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lilacxquartz · 6 months ago

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CHASING HUMANITY • kenjaku x fem!reader

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summary: as you slept, kenjaku has a series of flashbacks back to when it all started, leading to problems in the waking world.

trigger warnings: referenced violence/past abuse & mentioned dissociation.

Chapter 8. Origins

You slept oddly peacefully given your grave predicament and although Kenjaku had already made up his mind about not sending you into an early grave, he still enjoyed the reign of power that he held over your very existence.

He lay there in bed with you, with his fingertips dancing around your pulse point, finding the feeling to be nothing short of thrilling—if even exciting—however, now he had a slight predicament that robbed him of a good rest.

He couldn’t help but feel like this whole situation was doomed to be like all of those other times and that it would all end up in the same old rut. The bigger issue being if he did care or not. Surely, if his mind refused to give him a clear answer, then it did bother him more than he let on.

Although, eventually, he too slipped off into sleep, or something close to it. The environment around him felt so familiar, though, so perhaps it was a memory rather than a dream that he was experiencing.

Muted tones of cobalt blue and sterile white painted his surroundings in clinical hues. Cast just overhead, a blinding white fluorescent light basked him in an almost, blinding glow. This place wasn’t new. He knew where he was perfectly well. From the droning buzz of the machinery that whirred in the background to the monotonous blipping of the monitors. He was back at work—but something felt off about it—something wrong.

Kenjaku considered the possibility of this being a cruel joke of some kind. Maybe he had hallucinated quitting the mundane to begin with, and had never left this wretched building at all. Maybe he was coming down from finally diving off the deep end, the high at last grounding him back into reality from what was a very convincing fantasy?

His eyes wandered around the space again. It couldn’t have been real. He could just tell. He was lucid enough to be able to tell that he was experiencing a dream—be it actually a memory, a warped flashback—or whatever else, but that was as far as the control extended. Everything else was out of his steer and he couldn’t do much else other than to remain seated within his body in a dormant state, watching the dream pass by on autopilot as the passenger.

The world outside the windows to the building just barely existed either, somehow making the hospital feel all the more real. That’s how it felt back then too. How depressing. The windows even now, were still fogged up from the perpetually spitting rain just outside—the skies somehow always overcast. Fellow nurses barked out his name in clipped, impatient tones as patients clung to his hands like he was some sort of saviour. In this particular glimpse into his past, however, everyone was a shadow, with not a single face retained.

Kenjaku’s mind scrambled as fleeting fragments of his old life passed him by on a whim, unable to determine why he was revisiting this part of his life. The experience was tilting, making him feel nauseous at the thought. He was everywhere all at once while not actually present anywhere at all—both carrying the burden and yet being free of it all the same. Monotony was the gist of it; day in and day out for years—a meaningless blur.

At some point, however, the dream forced him to pause, the hallway he found himself walking down growing longer with each passing footstep. The walls and windows smudged into something unrecognisable. The smell of copper lingered in the air and his hands felt warm, sticky, and laden with something he couldn’t quite force his gaze to follow while having a good idea as the walls smeared red.

A voice called out his name not too long after, forcing him to go stop and backtrack a few steps, the room at the end of the hallway not seeming so important anymore. It was soft and hesitant and as he responded to it, he let slip of your name without even realising it.

As a result, he couldn’t help but follow the voice, finding himself be drawn back into the long winding corridors where he had once lost his mind and as he did so, the voice became clearer to the point where it was almost jarring—but also, not yours. No, he recognised it perfectly well in fact.

A ghost from his memory.

The person that this whole thing started with.

When he entered the ward, it was exactly as he remembered it. A small, cluttered room with barely any privacy, save some stained curtains. His role in the hospital was supportive mostly, usually in the confines of whatever doctor he found himself shadowing, but one case in particular unlocked an almost morbid curiosity for him. He remembered this person to be some sort of unusual anomaly that gnawed in the back of his mind.

She kept getting pregnant—trying for a child—but the kids always came out wrong, dead or with a serious issue, lost within days. It kept happening and she always waited out past the point of an abortion, creating a problem each time. This was her third try and at first he was almost sympathetic, wondering if this was some thinly veiled attempt as a cry for help, given that the self-inflicted sabotage was repeating, but then his empathy was quickly lost, giving way into an almost clinical fascination instead.

He ended up spending time with this woman when the hospitals were starkly quiet, rendering her a specimen of some kind to study rather than to fix—awakening something within him that had been dormant for far too long.

The world around him back then slowed in her presence, with everything else fading into the distance. She was for a while, the sharpest focus of his study, but it was always boring whenever she got better. So he started to tamper with her progress with that same detached reverence that one might have had for a studied specimen, marveling at the sight as her body continued to hold itself against the odds.

Soon enough, he began to wonder just how much a person could be pushed before they were to break? How much one’s body could endure before they revealed some sort of truth about themselves that not even they knew?

He found it within that patient, at least, right at the cusp of death. The baby lived by some miracle, although it carried on a rare blood disorder, adorned with an unforgiving birthmark right across its face. Just as her eyes locked on the newborn, an answer formed in her eyes, her life slipping away right before he could hear it.

Kenjaku remembered the feeling of disappointment back then but not out of sadness or grief, but because she had left him hanging. How selfish, he thought back to himself again, leaving him in the dark like that.

He then blinked, finding himself somewhere else. A cold air hit his body, plunging him somewhere outside instead, far away from the hospital. The sterile corridors and ambient drone were gone and his surroundings faded away into something else entirely. He paused, recognising this as reality—but he wasn’t in bed with you—instead stood outside in the pouring rain, with the downpour seeping through his robes.

Such a change of scenery made him pause and he stood still as he tried to recollect himself, his heart beating fast. The sky above was still dark, the moon was just barely lacing through the passing clouds and the asphalt where he stood flooded slightly, leaving him more drenched than he would have liked.

Somehow, he didn’t hear the rain though—everything was silent, everything was still—and then finally, it wasn’t.

Without warning, a flash of red burst into his line of sight, flaring across his vision in a vivid explosion. His heart stuttered, nearly stilling in his chest. His hands twitched at his sides as he tried to ground himself back into reality and just as it started to all fade—the redness bled through again, pulsing in and out of the darkness in tune with his racing pulse. Each flash was sharper than the last, cutting into his vision like honed steel. He closed his eyes to block it all out, only for the colour to be burnt into his mind like a stain, leaving behind scarring sanguine in the dark.

When his eyes fluttered open again, the circumstances had changed once more. Everything was clearer that time—everything was real. He was awake this time, he could feel it. His eyes drifted down at last, fixing on his hands. They were red, just barely washed off from what they were doused within. It was without question blood—thick and congealed—clinging to his skin like molten carmine, digging beneath his fingernails and settling between the creased lines of his palms.

It was then that he realised that he was holding onto something.

A piece of torn fabric, maybe belonging to ripped clothing. At first, all he did was swallow hard, trying to process what he was seeing, making out specks of red strands reflected in the warm glow of the streetlights above, his mind racing back to you as a result, wondering what must have happened. Such a slip of the grasp on his reality made him question if he did something potentially irreversible—leading him to wonder if letting you get so close to him was a mistake on his part—if it was never meant to be at all.

Kenjaku blinked, his mind repeating the same question.

Where were you, exactly?

He found himself calling out your name into the empty streets, his voice coming out dry and hoarse. The surroundings churned once more, the rain blurring into marred strobes as red clouded his vision again. The rain continued to fall sharp against his skin as the world grew muted against his will; fleeting glimpses of shadows drifting in and out of his line of sight. It was disorienting to the point where he couldn’t tell what was real and what wasn’t at that point.

Kenjaku, trying to ground himself, stumbled forward as he tried to walk, finding his hands palming against what felt like brick walls even if he did appear to be back in the hospital once again.

Think, think, think—he demanded of himself, with not a single answer coming to mind.

He tried to walk back—to push through this whole mess—the area at least now seeming faintly familiar even if he was still fairly out of it. He couldn’t have gone too far, surely, and yet as he continued forward, the flashbacks started to happen again, assaulting his mind with conflicting imagery.

In a hasty flurry, a rush of faces flickered in his mind like a flip book of everyone he once made suffer, their names either long forgotten or a mere faint recollection. He blinked rapidly, remembering everyone else that it all started with. The terminal cases that nobody expected to recover; abused until they were eternally silenced by his own hands. Kenjaku remembered the fading life in their eyes; always the same look of an answer trapped in their gaze and yet never a clear admission as to what. Such a look haunted him, making him grow crazed—into a man obsessed. He had to dig slower, to push beyond the moral boundaries of what was right and what could extract answers—not quite caring how far he had to go, as long as he found out what he wanted.

(Of what made people truly human.)

