#for the betterment of mankind: save

[news4dzhozhar]

“The Worst of What Humanity Is Capable Of”: Pediatrician on What She Saw in Gaza

You can watch/listen to her full, disturbing interview at the link above.

[phyrexian-mama]

The ending annoyed me greatly, but I at least could excuse Charon's because technically his contract stipulates he'll do combat for you. I believe, iirc, there are other things in the game that if you try to have him do it he tells you no as well.

And given that he's... you know... a slave, it's not like he's your friend or gives a shit about your wellbeing. So I didn't mind that one.

But the Fawkes situation was stupid.

you have to be fucking kidding me

[oddogoblino]

The winter's call is cruel. We were made to rest more these times, but since we don't, our minds call for us to rest the only way it knows how. To make us feel unloved, take away what drives us to stay awake. Go rest. Go rest. No one is searching. But it's not true. There's always someone you care about looking. But I'm just so tired. And no one is here.

[thatfeelinwhenyou]

SAFE & SOUND — part 7 (finale)

Navigating one year post-apocalypse, when the dead began to walk and the living proved to be no better, you decide that trust is a luxury you can no longer afford. But after a run-in with a group of seven peculiar survivors, you learn that there are bigger problems than just the undead roaming the streets. You also start to wonder if there’s more to survival than simply staying alive.

word count: 27.6k

a/n: heavy trigger warning for depiction of gore, blood, killing, mutilation and death. mentions of self-exit. reader discretion is advised. lowkey want to kay emm ess!

MASTERLIST

Hope.

It has taken root. Not for you—definitely not for you. But for them. For these people who still have a chance, who still have something to fight for. Something to live for.

At the cost of your own life.

It’s ironic, isn’t it? That it’s only now—standing at the edge of oblivion, with death already sinking its teeth into your skin—that your heart decides to start beating.

Hope makes you weak. It opens you up, makes you vulnerable, carves out spaces in your chest where fear and regret can take hold. It makes you susceptible to loss. But not just the kind of loss that comes from losing someone you love—but the kind that lingers, that gnaws at the edges of your thoughts, that whispers about what could have been.

The kind of loss that reminds you who you’ll be leaving behind.

And worst of all—hope makes you stupid.

So stupid that you’d willingly run into a sea of rotting, undead corpses who cannot wait to take a chomp out of your very living flesh.

So stupid that even with a death sentence sinking into your wrist, poisoning your blood, you still care more about them. More about whether or not they’ll make it out of this alive. More about their futures—

Futures you won’t get to see.

Because you probably won’t even make it to sunrise at this rate.

The world is a beautiful phenomenon, an intricate masterpiece woven together by time, ruined and utterly defiled by the cruelty of mankind. And now, standing on the precipice of your own imminent demise, you can’t help but wonder—is this Mother Nature’s wrath finally catching up? 

Is this the earth retaliating, purging the infection that is humanity in the only way it knows how? Have the scales been tipping for too long, and now the universe is finally restoring balance in the only way it can? Is your suffering—your inevitable death—meant to balance the scales? Even when, frankly speaking, it was never solely your fault to begin with?

Maybe it’s the victim mentality clawing its way to the surface, the part of you that refuses to believe you deserve this, the part that screams this isn’t fair, this isn’t right, this isn’t how it was supposed to go. But deep down, you swear—no one else in this godforsaken world is being punished as cruelly as you.

And you can’t understand why.

What crime did you commit to warrant this?

Was it the way you looked down on the people at the community building? The way you condemned them for being selfish, for putting their own survival above others—only to turn around and do the exact same thing? Because when it came down to it, when it was your life on the line, you saved yourself too.

Or was it the countless survivors who passed through, desperate, pleading for help, only for you to turn them away? And then, hours later, when the night was at its quietest, when the wind carried sounds that had no business reaching your ears, you would hear them.

Screams.

Distant, broken, haunting. And you would wonder. Was that them? Did your ignorance, your apathy, your fear—did it cost them their lives?

Or would you be guilty of something far more selfish—something you never even realised until now?

Would you be guilty of constantly throwing yourself into harm’s way, time and time again, because it was always easier to bleed than to watch them bleed? Because as long as you were the one getting hurt, as long as you were the one getting bit, dying, fading away into nothing, then it meant they would still be here. Alive. Safe.

But what does that make of them? The ones you’re trying to protect.

Maybe you were never meant to be part of a group. Not because they wouldn’t have you, not because you couldn’t belong, but because you never truly let yourself belong. Because you never matched their pace. Because while they learned to adjust to you, to move with you, to shift their decisions around you—you never did the same for them.

Would that have been your sin?

Was that the moment the universe condemned you?

Maybe this bite isn’t just a punishment. Maybe it’s a verdict. 

And you, standing here amidst the corpses of the undead, bloodied and breathless—are already guilty.

But you know now that guilt isn’t an excuse to wallow in self-pity. Guilt isn’t some tragic, poetic concept meant to make you suffer in your final moments. It’s a burden, a weight pressing against your ribs, but it doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t undo what’s already happened, doesn’t reverse the choices you made, doesn’t erase the blood on your hands, doesn’t stop the inevitable.

And it sure as hell won’t save you now.

It’s a shame, really. That it took this—this moment, this final breath, this unforgiving death sentence—for you to finally feel it. For you to finally want to live.

And not for yourself.

For them.

For Jay, who has already bled for you once, who would probably bleed for you again, even though you don’t deserve it.

For Sunoo, who has always held onto kindness, even in a world that has given him every reason to let it go, who still believes in laughter, in warmth, in something beyond just survival.

For Jake, who patches wounds and mends what’s broken, even when no one is there to do the same for him.

For Heeseung, who stands between order and chaos, who keeps them together when everything else is falling apart.

For Sunghoon, whose silence speaks louder than words, whose actions hold more meaning than empty reassurances.

For Ni-ki, who at such a young age, had to learn how to survive, how to fight, how to never show weakness—and yet, despite it all, still hasn’t lost his heart.

And for Jungwon, who carries the weight of everyone’s survival on his back, whose bones are breaking under it, whose shoulders have never known relief but still refuses to put it down. 

For Jungwon, who lets no one in but somehow, without even meaning to, lets you in. 

For Jungwon, who despite everything you’ve done, despite every reason you’ve given him to turn away, accepts you anyway. Who welcomes you into the most vulnerable parts of himself, the parts he doesn’t show anyone else, the parts that are too raw, too fragile, too much—but still, he lets you see them. Still, he lets you stay.

For Jungwon, who gently places his heart in your hands, trusting—praying—that you don’t squeeze it.

But you do. In fact, you don’t just squeeze it, you strangle it.

And the sheer thought of it—of what your death would do to him—sends a fresh wave of panic tearing through your already fraying mind.

You’ve seen it before, the way he carries the weight of every decision like a cross on his back, the way he internalises every loss, even when it isn’t his fault. You’ve seen the flicker of self-doubt in his eyes, the guilt of his past that eats away at him in the dead of night, the moments where you swear he looks at his own hands like they’re stained with something he can never wash off.

And now—you’re about to become another name etched into his grief. Another ghost he’ll never stop chasing.

The thought sends a sharp, unbearable pain ricocheting through your chest, burning, searing, suffocating you in a way even the impending infection couldn’t. Because this—this is worse than dying. Worse than the bite spreading its poison through your veins. Worse than knowing you’ll never make it out of here.

You are the thing that is going to break him.

It doesn’t matter how many times you tell yourself he’ll be fine without you, that he’s strong enough to keep going, that the others will take care of him when you’re gone. Because none of that is true. Not really. He’s strong, yes. He’s a survivor, yes. But strength doesn’t erase grief, and survival doesn’t mean living.

And just like that—just like Jay said—guilt and regret, tethered to hope, twists into something else entirely.

Redemption.

Not salvation. Not forgiveness. But a chance.

A chance to make up for the fact you’ll be leaving them behind.

Because if this is the end for you—if this is how it all plays out—then you’ll make damn sure it counts. If death is already creeping towards you, sinking its teeth into your flesh, then you’ll drag as many of those bastards down with you as you can.

You’ll be selfish, one last time. Even if it breaks him in the process.

Your breath steadies. The roaring in your ears dims. You’re not afraid anymore.

You lift your head, exhaling slowly, forcing your gaze away from the material that barely manages to conceal the ugly, jagged wound on your wrist, away from the reminder of what’s coming.

Instead, you look straight ahead at the dead surrounding you, the bodies shifting, the hunger burning in their milky eyes.

And for the first and last time—

You meet them halfway.

The dead move in slow, unrelenting waves, their bodies pressing in, their hands grasping, their hunger festering in the air like a disease. The grotesque mask clings to your skin, the fabric around your wrist concealing the scent of fresh blood, giving you the illusion of time. 

But time is a luxury you no longer have.

You take a step forward, then another, forcing yourself deeper into the horde. The dead shift around you, their rotting bodies pressing in from all sides, brushing against your arms, your shoulders, dragging their fingers across the fabric of your clothes as they shuffle mindlessly forward. Some hesitate, their milky eyes lingering on you just a second too long, as if their instincts can sense that something isn’t quite right.

Your fingers tighten around the hilt of your knife as you force yourself to match their rhythm, your body moving in slow, jerky motions, mimicking the unnatural gait of the undead. 

The whispers have stopped. The unnatural echo of fragmented words that had bounced between the corpses earlier has faded into silence, but you know they’re still here. A’s people. They’re hiding, watching, waiting for their moment.

A flicker of movement catches your eye.

There. 

Through a small gap in the sea of bodies, a pair of eyes stare back at you. Clear. Alive. They’re looking right at you as if daring you to come closer. 

Your heart pounds against your ribs, but you don’t react. You don’t move toward them. You don’t acknowledge them. Instead, you turn your attention elsewhere and keep walking, feigning disinterest. You can see the hesitation in their stance, the slight confusion in the way their body tenses before they realise where you’re headed.

If A has spent all these months hunting Jay and the others down, tormenting them, orchestrating every step that led to this moment, then he’s not going to run. Not yet. Not before he gets what he wants.

And if that’s the case, he’s still here, still lingering somewhere in this mess, watching from the shadows, waiting for the people on the roof to get anxious and fuck up.

They know the others are up on the roof. They must know by now. After all the gunfire, the shouting, the chaos—it’d be impossible not to. You glance up briefly, careful not to be too obvious, and your stomach tightens at the thought of what Jungwon must be doing right now. Or what he must be thinking. If Jay and the others had any sense at all, they would’ve stopped him, restrained him if they had to. There’s no way he’d sit back and just let this happen.

But that’s not your concern right now. Your job is to make sure A doesn’t leave this place alive.

You’re going to cut off the only escape route they have.

Riding the momentum of the horde, you start to make your way toward the gates. The space between the metal bars is jam-packed with bodies, the undead pushing against each other in a mindless frenzy, pressing their weight against the barricade in an attempt to force their way through. On the other side, more of them do the same, caught in an endless cycle of pressing in and pulling back, neither side able to gain enough ground to break through.

Discreetly, you knock against the metal frames, pushing against the rusted material just enough to make noise. A dull, metallic clang rings out into the night, barely audible over the groans and snarls of the dead, but it’s enough. The zombies nearest to you twitch, their heads jerking toward the source of the sound before their bodies follow suit, shifting toward the gate, pressing against it with renewed aggression. The weight of them is unbearable, steel groaning beneath the pressure, the rusted hinges creaking as the force grows stronger.

It’s working.

Slowly but surely, the opening starts to close, inch by painstaking inch.

But then—it stops.

Your pulse spikes as the movement suddenly halts, the weight on the outside pressing back just as forcefully as those on the inside. Something’s jammed in the gap.

You push again, shifting your body weight against the frame, but it won’t budge. 

You need to clear whatever’s blocking it. But just as you’re about to move toward the centre to check, a gunshot rings out.

The gate slams shut.

The sudden sound ignites a frenzy among the horde, the undead jerking violently toward the direction of the gunfire, the noise acting like a spark in dry kindling. The air explodes with movement.

Your breath catches as you look up at the roof. Jay is standing firm, rifle still aimed toward your immediate vicinity. He caught onto your plan.

You push forward, stepping over limp, half-trampled bodies, forcing yourself to move despite the chaos that surges all around you. The horde is in a frenzy now, the echoes of the gunshot linger in the air, the pressure of the undead shifting like an unpredictable tide.

Your fingers close around the rusted chain dangling from the gate, the metal rough and uneven beneath your grip. The chain rattles as you yank it into place, looping it tightly, securing the padlock with trembling hands. The clang of metal against metal feels deafening despite the surrounding noise.

It’s done.

The lock clicks into place, the steel reinforced by layers of rust and time. This is it. The moment that seals your fate—and theirs.

The barricade stands firm, cutting off any chance of escape, caging them in alongside the very creatures they’ve controlled and used as weapons for months. There’s no getting out of this. Not for them. Not for you.

You suck in a sharp breath, willing your hands to stop shaking, forcing the thoughts from your mind before they have a chance to settle, before you can question what you’ve just done. Before you can regret it.

You take a step back, your pulse hammering in your ears. Your gaze flicks back up to the rooftop, scanning the figures above. Jay hasn’t moved. He’s still standing there, still watching. Even from this distance, you can see the tension straining his frame, the tight set of his shoulders, the way his fingers grip the rifle like it’s the only thing keeping him steady. He’s too far away for you to see his expression, but you don’t need to—you know what’s going through his mind. He knows what you’ve just done. And he knows that there is no coming back from this.

Your gaze flickers to Sunoo, Ni-ki, and Heeseung. They’re also scanning the horde, their postures stiff with adrenaline, eyes sharp and calculating as they search for movement that doesn’t belong, for A’s people still hidden among the dead. Now that the gates are closed, now that escape is impossible, there’s no reason for them to keep sneaking around. No reason to hide. You have the upper ground now

Except—

A cold chill slithers down your spine.

