#border between life and death

[genshinmp3]

The Sanctification of Tao Dou from Azure Lantern, Jade Inkstone Yang Yang, Dou, Arcangelo Chen, HOYO-MiX

[hatredlady]

The border between life and death.

[light-glue-blazed-terracotta]

i really like the idea of the winners of each season continuing to live (alone) in each world they won in..i know all of them except scar canonically die at the end but just imagine. Grian lives (alone) in the desert. Scott has the Scottage (alone). Pearl stays in her tower (she doesnt even have Tilly). Martyn has the whole Limlife server and roams around scavenging (he cant bring himself to go back to the Mean Gills base after what he did). Scar obviously lives at Trader Scar's and Cleo has a tiny janky world with the little village (at least she has villagers for company, they suppose. It's better than nothing.)

And now Joel lives in his car next to a burnt and crumbling barn, alone.

[vaguely-concerned]

I don't know what I love more, the fact that as rook you can make a statement in NO uncertain terms that you are NOT responsible one way or the other for the theological implications of the shit you're discovering in the 'regrets of the dread wolf' memories. not my jurisdiction. quite simply none of my business. not my chantry circus not my chantry monkeys. irrelevant to the matter at hand here we'll kill that god if we get to him he can get in line. or if the best thing about it is seeing the lone little 'lucanis approves' that pops up right after choosing it. corvid with a knife about to commit deicide keeping it real and sensibly, pragmatically, wilfully agnostic with me here in this magical lighthouse today

[karinyosa]

As a model for Brinker Hadley I used Gore Vidal.

jay parini and gore vidal respectively, the united states of amnesia / john knowles, a separate peace

id in alt.

[binch-i-might-be]

okay maybe I was freezing to death because I was tired. took a four hour nap and now I'm Warm

[champ-wiggle]

'She is so old': One-eyed wolf in Yellowstone defies odds by having 10th litter of pups in 11 years

By Patrick Pester, published June 3, 2024

Wolf 907F recently gave birth to her 10th litter of pups, which researchers say is likely a Yellowstone National Park record.

Wolf 907F walking past a trail camera in Yellowstone National Park. (Image credit: Yellowstone Wolf and Cougar Project)

The alpha female of a Yellowstone gray-wolf pack has defied the odds by having a 10th litter of pups at the age of 11.

The one-eyed wolf elder, named Wolf 907F, gave birth to her latest litter last month, the Cowboy State Daily reported. Gray wolves (Canis lupus) have an average life span of three to four years, so it's rare for them to reach 11, let alone have pups at that age.

Wolf 907F has given birth to pups every year for a decade straight since she became sexually mature, which Kira Cassidy, a research associate at the Yellowstone Wolf Project, said is likely a record for the wolves of Yellowstone National Park.

At age 11, Yellowstone’s Wolf 907F has lived more than twice a wild wolf’s average life expectancy. In this photo from April, she was pregnant with a litter of pups that she’s since given birth to. (Courtesy Yellowstone Wildlife Project)

"Every day, I expect that she might die just because she is so elderly, but I've been thinking that for the last few years, and she keeps going," Cassidy told Live Science.

Cassidy has calculated that only about 1 in 250 wolves in Yellowstone make it to their 11th birthday, with just six recorded examples since wolves were reintroduced to the park in 1995. The oldest of all of these great elders lived to 12.5 years, according to the National Park Service.

Wolf 907F lies in the snow in Yellowstone in 2015. (Image credit: Kira Cassidy/NPS)

Wolf 907F is the oldest wolf to have lived her whole life in the park's Northern Range, where there is more prey but also more competition from other wolves. Wolves rarely die of old age in the wild, and in Yellowstone National Park, the biggest threat is other wolves.

"In a protected place like Yellowstone, their number-one cause of death is when two packs fight with each other," Cassidy said. "That accounts for about half of the mortality."

One of Yellowstone's oldest wolves, Wolf 907F is pictured here with her pack last year. She's the gray collared wolf on the lower left. (Courtesy Yellowstone Wildlife Project)

Wolf 907F is the alpha female of the Junction Butte pack, which has between 10 and 35 members at any given time. Cassidy noted that this is a large pack — the average wolf pack size is about 12 individuals — and that reduces the risk of being killed in territorial fights. Wolf 907F's experience also gives her pack an edge.

"Packs that have elderly wolves are much more successful in those pack-versus-pack conflicts because of the accumulated knowledge and the experience that they bring to that really stressful situation," Cassidy said.

Wolf 907F has likely boosted her pack's survival chances outside of battle, too. Cassidy noted that the Junction Butte pack rarely leaves Yellowstone's border and that Wolf 907F is "savvy" when it comes to things like crossing roads and avoiding humans.

Wolf 907F, Yellowstone's aging matriarch at 11 years old, only has one eye. She's the fourth wolf to pass by this trail cam. (Courtesy Yellowstone Wildlife Project)

What makes Wolf 907F even more impressive is that she does all of this with only one functioning eye. Researchers aren't sure what happened, but her left eye has been small and sunken since before she turned 4. "You would never know [when] watching her," Cassidy said.

Like other elders, Wolf 907F takes a back seat in hunts now that she's older, and she spends most of her day hanging around with the pack's pups. Cassidy and her colleagues have counted three pups in her current litter, which is smaller than the average litter size of four to five but not surprising. A 2012 study of Yellowstone wolves published in the Journal of Animal Ecology found that litter size declines with age.

"The fact that 907 is still having pups is amazing, and her litter being small is expected given that she is so old," Cassidy said.

A few of Wolf 907F's offspring now lead packs of their own, but most of her pups never reach adulthood due to the perilous nature of being a wolf. However, Wolf 907F and the others in the park don't seem to live like death is on their mind.

"They are happy to be with their family going from day to day," Cassidy said. "Even if they have injuries or are missing an eye or something really stressful is going on in their life, they move through that stress and go back to seemingly really enjoying their life."

At age 11, Yellowstone's Wolf 907F - the gray wolf in the center of this photo from 2020- has lived more than double the typical lifespan of wolves in the wild. (Courtesy Yellowstone Wildlife Project)

[steveyockey]

To be aware you might be trans but unwilling to do anything about it is to create endlessly bigger boxes within which to contain yourself. When you are a child, that box might encompass only yourself and your parents. By the time you are a gainfully employed adult, that box will contain multitudes, and the thought of disrupting it will grow ever more unthinkable. So you cease to think of yourself as a person on some level; you think not of what you want but what everybody expects from you. You do your best not to make waves, and you apologize, if only implicitly, for existing. You stop being real and start being a construct, and eventually, you decide the construct is just who you are, and you swaddle yourself up in it, and maybe you die there. There is still time until there isn’t.

This reading of TV Glow’s deliberately anticlimactic, noncathartic ending cuts against the transition narrative you typically see in movies and TV, in which a trans person self-accepts, transitions, and lives a happier life. Owen gets trapped in a space where he knows what he must do to live an authentic life but simply refuses to take those steps because, well, burying yourself alive is a terrifying thing to do. The transition narrative posits a trans existence as, effectively, a binary switch between “man” and “woman” that gets flipped one way or another, but to make our lives so binary is to miss how trans existences possess an inherent liminality.

Humans’ lives unfold in a constant state of becoming until death, but trans people are uniquely keyed in to what this means thanks to the simple fact of our identities. You can get lost in that liminality, too, forever trapped in a midnight realm of your own making, stuck between what you believe is true (I am a nice man with a good family and a good job, and I love my life) and what you know, deep in your most terrified heart of hearts, is real (I am a girl suffocating in a box).

And yet if you want to read the film as being about the dangerous allure of nostalgia, you’re not wrong. I Saw the TV Glow totally supports that interpretation, too! But in tempting you with that reading, the film creates a trap for cis viewers that will be all too familiar to trans viewers. Somewhere in the middle of Maddy’s story about The Pink Opaque being real, you will make a choice between “This kid has lost it!” and “No. Go with her, Owen,” and in asking you to make that choice, TV Glow is simulating the act of self-accepting a trans identity.

See, the grimmer read of the film’s ending truly is a nihilistic one. It leaves no hope, no potential for growth, no exit. Yet you must actively choose to read that ending as nihilistic. If you are cis and the end of I Saw the TV Glow left you with a gnawing sense of dissatisfaction, a weird but hard-to-pin-down feeling that something had broken, and a melancholy bordering on horror — congratulations, this movie gave you contact-high gender dysphoria.

In an infinite number of possible universes, there is at least one where I am still living “as a man,” embracing my fictionality, avoiding looking at how much more raw and real I feel when I “pretend” to be a woman. I think about that guy sometimes. I hope he’s okay.

Consider, then, my cis reader, that TV Glow is for both you and me, but it is maybe most of all for him. I hope he sees it. I hope he breaks down crying in the bathroom afterward. I hope he, after so many years locked inside himself, hears the promise of more life through the hiss of TV static.

Emily St. James, “I Saw the TV Glow’s Ending Is Full of Hope, If You Want It to Be,” Vulture. June 4, 2024.

[jewishvitya]

A pro-Palestine Jew on tiktok asked those of us who were raised pro-Israel, what got us to change our minds on Palestine. I made a video to answer (with my voice, not my face), and a few people watched it and found some value in it. I'm putting this here too. I communicate through text better than voice.

So I feel repetitive for saying this at this point, but I grew up in the West Bank settlements. I wrote this post to give an example of the extent to which Palestinians are dehumanized there.

Where I live now, I meet Palestinians in day to day life. Israeli Arab citizens living their lives. In the West Bank, it was nothing like that. Over there, I only saw them through the electric fence, and the hostility between us and Palestinians was tangible.

When you're a child being brought into the situation, you don't experience the context, you don't experience the history, you don't know why they're hostile to you. You just feel "these people hate me, they don't want me to exist." And that bubble was my reality. So when I was taught in school that everything we did was in self defense, that our military is special and uniquely ethical because it's the only defensive military in the world - that made sense to me. It slotted neatly into the reality I knew.

One of the first things to burst the bubble for me was when I spoke to an old Israeli man and he was talking about his trauma from battle. I don't remember what he said, but it hit me wrong. It conflicted with the history as I understood it. So I was a bit desperate to make it make sense again, and I said, "But everything we did was in self defense, right?"

He kinda looked at me, couldn't understand at all why I was upset, and he went, "We destroyed whole villages. Of course we did. It was war, that's what you do."

And that casual "of course" stuck with me. I had to look into it more.

I couldn't look at more accurate history, and not at accounts by Palestinians, I was too primed against these sources to trust them. The community I grew up in had an anti-intellectual element to it where scholars weren't trusted about things like this.

So what really solidified this for me, was seeing Palestinian culture.

Because part of the story that Israel tells us to justify everything, is that Palestinians are not a distinct group of people, they're just Arabs. They belong to the nations around us. They insist on being here because they want to deny us a homeland. The Palestinian identity exists to hurt us. This, because the idea of displacing them and taking over their lands doesn't sound like stealing, if this was never theirs and they're only pretending because they want to deprive us.

But then foods, dances, clothing, embroidery, the Palestinian dialect. These things are history. They don't pop into existence just because you hate Jews and they're trying to move here. How gorgeous is the Palestinian thobe? How stunning is tatreez in general? And when I saw specific patterns belonging to different regions of Palestine?

All of these painted for me a rich shared life of a group of people, and countered the narrative that the Palestininian identity was fabricated to hurt us. It taught me that, whatever we call them, whatever they call themselves, they have a history in this land, they have a right to it, they have a connection to it that we can't override with our own.

I started having conversations with leftist friends. Confronting the fact that the borders of the occupied territories are arbitrary and every Israeli city was taken from them. In one of those conversations, I was encouraged to rethink how I imagine peace.

This also goes back to schooling. Because they drilled into us, we're the ones who want peace, they're the ones who keep fighting, they're just so dedicated to death and killing and they won't leave us alone.

In high school, we had a stadium event with a speaker who was telling us about a person who defected from Hamas, converted to Christianity and became a Shin Bet agent. Pretty sure you can read this in the book "Son of Hamas." A lot of my friends read the book, I didn't read it, I only know what I was told in that lecture. I guess they couldn't risk us missing out on the indoctrination if we chose not to read it.

One of the things they told us was how he thought, we've been fighting with them for so long, Israelis must have a culture around the glorification of violence. And he looked for that in music. He looked for songs about war. And for a while he just couldn't find any, but when he did, he translated it more fully, and he found out the song was about an end to wars. And this, according to the story as I was told it, was one of the things that convinced him. If you know know the current trending Israeli "war anthem," you know this flimsy reasoning doesn't work.

Back then, my friend encouraged me to think more critically about how we as Israelis envision peace, as the absence of resistance. And how self-centered it is. They can be suffering under our occupation, but as long as it doesn't reach us, that's called peace. So of course we want it and they don't.

Unless we're willing to work to change the situation entirely, our calls for peace are just "please stop fighting back against the harm we cause you."

In this video, Shlomo Yitzchak shares how he changed his mind. His story is much more interesting than mine, and he's much more eloquent telling it. He mentions how he was taught to fear Palestinians. An automatic thought, "If I go with you, you'll kill me." I was taught this too. I was taught that, if I'm in a taxi, I should be looking at the driver's name. And if that name is Arab, I should watch the road and the route he's taking, to be prepared in case he wants to take me somewhere to kill me. Just a random person trying to work. For years it stayed a habit, I'd automatically look at the driver's name. Even after knowing that I want to align myself with liberation, justice, and equality. It was a process of unlearning.

On October, not long after the current escalation of violence, I had to take a taxi again. A Jewish driver stopped and told me he'll take me, "so an Arab doesn't get you." Israeli Jews are so comfortable saying things like this to each other. My neighbors discussed a Palestinian employee, with one saying "We should tell him not to come anymore, that we want to hire a Jew." The second answered, "No, he'll say it's discrimination," like it would be so ridiculous of him. And the first just shrugged, "So we don't have to tell him why." They didn't go through with it, but they were so casual about this conversation.

In the Torah, we're told to treat those who are foreign to us well, because we know what it's like to be the foreigner. Fighting back against oppression is the natural human thing to do. We know it because we lived it. And as soon as I looked at things from this angle, it wasn't really a choice of what to support.

[choerypetal]

Love at first sight. / Squid Games!Men

summary; a little prompt for each men in squid game x reader.

also my english isn't my first language so i do apologize for a few errors! enjoys x

including; in-ho, thanos, myung-gi, dae-ho & gi-hun

In-ho: 

Praise yourself for catching In-ho’s attention amidst the chaos of the games. Not only did he manage to maintain his composure, but he also came to terms with the truth—it wasn’t his mind playing tricks on him, but his heart betraying him. He had been ensnared in a dangerous blend of love and death. And no matter the cost, he was determined to ensure your survival, even if it meant faking your death and arranging for the guards to escort you to his shelter.

At first, his actions were subtle—a few fleeting glances, quiet assurances that you weren’t alone. He took it upon himself to ensure someone capable stood between you and danger. This resolve led him to seek out Gi-hun, cornering him with a whispered plea. “I’m not asking for much,” In-ho murmured, his voice low and firm. Gi-hun’s brows knit together as he glanced at you, understanding little of the request but sensing its weight. Though the urge to question why In-ho couldn’t protect you himself lingered, Gi-hun ultimately accepted—he, too, had his own plans to carry out.

Yet, watching Gi-hun hover near you ignited something unexpected in In-ho—a simmering, unanticipated jealousy. His blood boiled harder than he cared to admit.

It was Gi-hun’s proximity to you that set him on edge.

While 001 had extended a friendly hand, In-ho never anticipated him stealing you away entirely. The realization unsettled him, and during the chaos of the Carousel games, panic began to creep in. When he noticed you were nowhere to be found in the room, it nearly consumed him. The thought of losing you made his fists clench, and for a brief, irrational moment, he contemplated throwing a punch at Gi-hun. But it wasn’t until the final elimination, when the doors unlocked, that relief washed over him. There you were—your silhouette unmistakable behind Dae-ho.

In that instant, he didn’t hesitate. Rushing toward you, his breath hitched, words failing him. A shaky exhale escaped his lips, a mix of disbelief and overwhelming relief. He almost laughed—a scoff of incredulity—before pulling you close, his hand instinctively cradling the back of your head. Without a second thought, he leaned in, his lips pressing a firm but tender kiss to your forehead.

“Silly,” he muttered, his voice tight with emotion. “I never should’ve trusted Gi-hun to keep you safe. Damn it, I thought I’d lost you.” The panic in his voice caught you off guard, the weight of his words sinking in. You hadn’t expected such raw vulnerability from him—not now, not like this. A soft chuckle escaped you, an attempt to lighten the moment. “It’s okay,” you reassured him gently. “Dae-ho found me right away and made sure I was safe.”

That revelation gave In-ho pause, but he filed it away for later. For now, none of it mattered. You were alive and unharmed, and that was everything.

The kiss on your forehead wasn’t just a gesture of relief—it was a silent declaration. You were his, and no one—not Gi-hun, not Dae-ho, not anyone—would ever take you from him again.

Thanos: 

Once a retired rapper, Thanos now found himself thrust into a life-and-death struggle. Among his generation, it was no surprise that some idolized him—his presence commanding a respect so intense, it bordered on worship. To them, he was pristine, untouchable. But this adoration didn’t sit well with everyone, especially loners like you, who preferred to navigate the chaos without attachments.

Ironically, that aloofness was one of the many reasons Thanos found himself drawn to you.

In the early days on the island, Thanos made no effort to reveal his interest. If anything, he mirrored your indifference, matching your cold detachment with his own. But when you began spending time with Myung-gi, the dynamic shifted. Thanos hadn’t expected it, nor did he like it. Watching you bond with someone else left a bitter taste in his mouth, awakening a tension he couldn’t ignore. The loner mindset had been his strategy for survival—a simple equation: fewer people, fewer complications. But your presence complicated everything, especially when it came to your effortlessly beautiful face, which he found himself stealing glances at far too often.

It didn’t take long for his resolve to crack.

Thanos had made himself a promise: to keep his distance, to ignore you as you ignored him. But that promise shattered the moment Nam-Gyu let slip a confession Thanos had sworn him to secrecy about. That little fucker, Thanos thought bitterly, though his anger was tempered by necessity—he needed Nam-Gyu to survive. Yet, when the truth reached you, it unraveled him in ways he hadn’t anticipated.

Instead of drawing you closer, the revelation pushed you further away. Your avoidance became more deliberate, more pronounced than ever before. It stung more than Thanos cared to admit. For the first time in a long time, he was unprepared—for your reaction, for the way it tightened a knot of frustration and longing deep inside him.

Which only added more tension between the two of you.

The final games loomed, a trial where survival would demand more than just cunning—it called for a kind of ruthless cleansing. Thanos knew, without hesitation, that when the moment came, he’d be the first to grab your hand and shield you. Even if it meant overreacting, even if it jeopardized his own chances, he couldn’t bear the thought of losing you. Certainly not to Myung-gi, if it came down to that.

“You know...” he murmured late that night, his voice low and almost hesitant. Your back was turned to him, your body stiff on the thin mattress. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him, couldn’t even steal a glance. Not after everything. The weight of his breath lingered against the back of your neck, and you flinched slightly, betraying your nerves. His presence, so close and unyielding, was suffocating yet magnetic.

“Tomorrow is... big,” he continued, his words faltering as his gaze shifted across the dimly lit dormitory. For a moment, his eyes locked on Player 333, who sat sharpening a weapon in the corner—a stark reminder of the danger waiting ahead. Thanos clenched his jaw, then turned his focus back to you.

“If we’re not careful...” he trailed off, his voice softening, almost breaking. “Who knows if I’ll ever get to see your beautiful face again?”He exhaled sharply, frustrated with himself, as if admitting even that much was a risk. “I know it’s—” 

Your head snapped toward him, your brows furrowing into a glare sharp enough to cut through the tension between you. For a moment, silence hung in the air, charged and heavy. Then, your voice broke it, calm yet biting. “If you keep this up, you might be the one ending up with a bullet in the face,” you said, your tone so nonchalant it bordered on cute—a contrast that left Thanos momentarily stunned. He blinked, almost scoffing in disbelief, one hand pressing dramatically against his chest.

“Ouch,” he drawled, his lips curling into a grin. “I’m hurt, sweetheart.”

Your eyes narrowed into daggers. “Do. Not. Call me sweetheart.”

Before you could say more, Nam-Gyu chimed in from his corner, a mischievous smirk playing on his face. “I bet she’s in love,” he teased, his words practically dripping with mockery.

Thanos’s cocky grin widened at that, his eyes gleaming with a maddening mix of pride and amusement. The sheer arrogance in his expression made your fingers twitch, itching to slap that smug look right off his face. But instead, you gave him one final glare—a death wish in your eyes, though to Thanos, it looked like the beginning of a love story.

“I bet she is,” he echoed, his voice soft but certain, the words carrying a weight of truth that made your chest tighten. He didn’t try to stop you as you turned and walked away, but his gaze lingered, following every step you took. Oh, how you had him wrapped around your finger without even realizing it. A wimp for you, and you alone.

Myung-gi: 

Everyone knew who Player 333 was—you included. Unlike many in this room who were desperate to claw their way out of debt, you knew Myung-gi only by name. You’d heard the rumors: how he’d gotten his girlfriend pregnant, how his past was littered with mistakes and secrets. But something in you—a stubborn spark of hope, perhaps—whispered that he wasn’t as bad as everyone wanted him to be. Maybe, just maybe, there was more to him than the stories let on.

Myung-gi had noticed you, though. He’d seen the way you were with Jun-hee—the way your smile seemed to ease her fears, how your arms would wrap gently around her petite frame after every game, grounding her, giving her the space to breathe. The quiet strength and warmth you brought to her felt almost unreal, a motherly presence in a place devoid of comfort.

It was that tenderness, that undeniable light, that struck him like a blow to the chest.

Myung-gi was in love.

And he hated every single moment of it.

Why? Because he knew himself. He knew what he’d done to Jun-hee—how he’d left her while she was pregnant with his child, drowning in debt and fear. He’d been a coward, an asshole, and he knew it. That self-loathing festered, a constant reminder of his failures. And yet, it was exactly why he didn’t expect you to see him as anything other than the man he despised.

But fate had other plans.

Your first real interaction with him came after he saved you—something neither of you had anticipated.

It happened during the Bathroom games, where survival left no room for personal grudges. Confronting Thanos wasn’t at the forefront of Myung-gi’s mind, but then he heard it—your name, slipping from Thanos’s lips with such filth that it ignited a rage Myung-gi didn’t know he was capable of.