He remembered certain people in fragments. Such as the elderly man who was close to being a corpse already, his body locked in a vegetative state. Kenjaku would linger for hours in the ward, running secretive tests that served no purpose other than to satisfy his curiosity, pushing past the limits of what such a husk of a body could endure. He logged every little reaction and every subtle twitch as he searched for signs of an answer that he didn’t even understand.

Comatose patients were the easiest to get away with when practicing such depravity, at least back in the earlier days. The face of a woman crept into his confronted memory; an unfortunate case of a comatose state as the consequence of drunk driving. She was a quiet case, so for a hot moment, nobody noticed all of those injection sites nor the incisions made in her skin, and due to her subdued state—it wasn’t as though she could feel all of those things either. He experimented in all sorts of ways, but just like before, the silence quickly grew boring.

It was after that point that he understood that he had to go even deeper. The sick and the quiet victims with their inability to fight back nor intervene were easy targets, but they were limited by their frail states and already broken bodies. No, Kenjaku found himself growing greedy, wanting more—needing much more, even if it meant that he would lose himself in order to get the results he wanted.

The memory then shifted, leading him somewhere stable again, but he was still dreaming—he could tell that much. The side rooms to the hospital corridor he was in before were all gone, forcing him to walk towards the end of the hallway. Albeit tentatively, he pushed inside, recognising the room as the office that belonged to his old boss. A small dim light just barely illuminated the space and a warm liquid gushed to trickle past his feet, hitting his senses with something metallic and suffocating. The smell was different from his memory, however—attacking his nostrils with the smell of phantom rot.

He blinked towards the sight of his former boss slumped in his desk chair, the body barely held together, the flesh parting from the bone. Kenjaku remembered it all faintly at this point, but there was one memory that stuck with him the most. The sickening crack of the man’s skull when he had finally succeeded in cracking it open—remembering just how calm he was when he gave into violence—how it all felt so right.

The memory, like with the strange rift between his dreams and reality, however, went blank when remembering a certain point. There was a witness to all of this. A janitor. Perhaps that was his first encounter when it came to losing himself. He still hadn’t the faintest clue what happened after, the details lost to his mind. All that he remembered was that one minute he was cleaning away blood-soaked splintered fragments of wood and the next, he was in the maintenance uniform, staring at himself in the mirror like he was somebody he didn’t quite recognise, yet accepting the stolen name as if it was his own.

Then, at last, he returned to the living, present world once more. Kenjaku still felt a touch out of place from the experience that was just inflicted upon him, but this time he was sure that he could handle his reality once more. He walked back in his suddenly acquired clarity, finding the studio apartment again without an issue, albeit feeling a lot worse than before. Now that he was out of such a strange state, he felt cold, the night chilling him from the bone. His clothing was now soaked and heavy, leaving him longing for a shower to wash the sensation away.

His hands still held onto the fabric tightly woven between his fingers. For a second, he was reminded of you again, causing him to tighten his grip around it as he fought back a feeling he still didn’t understand at all.

As he entered back inside, he paused in his footsteps, seeing you fast asleep in bed as the light from the building’s stairwell spilled partially inside. Your chest rose with each passing breath and your face looked at peace, with not a single part of you harmed at all.

Kenjaku stepped closer, his eyes fixing on your sleeping form.

The sight of you in bed, tangled between the bedsheets filled him with more tension than ever before. It wasn’t that he was disappointed in seeing you seeming, very much relieved that you were alive, but something in him churned—contorting into something else entirely. He stood, locked in place in the doorway, the rain dripping from his clothes and settling onto the floor, simply just staring at you.

Whose blood was that then?

He had no idea. The fact that there were gaps in his memory that couldn’t be recalled at all made all the matters worse. He tried for now to shake it off, hopping straight into the shower instead. Questions kept popping up, like who was—where was the original person and better yet, where did he leave them?

Kenjaku clenched his jaw as the hot water washed over him, the rising steam only barely calming his nerves. If this had happened while he wasn’t in control—if he did this without his own retained knowledge, then there was a chance that he executed the scene sloppily, potentially leaving behind something that he shouldn’t have.

He let out a cool breath as he left the shower, drying himself completely before getting back into bed with you—pulling you tight up against his chest as if to convince himself that you were in fact real, that he didn’t do something that he, for once, didn’t want to do.

The very thought made him react in an almost nauseous state and he almost didn’t want to go to sleep again just in case he would do something that he missed out on again. This—you were his biggest curiosity yet, so he wouldn’t take such an opportunity to learn away so soon.

(…Would he?)

~~~

The apartment was quiet when you next stirred, with the sunlight filtering through the sheer curtains. You shifted restlessly through the blanket, tearing awake as if from a nightmare—although you couldn’t recall it upon waking up. Your fingertips brushed across his body as you stretched and yawned, trying to shake off the exhaustion from your body entirely.

Kenjaku was already awake, his face adorned with deep-set eye bags that bruised over his complexion. You didn’t question it though. He remained perched on the edge of the small bed, watching you with such an unwavering intensity that made your heart flutter, but not in a warm way. If you were being honest, he still unsettled you, but now you had the knowledge that you did the same thing to him.

So perhaps that’s all it was. You let out a sharp breath of air at the thought, laughing to yourself.

“You’re in a better mood,” he observed, his tone softer but his gaze still tightly fixed.

You sat up slowly, trying to rub the sleep from your eyes. Overall, there was something different about you that you couldn’t quite place. A quiet confidence swept through your body that hadn’t been otherwise present before, stripping away the cautious demeanour that you had let on prior. It was as if whatever invisible wall you had encased yourself within was finally beginning to crumble, your guard, despite last night’s events and its follow up, letting itself down at long, long last.

“Yeah,” you yawned out, slipping on your clothes that you had otherwise discarded on the floor. “I guess… I guess I am.”

Kenjaku took note of this shift, deciding to accept it as it was. He was in favour of you adopting a more consistent, maybe stable personality. Perhaps last night, whether it was too early or if it was wrong to happen, dissolved away some sort of barrier between the two of you, leaving nothing hidden.

“I’ll be taking you with me today, like we discussed,” he disclosed a moment later, moving to get dressed himself.

You watched as he fussed with the robes, wondering if the entire get-up was as worth it as he let on. “Oh yeah, I remember. Something about meeting with the acquaintances in the city.”

“That’s right,” he replied, “just one thing though—remember to call me Geto. Don’t slip up and use the name I gave you.”

Without meaning to, you snorted at the thought. “These guys take orders from a monk?” you asked, wondering just what sort of strange identity he kept up with these people. You knew that he was moonlighting a certain identity under wraps, but you thought that he would have been transparent with the people he potentially worked with.

Kenjaku scoffed, although his expression turned amused. “It is what it is. I found them after. They know what I do to an extent, but they don’t need to know the full story. Especially since I’m going to fuck them over in the long run.”

“Aww, and you’re telling me that?” you asked, tilting your head curiously to the side as he told you.

“I’m telling you so that you won’t get too chummy with them,” he corrected you.

“I won’t,” you replied, adopting a teasing tone a moment after, “but alright murder monk, I’ll call you Geto for today.”

Kenjaku blinked. “Murder monk? Really? Out of all the things you could call me—that’s what you choose to go with?”

“It’s fitting, so suck it up,” you shrugged, your lips curling a little bit, “you’ll take whatever I give you, right?”

He rolled his eyes but didn’t fight you on the matter, still feeling curious more so than resigned with wherever this whole thing went. Although, despite his displayed composure leaving nothing to doubt beneath the surface—he was still reeling from the night before. Whatever this was, was nice and for that reason, he couldn’t let something similar happen again, because what if he—nevermind.

He’ll fix it, one way or another. Or at least figure out what triggered it and then figure out where to go from that point on.

~~~

The meet-up happened at a quaint little cafe tucked away into some sleepy neighbourhood in the quieter end of Tokyo, somewhere within a residential district. It wasn’t that you minded such a place at all, but you where wondering what on earth this innocent cafe had done to become the host of something potentially awful.

You warily sat down next to him, seating yourself on the cushioned pastel-green chairs, your eyes drifting down to the whimsical checkered yellow tablecloth. Kenjaku nursed a plate of some sort of sponge cake and a hot milky latte, while the rest of the table too, watched on with slight annoyance—save for a man with steel-blue long hair who had ordered something similar.

As they ate in tense silence, you took your time to familiarise yourself with the three new people. The one who too, had ordered such an unsuspecting dessert in addition to Kenjaku was referred to as Mahito. Somehow, despite how attuned he seemed to be in comparison to Kenjaku, he bore a more chaotic undertone. Unsettling was definitely it, but just his overall appearance with messy scars decorating his body, with his messy hair—the overall vibe… was just different, that was all.

Next to him, sat a broad-shouldered figure who referred to himself as Jogo. He sat there with a grumpy expression, cradling a floral mug of plain black coffee. Just beneath the table, a crackling sound played just out of view—his other hand holding onto a small disposable lighter—his thumb fidgeting with the spark wheel, as if to soothe himself.