Where is Jungwon? 

He is nowhere to be seen. Neither is Jake nor Sunghoon.

Your stomach twists into knots, the unease creeping through you like a parasite burrowing deep beneath your skin. The air feels heavier now, thick with the scent of decay and something even worse—dread.

Where the fuck are they? Did Jungwon break free? Did Jake or Sunghoon try to stop him?  Is he already on his way down here, fighting his way through the chaos, trying to reach you?

And the answer to all your questions?

You don’t know.

And that uncertainty sits in your chest like a coiled viper, tightening, squeezing, threatening to suffocate you. Your hands clench at your sides, every nerve in your body screaming at you to do something. Because you may not know where he is, but you know him. You know exactly what kind of person he is. Jungwon isn’t the type to sit still, isn’t the type to accept defeat. Hell, he might be lost among the horde right now, trying to get to you.

A frustrated growl rumbles in your throat as you mentally curse Jungwon and his goddamn inability to sit still. To listen. To just let you do the job without having to worry about who else would get hurt in the process but yourself.

But the hypocrisy of your own thoughts settles in almost instantly, sharp and bitter like a knife twisting in your gut.

Because you did the exact same thing. You went after Ni-ki despite Jungwon telling you not to. You risked everything, ran straight into the horde, made your own reckless choices—and look where it got you.

You understand him. Because you are essentially two peas from the same pod.

Two stubborn fools, running towards death instead of away from it. Two people who can’t just sit back and watch while the ones they care about are out there, bleeding, fighting, dying.

You glance up, heart hammering, eyes scanning the people on the rooftop—Jay, Sunoo, Ni-ki, until your gaze lands on Heeseung. Confusion riddles your expression. He’s not just standing idly by, waiting for an opportunity; his sharp gaze is tracking something through the chaos below, scanning the horde with a precision that tells you he’s not just watching the dead.

He’s tracking someone.

And then you see it—the subtle, deliberate signals he’s making with his hands, quick flicks of his fingers, small movements meant to be understood only by those who know what to look for. Your mind pieces it together in an instant, the realisation slamming into you like a freight train.

He’s signalling toward you.

And just like that, everything clicks into place.

They’re trying to get to you—all of them.

Not just Jungwon, but Heeseung, Jake, Sunghoon, Jay, Sunoo, Ni-ki—every single one of them. They’re searching for you, closing in, inch by inch, and you realise they’re doing everything they can to keep from calling your name, from alerting the enemy to where you are, from giving away your position before they can reach you.

But why? Why the hell are they doing this?

The thought hits you harder than the reality of your own bite, knocking the air from your lungs, leaving behind a hollow, aching sensation that spreads through your chest like an open wound. You’re a gone case. You’re already as good as dead, already counting down the moments before the infection takes hold, already feeling the weight of what’s coming next press against your spine like an executioner’s blade.

They let you go.

So why? Why are they fighting so hard to bring you back when there’s nothing left to save?

Your breath trembles as you force yourself to process it, to make sense of the irrationality, the sheer stupidity of it all, but the more you think about it, the more the answer eludes you. 

You can barely wrap your head around the fact that they haven’t given up on you yet, that instead of making peace with your decision, instead of accepting the inevitable, they are still fighting for you, still risking everything for you, still choosing you, despite everything.

And something about that—something about their unwavering, reckless refusal to let you go—makes your stomach turn with something far more suffocating than fear. They are coming for you. They will not stop. They will not let you die here, no matter how much you try to convince yourself that this is how it ends.

The realisation hits like a punch to the gut. You stagger forward a step, your fingers twitching uselessly at your sides. You have to find Jungwon. You have to—but what then? Beg him to stop? Hold him back and tell him that if he keeps going, if he keeps chasing after you, he’ll end up just like you?

Your breath stutters, caught between panic and guilt, between the raw, sinking knowledge that you can’t stop him. Not now. Not when he’s already made up his mind. Not when he’s already running straight towards his own destruction.

Your nails dig into your palms, jaw locking as a new, dangerous thought settles deep in your bones.

This is wrong. It isn’t supposed to be this way.

Jungwon is supposed to be safe. He’s supposed to be up there on the rooftop, watching over the rest of them, ensuring their survival—not running blindly into the jaws of death just to get to you.

But that’s the thing about Jungwon, isn’t it? He doesn’t know how to stop. Doesn’t know how to give up. Doesn’t know how to let go. And that’s what makes this so much worse.

Because he will find you. He will chase you down, no matter the cost, no matter the risk, no matter how many people he has to fight through just to get to you. And when he does—it will kill him. And the rest will follow him into his grave.

You squeeze your eyes shut, nails biting into your palms so hard you think they might draw blood.

This is the only way.

If you can’t stop him—then you have to make sure he never finds you. Because if he does, he won’t stop. He won’t turn back. And you’ll have to watch him die because of you.

A cold, shuddering breath escapes you as you take a step backward—one step away from them. One step towards the only future where they get to live.

Because if there’s one thing you can do for Jungwon—one final thing—it’s this.

You can disappear before he gets the chance to break himself for you.

You don’t spare them a glance, don’t hesitate, don’t falter as your body moves on instinct, your mind shutting out every voice screaming at you to stop. The moment you spot one of A’s people, standing just a little too stiff, moving just a little too deliberately among the dead, you lunge, gripping them by the neck in one swift, brutal motion and dragging them down to the ground.

The impact is sickening, a sharp, guttural gasp ripping from their throat, but you don’t stop to acknowledge it, don’t even think about it—because the moment their body collides with the dirt, the reaction is immediate.

The dead turn.

And before you know it, before they even have the chance to cry out, the horde descends.

The first one tears into their arm, the second sinks its rotting teeth into their stomach, and then it’s over, the screams—raw, agonised, inhuman—ripping through the night, calling the rest of the undead to devour what’s left.

Gunshots ring out from the rooftop, sharp bursts of sound cutting through the air, but they’re hesitant, cautious, deliberate. They’re trying to clear the dead, trying to keep you from getting buried beneath the writhing mass of bodies, but they can’t tell which one is you.

They can’t risk it. They can’t risk mistaking you for one of them.

The thought doesn’t even faze you. Not when you’re standing there, surrounded by the towering bodies of the dead, the heat of their decayed flesh pressing in around you, their mouths dripping with fresh blood as they tear into A’s people like animals, completely oblivious to the fact that you’re standing right in the middle of it all.

The scent of death, of mutilation, of torn flesh and spilt guts floods your senses, but you remain still, your breaths shallow, your pulse steady, as you watch.

You don’t flinch at the wet, crunching sound of bones snapping.

You don’t recoil at the way flesh is peeled back, skin stripped away from muscle, muscle torn straight from the bone.

You don’t even blink as what was once a person is reduced to nothing but scraps of meat, scraps that the dead no longer have any use for.

You just wait.

Wait until the screaming stops.

Wait until the feeding slows.

Wait until the dead begin to lose interest, until they start to disperse, until they move on in search of fresher, more desperate prey.

And then, when the moment is right, when their bloated, rotting stomachs are full and their vacant eyes are no longer scanning for movement, you move with them, slipping back into their midst, letting yourself become a shadow among the damned.

Your feet shuffle in tandem with a group of them drifting toward the convenience store, your body moving with disjointed, unnatural steps, mimicking their vacant, lifeless motions, your presence masked by the stench of decay and blood coating your skin.

The rooftop is still alive with movement, still pulsing with the frantic energy of the fight, and you know—you know—they’re searching.

They’re looking for you.

But they won’t find you.

Not when you’re already slipping through the reinforced glass doors of the convenience store, disappearing into the darkness—out of their sight. Out of their reach.

Inside, the air is thick with decay, the scent of dried sweat and old blood clinging to the walls like an ugly reminder of what this place has become. A graveyard. A battlefield. A dying memory of safety that was never meant to last.

A few stragglers shuffle aimlessly through the wreckage, their movements slow, detached, unsettlingly human, and for a brief moment, you wonder if they’re actually dead at all. They must have pushed through during the chaos earlier, drawn in by the screams, the gunfire, the relentless noise coming from the rooftop. 

Now, they roam the space where you and the others once slept, their feet tangling in the sleeping bags carelessly abandoned on the floor, their rotting hands brushing against the last remnants of the lives you were trying to build here.

Something inside you twists, sharp and bitter. You don’t know why, but it annoys you.

Maybe because, in some small, irrational way, it feels like a violation—like they’re treading on something that was yours, that was theirs, that was meant to mean something.

It doesn’t matter now.

Nothing matters except finding A.

Your plan to pick them off one by one is no longer viable. Not with the added risk of Jungwon and the others searching for you. You can’t afford to be seen, can’t afford to let them pull you back into the fight when this isn’t their battle anymore.

There can’t be many of A’s people left by now, but the ones that remain… they’re the worst kind.

The ones who have stripped themselves of everything, who have embraced the rot, the ruin, the slow descent into madness. The ones who have walked with the dead for so long that they no longer fear them, who have become something in-between, not quite living, not quite gone.

You could pick them off one by one, but that would take forever. Too long. At that rate, hunger and exhaustion will get to you first. And after that… 

Well, you’ll be just another piece of the horde yourself.

You exhale slowly, forcing yourself to think, to focus. If you could just find A, just see him ripped to pieces in the flesh, just have that confirmation, that reassurance, that he is dead—

Then you could end this yourself.

You could use yourself as bait, lead the horde away, let them chase after you until there’s nothing left but rotting bodies and silence. It’s not foolproof, not a guaranteed way out for the others, but at least this way—when the horde finally clears, when the dust settles, when the echoes of dying screams fade into nothing—

A’s people will be forced to look at what remains.

They will have to face the wreckage, face the reality of their failure, the shredded, half-eaten corpses of their own, scattered across the ground like discarded meat, their flesh torn and gnawed on until they’re unrecognisable, until they’re nothing but a pile of chewed-up bones and empty, hollowed-out carcasses.

They will have to see it, smell it, feel it seeping into the very ground beneath them.

And maybe then—maybe just for a second—they will understand.

They will understand what real fear looks like, understand what it means to lose, to be powerless, to have everything they built, everything they thought made them invincible, ripped from their hands in an instant.

A warning carved into flesh, spelled out in blood and bones, a message left behind for those who survive—

Never underestimate their opponent. Never think that just because they control the dead, just because they use them like weapons, like shields, like disposable soldiers, that they are untouchable. That they are above the laws of survival, above the cycle of death and destruction that has consumed this world.

And if they value their miserable fucking life, if they have even an ounce of self-preservation left in that rotting mind of theirs, they’ll know never to come back.

Just then, as if the heavens themselves have recognised your sacrifice and decided, in a rare stroke of mercy, to grant you one last favour, the door to the backroom swings open with a slow, deliberate creak, and a figure steps out.

A.

Your breath stills in your throat.

Of course. Of fucking course.

What the hell were you thinking? Why didn’t you consider this sooner? Why didn’t it occur to you that he’d be hiding out in the backroom—the only soundproof room in the entire building, the one filled to the brim with supplies, weapons, resources? The one place where he could sit comfortably, untouched by the chaos outside, while his people bled and burned for his cause?

The anger comes first—hot, sharp, searing through your veins like wildfire—but it’s quickly swallowed by something colder, something heavier, something that grips at your ribs and refuses to let go.

Just beyond the open door, a zombie shuffles past the threshold, its milky, vacant eyes flicking lazily in A’s direction. Its jaw hangs slack, rotting fingers twitching at its sides. For a brief, agonising second, it looks right at him—through him—and then…it turns away. 

Your stomach twists.

Is this what Lieutenant Kim meant? Is this what it looks like to let go of yourself completely? Has he truly sunk so deep into the abyss, into whatever depravity he’s clawed his way into, that he isn’t even human to them anymore?

Because you see him. His posture is too straight. His movements are too smooth, too calculated, too alive—and yet, to them, to the dead, to the creatures that exist to tear apart anything warm and breathing and whole—he is already one of them.

Your fingers twitch at your sides, a single, involuntary movement—a minuscule crack in your otherwise controlled façade.

And he sees it.

A’s eyes snap to yours, sharp, cutting—watchful, calculating. As if he’s been expecting you. As if he knew you’d come for him eventually. And in that split second, as your gazes lock, everything else fades into irrelevance—the distant scuffle of the undead inside the store, the faint hum of wind rattling through shattered windows, even the dull ache of the bite festering beneath the cloth on your wrist.

Nothing exists except you and him.

And rage.

Not just any rage, not something small and fleeting, but white-hot, all-consuming fury, a fire burning through your exhaustion, through your impending death, through every single rational, calculated thought screaming at you to stop. It smoulders deep in your bones, in your gut, in every part of you that refuses to die quietly.

Because he’s the reason for all of this. For the horde. For the attack. For the pain. For the fact that you won’t make it out of here alive.

And the only thing keeping you on your feet now is the fact that you can still take him down with you.

You catch the flicker of recognition in his eyes, the way his posture shifts, muscles tightening just slightly, a nearly imperceptible change in stance—but you see it. He knows.

He knows exactly who you are.

He knows you’re not one of his people.

And most importantly—he knows exactly why you’re here.

The two of you stand on opposite ends of the store, separated only by the handful of stragglers that drift mindlessly between you, their sluggish footsteps scraping against the convenience store tiles, their vacant eyes locked on nothing at all. Their presence is nothing more than shadows in your periphery, a fleeting distraction at best.

Because neither of you is paying them any mind. 

All you see is A.

And the big red target painted on his fucking forehead.

He can’t run. Not with his busted ankle, not with the way his weight favours one leg, his body angled ever so slightly, betraying the injury that makes him vulnerable.

But you? You have nothing to lose

You start forward, feet moving before you can think, body surging toward him with nothing but determination and a blade gripped tight in your hand, a blade that will sink into his flesh, will find his throat, his gut, his ribs, wherever it needs to go to make sure he never walks away from this.