Everyone knew your past as an escort within the crypto community. Your name wasn’t hard to find, whispered in private conversations and occasionally tied to scandalous wallets. But Myung-gi knew better than to judge. Still, hearing Thanos—the retired rapper—speak of you like that, as though you were nothing more than a commodity, was the last straw.

“She was good for a foreigner. Not many—”

That was as far as Thanos got before Myung-gi’s fist collided with his jaw, cutting him off mid-sentence. The sickening crack of impact echoed through the grimy bathroom, followed by a faint splatter of blood. Myung-gi emerged from the stall alive but seething, his knuckles raw and his breath ragged. As he stepped out, his gaze immediately locked with yours. Jun-hee stood beside you, clinging to your arm for reassurance, but the look on your face was unreadable—a mix of surprise, understanding, and something softer.

A small, almost imperceptible smile crept across Myung-gi’s lips.

In that moment, he made a silent promise: no matter what it took, he’d make sure both of you got out of this alive.

Dae-ho: 

Dae-ho never believed in love at first sight. With everything he’d endured in his life—the trials, the sacrifices, the relentless pursuit of strength—he saw himself as a knight in shining armor, bound by duty but never destined for romance. That belief held firm until he met you.

It happened during the Carousel game. Like In-ho, he’d noticed you before—your stoic demeanor during Green Light, Red Light had left him quietly impressed. The way you moved, swift yet calculated, managing to evade the statue’s unrelenting gaze with precision, was nothing short of remarkable. It was then that something shifted in him. Against all reason, Dae-ho found himself believing in love at first sight.

At first, he thought he was imagining it. He even considered pinching himself, blinking twice to dispel the notion. But the feeling persisted, undeniable and maddening. It wasn’t until later, when you tended to his wounds after one of the brutal games, that he finally saw you up close—and the full weight of your beauty struck him like a blow. Your lashes fluttered delicately as you focused on your task, your fingers gentle but firm as you dabbed rubbing alcohol onto his injuries. He hissed at the sting, his lips parting in a soft groan of pain.

“Be still, please,” you murmured, your tone calm but commanding. Something about the way you said it—the quiet strength in your voice—silenced his protests. He nodded, his muscles relaxing under your care, though the tension in his chest was harder to soothe.

For the first time, Dae-ho felt vulnerable—not because of his wounds, but because of you.

“You know…” His voice was low, almost hesitant, but there was a softness to it that made you pause. You could’ve sworn his lips curved into the faintest smile. “I never would’ve thought I’d see you like this—healing me. Back at the Carousel, I swore to myself I’d keep you close, that we’d find the door as quickly as anyone else. But then… the next thing I knew, Thanos had taken you before I could…”

He trailed off, his words tinged with shame. The vulnerability in his voice made you glance up at him, your fingers stilling as you finished securing the bandage. His eyes widened at your sudden attention, and he immediately began to stammer.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

You interrupted him with a soft sigh, sliding the remaining bandage back into your pocket. “Don’t apologize. We just weren’t lucky, that’s all. I wanted to prove to myself that I could handle it—that I wasn’t just someone who had to count on others.” Your gaze softened as you added, almost reluctantly, “But… I have to admit, not having you there in that room—it was horrible.”

Your quiet confession was enough to undo him. Without a word, Dae-ho wrapped his arms around you, wincing slightly as the movement pulled at his wounds. Still, he didn’t let go. His embrace was warm, protective, and when he leaned in to press a kiss to your forehead, it felt like a promise.

“Nevertheless,” he murmured, his voice filled with a quiet reassurance, “I’m just glad we made it through. That you’re here with me.” His lips quirked into a small grin as he added, with a teasing lilt, “And that I get to cuddle with you for another night.”

You couldn’t help but chuckle at his words, the tension between you easing for a moment. For now, at least, you both had each other.

Gi-hun: 

Unlike the others, you weren’t a player. But you knew Gi-hun from the previous game he was in. He was so certain you had died right in front of his eyes back then that when he saw the mask ripped off your face—revealing you as one of the Guards—his shock was palpable. Another Guard had been taken hostage by the remaining candidates, and though you could have cursed every word that came to mind, you found yourself frozen, your voice stolen by the chaos.

In-ho was the first to recognize you. He knew you were on shift at this hour, but what he hadn’t expected was the look of sheer horror that crossed Gi-hun’s face when your name escaped his lips.

“Y/N...?” Gi-hun’s voice trembled, disbelief heavy in the air as though he was trying to confirm he wasn’t dreaming.

“You know them?” one of the players sneered, their stolen gun now aimed squarely at Gi-hun. Bodies of your co-workers—faces you barely had time to register—lay scattered across the floor, lifeless, just feet away. The metallic tang of blood filled the air.

But this time, Gi-hun wasn’t about to let anyone lay a finger on you. He remembered the vow you both had made:

"We belong to each other. And I will get you home."

With those words etched into his resolve, Gi-hun made his move. Chaos erupted as the gun exchanged hands, bullets flying. The air was filled with deafening roars of defiance and the sickening splatter of blood.

In the end, In-ho stood back, his heart cold and unyielding, as he watched Gi-hun fall. The final shot rang out, and his lifeless body crumpled to the ground. Blood speckled your cheek, and you stared in stunned silence at the empty shell of a man you had once loved.

From the shadows, a familiar voice cut through the carnage, low and mocking.

“Welcome back home, love.”

You turned toward the source, and there he was Gi-hun—his gruesome smile sending chills down your spine.

[genshinmp3]

Border of Life from Azure Lantern, Jade Inkstone Arcangelo Chen, HOYO-MiX

[porcelainbirdss]

paper heart

summary: you thought he was just kind. everyone did. what you failed to discern, however, was the visage of something darker lurking underneath the man’s grinning face. such a pity, it was.

cw: fem!reader, yandere Phainon, mentions of death, descriptions of violence (not towards reader), grief, manipulation, stalking, obsessive and unhealthy behaviors, emotional dependency, hinted depression, open ending. ||wc: 13k

a sorrowful melody filled the air as your fingertips slowly dragged across white and black tiles. they were covered in a sheen layer of dust, probably because you abandoned your small hobby some time ago. you don’t know why your instincts told you to sit there, and play when you obviously should be doing something else — but they did. it was only logical, in a way — people upon meeting with peril often freeze. their reason fails them, and instead of acting rational, they begin to work their most favored instrument, for example.

once you reached the end of notations, tune abruptly stopping, you flipped the music sheet, and a very brief thought passed your disarrayed thoughts.

you needed to run.

it all began so long ago — the horrors, hidden below veils upon veils of primitive happiness and joy. all the dangers and pain, tucked away under the cloth depicting a face of your beloved (well, perhaps you should be using a past tense when referring to him in such an affectionate way).

you don’t know where the line between normalcy and insanity began to blur. where the borders separating an ordinary feeling and something much more unsettling crashed, becoming one. no matter how perceptive you were, it slipped past your notice.

maybe mulling over your demise was never the point — you could have been as well as doomed the second your eyes first met.

it has been thirteen months since the death of your mother.

a year and one month, then. you didn’t like counting the time in such a trivial way, though. a mere numer 'one' could never possibly depict the sorrow dragging your whole body down. numbers of a bigger scale were suitable — thirteen may be a large quantity. it surely was, considering the context of your current situation. thirteen months, so three hundred ninety six days filled with woe. enough to showcase all the seconds you spent on practically falling asleep within yourself.

your day to day life was the same, always following a routine you didn’t have the strength to change. it’s not like you were particularly crushed under the weight of your experiences, no, you just… got used to it. the silence. the dust gathering on the shelves. unused cups, and too many utensils in your drawers. abandoned music sheets, sitting obediently on your piano, opened in the middle — their melody never to be finished by the original musician.

it wasn’t well, nor good, and your existence seemed to lack in any rhythm — but it was bearable.

and, truth be told, you wholeheartedly believed it would continue to stay like so for the unforeseen future. except it didn’t.

as your shoes clacked over the cobblestone road, eyes trailing after all the cracks under your feet, you began to think about dinner. another feeble attempt at composing your life together, and it would probably end up in vain as any other — but hey, everything starts with something, and food was the most fundamental part of staying on your legs (at least in the physical sense).

the market spread widely before you, stalls upon stalls standing next to each other, filled up with various fruit and meat. people were yelling over the clamor, exchanging goods for currency. if that wasn’t the prime example of a beating heart, then you don’t know what is.

you stepped forwards, vision taking in your possible options. money was never a problem for you — except you took far too little this time, so perhaps it would be good to stick to something on the cheaper side. strong wing carried over the intense scent of peaches, instantly making your mouth water. huh, you hadn’t had them in a long time. they were always your favorite. maybe not the most suitable for dinner, but still satiating enough.

as you dragged your feet over to the stall, a group of children ran by your side, one of them accidentally knocking against your hip. they didn’t even turn to apologize, too absorbed within their fun. you could briefly discern the nursery rhyme they were singing, happily prancing around and skipping by multitudes of people.

"one for sorrow, two for mirth,"

you meekly greeted the vendor, gently grasping a singular peach within your fingers, and inspecting it with your keen gaze.

"three for a wedding, four for a birth,"

the colors were intense, orange and red seeping together into a flury of shades, creating appealing streaks. you almost smiled to yourself.

"five for silver, six for gold,"

once you pressed your joints, the fruit easily caved in. ah, on the other hand, perhaps it was overripe? considering how strongly it smelled, it was a possibility.

"seven for a secret ne’er to be told,"

you asked the seller for the cost — and seriously, was he a lunatic? who in their right mind would spend so much on peaches, especially when they were mere days away from practically rotting?

"eight for a wish, nine for a kiss,"

you scoffed under your breath, complaining about how unreasonable the price was. the man told you to take it or leave it.

"ten for a bird you must not miss,"

still, you kind of wanted those peaches — from what you deduced, no one else in the closest proximity was selling them. you either bid goodbye to all the money in your wallet, or…

"eleven for hope, twelve for health,"

with that, you offered to bargain. the vendor agreed. it of course didn’t go as you would have liked it to, and now you were getting irritated. soon your conversation changed into something resembling a barking match, with you yelling at the man and saying he was a scammer. he snarled back at you every time. people were staring. at some point you wanted to back out from the pitiful charade you caused, but your honor didn’t let you.

"thirteen beware of the devil himself!”

as you opened your mouth to spit another insult at the seller, a hand gently gripped your shoulder. you jolted up, startled. your head whipped towards the one who decided to interrupt you, ready to snap at them too — and you’d probably do so, if not for who that was.

a familiar face with that ever-present kind smile. one of the Chrysos Heirs. the fair, tousled locks and rather outstanding garments left no question within you — Lord Phainon. you swallowed thickly, eyebrows narrowing.

"my, i’m sorry. did i startle you, miss?" he immediately jumped to apologies, confusing you even further. "i just wanted to see if everything was alright with you two. of course, i didn’t mean to pry, however…" he chuckled, taking a small pause, "well. it seems there’s trouble?"

you simultaneously wanted to shake and nod your head. for whatever reason, you felt slightly stunted — his voice sounded nice. it reminded you of the way mourning doves chirp in the morning, all soothing and sweet. then, there was his smile, maybe capable of competing with the very sun hanging above your heads. a row of white teeth along with twins of blue crinkling in the corners. a picture of perfection. how come you never payed any attention to him?

upon your lack of reaction, a hand waved in front of your eyes. "…iss. miss? you still with me?"

you blinked twice, rapidly pulled out of your temporary stupor. oh. it would seem he was talking to you, and you remained unresponsive. what a way to make a fool out of yourself.

"ah, yeah, sorry." you forced out awkwardly, scratching the nape of your neck. "just got lost in thought."

at that, Phainon snickered. his attention returned to the vendor, and he pointed towards the peaches — cursed objects of your dismay. "alright! kind sir, i’d like to buy a few." he smiled politely at the man.

you observed him purchase your desired fruit with the slightest of disappointment, paying without any complaints or hesitation. then, he turned to you, and practically pushed the paper bag into your arms. "i’m— is that for me?" you stammered, eyes widening.

"of course." the corners of his lips lifted even further upwards, forming into a grin. "i just hope you don’t mind?"

how could you possibly mind? even if he felt like doing charity work out of pity, it still meant a lot to you. for quite some time, you hardly received any sort of kindness. perhaps that’s what you’ve lacked for all this time.

when you noticed some other people lining up behind you, you stepped to the side, Phainon following in tow. "i don’t mind. thank you, Lord—"

"let’s not use the honorifics, hm?" he chimed in before you could even finish your sentence, swaying his hand dismissively.

you nodded, a somewhat bashful smile forming on your face. you felt kind of perplexed by the whole exchange, but nevertheless, it was a nice change of pace. "fine with me. oh, by the way, my name’s—"

he cut in again. "[name], am i right?"

upon hearing that, you let out a clipped laugh. how did he even know? well, it’s not like you’re alienating yourself from the rest of citizens, but hey. Phainon was at least a few ranks above you, and from what you could discern, people of higher status rarely concerned themselves with identities of the commoners.

you itched to ask: how’d you know?, but held your tongue — that would be surely impolite. "yes, you got that right."

"well, it was nice to meet you, [name]." he said, tone remaining light and jovial, mouth still stretched into a grin. you wondered how is it possible his cheeks didn’t hurt from the constant strain. "enjoy your peaches!"

Phainon was halfway swiveling on his heel, ready to walk away — and you, upon some godforsaken impulse, gripped his wrist. he stopped in his tracks, turning to you with a quizzical expression.

"uh— maybe you’d like one?" you queried, hastily reaching into the bag, and pulling the fruit out. "i mean… you bought them for me, so it’s only fair."

his irises took your face in (maybe a bit too intently for your liking), and he looked seconds away from bursting into a triumphant laughter. for what reason, you honestly didn’t know. "sure, thank you." he nodded, grasping the peach from your palm.

you followed in tow, because — why not? you were hungry, and the sight of his teeth sinking into the tender flesh caused your stomach to rumble, reminding of its discomfort. "oh, my! these are great." you remarked casually, wondering whether you should be acting so easy-going with a Chrysos Heir. anyway, you’re not the one to blame, are you?

"they are." he affirmed, smiling when he took another bite. juice seeped down his hand, slipping under the sleeve, which caused him to let out a dismayed yelp.

you laughed at the sight. he laughed harder.

the sun shone brightly, and you didn’t even know him, but felt a sting of familiarity in your chest. Phainon’s strands of hair billowed straight in his face, tousled by the strong gusts of wind, and nothing seemed to matter at that moment. thoughts of any morose kind left your exhausted brain, leaving you with that blissful emptiness. there was only him, you, and those damned peaches.

after that, your friendship with Phainon unfortunately only grew in its size. to this day, you aren’t sure what tempted you to let him practically snake his way into your life. perhaps it was the fact you were lonely, and grief-shaken — upon your mother’s passing, none was the same, and everyone seemed to turn their backs at you. it hurt like hell, so any kind of company satiated you. well, Phainon wasn’t just any kind. he was incredibly sweet, and helpful, and sometimes you caught yourself thinking he was everything you needed and more.

at first, your meetings were coincidental (but from the retrospective, they probably weren’t). you were doing some shopping, and he just happened to stumble across you on the street. the man was sitting in that lovely garden, surrounded by prancing chimeras, and you’d accidentally cross ways. things were falling into place, and fate seemed to be tethering you both — so you only got closer, and closer.

the bond between you tightened with every passing month, until you found out it’s already been a year, and your cursed brain decided to bestow you with its worst gift. a crush. an infatuation, of sorts.

sharing your sorrows came easier, and Phainon was only more eager to hear you out. it placated the thunderstorm in your heart enough to let the gates down — you invited him in, completely willingly. you initiated the acts that would later prove to be your doom, and now you couldn’t even find a suitable excuse. after all, no one forced you to spend most of your free time with him. not a single person gripped you by the shoulders, shaking, and commanding you: stick with him, and ignore all the times when that borderline manic smile failed to reach his eyes.

you think you’ll regret not backing out when you still had the chance forever.

air in the antique bookstore was thick, making your lungs heavy as you accidentally inhaled another portion of dust, the little speckles seating themselves uncomfortably in your nostrils. you wanted to sneeze, however held the insistent urge back, mindful of every other patron — there weren’t many people here, but still, you’d rather not startle anyone.

you flipped to another page of that certain memoir which managed to catch your attention. the paper seemed fragile and yellowed, already damaged by years of sun exposure, and the spine was pretty much cracked in half. that didn’t matter, though — a thing bearing so many profound memories will remain beautiful, even if it was to be tossed into a fiery pit.

memoirs and biographies alike were always your favorite. you don’t know why, but they carried a certain sense of comfort — death was inevitable in human existence, but if you write your life down, you’ll stay alive in the minds of others (at least to some extent). books, unlike people, do not have a lifespan. they will not perish, unless someone burns or destroys them.

that was soothing. literature won’t leave, nor will it abandon you. it is definitive. it is attested. it is a certainty which cannot be guaranteed in every case. memories will not slip you away, as long as you tuck them onto a piece of paper — be it a simple notebook, or a diary. human brain is unable of perceiving the recollections properly after some amount of time — it will mix everything up, having you debate whether it truly happened or not. books weren’t like that. they won’t fail you nor bend the reality.

you turned to another page when a doorbell rang through the space, the sound of silent greeting gracing your ears. somebody new came in. you decided to ignore them for now, intently reading through the sentences to discern if this specific lecture was genuinely up to your taste (because you didn’t feel like spending another sum of money on something you’ll drop sooner than later).

and as you were busying yourself with that, a pair of palms suddenly obscured your vision — you’d probably jump up in fright if not for the fact your nervous system was already used to such endeavors. you giggled meekly under your breath, gently shutting the book.

"guess who." rang the sing-song voice, so familiar and saccharine.

you rolled your eyes, a weak smile tugging the corners of your lips upwards. "hm, i’m not sure. who could it be?" you huffed, swiftly tugging the hands away from your face, and turning to see who decided on surprising you.

obviously, it was no revelation when your irises locked with the radiant pools of blue, already grinning at you so widely. or perhaps it was? you honestly didn’t expect to see Phainon here out of all places — sure, judging people by a stereotypical lens was wrong, but you would have never thought he took any interest in literature.

Phainon pouted at your words, the corners of his lips curling downwards in a pitiful expression. he honestly reminded you of a kicked puppy. "ah, [name], i’m so hurt. it’s me, obviously!" the man whined, one of his arms attempting to sneak around your shoulders. you eluded the touch.

"well, hello there." you sighed, wry amusement lacing your tone. then, you thought to ask: "what are you doing here?"

a silly question it was, because obviously he didn’t visit an antique bookstore to pick strawberries.

your friend hummed under his breath, eyes briefly flickering over the books, finally locking on the one you were holding. "i like reading from time to time. by the way, is that another memoir?" he inquired innocently.

you nodded. “yeah. why?"

"nothing, nothing." he waved his hand dismissively, a chuckle slipping past his lips. "you just read so much of them. don’t you ever get bored?"

your mouth opened to grant him with a response, but then your brain lagged. a very silent, practically non-existent alarm rang in the back of your mind, causing you to pause. when did you ever tell him about your fondness for this specific genre? well, it’s not like you were actively trying to keep it a secret, but still. you both rarely conversed about such things, especially your reading hobby.

anyway, you’re probably acting irrational right now. you must have told him before, and it simply escaped your memory.

you cleared your throat, putting the book back on the shelf. for whatever reason, you didn’t feel like purchasing it anymore. "no, not really. they’re interesting." you answered without much commitment.

Phainon gave a noise of acknowledgment, his smile growing into a grin. "is that so? well actually, i like them too."

"i have plenty at my house." you said, irises avoiding his face. the expression he donned was practically blinding. "if you want to, i can lend you some."

the fact he also enjoyed memoirs didn’t seem particularly believable to you, but you decided to indulge him nonetheless. after all, he was your friend. your only one.

(not to mention you may have been crushing on him).

"that would be nice!” he replied instantly, and you thought if you squinted enough, you’d manage to spot the tail wagging behind him excitedly. "do you have the time?"

"as in… right now?" you queried, but before you even affirmed, Phainon was already dragging you out of the store. you didn’t protest. whenever you did, saying something that didn’t especially please the man, the look on his face always fell so somberly. you hated that sight.

with that, the both of you went to your home. to be fair, you visited him more often than he actually visited you — so as you opened the door, you immediately began apologizing about the mess (which wasn’t overly prominent, but a lot of dust gather around, and you didn’t have the strength to clean up).

"again, sorry. i just didn’t really have the time to tidy recently.” you let the white lie easily slip off of your tongue, slowly putting your shoes away.

Phainon looked at you as if you were crazy. "[name], i already told you i don’t mind. my place isn’t the most perfect either." he laughed merrily, patting your back.

you reciprocated his smile, internally grateful for how understanding the man was. his gaze was always relentlessly kind (spare for the times when he stared blankly into the distance, blue irises completely dull), and never once you thought he appeared anyhow judgmental.

"well, anyway. about the books…" you began, stepping closer to the shelf in your living room, stuffed to the brim with lectures. "anything specific you’d like to read about?" you asked, knowing the memoirs spread across a rather wide range of topics.

"your favorite ones." Phainon chimed, following in tow.

you huffed out a hushed chuckle, quickly taking out at least five of your beloved titles. he was really sweet if he wanted to read your favorites, and it made your heart clench happily. "here you go." you handed him the books, carefully balancing them on the man’s palms.

you wholeheartedly believed he’d at least check out their backs, interested in the contents — but his intense gaze remained glued to yours. now that you think about it, this occurrence was somewhat common. one time you went to a restaurant, and Phainon, instead of seeing what the menu had to offer, continued to stare at you with a dumb grin. he ended up ordering the same dish as you. or, for example, when you visited him, and asked whether he could pour you some juice — that day was beyond scorching hot, so you were parched. Phainon immediately agreed, but as he was filling up your glass, he seemed to get distracted. the juice overflowed, spilling all across his lap, and he only stopped when you yelled at him.

the man either loved daydreaming, or analyzing your face contours in depth. you surely hoped it wasn’t the latter option (not because you’d mind — it simply made you feel overly exposed).

"don’t hurry with reading them all." you offered him a wry smile, receiving a nod of understanding in return. "anyway, maybe you’d like some tea?”