Finally, there was a woman. A quiet and composed figure who sat with long, dark brown hair packed into a tousled bun. Her form was broad and muscular just like her companions with her overall presence radiating an almost intimidating energy. Despite this, there was a certain calmness about her that made you drift towards her more than the others. This person was known as Hanami—and she sat herself in the middle, quietly waiting for the meeting to start.

“So, Geto…” Mahito began, finally finishing up his treat, playfully flicking over some residue icing towards Kenjaku. “You’re a bit later than usual, keeping us all waiting like that. Didn’t you say that punctuality was important?”

Kenjaku remained calm, adopting a light-hearted demeanour. The facade he let on was a carefully crafted one and there was not a single hint of hostility in the air, but something about the cold dead look that didn’t match the warmth in his expression, was a sure giveaway.

“Apologies,” he gently spoke, his voice soft, “I overslept. I wouldn’t miss this meeting for a second—it’s been a while, after all.”

“Yeah?” Jogo snorted, choosing not to address your presence. None of them did beyond the simple pleasantries, which comforted you a great deal. “This better be important,” he added.

“Patience Jogo,” Kenjaku smiled, maintaining his performance as someone calm and collected. “I have an important job for you all, actually.”

“Something fun?” Mahito piped up, his eyes beaming with glittering wonder.

“Not exactly,” he replied in a fixed tone as if to let the guy down gently. It was bizarre with how he spoke, seeming almost carefree. It was as if he was a guardian or a mentor of some kind, counselling some sort of troubled band of outcasts, rather than overseeing a couple of thugs. “I have something that needs monitoring before we can move forward with our main plans, but I can assure you all that it will be beneficial in accomplishing the goals that we all agreed upon,” he added, leaning forward, “although,” he let slip a scoff, “it’s a bit selfish, I’ll admit. I’m going to need you all to be my eyes and ears, and if you notice anything unusual, such as… police poking their noses where they usually wouldn’t, then I’ll trust you to report to me.”

“So, are we just sweeping up the potential crumbs you’re leaving behind, or what?” Jogo huffed.

Kenjaku smiled. “Something like that, but I do promise that it’s so that I can move forward with the plans we had all once discussed. After all, we wouldn’t want the police to be snooping around where we’re set to carry out our operations, now would we?”

The group collectively nodded, begrudgingly accepting their position. Hanami didn’t say a word and Jogo only grunted, but Mahito seemed restless even after accepting the role. He seemed to stir at the idea, not quite accepting something so plain. “Aww, come on. You called us out here to get us to be your watchdogs?”

“Actually Mahito,” Kenjaku considered, “there is something that I’d like for you to do,” he revealed, standing up and gesturing for the man to follow, “a word outside, if you please,” his request sounding velvet smooth.

You were left behind for the time being, focusing all that you could on the comforting figure who continued to regard you with a calm, albeit almost eerie smile. Unlike Kenjaku however, there seemed to be something genuinely warm about her that didn’t leave you unsettled in her company. Kenjaku on occasion flicked his sights back, taking note how you were talking to Hanami, not quite liking the view. He warned you to not be chummy with the group and yet there you were.

Focusing on the matters at hand however, Kenjaku schooled his voice into something a touch more serious and authoritative—although, to keep up Mahito’s compliance—he used both such a tone and words alike that made the mission seem like more than it was. How easily manipulated were those around him given a nudge in the right direction.

“I’m going to need your help with a delicate matter,” he revealed, catching Mahito’s attention right away, “something… risky, but only if you think you can handle it.”

Mahito’s eyes lit up, his lips melting into a lazy, almost arrogant grin. “I can do anything you can do.”

Bait and hook. Kenjaku broke his lips into a measured smile in return. “I thought about all of those ideas that we discussed,” he began, referring to a point in time where Mahito had many ideas for how people could be ‘studied’, “and I’ve been thinking, you know, that it’s your time to shine while I keep a low cover,” fully intending for him to get caught, buying some time if possible should such an outcome occur.

“Like…” Mahito trailed off, propping a finger to his lips in thought before tilting his head off to the side. “Like… a copycat, right?”

“Something like that,” Kenjaku nodded. “Think you can outshine me?”

“I can try!” Mahito practically bounced, already anticipating the idea.

“Good,” Kenjaku nodded, but then suddenly seemed serious as he reached into his pocket, pulling out a now coarsely dried piece of fabric from the night before, the old blood settled between the threads, “and also,” he brought his voice down to a low murmur, “see if you can find a match for this. I’d like to know who it belongs to, or if there’s a scene out there that matches a struggle that hasn’t been contained yet. Run some matches—do whatever—check the morgues, the dumpsters if need be. Do whatever and if you can’t find anything at all, then…” he trailed off, his eyes darkening slightly, “then… report back anyway.”

“Oh, what have you done then?” Mahito asked, failing to pick up on the suddenly hostile atmosphere, blissfully unaware and purely curious. It wasn’t his fault for being so inquisitive, so ever questioning the world around him. That’s why Mahito was technically the perfect person for this whole job in a sense, his unrelenting nature to figure out what made everything tick was a valuable trait above everything else.

Regrettably, Kenjaku stiffened, letting slip his composure for a fleeting second. “Let’s not ask too many questions,” he warned before smoothing out the jagged edges of his spiking temper, taking on a once again assured tone, “we don’t want to ruin the surprise, now do we?”

Mahito paused for a moment but kept quiet at the prospect of mystery. Despite this, he pouted slightly at the idea of being left in the dark, even if he didn’t let it before him outwardly. “Fine Geto, you’re sometimes just so cryptic, you know—it’s just no fun,” he playfully sulked, continuing to however accept his assigned task, “but alright, I’ll look into it. Can I…?”

He tilted his head slightly, wondering if Mahito was setting up his question to be what he thought it was going to be. “The person doesn’t have to be left alive if you find them,” he correctly guessed, “just as long as they’re found and disposed of correctly.”

“Gotcha!” Mahito accepted.

Kenjaku nodded to himself, turning his gaze back towards you once more, watching how you carried yourself in a quiet conversation with Hanami just opposite the table. Jogo remained indifferent to you, which he supposed was a good thing—that was as neutral as the arsonist could ever get. Knowing that he had to screw these people over at some point though, his mind flickered with the notion of something different from seeing you act on good terms with them both—it wasn’t quite jealousy, but it was enough to make him feel uneasy the longer he left you alone.

Pulling you away once the meeting concluded, he muttered out a terse warning, “I told you, don’t get too close—also, it’s time to go, so come.”

You shrugged it off, following him out of the cafe, parting your way with the three in a flash. Kenjaku walked at a brisk pace back toward the busier confines of the city. You kept up with him just fine as the time went on, although you were confused as to why he seemed so agitated, and, every so often, he’d set his eyes on you, making sure that you were keeping up with him before he eventually, at last, slowed down.

The vibrant hum of the returning city eventually enveloped him, his shoulders sagging slightly at the sight. Something internally was exhausting him—even if he did feel at ease with you, already understanding that much about the dynamic you both shared. He let out a quiet sigh, closing his eyes for just a short moment, but within just a beat, he was back in the hospital again. The stark image of the crimson-soaked office filled out his line of sight again, pushing him into the long and winding hallway that stretched impossibly narrow with him in it.

He froze, trying to will himself out of it. Not right now, not right now. Kenjaku tried to ground himself as the episode looped—his nails biting half-moon crescents that bled right into his palms. Soon enough with enough applied force, he was able to push the invasive images aside for now, driving himself into the present moment once more—but there was one little problem.

You weren’t there with him anymore.

He froze at the realisation, his eyes darting around almost manically as he scanned the streets around him. The crowd was endless, but he still couldn’t see you anywhere. Not even as much as a glimpse of you passed into his vision, causing his chest to tighten—a foreign sensation overwhelming his being and he hated every second of it.

“Where did you go?” he murmured to himself, his mind racing all over the place.

For the first time, in what felt like his entire existence, Kenjaku felt a hint of panic begin to form in his core. His pulse quickened as his eyes zigzagged restlessly, yet not once locking onto something that had even resembled you. His heartbeat felt heavy, despite how rapidly it was pounding and in the blurring haze of his lapsing clarity—the world around him felt as if it was slowing down.

At first, he tried to think rationally. Thinking maybe that you slipped off somewhere into a store nearby or that you went back to the studio, or even to the bathroom, but the longer he waited around, the emptier the world became. The images from the night before crept back into his mind—the undeniable sight of blood dripping from his hands. He never cared about those he killed, but something about yesterday left him feeling hesitant—perhaps even uneasy.

The gaps in his memory were starting to feel less like cracks and more like a fully split void that he couldn’t stop himself from falling into again and again—stuck in a brutal loop of his past meddling with the present.