Because he can pretend all he wants. He can stand still, unmoving, playing the part of the dead, but at the end of the day, he is still breathing, still alive, still a man with flesh and blood and fragile bones just waiting to be broken. Even he cannot deny that.

His lips twitch, a small, almost imperceptible movement, his eyes never once leaving yours, never once shifting to the knife in your hand. And for a fleeting second, you swear you see something flicker behind his cold, unreadable stare.

Amusement.

You falter for only a second—because what kind of sick bastard smiles when they know they’re about to die?

But then, as you close the distance, as you near him, as you see that confidence solidify instead of waver, you realise. 

You realise exactly why he’s not afraid. Why he hasn’t run. Why he hasn’t even lifted a weapon.

Because behind him—just barely visible in the fragments of light filtering through the windows—is Jake.

Jake, hands held up behind his head, knees pressed against the floor.

Jake, bruised, but clean from a single drop of blood.

Jake, with one of A’s people standing behind him, pressing the barrel of a gun to his head.

And just like that—the fire inside you dies. Replaced by a cold, suffocating dread.

You catch Jake’s gaze, and at first, you see relief. The briefest flicker of hope, of recognition,  a split second where his shoulders sag just slightly, where his eyes light up with the knowledge that he is no longer alone. But then—his eyes shift downward to the cloth wrapped tightly around your wrist.

And in an instant, that relief shatters, crumbling away like brittle ash caught in the wind, fragile and fleeting, gone before it ever had the chance to settle. In its place, something else takes root—something desperate, something urgent, something so raw, so visceral, so utterly unlike the Jake you know that it makes your breath catch in your throat.

His entire body locks up, his muscles coiled so tight it looks painful, the shallow rise and fall of his chest quickening, his hands clench into fists so hard his knuckles must be turning white.

His eyes burn into yours, wide, frantic, pleading—pleading in a way that digs into your ribs, twists deep inside your gut, something you can’t quite place, something you don’t fully understand.

And it’s strange, isn’t it? That even with a gun pressed to his temple, even in a precarious situation where one wrong move could send a bullet straight through his skull, he’s not thinking about himself.

His panic, his urgency, isn’t for his own survival.

It’s for you.

For a second—just a second—you hesitate, your mind whirling, trying to grasp what he’s trying to tell you, what you’re missing.

But there’s no time to dwell on it. No time to think, no time to question, no time to search for meaning in the way his entire being is screaming at you to understand.

Instead, you turn your attention back to A, who remains completely unmoved, completely at ease, as if he has all the time in the world, as if he has already won.

He’s waiting.

Daring you to make the first move.

You don’t even realise you’ve started taking bigger, louder breaths until the zombie nearest to you stirs, its rotting head snapping in your direction. A low, guttural groan rumbles deep in its throat, and you feel it before you see it, the way the air shifts as it lunges, arms outstretched, grasping for you.

Your body moves purely on instinct, swerving just as its decomposed hands are inches away from closing around your arm, the stench of rot thick in the air, the feel of decayed fingers barely grazing your arm. You move quick, twisting sharply as your blade buries itself into the side of its temple, the force of the impact jarring up your arm.

The body slumps lifelessly against you. Carefully, you lower the corpse onto the floor, moving slowly, deliberately, making sure the thud isn’t loud enough to draw more attention, isn’t enough to stir the other stragglers roaming idly around the store.

You straighten up, closing the already minimal space between you and him, your breath steady despite the inferno of rage burning in your chest. Your voice is low, controlled, barely above a whisper, but it carries enough weight to cut through the stagnant air between you.

"What do you want?"

A’s smirk only deepens, his amusement evident in the slight tilt of his head, the lazy glint in his eyes as if he’s enjoying a private joke only he understands. His gaze flickers—just briefly—to your wrist, to the cloth wrapped tightly around it, to the mark of death you can’t erase.

He leans in slightly, just enough that you can practically feel his breath against your skin, cold, calculated. “Some people aren’t meant to walk with the dead.”

His voice is almost mocking, a quiet, knowing whisper that sends a shiver down your spine—not out of fear, but out of sheer hatred, out of the overwhelming urge to wipe that smirk off his face permanently. Your jaw clenches. Every muscle in your body is coiled tight, fingers curling into fists so hard they shake.

But he isn’t done.

He’s watching you, watching the way your body responds, the way your shoulders tense, the way your pulse ticks at your throat like a countdown.

"You know what I want." His voice is softer now, coaxing, as if he’s talking to a wounded animal that he already knows has nowhere left to run. “Bring them all here. Then, I’ll do you a favour and kill you first so you won’t have to see the rest of them die.”

A muscle twitches in your jaw.

Your nails dig into your palms, the sharp sting grounding you, reminding you to stay focused, to stay in control, to not let him get inside your head. But he’s poking the bear, prodding, testing your limits, waiting to see if you’ll snap, if you’ll give him exactly what he wants.

But you won’t.

You tilt your head slightly, eyes locking onto his, gaze unwavering. And then, you smile—a slow, sharp, deliberate thing that doesn’t reach your eyes.

"You’re lucky I wasn’t with them the first time you came around," you taunt, voice like razor wire slipping between your teeth. "If I was, you wouldn’t be here today."

It’s small, almost imperceptible, but it’s there—the slightest tightening of his jaw, the faintest shift in his smirk. But just as quickly, it’s gone, replaced with something colder, sharper, something that tells you he isn’t nearly as amused as he pretends to be.

He leans back ever so slightly, tilting his chin upward, watching you through lidded eyes, his expression unreadable but for the lazy smirk that lingers at the corner of his mouth. There’s something infuriating about the way he looks at you—like he’s already won, like this is just another game to him and you’re nothing more than a predictable piece moving exactly where he expects you to.

And then, with the same air of condescension, his voice drips with mock sympathy.

“Bold words,” he murmurs, gaze dropping to your wrist again, his smirk curling cruelly. “For someone who’s decaying from the inside out.”

You scoff, a sharp sound that escapes before you can stop it, too raw, too bitter. The sound catches the attention of a nearby zombie, its head snapping toward you with an unsettling quickness. Your pulse spikes, breath halting as you brace yourself, waiting—watching as its cloudy, lifeless eyes bore into you, as its decayed jaw slackens just slightly, the hunger instinctually drawing it closer.

But then—just as quickly—it loses interest. It turns away, wandering aimlessly once more, the absence of immediate movement or sound enough for it to forget you exist.

Still, the close call is a warning, a reminder of the tightrope you’re walking. One wrong move, one misstep, and this entire situation implodes.

Your grip tightens around the handle of your knife, fingers twitching at your sides, restless, itching to do something—anything. It would be so easy to lunge at him, to close the gap and drive the blade right into his throat before he has a chance to react. So easy. But that flicker of impulse is immediately stamped down by the harsh reality pressing into you from all sides.

Jake is still here. Alive, but restrained. One wrong move from you and A wouldn’t hesitate. He wouldn’t need to. He’d give the signal and Jake would be dead before you could even reach him.

And then there’s the other problem.

If Jake is here, tied up and weaponless, then where the hell are Jungwon and Sunghoon?

Your mind races, scanning every darkened corner, every shifting silhouette. But there’s no sign of them. No indication that they’re nearby. That realisation twists deep in your gut. Why is Jake alone? Where are they? What the hell happened?

You don’t have an answer. And that uncertainty sits like a loaded gun in your chest.

Your fingers twitch at your sides, restless, searching, fidgeting with a tension that has nowhere to go. Every instinct in your body is screaming at you to act, to move, to do something, but you’re trapped in this silent battle of wills, locked in a standstill with no clear path forward. Your mind races through every possibility, every potential way out of this mess, every scenario where you and Jake walk away from this moment alive and victorious. But the answers aren’t coming fast enough, and the air in the convenience store feels heavier, thicker, pressing down on you like a slow suffocation.

And then—you feel it.

The cold, unyielding press of metal against your lower back.

Your breath catches in your throat, a sharp inhale freezing mid-motion as the weight of realisation crashes down on you all at once.

A loaded gun.

For a second, you almost don’t recognise it, almost don’t remember that it’s even there, tucked securely into your belt, hidden beneath the layers of fabric and blood. It had been an afterthought, an object tucked away with no real intention of use, something you’d taken before everything spiralled, not because you had a plan for it, but because you needed a safety net. Something—anything—to hold onto in case everything went wrong.

You never learned how to shoot. Not properly, at least. You were never given the chance. Growing up, the idea of wielding a firearm had been as distant to you as a foreign concept, something seen only in movies, something you assumed you’d never have to understand, let alone master. You don’t expect to see guns out in the open for sale in the bustling streets of Seoul. And even after the world fell apart, even after survival became a daily battle against death itself, it’s rare to come across one.

And frankly, you never saw the point. A gun without proper aim is nothing but a loud, clumsy liability, something that could just as easily get you killed as it could save you. So why carry one? Why even bother when you’ve survived this long without one?

There is one bullet in the chamber.

Not for A.

Not for his people.

For you.

It had been your contingency plan, your last resort, the one unshakable guarantee that no matter how bad things got, no matter how horrifying or painful or inescapable the situation became, you wouldn’t suffer. If the horde overwhelmed you, if there was no way out, if you were backed into a corner with no escape, you wouldn’t let yourself be torn apart piece by piece, wouldn’t let yourself become something less than human. You wouldn’t give the world the satisfaction of watching you die in agony.

You’ve seen them clawing at the dirt, crying out, calling for help that never came. You’ve heard the guttural, gurgling sounds of people choking on their own blood, felt the sickening dread of knowing that it could have just as easily been you.

And if you were ever put in a position where the only certainty left was how you would die—you’d make that choice yourself.

And thus, the opportunity presents itself. 

A isn’t armed. You noticed it earlier, a small detail that didn’t quite sink in at first—how his movements were too relaxed, how his hands never once reached for a weapon, how his entire demeanour was soaked in unwavering, untouchable confidence. He never needed a weapon. He never wanted one. Not when he had other people to do the dirty work for him. Not when he truly believed no one could touch him.

That’s how arrogant he is. How assured he is in his control over the situation.

And that’s his mistake.

Because it means the only real threat here is the gun trained on Jake’s skull, the one held in steady, unwavering hands by one of A’s people. That’s the real obstacle. That’s what’s keeping you locked in place. That’s the only thing standing between you and the end of this.

All you have to do is take them out first.

The thought slams into you like a jolt of electricity, sending adrenaline surging through your body. If you can eliminate the shooter before they have time to react, before they have time to pull the trigger—then Jake is safe. 

And A is nothing

Your eyes flicker toward Jake, searching for any indication that there’s more waiting in the shadows, another gun trained on you that you haven’t noticed yet. You can’t afford to make a mistake.

Jake meets your gaze, and without hesitation, he blinks once.

One blink. No other threats. One blink. He’s ready.

A watches you, his lips curling slightly, like he can already see through you, like he knows you’re scheming, planning, biding your time. He tilts his head, voice dipping into something almost casual, like you aren’t standing here, seconds away from tearing him apart.

“You met them a little over a week ago,” he murmurs, his gaze sharp and assessing. “You shouldn’t be tied down to their fate.”

You exhale slowly, carefully shifting your weight, your fingers inching toward the gun, deliberate, unhurried. Keep him talking. Keep him distracted.

“I’ll decide my own fate,” you mutter, eyes locked onto his. “I don’t need you to tell me that.”

A chuckles, the sound quiet but mocking, like he’s already won. Like this is nothing more than a game to him. His gaze flickers briefly to your bandaged wrist, then back to your face.

“Little advice for you, kid.” He takes a slow step forward, but you don’t flinch. You keep your stance firm, your hand still moving, creeping over the fabric of your shirt, closer to the gun. “Getting tied to people gets you killed. But I mean, you already knew that, didn’t you?”

Your fingers brush over the cool metal, curling around the grip.

You offer him a slow, humourless smile, tilting your head just slightly.

“Well,” you murmur, pressing your fingers to the safety.

Click.

“Some of us aren’t total monsters.”

And then, before he can react—before he can move—

You pull the trigger.

The explosion of sound is deafening. The recoil snaps through your arm, a jarring force you weren’t prepared for, and the bullet veers off course. It doesn’t land where you aimed—it buries itself into the shooter’s shoulder instead of their head.

Fuck.

The man staggers back with a choked grunt, his grip on Jake momentarily loosening as pain jolts through his body.

Jake reacts in an instant. He lunges, slamming his full weight into the injured man, the two of them crashing to the ground in a tangled heap of limbs, knocking over supplies and sending debris scattering.

The gun clatters, skidding across the floor.

You barely register the chaos behind you, because the moment the shot rings out, A moves.

Before you can raise your weapon again, before you can so much as take a breath, he’s already on you. He’s fast. Faster than you anticipated. Faster than you.

His hands slam into your shoulders, knocking you backward, the force nearly sending you sprawling. You fight back, snarling, twisting in his grip, but he’s stronger. Too strong. You can’t break free.

The dead outside have heard the gunshot and they are coming.

You feel them before you see them. The groans rising like a tide, the slow shuffle of feet gaining momentum, the weight of their rotting hunger pressing into the air, suffocating and thick.

You twist in A’s grip, your movements frantic, desperate, every muscle in your body straining as you try to break free. But his hold is unyielding, his fingers digging into your arms like iron clamps, his strength overpowering yours with terrifying ease. You can feel it—the walls closing in, the suffocating weight of bodies pressing toward you from all directions, the sharp sting of panic threatening to steal your breath.

“Jake, hurry!” Your voice is sharp, nearly cracking under the sheer force of your desperation. 

But Jake is not a fighter. He’s struggling, barely holding his own as he wrestles with A’s man, managing to keep him from reclaiming the gun but only just. His opponent is heavier, stronger, and the blood gushing from the fresh bullet wound has only made him more reckless, more desperate.