Phainon sat by the table, placing the books on its surface. "sure, why not." he replied, lazily opening one of them, and skimming through the pages without actually processing the words. if not for the fact his leg was bouncing, you’d think he was the perfect picture of peace now — light gently illuminating the galant features, long eyelashes casting shadows on his cheeks.

when he found you staring (even though you just internally berated him for doing the same thing), he sent you a knowing smile, eyebrows arching upwards. you cleared your throat awkwardly, hastily disappearing into the kitchen without a further comment.

once the tea was done, you settled it on the table, seating yourself as well. to no surprise, Phainon was distracted again, vision focused on your piano standing under one of the windows. it has seen better days — previously taken care of, its jet-black surface shone, reflecting all the light. now it was a mere imitation of its earlier glory, covered in dust and wilted petals of that flower you were too exhausted to water, and too unmotivated to throw away.

"something caught your eye?" you questioned, taking a small sip of the herbal drink.

he turned to face you, shrugging. "i was just wondering if you ever play this piano. i visited you multiple times, and it always stands…" he paused, as if weighting the words, "abandoned."

that much was true. you rarely concerned yourself with your hobby — after the passing of your mother, nothing seemed to draw your interest anymore. she was the one who taught you how to play, and now she was gone. no longer were the duets, or mirthful tunes resonating early in the morning.

she was much more talented and skilled than you could ever be, winning award after award. still, you cherished your shared passion for music — you learnt a lot, embedding the notes deep inside your mind. and she was proud. even if you failed, your mother would always cheer you on, patiently explaining what you could fix. life was good, back then.

but it was no more.

"i don’t play." you replied, voice a bit sterner than you’d like it to be.

Phainon didn’t seem anyhow deterred by your tone, sending you an encouraging smile. "really? that’s a pity. i’d love to hear you."

it wasn’t hard to deduce what he was insinuating. even though you swore to never touch that instrument again, your resolve chipped off at his words. "well… i suppose i could try for you."

your friend’s expression melted into a subtle triumph. "great!" he clasped his hands together, shifting on the chair to watch as you got up from your place, seating yourself by the piano.

you ran your palm over the dust and withered petals, shoving everything on the ground. you’ll swipe it later. then, you took a breath, attempting to recall anything familiar — it would seem you got rusty, because as you flipped through the music sheets, only one melody came to mind. why’re you so worried, anyway? you’re not here to impress Phainon (even if you’d like to, terribly).

with that, you positioned your fingertips on the tiles, shoulders tense from how his insistent gaze kept boring into your back. you winced upon the first sound, trying to remember how to play, and how to push back the memories haunting your sorrow-worn brain.

after a while of uncertainty, you finally fell into the right rhythm, smiling dimly at the forlorn tune. it was slow, and calm. all the world surrounding you seemed to cease in its existence, and now it was only you, and the piano. no Phainon, no birds flying outside of the window, no overcast skies, no memories of your late mother.

with each press on the tile, you felt as if you were discovering pieces of yourself anew, like a sacred ritual — playing made you happy. it truly did. how were you able of forgetting about such a simple fact?

as you regained the confidence, you worked your joints with more fervor. everything was going well, until two palms fell onto your shoulders, startling you.

a strained, prolonged sound filled the air as you accidentally hit the tiles, messing up the melody. your head quickly whipped towards Phainon, who was now looking at you with a surprised expression painted on his face. when did he even come up here? you hardly heard any footfall.

"i’m so sorry, did i scare you?” he chuckled, obviously without any remorse.

you sighed, fingers reaching over to touch his hands. "a little."

a smirk stretched his lips upwards as he leaned a bit closer, twins of blue flickering between your form and the instrument. "i didn’t mean to." he responded coyly, no matter if you didn’t sense any guilt coming from him. well, it’s not like you’d hold a grudge for giving you a brief spook. "i just wanted to look from up close. you played so beautifully."

you felt his joints interlock around yours, and now you were slightly hot, something summery itching at your cheeks. Phainon was way too near, and the worst part is — you wished to render the distance completely.

he appeared so pretty from up close. you could discern the faint dimples in his cheeks as he smiled at you tenderly, and how light coming from the window illuminated his radiant irises. if you were able to, you’d immediately snap a picture with your own eyes, because there was no way any sort of lens could ever truly mirror his prepossessing features.

"i can teach you." you blurted out on impulse, wanting to sink into the chair from embarrassment at your silly proposal.

you expected Phainon to laugh — except he didn’t. his face pulled even closer, effectively knocking the air out from your lungs. assuming your heart had legs of it own, it surely would bolt straight out of your throat.

"i’d like that." he murmured.

your breath hitched, and then his lips brushed against yours. you barely stopped yourself from digging your nails into his hands. upon some sprout of boldness, you moved to close your mouths together — but Phainon inched away. that caused your mind to lag, blinking twice at him in confusion — did you even kiss? it was so brief, and chaste in its nature. more like just… pressing your lips against each other, as if to exchange oxygen.

his palms left your shoulders, and he straightened out, stepping back. your thoughts spurred, wondering whether you did something wrong, or if you offended him — however, there was no trace of dismay on the man’s face. he kept smiling sweetly at you, slowly gathering the memoirs into his arms like nothing ever happened.

"well, teach, can i see you tomorrow for a quick lesson?" he asked amusedly, eyebrows arching upwards.

no matter how perplexed you felt, you still forced the corners of your lips to stretch. "s-sure." you stammered out, fingers clenching around the material of your attire.

perhaps you imagined it, after all.

with that, time continued to pass, and for whatever reason you never again touched upon the topic of that barely-kiss. you remember being frustrated then, for pretty obvious reasons. still, Phainon didn’t seem to be in need of talking about that, so you kept silent.

now, from the perspective of time, it might have actually saved you from a fate much worse than what you had presented before you at this moment. your chance to escape Okhema remains unshaken, but what if you pushed Phainon earlier on? surely, the man’s fangs would clench around your neck, refusing to let you go.

he continued to visit you after that, and you taught him how to play. it was no revelation when he grasped the concept rather quickly — he seemed to be some kind of an omnibus, catching on everything naturally.

those shared moments were so precious to you, back then. when Phainon became confident in his somewhat stable skills, you both would sit by the piano, playing a duet. your sides touched as you slowly pressed on the tiles, sometimes even humming along to the tune. whenever one of you messed up, you’d laugh, bickering quietly.

you were enjoying yourself — more than you probably should. all the red flags and alarming behaviors slipped past your notice, and you genuinely thought you regained a long-lost part of yourself.

the dust was now gone from your home, wilted plants and trash thrown away. the piano shone like it used to, and the sun seemed to peek out from behind the clouds more often. your fridge was never empty, because Phainon always brought you some fresh food, and the bed in which you could lie for hours on end didn’t appear as alluring.

it’s not that you miraculously recovered from the grief and burdens of your doleful mind, however, it was progress. the heart remained heavy still — but the man’s fingers curled under its beating form, lifting it up. it was easier to function with him.

at some point, you thought a life without Phainon would be impossible.

everything was going well, and you no longer were carrying so much sorrow. previously, your brain practically drowned into a state of paranoia — every single person appeared as if they wanted to harm or betray you in some way. you scowled at the passersby, a bitter frown painted across your face. but now it was gone. all the wariness and disdain and chagrin lulled into something softer, more amiable.

alas, you should have kept it with you.

you stirred awake, pressing your eyelids shut at the dim light of early morning uncomfortably irritating your eyes. you don’t know why, but your stomach churned, and you felt unsettled by the thought that something was not right.

your room was way too cold. of course, it was chilly in the mornings, but this? this was beyond normalcy. you finally looked around the space, trying to control your trembling limbs. nothing was amiss. every single thing lied in its destined place, all of the windows closed.

still, the temperature made you wonder. with an uneasy feeling, you slowly dragged yourself off the bed, treading downstairs to check it out as well.

it’s a good thing you didn’t go back to sleep, because the sight there made you gasp out loud. your doors were opened — not widely, just slightly ajar — but they were, and it made your guts clench.

under any other circumstances, you would have blamed it on your forgetfulness, however right now that was simply impossible. you never once forgot to close the door, always making sure at least two times the locks were secure and tightly shut.

when you were little, you and your mother fell victim to a robbery — your whole home got practically destroyed, every single furniture toppled over once the thieves were satisfied with their search for any valuables. ever since then, your mother got paranoid about stuff like that. she instilled utmost awareness in you, and so, you adapted. the habit stuck with you to this day, and you took extra precautions just to make sure everything was locked.

wind flew through the gap, lapping at your bare ankles with its frigid tongue. someone broke into your house — and the worst part is, you don’t know whether that person was still inside.

untamed panic attempted to squeeze your heart, but you steeled your resolve, taking a deep breath. no, you mustn’t fall into a hole of fright. your eyes quickly jumped across the space of your living room, scanning everything up and down — nothing.

you took a step forward, jumping up at the low creak your floor made. you cursed under your breath, placing a shaky palm over your pounding chest. you tentatively dragged your feet over to the middle of the room, trying to gather your disarrayed thoughts. as you somehow managed to calm your nervous system down, you hastily turned back for your teleslate, gripping it in your hand as if your life depended on it.

you glanced around yourself precariously, too afraid of even checking out other rooms — after all, if that intruder were there, what would you do? you couldn’t fight. one hit from behind, and you’d be gone.

as carefully as possible, you started walking down the stairs, already dialing a familiar number. you needed him — he was way more capable than you. you were absolutely sure if that person who broke into your house would see him, they’d pass out.

you stood frozen on the cold floorboards, counting down the signals. one. two. three—

"hello, [name]?" resonated the slightly dazed voice, still half-asleep. you must have woken him up.

"Phainon," you began, trying to maintain your tone stable, "can you come to my place?"

you heard a noise of something on the other side, muffled and static. "you mean… as in right now?"

"yes, right now. i know it’s barely four in the morning, but—"

a loud thud on the window cut in the middle of your sentence, causing you to practically shriek in horror. it was a bird — you saw it so clearly, its small silhouette bumping against the glass — and yet, you bolted out of your house as if you were hunted by a pack of fiends.

you almost tripped over your own legs, bare feet falling onto the cold grass, freshly covered in dew. you heard Phainon’s voice calling from your teleslate, asking if you were alright, so you pressed it back to your ear.

"what in the hell happened, [name]?" he asked, probably for the fifth time now.

you took a shaky breath, running a palm over your face. "nothing, i just— just please, come here. i think…" you stammered, clumsily stumbling over your words in haze of trepidation, "i think someone broke into my house."

"wh—" the man began, immediately abandoning his track of thought, "alright. okay, i’ll be there. where are you now?"

you warily looked around, taking in the dimmed sight of your surroundings — the sky was still somewhat dark, periwinkle shyly peeking through the grayish firmament. "in my garden."

Phainon affirmed he’ll come as soon as possible, and you hung up, anxiously pacing around the patch of grass. you were torn between staying outside, and coming back home — but ultimately decided to remain in place.

you fidgeted with your fingers, eyes flickering to the door you forgot to even close as you sprinted out. you mulled over all the dark scenarios, clenching your hands into fists, imagining what you’d do if that intruder were to suddenly emerge, and attack you. their motives surely were odd — nothing was missing, your furniture unmoved, all the possibly valuable things untouched. it was different from what you had experienced as a young girl. if not for the money, then…

the grim realization struck you, and you breathed meekly, feeling your knees get wobblier. how is it you came out of this completely unscathed? as you continued to drown in morose reveries, you heard the fast footfall, head whipping to see who was coming your way.

Phainon, in all of his glory — ivory locks tousled in ever single possible direction, still donning his sleepwear and combat shoes that totally didn’t match. perhaps under different circumstances, you would laugh at the sight.

"[name]." he called, swiftly rendering the distance between you. his facial expression seemed somewhat distraught, but he didn’t take his sword with him, which was… well, somewhat weird. maybe he simply forgot it.

you stepped towards him, grabbing his palms into yours. "thank gods you’re here…" you muttered, feeling at his joints tensing. "why don’t you have a weapon? what if— what if that intruder is still—"

"everything is going to be just fine, alright?" he responded, interrupting your waterfall of hardly-coherent words. "i’ll go search through your place. you should, uh… perhaps stick to me."

you nodded eagerly, sighing with relief at the security Phainon’s presence brought you. with that, you trailed after the man, glued to his hip like a stray animal begging for a scrap of meat.

both of you carefully checked out every single corner of your house, and the more you looked, the more unsettled you became. the thief was not there, but a few things were missing. first of all — your pens. as you stepped into the study, you briefly noticed the disarray on your desk, soon finding out half of your utensils were gone. then, there was that handkerchief you spent so much time embroidering with intricate floral patterns — also no sight of it.

the disappearances were so inconspicuous, it terrified you way more than the vision of losing your jewelry or money. what person casually decides to break in, only to steal somebody’s pens and a piece of cloth? those things were not valuable whatsoever — the fact that this intruder took them was beyond off.

when you pointed it out, Phainon’s eyebrows narrowed with concern — and then his expression shifted into almost dismissal. he said not to worry, after all none of your actually precious stuff was gone, and that must be a good sign, no?

you were consternated at his suddenly carefree attitude, but didn’t point it out. since your friend told you everything was fine, then who were you to undermine his words? certainly, he knew better than you — even if something deep in your gut told you otherwise.

you pushed back the feelings of unease and ambivalent emotions, soon changing the locks and making sure all of your windows were secure. this accident has shaken you, and now your sleep was restless — but life goes on, and Phainon promised he’d never let any harm come your way, so at least you had an ounce of comfort to cling to.

you don’t know why you were so blind, back then. the signs were there for all of this time — you simply decided to turn a blind eye on them.

perhaps it was because you repressed the grief deep inside, but it still dragged you down. silently, innocently. it resurfaced only when you were alone, staring pointlessly at your own feet or a half-empty cup of water. you began to fear it, and so, you tethered yourself to the source of your consolation.

it has been twenty six months since your mother’s death, and thirteen months since your "friendship" with Phainon first bloomed. a number big enough to show the amount of conflict brewing within your heart — torn between everything your instincts were telling you, and ignoring them.

sometimes you wondered: if you kept your curiosity at bay, would anything ever resurface? would the ugly things finally appear, seated in your lap like an obedient lamb? he was an intelligent man, so perhaps not.

anyway, there’s no use mourning over spilled milk.

Phainon, being one of the Chrysos Heirs, was often sent out on missions of various kind. they never took him too long — he always came back in time, maybe a bit battered, but still in one piece. today, however, seemed to be different.

everything started out smoothly — you knew he was out of town, so you arranged to meet with one of your newly-formed friend. you got ready, actually putting effort in how you looked, and waited patiently for the hour of your little get-together to finally arrive.

when your teleslate vibrated next to your thigh, you believed it was your friend, letting you know to come out now — so once your eyes met with Phainon’s vague message, you blinked in surprise.

he asked you to come to the infirmary, only stating that he wanted to see you. naturally, you texted back — did something happen? — but the silence that followed was maddening. an utterly unreasonable flood of worry surged through your mind, each passing second stirring it into a thunderstorm. without wasting another moment, you grabbed your bag and hurried out.

by the time you arrived, every nerve in your body felt like it was set in flames. stress relentlessly gnawed at your thoughts, and a thousand of dark scenarios bloomed intrusively in your imagination. you barely managed to ask one of the nurses where he was, and she responded with a door numer — it already managed to dissolve in your thoughts. you walked upstairs, heart pounding with a single morose question: was Phainon truly in such a state that he’d ask for you? gods, you hoped he was just being dramatic.

you shoved the door open and exhaled a breath you didn’t know you were holding. there he was — alive, upright, and breathing. he sat on the bed with a slight recline, supported by a multitude of pillows, his gaze fixed on something outside the window. when he heard you come in, he turned, expression almost instantly shifting into a cheerful smile.

"[name], you came." he hummed happily, briefly running his fingers through the fair locks, maybe a bit self-conscious by how messy they were.

Phainon’s left cheek was covered by a piece of gauze, and you managed to spot a few bandages sticking from under his loose robes — but fortunately, nothing else caught your attention. he was all well, and now you were wondering why did he sent you such an ominous message in the first place. maybe he simply wanted to mess with you.

you nodded, rendering the space between you two. "of course i did." you spoke meekly, deciding to seat yourself on the small chair, standing just right next to the bed. "anyway, are you… okay?"

the blue irises studied you for good, prolonged three seconds before he thought answer. "could have been worse. accidents happen from time to time, even to me." he chuckled, a cough ripping from his chest abruptly.

you winced, fiddling with your fingers. you did not know what to do. "why don’t you lie down?" you asked, sending him a wry smile. comforting others was never your strongest forte, and now it was evidently showing.

he obediently took up on your offer, the corners of his lips remaining lifted. "[name], don’t frown so much. it’s not like i’m dying, or something."

you laughed at that comment, and he laughed along. whenever you as much as voiced any sound of joy, he always followed suit — at first it wasn’t very noticeable to you, but after some time, you recognized it as a habit of sorts. an unconditioned reflex.

"sorry. i didn’t mean to, i just…" you trailed off, eyes falling to your lap.

a short beat of silence passed between you before Phainon spoke again. "you look especially pretty today. any occasion?" he mused, a teasing lilt to his voice.

at that, you almost choked on your own spit. your relationship with the man was… well, somewhat questionable — but whenever he complimented you in such a straightforward way, you always felt as if somebody smacked you across the face with an electric wire.

you cleared your throat, trying to fight off the blush steadily creeping onto your cheeks. "maybe? i’m not sure. i was supposed to meet up with my friend today." you explained.

Phainon’s smile widened, and you didn’t fail to spot how the corner of his lips twitched. "sounds great."

you nodded, unsure of what to reply with. sometimes he responded with such vague sentences, it was hard to even come up with an answer. still, you forced your mind to muster up anything to keep the conversation going.

you talked for quite a while now, and you definitely lost the track of time — the sky darkened slightly, and you continued to ignore the buzzing of your teleslate. whenever you reached into your bag, your friend always began asking you some barely sensible questions, demanding your attention to stay focused solely on him.

you indulged him, naturally, but when you heard the sound of a ringtone, you could no longer pretend. what you were doing was hardly polite — looking at the hour, you were already fifteen minutes late to your meeting. even if Phainon was battered, he surely would understand, right? after all, he is the prime example of kindness, constantly gracing everyone with that cordial smile of his.

with a sigh, you grasped the device, ready to pick up. "sorry, i really have to—"

before your fingertip managed to even do as much as graze the teleslate’s screen, a hand suddenly locked around your wrist. you let out a mixture of surprise and confusion from your throat, vision returning to Phainon. he was smiling — alas, it didn’t encompass his eyes anymore. the man’s grip wasn’t hard, but it caused you to accidentally drop your teleslate, the thing slipping from your palm and hitting the ground with a clatter. it was still ringing a merry tune, so notorious and loud.

you swallowed, consternation painting itself across your face. "hey, what are—"

a vivid picture of sudden change grew in front of you, dull irises snapping back into their lively forms — he hastily let go of your limb, retracting his hand. did Phainon suffer some head trauma while he was away on a mission? he never once acted so erratically before, so you wouldn’t be surprised to find out his brain was in a concussed state.

"sorry. is your teleslate alright?" he spoke calmly, easing back into the stack of pillows.

you bend down to pick it up, briefly inspecting it. "yes, it is." you nodded, eyes avoiding him. when you glanced at the screen, you saw at least ten delivered messages, waiting for you to read. you felt guilty.

"anyway," he started, that lighthearted lace returning to his tone, "who were you supposed to meet up with?"

you sighed at the innocent question, turning the device off. "Phaoriseus. you remember him, don’t you?"

to be completely honest, you expected another burst of bitterness from your friend (and you wouldn’t blame him for it) — so it was a surprise when Phainon gave a hum of understanding, still smiling at you without a single waver. "i do remember him."

(you didn’t spot how terribly hard his fingers curled around the covers, nor the tight clench of his jaws).

"so, uhh, i guess i should…" you began, wondering why were you feeling so unsure, "i should go now. he’ll get mad if i just ditch him like that."

Phainon’s expression remained frozen for a good second — but soon the blank page of his face twisted into a pitiful frown, eyebrows knitting together. "really? but you just got there!" he protested, and you thought he looked like a mistreated dog. injured face, stitches, locks tousled messily — and those big eyes, practically begging.

he was not right. you didn’t just get there. it has been two hours since you stepped into infirmary, and perhaps it would be better to go now — but Phainon had this irresistible ability of tugging on your poor heartstrings. you felt torn, and when your teleslate began ringing again, you knew it was the high time you finally decide.

and the worst part is — it came so easily to you. just like that. without much hesitancy, you turned on the silent mode, tossing the thing back into your bag.

sure, you wanted to maintain friendships, and whatnot — but the man lying now in front of you was simply more important. you chuckled dryly under your breath, wondering how could you ever possibly leave his side — and when he heard the sound coming from your mouth, he laughed along. sweetly, like pure saccharine or sugarcoated apples.

"so you’ll stay, i presume?" he inquired, fingertips reaching over to yours. you squeezed his hand immediately, smiling at the warmth of his joints.