What if… you had slipped away from him and escaped?

You wouldn’t do that to him—to yourself—you wanted this, right?

So, what if he then… what if he—no.

Unless he slipped up this time around—unless he had done something while he wasn’t aware of it, then maybe it was really fine. There was no blood on his hands this time around, but that much wasn’t comforting enough. There were many ways one could take a life that didn’t require a single drop to be spilled—he knew that much perfectly well.

Kenjaku stopped, forcing a calm breath to trickle out of his lungs. The world around him began to blur with nothing left clear, but then he heard something. He heard you. Suddenly, his hands were full of some sort of pink-colored drink in a tall plastic cup while you held onto something similar, immediately going for a sip.

Without even thinking about it, he pressed his lips against the straw in a daze, letting the strawberry taste hit his senses.

“So, do you like it?” you asked him, watching for his reaction.

He blinked, masking his response. “Oh yeah, this is good—how’d you know I’d like this?”

“You’re so funny,” you replied, nudging at him with more comfort than you had ever displayed before, “you asked me to get you one of these. Unless… I got the wrong one, somehow?”

Kenjaku joked his way out of it, letting the familiarity of the stable situation ease him back into being around you. Something about you was bringing out a side of him that he couldn’t l control and much to his concern, if it carried on down this road, then it was potentially going to be a problem for him.

Especially with everything else he had going on.

For his sake—and potentially yours—he needed to figure out why this was even happening at all.

And why it seemed to be caused specifically by you.

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taekookpassion · 9 months ago

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Devil's Queen👑

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Characters : Underworld mafia Jeon Jungkook, Unnamed Female lead (You can name whatever name you want dears) Summary : In the depths of a lavish mansion, Jungkook, a dark and powerful man who holds dominion over all he encounters, meets his match in a woman who refuses to bow to his desires. A relentless dance of dominance and defiance unfolds as they engage in a sensual power struggle, where neither is willing to back down. Will Jungkook’s dark heart be tamed by her light, or will they both be consumed by the flames they’ve ignited? Warnings : This story contains hidden sexual acts, including themes of dominance and submission. Not suitable for readers under 18. Power Play/ Dominance & Submission, Emotional manipulation and Possessiveness Word count : ~ 3.5k words

Characters Description:

Jeon Jungkook: The male lead, portrayed as a dominant figure with deep, dark desires. He’s powerful, controlling, and known for his cold demeanor. However, beneath the surface, he craves connection and someone who can match his intensity. His character evolves from simply seeking dominance to yearning for an equal.

Female Lead (unnamed): A fierce, independent woman who refuses to submit to anyone. She’s strong-willed, alluring, and intelligent, using both her body and her mind to challenge Jungkook. Her power comes not from brute force but from her ability to stand her ground and meet Jungkook head-on in both passion and willpower. She gradually reveals she’s not just an opponent but his perfect match, capable of both love and defiance.

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In the grimy underbelly of Seoul, where shadows intertwined with neon lights, Jeon Jungkook was a name that echoed with fear. A predator cloaked in the guise of a dangerously handsome man, his piercing black eyes mirrored the emptiness within—a soul long consumed by darkness. He ruled the city's underground with ruthless power, his nightclub a playground for his vices and dominion.

As he walked through the dimly lit corridor, the bass from the dance floor was a mere murmur to his sharp ears. The air, thick with desperation and greed, was oddly comforting. His shiny black shoes clicked against the concrete, a rhythmic reminder of the lives he controlled. The club was his realm, where every indulgence and display of dominance was his to command.

Passing the velvet curtains of the VIP section, Jungkook's gaze fell on a girl who seemed like an angel amidst the demons. Her porcelain skin and deep, mysterious blue eyes contrasted sharply with the usual patrons. Her cascading hair and flawless form were mesmerizing, drawing his interest.

Approaching her with a predatory grace, he asked, "How much for a night?"

His voice, a seductive purr, had made many quiver with desire. The room seemed to hold its breath, waiting for her surrender. But she looked up at him, unclouded by fear.

"I'm not for sale," she replied, her tone a defiant melody.

Jungkook's eyes narrowed, his mind racing. The rejection struck him like a jolt, stirring a long-buried sensation of challenge.

"You don't know who you're dealing with," he said, his voice dripping with both malice and curiosity.

"I can make your wildest dreams come true—or your worst nightmares."

He leaned in closer, his breath hot against her ear.

"Everyone has a price, angel," he whispered.

"Name yours, and I'll make it worth your while." His hand brushed her cheek, the warmth of his touch contrasting with the heat of the room. The smell of his cologne, a heady mix of leather and musk, filled her senses.

She shivered but held firm. "My body isn't for sale," she repeated, her voice shaking but resolute. "I'm not like the others."

Jungkook's lips curved into a smirk, his eyes glinting with dark amusement.

"Oh, I believe you're different," he murmured.

"But that's precisely why I'm interested. You see, it's not just about the conquest. It's about breaking through that stubborn façade of yours."

He traced a finger along her jawline, his touch light but deliberate.

"Tell me, angel," he purred, "how do you plan to resist the inevitable? Do you think you can hold out against me? The more you resist, the more I want to see you fall."

Her eyes widened slightly, but she maintained her defiance. "I will never be like the rest," she said firmly.

"You can try all you want, but you'll never own me."

Jungkook's gaze darkened, his mind a storm of conflicting desires. "We'll see about that," he said softly, his voice a velvet promise laced with danger.

"I have all the time in the world to make you mine. And believe me, I'm patient."

As he stepped back, his gaze lingered on her, a silent promise of the tumultuous game to come. The girl had awakened a challenge within him, and Jungkook was ready to play, no matter the cost.

The days turned into weeks, and Jungkook's obsession only deepened. From the shadows, he watched her every move—a dance that seemed to taunt him mercilessly. He sent gifts and flowers that wilted before reaching her, and notes that she burned unread. Yet, she remained untouchable, a flame always just out of his grasp. His frustration mounted, patience thinning like a spider's web in a storm. He needed to make her his, to break down her walls and claim her as his queen. Thus, he devised a plan to bring her to him, whether she willed it or not.

On a fateful, rain-shrouded night, Jungkook emerged from the darkness, his eyes locked on his prize. She walked the streets alone, her halo of light oblivious to the lurking danger. He moved with the silence of shadows, closing the distance between them in an instant. Without a word, he enveloped her in the embrace of his leather jacket, the scent of his cologne wrapping around her like a seductive mist.

"Get in the car," he commanded, his voice low and commanding.

Her heart raced as she stared into the abyss of his eyes. For a fleeting moment, she considered fleeing, but something in his gaze held her captive—a promise of something she didn't fully understand but desperately craved. With trembling hands, she slid into the backseat of the luxurious vehicle, the leather cool against her heated skin. The car door slammed shut, and the engine roared to life, the purr of power beneath them as they sped away from the safety of the street lights.

The drive was a blur, the city lights streaking by like distant stars. When the car finally stopped, she found herself before a mansion that seemed to exist in both her dreams and nightmares. Jungkook's mansion loomed—a monolith of opulence and darkness. The rain had ceased, but the droplets on the windows painted a picture of a gilded prison she wasn't sure she wanted to escape. He led her inside, the warmth of the mansion embracing her like a lover's caress.

The grand hall was a testament to his wealth, walls adorned with art that whispered of a man with too much power and too little conscience. She could feel his gaze on her, a heavy weight that stripped her bare. He guided her to a room as luxurious as it was intimidating.

"Make yourself comfortable," he said, his tone deceptively casual.

"We have much to discuss." With that, he left her alone, the door clicking shut behind him with a finality that sent a shiver down her spine.

She knew what he wanted, and she knew she couldn't give it to him—not without losing herself in the process. As she surveyed the opulent space, she wondered if she had the strength to resist the devil's charms.

Hours ticked by, each second a silent scream in her ears. She waited, her heart racing and mind a whirlwind of thoughts. What did he want from her? Why hadn't he taken her already? The anticipation was maddening, a slow burn threatening to consume her. When the door finally opened, Jungkook stepped inside, his gaze never leaving hers. Dressed in a sharp suit, his hair slicked back, every inch of him radiated power and dominance.

"You're still here," he said, his smile cold and calculating. "I must admit, I didn't think you would be."

He walked closer, his footsteps echoing in the vast room. His hand reached out, fingers tracing the line of her jaw, sending a shiver down her spine.

"You intrigue me, angel," he whispered, his breath hot and tantalizing.

"Most women would have surrendered by now, but you... you stand firm." His hand slid down to her neck, gripping it gently, his thumb pressing into her pulse point.

"What makes you so different?" His eyes searched hers, looking for a crack in her armor, something to exploit.

"I'm not for sale," she repeated, her voice steadier.