The dead are nearly here.

The scent of blood is thick in the air, drawing them in like moths to a flame. You can feel the heat of their decaying bodies pressing closer, their guttural moans blending into a single, endless drone, the sound of hunger, of death.

If you can’t get out of this, if there’s no escape, then you have to make sure A doesn’t either. You have to make sure that no matter what happens, no matter who gets out of this alive, he doesn’t. No chance to slip back into the horde. No chance to hide among the dead. No chance to run.

You tighten your grip around the handle of your knife and thrash wildly, your strikes reckless, driven by pure instinct. You don’t care if you cut yourself in the process, don’t care if the blade grazes your own skin, drawing shallow, stinging lines of crimson. All that matters is that it lands. That it finds him.

A jerks back suddenly, his entire body flinching, and you see it—the change in his face, the split second of realisation, of pain. Then your eyes drop to the large, red gash on the side of his neck.

You should’ve cut deeper. You should’ve slashed his throat clean through—ended him right then and there. But it doesn’t matter now. Blood is already seeping from the gash in his neck, slow and steady. It’s enough. It’s already too late.

Both of you are exposed.

A’s eyes dart wildly around, searching for an exit, but there’s nowhere to hide, nowhere to run. The dead are closing in from every side, their rotting hands reaching, clawing, desperate to feed. And if A’s man still had any instinct for self-preservation left, he’d leave Jake and slam the door shut behind him, locking both you and A out with the monsters.

"Let go!" A snarls, his voice rough with panic as he struggles to pry you off him, his hands pulling at your arms, trying to shove you away. But you don’t budge. You won’t. You tighten your grip, interlocking your fingers around his waist, locking yourself to him like a shackle, and you’re not letting go.

Not until he’s dead.

And just as you think this is it—just as you feel the first flicker of real, visceral fear rise up in your chest, just as the cold, sharp edges of inevitability sink their claws into you, just as the thought creeps into your mind that maybe you really should’ve saved that last bullet for yourself—

Gunfire.

The air explodes with the sound of gunshots, sharp and relentless, each blast cutting through the night like a violent crack of thunder. The dead closest to you drop instantly, their bodies collapsing one by one, skulls shattering as bullets find their mark.

A’s grip on you falters.

And then, they rush in. Descending upon the chaos with deadly precision, their movements quick, cutting through the horde with ruthless efficiency. The tide turns in an instant.

Sunghoon is the first to reach Jake, his blade flashing as he knocks A’s man off balance, wrenching him away before he can reach for the gun again. Together, he and Jake overpower him, slamming him down against the floor.

Meanwhile, Sunoo and Heeseung step between you and A, weapons raised, forming an impenetrable barrier between you and the man who ruined everything. Their eyes burn with unspoken intent, with the quiet, simmering rage of those who have had enough.

Jungwon, Jay, and Ni-ki hold the line, their gunfire keeping the dead at bay, preventing them from pressing in too close.

“Move!” Heeseung barks. “Inside! Now!”

No one hesitates.

You scramble, breath ragged, every muscle in your body screaming in protest, heart slamming in your chest as you follow the others through the narrow threshold. The door to the back is right there—safety is right there—

And then—

BANG.

BANG.

You turn just in time to see A crumple to the floor, both of his ankles torn through with bullet wounds, both of his legs rendered completely useless.

Jay stands over him, gun still aimed, his breathing heavy, his face cold, empty. He doesn’t say anything. Just watches as A writhes in pain, as he bleeds, as he realises.

Realises that he won’t be running. That he won’t be escaping. That he will be left behind.

And yet—even now, even with blood pooling beneath him, even with the moans of the dead growing closer, even with death right in front of him—A doesn’t beg. He doesn’t plead for his life. He doesn’t ask for mercy.

Because A would rather die than put down his fucking ego.

Jay scoffs, the corner of his mouth twitching in disgust, and then he spits on him before turning his back, walking away, leaving him to his fate.

Jungwon is the last one through the door, covering the retreat, making sure everyone is inside before he slams the door shut behind him.

And then—

Silence.

Except for the sound of the dead finally reaching their meal.

After that, the dead collide against the barricade almost instantly. Fists pound against the door, muffled groans spilling through the matter.  the suffocating chorus of hunger and decay filling the space. The sound is deafening, the sheer force of their weight against the door sending vibrations through the walls, amplified by the echoes bouncing off it.

Heeseung, Sunoo, and Jungwon move fast, dragging a heavy metal shelf in front of the door. It’s not much, but it’ll hold—for now. The dead lose interest when the noise dies down, but that could take hours. And hours are something you don’t exactly have.

Ni-ki moves toward the nearest lantern, striking a match and casting the room in dim, flickering light.

And that’s when you see them. The faces of the people you thought you’d never see again.

“You just signed all of our death warrants, you bitch—” The gunshot splits through the air like a whipcrack, the force of it reverberating in your chest, leaving a high-pitched ringing in your ears.

“Dude, a little warning wouldn’t hurt.” Sunghoon winces, hands flying to the sides of his head.  Your gaze darts toward the source of the shot, chest heaving. 

A’s man slumps lifelessly against the wall, blood seeping from the hole in his forehead, his body sliding to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut. For a moment, you had forgotten about his presence.

You shift your gaze to Jungwon standing above him with his gun still raised, smoke curling from the barrel, his face unreadable, eerily blank, like he didn’t just pull the trigger.

Jungwon exhales sharply, pushing his weapon back into his belt before turning to Jake, his tone clipped, demanding, frustration bleeding through the words. “Jake. What the hell happened?”

He doesn’t look at you. Not once. But you feel it—the weight of his awareness, the way his presence feels suffocating, like he’s fighting every urge in his body to acknowledge you.

Jake runs a hand down his face, shaking his head, muttering under his breath before looking up. “I was prepping for the procedure, and he jumped me. God, these freaks are everywhere.”

Procedure?

Your eyes flicker downward, only now registering the assortment of supplies spread out across a tattered t-shirt on the floor. A whole bottle of antiseptic. Some painkillers and a shit ton of gauze. But it’s the saw that makes your stomach twist, the metal edge reflecting back at you.

Your stomach lurches.

“What the hell is going on?” You rip the mask off your head, the stale scent of rotting flesh still clinging to your skin, to your clothes, making you want to peel yourself apart just to feel clean again. The weight of the air shifts, thickening like a storm cloud about to break as every gaze in the room lands on you.

It’s Jake who speaks first, voice heavy with something you don’t want to name.

“We’re taking it off.”

Your breath catches. The words take a second to register. “What?”

Jake doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t waver. He just stares at you, deadpan, like he didn’t just say the most absurd thing imaginable.

“We’re amputating your arm.”

You’re not stupid. You know exactly what they’re suggesting. You’re not oblivious to the ‘Zombie Apocalypse Movie Logic 101’ that claims amputating an infected limb can stop the spread. It’s the golden rule in every survival horror scenario—get bit, cut it off fast enough, and you live.

But that’s the movies. That’s the neat, sanitised version of survival. The one where things make sense, where there are rules to follow and a clear cause-and-effect.

This? This is real. This is your arm. Your flesh and bone and veins and muscle, all still attached to you, still functioning, still yours. And in just a few minutes, they want to rip it from you. To cut it off like it’s nothing more than dead weight.

Your stomach churns, nausea curling at the edges of your ribs, pressing against your lungs.

Heeseung nods, stepping in. “We don’t have a choice. If we don’t—”

“We don’t even know if it’ll work,” you cut in, voice sharp, the panic rising in your chest. “That’s just—movie logic. ‘Cut the limb and you won’t turn.’ But this isn’t a movie, Heeseung.”

Jake shakes his head. “Lieutenant Kim said it would work.”

Your pulse spikes. “And you’re just taking her word for it?”

“She was bit.”

You freeze.

“She came into the treatment facility with her stump that day,” Jake says, his gaze never leaving yours. “Because of a zombie bite. I didn’t know it then, but that’s what happened. She was bit, they cut it off, and she survived.”

You stare at him, your mind racing.

“She told you this? Just gave up that information out of the kindness of her heart?” You scoff, but there’s no humour behind it. “With what intentions?”

Jake’s jaw clenches, his fingers twitching slightly against his thigh, like he’s holding something back. “She said she’d tell us how to keep you alive if we let her go.”

Your breath stutters, your pulse hammering against your ribs, slamming against your skull. Your arm. Your fucking arm.

“Lieutenant Kim survived,” he presses. “She’s living proof that it works.”

“She’s also a manipulative liar,” you snap back, the words sharp, defensive, because you need them to understand. “She told you that to get inside your head. She knew I’d been bitten, and she knew you’d do anything to—”

“To save you.”

You turn to Jungwon instinctively, expecting to see determination in his face, that unwavering resolve, that look he always carries—the one that says he knows exactly what to do, that he has a plan, that everything will work out because he will make it work.

But it’s not there.

“She knew we’d do anything to save you,” he repeats, softer this time, but just as certain. His eyes bore into yours, dark and unyielding, like he’s trying to force you to understand something. Something you already know, but can’t let yourself believe.

"Even if it did work,” you swallow thickly, forcing the words out through the lump in your throat, “It’s been—what, close to an hour since it happened? Wouldn’t it be too late for that?"

Jungwon doesn’t answer immediately. He just looks at you, like he’s seeing through every single excuse you’re trying to build, every wall you’re scrambling to put up. And when he finally speaks, his voice is so quiet, so wrecked, that it nearly breaks you.

"Please, Y/N." His lips part like there’s more he wants to say, like there’s a thousand different ways he’s trying to beg you to let them do this.

It’s not that you don’t believe them. In fact, you want to. Hell, if there’s even the slightest chance that this could save you, shouldn’t you be grasping at it with both hands? Shouldn’t you be clinging to it like a lifeline, like a drowning person reaching for the surface, desperate to breathe? The opportunity to live is being presented to you so clearly, placed right in front of you on a silver fucking platter, and all you have to do is take it. Just say yes. Just let them do this, let them save you.

You don’t have to die.

You can stay. You can keep going. You can keep living with them. You can wake up tomorrow with a future still ahead of you, with people still beside you, with hands that still reach out for you, that hold you.

But it sounds too good to be true. And frankly?

You’re fucking terrified.

Because losing an arm in the apocalypse isn’t just an injury—it’s a compromise, a cost you carry long after the blood has dried and the pain has dulled. It’s not just about surviving the amputation, gritting your teeth through the unbearable agony, or hoping the infection doesn’t creep past the point of no return. It’s what follows. The dull throb of vulnerability that will never quite fade. The countless things you won’t be able to do anymore, the tasks that used to be second nature suddenly becoming battles of their own. The way you’ll be slower, more dependent. The fear that you’ll no longer be an asset, but a burden.

And for someone like you, who’s only ever known survival as a solitary act—who’s always been prepared to run, to fight, to make the hard call alone—that sheer helplessness is the worst fate of all.

Otherwise put, it’s another death sentence all on its own.

But then, a sobering realisation creeps in, subtle and quiet at first, like the distant onset of dawn after a long, harrowing night.

That line of thinking, that desperate need to prove yourself—to do everything alone—that’s exactly what got you bitten in the first place. 

You went after Ni-ki because you couldn’t sit still. Because you couldn’t trust someone else to save him. Because some part of you believed it had to be you. That it always had to be you.

You were wrong.

And now, looking around at their faces—worn, bloodied, exhausted, but here—you finally understand something that’s eluded you until now: you were never alone to begin with. You never had to be. You were so afraid of becoming a burden that you never stopped to realise they wanted you here. That they would’ve carried you if your legs gave out. That if you lost one arm, you still had the arms of seven others, ready to catch you if you fell, ready to fight beside you, to lift you back up, to remind you that survival isn’t about strength—it’s about togetherness.

So what if you’re missing an arm?

You’re not missing them.

And with that thought—terrifying and hopeful all at once—you realise you’re not afraid to try. Not anymore.

There’s hope. And this time, you’re not pushing it away.

You take a breath. You let it out. You force your voice to steady itself when you finally say, “Okay. Do it.”

The moment the words leave your lips, the tension in the room shifts. You hold Jungwon’s gaze, refusing to look away, watching the way his body visibly relaxes, the way his shoulders sag with something close to relief.

But before you can even dwell on it, Jake’s hand is grabbing yours, his fingers wrapping around yours with a steady, grounding pressure. “Which brings me to the part after we cut it off,” he says, and there’s something in his tone that makes your stomach twist.

He hesitates for just a second—just long enough for the weight of his words to sink in—before squeezing your hand, his grip firm, unwavering, serious. “Look, I’m no expert,” he admits, his voice quieter now, but no less intense. “I don’t know the first thing about amputation. But what I do know is that we can’t afford to waste time trying to control the bleeding.” His jaw tightens. “You’ll bleed out before we even get the chance.”

Your pulse pounds in your ears. You know he’s right..

But still, the words land like a punch to the gut, knocking the air from your lungs, making everything feel too real all at once.

“What are you suggesting?” you ask, and even though your voice is steady, even though you manage to keep yourself from shaking, there’s no mistaking the apprehension laced between the syllables.

Jake doesn’t hesitate this time.

“We cauterise,” he says, and the moment the word leaves his mouth, a cold chill slithers down your spine. “We burn the tissue to seal off the blood vessels.”

Burn.

Burn.

The room goes deathly quiet.

You don’t move.

No one does.

The words settle in the air like smoke, heavy and suffocating, curling around your ribs, pressing into your lungs, sinking into the marrow of your bones.

You should have expected this. You did expect this.

But that doesn’t make it any easier to hear.

The image is already forming in your mind—the glowing red metal, the searing pain, the smell of burning flesh—your flesh. You can practically hear the hiss of skin melting away, the crackling of heat against raw, open muscle.