"of course i’ll stay." you affirmed, all remnants of internal conflict seeping away. it was good this way. you didn’t need much in life — as long as you had Phainon, everything would be just fine.

you could mock your past self for remaining so oblivious, but it would lack in any sense anyway. it’s not as if berating yourself for putting trust in somebody else could fix the old mistakes — none can undo the past.

now that you think about it, Phainon always was… somewhat quirky. beloved by everyone, cherished and praised highly in the general community of Okhema, he stayed as a picture-perfect golden boy. no one would ever suspect there was something more to him — not even you, at least back then.

however, sometimes his usually radiant eyes lost their glow, boring pointedly into the distance with dullness you couldn’t put your finger on, or discern where it was coming from. it was eerie in a way, seeing how the very life seemed to practically disappear from him — but you never thought to judge him. you understood better than anyone else that a human’s existence is filled with various hardships and grief. maybe Phainon experienced something akin to your loss, and simply attempted to smother the sorrow instead of letting it dissolve naturally.

then, there were his mood swings. they weren’t overly prominent, but it was quite apparent the emotions within him were in a constant state of swirl. for example, how quickly and rapidly he could burst into laughter at something mildly funny you said — you always wondered whether he seriously found your dry jokes so amusing.

not to mention, you perceived Phainon as someone relentlessly kind, but he just had that odd habit of glaring at whoever was talking to you. no matter if you were acquainted with them, or not — he’d stand a little behind you, eyebrows narrowing together lowly. when you caught him scowling like so, his look always shifted into a docile smile, innocently asking what was wrong — as if he never did anything in the first place. you let that slide, too.

perhaps this was not a very obvious sign, but from time to time, you noticed the slip-ups in his masterfully crafted masks. well, maybe not masterfully, because Phainon wasn’t all that great at controlling his facial expressions — but the fact he could hold them up with such a hell in his mind remained impressive. you stated something against his wishes — his eyebrow twitched. you did specifically what he told you not to do — his lower eyelid quivered, as if he was seconds away from losing it.

and finally, the vague responses Phainon offered you. previously, you had no clue why he got so mopey sometimes, but now you know it stemmed from pure, barely contained jealousy. the short "okay-s" and "fine-s" often sounded as if he practically forced them out. almost like there was something in his throat — obscuring the man’s windpipe, refusing him from mustering up anything more.

earlier on, when you were still so blissfully oblivious, you could live with that. you could swallow down all the doubts and questions, cherishing the company of your beloved friend — or something more. you ignored all the cracks, and wavers, pretending not to see the sharp eyes of a predator lurking from underneath sheep’s clothing.

you were so hung-up on the vision of remaining by Phainon’s side, you ignored the warnings — not only originating from your own intuition, but other’s as well.

the weather seemed a bit unstable today — you agreed to come out on a walk with Phainon, bumping into Mydei along the way, and dragging him with you too — and the sun shone brightly from one part of the sky, while the other remained darkened by the rain clouds. it was a little unsettling, watching as the gloom spread relentlessly fast towards your way.

still, you couldn’t exactly complain. you were having fun with both of the men, giggling under your breath as they bickered over the dumbest things. you already had to work as a mediator, and a judge — when their debates remained unsolved, they instantly turned towards you, demanding you decide which one of them was right.

and as you strolled through the main square, your eyes met with an ice cream stall. the temperature was quite hot, so you offered to buy some — Phainon agreed with you, saying that he can go wait in the line, since it was pretty long. you sent him a grateful nod, hiding with Mydei in the shade meanwhile he had to stand in the scorching sun, already appearing somewhat dazed by the hotness.

you leaned on the cool pillar, sighing with relief. the man next to you followed suit, glancing at you with the corner of his piercingly sharp iris. "[name], i have to ask you about something." he began, perhaps a bit tentatively.

to hear him speak up first was a slight surprise, especially since you weren’t particularly close, nor did Mydei seem to be overly social. still, you didn’t point it out — it’s not like it was a bad thing he attempted to strike up a conversation with you.

"go ahead." you sent him an encouraging smile, quickly reaching to wipe the sweat off of your brow. the high temperature was seriously getting to you — any longer in the sun, and you’d probably faint.

he cleared his throat, letting out a prolonged sigh. "what do you think of Phainon?” he questioned, the tone of his voice more gravely than usual.

confused, you blinked twice, mulling over his words. what’s that supposed to mean? "well, i think he’s a… good person. i enjoy his company.” you replied, wondering if that’s the answer Mydei was looking for.

the man shook his head, eyebrows narrowing together. "is that all? don’t you think he’s been acting off?"

the more he talked, the more perplexed you got. "what?"

Mydei clicked his tongue in irritation, probably barely holding back a scoff at your obliviousness. "[name], i’m sure you are more intelligent than you let on. don’t tell me you can’t see how he looks at you?"

a nervous chuckle escaped your lips as you scratched the nape of your neck. where was he even going with all this? "sorry, are you—" you took a pause, weighting your words, "are you insinuating Phainon has a crush on me?"

this of course wouldn’t be any sort of revelation, considering the things you both have done before, however hearing it from somebody else’s mouth was certainly weird.

he huffed out a humorless chuckle, leaning in a bit closer, as if his sentence was some kind of top-secret. "more than just infatuation. there’s… there’s something uncanny to his gaze." Mydei murmured with a hint of cautiousness in his voice. "i really hate to talk of him in such a way, but i know him longer than you, and—"

your brain almost — almost connected all the circumstances and dots you were pushing back for a long time already, living in denial — but then a familiar voice caused you both to jump back, straightening out.

"i’m back!" you turned to look at Phainon who held up three cones, a triumphant grin stretching his lips upwards. "now, what were the two of you talking about, hm?" he laughed inconspicuously, handing out the ice cream.

Mydei sent you a glare so stern, you’d never dream of admitting the truth. "just… discussing our favorite chimeras." you forced out, making up some hardly-authentic excuse on the spot. you saw the blonde man cringe at your dumb lie.

Phainon’s eyebrows lifted, and he nodded slowly, as if silently messaging he didn’t believe a single word. "is that so? well, Mydei was frowning so much i thought you were conversing about the very death." he joked lightheartedly, licking at the already dripping ice cream.

"it doesn’t matter, Deliverer. [name]’s telling the truth." he retorted, and you winced when he took a formidable bite out of the cold food.

you observed them exchange heated looks, but neither said anything further. with that, you took a small step back, hunching your shoulders inwards as you slowly licked on the ice cream — for whatever reason, you lost your appetite.

funnily enough, no matter how ominous Mydei’s words were, you soon forgot them. an awful decision on your side, but hey — at least you’re aware now that he remained completely truthful, then. you could be almost grateful at his high perception, though it didn’t help much at that time.

you were never close with the crown prince of Kremnos — he always seemed a bit distant, and detached from the rest. the only reason you had any contact with him was because of Phainon. perhaps that’s the reason why his warning dissipated so quickly from your mind — assuming you were better friends, you’d surely take everything he told you under consideration.

as you slowly reached towards the end of your favored piece, fingers falling rhythmically on the tiles, you began to think you should have listened. you should have taken it all to heart, ridding yourself of the blindness, and accepting the truth.

alas, you didn’t do so, and the longer you sit by the piano, playing and mulling over events of the past year, the more evident your demise starts to appear. every single sound resonates like the oh-so familiar footsteps, and singing of the night birds outside reminds you of his voice.

maybe he’s standing right behind you, and you just don’t know it yet. a silly, paranoid vision that was — you made sure to lock the doors, barricading them with additional furniture. you’d certainly hear it, if he were to force his way inside — but still, you feared to turn your head.

after all, when it came to Phainon, your cognitive functions always seemed a bit faulty.

the storm season began, and you shining with utter intelligence, forgot to take your umbrella. again. you swear, at this point you’ll have to write it on your forehead in big, bold letters — remember about the rain!, or something of the sort.

fortunately or unfortunately, you were close to Phainon’s place, so you quickly ran to his door, almost slipping on the mud. with a huff of exasperation, you knocked energetically, hoping he was home. your limbs were trembling from the cold, and clothes stuck uncomfortably to your frame, encompassing you in their heavy wetness. you barely stopped the chattering of your teeth.

after a few seconds, the man finally opened the door, obviously taken aback to see you. "oh, [name]!" he called out in surprise, immediately ushering you inside with a kind smile.

once he shut the entrance, you sighed in relief, drinking in the tranquil silence. loud rainfall was no more, muffed out by the walls surrounding you — and the air definitely got warmer, a soothing balm to your shaky joints. then, you turned to look at Phainon.

"i got caught up in the rain." you stated the obvious, a humorous snicker slipping past your lips as you quickly shook off the water-filled shoes.

your friend’s expression turned fond, and he cocked one eyebrow up at you. "really? i never would have noticed." he chuckled, reaching for your soaked hair — he raked his fingers through the strands, and you swatted his teasing touch away.

"anyway, i’m cold and i want something to drink." you stated, hurriedly dragging your feet towards the living room. Phainon followed in your tracks, just a few steps behind.

you sat on the leather couch, barely containing the shaky breath threatening to escape you. he stood in front of you, clasping his hands. "alright, how about this— self-service today, and while you’re preparing yourself tea, i’ll run you a bath." he offered, before quickly adding: "oh, and maybe i’ll find some fitting garments for you…"

the vision of a hot bath and dry clothes was better than ever — you nodded earnestly, jumping up from the couch like a wind-up toy. "sounds good. thank you, Phainon." you smiled, grateful for such a considerate companion. whatever ethereal being was looking after you, they certainly made sure to bless you with an angel.

he reciprocated the gesture, saying he’ll try to be as quick as possible, soon emerging upstairs. you already took a step forward the kitchen — but then something caught your eye.

door, slightly ajar, just in the corner of the room — of course, you were aware of their existence, but didn’t know where they actually led to. they always remained tightly shut, and Phainon never seemed to use them (at least in your presence).

upon some tinge of uncontainable curiosity, you walked towards the source of your interest. it was extremely rude to pry and search through one’s home while they remained unaware — but your friend wouldn’t get mad even if he found out, right? sure, maybe he’d scold you, but it would end at that.

you opened the door a bit wider, studying the space — it was rather claustrophobic, to be honest. it looked like a larder, except it lacked in any sort of food. a rather obscure wall unit stretched on your left, devoid of anything useful in particular — empty jars, some scrolls, everything covered in a thick layer of dust and cobwebs. the only thing that didn’t seem abandoned was a carton box, situated atop a feeble chair.

you stepped forwards, prying its flaps open with the slightest of guilt — alas, the freshly ignited marvel won, and you couldn’t hold yourself back. at first it didn’t seem to harbor anything special, just a few books along with an innocent-looking wooden casket. you almost laughed, a bit disappointed to find nothing interesting — but then you saw it.

those were your books, the same ones you lent to him some time ago, and pretty much forgot about.

why would Phainon store them inside some dusty cellar instead of just giving them back to you? it was perplexing. you slowly reached for them, lifting the books up — everything seemed fine, and they lacked in any damage. you put them away, focus relocating towards the unfamiliar object lying at the bottom — a… diary?

you gently grasped it, your instincts screaming at you to abandon your task and go make yourself that damned tea. unfortunately, you decided to stay curious.

as you slowly opened it, you immediately got greeted with the familiar handwriting — it was loopy, and nice to the eye. you always envied Phainon because of it.

with a shaky exhale of thrill, you began to scan through the contents.

i finally spoke to [name] today. after all my hesitation, i can’t believe how gentle and kind she turned out to be. what was i so afraid of? i waited for the perfect moment, wanting to make a good impression — and i think it was worth it.

i bought her peaches, though i’m not quite sure why she was so hellbent on bargaining for them. she’s never lacked in money, at least from what i’ve managed to deduce. still, i bought them, and she surprised me by offering one back. such a small thing, and yet it meant so much. i nearly cheered out loud with joy.

it feels like a good beginning. earning her trust will take time, i know — but perhaps i can dare to believe i’ve already taken the first step. i dearly hope i’m not wrong.

your eyebrows narrowed together, and the air gone heavy in your lungs. what? just… just what the hell was he even writing about? yes, the piece of text seemed innocent enough, but it wasn’t hard to discern Phainon thought of speaking to you long before you personally met him. maybe you were simply exaggerating, and the man’s intentions remained pure — but still, you hurriedly shuffled through the pages, stopping on another one.

today was thankfully free from any obligations, leaving me with much time to devote to what truly matters: learning more about [name]. it’s not difficult to trace someone’s steps, honestly. i’ve always found it quite easy — some may say it’s somewhat unethical, but i never thought of it that way. ah, i digress, don’t i?

she doesn’t work — not surprising, really, considering her late mother’s fortune. if memory serves me right, that woman was once a pianist of some renown. still, i do wish [name] ventured out more often — her long absences complicate things unnecessarily. but i endure.

when she does take a walk, she moves as if without a particular purpose — never talking to anyone, never daring to look up from her feet. it fascinates me. what thoughts fill her head during those quiet strolls?

she has some sort of a fondness for that antique bookstore, near the main square. i paid a visit myself, naturally. the clerk, eager to please a Heir, shared the details of her last purchase — a memoir. i’ve never cared much for them, but if my [name] finds value in such lectures, then i shall too. it’s only logical, after all.

as always, i was careful today. our paths crossed — seemingly by chance, of course. i’ve gone to great lengths to ensure that every encounter feels like a mere coincidence. she likely thinks of them as such. there’s a certain naivete in her logic and understanding, a quality i find utterly disarming. it will certainly make things easier for me to ████ ██.

all in all, today was successful. i hope the following days will remain equally bountiful.

your hands shook now, jaw hanging slack as you barely stopped yourself from dropping the diary and bolting out of that man’s house. was this supposed to be a joke? if so, then it surely wasn’t funny.

he was a lunatic. Phainon — the one you considered your most beloved and only friend — was insane. he followed after you, tracking you down, as if you weren’t a real person with their own emotions, but a mere animal to hunt, shoot down, and put on display.

you were terrified. no, that was an understatement. you were terror-stricken. everything you took for granted suddenly crumbled over your head, rendering you frozen — but, perhaps, this really was only a joke? some… some kind of a fictional story Phainon decided to make up out of morbid boredom?

with that, you turned another few pages forward, hoping to see a revelation which could ease your anxiety, and finally clear up the misunderstanding. you had to squint your eyes a little, observing as the elegant handwriting suddenly took a sharper turn, erratic and barely able of discerning.

my hands tremble as i write this, the ink already smudging in places. it’s strange — i’ve faced peril more times than i can count — and yet nothing has shaken me quite like what happened today.

i met [name] at the bookstore again. i nearly commited a gravely mistake — i made a remark about her taste in memoirs, something she’s never confessed to me directly. for a moment, i thought i completely messed up everything i worked so hard for. i could see the faintest flicker of suspicion in her eyes, but she said nothing. thank gods for that. i had no excuse prepared, so i suppose i would’ve been doomed.

she invited me to her home to lend me some memoirs. as if the books mattered. of course i accepted — not out of my interest for the literature, but because the offer was simply too enticing to turn down. time with her, and [name]’s own beloved volumes in my hands. a chance like that cannot be missed out on.

i tried not to show it, but my eyes were drawn to her piano (i thought it looked quite proud and imposing). it stood abandoned in the corner, as if she completely forgot about it. i asked if she could play for me. [name] hesitated, but ultimately agreed.

what followed was something beyond music. her fingers moved with such grace, her posture so painfully poised. the room dissipated away. i watched, completely mesmerized. why did she not follow in her late mother’s footsteps? well, perhaps it’s better this way. the world doesn’t deserve her. not like i do.

as she played, i stepped towards her, putting my hands on her shoulders. she jolted up, stopping rapidly — startled, maybe. i should have felt guilty, but i didn’t. [name]’s surprise, her breath catching in her throat — it was alluring, in a way.

and then, i kissed her. not fully — just the brief touch of lips. but it happened. she didn’t pull away. if anything, i thought i felt her coveting for more. i backed out, though. if i haven’t, then i ████ ███████ ██.

[name] is driving me to the edge of reason. she doesn’t even know it, not truly. i am already hers. completely, helplessly hers. how could i not be? when i met her, i realized she was unavoidably special. ████ ██ i am sick with desire. she makes me ████ █████████.

so it wasn’t a jest, then.

you turned to another page.

what i did tonight would, by most standards, be considered shameful — depraved of any morality, even. but i feel no remorse.

ever since i first tasted the warmth of [name]’s kindness, i have found it impossible to resist my longing. could you believe it? she offered to teach me the piano. imagine that — her delicate hands guiding mine, her voice so close i could feel it brush against my cheek. we’ve started to play duets together. to be fair, it’s hard for me to contain myself with her sitting so close, side pressed into mine.

tonight, the ache became unbearable.

i broke into her house while she was asleep, and i observed her for quite some time. i wanted to take something from her — to soothe the torturous ache in my chest when she’s not near. i cut a lock of her hair. it smelled faintly of lavender and something sweeter i couldn’t name. i held it to my lips. it felt like worship.

i searched her study next — not to violate, or anything of the sort. i simply needed more. i settled on a few of her pens and a handkerchief, enthralled by the intricate embroidery. just little things, nothing valuable.

you couldn’t read it anymore. if there was a feeling comparable to being continuously stabbed into the heart, you certainly felt it now. shocked, you dropped the diary to the floor, practically throwing yourself at the innocent-looking box — your shaking hands reached for the wooden casket, prying it open without much finesse.

knowing what you would see at the bottom was more awful than remaining oblivious, and it caused your stomach to churn. exactly as it was written — a piece of your hair, tightly embedded with a ribbon of sorts. then, the pens you lost, along with the handkerchief.

you slowly put it away, careful not to make any sounds. Phainon was taking quite a long time preparing you this bath, or whatever the hell was he doing. running would be the wisest option — but something pushed you to bend down for the diary, and read another entry. you had to get some closure.

as you flipped towards the end of the filled pages, you noticed how messy it was — smudged ink, splatters of… something? on the paper, scratches so hard they ripped through. still, you forced yourself to decipher the following text.

i caved.

the restraint i fought to maintain finally tore. i’ve done something irredeemable, and yet i ████ █. perhaps that makes me ██. but if loving [name] this fiercely is madness, then let me descend into it without apology.

it began with my injury. she came to the infirmary, just as i hoped. the sight of her standing by my bed — so gentle, so beautiful — was almost too much to bear. i asked where she was headed, because obviously, she dolled herself up. i believed she’d say nowhere.

but no. she mentioned a meeting. a friend.

a friend.

████ █████████ ██ █████.

something cracked inside me then. who gave her permission to give her time — my time — to someone else? ████ ███ who was that man, to think he could occupy the thoughts and laughter that should belong to me alone? ████ █████████ ██ █████

i found him. of course i did. people like him are easy to track — even easier to silence.

i don’t remember much — the moment is a blur, as if my mind repressed it from the sheer disgust for that intruder. only the sound remains: a dull, heavy thud as his body hit the ground. after that, there was stillness.

he’s gone now. that’s all that matters. [name] is safe — untouched, unspoiled by others. ████ █████████ ██. she is mine.

i love her with a force i can’t contain. it consumes me. it burns like fire. but if she ever learned the truth — if she knew what i’ve done — i know she would hate me. she would curse my name. that, i cannot allow.

she must never see that side of me. no one must.

i’ll keep my secret buried deeper than that man i laid few meters underneath the ground. ████ █████████ ██ ████. and i will keep smiling when i see her. i will kiss her hands. [name] doesn’t need to know what i’ve done — only that i love her. more than anyone else ever could.

there was more — much more text to go through — an unhinged rant about whatever that maniac’s mind managed to come up with. unfortunately, you didn’t have the strength to read it. your stomach churned mercilessly, bile threatening to gather in your mouth. then, you heard the footsteps.

if not for that terrifying sound, you’d probably curl up on the floor and start wailing. you didn’t even have the time to process anything as you rapidly began to put everything back into the box, desperately attempting to recreate how the objects were laid out.

you began to count the steps. one, two, three, four, five.

he wasn’t in a hurry. you quickly put the casket back, placing the diary along with your books above it, wondering if you did that right — your vision obscured by tears, you fought tooth and nail to hold the waterworks back. if that man saw you crying, then he’d surely guess what you just found out.

six, seven, eight, nine, ten.

you shut the flaps of the box, stepping away to give that bedlam a last glance. you then turned, trepidation squeezing at your hammering heart.

eleven, twelve, thirteen.

as you opened the door, ready to walk out casually as if nothing ever happened, your face bumped straight into Phainon’s chest, causing you to stumble backwards. oh no. no, no, no—!

your eyes rose towards him, and you forced your expression to remain as neutral as possible. no matter for your heavy breaths, or the wet tears threatening to spill down your cheeks. at first, he looked equally surprised as you felt — but then, he smiled. a grin, more teeth than cheer, hardly reaching his blue irises.

"what are you doing here, [name]?" he asked calmly, the completely stoic tone of his voice causing your limbs to freeze.

Phainon’s eyes bore into your form as if he was a starving animal — a panting wolf, barely holding itself back from sinking its marred fangs into the hare’s nape.

you swallowed thickly. "nothing. i-i mean…" you stumbled over your own words, sweat dripping profusely down your temples. "i was just curious about this room, so i—"

"don’t worry, i’m not mad at you." he spoke, taking a step forward. "i’ve already prepared the bath, so why don’t you go and take it?"

against all your reason, you nodded obediently, trying your hardest to force your legs to move forwards. the man’s gaze refused to leave you as you dragged your feet over. then, a brief realization passed through your exhausted brain:

he’s not a poor dog, like i thought — he’s a full-fledged pack of rabid hounds, stuffed into a singular being.

you could only pray your sprint was fast enough.

[samah-2]

Gaza Under Siege Hunger and Ongoing Suffering

In normal circumstances, we fast from dawn until sunset, but in Gaza, fasting has become a forced way of life. It is not a spiritual choice but a harsh reality imposed upon us due to decisions that close border crossings and block humanitarian aid. This is no longer just about a lack of food and medicine; it is a deliberate deprivation that turns the simplest necessities into unattainable dreams.

Today, we live in an imposed isolation where electricity and clean water are luxuries we struggle to secure. Finding just one meal a day has become a challenge. Hospitals suffer from severe shortages of medicine and medical equipment, leaving hundreds of patients facing death due to lack of treatment. Even children, who should experience the innocence and joy of childhood, grow up in a world dominated by darkness and constant deprivation.

Under this suffocating siege, the threats to our existence continue to escalate. Trump’s recent statements clearly expose intentions of forced displacement, declaring that we have no right to return to Gaza, using reconstruction as a pretext while plotting to expel us permanently. Thousands of families remain trapped between endless hunger and an uncertain fate.

Yet despite all this, hope remains—thanks to you, our supporters. Our campaign is nearing its goal! We have raised $14,552 out of $15,000 – only $448 left to reach the target!

Every contribution, no matter how small, brings us closer to survival and makes a real difference in our lives. Donate here:

Vetted by @bilal-salah0

@bruisedprincess999 @finalgirlabigailhobbs @mephal@mothfishing @yaoimurder

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[svearehnn]

where flowers go to die | azriel x reader

Summary: Years ago, Azriel was dying on the battlefield, his shadows fading with his heartbeat. She was the Inner Circle’s quiet healer—steady hands, warm laugh, and fiercely in love with the spymaster who didn’t yet know he was hers. In desperation, she made a bargain with Koshei: Azriel’s life for her gift.

She survived the war, but everything she touched afterward began to rot. Her hands, once known for healing, now spread decay. Ashamed and cursed, she vanished into the wilds, letting the world believe she’d died in the chaos of war.

Now, strange withering magic has begun creeping across the Night Court’s border. Azriel is sent to investigate. When he finds the source…it’s her.

Content Warning: descriptions of injury, angst

The wilds did not treat her kindly. But then again, they were never known to be kind. They were thick with dread and rot, Koshei’s reign seeping through every root. Once, she had walked through forests that bloomed at her touch. Now, they recoiled, green turning black beneath her every step.