"I won't be anyone's queen if it means losing myself." Jungkook chuckled, the sound a chilling caress.

"You think you have a choice?" He leaned in closer, his breath scorching against her skin.

"You're wrong. You're already mine." His hand slipped lower, his thumb brushing the swell of her breast.

"But I'll give you one chance to prove your worth. One night, one opportunity to show me you're more than just a pretty face."

His lips hovered near her ear, his voice a dark promise.

"Let me show you how irresistible it can be to give in. Just imagine, one night in my world, and you might find you don't want to leave." His fingers lingered, tracing her curves with a possessive claim.

"Or maybe you're just afraid of what might happen when you finally let go. Are you?"

She swallowed hard, the heat of his touch both intoxicating and terrifying. The line between desire and fear blurred as he leaned back, his eyes never leaving her, a challenge and a promise in one.

The air crackled with tension, their breaths mingling in a tantalizing dance of desire and fear. She knew what Jungkook was proposing—a high-stakes battle of wills, a test of her purity against his darkness. And she knew she had to win. For if she didn't, she would be lost to him forever.

"Fine," she said, her voice a whisper, barely more than a breath.

"One night. But know this, Jungkook. I'm not playing to be your queen. I'm playing to survive." He smirked, his eyes glinting with dark excitement.

"We'll see about that."

The tension in the room was palpable as he released her, his hand lingering for just a moment before he turned to leave. She felt a strange mix of relief and disappointment as the door closed behind him. But she had made her decision.

She would play his game, but she would not be his pawn. She had to outsmart the devil, to turn his own lust against him. As she changed into the elegant gown he had provided, she could feel the beginnings of a plan forming in her mind—a plan that might just save her soul.

The fabric of the gown was like liquid silk, sliding over her skin like a warm caress. The dress was a deep crimson, a color that seemed to scream temptation and danger. As she looked at herself in the mirror, she realized she had never felt more powerful—or more vulnerable. She took a deep breath, steeling herself for the night ahead. Her heart raced, but she couldn't let him see her fear. She had to become the predator now, not the prey.

When Jungkook returned, his eyes widened with hunger at the sight of her. She knew she had chosen the right weapon—her beauty. He was a man accustomed to taking what he wanted, and she would use that to her advantage.

They danced together, their bodies moving in a sensual rhythm that spoke of passion and dominance. She felt his hands on her, his breath on her neck, and she knew she was playing with fire. But she had to keep the flames at bay, to make him want her without giving in.

As the night wore on, the tension grew thicker. Jungkook's touches grew bolder, his kisses more demanding. She could feel the heat of his desire, the beast within him straining at its leash. But she didn't flinch or pull away. Instead, she met him with equal fire, her own desire a siren's call that threatened to drown them both.

He whispered sweet nothings in her ear, promises of power and pleasure, but she knew better than to trust the devil's tongue. She had to be the one in control, to make him crave her without ever truly having her. And as the night grew late, she could feel him losing his grip on his restraint.

The moment came—the crescendo of their dance of seduction. He led her to his bed, the sheets black as the abyss of his soul. She lay down, her heart racing, her mind racing faster. As he climbed on top of her, she knew she had won the first round. But the battle was far from over. She had to keep him guessing, keep him wanting.

She wrapped her legs around him, her nails digging into his back, pulling him closer. And as he claimed her mouth in a bruising kiss, she whispered her terms, a challenge that made his eyes flash with something akin to surprise.

"One night," she repeated, her voice a silky promise.

"And if I win, I walk away. Free."

The air was electric, charged with the energy of their unspoken contract. Jungkook's smile was a wicked curve, a promise of both pleasure and pain.

"Very well," he murmured, his voice a dark symphony that resonated through her body.

"One night. But if I win, angel, you become mine." His teeth grazed her neck, and she could feel the heat of his breath against her skin.

"And I always win."

He trailed kisses down her neck, his hands roaming her body with a possessive hunger that made her pulse race.

"Tell me," he whispered, his voice a seductive purr.

"what makes you think you can beat me?" His fingers danced along the edge of the gown, teasing the sensitive flesh beneath. She bit her lip, the taste of him still lingering on her mouth.

"Because," she breathed, "I know what you really want."

Her words hung in the air, a challenge that seemed to ignite something primal within him. His eyes narrowed, the hunger in them deepening to a more sinister lust.

"And what's that?" His voice was a low growl, his teeth grazing the shell of her ear. She smirked, a hint of mischief in her gaze.

"You want someone who's not just a pretty face. Someone who can match your darkness."

He stilled, his hand pausing on the zipper of her dress.

"Is that what you think?" His tone was deceptively casual, but the tension in his body was a live wire.

"That I crave a challenge?" She nodded, her voice steady.

"That's what you've been searching for all along. And I'm going to give it to you." With a sudden jolt of strength, she flipped their positions, straddling him. His eyes widened, a mix of surprise and admiration gleaming in the depths of his irises.

"We'll see," he said, his smirk returning.

"But for now, let's play."

Their dance grew more intense, their bodies tangling in a passionate battle of wills. Every touch, every kiss was a silent declaration of war, a promise of dominance and submission. Jungkook's hands roamed her body, expertly teasing and taunting, trying to find the weakness in her armor.

But she was ready for him, her own hands exploring his body with a calculated precision that had him gritting his teeth. She knew his every move before he made it, anticipating and countering with a grace that was almost supernatural.

Their kisses grew more frantic, breaths mingling in a symphony of desire and malice. He could feel her slipping through his fingers like sand, and it only fueled his hunger. Yet, she remained unyielding, her gaze never wavering from his—a silent promise that she would not be the one to break. As the night deepened, their dance grew bolder, each move more daring than the last.

Their clothes fell away, leaving them both bare and vulnerable under the flickering candlelight. Jungkook's eyes roamed over her, his gaze as potent as a physical touch. "

You're mine," he growled, his voice thick with lust. But she was resolute, her eyes blazing with defiant fire.

"Not yet," she whispered, her voice a seductive promise.

"Not until you've proven yourself."

Their bodies moved in a sensual battle, each touch a silent argument, each gasp a concession. Jungkook felt himself losing ground but was too far gone to care. He needed to claim her, to conquer this angel who dared to challenge him. As the night unfolded, their passion grew wilder, the stakes higher. But she remained steadfast, her gaze never leaving his, her body never fully surrendering.

The room was a whirlwind of sensations—his skin against hers, the heat of their breaths, the scent of their desire. Jungkook's touch grew rougher, his kisses more demanding, trying to force her submission. But she met him stroke for stroke, kiss for kiss, her own desire a tempest threatening to consume them both.

"You can't have me," she murmured, her voice a sultry taunt.

"Not unless you can tame the storm."

The challenge ignited something primal within him. Jungkook's eyes flashed with a feral hunger.

"And what makes you so sure?" His breath was hot against her skin as his thumb traced the edge of her inner thigh. She smirked, her eyes darkening with mischief.

"Because I've seen the cracks in your armor, Jungkook," she whispered, her lips brushing his ear.

"And I know how to exploit them."

With a sudden jolt, she rolled them over, pinning him to the bed. Her hands roamed his chest, her nails lightly scraping against his skin. Jungkook's breaths came in harsh pants, his body reacting to her touch.

"Is that so?" he rasped. She nodded, her eyes gleaming with victory.

"I've seen the man beneath the monster. You want more than just a queen. You want an equal."

Their eyes locked, and the air between them charged with something deeper than lust—something that scared them both. He reached up, cupping her face in his hands.

"Prove it," he breathed, the challenge clear in his gaze. And with that, she leaned down, capturing his mouth in a kiss that was as fiery as it was tender—a dance of dominance and submission, of love and hate, of light and darkness.

As they lost themselves in each other, the night grew wilder. Jungkook's hands roamed her back, his grip tightening, his kisses a branding mark. She whispered sweet nothings in his ear, her breath cool against the heat of his skin.

"You can't own me," she murmured.

"But you can have me." Her words were a drug, a seductive promise that drove him wild.

Their battle of wills intensified, their kisses a silent war cry. Jungkook's hands tangled in her hair, pulling her closer as if he could consume her very essence. She moaned into his mouth, the sound driving him to the brink.

"You're mine," he growled, his hips moving in a demanding rhythm. But she didn't back down, her hands digging into his shoulders.

"No," she said, her voice a seductive purr.

"I belong to no one."

Their bodies moved together, a symphony of passion and power. Jungkook's eyes searched hers, looking for the submission he so desperately needed. But she gave him nothing but fire, her eyes a blue flame that threatened to consume him.

As they reached the pinnacle of their dance, their hearts racing, their breaths mingling, he realized he didn't just want her to be his queen—he wanted her to be his equal, to stand by his side in the pits of hell and laugh at the demons that tried to tear them apart.