“You had the cloth tied tightly around your wrist. It’s not much, but it probably helped slow the circulation in your arm,” Jake says as he works, his voice steady but urgent. “But just to be safe, we’ll go higher up. Okay?” 

Jake’s hands move quickly now, faster than your thoughts can catch up. He tightens the belt high around your arms—farther up than where the bite is, closer to your bicep—just above the elbow, his knuckles pale from how hard he’s pulling, and you can already feel the tension building, the dull ache beginning to throb beneath your skin as the circulation cuts off, but it’s nothing compared to what’s coming, and everyone in the room knows it.

There’s a kind of silence that falls over the group—heavy, suspended in the air, the kind of quiet that only comes before something irreversible, something violent and sacred and necessary all at once—and you try to focus on their faces instead of the saw in Jake’s hand, on Jungwon’s eyes instead of the blowtorch Sunghoon is igniting in the corner, the hiss of flame catching and the low, anxious murmurs of the group as they brace themselves, not just physically but emotionally, for what this means.

You look down at your arm, really look at it—at the dirt under your fingernails, the faint scab from your tussle with A earlier, the way the bite has already begun to discolour the skin around it, bruised and swollen and festering. You’ve been bracing yourself for pain, for panic, for survival instincts to kick in and take over. But you didn’t expect... grief. And you realise how strange it is to mourn a part of yourself while it’s still attached, still warm, still undeniably yours.

Jungwon must’ve noticed the shift in your expression, the way your shoulders slumped and your eyes lingered a second too long on your soon-to-be missing limb, because he’s suddenly there beside you, silent and steady. He lowers himself to the ground with you, his presence anchoring, warm in the cold haze of panic tightening around your chest. His hand finds yours—tentative at first, then firmer, threading his fingers through yours with a kind of quiet desperation.

When you look at him, he’s already watching you, a faint smile curling at his lips. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes—those dark, storm-worn eyes—but he’s trying. He’s trying so hard to be strong for you. For the both of you.

And in that moment, you’re taken back to the rooftop, to the quiet under the stars and the weight of goodbye pressing on your shoulders like a second skin. To the kiss that felt more like a farewell than anything else. You’d kissed him thinking it would be the last time. Thinking that when you turned away, you’d never see him again.

Except now, he’s here.

He’s here, holding your hand like it’s the only thing tethering him to this reality. Like you’re the most precious thing in this godforsaken, broken world. 

You can’t help but wonder—just for a second—how nice it would’ve been to meet Jungwon under different circumstances. In a world where survival didn’t come at the cost of your body, your sanity, your soul. Where the air didn’t reek of rot and the weight on his shoulders wasn’t made of lives and impossible decisions.

You imagine meeting him as just… people. Two strangers on a campus somewhere, maybe sitting across from each other in a crowded cafe, or bumping into each other at a library, both reaching for the same book. Maybe you’d catch him staring first, his eyes kind and curious instead of shadowed and burdened. Maybe he’d laugh more. Maybe you would, too.

Would it still have been the same? Would the connection have still been as profound, as undeniable, if it wasn’t born from shared trauma, sleepless nights, and the kind of loyalty forged only in fire and blood?

You wonder if he would’ve still looked at you like this—with that mix of fear and hope and something far too deep to name. If you weren’t on the verge of dying, and he wasn’t on the verge of shattering over the thought of losing you… would you still find your way to each other?

Maybe. Maybe not.

But in this cruel, twisted world, you did. And that has to mean something.

Jake’s voice breaks through your haze, quiet but firm. “Y/N,” he says, and when your eyes finally meet his, you’re startled by the fear swimming in them. Not for himself. For you. “Ready?”

It’s not a question you’ve ever been asked before—not like this. Not with everything hanging in the balance. He’s not asking if you’re sure. You’re past that point. He’s asking if you’re ready to survive.

Your lips part, and for a second, nothing comes out. You want to tell him no. That you’re scared. That this is insane. 

Your mouth is dry. “Do it before I change my mind,” you whisper, and the words barely escape your lips, but Jake hears them. He meets your eyes and nods.

Jungwon’s grip tightens on your free hand, and you squeeze his back like a lifeline. You don’t dare look at him. You don’t want the last memory before the pain to be the look of fear in anyone else’s eyes—especially not his. So you stare straight ahead, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the darkened ceiling, trying to focus on the feeling of his thumb brushing small, grounding circles against your knuckles.

You count the breaths—one, two, three—trying to slow your racing heart, trying to keep from shaking. The air feels suffocating, thick with tension and antiseptic, the faint metallic tang of blood already lingering before it’s even spilled.

And then the saw comes down.

The first cut isn’t clean. It never is. You feel everything—every jagged grind of metal against bone, every shred of sinew snapping apart, every nerve ending lighting up like wildfire. Your back arches involuntarily, and a choked scream tears from your throat before you can bite it back. Your vision blurs at the edges. You taste copper. You hear someone—maybe yourself—whimpering through clenched teeth. 

Jungwon’s face twists with every sound you make, like he’s taking on the pain himself, like he’d trade places with you in a heartbeat if he could.

Heeseung is holding your shoulder down now, murmuring something like “You’re okay, you’re okay, just a little more,” over and over again, but the words barely register past the blinding, searing pain clawing up your spine, blooming behind your eyes, threatening to black out your vision.

Jake’s hands are steady, but his jaw is clenched tight, his entire body trembling with effort and urgency as he pushes through. He’s breathing hard, sweat dripping from his brow as he works, and finally—finally—the saw breaks through the last layer of bone and your arm is no longer yours.

A ragged, guttural sound escapes you as your body collapses back against the floor, half-conscious, half-gone.

But it’s not over.

The smell hits you first—burning flesh, acrid and thick, clinging to the back of your throat like smoke. Then the heat follows, sharp and blinding. Sunghoon doesn’t speak as he presses the flat, glowing-red piece of metal—heated over the blowtorch until it shimmered with angry orange—against the raw stump of your arm. The pain that follows is worse than anything you’ve ever known.

You don’t even get the chance to brace yourself. 

Your body arches violently, back lifting off the floor as the searing pain explodes through you. The sound that tears out of you is guttural, inhuman, a cry that fractures the air like glass shattering. You’re vaguely aware of hands holding you down—Jungwon’s voice calling your name, Jake’s arms pinning your torso, Sunoo’s weight across your legs—but all you can feel is the heat, the sting, the way your skin sizzles under the metal, as nerves are seared shut, as blood vessels are cauterised in a last-ditch attempt to keep you alive.

Somewhere beyond the white-hot agony, you feel Jungwon’s hand squeeze tighter, anchoring you to this reality, to the present, to the part of you still fighting. His hold is desperate, unrelenting, like he’s trying to pull you back from the edge just by touch alone.

“Almost there,” Jake’s voice grits out somewhere near your shoulder, but it’s distant, muffled—like everything else right now, dulled beneath the roar of pain.

You close your eyes and focus on the hand still in yours.

Not the missing part of you. Not the blood. Not the fear.

Just the hand. Just the fight. Just the hope that you’ll come out of this still human.

Still you.

When it’s over, the wound is blackened and raw, but closed. The bleeding has stopped. The infection hasn’t had a chance to spread—at least, that’s what Jake says—but all you can do is lie there, broken and heaving and soaked in sweat, your entire world reduced to pain and heat and the gentle pressure of Jungwon’s hand still clutching yours.

You blink up at the ceiling, trying to focus, trying to process, and you can feel the tears slipping from the corners of your eyes. You turn your head, eyes finding Jungwon again, and the look on his face—it’s not just relief. It’s awe. Like he’s seeing you for the first time. Like you’ve done something miraculous. And maybe you have. 

Maybe choosing to live is the bravest, most impossible thing you’ve ever done.

Jungwon holds your gaze, and for a moment, just a moment, it’s like everything falls away—no groaning dead beyond the door, no blood, no rot, no pain. Just you and him. Breathing. Existing. Surviving.

And then, as if your body finally catches up to everything it’s just endured, the edges of your vision begin to blur again—this time not from pain, but from a bone-deep exhaustion that sinks into every inch of you like a slow, heavy tide. Your limbs feel weightless and leaden all at once, your head swimming, the sounds around you warping into something distant and echoing. You don’t fight it. You’ve fought enough. Your fingers, still curled around Jungwon’s, finally go slack as the blackness rushes in like a wave—and just before it swallows you whole, you let yourself believe, if only for a second, that maybe this time, you’ll wake up. 

Alive.

“She’ll wake up”

“It’s been hours, Jake."

“I know I’m trying. Fuck. All I can do is increase her dosage, there’s nothing…”

“We should tie her up”

“No, don’t fucking touch her. She’ll make it.”

“Y/N, hey.”

The first thing you hear as you claw your way out of unconsciousness is Jungwon’s voice—soft, frayed around the edges, trembling like it’s been calling out for hours. You can’t see him yet, not with your eyes still refusing to open, but you can feel him. The warmth of his hand wrapped around yours again, grounding you. Holding on. Not letting go.

The world filters in slowly—muted voices, the shuffling of feet, the low groans of the dead from somewhere far off, beyond these walls. Pain registers next, dull and distant, like it’s been muted under layers of cotton and morphine. Your entire body feels foreign—heavy, stitched together, fraying at the seams.

“She’s awake,” someone whispers. You think it’s Jake. There’s a rustle of movement, the creak of a chair, the scrape of boots on concrete.

Your eyelids flutter, heavy as lead, and when they finally lift, it’s like breaching the surface of water after being submerged too long. The light from the lantern stings, blurry shapes looming into focus. The ceiling. The cracked paint. And then anchoring everything into place—

Jungwon.

His face is pale, his eyes bloodshot, but there’s relief pouring off of him like sunlight after a storm. “Hey,” he breathes again, like it’s a prayer.

You try to speak, but your throat is dry. Instead, your fingers twitch faintly in his grasp—and that’s enough. His breath hitches, and he brings your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles like it’s the only thing tethering him to the earth.

“You scared the shit out of us,” Heeseung murmurs from somewhere to the side, his voice quieter now. There’s a kind of reverence in it, a shaky pride. “But… you did it.”

It’s then that you look down—only to find the empty space where your arm used to be. And that’s when it hits you—a phantom sensation, sharp and cruel in its illusion. You feel your arm. Or at least, you think you do. The fingers that aren’t there twitch, curl, ache with a strange pins-and-needles pressure that makes your stomach churn. 

You can feel them. You know they’re gone. And yet, your brain hasn't caught up, hasn’t let go. The absence is louder than the pain, more jarring than the wound itself. It’s like your body is mourning a part of you that still believes it exists.

And as if Jungwon can sense the storm building inside you, his hand moves. Gently, he reaches over and places it over your eyes, shielding you from the sight. 

It’s a kind gesture, but it breaks you.

The tears slip out before you even feel them coming. Hot. Endless. You’re crying—not just from pain, but from grief, from fear, from the shattering weight of everything you’ve endured. You sob, trembling, breath catching in your throat like you’ve forgotten how to breathe.

Your instinct is to push his hand away, to cover your face with your own—but the arm you reach for doesn’t exist anymore.

The moment you realise that, it shatters what little composure you had left.

A sob wracks through your chest, harder, harsher. Jungwon doesn’t speak. He doesn’t let go. He holds your hand like a lifeline, brushing his thumb in slow, steady circles, whispering nothing and everything all at once.

When the worst of it passes and your sobs taper into shaky breaths, they give you a moment—just long enough to collect the scattered pieces of yourself, to gather whatever fragile control you still have left. And then, with gentle hands and quiet encouragement, they try to get you to sit up. Your body feels detached, heavy and weightless all at once, but somehow you manage to push yourself off the floor with your remaining arm, groaning softly as you prop yourself up against the cold, cracked wall. Every muscle protests, trembling under the strain, but you force yourself upright.

Jake is already on his way over, crouching in front of you with another dose of painkillers in hand, pressed into a makeshift paper cup filled with water. You don’t resist. You open your mouth, let the bitter tablet sit on your tongue, let the water burn its way down your throat. It tastes like metal. Like dust. But you swallow it anyway.

“You’re not completely in the clear yet,” Jake says quietly, not meeting your eyes. He’s trying to keep his voice neutral, but the edge of worry bleeds through. “We still don’t know if we managed to cut off the infection in time…”

He pauses, hesitates—and that’s when your gaze meets his. His expression shifts, the corners of his mouth tightening ever so slightly.

“…You could still turn. We just—” He stops, drags a hand down his face, and exhales hard, like he’s trying to breathe out all the things he doesn’t want to say. “We can only wait and see.”

The words settle into your chest like stones dropped into water—silent but heavy, rippling through your body with a slow, suffocating ache. That terrible uncertainty… it's back again. And it’s worse than death. Because at least death is final. But this—this is a slow, crawling unknown. You could still die. Or worse, lose yourself piece by piece, until the thing left breathing isn’t you anymore.

But you don’t flinch. You don’t argue or cry. You nod. Not because you’re hopeful, but because you’ve made your peace with it. You tried. You gave yourself a chance, and maybe that’s more than what most people in this world get. Maybe that alone is something to hold onto.

“I’m cold,” you murmur, turning your head toward Jungwon, who’s still crouched quietly beside you. His hand is wrapped gently around yours, grounding you like it always does. He looks up instantly, eyes full of concern.

“I’ll go grab you a blanket. Wait for me,” he says softly, as if any louder would shatter the fragile stillness of the room. He gives your fingers one last squeeze, then pushes himself up and walks toward the basement.

The second he disappears down the hall, you shift your gaze to Jay.

He’s already watching you.

You give him a small, barely-there nod. A silent summons.

Jay limps closer, his body stiff, his face unreadable—but his eyes say it all. He kneels beside you, wincing as his knee hits the floor, and leans in so he’s eye level with you. His breath is steady, but there’s something tight in the way he holds it, like he already knows what you’re about to say and he’s bracing for impact.