Even though Koshei had been dead for a century now, his death magic still lingered in her veins—in the tattoo that now marred her skin like a scar, in the way the trees seemed to whisper warnings as she passed. 

She tried to stick to old paths, ones that had already turned barren beneath her, but they still did not welcome her. Stones shifted beneath her boots. Branches sagged, gray-limbed and brittle, as if bowing under the weight of her presence. Under the weight of what she had done.

Each step she took left ruin in her wake. Petals curled. Grass withered. A trail of blackened soil marked where her feet had passed, and still she walked—slowly, steadily—toward the crumbling shrine she’d found years ago. The only place the rot didn’t spread quite as fast. As though the stone, ancient and solemn, held a memory of who she used to be.

She was wrapped in layers of thick green wool, gloves pulled high over her wrists despite the early summer heat. The hood cast shadows over her face, not that anyone ever saw her now. Not that anyone ever should.

She’d buried her name long ago. Left it somewhere in the snow outside Velaris, the night she made the bargain.

But she still remembered his.

Azriel.

His name lived in her like marrow. She tried to forget it. The way his blood had soaked her hands. The way his shadows had curled around her ankles, gentle as breath, even as his eyes fluttered shut and she felt the bond lock into place—quiet and devastating.

He hadn’t known. He never had the chance to.

That was the point.

She had bargained with a god of decay, gave up everything she was so the male she loved could live. She never thought she’d survive it. Never thought she’d walk out of that battlefield, her gift twisted into something monstrous, her hands cursed.

Now, everything she touched died.

And still, she kept breathing.

Still, she dreamed of him.

Still, she walked through a forest that hated her, carrying the unbearable ache of a bond that only went one way.

Until today.

Because today, the forest paused. It’s whispers ceased, as though it was holding its breath. She felt it first through the soles of her boots, the low hush that fell over the trees. Then her own heartbeat, rising. Then something more—an itch between her shoulder blades. A pull in her chest, like a string finally going taut.

Her breath caught.

The shadows moved.

And she knew he had found her.

Her eyes widened just a fraction, her hand reaching for her chest. She couldn’t let him see her like this.

So she hid, just as she always did—within the fading trees, behind gnarled, rotted trunks—and she watched. 

She saw his shadows before she saw him. They furled in like clouds of dark mist, low to the ground. He walked within them, silent as the night, his own eyes searching. Azriel eyed the rot that seemed embedded into the land, inhaled the death that wafted in the air. But he didn’t stop to analyze. 

His gaze was set on the shrine and the sigils that glowed cobalt blue upon it. His gloved fingers traced the etchings, breath hitching in his throat. He recognized the curling loop of her name hidden within them, and it made his blood run cold.

A name that hadn’t been spoken in a century. A name that had become a scar on his heart.

He hadn’t said it aloud since the day they lost her. Not even to himself.

Azriel pulled his hand back slowly. His shadows were already crawling outward—low to the forest floor, quiet, curious. They moved like they did when they sensed something almost familiar. Not danger. Not an enemy. Rather, something his shadows knew was missing.

He turned, scanning the trees. There was no breeze, no birdsong. Just the stillness of a forest that held its breath.

And then—a hitch.

The smallest sound. A breath drawn too sharply, a heartbeat out of rhythm with the woods.

His shadows paused. One tendril curled around the edge of a rotted trunk, brushing against the hem of a dark green cloak.

He said nothing at first. Just… looked.

Even hidden in shadow—even after all these years—he knew.

He knew the shape of her. The way she stood like she was always bracing herself. The way her magic, once golden and warm, now sank into the earth like poison.

Azriel’s voice came softly. Like a blade being drawn.

“I thought you were dead. We all did.”

He didn’t move—didn’t dare. He just stood there, staring at the hollow between the trees where he could see the slightest glimpse of a boot.

She stayed silent even as her heart pounded in her chest, her eyes welling with tears.

“I shouldn’t have come,” he admitted. “I was following the rot. The way it spreads like—” He stopped himself. The words felt cruel now.

His voice softened. “But I didn’t expect it to feel like you.”

That made her flinch.

She pressed her back to the tree, clutching the edge of her cloak like a shield. She had imagined this moment a thousand times. In dreams, in nightmares. She’d imagined him furious. Grieving. Confused.

But she hadn’t imagined this.

Azriel sounded… lonely.

She shut her eyes. Her breath trembled in her chest. The bond, ever present, pulsed weakly under her ribs like an old wound that never healed.

He didn’t know.

Of course he didn’t. And he could never.

Because if he knew—if he felt it now—it would destroy her. Because it wouldn’t be real. He’d think it was some cruel twist of the Cauldron, some pity-thread tugged too late.

So she stayed quiet.

Azriel sighed through his nose, and something in it was so heartbreakingly tired.

“I just wanted to know,” he said, “if you were still breathing.”

A pause.

Then he turned—slowly, deliberately—and walked back to the shrine.

He didn’t see the way her hands shook. Didn’t hear the ragged breath she bit down. Didn’t feel the bond quiver with every step he took away.

But she watched. She saw the way his wings drooped; the effort it took for him to keep them from dragging on the forest floor. The shadows still searching around him, not with suspicion—but with something softer. Familiar.

He didn’t leave. Of course he didn’t.

Azriel wasn’t the kind of male who walked away from ghosts.

He stayed near the shrine, tracing the sigils with a gloved hand. His presence was like a balm to her soul. Yet, even as the bond tugged her closer, begging her to run into his arms, she couldn’t move. She refused to.

She didn’t save him just for him to die by her own wretched hands.

Her throat tightened. Her gloved hands curled into fists.

She heard him speak again—quiet, like he was willing the wind to carry his words to her.

“I know you’re there.”

She swallowed thickly. A shadow brushed her ankle, curling around it. She took a shuddering breath. She could keep hiding. Let him think it was just grief. Just memory.

But he deserved more than that. He’d always deserved more than what she gave him.

So she stepped out.

It was only one step. Her hood still drawn, her hands still hidden. But it was enough. Azriel’s breath caught audibly.

He turned, and for the first time in ten years, his eyes met hers. He didn’t say anything at first. Didn’t move. Didn’t run. Just… looked.

Like he was afraid to blink.

Her voice came thin and brittle. “You weren’t supposed to find me.”

Azriel shook his head slowly. “Then you should’ve hidden better.”

She let out a broken sound—a laugh, or maybe a sob. She didn’t know.

“I’m not who I was,” she whispered. “Not anymore.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t.”

He took one step closer. Carefully. Like approaching a wounded animal.

“I don’t care.”

She blinked.

Azriel’s voice didn’t tremble when he said, “You’re alive. That’s all I care about right now.”

The bond pulsed beneath her skin. But still—he didn’t feel it. And she said nothing. She couldn’t risk losing this moment, not even for the truth she so desperately ached to speak into existence.

She didn’t mean to lead him to her.

She meant to keep her distance. To stand in the shadows, let him see her just long enough to prove she was breathing, and disappear again before the rot remembered it could devour everything she loved.

But then Azriel moved—just a few steps, never closer than she could tolerate. His shadows followed her, not him. They brushed her wrist, the hem of her cloak, the edge of her gloves. They didn’t recoil.

She said nothing as she turned toward the shrine. He fell into step behind her.

The earth beneath her blackened, dead things curling inward as she passed. But when she reached the ancient stone and laid a hand upon its mossy edge, the rot didn’t spread.

Azriel said nothing, though she could feel his gaze fixed on her back.

“This is the only place it doesn’t follow me,” she murmured.

His voice was gentle. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe it remembers who I was. Maybe the magic here is stronger than mine. Or maybe… maybe this is where the gods go to forgive things.”

She didn’t know why she said that. Maybe she just wanted someone else to say it was possible.

Behind her, Azriel exhaled like he was steadying himself. “I remember these sigils. You used to draw them in the sand outside the House of Wind. I never knew what they meant.”

She nodded, one hand still on the stone.

“They’re meant for old magic,” she said. “The kind that bargains. The kind that takes more than it gives.”

Azriel was quiet for a long time.

Then, softly: “Is that what happened to you?”

She flinched.

When she turned, her hood slipped just enough that the edge of her face was visible in the dying light. He stepped closer without thinking—half a foot between them, his eyes searching hers.

“I can’t be near people,” she whispered. “I destroy things. I can’t control it. I—”

Her voice broke.

“I tried to save you.”

The words were out before she could stop them. Her heart lurched. Not the whole truth. Not the bond. Just the first crack in the dam.

Azriel’s expression didn’t change—but something in the air did.

A pull. Sharp. Low in her ribs. For one heartbeat, she thought—No. No, not now.

But it faded just as quickly. A flicker. A whisper.

Azriel blinked once, brows pulling slightly together. He looked at her like he felt something, too—but didn’t know what it meant.

She stepped back instinctively. “Don’t.”

He followed.

“I don’t care about the rot,” he said. “I don’t care what bargain you made. I care that you’re here. That you came back.”

“I didn’t come back,” she said, almost choking. “I was never meant to be found.”

He reached out—not to touch her, but to be closer. His shadows swept between them like a tide.

“Too bad,” he said gently.

She froze.

“I already found you.”

The words lingered like mist between them. She hated how warm they made her feel.

Azriel stood a foot away now, close enough that the edge of his shadows brushed her boots like a question. The silence stretched. His gaze searched her face, trying to understand something she hadn’t spoken aloud in over a century.

“What happened to you?” He asked, quieter this time.

Her stomach twisted.

“I told you,” she said, voice flat. “I made a bargain.”

“You said you tried to save me,” Azriel murmured, hazel eyes gazing into hers with a kindness she hadn’t seen in years. 

She looked away as she felt that familiar knot rise up in her throat. Her eyes squeezed shut as a shaky breath left her lips.

“Please don’t make me say it.”

Azriel’s voice softened further. “Why not?”

Her hands trembled. Her gloves were old, worn thin in the fingers. Her magic pulsed underneath, black and ruinous.

“Because if I say it out loud,” she whispered, “I’ll never come back from it.”

Azriel didn’t move. But she felt something shift in the air—again. That pull. That ache in her chest, like a violin string plucked once and left to ring.

The bond.

Cauldron, not now.

She turned her head away. “You should go.”

“No,” he said, firm but not unkind. “I won’t. You don’t have to tell me everything. But I won’t leave you here. Not again.”

Not again.

The words undid something in her.

“I was the only healer left,” she said suddenly. The confession slipped out like blood from a wound. “We were losing. I was trying to save too many at once. And then… and then you went down.”

Azriel stiffened.

She didn’t stop, even as tears blurred her vision. She had to look away—she couldn’t see his face.

“Your chest was open. Your wings were shredded. There was too much blood. Too much. I knew I wouldn’t reach you in time. And the bond—” she swallowed hard—“it snapped.”

He blinked.

“What?”

“I felt it,” she whispered, voice quivering. “And I knew—I knew you never would. You were dying. I couldn’t let you go.”

Azriel stared at her.

She shook her head violently, stepping back. “Don’t say anything. Just—don’t.”

But his shadows surged suddenly—not menacing, not cold. Just startled. His breath hitched.

The air thickened.

A hum between them. Low. Old. Alive.

His hand lifted slightly, like his body was reacting before his mind could.

And the bond flickered again. Harder—like a heartbeat. Like a second heart awakening under the first.

She gasped softly, turning away with a hand clutched to her chest.

“I traded my magic,” she said hoarsely. “To Koshei. To keep you alive.”

A sad laugh bubbled from her throat. “I thought I wouldn’t survive—I wasn’t supposed to. But now look at me. I’m a walking plague. Everything withers away at my touch.”

She swiftly wiped her cheeks, destroying the evidence of her sorrow. He stepped closer.

“Not everything.” 

She glanced up just as a shadow curled around her arm. It was content to be there, unburned, unafraid. 

“I’ll hurt you,” she murmured, her voice so small—so certain.

Her gaze was wary as she watched him step closer, the toes of his boots tapping against hers. It made the blood freeze in her veins.

“I don’t think you will.”

And then his hand lifted, cupping her cheek—she expected the rough leather of his gloves, but all she felt was the warmth of his palm, scarred and steady.

Her eyes widened. She flinched, ready to bolt, but he wouldn’t let her.

“Am I withering?” He whispered, voice barely a whisper. “Am I rotting?”

Azriel’s lips brushed hers like the sweetest lullaby. 

The bond pulled taut in her chest. She leaned into his touch, breath catching, eyes fluttering shut. His thumb swept against her bottom lip in a gentle caress.

“Open your eyes, my mate.”

She did. And beneath her boots, the earth bloomed. Soft green shoots curled from the blackened soil. Tiny buds unfurled like hope from ashes. Flowers—violets and blues—burst into being where decay once reigned. A laugh fell from her lips and he swallowed it with his own.

His hand slid around her neck, pulling her into him as though anchoring himself to the world again. She clutched his tunic like he might vanish if she were to let go.

The bond glowed around them like a thousand fireflies at dusk. The sigils on the shrine flickered once, then faded to rest.

And in the place where flowers came to die, life began again.

[memoiresofaneternaldreamer]

Till Death Do Us Part

Pairing: Assassin! Choi Seungcheol x Assassin! F. Reader

Themes: Smut | Slight Angst | (Fake) Marriage | Based on the movie 'Mr. & Mrs. Smith' | Undercover Assassins | Hidden Identities | T.W.: mentions of blood, violence, guns

Wordcount: 14.5K (Yikes, my longest one yet.)

Playlist: 'Flawless' - The Neighbourhood | 'War of Hearts' - Ruelle | 'See You Bleed' - Ramsey | 'Scorpio' - Pour Vous | 'Terrible Thing' - AG

Smut Warnings: Explicit sexual acts - Oral receiving (F.) - Rough Play - Hair pulling - Face slapping (y'all, they try and kill each other before doing the dirty) - PIV - Unprotected intercourse - Use of petnames

This story is intended for an adult audience only. Minors do not interact.

Next chapter: Till Death Do Us Part | Pt. 2

The chicken is roasting in the oven, filling the open-concept kitchen with the smell of lemon, garlic, and rosemary. You stir the sauce on the stove slowly, absently, the motions muscle memory after five years of this routine. The marble counters gleam under the recessed lighting. The wine—your favourite Châteauneuf-du-Pape—is already breathing on the island beside two empty glasses. His glass is always on the right. Yours on the left.

You glance at the clock. 6:42 PM.

Right on time.

The sound of the garage door humming open cues your body before your mind catches up. You smooth your blouse, run a hand through your hair, and put on that soft, wifely smile you’ve perfected over the years. Not too eager. Not too cold. Just domestic enough to look real. Even if everything about your life is a lie.

Seungcheol walks in like he owns the world. Black slacks, white shirt rolled up to the elbows, collar slightly unbuttoned—just enough to make you pause for half a second longer than necessary. His wedding band gleams under the kitchen lights when he sets down his leather satchel by the counter. Not too fancy. Not too cheap. Just believable enough to pass for a self-employed contractor with a few wealthy clients.

“Smells amazing,” he says, pressing a kiss to your cheek like he always does.

“Roasted lemon garlic chicken,” you reply, turning off the stove. “Figured we should use the good thyme from the garden before it dies again.”

He chuckles and pulls his chair out at the dining table. “You mean before you forget to water it again?”

You raise a brow. “I have a busy job, babe. Not all of us get to spend our afternoons measuring structural load capacities.”

“Hey,” he says, pointing his fork at you once you plate the food and set it down in front of him, “developing office towers and commercial buildings is an art.”

You laugh, sipping your wine as you sit across from him. He leans back slightly, watching you for a moment, and there’s that fleeting flicker in his eyes—the one you’ve never been able to pin down. The one that makes you think he’s hiding something. But then again, you are, too.

“The curtains look different,” he says, eyes drifting toward the large windows facing the garden. “When did you change them?”

You glance toward them. White, linen, sheer, with silver grommets. “Yesterday. The old ones were too heavy for spring. I wanted light, breezy. Open.”

He nods. “Makes the room feel bigger.”

Silence settles between you for a moment. Comfortable. Familiar. Until he says, almost casually, “Thinking of redoing the backyard.”

You spear a piece of asparagus, chew, and swallow before replying. “Again? That’s the third time in two years.”

“The koi pond doesn’t flow right. Feng Shui’s off,” he mutters.

You hide a smile behind your glass. What a load of shit. He doesn’t believe in Feng Shui. But the first rule of your kind of marriage is: always let the lies live in peace. Challenging them only brings unnecessary fire.

“We’re invited to Kim and Soojin’s baby shower,” you say next, leaning your chin into your palm. “Next Saturday. You’ll come, right?”

He exhales a sigh that borders on a groan. “Do I have to? It’s gonna be baby-themed everything and forced small talk with people pretending they like children.”

“So… normal Saturday then?”

He grins. You grin back. It’s routine. Polished. Perfect. This suburban domesticity you’ve curated over five years of marriage—it’s nothing short of an illusion built brick by brick. The neighbours believe you’re the golden couple. You believe it, too, sometimes. Right until the phone in your shoe closet buzzed this morning.

“By the way,” he says, reaching for more wine, “I’m going to be out of town this week. Client in Busan wants me to redesign his outdoor deck. Real high-end stuff. Might take three days.”

You take another sip of wine to give yourself time. “That’s funny,” you say carefully. “I’ve got to fly out for a case, too. Some corporate merger—kind of messy. I’ll be in Tokyo until at least Friday.”

You both pause for a moment. You tilt your head. He doesn’t blink. There’s no suspicion. Only understanding.

Of course, what you don’t tell him is that your “corporate case” is a sheikh in Shibuya who’s been secretly funding illegal arms trades across the Pacific. The briefcase hidden within a closet contains three fake passports, a suppressed Glock 19, and a single vial of poison discreetly hidden in a lipstick tube.

You think he’s consulting engineers and overseeing concrete pours. He thinks you’re in meetings arguing over contracts and legal strategy.

“I’ll be back Friday,” he says.

“Me too,” you lie.

You both smile.

After dinner, you rinse the dishes while he dries them. He hums a song—something old, you can’t place it—and you listen, eyes scanning the subtle tension in his shoulder. The way he tucks away the wine bottle too precisely. The too-casual stretch of his fingers over the dish towel. You wonder—not for the first time—What if he knows? What if he suspects me?

But no. That’s just habit. Paranoia bred into your bones after a decade in the field. You’re too good to get caught. Too careful to leave traces.

You fall asleep beside him like you always do. His body warm and steady, one hand slung lazily over your waist. His chest rises and falls, breath even, slow. But you can feel it; your instincts have never failed you before.

A shift in the air. Something is about to change.

Tokyo glitters beneath you like a fractured mirror. Sleek, sharp, reflective. Just like you.

The job is simple—child’s play, really. You’ve done more complicated hits in less time and less forgiving cities. But what makes Tokyo special is the sheer absurdity of how easy this one is going to be. All it takes is a certain kind of lingerie, a well-composed photo for your “ad,” and the universal male weakness: ego.

You don’t even roll your eyes when your target—the sheikh with too much money and far too many skeletons—responds within six hours. The meeting is set at the rooftop bar of his hotel. You’re already three steps ahead.

By the second night, you’ve laughed at all his jokes, played coy, offered just enough intrigue for him to feel like he’s getting something exclusive. He discusses his preferences like he’s bartering over silk—submission, obedience, a woman who knows how to give orders and isn’t afraid to bite. You smile, legs crossed, swirling your drink with one finger as you look at him like he’s a king. He believes it. They always do.

By the third night, the suite door clicks open. You’re in your trench coat, tall black stilettos clicking against the marble as you step inside. The lights are dim. You glance around, clocking everything: one camera, unplugged. Two exits. No bodyguards in sight. Idiot.

He’s sipping champagne, eyes glittering with anticipation. You face him, slowly undo your coat, and let it fall to the floor.

The look on his face is pure awe.

The black leather lingerie hugs your curves like sin. Thin straps, silver hardware, strategic cutouts. A blend of dangerous and divine. You step forward, heels clicking against the tile.

“On your knees,” you command, voice low, sultry.

He lets out a chuckle, half-impressed. “You’re quite bold, aren’t you?”

“That’s what you asked for, isn’t it? Someone who knows how to take control?”

He kneels. You circle him slowly, like a lioness. He doesn’t flinch when your fingers trail down the back of his neck. That’s his final mistake.

In one swift, silent movement, you grab his head and twist. The crack is sharp and clean. He slumps forward.

You step over him without blinking, grab your phone, snap the picture, and send it to your handler.

Within minutes, you’re back in your coat and heels. Earlier that afternoon, you had already stashed your luggage, passport, and backup cash in the hotel’s laundry chute. Everything else is clean.

You keep the lingerie on underneath the coat. Always easier that way. No suspicion. No loose threads. No wasted time.

At the airport, you change in a bathroom stall. Simple wrap dress. Low heels. Hair in a bun. Lipstick wiped clean.

Back to your other self.

You arrive home first.

The late-afternoon sun casts long golden lines across the immaculate front lawn. You park the sleek black sedan in the driveway like any respectable suburban professional might—precise, not showy. Your eyes sweep the cul-de-sac before exiting the car, a habit you’ve never shaken. Two kids ride their bikes across the street. Someone’s dog barks. Mr. Park is watering his azaleas again. Perfect suburbia. A flawless, manicured illusion.

The moment you step inside, the temperature shifts. Cool, quiet, untouched. Home.

You close the door silently behind you and lean against it for a breath. This is the part you hate the most—returning. The shift between identities. Going from the woman who killed a man, to the woman who folds laundry and shops at the farmers market on Saturdays.

But you do it.

You carry your luggage upstairs, heels clicking against hardwood. Once in the bedroom, you head straight to the walk-in closet and kneel beside the third shelf from the left. With practised ease, you access the hidden panel and slide your suitcase inside the compartment. You place your heels neatly in their usual spot. Everything in order. Everything back to “normal.”

Inside the bedroom, you drop your coat over the chair, peel off your dress, and let it slide to the floor. Then comes the lingerie. You unbuckle each piece with methodical care and toss them into a loose pile with your dress. You’ll hide it in a minute. Right now, the steam of the shower is calling, and the ache in your shoulders is starting to settle.

He won’t be home until later, you remind yourself. He said evening. That buys you time.

You step into the ensuite bathroom and turn on the shower, the glass fogging up almost instantly. The water is hot—too hot—and that’s the way you want it. You stand under the spray, letting the pressure hit your spine and loosen your mask.