Their climax was an explosion of light and darkness, a battle of wills ending in a beautiful surrender. They lay there, panting and exhausted, their bodies entwined in a tapestry of passion. Jungkook stared up at her, his eyes filled with a newfound emotion—love. It was a feeling both terrifying and exhilarating.

"You've won," he murmured, his voice hoarse from the intensity. She smirked, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction.

"I told you I would." Her hand traced his jawline, a touch that belied the strength of her spirit.

"But the real question," she said, her voice a soft caress, "is whether you're willing to let me win your heart."

Jungkook's chest tightened, the realization of his feelings for her hitting him like a sledgehammer. He had never allowed himself to love, never allowed anyone to get that close. But as he looked into her eyes, he knew he couldn't walk away.

"What happens now?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper. She leaned down, her breath warm against his skin.

"Now," she whispered, "we write our own story."

And so, they did. In the quiet moments between passionate embraces, they shared their deepest secrets, their darkest fears. They laughed and loved, discovering that together, they could conquer the shadows that had once ruled their lives. Jungkook had found his queen—the one person who could match his darkness with an even greater light.

As the sun rose, casting its golden glow across the room, Jungkook pulled her closer, her head resting on his chest. He felt her heart beating against his, a rhythm that matched his own. In that moment, he knew he had found his equal—his partner in this dance of power and passion.

"You're mine," he murmured, his voice filled with fierce possessiveness.

"But," she said, her eyes shining with mischievous light,

"only if you're willing to be mine."

He kissed her forehead, his arms tightening around her.

"Always," he promised, and she believed him.

For in the warmth of his embrace, she had found her home—a place where she could be both the angel and the devil she truly was.

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pinkaxolotl85 · 11 months ago

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Due to issues within AO3's skin system, Eosphorus has been put on a semi-permanent pause. As a skin intended to be glassmorphic, it relies on certain properties that AO3 just doesn't allow. Unless AO3 updates their skin system, Eosphorus is sadly being laid to rest.

BUT WAIT.

After spending time tackling this issue, I drafted up a new skin concept and got to work. It's now much further along than Eosphorus and lends itself far better to customisation and a more universal design.

More to come soon.

#ao3 theme pelagic #archive of our own #ao3 #ao3 css #ao3 theme #ao3 theme dark #ao3 theme light

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miss-celestia13 · 1 year ago

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An Arsonist’s Anguish

Richy’s Lament - A Duskwood One Shot

A dark, angsty exploration into Richy’s character as he sets the stage for his death. There is no happy ending. Just some hope that another soul made it out of the mine as it burns. Crossposted on Ao3.

Trigger Warnings are below the line. Please check them.

TW: Suicide, Self Hatred, Hallucinations, and thoughts/descriptions of Death. Read at your own risk. I tried not to be too graphic, but you will know what’s happening.

Richy would never see the sun rise again.

The ghosts of all the beautiful things he killed to protect his secrets haunted his dragging, stumbling steps as he traversed the mine and ignored the cameras he installed. Gasoline poured and splashed from the canister he held as he wove through tunnels and gritted his teeth against the pain in his arm.

It was nothing compared to the emotional torture he felt inside. His thoughts were a tempest raging with the violence of a cyclone. Every destructive gust ripped through the fragile edifices of his grip on reality.

Within the labyrinth of his mind, self-loathing chewed on his soul like a pack of feral beasts tearing at the tender flesh of their fallen prey. Each bite drew forth burgundy rivers of desolation, self-condemnation, and unyielding fury. Blending with the physical aches until he couldn’t tell them apart

His arm throbbed as he ignored the yelling in his mind. Fucking Dan. Dan, who gave him a gun?! Oh, what an idiot! He scuppered all Richy’s plans and left him scrambling to end it before anyone else got hurt. Ensure nothing remains but ash.

Rivers of cold sweat streamed down his grey face as he held his injured arm over his stomach so he wouldn’t bang it into the rough wall. He wanted to punch the stone to take his mind off it. The bottle of pain meds he stole from his mother rattled in his pocket, but he couldn’t risk taking them yet.

His breathing roasted his throat, but his entire body shivered as though an icy glacier engulfed him. The persistent tremble in his body intensified with every labored step.

The combined weight of his physical and emotional agony was an anchor on his back, dragging his broken spirit beneath tumultuous waves, where the agony of drowning and being hammered from all sides echoed through the depths of himself.

It didn’t feel like any of it was unfair. The thirst was the worst thing. He kept smacking his lips together, attempting to inspire some moisture, but his tongue remained bone dry and coated in the remnants of bitter blood rust.

The blood he’d lost stained his skin and the stone as it dripped through the filthy dressing he tried and failed to use as a tourniquet. Everything felt like it happened to someone else. Something otherworldly piloted his body from the inside.

Like some demon possessed him, guiding him down depraved, treacherous paths, and the priest hadn’t arrived in time to exorcise him.

And he’d done it to himself. Every choice he’d made since kidnapping Hannah, it had felt like suicide in slow motion.

He marooned himself on an island surrounded by vipers of his own creation.

Now, the only option to set himself free was fire. It would hurt, he thought, and his stomach wrenched to the side, almost splitting in two as he dreaded it so strongly.

And death. There was a liberating freedom in death. A broken sob tore through his clenched teeth as he thought of Jessy, the emotions he harbored for her, and everything he had never deserved to have with her.

She was a shot of adrenaline after years of lethargy.

So many of his favorite memories revolved around her and their silly inside jokes. He’d used his closeness to her to torment and stalk her. Terrorized her and her friends. She would never forgive him. Her smiling face, her flaming hair, and desire for a life of adventure had made his miserable existence worth living.

She would forget him one day, but never forgive him. He was a coward. An idiot. He’d let them all believe a masked myth was chasing them.

The only masked freak after them was their own friend.

His megawatt smile, stupid jokes, and constant upbeat attitude despite the shitstorm life rained on him had been the heaviest disguise of his brief life. They’d all bought it.

Hook, line, and fucking sinker. None thought to check beneath that smile. Now, it had twisted and transformed into a permanent snarl. If they paid attention, they would have found the rot and ruin underneath his cheerful demeanor. None of his friends had stopped to think about just how stressed he was. How much he had to carry for his family and Hannah—screw her. She was party to his worst decision.

She caused it.

Her wanting to sacrifice herself, him, and Amy to clear her conscience, betrayal. Betrayal was a dagger Hannah concealed in a cloak of mutual trust and unspoken promises to take their secrets to the grave. That blade had appeared suddenly and without warning, piercing the walls of his shriveled heart.

Half of him wished he’d killed her while he’d had her under his control. End the threat, leave her body to decompose in the mine.

No one came here. He’d made sure of it. Everything might—well, it was too late now. She was safe in the hands of Alan Bloomgate. Hannah, perfect, beautiful fucking Hannah.

He hated her. He blamed Hannah. But it was Amy who he blamed the most. Richy blamed everyone but himself for too long. He knew that. And now he would pay the price for it.

He’d already staged his death. Now he just had to commit.

The cloying scent of gasoline infiltrated his nose, thickening in his raw throat, and the empty metal cannister fell from his weak fingers. The thunderous clanging as it bounced and came to a stop worsened the headache he’d had for the last few weeks.

It pounded in time with his thudding heart. Each pulse pushed yet more blood out of the wound in his heavy, aching arm. It tingled and sparked with fiery pain with every paranoid twitch as he glanced behind him, sure he heard footsteps chasing him down.

He gave himself a shake when only his shadow approached. It looked much bigger to him now. Sinister and spreading to encompass the entirety of him.

It had taken him over long ago, and at last, he accepted it. It was too late to beat it back. He’d embraced it. Its hug was gelid and dragged him down, down, down. The shadow had always been in him; his choices had brought it to life, and it was time to eliminate it so it wouldn’t harm anyone else.

If his last victim was to be himself, it would end on his terms.

His last words had been a confession and an apology. To Jessy, and his friends, to the unwitting stranger he’d dragged into this mess, and to himself. His conscience was far from clear, and his reckoning awaited him amongst the flames he would soon ignite.

The cave in which he’d chosen as his tomb would remain safe from the flames, but the poison smoke would choke him. An intangible noose, as he couldn’t bring himself to tie a rope. He shuffled inside and loosed a long breath that felt more like a death rattle.

His stinging eyes couldn’t penetrate the blackness encroaching him on all sides as he reached into his jacket pocket with his good hand, and pulled out the zippo lighter he’d stuffed inside days before. He’d always suspected.

Deep inside, Richy had expected that this was how it ended. The cold silver metal warmed a little in his clammy hand as his thumb stroked over the Garage’s logo and wished he had said goodbye to his parents before he gave himself to the fire.

It was best they learned with the world. His suicide letter would speak for him and he prayed it would ensure his family didn’t suffer for his actions.

Naïveté had always been his downfall.