“Can I ask you a favour?” you say, your voice hoarse, barely audible over the sound of your own heartbeat. You feel raw. Hollowed out. Your body is in shambles, and your mind is hanging by a thread.

Jay doesn’t answer right away, but the subtle twitch in his jaw, the clenching of his fists at his sides—it’s enough to tell you he understands.

You look him dead in the eyes.

“Jay… if I turn, I want you to be the one to put me down.” Your throat tightens, and you barely manage to get the next words out. “Don’t let Jungwon do it. Please.”

His expression doesn’t change much—but his eyes do. They flicker with pain, anger, and something dangerously close to grief. You know what you’re asking. You know the kind of burden you're placing on him. But you also know he’s the only one who can carry it. Not Jungwon. Jungwon would never recover. Not from this. Not from you.

Jay’s silence stretches, heavy and unbearable, until he finally gives you a small, solemn nod.

And in that moment, you feel a strange kind of relief.

Not peace. Not comfort.

But certainty.

A mercy, promised.

The others shift uncomfortably at the exchange, their movements small and fidgety—eyes darting between you and Jay, shoulders stiffening, breaths held like the air itself has become too fragile to disturb. You can feel it—how your quiet acceptance, your calm resolve, unsettles them more than if you were screaming or panicking. 

Because if you—the one who fought tooth and nail to live, who threw yourself into fire and fury without hesitation—have already come to terms with the possibility of dying, then what hope is left for the rest of them?

No one says it out loud, but the silence that follows is deafening. Heavy. Final. And for a split second, you wonder if it would’ve been easier for them to keep believing you’d make it. Easier to cling to the illusion that everything would be fine. But instead, here you are, calmly appointing your executioner—and they’re forced to imagine what it will look like if you don’t make it through the night.

You turn your head, eyes drifting toward the ground beside you, and your stomach twists at the sight of dried blood staining the concrete, smeared and congealed like rust. A few meters off to the corner, partially obscured by the shadows, you notice a thin cloth draped over something small and misshapen. You suspect it's whatever is left of your arm.

But before you get the chance to ask, Jungwon returns with a clean blanket, his footsteps hurried and almost frantic. He’s unfolding it as he approaches, his eyes darting over your form, checking, assessing, making sure you’re still here. Without a word, he drapes the blanket over you, his movements careful, almost reverent.

He slides down to sit beside you, his back pressed against the wall, elbows propped on his knees, eyes fixated on some point far away. The others take it as a cue to give you two some privacy, but in a room where every sound echoes off the cracked walls, nothing is truly private. You catch a glimpse of Heeseung pretending to wipe the hinges of a shelf and Ni-ki awkwardly pretending to help him, their attempts at subtlety so blatant it almost makes you laugh. Almost.

“How are you feeling?” Jungwon asks, his voice low, frayed around the edges.

“That’s a very difficult question to ask someone who just got their arm cut off.” You try for a joke, something to break the tension, to convince him you’re still yourself, that you haven’t changed just because a part of you is missing.

He flinches at your words, eyes flickering with something that looks suspiciously like pain. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice strained.

“Hey, don’t apologise. None of this is your fault.” You try to sound reassuring, but the weight of everything is pressing down on you like a boulder. “Actually… I should be thanking you. For… you know, saving my life. All of you.”

He nods, but his gaze remains fixed on the floor, his fingers clenching and unclenching against his knees. The silence stretches, and you realise he’s waiting for you to say more. Waiting for you to voice the thoughts clawing at the back of your mind. So you push through, forcing the words out before you lose your nerve.

“Look, I know this isn’t… ideal.” You glance down at the blanket wrapped around you, the empty space where your arm should be. “But I’m alive. And that’s something. That’s… more than I expected to get.”

Jungwon’s jaw tightens, his shoulders tensing. He’s trying to keep his expression neutral, but you can see the turmoil bubbling beneath the surface. “You shouldn’t have expected anything less,” he mutters, his voice thick with frustration. “You shouldn’t have—” He cuts himself off, exhaling sharply, his hands raking through his hair. “We’re supposed to look out for each other. You… you shouldn’t have gone off on your own like that.”

“I know.” The admission comes out smaller than you intend. “I was reckless. And I’m sorry for making you all worry. I just… I couldn’t let A get away. Not after everything. I thought… if I could take him down, maybe everything would be okay. Maybe you’d all be safe.”

“We weren’t safe. Not with you out there risking everything by yourself.” His tone is clipped, tight, the anger barely contained. “You could’ve died. You almost did.”

“But I didn’t.” You insist, your voice wavering. “I’m still here.”

“Barely.” His retort is sharp, cutting through the air like a knife.

You swallow, your gaze dropping to the ground. “I made a mistake. I know that. But I’m still alive. I’m still here, Jungwon. And I’m grateful for that. I’m grateful to all of you.”

The words sound hollow even to your own ears, but you cling to them anyway, desperate to make him understand. Desperate to make him see that you’re not giving up, that you’re still fighting.

Jungwon’s expression softens just a fraction, but there’s something else there now, something raw and unguarded that makes your chest tighten. “You say that like it’s enough,” he whispers. “Like being alive is all that matters.”

“What else is there?” you ask, genuinely confused. “What else could possibly matter more than that?”

He stares at you, his eyes dark and searching, his breath coming in shallow, uneven bursts. And then he says it.

“It’s not—” His voice cracks over the words, like he’s tearing something out of himself just to say them. “It’s not okay.”

The air between you shifts, thickens. And you can see it now, the way his shoulders tremble, the way his fists clench and unclench at his sides. The way he’s fighting so hard to keep himself together, even as everything inside him threatens to break.

He won’t let himself be angry with you, not fully. So he’s turning it inward, letting it eat away at him from the inside out. And that realisation hits you harder than anything else.

“It is.” You meet his gaze, and something inside of you twists at the sheer desperation in his expression.

“No, it’s not!” His voice rises, cracking under the weight of everything he’s been holding in. “This isn’t okay! How—how can you sit there and say that like it’s fine?! Like you’re fine?!”

You stare at him, words caught in your throat. How do you explain that you’ve already accepted this? That you’ve resigned yourself to whatever happens next because you refuse to let it be for nothing? That you’re not afraid, not of this, not anymore. But the truth is tangled up with too many things you can’t say, too many emotions you can’t unravel, and before you can find the words, something shifts in Jungwon’s expression.

His breath shudders, his hands trembling slightly as they reach for you. The motion is quick, almost frantic. He grips your face between his hands, fingers pressing into your cheeks, his forehead knocking against yours with a force that feels almost desperate. His breath is warm, uneven, breaking against your skin like waves crashing against a shore.

“You don’t get to say that.” His voice is a ragged whisper, but it’s laced with a fury that you’ve never heard from him before. “You don’t get to tell me it’s okay. Because it’s not.”

You don’t move. You can’t. Jungwon is struggling to hold it together. You can feel it in the way his shoulders tremble with the force of his emotions, his grip too tight, like he’s trying to anchor you to him, to keep you from slipping away.

Slowly, carefully, you reach up with your remaining hand and place it over his, feeling the tension in his fingers, the desperation in his touch. You squeeze gently. “Jungwon.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Just keeps staring at you like he’s trying to burn your image into his memory.

“You’re right,” you admit, your voice barely a whisper. “It’s not okay. I was foolish. I shouldn’t have gone off like that. I should’ve… I should’ve listened. I should’ve trusted you. I’m sorry.”

“No.” His response is immediate, almost desperate. His eyes widen, raw and searching, the pain in them so evident it makes your chest ache. “No, no, no. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have taken my frustrations out on you. You were doing what you thought was right. And I— I wasn’t there. I couldn’t protect you.”

You shake your head, the motion weak and unsteady. “You can’t protect me from everything. That’s not fair to you, and it’s not fair to me.”

He swallows hard, his gaze dropping to where his fingers twist together like he’s trying to wring the guilt out of his own bones. “Still… I should’ve been there for you. I should’ve kept you safe. And I didn’t. I’m sorry.” His voice is barely above a whisper now, breaking with each word like a confession he’s been holding back for too long.

For a moment, the two of you sit there in silence, breathing through the cracks and the grief and the terrible, crushing relief of still being here. Still being alive. You can feel his presence beside you, solid and real, his warmth bleeding into the coldness that has settled over your skin.

Then, slowly, Jungwon shifts closer, his hand reaching for yours, his fingers lacing through yours with a tenderness that nearly undoes you. His touch is cautious, like he’s afraid you might break under the weight of it.

He leans in, closing the gap between you, pressing his lips to yours so gently it feels like he’s trying to kiss away the pain, to erase the hurt he thinks he caused. His lips are warm, soft, trembling against yours like a prayer left unfinished.

His lips linger against yours, fragile and uncertain, like he’s trying to imprint this moment into something permanent—something real. You can feel the tremor in his touch, the hesitation tangled with desperation. It’s like he’s terrified you’ll disappear the second he pulls away. And maybe you are too.

Your eyes slip shut, drowning out everything but the warmth of his mouth against yours, the press of his forehead resting gently against yours. His breath mingles with yours, uneven and shallow, like he’s afraid that breathing too deeply might shatter whatever delicate thread is keeping you here, with him.

You feel the press of his fingers squeezing yours, a little too tight, as if he’s trying to anchor you to him. Like he thinks if he holds on tight enough, the universe won’t be able to rip you away. The heat of his palm against yours sends a shiver through you, a grounding touch in the midst of all this madness.

When he finally pulls back, his eyes are bloodshot, his cheeks damp. You don’t even know when he started crying. He must not have realised it either because he looks at you like you’re the one who’s breaking, like you’re the one who needs saving.

His thumb swipes clumsily over your cheek, catching tears you didn’t know were there. You’re crying, too. You’re both crying. Everything feels raw and exposed, stripped down to nothing but bruised nerves and shattered breaths.

“I’m so scared of losing you.” His voice is cracked, splintered with something vulnerable and jagged. “I tried so hard to protect you, to keep you safe… but I couldn’t. And I keep thinking… what if it’s not enough? What if I’m not enough?”

The words pour out of him like a wound ripped open, all his fears and failures spilling into the air between you. And it’s painful to hear, to see him like this—so torn apart, so desperate to make things right when all you’ve ever wanted was for him to simply be there.

“It was never about being enough,” you murmur, your voice trembling, your chest tight. “You’ve always been enough, Jungwon. Always. It’s me who kept pushing you away, who kept trying to do everything alone because I was too scared to let you in. Too scared that if I needed you… and you were gone… it would break me.”

His breath stutters, eyes widening like your words just cut him down the middle. You can feel the way his shoulders slump, like he’s crumbling under the weight of something neither of you can control.

“I was reckless,” you continue, forcing the words out even as your throat tightens. “I was so focused on trying to protect all of you that I didn’t even think about what it would do to you if I…” Your voice cracks, and you have to swallow hard before you can continue. “If I didn’t come back.”

A pained noise escapes him, something between a sob and a gasp. His fingers tighten around yours, knuckles white with the force of his grip. “Don’t say that. Don’t—don’t even think like that. You came back. You’re here. You’re—”

He breaks off, his voice cracking, his eyes glassy with unshed tears. You can see the way he’s struggling to keep himself together, to hold back the tide of emotions threatening to consume him. And it’s almost too much—to see him like this, to know that your recklessness has left him so utterly broken.

“I know,” you whisper, the words trembling on your lips. “I’m here. I’m still here.”

But you don’t say the rest. You don’t tell him that you don’t know if you’ll stay. You don’t tell him that the infection might already be spreading through your veins, that this might all be borrowed time. You can’t. Not when he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded.

Instead, you reach up and brush your fingers against his cheek, wiping away the tears still clinging to his skin. His eyes flutter shut at the contact, his shoulders sagging as if your touch alone is enough to loosen the knots of tension twisted through his body.

You stay like that for a moment, your hand cradling his face, his breath trembling against your palm. It’s a fragile, fleeting moment—one that could break apart at any second. But for now, it’s enough.

You let out a shaky breath and pull your hand away, your fingers feeling cold in the absence of his warmth. Jungwon’s eyes open, and the pain there is still raw and bleeding, but there’s something else too. Something like determination.

“I can’t lose you,” he whispers, his voice fractured but laced with a desperate resolve, like he’s trying to will those words into reality.

“You won’t,” you manage to choke out, your voice trembling but certain. You’re not sure if you believe it yourself, but it doesn’t feel like a lie. Even if the worst happens—even if your body gives out—you know a part of you will always be with him. You’ll never truly leave him, not in the ways that matter.

A chill snakes down your spine, settling into your bones despite the blanket wrapped tightly around your body. Your teeth chatter involuntarily, the shivers wracking through you in waves. You must look like death itself, but you can’t bring yourself to care. Everything feels too heavy, too sharp. The world pressing down on you in all the wrong ways.

Without a word, Sunoo carefully slips a few instant heating packs from the MREs under your blanket. The warmth seeps through gradually, cutting through the chill. You offer him a weak smile, your gratitude clear even if you don’t have the strength to voice it. He nods back, his eyes clouded with worry.

“Jungwon.” Your voice is thin, trembling, but it’s enough to draw his attention.

“Hm?” He shifts closer instinctively, his body turning to face you, eyes locked onto yours with unwavering focus.

You lean into him, resting your head against his shoulder. It’s a familiar gesture, one that feels safe and steady even in the midst of everything else falling apart. He adjusts his position immediately, angling himself so you can settle against him comfortably. You feel his arm circle around your back, his touch gentle, protective.

“I’m sleepy,” you murmur, the words slurring slightly. “Will you sing me to sleep?”

His shoulders tense, and for a moment, he’s utterly still. You can hear the faint hitch in his breath, see the hesitation flicker in his eyes. There’s a long, heavy silence stretching between you. The only other sounds are the distant groans of the dead outside, the scrape of their feet against the ground.