And that’s when you hear it. The front door.

Your breath stalls in your chest.

“Honey, I’m home,” Seungcheol calls from downstairs.

Shit.

“You’re back early?” you manage, pitching your voice into that sweet, casual tone. The one you use at neighbourhood barbecues.

“Took an earlier train,” he replies, his voice carrying him to your bedroom. “Got bored in Busan. You just got in?”

“Just now. Thought I had a little time to unwind before you arrived.”

You run your hands through your hair and try to slow your heartbeat. You can’t see him through the foggy glass. You pray he didn’t walk too far into the room. That he didn’t look down.

“How was the job?” you ask, still facing the tiled wall.

“Same old corporate mess,” he says easily, his tone not betraying anything. “Engineers screwed up the plan, had to clean up after everyone. Nothing new.”

You smile like you believe him.

“Join me?” you offer. Better to keep him close than to let him wander around.

He pauses for a beat too long. Then: “Absolutely.”

You hear him undress behind you, the rustle of fabric, the soft thud of his belt against the counter. You keep your eyes closed as his arms wrap around your waist under the stream. You press your body back into his. You touch him like always. You even kiss him the same way. And he responds. His hands are familiar. Comforting. Steady.

Seungcheol heads downstairs first. Something about garlic and butter and “making up for all the garbage food I ate this week.” You nod and wrap a towel around yourself, moving into the bedroom with practised calm.

The first thing you do is gather his clothes from the bathroom floor. His shirt, socks, pants—crumpled and smelling faintly of clean sweat and travel. You carry them into the bedroom, where your dress and lingerie still lie in that careless heap.

Stupid, you scold yourself, picking up the leather and bundling it in your arms with your dress. You walk toward the hamper in the corner of the room, shifting your hold.

And then—something falls.

A soft thud on the floor. You frown and bend down.

It’s a badge. Rectangular. Laminated.

Grand Palace Hotel Busan – Event Staff

You blink once. Twice.

This wasn’t part of the story he gave. He wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near an event space. Especially not as staff. This isn’t a building site. It’s something else entirely.

Your blood chills.

Slowly, you crouch, pick it up, and study it again. What the hell?

You slip it into the pile of his clothes in the hamper and push it to the bottom, hiding it beneath his pants.

You’ll retrieve it later. When he’s asleep. When the house is still.

Your expression smooths again as you grab your brush, run it through your damp hair, and slide into a fresh sweater and leggings. You head downstairs, footsteps light, shoulders squared.

He’s plating dinner when you walk in. The scent of garlic and butter wraps around the kitchen like a warm lie.

“You used the fancy pasta,” you comment, voice airy.

He grins over his shoulder. “Only for special occasions. You made it back in one piece, didn’t you?”

You kiss his cheek. “Barely. Tokyo traffic is a nightmare.”

He pours wine. You set the table. You talk about “contracts”, “clients”, “blueprints”, and “boardroom blowups.”

You laugh at his jokes. He holds your gaze just a little too long. The wine is smooth, the dinner perfect, the rhythm between you effortless. But as you lay awake that night, Seungcheol sleeping peacefully beside you, your mind drifts back to the ID card in your hamper.

From the outside, Lim & Associates looks like any other high-end boutique law firm in Gangnam.

The fourth-floor office has all the trappings—frosted glass doors, minimalist furniture, soft grey carpeting, and tasteful art in the hallway. The name etched above the door in elegant serif font gives off the exact kind of authority clients expect from corporate litigation experts.

But once you pass the seemingly standard reception desk and slide your hand across the biometric panel behind the framed Business Insider article on “Female Founders in Finance,” everything changes.

The glass seals. The lighting adjusts. The air shifts from ambient calm to calculated intensity. No paralegals. No phone calls. Just encrypted servers, blueprints for extraction routes, and a killboard that updates in real-time.

Welcome to the real Lim & Associates.

Not legal. Lethal.

You’re in the war room this morning—sleek and sharp, like everything else in this place. A long table stretches across the space, the wall lined with oversized displays streaming drone footage, internal comms, and heat-sensor readings from satellites you’re not supposed to have access to.

You sip your Americano in silence as Reina, your tech lead, flips through the feed. She’s always first in, last out, perpetually in dark lipstick and heels sharp enough to stab.

“Target codename: Jackal,” Reina announces, pulling up a grainy image of a man half-hidden by shadows. “Real name unknown. Hacker for hire. Specializes in creating secure logistics software for some very unpleasant people—cartel brokers, traffickers, smuggling syndicates. Lives completely off-grid somewhere in the desert, near the New Mexico border.”

Jiwoo whistles under her breath. “Is this the guy who ghosted an entire CIA comms network last year?”

Reina nods. “Same signature. This one’s a ghost. Doesn’t trust anyone. Doesn’t surface. Doesn’t stay in one place long. Even the locals are afraid of him.”

You set your coffee down and cross your arms. “And the bounty?”

“Twelve mil, dead or alive,” Reina replies without looking up. “But dead is preferred. No one wants this guy alive long enough to talk.”

Hyerim leans forward with a smirk. “Which means we’re not the only ones going after him, are we?”

Reina confirms it with a simple nod. “Intel shows chatter from at least one competing agency. Possibly more. First come, first kill.”

You stare at the flickering map overlay. It’s red, dry, dotted with heat zones and blinking movement pings. A fortress of heat sensors, drone tripwires, and scrambled signals. The man built a paranoid compound.

“So infiltration’s out,” you murmur. “He’s not gonna fall for anything face-to-face. Too smart. Too cautious.”

Samira rolls her eyes, perched as always on the edge of the table like a cat. “So you’re not going to slap on one of your lingerie sets and waltz into his trailer like you did in Tokyo?”

You smirk. “Not unless his type is women with RPGs.”

That earns a chorus of laughs until Bora says, “Alright then, Gwisin. What’s the play?”

You narrow your eyes at the monitor. The team’s teasing you with your code name again—Gwisin—equal parts fondness and awe. It started as a joke after your first kill with the company, but it stuck. Probably because it makes you sound like some legend to be feared in the dark.

Perhaps that's exactly what you are.

“He’s got a self-sufficient power grid, solar backup, and an underground comms relay. The place is a bunker.” You pause, then point at the screen. “We can’t get close, not without setting off every countermeasure he’s got. We’re going to have to take him from a distance. High-precision rifle. Possibly drone strike.”

“I’ll start prepping satellite positioning and recon angles,” Reina says, already moving.

“We’ll need at least a week,” you add. “Maybe more. I’ll go in. Do the groundwork myself.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then Hyerim raises a brow. “You sure your doting husband will survive a week without you? I thought he was going to implode the last time you were gone more than three days.”

You chuckle softly. “He’ll manage. He knows I work long hours.”

“Yeah, but does he know what kind of hours?” Jiwoo quips.

You smirk and grab your coat. “That’s classified.”

But as you leave the war room, your smile fades. You’re already spinning the lie in your mind. New York. That’s what you’ll tell him. Complex corporate case. High stakes. All-consuming.

It should work. It always does.

The house smells of braised soy and garlic by the time Seungcheol walks through the door.

You’re at the stove with your sleeves rolled up, watching the rich brown sauce bubble around glistening short ribs, carrots, and daikon. The scent of galbijjim fills the kitchen like comfort.

You hear his steps before you see him—soft, unhurried—and then the creak of the door closing.

“You’re home early,” you say, not looking back yet.

“I missed your cooking,” he says as he walks up behind you. He wraps his arms around your waist, warm and solid. Presses a kiss to the curve of your neck.

You stir the pot gently. “I thought you hated galbijjim,”

“I hate the bones,” he murmurs. “Not the flavour. And definitely not the cook.”

You smile faintly. But it’s automatic.

You eat together at the table like always. Warm light. Matching bowls. A small side dish of kimchi between you. The silence isn’t heavy, but it’s aware of itself.

Halfway through the meal, you speak.

“I have to leave again,” you say softly. “New York this time. High-profile merger. Might be gone for more than a week.”

You watch him, the way he doesn’t tense. Just nods, as if he already knows.

“Actually,” he says, pausing to set down his spoon, “I just got word from one of my old clients. A hospitality group in Dubai. They want me to fly in—finally starting construction on that coastal resort. I’ll be gone about the same time.”

You blink. Smile. “Really? What are the odds?”

He chuckles. “We’re always in sync.”

You clink your glass of water to his. “Power couple.”

But your hand doesn’t feel as steady as it should.

The New Mexico desert doesn’t breathe.

It bakes. It stretches. It waits.

It’s the kind of place where everything is wide open and still somehow claustrophobic. The silence stretches too long between radio pings. The air is dry enough to crack skin and make your lips peel.

For the last three days, you’ve been waiting.

You’re perched inside the creaking shell of a forgotten farm shed, abandoned sometime before the world got smart. Its rusted bones groan with every gust of wind, but it provides the cover you need. You call it the crow’s nest—high enough, shielded enough, just barely out of reach from Jackal’s tech-laced scanners. You’ve checked the thermals. Twice. Then again, for good measure.

Your rifle rests steadily against your shoulder, nestled into a carefully constructed groove in the shed wall. You’ve adjusted the bipod angle a hundred times. Calculated wind, dust, temperature, and solar position. At this distance, everything matters.

You don’t miss.

Not unless someone else gets in the way.

Back at the safehouse—hidden in the skeletal outline of a closed-down auto shop on the edge of town—Reina and Jiwoo are monitoring everything. Screens line the makeshift desk they’ve rigged up with cooling fans and portable comms. Reina’s fingers fly across the keyboard while Jiwoo tracks movement through satellite pings.

The girls are locked in, just like you.

“Jackal’s gone quiet,” Reina says through your earpiece, her voice a hushed echo of static. “Minimal movement. Looks like he’s gone full mole mode. Bastard hasn’t left his house once today.”

“He’s prepping,” you murmur, eyes still on the house through your scope. “He knows the deal is risky.”

“And get this,” Jiwoo cuts in. “We finally confirmed the client: Ricardo Delgado.”

Your pulse flickers.

Ricardo Delgado.

A trafficker so brutal, entire border towns whisper his name like a curse. If Jackal’s about to sign with him, he’s moving up in the world—from data mercenary to kingmaker. The kind of connection that could make him untouchable.

Or a bigger target than ever.

“Delgado wants to meet in person,” Reina adds. “We think he’ll show today. Still waiting on final satellite confirmation.”

“Jackal never meets face-to-face,” Jiwoo says, sceptical.

“Money changes minds,” you answer, low and steady. “Everyone has a price.”

You settle further into your nest, pulling your scarf higher to block the sun. The scope is aligned. The distance marked. The wind is calm. You wait, like the predator you are.

And then—

“Convoy incoming,” Reina says. “We’ve got eyes on three black Suburbans coming in from the north ridge.”

You squint through your scope and spot them—kicking up dust as they make their way toward Jackal’s compound. The sun glints off their armoured bodies like black beetles crawling across sand. You hold your breath.

One car. Two. Three.

They come to a slow, calculated stop.

Doors open.

Men get out—Delgado’s men, judging by their posture and the high-end weapons. Then comes the man himself. Dark suit. Sunglasses. And that aura of arrogant menace, even from this distance.

You don’t need to hear the words to know this man smells blood in everything he touches.

Then finally—

Jackal emerges.

He’s cautious. Almost jumpy. Wearing a hooded vest, shoulders hunched. You’ve studied him for days, memorized his gait. He walks like someone used to moving through walls, not around them.

Jiwoo’s voice crackles softly in your ear. “That’s him. Target confirmed.”

“You’ve got one window,” Reina says. “If you miss, we’ll lose him again.”

You don’t answer. You watch.

Jackal steps forward. The two men approach one another, wary but curious. You feel the moment stretch, breath caught at the edge of your ribs.

This is it.

The wind is perfect.

You steady your finger on the trigger.

But then—

Flash.

A glare of light. Just a second. Just long enough for your trained eyes to catch it.

You shift your scope instinctively—away from Jackal, toward the rocky ridgeline to your far right.

There. Tucked into the edge of the hillside. Another perch.

Another sniper.

“Reina,” you bark. “Talk to me. Someone else is here. Right ridge, northwest. I saw a scope glint. Can you confirm?”

Reina curses under her breath. “Give me five seconds. I’m shifting the satellite angle.”

You realign your sight, but it’s too late.

The other sniper fires.

The sound is distant—muffled by distance—but you see it. The bullet rips through the air and grazes Jackal’s arm. He stumbles backwards with a shout.

Chaos erupts.

Delgado’s men react instantly, almost too fast. A bag goes over Jackal’s head. They drag him to the second car. Tires scream, kicking up clouds of red dust as the convoy peels away.

You swear loudly. “Dammit! Dammit, dammit!”

“They’re on the move!” Jiwoo says. “Southbound highway, but we don’t have eyes beyond the ridge.”

You leap from your perch, adrenaline boiling. “Reina, track that shooter. Now.”

“Already on it,” she mutters. “Give me a minute to isolate heat signatures.”

You throw your rifle into its case and strap it to your back, jumping onto the quad you hid behind a brush wall earlier. The engine growls to life beneath you as you tear across the dirt, heading toward the opposite ridge where the mystery sniper took their shot.

The trail is faint, but you see it. Flattened brush. Dust still settling. Tire marks. Another quad. But no shooter in sight.

You dismount and crouch low in the sniper’s nest. Still warm. Still fresh.

“Empty,” you hiss into the comms. “He’s gone. Left no trace.”

“Still scanning the sat feed,” Reina says.

You grit your teeth. The kill was stolen. Jackal is gone. And someone else is playing this game far too close to your level.

The hum of electricity is the only sound in the room. You stand over Reina and Jiwoo as they re-run the satellite footage frame by frame.

Every flicker of motion. Every shadow. Every heat signature is pulled apart under your scrutiny.

“He’s good,” Jiwoo mutters. “He knew how to avoid camera angles. Hid his face the entire time. Tactical blackout gear. This isn’t some merc-for-hire.”

“Freeze it,” you say suddenly.

Reina does.

There—on the edge of the screen—the sniper climbs onto a quad and turns away from the camera. But the wind catches the back of his shirt.

A flicker of skin. A mark.

“Go back. Zoom in,” you say, heart hammering.

The image sharpens.

A tattoo.

Just below the neck. Barely there. A tree. Roots. Branches.

You don’t breathe.

“What the hell is that?” Jiwoo says.

You say nothing.

You reach for your phone with numb fingers and swipe through your albums until you find it. A photo from a summer in Bali. Seungcheol in the pool, his back to you, laughing. You zoom in.

Same tattoo. Same ink. Same impossible detail.

You connect your phone to the screen. The photos are side by side now—one from the desert, one from the pool.

Reina is the first to speak, her voice nearly a whisper.

“That’s your husband.”

You’ve only been back in Seoul for four hours.

The sky outside is the colour of ash, stuck between dusk and full night. Traffic hums below the windows of Lim & Associates, but up here, above the city’s glittering noise, the office is thrumming with something far more chaotic: curiosity.

The second you stepped through the biometric doors, you felt it. The shift in energy.

The subtle glances. The way conversations stopped half a beat too long. Even the silence tasted like blood in your mouth.

By the time you make it to the war room, it’s no longer a rumour—it’s evidence.

Reina’s pulled every image from the last five years of your marriage.

Honeymoon photos. Anniversary dinners. A weekend in Jeju where he made you coffee with cinnamon and called it your signature. Your wedding—Seungcheol’s hands on your waist, your smile so real you remember feeling it in your ribs.

Jiwoo has financials pulled up on another screen. “His offshore account matches the timeline of that Riyadh hit we missed last spring,” she says aloud. “Same week, we got beat to the contract.”

“That wasn’t luck,” Hyerim mutters, dragging a file onto the main screen. “The Novgorod job, too. S.Coups took it from under our noses. We assumed it was Black Wing Agency. It was him.”

You’re standing still, arms folded, lips tight, eyes dark.

But inside, everything is shattering.

You don’t speak. Not really. Just nod when asked something directly. Your voice feels caught in the hollow space between rage and disbelief. You know they’re not trying to be cruel. They’re doing what this job requires: gathering intel. Building profiles. Pattern recognition.

But it’s your life they’re peeling back.

Your marriage. Your memories.

“Gwisin,” Samira says gently, using your codename with an edge of caution. “Did you know?”

You shake your head. “No.” Voice clear. Controlled. Flat.

And it’s the truth.

You had no idea that the man who held you at night, who kissed your neck before work, who made you laugh when your hands wouldn’t stop shaking after a job—was the same person beating you to every high-level target for the last five years.

Seungcheol—S.Coups.

The most elegant chaos you’ve ever encountered in the field. A ghost of his own making.

Second only to you.

Your colleagues believe you. They can see it—your silence, your withdrawal, the shell of who you usually are. They’ve seen you after bad missions, messy kills, intel gone sideways. But not like this.

This isn’t mission failure. This is betrayal.

Still, Reina says it out loud, her voice quiet but not unkind. “Do you think there’s a possibility he might’ve known?” She glances at Jiwoo, who replies softly. “It’s possible. He’s good. Maybe better at long-game infiltration than we realized.”

“You know what they say,” Bora adds, not meeting your eyes. “Keep your friends close…”

“But your enemies closer...” Samira finishes.

The words hit harder than you expect. You swallow, but your throat is dry.

You stare at the wedding photo still up on the screen. Your hand in his. Your laugh caught mid-movement. His eyes on you like you’re something rare.

Was it a ploy? Was any of it real?

Did he kiss you because he loved you—or because he wanted to know your pulse?

You drift through the rest of the night in the war room like a ghost.

They keep talking. Listing hits. Mapping overlaps. Everything you lost—every target you missed, every mission that slipped through your fingers—lined up beside S.Coups’ confirmed contracts.

And there it is: the pattern.

You’ve still got more kills. More high-level hits. More precision.

But he’s your closest competitor.

You’ve been unknowingly locked in a rivalry with your own husband for five years.

Five years.

Five years of brushing your teeth beside your biggest threat.

Of sleeping with your enemy.

Of loving him.

Hours pass. One by one, they begin to gather their things.

It’s almost midnight. No one’s gone home yet. Not with the storm you dropped into their hands. But they don’t press you any more. Not tonight.

Jiwoo lingers last, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder. “We believe you,” she says. “But we need to know you’re not compromised.”

You finally look up, your voice low and controlled. “Don’t worry.”

“You sure you’re okay?” she asks, softer.

You manage a smile so convincing it hurts. “I know what I need to do.”

You sleep in one of the auxiliary offices—a cold couch and a folded blanket left by some junior operative who probably thinks sleeping here makes her look ambitious. The overhead lights stay off, and you don’t bother changing. You just curl in silence, arm under your head, eyes wide open.

You think about the way he held you. The softness no one else got to see. The long showers. The bruises left on your hips. The secret glances in public places. The night he said, I could kill for you.

You thought he meant it metaphorically.

Now you wonder if he was warning you.

At 3:45 AM, your phone buzzes on the table. You reach for it, heart already hollow.

The message reads:

Target: S.Coups

Status: Active

Payout: $1.7 million

Confirmed kill required.

The screen glows against your face.

You don’t move. You don’t sleep.

You’re a ghost.

But tonight, you’re not sure who you’re haunting.

Seungcheol’s office doesn’t look like much from the outside.

It’s nestled between a dental clinic and an architectural firm in a sleek high-rise in Mapo, hidden in plain sight. Floor twenty-one. Clean lines. Frosted doors. A minimalist logo stamped in bronze: ARGOS CONSTRUCTION & DESIGN

Officially, it's a boutique firm known for luxury hotels and high-end corporate real estate. Beautiful portfolios. Flawless branding. Seungcheol’s name is listed as Senior Project Lead. Clients think he spends most of his time in Dubai or Busan, consulting on zoning permits or high-rise scaffolding.

But once you pass the biometric scan and elevator override, everything changes.

The real heart of the operation lies beneath the surface. Literally. Two floors below ground. A bunker of blinking servers, reinforced steel, and silence so absolute it hums in your bones.

It’s here that Choi Seungcheol—known across the world’s most elite kill networks as S.Coups—stumbles back into reality.

The mission was a failure.

Jackal is gone.

And he missed his shot.

He never misses.

He walks into the main debriefing floor around 1:45 PM, still dusty from New Mexico, carrying tension in his shoulders like a weight welded to his spine. His eyes are bloodshot. His jaw is locked. His movements are slow, deliberate, like he’s waiting for someone to hit him.

They don’t.

Instead, his team is already there. Mingyu, Woozi, Wonwoo, Joshua—all gathered around the central command table, every screen alive with footage. Satellite captures, thermals, drone loops, and stills pulled from the perimeter cameras. Joshua looks up first.

And he doesn’t greet him. Doesn’t smile. Just says one word:

“Hyung...”

Seungcheol freezes. His hand twitches slightly at his side.

Mingyu turns the main monitor toward him with a grim expression. “We found out who the other sniper was.”

Woozi, who rarely shows emotion unless someone’s bleeding out, actually exhales before adding: “You’re not gonna like it.”

Seungcheol steps forward.

And there you are.

Frozen in time, high-res satellite shot, sunlight catching your jaw and cheekbone as you shift just enough to reveal your face through your scope. Your hair is tied back. Your eyes deadly calm. Your rifle perfectly aligned.

“No,” Seungcheol breathes.

“That’s her,” Mingyu confirms. “Codename: Gwisin.”

Another screen pops up. Kill logs. Confirmed contracts. Locations.

Dozens of missions—some he knew about. Others he’d missed because of you. Targets that disappeared just before he reached them. Jobs he thought were rerouted or reassigned.

It was you.

The person who’s been beating him, matching him, trailing him and haunting him for years... Was you.

His wife.

The silence breaks all at once.

“Hyung, what the fuck—”

“Did you know? You had to know, right?”

“There’s no way she got this close without—”

“What kind of long game is she playing? Five years married? That’s next-level infiltration.”

“She’s better than we thought. Shit—she’s better than almost anyone.”

Seungcheol doesn’t speak. He stares at the image like it’s going to shift. Like it’s a glitch.

But it doesn’t. It’s you.

His mind races, grabbing for anything—a mistake, a sign, a moment—but the truth settles in slow and cruel:

He had no idea.

Not once did you slip. Not once did you flinch. Not once did you let the mask fall.

Not even with him.

And then the grief rises. Ugly. Raw. Red.

He slams his fist into the wall.

The first time, it cracks.

The second time, it bleeds.

The third time, the others rush to pull him back.