Before he set his ultimate act into motion, Richy took his phone out of his jean pocket and flicked the flashlight on. The bright beam of white light assaulted his eyes and created a flurry of moving shadows. The skittering of tiny claws on loose stone racing away from him painted a cruel smirk on his mouth as he cast the light around the small cavern and found what he was looking for.

A grubby black backpack sat against the grey rock wall, covered in dirt, blood, and guilt as he scuttled over to it. He unzipped it and pulled out the almost empty bottle of water he’d been rationing for days.

After fishing the bottle of medication out of his pocket, he struggled to open them both, and cried out as his jerky movements irritated his wounded arm. It took five very long minutes to get the pills out. The light from his phone shuddered as he set it down to count the pills.

He’d chosen the strongest ones his mother had. One knocked her out for half a day, and he wanted to numb himself as much as he could before the smoke smothered or flames devoured him. They were heavy on his tongue as he tossed back a fistful of the chalky tablets and chased them down with the last of his precious water.

For a moment, they got lodged in his throat, his mouth flooded with saliva and his eyes prickled with fresh tears.

He couldn’t even kill himself right. Everything he did just failed in spectacular fashion.

He was a monster of his own making, and only he could slay it. He swallowed, compulsive and dry, ignoring the hot flashes creeping up his neck as the painkillers scraped down his throat and into his hollow stomach.

Richy dropped to his knees and crawled over to the wall, and slumped back onto it. Paper crinkled in his inside coat pocket as he shifted to get comfortable. He had about an hour before the full effects of the medication set in. He would light the fire once the gnawing, eroding ache in his chest and arm dulled.

Until then, he sat with his thoughts, his splintering sanity, and cursed himself. Cursed Duskwood and the predator the town had forced him to transfigure himself into.

The weight of hopelessness hung around Richy’s neck like a noose pulled tight, squeezing the light of life from his eyes.

It was a suffocating darkness that swallowed him whole, leaving nothing but the biting tang of despair on his tongue. Each breath felt like inhaling shards of broken glass, cutting deeper with every huffing exhale.

The silence that echoed in his soul was a relentless scream, a haunting, deafening reminder of the emptiness that consumed him.

“I should’ve told someone,” Richy said in a whisper.

The words bounced softly off the rock, a harmony of regret.

He twitched as it fell silent, mouth furling and eyes glazing over as he listened to the racket in his head.

All you had to do was hand yourself in. You could have avoided all of this.

What do you think will happen to your family? They’ll live happily ever after in the town you terrorized?

Do you honestly think your pathetic letter will save them?

The slippery voice of his own darkness broke into a baleful laugh. It made the hair in his nape rise and stand stiff. He shuddered, thrashing his head and gritting his teeth until they squeaked.

“I tried. I always tried. But I’m a failure. I’ve always been a failure. I can make it right. It’s the only way.” He muttered as the disembodied voice agreed.

Make it right? Ha! You think you can wash away the stain of your idiocy?

You’re tainted.

Forever marked by your wrong choices, Richy.

Redemption? You make me laugh.

Redemption is a fairytale, a delusion you’re desperately clinging to.

It is so far beyond your reach…

Richy’s voice was a growl as he said, “No, redemption isn’t my goal. I can’t undo the damage I’ve caused, but I can end it before anyone else gets hurt. I can make sure the world knows it was me.”

The derisive laughter of his demons chafed at his skull as if their talons were scratching their unspeakable names into the bone.

You’re a lost cause. A testament to all your failures.

Each step you take is a step closer to the abyss of self condemnation.

There’s no way out.

Your sacrifice won’t save your soul.

“I accept that!” Richy roared, spittle flying from his chapped lips as he panted like a wounded beast.

“My death might be the only way to atone for all I’ve done. I don’t care what comes after that. But my family won’t suffer because of me. Not any more.”

The voice in his head made a sound of agreement before it crooned his worst fears.

Yes, your death is the ultimate penance.

Your final act of contrition for the havoc you’ve so selfishly wrought.

Then again, have you considered the aftermath?

Your family will endure your actions. Long after you’re gone. Their suffering will echo until they, too, shuffle off the mortal coil.

Searing fiery agony ripped through Richy’s heart. It felt as though someone had taken a knife, heated it up over a fire until it glowed red hot, and then plunged it into his chest. The scent of burned flesh and molten iron filled his nose. The sensation felt so real to him.

His hand clawed at his jacket over his pounding heart, as if to pull the blade free, but his fingers met only dirty fabric.

“They won’t! They won’t! They won’t! I’ve made sure of it. This isn’t their burden to bear!” He yelled, voice laced with an anguish that made his body convulse as rivulets of salt descended his bared teeth.

Helplessness stole over him as his demons taunted and chuckled in a scornful manner.

You should have thought about that before you started donning the guise of an ancient legend.

Idiot.

Weak.

Pathetic!

Your existence is a festering wound that poisons all in your vicinity.

Embrace the fire.

Let it cleanse all the filth you’ve spread.

But just know, your family will bear the scars of your choices, as they’re carved into their souls for eternity.

Richy sobbed through the agonising sensation weaving through his internal organs. He felt as though someone was weaving his internal organs together with a blunt needle, and they had deliberately coated the thread in salt to prolong his suffering. The increasing pressure in his head demanded an outlet as well.

Everything ached, it bled, and it tore him apart. He was so tired. So tired of trying.

This mine, this town, and all it had demanded of him, he was done with it all. He wanted it to burn. His desire was for them all to suffer, just as he had for a decade. He hadn’t dug just one grave that night. No, there had been one accident and four graves waiting for them. They’d just seen theirs too late.

The forest had never forgotten them, though. It had been patient.

That night with Hannah and Amy, it had never ended. It was a living nightmare he had no way out of. Their deaths had simply waited for them to catch up, and even if Hannah could find it in her to exist after all he’d done, he knew she’d died alongside Jennifer and the rest of them.

Ghosts. That’s what they were. He saw it now. There was no point in trying to hold it off anymore.

It was as if the pressure in his head imploded with that thought.

He wasn’t fully aware of his surroundings as his mind fragmented and warped, and his tenuous hold on reality slipped from his grasp.

The cave dissolved in his vision. Something at the very core of himself disintegrated with it.

He was somewhere else. Somewhere he had long tried to forget.

It was ten years ago.

Amy was there. As was Hannah.

He held a muddied shovel. The surrounding forest smelled like home, but his blood had turned cold. Jennifer’s lifeless body lay broken and bloodied, the remnants of shock still painted across her lovely features.

Her hair lay in a sanguine halo around her head as Richy set down the shovel, and silently, the trio worked to lift the woman.

Hannah’s sobs blended with his labored breathing, sweat drip, drip, dripped down his sore neck. He’d wanted to report it to the police. Tried to convince them to do so anonymously. But Hannah, in her fright, had convinced him they’d be signing their death warrants.

His family would suffer. It was he who gave her the keys to a client’s car. It was due to be scrapped, yes, but that didn’t make it better. Everyone would boycott his dad’s Garage and now that mom was growing worse, the sickness in her invading her mind, he knew they needed that income more than ever.

All they could do was hide the body, agree never to speak of this night, and give the greatest performances of their lives to ensure no one ever suspected them once word of Jennifer’s vanishing spread through Duskwood. He felt like something inside him was dying.

His throat tightened, mouth flooding with saliva as the urge to vomit overtook his senses. Heat crawled through him as he swallowed a mouthful of acidic bile and looked heavenward as they shuffled to stand at the edge of the crudely dug grave.

The stars overhead mocked them as the foliage and freshly overturned earth disguised the metallic scent of spilled blood and their sour shared guilt.

“Are you sure you can live with this?” He asked as they hesitated to drop Jennifer into the ground.

Amy chewed on her bottom lip, blood staining her teeth she’d bitten so hard, and her leaking eyes wouldn’t settle on anything as she gave a single jerky nod. Richy’s stomach sank, but he turned his gaze to Hannah.

His friend’s grief mottled face would haunt him forever as she said, “What other choice do we have?”

That answer inspired zero confidence, but Richy accepted it as an affirmation, and said, “Okay, on three—1, 2, 3!”

With a slight swing and a wobble, they released their hold on Jennifer and all three screwed their eyes shut as she hit the bottom of the hole with a sickening crunch.

Amy fell to her knees, her shaking hands gripping the loose mud ringing the unmarked grave as she sobbed uncontrollably. Richy could hardly stand to watch her, and was glad when Hannah, who was crying freely herself, hauled her away.

He nodded once as Hannah and Amy embraced, clinging to one another, wordless apologies pouring from them both as Richy retrieved his shovel.

He felt like they were being watched. Paranoia snaked through his mind like a weed he knew would grow out of control. All he could do was start refilling the grave.