You think you’ve asked for too much. That he’ll refuse. That he can’t find his voice when he’s barely holding himself together. But then—

He sings. And everything else—pain, fear, doubt—fades into a dull hum as his voice wraps around you like a cocoon. His singing is soft, unsteady at first, like he’s not sure if he’s doing it right, but then it smooths out, the melody gentle and haunting.

I remember tears streaming down your face When I said, “I’ll never let you go” When all those shadows almost killed your light

His voice is soft, barely more than a whisper, but it reaches you with startling clarity. It’s raw, tender, stripped down, like it’s not just a song but a plea. A promise he’s trying to etch into your bones, to keep you grounded, to keep you here. And you cling to it. To him. 

You can’t explain it—how his voice feels like fresh wildflowers blooming in the dead of winter, a warmth that cuts through the chill of the night. It’s soothing, cradling you in something that feels almost like peace.

I remember you said "Don't leave me here alone" But all that's dead and gone and passed Tonight

The others are quiet, their movements stilled. The faint glow of the lantern casts shadows across their faces, but you can still see the exhaustion etched into every line, the battles they’re fighting within their own minds. Even they seem to draw some measure of comfort from the sound of Jungwon’s voice.

Just close your eyes The sun is going down You’ll be alright No one can hurt you now

The vibration of his chest against your cheek is a steady, grounding rhythm. And as he sings, your eyelids grow heavier, your breathing slows, your body sinking further into his warmth. You let yourself drift, let his voice carry you somewhere else, somewhere safe.

You imagine the two of you sitting on the rooftop, legs dangling over the edge, the air cool but not cold. Your head rests on his shoulder, just like this. The sky is painted in hues of orange and pink, the sun setting gently over the camp. The dead are distant, irrelevant, nothing more than shadows on the periphery of a world that doesn’t matter.

Come morning light, You and I’ll be safe and sound.

As his voice drifts off, the last note hanging in the air like a whisper, you feel your breathing begin to even out. The pain is still there, lurking beneath the surface, but it’s dulled now, muffled by the warmth of his presence, by the lull of his singing.

“Thank you,” you mumble, your voice barely a thread of sound.

Jungwon’s fingers brush against yours, his touch delicate, careful. “Anything for you,” he whispers, the words thick and heavy with emotion.

And with that, you let yourself drift, surrendering to the dark, knowing that if you wake up—if you get through this—he’ll be right there, holding you just as tightly in his arms. Where you’ll hopefully feel safe and sound.

It’s a strange, surreal feeling. Dying. Or maybe not dying. Not yet, at least. You’re not sure where you stand on that precipice between life and death, but it feels like you’re hovering somewhere in between, suspended in a place where time stretches and folds in on itself.

You know you’re unconscious. You can’t move, can’t speak, can’t even open your eyes. But your awareness is still there, fragmented and hazy but present. You can feel things. Not clearly, but enough to know you haven’t crossed over to whatever’s waiting on the other side.

You feel the sensation of being lifted, your body handled with a gentleness that almost surprises you. Strong arms beneath you, cradling you with a care so profound it leaves an ache in your chest. You feel warmth when it comes, washing over you in brief, fleeting waves that seep into your skin like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.

Fingers brush over your face, cool and steady, tracing patterns against your feverish skin. You can’t tell who it is, but you can feel the touch, the way it lingers like an unspoken promise. Other hands move along your body—cleaning the grime and blood from your skin, changing the bandage on your arm with delicate precision. You feel the sharp sting of antiseptic, the pressure of gauze being secured, the subtle shifts of weight as someone tends to you, over and over again.

You want to thank them. To open your eyes and tell them that you feel their presence, that you know they’re trying. But the words are trapped somewhere deep inside of you, tangled and unreachable. Your lips refuse to move. Your throat remains closed off, like it’s forgotten how to form even the simplest syllables.

Is this what coma patients go through? Is this what it feels like to be stuck in your own body, powerless and mute, even as the world continues to turn around you?

You hear voices sometimes. They drift in and out, muffled and distorted like they’re coming from underwater. They’re talking to you, you think. But the words blur together, bleeding into a tangle of incoherent sound. You try to grasp at them, try to pull meaning from the noise, but it slips through your fingers like smoke.

There’s something else, too. A presence that lingers longer than the others. Someone who speaks to you more than the rest. The tone is familiar, threaded with desperation and something else you can’t quite name. Grief. Fear. Hope. Maybe all of them, maybe none. But it’s there, always there, like a thread tied around your heart, tugging you back toward the surface.

You don’t know how much time has passed. Hours. Days. Weeks. It all bleeds together in the darkness, in the endless nothingness that presses against your consciousness. You’re starting to get tired, when will this end?

The voices filter through the darkness, warped and distant, like they’re coming from the other end of a tunnel. But they’re clearer than before, threaded with urgency and something raw—grief, maybe, or desperation. Your mind clings to the sound, pulling the words apart, trying to make sense of them even as the fog threatens to drag you under again.

“You need to stop going off on your own. It’s not helping and it’s not going to do anything. They’re already gone.” The voice is steady, calm, but there’s a firmness to it, a caution wrapped in concern. You can’t place it, but something about it feels familiar.

“What if they come back?” The second voice is shaky, strained with the kind of fear that doesn’t fade with reassurance. 

“They won’t,” the first voice insists, its tone flat, resolute. But even you can hear the way the certainty falters, just barely, like the speaker is trying to convince himself as much as anyone else.

“What makes you so sure?” The desperation bleeds through, palpable and sharp. “What if they come back and someone else gets hurt? I can’t risk anyone else getting hurt. I’m already as fucked up as it is with Y/N. Her condition isn’t even improving and I fear what we forced her to endure only extended her suffering.” The voice cracks, and your chest tightens, a phantom ache curling around your ribs. You know that voice. You know the pain threading through it.

“Heeseung, did we make the right choice? Please tell me we made the right choice, fuck I—”

“Calm down.” Heeseung’s voice now, low and controlled, trying to slice through the panic. “No one else is getting hurt. A is dead. They won’t come back. You made sure of that, remember?”

A silence stretches out, heavy and oppressive. You can practically feel the weight of it pressing down on you, thickening the air until it feels like you’re drowning.

But Heeseung’s words echo in your mind. A is dead. They won’t come back. He made sure of that.

And there’s only one person he could be speaking to. Only one person who would tear himself apart over your suffering, who would unravel so completely under the weight of guilt and fear and desperate, clinging hope.

Jungwon.

Your heart clenches, but your body remains unresponsive, your mind drifting in and out of coherence. You try to reach for him, to push through the darkness, to let him know you can hear him. That you’re still here. But all you manage is a twitch of your fingers, a slight movement so small it’s swallowed by the void before anyone even notices.

But you keep trying. Because if Jungwon’s out there, tearing himself apart, then you have to find a way back. For him. For all of them.

The sudden ache that slices through your skull feels like someone drove a knife into your temple and twisted. It jolts you awake, your eyes snapping open with a sharp intake of breath. The sensation is violent, like you’ve been ripped from the clutches of a nightmare, thrust into consciousness without warning.

For a moment, everything is too bright, too harsh. The sunlight streams through the cracked blinds of the convenience store window, painting jagged patterns across the floor.

It’s warm, too warm, and it settles over your skin like a phantom touch—too real and not real enough all at once.

Instinctively, you try to raise your hand to shield your eyes, but your wrist jerks against something cold and unyielding. Bound. To a pipe. The realisation snaps you back to the present, and frustration coils hot and sharp in your chest as you struggle against the restraints. Your fingers twitch, but then the brutal, crushing reality slams into you—you only have one hand now.

You swallow down the bitterness clawing at your throat, the taste of defeat and something sour that you can’t quite name. Great. Just great.

Your throat is dry, sandpaper against itself, and when you try to call out, your voice splinters into nothing. Just a rasp of air, useless and cracked from disuse. The more you try, the worse it gets.

Panic wells up inside of you, desperate and clinging, but before it can take root, you catch the faintest sound of voices approaching. Familiar voices.

“I’ll be right there, just need to change into some clean clothes.” The voice is clear, casual, almost too normal for the chaos your body feels trapped in. Jay. His tone is light, but there’s a strain to it.

You hear the creak of the convenience store door being pushed open, and you catch a glimpse of him stepping through, but his eyes are trained somewhere else, attention diverted.

You can’t speak, can’t call out, so you do the only thing you can think of. You kick your leg against the floor, the dull thud echoing through the silence.

Jay’s head snaps toward you, his eyes widening, and his gun is raised before you even register the movement. The wariness in his gaze is immediate, sharp, but then recognition washes over him, relief crashing through his expression like a tidal wave.

“Oh my God, you’re awake.” His voice is breathless, disbelieving, and he practically trips over himself as he rushes to your side, dropping to his knees beside you. His hands fumble with the knot binding your wrist to the pipe, fingers trembling slightly, but he manages to free you, his grip gentle as he helps you sit up.

Your body feels wrong, hollowed out and strung together with threadbare strings, but you force yourself to lean against him, letting him take some of your weight as you shakily lift yourself off the ground. The muscles in your shoulders protest the movement, sore and strained, but you grit your teeth and push through it.

“Here, have some water.” Jay uncaps a bottle with one hand, his other arm still supporting you. He brings it to your lips, helping you take a few sips. The cool liquid hits your throat and you almost choke on it, coughing weakly, but you manage to swallow enough to soothe the dryness.

“Easy. Slow down,” he murmurs, concern etched into every line of his face. His eyes are searching yours, frantic and careful all at once, like he’s waiting for you to shatter before his very eyes. “Fuck, Y/N, we thought—”

He cuts himself off, voice cracking on the last word, and you feel the weight of it, the heaviness of everything he isn’t saying.

“Jay, how long was I out for?” You manage to rasp out, the words scraping against your throat like broken glass. Even forming a sentence feels like an insurmountable effort, your vocal cords strained and unused.

Jay’s eyes flit over your face, searching, as if trying to make sense of how you’re even speaking. His shoulders sag with a mixture of relief and something else—something darker, like guilt.

“Two weeks.” His voice is steady, but his eyes betray him. There’s a tightness to them, a rawness that makes your stomach twist. “You were out for two weeks.”

Two weeks. The words hit you like a punch to the chest.

Your mind reels, trying to grasp the reality of it. Two weeks lost to nothingness. Two weeks of hovering between life and death, of your body fighting a war you weren’t even conscious to endure. No wonder everything feels wrong—your muscles are stiff and unresponsive, your throat parched, your head pounding like it’s been split open and stitched back together with jagged threads.

Two weeks of them waiting. Of them not knowing if you’d wake up again. Of Jungwon—

“Where’s Jungwon?” The question tumbles out before you can stop it, the desperation in your voice painfully clear.

Jay’s eyes flicker with something unreadable, his mouth pressing into a thin line before he answers. “He’s… he’s out on patrol. He needed some air.” The hesitation in his voice is enough to set off every alarm in your mind, but you don't push it. Not yet.

A pang of guilt twists in your gut, the knowledge of what Jungwon must have gone through sinking in like a knife. You picture him, sitting beside you, day after day, waiting for you to wake up, clinging to whatever scraps of hope he could find.

“And the others?” You ask, the words spilling out before you can overthink them.

“They’ve been taking shifts watching over you,” Jay admits. “Making sure you were warm enough, making sure the wound didn’t get infected. Jake’s been changing the bandages every day. Heeseung’s been… holding everyone together. And the rest of us are trying to… rebuild.”

You blink, your vision blurring slightly as you process his words. They’d all been here. All of them. Holding the pieces together while you lay useless, unconscious.

“Why was I tied up?” Your gaze drifts to the pipe your wrist was bound to, a slight indentation visible on your skin.

Jay’s expression darkens, guilt flashing across his features. “Protocol. Just… just in case you turned. We couldn’t risk… we couldn’t risk you waking up and—” His voice cracks, the words caught somewhere between apology and regret.

“It’s fine,” you interrupt, your voice a little stronger now. “I get it.” And you do. They were trying to protect themselves. From you. From the possibility of you being something other than yourself when you woke up.

“Wait here, I’ll go get the others.” Jay stumbles to his feet, his movements awkward, his gaze flickering away from you like he’s hiding something. His attempt at nonchalance is laughable, the tension in his shoulders giving him away. You can’t shake the feeling that there’s more he’s not telling you, but before you can question him, he’s already pushing through the door.

Moments later, the sound of hurried footsteps echoes through the store, followed by a voice so loud it nearly startles you.

“Y/N!” Sunoo barrels through the doors like a man possessed, clutching a bowl of soup so tightly you’re amazed it hasn’t spilled all over the floor. His eyes are wide, his expression straddling the line between joy and disbelief. The others spill in behind him, their faces painted with the same frantic relief, like they need to see you conscious with their own eyes to believe it.

“Thank fucking God, you’re alive.” Heeseung releases a shuddering breath, his shoulders sagging as he settles down beside you, his hand finding your shoulder as if he needs to touch you to be sure you’re real.

Jake practically beams, his grin wide and unrestrained as he kneels beside you, his eyes locked on your arm—or what’s left of it. He’s examining the stump like it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, pride practically radiating off him.

It’s clear he’s been obsessively monitoring your condition, and you owe him your life for it.

Sunoo inches closer, carefully holding out the bowl of soup, his hands trembling slightly. “Here. Try to drink a little. It’s not much, but…” His voice wavers, but his determination is solid. You allow him to help you take a few sips, the warmth sliding down your throat like liquid gold.

“How are you feeling?” Sunghoon’s voice chimes in from the side, his expression cautious but hopeful.

You try to force a weak smile. “I’ve been better. My body feels like it’s not even mine.”

“It’s normal,” Jake says, his hand finding your forehead, his touch gentle and cool. “You were out for two weeks, after all.” He nods, satisfied. “Your fever’s gone down, though. That’s a good sign.”