“Hyung, stop!” Joshua grabs him from behind, dragging him away from the dented panel, blood dripping from his knuckles.

Seungcheol breathes like a man drowning, shoulders heaving, chest too tight. He sits down hard in the nearest chair. Joshua hands him a bottle of whiskey without a word.

He takes it. Unscrews the cap. Drinks.

The warmth hits his throat, but it doesn’t settle. Nothing does.

He leans back, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

The memories start to rush him. And he hates that he can’t shut them out.

Their wedding day. Your laugh echoing off the high ceilings of your home. Your hand in his on long walks. Your moans in the dark. Your head on his chest after a stormy night. The time you surprised him with a bottle of bourbon after his mother died.

Five years. Of everything. Of you.

And now he can’t tell if any of it was real. Or if he was just a mark—another mission. A long-term assignment you handled better than anyone ever has. What if you married him to stay close? What if the way you touched him was all a lie?

He doesn’t want to believe it. But it’s the only thing that makes sense.

“You think she knew?” he asks the room, voice raw.

Wonwoo answers quietly. “She had to. No way she didn’t. Not with your record. You’ve crossed paths too many times.”

“She married me,” Seungcheol whispers. “She married me while stealing jobs out from under me.”

“Maybe it was about dominance,” Woozi mutters. “Take down your rival and smile at him over breakfast.”

“Or maybe...” Mingyu says hesitantly, “She didn’t know either.”

“No,” Seungcheol snaps, suddenly venomous. “She knew. No one’s that good without knowing.”

He stands and drinks again. And again.

The others leave around 2 AM, after enough whiskey has numbed most of his edges. Mingyu throws him a look that says call if you need me, and Woozi doesn’t bother hiding the sympathy in his eyes.

Seungcheol stays.

Alone in the office, he sits at the edge of his desk, tie loosened, shirt rumpled. One hand bandaged and bloodied, the other gripping the bottle. He doesn’t turn off the lights. Doesn’t turn off the feed.

Because he can’t stop watching.

Watching you.

The way you moved behind that scope. The way you tracked your shot. The way your lips moved when you muttered commands to your team.

The way you looked like a stranger in skin he’s touched a hundred times.

3:45 AM.

His phone buzzes once. The tone is different. Urgent. Priority.

He blinks the alcohol-induced haze from his eyes, swiping across the screen.

New Contract Uploaded

Target: Gwisin

Status: Active

Payout: $1.7 million

Confirmed kill required.

The screen burns.

His fingers curl around the phone. His chest aches like something inside him has cracked clean open. There’s blood on his knuckles, whiskey in his veins, and your name on the hit list.

And for the first time in years, Seungcheol feels truly, utterly lost.

Because no matter what the file says—

he loves you.

You wake before the lights do.

The room is dim and cold, your body curled up uncomfortably on the worn leather couch in one of the smaller offices. Your neck aches. Your back is stiff. The blanket you used is halfway to the floor.

You didn’t sleep. Not really. You drifted in and out of hazy dreams, caught between the heat of memories and the frost of betrayal. His voice haunted the edges of your mind. His laugh. The scent of his cologne on your pillow. The feel of his lips at the nape of your neck, from a lifetime that feels like yesterday.

The first sound that drags you fully awake is the faint click of heels and muffled voices outside. Your colleagues are arriving.

You sit up slowly, blinking through the grey light.

Get up.

You push off the couch, shake the sleep from your limbs, and make your way to the restroom down the hall. The mirror is merciless. Your hair is tangled, your eyes shadowed. You turn on the faucet, splash cold water against your face, and force yourself to breathe. One. Two. Three.

Then, you meet your own eyes in the mirror.

You stare too long. You don’t recognize yourself.

You crack your neck once, wipe your face, and tie your hair back. When you emerge again into the hallway, your mask is in place. Crisp. Composed. Not a crack in sight.

The war room is quieter than usual.

Your girls are already gathered—Reina, Jiwoo, Samira, Bora, and Hyerim—all doing a masterclass in pretending not to be watching you.

“Morning,” you say as you walk in, voice smooth, calm.

“Morning, Gwisin,” Jiwoo replies gently, the nickname laced with caution today.

You nod. Set your coffee down. No one mentions the message from last night. But it’s there. Humming in the air like static. You feel it on your skin.

Then, your tablet buzzes.

You glance down.

Message from LIM HQ: Report to Executive Level – 9:15 AM

You check the time.

9:14.

Your breath stills. You lift your gaze and meet Reina’s eyes briefly. She nods once, understanding everything without needing a word.

You straighten your jacket. The floor falls silent behind you as you head to the elevator.

You rarely go to the executive level. Most assassins don’t. The higher-ups keep themselves wrapped in glass and shadows, their voices drifting down through encrypted comms and one-way messages. So when you’re summoned, it means something irreversible is about to happen.

The elevator doors open onto a floor that doesn’t look like any other in the building. It’s brighter here. Sleek. Clinical. Too clean.

The door to the boardroom is already open when you arrive.

Three of them sit behind the curved obsidian table: Madame Lim herself in the center, flanked by Director Oh and Mr. Kwon, both stone-faced and unreadable.

You step inside, your spine tall and your heels precise.

You greet them. They waste no time.

“Gwisin,” Madame Lim begins, “you understand why you’re here.”

You nod once. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Your judgment is not under question. Not yet,” Director Oh adds. “But the situation has become... delicate. Dangerous.”

“S.Coups has proven himself a formidable asset,” Mr. Kwon continues. “Which makes him an even more formidable threat. Not just to you, but to this organization as a whole.”

You say nothing.

“We do not take betrayal lightly,” Madame Lim says. “We understand his appeal. Handsome. Charismatic. Intelligent. But even the sharpest agents sometimes fall for the wrong weapon.”

You clench your jaw, but your face does not change.

“We don’t care about your marriage,” Director Oh says coldly. “What we care about is the information he may have extracted from you.”

“Knowingly or not,” Mr. Kwon adds.

“This is your one chance,” Madame Lim finishes, voice cutting like glass. “Your marriage was a mistake. But you have the opportunity to clean it up. Efficiently. Permanently.”

They watch you.

You inhale. Hold it. Then:

“Understood.”

“Do you have any objections?” Director Oh asks.

You shake your head. “I know what’s expected of me.”

A pause.

Then Madame Lim nods. “You are dismissed.”

Back in the war room, your girls are waiting.

Not subtly.

They look up the moment you enter, expressions shifting between concern and restraint.

“So... what did they say?” Samira asks finally, carefully.

You’re just about to answer when your desk phone rings.

Jiwoo, sitting closest, picks it up with practised ease. “Mrs. Choi’s office. This is her assistant Jiwoo speaking.” Her eyes narrow. “Who may I ask is calling?”

Her expression changes. Freezes. Her breath catches.

She puts the phone on mute.

“It’s your husband,” she says, barely a whisper.

Everything in you goes still.

You stare at her.

If your cover was still intact, he wouldn’t know you were back.

He knows.

He knows.

You lift the receiver slowly, your voice light as air. “Honey,” you say, the smile on your lips a perfect weapon, “you know you’re not supposed to call me at work.”

There’s a silence on the other end. Then—

“I wasn’t expecting you to be back in town already,” Seungcheol replies calmly. Measured. Unreadable.

Your pulse ticks up, but you breathe through it. “Contract fell through,” you say sweetly. “Competing firm swooped in. Happens.”

He hums. “That’s a shame.”

You flip the script. “I thought you were still in Dubai?”

A beat.

Then his reply: “Had a little... ghost from a past job show up. Complicated things. Now I’ve got a mess to clean.”

Your stomach turns.

Still, your voice doesn’t flinch. “Will you be home for dinner? Since we’re both in town.”

A pause. Then: “Yeah. Seven, right?”

“Seven.”

“I’ll bring wine.”

“See you then, babe.”

You hang up.

The room is dead quiet.

You look up. Your mask drops—just a little—and you meet their eyes.

“It’s official,” you say.

You leave the office the second the line goes dead.

You don’t wait to explain. You don’t give your girls more than a look. They don’t follow, but they don’t stop you either. They saw your face. They heard the call. The game has changed.

You drive like a woman possessed—silent, laser-focused, heart pounding beneath the illusion of calm. The city blurs around you, neon and shadows slipping past the windshield. When you pull into the driveway of the house you built with him, the sun is beginning to dip below the skyline.

Your house is quiet. Still.

Too still.

You park in the back, kill the engine, and enter silently through the side door. Every footstep is light. Calculated. You’ve walked these floors a thousand times before. In heels. In silk robes. In nothing but a towel and a glass of wine.

You sweep the house. First the kitchen, then the hallway, the garage, the basement. Your breathing is low and controlled. When you reach the second floor, you head straight for the master bedroom and pull the closet door open.

Inside, your armoury waits—hidden in secret compartments behind shoes, false panels, inside the lining of old garment bags.

He never knew.

You pull out three weapons: a Glock, a semi-automatic Sig Sauer, and a compact shotgun that fits snugly under your arm. You load them quickly, efficiently, your hands as steady as your heart is wrecked.

Ammo in your waistband. Glock in your thigh holster. Sig against your back.

You wait.

And when you hear the click of the backdoor handle—fifteen minutes later—your breath catches in your throat.

He’s here.

He moves quietly.

No keys. No footsteps. Just the low shift of floorboards under careful weight.

You can hear him moving through the kitchen, then toward the hallway. His pace is slower than usual—like a man searching a house he already knows is dangerous.

You’re perched on the second-floor landing, crouched behind the hallway mirror, shotgun firm in your grip. And then—you see it.

His reflection.

Tall. Broad. Dark eyes scanning every corner. A gun in his hand.

He sees you, too. His eyes flick up. You fire.

The bullet punches through the wall and splinters the wood frame, but he dives behind the doorframe just in time.

“Nice try, sweetheart,” his voice calls.

You don’t respond. Your answer is the clink of a new shell being slammed into place.

The house erupts.

He fires up from the stairwell. You dart down the hall, ducking into the guest room as bullets tear through drywall behind you. You spin around the corner and return fire. You graze his shoulder as he rolls across the dining room floor and smashes into the wine rack.

“This what marriage looks like to you?!” you yell as you move, switching the shotgun for the Glock.

“I should ask you that,” he barks back. “What was the plan, huh? Marry me so you could win every job?”

You scream as you fire again. “I didn’t know who the hell you were!”

He grits his teeth, vaulting over the coffee table, firing as he moves. The hallway mirror shatters beside you.

You fall back into the living room, ducking behind the couch. Your shoulder’s bleeding. You don’t even know from what. You reload with a snarl.

“Liar!” he roars from the hallway. “You think I didn’t recognise the pattern? Gwisin always beat me by a step. You were right there. In our goddamn bed.”

“You think I knew I was married to S.Coups?” you shout back. “You think I’d sleep next to you every night if I did?”

You both burst into the living room at the same time—guns drawn, bodies moving too fast—and collide.

Your weapons hit the floor with a twin clang as your fists meet flesh.

You throw the first punch. He blocks. He shoves you back into the coffee table, and it shatters under your hip. You swing a silver vase at his face. He ducks and kicks you square in the ribs.

The wind rushes out of you.

You collapse but sweep his legs out with yours, dragging him down. You scramble, blood running from your lip, hand catching a glass tumbler and smashing it against his shoulder.

He grabs you by the waist and slams you against the wall.

“Was it real?” he growls into your face. “Any of it?”

You spit out blood. “You want the truth? I don’t know anymore.”

You break his grip, duck under his arm, roll across the carpet, and reach for your Glock under the couch.

You stand—gun in hand, and you turn.

But he’s already there. He’s holding the semi-auto.

Both of you freeze.

Guns pointed. Breathing ragged.

Your finger trembles just once.

He doesn’t shoot. Instead—he lowers his weapon. Slowly.

Eyes locked on you. He looks at your face—bloodied, cut, lips split; something inside him snaps.

“Do it,” he says.

You blink. Confused.

He steps forward, just one step.

“You want the bounty,” he says, softer this time. “Take the shot. Isn’t that what this is?”

Tears blur your vision. Your hand tightens around the grip as your jaw clenches shut.

“Come on,” you scream. “Fucking do it! Shoot me! Come on!”

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t raise his hands. He just… stands there.

No defence. No deflection.

Just him. Standing still. Silent surrender.

“Shoot me,” you whisper, voice shaking now. “Just fucking shoot me.”

He shakes his head. Slowly.

He lets the gun fall.

A soft clatter as it lands on the floor.

The Glock in your hand trembles.

You can hear your own heartbeat pounding in your ears.

The air is thick—hot with adrenaline, grief, and rage. The scent of smoke and gunpowder still clings to your skin.

“I love you,” Seungcheol says, and it’s not a whisper. It’s a confession dragged out from deep inside, full of wreckage and devastation, the sound of a man who’s lost something he never thought he could.

You stare at him. For a long moment, nothing moves. Not the wind outside. Not your finger on the trigger. Not your fractured heart.

And then—he makes the choice for you.

He moves faster than your breath can catch. A sharp flick of his wrist sends the Glock clattering from your grip, skidding across the wood floor. You don’t react in time—not with a punch or a step back or a scream. Because before you can, his hands are on your face.

And then his mouth is on yours.

He kisses you like a man possessed, like he’s been choking and you’re the pull of oxygen back into his lungs. It’s messy, bruising, desperate. You gasp into it, shocked and enraged—but that flame turns into something else, something hot, and your hands grasp his shirt, pulling him closer.

It’s not soft. It’s not sweet.

This is years of love and fury and betrayal colliding between your teeth.

Your back slams into the nearest wall with a muffled thud, and the sound you make is halfway between a gasp and a groan. You want to scream at him, hit him, hurt him for what he’s done—but instead, your nails dig into his shoulders, and your mouth crashes into his again.

His hands are everywhere—your waist, your back, gripping your hips like he’s terrified you’ll vanish if he doesn’t hold tight enough. You pull at his shirt, fists curled in the fabric, and when you feel the buttons tear loose beneath your hands, the sound only fuels you both.

“You think this changes anything?” you hiss against his lips.

“No,” he breathes, dragging your shirt over your head. “It changes everything.”

The wall digs into your spine as he kisses down your neck, your chest, his hands frantic. Your bra is unhooked and discarded in seconds. You’re half-naked, heaving, trembling—not from fear, but from everything else you’ve buried for five long years suddenly clawing to the surface.

You shove him hard, dragging him through the wreckage of your once-pristine home, stepping over shattered glass and kicked-over furniture. Neither of you cares. The cuts on your face sting. His knuckles are split open and bleeding. It doesn’t matter.

He backs you into the kitchen. It’s the only part of the house not completely wrecked.

You end up pressed against the island, his mouth claiming yours again, slower now, deeper. His touch is still rough but laced with something gentler beneath it, something like regret.

“Say it,” you whisper between kisses, voice shaking. “Say it wasn’t fake.”

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes.

“It wasn’t.” His voice is hoarse. Honest. “Not for a second.”

Your breath catches, and then he’s lowering himself to his knees.

You blink, watching him.

“What are you doing—”

He doesn’t answer. Just kisses the skin of your belly, trailing lower.

You grab onto the counter’s edge as he slides your pants down with a roughness that feels like an apology and a plea in one. He leaves kisses across your thighs as you kick them away. Then his hands go to your underwear.

He looks up. Eyes locked on yours. And you’re staring back, equal parts hunger and hesitation, rage and need. And then—he tears them.

The lace snaps, cool air rushes over the glistening skin of your cunt, and you don’t have time to say a word before he picks you up and places you on the counter. His mouth descends on you, lips wrapping around your pulsing clit.

You cry out at the sensation, hand shooting into his hair, anchoring yourself to him and gripping him tightly as his tongue moves with the kind of precision only a devoted lover could master. Every flick, every slow lick of his tongue between your folds has you gasping, trembling, moaning his name like it’s been carved into your body all along.

Your head tips back, mouth parted as you suck in sharp, broken breaths. You feel his hands steadying your thighs, his thumbs pressing into your hips, grounding you but also not letting you move away from his onslaught.

“Cheol—Fuck.” you gasp, the name caught somewhere between a sob and a prayer.

One of his hands leaves your hip, and then two of his fingers slide inside your core—slow, deliberate, coaxing. The sensation is too much and not enough, and when he curls them just right, hitting that spot deep inside you only he seems to find, you nearly sob from the relief of it. Seungcheol can’t help but groan out in pleasure himself, your walls gripping his digits like a vice.

“I’m close,” you gasp, eyes fluttering shut.

But then—he stops. His fingers don’t stop curling inside of you, but his mouth leaves your core.

Your eyes fly open. “What—” You stumble out.

“Look at me,” he says softly, his voice gravelly and low, broken in all the right ways. “I want your eyes on me when you come.”

You try. You really do.

It takes everything in you to lift your head and find his gaze. But when you do, the sight undoes you. His mouth glistening with your arousal, his hair a mess, pupils blown wide. And those eyes—God, those eyes.

You nod, unable to speak.

And then he lowers his mouth again.

You keep your eyes open—barely—as his mouth and fingers bring you over the edge, your body tensing, breath catching. You come hard, clenching around his fingers, the sensation crashing through you like a tidal wave breaking all the walls you’d built.

“Seungcheol—Yes. God—Fuck.”

And he guides you through it. But he doesn’t stop.

Even when you’re gasping, trembling, barely able to breathe, he keeps going—his tongue soft, slow, patient. It’s too much. You’re too raw.

You whimper, hand pushing at his head weakly. “Cheol—stop, please—too much.”

Only then does he lift his head, lips swollen, chin wet, gaze still locked on yours.

He doesn’t speak. But that smirk? It says everything.

You don’t give yourself even a second to recover before you’re dragging him up by his neck, crashing your mouth into his again, tasting your release on his tongue.

The kiss between you hasn’t stopped—it’s just changed. Slower, deeper, heavier. You’re breathing into each other’s mouths like the air outside of this is too thin, too sharp, too cold.

But something shifts.

This time, you take control.

You slide off the counter, legs trembling slightly beneath you, but your hands never leave him. You tilt your chin, deepen the kiss, and spin the two of you with a firm grunt, forcing his back to the kitchen island.

He lets you. His chest heaves and you feel the way his breath hitches in surprise. But the moment you reach for his belt, he groans—low and guttural.

“Baby...” he rasps, his voice raw and strained as your fingers work his buckle, undo his button and slide the zipper down.

You hum against his lips, tugging the fabric down just enough to feel the heat of his hard member pressing against the fabric, your touch brushing over him as he throbs beneath your fingers.

“Let me,” you whisper, beginning to lower yourself.

But his hands catch your arms—firm, trembling.

“No,” he breathes, eyes burning. “Not tonight. I need to be inside you. I need—” His voice catches. “I need all of you.”

You don’t argue. The desperation in his voice floors you.

He shucks off the rest of his pants and boxers in one motion, and his mouth is back on yours before you can draw another breath. Your fingers claw at his shoulders, his back, dragging him closer.

Together, you stumble toward the floor.

There’s broken glass everywhere. Bits of plaster and wood from shattered frames. Ruined furniture lying in jagged silhouettes around you. But neither of you cares. Not really.

You fall together, skin against skin, your bare back hitting the floor.

You hiss.

“Ow,” you wince, a sharp piece digging into your shoulder.

“Shit—” he tries to shift, to help you up, but you shake your head with a breathless laugh, hand catching the back of his neck.

“I’m fine,” you whisper through a smile. “Don’t be soft on me now, Cheol.”

He looks at you for a beat—bruised and bloodied and smiling beneath him—and his heart clenches painfully.

“God, I love you,” he says before his mouth crashes on yours again like he’s never going to get the chance to say it twice.

And then he’s lining himself up between your thighs, his tip probing your entrance.

His hips press forward, one steady thrust, and your gasp gets lost in the curve of his throat as he fills you. You both cry out at the stretch, the relief, and the way everything that’s broken suddenly makes a kind of violent, perfect sense.

“Jesus, baby...” he groans, forehead pressed to yours. “You feel—fuck.”

Your fingers dig into his shoulders, your back arching to meet him. “Move,” you whisper. “Don’t you dare stop.” And he doesn’t.

He finds a rhythm quickly—urgent, deep, relentless. His cock slams into you with force, but every thrust is layered with something else—anger, heartbreak, love so twisted it feels like it could split you open.

You cling to him. Your nails scratch down his back as he pants against your mouth, your name escaping him like a curse and a prayer.

“Cheol—harder,” you whimper, breath catching.

He groans at your voice, his hand curling into your hair, tugging just a little too sharply.

You yelp, then slap him. A clean, fast smack across his cheek.

He freezes, stunned, blinking at you. But you’re grinning—feral and breathless. He lets out a broken laugh. “You’re insane.”

“You married me,” you fire back, grabbing him by the face and dragging him down for another kiss.

The sounds in the room are frantic—moans, gasps, skin slapping against skin, the scratching of glass shards against hardwood floors under your movements. Every kiss is frantic. Every bite leaves a mark.

Your body tightens around him, trembling. He feels it.

“You close?” he asks, voice ragged, lips at your ear.

You nod, helpless. “So close—don’t stop—please, Cheol—”

His hand snakes between you, finding your clit easily, rubbing fast, tight circles.

“Come for me, baby,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you. Let go.”

And you do.

You fall apart beneath him with a sob, your whole body convulsing as the orgasm crashes over you like a wave you never saw coming. He watches you, eyes wide, lips parted, whispering your name like it’s salvation.

“That’s it,” he whispers. “Good girl. Just like that.”

You barely register his thrusts speeding up, his breath stuttering.

He groans into your neck—long, low, desperate—as his cum spills inside you, hips jerking once, twice more before he collapses against your chest, spent.

The only sound for a long while is your breathing—shaky, uneven, tangled together.

His weight is heavy, but comforting. His hand slides to your side, his thumb gently stroking your ribcage, careful not to touch the bruises blooming your skin. His breath fans over your neck.

You run your fingers through his damp hair and the back of his shoulder blades.

And when you finally find your voice again, it comes out as a whisper—barely a sound. “I love you.”

He stills. You think maybe he didn’t hear it.

But then he lifts his head slowly, eyes locking with yours, and you see it there—the emotion breaking over his face like ice shattering on a frozen lake.

He doesn’t say it back. He doesn't have to.

You wake up in the aftermath.

The sun is already high in the sky, soft gold spilling in through the cracked blinds and dust-speckled windows. It touches the edges of your ruined home—highlighting the bullet holes in the walls, the debris scattered across the floor, the stillness that follows chaos.

You’re wearing one of Seungcheol’s shirts.