The soft sound of metal scooping up damp earth seemed to ring through the forest as he internally shut down. All his emotions, he forced them aside. He locked them in a cage made of lead and lined with explosives. Life would never be the same.

Life would be a method actors dream after this. He knew this would change them at a molecular level and none of them could breathe a word of it once they left this cursed forest.

Richy took the last deep breath he’d ever experience and watched expressionlessly as the earth rained down on Jennifer. The pattering noise reminded him of rain, of tears. Amy cried harder while he diligently worked to cover up their mistakes.

Hannah watched, her mouth open in a silent scream.

Wetness trickled down his cheeks as he slowly returned to the present.

Hannah’s face floated across his vision as the scene fully dissipated, and he found himself back in the cave. Stale air replaced the aroma of the night dark forest, and a thin haze hung over his eyes as a euphoric rush raced through his bloodstream.

He felt as if he was floating and drowning in a sea of deliriousness.

The medication had kicked in. His legs were leaden as his head lolled on his neck as if on a swivel, and there was an odd sensation in his nose, like the smell of a roaring fire, but none had been lit. The bullet wound in his arm still griped. Infection had set in, he thought.

Only death would cure it. The meds would ease his passing.

A synthetic fatigue draped him like a cloak as he blinked blearily at the dancing shadows creeping nearer. His mouth turned so dry his tongue curdled in his mouth, and his breathing grew shallower as the painkillers burned through the aches in his body. Not long now, his mosaic mind kept jumping between the past and present, footsteps and disembodied voices whispered so close and real that he answered one.

“I should have turned myself in, I know.”

“At least we agree on something. ”

A female said. His suddenly too heavy head swung around to find the source, his sluggish heart raced faster and faster as the voice sounded like Jessy’s.

“Jess? Remember the fish? The names I made up? If I could—No—I’m so fucking sorry...” He said. He spoke with a voice threaded with deepest despondency.

“The fish were just another lie. All of it was. Your life ended the night Jennifer did. Was any of it real after that? Anything you said, did you mean any of it?”

His shrunken heart broke irrevocably, the agony radiated through his chest, and filled him with a coldness that would soon embrace all of him.

“I didn’t mean—please—I’m ready to pay for it. No one else will hurt because of me.” He swore vehemently.

Jessy’s spectral laugh, derisive and humorless, taunted him.

“We will hurt. It won’t go away. Your actions caused wounds that will scar us forever. Death is your relief. Living with what you did to us is our grief. Goodbye, Richy.”

Richy cried silently as her voice faded and the full effects of the painkillers turned his bones to jelly. He had to light the fire before he passed out. A coffin was his only way out of this cursed place.

Bracing a hand on the knobby wall, he gradually rose to his feet as rock crumbled under his fingers, and rained to the dusty ground, sweat on his palm mixed with the dirt as he tottered toward the entrance. He thumbed the Zippo open as he panted, jaw clenched and eyes stinging with slaking tears.

Petrol permeated the air. He breathed it in as he flicked the lighter and swayed on weak knees as the tiny flame ignited. In the dim, damp recesses of the mine, shadows waltzed like specters as Richy, face obscured by the glow of the lighter and shadow, dropped the flame with a snap of his wrist into the pool of gasoline.

Flame surged away from him, hissing along in a serpentine trail until it morphed into a living beast starved and hungry for destruction. He stumbled back. The heat was a physical blow as it sucked out the oxygen, and he trembled like a newborn fawn as he dropped to his knees and stared and stared and stared.

Amidst the cavernous depths of the mine, the candescent light of the furious fire cast a macabre ballet of shadows upon the rough-hewn walls, a surreal tableau of light and darkness. Tendrils of flame licked and lapped at the stone, awakening ember-tinged echoes that wavered and flashed like phantoms in the subterranean gloom.

Billowing smoke, an ash ridden shroud, coiled sinuously through the labyrinthine passages. The evidence he had doused in gasoline would soon catch fire. Relief glittered through him at the thought. An acrid perfume of burning wood and charred earth mingled with the metallic scent of ancient minerals, an otherworldly aroma that lingered in his lungs and clung to all his senses.

There was no going back now. Every breath was slower than the last. It felt like he was inhaling lava as the heat singed the soft tissue and hair in his nose.

His weighty eyelids sat at half mast. The tunnel walls seemed to exhale, releasing murmurs of long buried secrets, as if the very mine itself sought to voice its resignation to the all-consuming blaze. Mirroring his own easing turmoil as he shut down the instinct to flee and welcomed the darkness speckling the edges of his vision.

His lungs were burning as he struggled for air, and it felt like there was a boulder sitting on his chest, keeping them from inflating and grinding his bones down.

The feeling went out of his legs as his hands turned to claws and raked down his neck, leaving scarlet trails of pain scoring his constricting throat.

His world flipped sideways as he collapsed and his head cracked off the rubble strewn ground, but he no longer felt any pain. The roar of the fire, the slowing beat of his heart, and the stones poking into his tear-streaked face were all he knew.

As Richy’s weary eyes teetered on the edge of closure for the last time, a bizarre scene unfolded within the tumult of his fading consciousness.

The nerves in his hands spasmed and his fingers twitched, filthy nails scratching at the dirt to distract himself as he resisted the urge to fight for his life.

No, it had to end like this. If Hell was real, it was best he got used to it.

Freezing panic blasted through him like a blizzard as his blurred eyes caught sight of something that didn’t belong.

Through the shimmering haze of smoke and heat, a figure emerged from a tunnel he hadn’t thought to include in his fiery last act. His heart tried to beat faster as fear spread its icy fingers through his body. The person appeared cloaked in a shivering orange glow and erratic shadows.

Masked and foreboding, the phantom figure raced away without noticing Richy. And lost in the fractured fabric of his perception, Richy could not see who or what it was. If it was a real person, they might’ve tried to drag him out. This would all be for naught. For once, his horrendous luck benefited him.

As it was, the panicked footsteps bolted away from him, barely heard over the howling fire, and vanished into the tumult of smoke.

He hoped they made it out. It hadn’t occurred to him he might take another’s life with him. Just another mistake. Another tally on his list of sins committed. His choices lay before him like an intricately woven tapestry, each thread a testament to the wrong turns and paths he tread, yielding a disturbing, wretched pattern he wished he could unravel and weave anew.

His trembling gaze soon faltered as the slithering smoke filled his lungs, gasping for air that no longer existed as he spluttered and coughed. With every shallow inhale, the world blurred and distorted. Black spots burst like maleficent fireworks in his eyes, shutting down his fleeting thoughts of crawling to safety.

A cacophony of wheezes and whines slipping from his open mouth faded into a distant echo, as his eyelids, heavy with surrender, fluttered closed. He gave himself over to the exhaustion eating him alive from the inside.

The world outside ceased to matter as an alleviating darkness enveloped his mind. His tiny exhales were little more than puffs of air. A whispered farewell to all those he was leaving behind.

Richy had fallen quiet, but the fire raged on, growing stronger as it feasted on wood, and hastily packed boxes, and the papers inside them. His legacy of ash and blood.

In the letter he left for his parents, he had assumed all guilt and taken the lion's share of the responsibility for Jennifer’s death, and his actions after. Hannah, he thought she had suffered enough, and whatever punishment she received, he didn’t want it to ruin her more. Death was his toll to pay, his lethal reputation would exist long after him and pay for the rest of it. He only hoped his parents could move on from this.

They wouldn’t see him again, not until the funeral. It was over. The corrosive effects of his choices had eaten away at everything good in him.

There was nothing left to salvage from his wreckage.

He tried. And he failed. This time, he finally succeeded in something. The complete demolition of him. A tear slipped through his lashes, warm and soft as it fell to the mucky ground.

It was the last. No more fell.

Death came quietly for him, as silent as a falling leaf drifting into a pile of its fallen friends. His chest stuttered as tentacles of smoke wreathed around him like funeral wrappings, falling as still as the rock he lay atop.

Death finally slayed Richy Rogers’ demons, and no one heard their screams.

——————

I have never been so nervous about something I’ve written. I hope that you—I can’t say enjoyed 🙈 but I hope your time wasn’t wasted. Thank you for reading, if you made it this far.

This is in no way meant to glamorise mental illness or anything like that. That is not my intention. I have been where Richy was in this story, I didn’t kidnap or help bury anyone, but I’ve dealt with depression/anxiety all my life. I’ve dealt with suicidal thoughts. There is nothing glamorous about it. This is just a fictional character study to explore his mind and emotions at the end of the game. If you are struggling, please reach out to anyone you trust. Or a stranger, if that works better. Share the burden. You don’t have to suffer alone. It can get better. I promise. I wouldn’t be here if it didn’t ❤️🫂

Thank you ❤️

And the “masked figure,” that was Jake from this story, The Ending You Deserve. Just a little Easter egg for anyone who read that 🤭❤️

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