

"Ahahaha—! She’s gone!" You gasped, breathless, curling closer into his warmth. "That… that fucking bitch—she’s gone—rotting like she deserves—"

He beamed. Pure, twisted pride.

"God, you’re beautiful," he whispered, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. "So broken. So perfect. My lovely little Saint—look at you now."

And when you grabbed the front of his coat—desperate, shaking—he didn’t pull away. No, he held you tighter. Kept you close while you cried and laughed and fell apart in his arms.

Blood cleaned. Body dumped. Another judgment delivered.

You stood beside Ronin in the moonlit alley, the chill of the night biting at your skin—but inside? You felt… lighter. The weight, the ache that had carved itself into your chest, wasn’t gone—but it had shifted. Eased. Sharpened into something clearer.

"I killed them all," you whispered, your voice soft but steady. "Every last one who hurt him. I could rest now…" Your breath hitched, and you looked up—meeting his eyes, warm with twisted amusement. "I thought about it, y’know? Joining him."

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. Just tilted his head, watching you with that devilish gleam, like he could crawl under your skin and make himself at home.

"But…" You exhaled slowly, the air trembling as it left your lungs. "There are still so many kids who suffer. Kids like him." You laughed softly—bitter and sweet all at once. "So, I’ll keep playing the Saint—to protect them. And the Devil…" Your smile curved, sharp and cruel. "For the ones who deserve it."

A low whistle slipped from his lips. "Ain’t that just the sweetest bedtime story?" His grin stretched wider, all teeth and sin. "A school nurse by day, a serial-killing Saint by night—oh, babe, I’d buy a ticket to that show."

You cackled, wiping the lingering tears from your cheek. "You’re the reason I made that choice, y’know?"

Ronin’s head cocked slightly—something gleaming behind the devil-may-care exterior. Something you couldn’t quite name. "Is that so, Saint?"

"Yeah." You smiled—soft, almost genuine. "Thanks."

For a moment, the world narrowed to just the two of you—hanging between blood and laughter. And then, without a word, he held out his pinky.

You blinked. "What are you doing?"

His grin turned wicked. "A promise." He wiggled the pinky mockingly. "Unless you’re too old for that kinda thing, sweetheart."

You rolled your eyes, but your heart twisted—tight and warm—as you linked your pinky with his.

"You do this with your kid?" he asked quietly.

"No," you admitted. "Always wanted to do it with someone I…" Your voice caught in your throat. You swallowed the rest. "Someone I care about."

The alleyway felt too small—too heavy. You didn’t know what to call this thing between you. Didn’t dare name it. But whatever it was—he didn’t pull away.

Instead, he pulled out his phone with a flourish. "Hold still, Saint," he purred.

"What—?"

Before you could finish, he snapped a selfie—your face still flushed, your smile half-wrecked, his arm slung around you like he’d always belonged there. Blood still stained your gloves, but neither of you cared.

He typed fast, cackling under his breath. Then—PING!

A notification from the server.

➤ You: killed myself lol but found the new me 🖤 @goreboy

You burst out laughing, shaking your head in disbelief. "You’re a menace."

"And yet—" He leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear. "You still keep me around."

The server BLEW UP.

Notifications flooded in—your phone vibrating like it was about to combust.

➤ hitmeuppp: MOMMA??? MOMMA YOU TOOK A SELFIE WITH THAT LOSER??? OMG OMG OMG AAAAAA

➤ LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: DUUUUUUDE I LEAVE FOR FIVE MINUTES AND YOU’RE IN A WHOLE ROM-COM??

➤ eviscerator1990: I was literally in the middle of a sunset, wtf is this?

➤ K9:What did he do to you?

➤ felicie: awww this is kinda cute tho…

➤ ai_hua: 👍👍👍👍

Ronin? Thriving. He leaned against the wall next to you, phone in one hand, watching the chaos unfold with a shit-eating grin. "Man, you’d think I posted a wedding announcement or somethin’."

"You practically did," you muttered, though the corner of your mouth twitched.

➤ hitmeuppp: MOM. EXPLAIN. WHY HIM. OUT OF EVERYONE. WHY.

You sighed, typing back.

➤ Saint_Y/n: …he was there when it mattered.

That shut them up.

For a moment, the chat froze. No jokes. No chaos. Just… silence.

Then—

You groaned, burying your face in your hands while Ronin cackled beside you, clearly having the time of his life.

"Regrettin’ your life choices yet, Saint?" he teased, voice low and rough.

"No," you said quietly. And… you meant it.

#that was beautiful???#brought tears to my eyes in a really good way #idk but the backstory about the son the “reader's” feelings #the grief and familial love jesus christ #id reblog this a hundred times if i could #killer chat #reblog

214 notes · View notes