It’s oversized, hanging off your shoulder, barely buttoned. The collar is stretched, and there’s a streak of dried blood near the cuff—yours, probably. Your hair is a mess, and when you reach up to scratch your scalp, your fingers brush against something soft.

A pillow feather.

You snort. Of course.

After last night’s explosion of violence and desire, you somehow made it upstairs to what was left of your bed. It was mostly frame, broken slats, and torn linen—but you made do.

Now, your bare feet pad carefully down the stairs. You avoid the glass fragments and splinters with the expertise of someone who has navigated minefields—literal and metaphorical. The floor creaks beneath your steps, and for the first time in days, it doesn’t sound like a warning.

Seungcheol is already in the kitchen.

He’s standing in front of the open fridge—barely hanging on its hinges—wearing nothing but a pair of loose grey pyjama pants. His hair is wild, sticking up in tufts, and his back is covered in faint scratches and bruises—yours. His fingers move slowly through the wreckage of what used to be a well-stocked refrigerator.

You watch him for a second before stepping in.

“Any luck?” you ask, voice soft.

He glances over his shoulder, a crooked smile playing on his lips. “We’ve got orange juice... one slightly bruised apple... and what I think might be cereal.”

“Luxury,” you murmur, joining him, peeking inside the fridge beside him. “Any milk?”

He scoffs. “Glass bottle took a bullet. It was a clean kill.”

You both laugh, and it surprises you how natural it feels. How easy. Like this is just another morning, and your home doesn’t look like a war zone.

He reaches out, brushing a strand of your hair back—fingers grazing over the feather tangled there.

“You’ve got something,” he says, tugging it free with a chuckle.

You roll your eyes but lean in when he kisses you.

It’s slow. Unhurried. Familiar.

His hand cups the back of your head. Yours rests over his bare ribs. No weapons, no lies, no blood between you this time.

“You sore?” he asks, murmuring against your lips.

“Everywhere,” you smirk. “But especially my shoulder. Got stabbed by something sharp on the floor last night. Could’ve been you. Could’ve been a piece of a chair leg. Hard to tell.”

Seungcheol huffs a short laugh and grazes your shoulder with the backs of his fingers, eyes narrowing where the skin is slightly red. “You’re lucky it wasn’t the broken glass from the vase. That thing exploded like a grenade.”

“Yeah, well,” you shrug. “You shouldn’t have thrown me into it.”

He raises a brow. “You tackled me through the coffee table.”

You grin. “Fair.”

There’s an unspoken truce between your bodies now. Your muscles ache, your joints are sore, and you’re both peppered with bruises—some purple with impact, some half-faded fingerprints, others... not entirely from violence.

The two of you end up sitting side by side on the floor of the living room, backs against the only intact wall, legs stretched out over the wreckage of your home, your salvaged breakfast lying between you.

You pass the box to Seungcheol. He pours a handful into his palm and tosses it into his mouth like it’s nothing.

“So,” you start, still a little out of breath, “you were the Istanbul embassy hit?”

He turns to you, mouth still full. “2020? Yeah.”

“Fuck,” you breathe, laughing. “I almost took that one. Client offered me triple last minute, but someone reported the route was compromised.”

He raises a brow. “That was me. Took out one of the scouts on the perimeter. Probably spooked ‘em.”

You shake your head. “You know how many contracts I lost because of you? I thought I was cursed.”

“And I thought someone was copying my blueprints,” he admits, wiping juice from his chin with the back of his hand. “Every time I planned a clean hit, someone beat me to it by hours or days.”

You blink slowly, realization dawning.

“Oh my god. Jakarta. The oil exec.”

“I was on a rooftop two blocks away,” he says, eyes gleaming. “Had my sights lined up, trigger halfway pulled, and bam—he drops dead. Heart shot.”

You grin. “Silenced pistol. Through the crowd. Red scarf.”

He stares. “That was you?” You shrug.

You pass him the juice bottle. He swigs.

“Kuwait?” you ask. “Royal cousin, private airstrip, 2023.”

He squints. “Nope. Morocco that same week, though. Oil refinery director.”

You nod slowly. “Close... but still not the same contract.”

You lean into his shoulder, warm and bruised. For a while, you just sit in the silence. Sharing cereal. Trading names of cities like souvenirs. Comparing scars. You hold out your left arm, turning it over. “Costa Rica. Machete. Wasn’t even the target—just his cousin.”

He flexes his hand, then touches his ring finger and pinky, his wedding band still on, catching the light. “Vietnam. Lost feeling here in a blast. Pipe bomb rigged under a bar stool. I leaned in to light a cigarette, and the damn thing blew.”

You hiss. “How long to recover?”

“Ten weeks. Didn’t tell my team.”

“I went deaf in one ear,” you admit. “Turkey. Close-quarters detonation. I still sleep on my right side.” He tilts his head to look at you. “I know.” You glance at him. “You noticed?” He nods. “Always.” You breathe through that.

And then, you ask the one question that’s followed you your entire career.

“Do you ever have trouble sleeping? After?”

He doesn’t even pause.

“No,” he says simply.

You nod. “Yeah. Me neither.”

“You know,” you start, voice soft, “my first contract was in Singapore. Hotel hit. Clean. Nerve-wracking as hell, though. Didn’t sleep for three days after.”

Seungcheol, who had returned to the kitchen in search of a surviving bottle of water, turns slightly, raising his brows at you still sitting on the floor. “First?”

You nod, smiling faintly. “When I joined the game back in 2015. Back then, I had to smuggle the gear in a violin case like it was a goddamn spy movie. I was twenty-one, still using my real name. Green as hell.”

He laughs as he leans against the counter, unscrewing the cap of his newfound treasure before taking a sip. “You? Green? I don’t buy it.”

“Swear to God,” you grin. “Nearly botched it. Took me forty minutes to get into the suite. He walked in while I was setting up. I had to improvise with a steak knife from room service.”

He winces, impressed. “That poor bastard.”

“Nah,” you reply. “He was a war criminal. No one misses him.”

You’re about to ask Seungcheol about his first hit when something catches your eye through the living room window. A flash of movement. A shape walking past the hedge by the front walkway. A mail truck parked across the street.

Your brows draw together. You shift up slightly on your knees.

“Cheol?”

“Yeah?” he answers, still in the kitchen.

You squint. “Why the hell is the mailman out on a Sunday?”

There’s a beat of silence. And then he’s at your side in seconds.

He moves so fast that the bottle of water still in his hand clatters against the floor as he drops it mid-stride, crouching beside you and peering out the same window.

“Our mailman doesn’t work Sundays,” he mutters, voice instantly low and cold. You don’t move. “Then who the hell is that?”

Before he can answer, a clinking noise rattles from the front door. You both snap toward the sound at once. The mailbox slot creaks.

Something metallic drops through.

And in a split second—his body slams into yours.

“Flashbang!”

You’re dragged across the floor in one fluid motion just as a deafening pop erupts behind you. A white flash floods the room, followed by a shockwave that rattles what’s left of the walls.

Your ears ring. Your vision blurs. But you’re on your feet a second later, adrenaline surging through your blood like fire.

All warmth is gone. There’s no time to ask questions. You’re running.

“Garage!” he shouts. “Now!”

Bullets rip through the hallway drywall behind you as two armed men breach the front door, already firing. The wood splinters, glass explodes in a cascade from what’s left of the windowpanes.

You both sprint, ducking low, weaving through the wreckage of your own home as if it’s muscle memory. He covers you with a hand against your back as you reach the inner garage door.

It slams shut behind you.

He locks it. Not that it’ll hold for long.

“Which car?” you gasp, spinning toward the two luxury vehicles parked beneath the hanging light.

He points. “Mine has ammo inside.”

“Mine’s faster.”

“Mine’s armored.”

“Fine,” you mutter, already rounding toward the matte black Audi Q8. “But I’m picking the music.”

“Like hell you are.”

You reach the passenger side and yank open the door, only to pause.

“Where’s the—” you begin, gesturing.

He slides into the driver’s seat, reaching under the dash with a practised hand and flips a latch under the steering column. A panel in the centre console pops open with a mechanical click.

“There,” Seungcheol mutters. “Top tray. Guns and extra clips. Take your pick.”

You reach in and grab both handguns without hesitation. Toss one to him.

“You could’ve told me we had an armoury in the car,” you snap.

“You married me. I thought you knew I was full of surprises.”

The garage door starts opening with a mechanical groan as he slams the car into reverse. The moment the path is clear, he floors it. Tyres scream against the concrete as you rocket backwards, then spin into a clean arc down the driveway beside your home.

Bullets fly as the gunmen breach through the garage door. The back window shatters.

“They’re following!” you shout, twisting to return fire through the shattered rear glass.

You hit one of the attackers in the leg. he falls down, but the other keeps up the pursuit on foot.

Seungcheol veers around a corner, nearly clipping a fire hydrant and barrels down a side street.

It takes thirty minutes to ensure nobody is following you—twisting through the city, cutting through narrow alleys, blasting through tunnels, jumping red lights with seconds to spare.

You finally pull up to a rusted building tucked between two loading docks on the edge of the port. It looks condemned. Empty. But the moment you step out of the vehicle and scan the perimeter, you know this place isn’t what it seems.

“Where the hell are we?” you ask, sweeping your gun up automatically.

Seungcheol rounds the car, guiding you toward the side of the building. “Safe house. Belongs to a friend.”

You eye him. “Define friend.”

“You’ll see.”

You follow him to a rusted steel door that looks like it hasn’t been opened in a decade. He raises his fist and knocks—four beats, short-long-short-short.

You wait.

Footsteps.

The door creaks open—and standing there, in a robe, dishevelled, and holding a toothbrush in one hand—is none other than Mingyu.

Your eyes widen. “You?”

He blinks at you. Looks from you to Seungcheol, then down at your bare legs, the blood stains on Seungcheol’s naked chest, the pistol still in your hand, the way you’re both still in your morning clothes.

Then he mutters, “Jesus. What the hell happened to you two?”

Seungcheol shoulders past him with a mutter, “You tell me.”

You trail behind, brushing past Mingyu, who still looks completely stunned. He glances around before slamming the door shut and locking it with three bolts, then follows you both into the industrial-style kitchen.

You drop your gun on the counter, exhaling heavily.

Mingyu plants his toothbrush in a mug.

“You bring your wife to work often?” he asks dryly.

“You and Mingyu work together?” you turn to Seungcheol, the words half an accusation.

He doesn’t blink. “Yes.”

You let out a breath through your nose and tilt your head, arms folding tightly over your chest. “So that whole speech at our wedding about how you and Mingyu ‘went to college together and grew apart’ was just another lie?”

Seungcheol doesn’t miss a beat. “You had eleven aliases on our wedding registry. I think we’re even.”

You roll your eyes, muttering under your breath as you step away. “Unbelievable.”

“Is this really the time for an argument?” he snaps, rubbing his temple with one hand.

You’re about to fire back when Mingyu sighs dramatically behind you, arms crossed as he leans against the counter.

“Alright, alright,” he drawls, tone lazy but eyes sharp. “You two wanna pause the little lovers’ quarrel for a sec? Because you are, in fact, in deep shit.”

Seungcheol turns toward him, exasperated. “No shit. They shot at my wife and my damn car. I’m aware.”

Mingyu rolls his eyes like an exasperated sibling. “No, you’re not. Hold on.”

He’s back a moment later, laptop in hand. He tosses it onto the counter and opens it, the screen’s glow casting sharp light across his face. With a few taps, he spins the laptop around to show you both.

“Argos posted a bounty on your head,” he says, eyes flicking to Seungcheol. “It’s live. International boards. Deep channels. They’ve basically lit a beacon over your body for every hired gun from Moscow to Macau.”

Seungcheol stares at the screen, silent.

His hand shoots out, dragging the laptop closer. He scrolls down with a twitch in his jaw, reading every line, every bounty detail. Finally, he speaks, voice tight:

“What?”

Mingyu’s voice stays calm, but beneath it is a warning. “All of our contracts were terminated this morning. No explanation, no reassignment. Nothing. They gave you—what—twelve hours? Maybe less. They expected proof of your kill. When they didn’t get it, this was their answer.”

You blink, reeling. “But... Cheol’s their top asset. Why the hell would they—”

“Because,” Mingyu cuts in, “he didn’t pull the trigger. That’s all the proof they needed that he’s compromised. He failed to kill you. That makes him a liability.”

You feel your pulse in your teeth. “Okay... but why cut the rest of you loose?”

Mingyu shrugs, only half-joking. “I’m just waiting for my bounty to go live any day now.”

You raise your brows.

“Seriously,” he says, tone turning grim. “They know we’re loyal to Cheol. Everyone on his team is. Argos knows if they kept us around, we’d try to protect him. Help him go underground. So... clean sweep.”

Seungcheol is still staring at the screen, jaw clenched, eyes burning. His voice is low when he finally speaks:

“That explains me... but why were they shooting at my wife?” He glances at you, eyes hard. “You weren’t part of this. Yet you were a target, too.”

Mingyu sighs, rubbing his face. “I don’t know. I only have their side of the board. For all I know, someone jumped the gun. Or they wanted to ensure you didn’t get a second chance to prove loyalty.”

You frown, folding your arms as you turn toward him. “Is this thing encrypted?”

He gives you a long look. “I’m the tech lead, Gwisin. What do you think?”

You roll your eyes and pull the laptop toward you. Seungcheol grins softly at the familiar exchange. Your fingers fly over the keyboard, typing in a series of commands only a seasoned ghost like you would know.

After a few seconds, an encrypted video line blinks to life on screen.

Two rings.

Reina’s face appears.

“What—” she starts, then her expression twists into visible relief and panic at once when she sees your face. “Holy shit. You’re alive.” Her voice is louder than expected. “We thought—God, I saw the bounty hit, and then everything went dark and—”

“Reina,” you say firmly. “Slow down.”

She exhales sharply, calming just enough to speak. “Lim & Associates has gone dark. Completely shut down. Doors are locked. HQ’s offline. We think the top brass has scattered. No comms. No trace. And about twenty minutes after you were supposed to confirm the kill—” she gestures, “a bounty for your head goes live.”

“Sounds familiar,” Mingyu says, leaning in.

Reina’s gaze shifts to him—and darkens.

Her voice flattens. “You.”

Mingyu grins, dimples showing. “Hi, Sweetheart. You look good.”

“Don’t.”

Seungcheol watches, confused. You, however, know exactly what this is. And so does Mingyu.

“Reina,” you warn, amusement tugging your lips. “Focus.”

“I am focused,” she bites, eyes not leaving Mingyu. “I’m just surprised he’s still breathing. I figured karma would’ve taken care of that by now.”

“Now honey,” Mingyu says, pretending not to be amused. “you know how much it turns me on when you're mad at me.”

Seungcheol blinks.

You sigh. “Long story. Don’t ask.”

“Gyu,” Reina snaps, crossing her arms. “Can you please, for the love of God, not think with your dick for two seconds?”

“You’re right,” Mingyu says, pulling the laptop toward him. “Let’s table our unresolved sexual tension and uncover corporate conspiracy instead.”

You and Seungcheol exchange an exhausted look as both techs begin furiously typing—throwing jargon and protocols across the feed faster than either of you can keep up.

“Did they just start flirting mid-catastrophe?” he murmurs.

“Apparently,” you reply, massaging your stiff neck.

Minutes pass in tense silence, the sound of keys clacking rapidly. Your pulse ticks higher.

Finally, both Reina and Mingyu stop. Mingyu stares at the screen.

Then, softly: “Oh my god.”

You and Seungcheol lean in instantly. “What?” you ask, sharp and focused. Reina’s voice is brittle. Controlled.

“Lim and Argos have been playing under the same table.” You go cold. “What?”

“They’ve been bidding against each other for years—driving up contract values, undercutting competition to steal clients, making the freelance market a bloodbath... all for mutual profit. Every ‘coincidence’? Every ‘competing company’? All engineered.”

“The hit on both of you...” Mingyu continues, voice low now, “was pre-planned. They marked you as a threat years ago, even before you married each other. Too skilled. Too independent. Too close.”

Reina nods. “They wanted to burn it all down. Kill the evidence. Clear the board. They weren’t expecting you two to survive.”

You feel like the floor’s been ripped out beneath you.

“Thank you, Rei,” you say, fingers hovering just over the laptop’s keyboard. “Truly. I mean it.”

On the other end of the call, Reina’s features soften.

“You don’t need to thank me,” she replies. “I’ll rally the others. We’ll get you everything we can. You say the word, we’ll move. You know we’ve got your back. Always.”

You nod slowly. “I’ll end this. I swear it.”

Reina holds your eyes for a beat longer, then the line cuts off.

The screen goes black.

You close the laptop slowly, and when you look up, Seungcheol is already watching Mingyu. The younger man is still frozen in place, arms folded tightly across his chest, a storm building just behind his eyes.

“What is it?” Seungcheol asks him, voice level but taut. “You’ve been quiet since she hung up. What are you thinking?”

Mingyu exhales sharply through his nose, dragging a hand over his mouth.

“Hyung... look. I hate to be the one to say this... .” he starts, then hesitates. Finally, he does. “But if you two separate, you have a shot at survival. Not a good one. But a shot.”

You feel Seungcheol tense beside you, the words like acid between them.

“If you stay together,” Mingyu continues, “you’re dead. They’ll find you. You’ll be too busy trying to keep each other alive to do it properly. You know I’m right.”

Seungcheol opens his mouth, about to snap something back, but you cut him off before he can.

“He’s right.” The words fall out before you even realize you’re saying them. And the moment they’re spoken, the air in the room changes.

Seungcheol turns to you, disbelief and anger flickering through his eyes. “So, what...” he says, quieter now. “You want me to leave you?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Because you don’t want that—not at all—but you also know it might be the only thing that buys you time.

The silence between you stretches until it’s taut. Until it’s unbearable.

He stares at you. You stare back. And in your shared look, there’s more said than either of you can articulate aloud. Fear. Anger. Love. Frustration. That goddamn sense of duty that’s somehow stronger than either of your instincts.

Mingyu’s voice cuts the silence with a well-placed sigh.

“You’re safe here tonight,” he says, voice intentionally casual. “Reina will loop us in with the rest of her team tomorrow. You can figure it out then.”

Seungcheol doesn’t respond.

Mingyu pushes away from the counter, walks to a cabinet and tosses a fresh towel onto the table. “Bathroom’s down the hall. There’s a closet full of old gear and clothes—should fit.”

You nod silently.

“I’ve got some rice, eggs, and canned soup. It’s not five-star, but it’ll feed you.”

Seungcheol glances at him. “You going somewhere?”

Mingyu shrugs, heading for the door. “Yeah. Wonwoo’s. Now that I’m harbouring the two biggest walking bounties in the world, I figured I should be... I don’t know—armed to the teeth.”

You raise a brow. “Wonwoo, the quiet, lanky guy with the glasses from our wedding?”

“Yup. My best friend and Argos’s designated weapons guy. His safe house is basically a missile silo. I’ll be back in a few.”

He’s gone before either of you can say anything else.

Later, after showers, dressing your wounds and forcing yourselves to eat what little you can keep down, you’re both lying side by side on a stiff mattress in one of the spare rooms. The sheets smell like old laundry detergent and sea salt. The room is dark except for a sliver of streetlight coming through the high window.

Neither of you is asleep. You’re staring at the ceiling. So is he.

You can feel the weight of the last two days in every inch of your body.

The silence is unbearable, so you speak.

“My default plan,” you say softly, “was always the Alps.”

Seungcheol turns his head toward you slightly. You don’t meet his eyes.

“Cabin in the Swiss mountains. Remote. Disconnected. Wood-burning stove, solar panels. Buried communication line. I have everything I need stashed there—documents, money, identity resets. It’s quiet.”

He doesn’t speak right away. Then—

“Mine’s a fishing boat.” His voice is hoarse. “Docked off an island near the border of Venezuela and Trinidad. Nobody ever asks questions there. Just sun, salt, fish, and radio silence.”

You nod. Let the silence stretch again.

Then you speak again, even quieter than before.

“We could leave tomorrow.” You feel his head turn toward you more fully now. “Leave it all this shit behind. Run. Disappear. You go south. I go east. No one finds us.”

His voice is so low you barely catch it. “Is that what you want?”

You close your eyes. The answer aches in your throat. “It’s not about what I want,” you whisper. “It’s about what keeps us safe. What keeps our teams safe. What keeps you safe.”

Another pause.

You feel him shifting beside you, his muscles tense.

“Cheol,” you say gently. “Please say something.”

And finally—he does.

“You run now,” he says, staring up at the ceiling, “and you’ll never stop running. You’ll be looking over your shoulder for the rest of your life. Cabin or boat, it doesn’t matter. There’s no cave on this planet that can keep us hidden forever. They’ll find you. They’ll find me.”

You look at him then; his profile is drawn tight, jaw clenched.

“I’m not running,” he says. “I’m fighting.”

His hand finds yours in the darkness, rough fingers curling around your palm until they reach the ring on your finger. His thumb brushes over it slowly.

“I made a promise,” he says. “I said, ‘Till death do us part.’ I’m not abandoning that. Not now.”

You close your eyes and exhale—long, slow, exhausted. But your fingers close around his hand.

A/N: Soooo, this happened? For those who know me well, know that Cheol is my second ultimate bias, so I couldn't not write for him at one point. What was intended as a short piece turned into whatever the hell this is. Hope y'all enjoy! 💟 PS: I have plenty of ideas for a second part, so if anyone is interested, let me know! (Maybe even a separate story featuring Mingyu? 👀)

Send me your thoughts - feedback/fangirling is always welcome.

(Collage created by me. Credits to owners of the pictures taken from Pinterest)

[abadborhm]

Cry for Help from Beneath the Rubble

No words can describe the suffering we endure here in Gaza. Life no longer feels like life. Today, with the border crossings closed once again and humanitarian aid halted, our suffering has doubled. Even the most basic necessities have become an unattainable luxury.Like thousands of other families, my family struggles to survive in this nightmare. We live among the rubble, carrying water from long distances because our infrastructure has been destroyed. Prices have skyrocketed, making food and medicine nearly impossible to afford.

Every day is a new battle, and every moment without food, medicine, or hope adds to our pain. We ask for nothing but the right to live, the right to safety, and the right to find someone who will stand with us in this darkness.To everyone who can help, to every heart that beats with compassion my family needs you. Every contribution, no matter how small, could mean the difference between life and death. Please, don’t leave us alone in this suffering.