“Hell, you actually survived a zombie bite.” Ni-ki huffs, his arms crossed over his chest, his smirk almost impressed. “That’s… wild.”

“Yay, lucky me.” The sarcasm comes out dry, but the familiar edge of humour sends a ripple of relief through the group. As if hearing you joke, no matter how weakly, means you’re still you.

For a moment, the room feels lighter, their laughter filling the air like a breath of fresh air after weeks of suffocating tension. But it doesn’t last. Because the question that’s been gnawing at you since you woke up hasn’t been answered.

“What happened?” you ask, your voice tight. “Where did the horde go?”

The shift in their demeanour is instant. Bodies tense, glances exchanged, words swallowed. There’s a heaviness to their silence, a hesitation that makes your stomach twist.

“Guys… where’s Jungwon?” The panic slips into your tone before you can reel it back. “Don’t tell me he’s—”

“God, no. He’s fine.” Jake rushes to reassure you, but his expression is strained, like the truth is something jagged he’s struggling to hold.

“After you passed out…” Heeseung begins, his voice low and careful. “I guess his emotions sort of overwhelmed him. He—he wanted every one of the dead to be gone. Every last one. It was like he couldn’t stand the idea of them being near you.”

“He went out on his own,” Heeseung continues, his eyes darkening with something that feels like guilt. “He wanted to open the gate to draw them away, but… it was already open. Whatever remained of A’s people, they fled. Jungwon spent the next two days leading the horde away from here. And he wouldn’t let any of us help him.”

“Two days,” you echo, your heart sinking. Jungwon’s name leaves your lips like a prayer, like a plea.

“He’s been hunting the rest of A’s people after that, the ones who managed to escape.” Sunoo’s voice cracks slightly. “He’d come back late, just to check on you. He’d sit beside you, take short naps, then leave again.”

“He’s not… he’s not himself,” Heeseung admits, his gaze shifting to the floor. “He’s blaming himself for what happened. And now… he’s tearing himself apart trying to fix it.”

The revelation settles over you like a cold, heavy weight. You can feel the tension in their faces, the worry etched into their expressions as they recount what happened. Jungwon, running himself ragged. Jungwon, fighting alone. Jungwon, refusing help and throwing himself at danger over and over again.

Sounds awfully like someone you know.

You look around the room, catching the strained expressions on everyone’s faces. They’ve all been watching this unfold, powerless to stop him, just as they were powerless to help you when you were dying. The guilt must be eating them alive.

“He’s still out there?” you ask, your voice coming out smaller than you intend.

Heeseung nods, his shoulders slumping. “He’s… he’s been relentless. He comes back just to make sure you’re breathing, to make sure you’re… still here. But he doesn’t stay. Not for long.”

“Where is he now?” Your stomach twists painfully, a combination of hunger, exhaustion, and something far worse—fear.

“We haven’t seen him since yesterday,” Jay admits, his voice trembling. “He said he was tracking some of A’s people. Trying to make sure none of them come back.”

“He’s going to get himself killed,” you whisper, horrified. “Why didn’t any of you stop him?”

“We tried,” Jay interjects, his tone defensive but layered with shame. “He wouldn’t listen. Just… shut us out. Every time we tried to help, he pushed us away. Like he’s punishing himself or something.”

“That sounds like him,” you murmur, your heart sinking. You feel the weight of it now, the sheer magnitude of what Jungwon’s been doing. What he’s been putting himself through because of you. Because of his failure to protect you.

You want to get up. You want to run out there and drag him back yourself, force him to see reason, to stop tearing himself apart. But your body is still weak, your muscles still shaky from the long sleep, your mind still foggy with fever and painkillers.

“Where did he go last?” you ask, fighting to keep your voice steady.

“We don’t know,” Ni-ki admits, eyes dropping to the floor. “He’s not exactly good at giving details before he storms off.”

“But he’ll be back,” Sunghoon adds, though even he sounds unsure. “He always comes back to check on you.”

You stare at the door, the silence stretching out, the air thick with unspoken fears. Jungwon is out there. Alone. Hunting ghosts and chasing vengeance. And the worst part? He’s doing it for you.

You insisted they bring you outside the convenience store, claiming you needed fresh air—something clean, something that didn’t reek of blood and antiseptic. But the truth is, you were slowly losing your mind cooped up inside that building, the walls pressing in closer every hour, the air growing stale and heavy.

It wasn’t just the confinement—it was the not knowing. The isolation. The feeling of being cut off from everything happening beyond the convenience store doors.

You could hear the faint, muffled sounds of activity outside, the occasional barked order, the dragging of something across the pavement. But no one would tell you what was happening, not really. And you couldn’t stand the uncertainty.

The thought of being kept in the dark while the others were out there, exposed, dealing with the aftermath of everything that had happened.

So you’d demanded to be brought outside, your voice sharp and unyielding until they relented. They’d been hesitant, their concern clear in the way their eyes darted between you and each other, like they weren’t sure if moving you would make things worse. But you’d been relentless, and eventually, they caved.

Now, as Sunoo carefully lowers you into one of those old, rickety wheeled chairs they’d scavenged from behind the counter, you feel the cool air prickling against your skin, the sunlight filtering through the clouds like a balm. It’s not clean air by any means—still thick with the cloying scent of blood and decay—but it’s different. It’s real. It’s enough to keep the madness at bay.

And yet, as the wheels creak and groan beneath you, and Sunoo pushes you further into the open air, you realise that knowing what’s happening isn’t always a relief.

Because the aftermath of the battle stretches out before you like a twisted, grotesque canvas—blood smeared across the concrete, darkened and congealed where the sun has begun to bake it into the ground. 

But worse than that is the silence. The absence of groans and snarls from the dead. It’s all been replaced by the laboured breathing and strained grunts of your friends as they work. And that’s when you realise. Even though you wanted to know what was happening, even though you’d fought to be brought outside—it doesn’t make it any easier to face.

The others are working with grim efficiency, their movements mechanical, burdened with exhaustion but fuelled by necessity. They’re piling the bodies into the back of the van. Blood smears the metal doors and the ground beneath it, dark and sticky where it pools in shallow depressions.

Sunghoon and Ni-ki are doing most of the heavy lifting, their shoulders hunched, jaws clenched as they haul corpses over their backs and dump them into the van. The thud of lifeless weight against metal sends a shiver down your spine.

You catch glimpses of A’s people among the carnage—bodies twisted and torn, their limbs splayed at unnatural angles, eyes lifeless and empty. The horde had done its work well, the evidence strewn across the earth like discarded remains of a nightmare. 

You try not to look too closely at their faces but it’s impossible not to see them. A’s people. The horde. Everything blurred together in death, no distinction left between monster and man.

“They’re going to burn them,” Sunoo says, voice low and weary as he pushes you closer to the van. “We didn't know what to do with them. But they started smelling real bad so Heeseung suggested to…yeah.” His tone is flat, resigned, like he’s already distanced himself from the horror of it all.

You swallow thickly, the air tasting of gasoline and decay. Your gaze locks onto the pile of bodies—they are stacked like firewood, limbs twisted and broken, some barely held together by the flesh that remains. It’s a horrifying sight, but somehow you can’t tear your eyes away.

“Guess it’s better this way.” Your voice is a hoarse rasp, the words scraping against your throat. “No more traces. No more reminders.”

Sunoo’s expression flickers, his gaze sharpening as he looks down at you. “Nothing’s ever gone for good,” he murmurs. “We just… pretend it is.”

The heaviness in his words cuts through you, a bleak truth that settles like lead in your chest. Pretending. Isn’t that what you’ve all been doing? Pretending you’re safe. Pretending you’re strong enough. Pretending you’re not terrified of what comes next.

And as you watch them load another body into the van—this one smaller, thinner, a girl who couldn’t have been much older than you were when the world went to hell—you realise Sunoo is right. The bodies might be gone. The blood might be washed away. But nothing is ever truly gone.

You’re all just pretending.

The minutes blur into hours, a cruel, dragging passage of time where every creak of the door, every shuffle of footsteps sends your heart plummeting and soaring in equal measure. The others try to distract you—Sunoo attempts to feed you more soup, Jake checks your temperature again, Ni-ki keeps making offhand comments to lighten the mood. But nothing cuts through the anxiety clinging to your chest. Nothing numbs the gnawing ache of Jungwon’s absence.

He’s been gone too long.

You force yourself to stay awake, eyes fixed on the door like if you look away for even a moment, he’ll slip past and disappear for good. You hate the way your body feels so fragile, like you could shatter if you so much as breathe wrong. You hate that you can’t be out there with him, helping him, keeping him safe. Instead, you’re stuck here—waiting, helpless, counting the seconds as they bleed into one another.

Evening stretches into dusk, the world outside dimming as the sun begins its slow descent. Shadows creep along the walls, the air growing colder, the faint groans of the undead in the distance a grim reminder of the horrors beyond the barricade.

He’ll come back, you tell yourself, over and over again. He has to. He always comes back.

But as the hours continue to slip away, doubt begins to coil around your heart, icy and relentless.

Heeseung is the first to suggest you get some rest, his voice gentle but firm as he tries to coax you away from the door. But you refuse. You can’t sleep. You can’t even sit still. 

You try to imagine what Jungwon must be going through, the battles he’s been fighting—both with the dead and with himself. And it hurts. Because he shouldn’t be out there, tearing himself apart for you. Not for something that was your own fault to begin with.

The sun has almost fully dipped beneath the horizon when you hear it—the sound of the gate creaking open.

Your breath catches, and for a moment, you think you’ve imagined it. But then the others are stirring, their heads snapping toward the door, their eyes wide and hopeful.

You push yourself to your feet, the world tilting slightly as your legs tremble beneath you. The dizziness is immediate, but you force yourself forward, stumbling toward the door just as it swings open.

He’s there.

Jungwon stands in the fading light, his silhouette ragged and hunched, blood splattered across his clothes and dirt smeared across his face. His eyes are wild, haunted—like he’s been to hell and back and barely clawed his way free.

The moment his gaze lands on you, something inside him shatters. His shoulders sag, his knees nearly buckling. But he doesn’t hesitate. He crosses the distance between you in seconds, his arms encircling you, pulling you into him with a force so desperate it nearly knocks the breath from your lungs.

“Y/N.” His voice breaks over your name, the syllables raw and cracked. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his entire body trembling as if he’s holding back a flood of emotions he can’t even begin to contain.

You feel his tears against your skin, hot and unrelenting. His grip on you is almost painful, fingers digging into your back like if he lets go, you’ll vanish right before his eyes.

“You’re okay,” he chokes out, the words tumbling from his lips in a frantic rush. “You’re okay. You’re awake. I—God, I thought—” His voice breaks completely, his breath hitching as a sob tears its way through him. “I thought you’d never wake up.”

You cling to him just as fiercely, your arm wrapped around him as tightly as you can manage. “I’m here,” you whisper, your own voice thick with emotion. “I’m okay.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his gaze sweeping over your face like he’s trying to memorise every detail, every line, every scar. His eyes are red-rimmed, swollen, his expression so broken it nearly crushes you.

“I’m sorry,” he rasps, his fingers trembling as they trace the line of your jaw, his touch feather-light, as if he’s afraid you’ll break under his hands. “I should’ve been here when you woke up. I should’ve—”

“No,” you cut him off, shaking your head. “You did what you had to do. You kept them safe. You kept me safe.”

His shoulders quake with the force of his sobs, his forehead dropping against yours as he struggles to catch his breath. “I thought I lost you,” he whispers. “I thought I’d lost you forever.”

“I’m here, Jungwon. I’m alive. I’m alive.” Your voice cracks, splintering like glass under too much pressure. And somehow, saying it out loud makes it feel real. Like the words themselves are anchoring you to the present, tethering you to something solid and true. You’re alive. The truth of it thrums beneath your skin, a steady beat you’d almost forgotten how to hear.

Jungwon’s eyes widen, his breath stalling like he’s forgotten how to draw air. His fingers tighten around yours, his grip fierce and trembling. “You’re alive,” he echoes, voice raw, like he’s trying to convince himself as much as you. 

“God, Y/N… you’re alive.” His voice breaks entirely, the words dissolving into a strangled sob.

You wrap your arm around him again, fingers tangling in the fabric of his shirt, clutching at him like he’s the only real thing left in the world. “I’m here,” you repeat, the words thick with tears. “I’m here, Jungwon. I’m not going anywhere.”

He trembles against you, his shoulders shaking as he lets himself break, lets himself feel every ounce of pain and relief and desperate, aching hope. And for a moment, it’s just the two of you, tangled together against the cold, cruel world outside. Two people clinging to each other like lifelines, refusing to let go.

And despite the ache in your body, the sheer exhaustion ravaging through your veins like fire, it doesn’t even compare to the yearning. The longing that pulses through you stronger than pain, sharper than fear. It’s like everything you’ve endured, every broken bone, every drop of blood spilled, has only been leading you to this moment.

His hands are trembling as they cradle your face, his touch impossibly gentle even as desperation trembles beneath his fingertips.

He presses his forehead to yours, his breath mingling with your own, both of you drawing in ragged, uneven gasps like you’re trying to remember how to breathe.

And then, his mouth finds yours, the kiss urgent and desperate and filled with everything he can’t say. His lips are rough and unsteady, his hands cradling your face as if you’re something precious, something he’s terrified of breaking.

“Jungwon…” His name leaves your lips like a plea, like a prayer, your voice barely more than a broken whisper.

“I’m here,” he breathes, his words shaking but fierce in their sincerity. “I’m here. I’m not leaving you.”

And you believe him. God, you believe him. Because you can feel it in the way his arms tighten around you, in the way his eyes burn with something deeper than relief—something like love, something like hope.

You press your face into the crook of his neck, breathing him in, grounding yourself in his presence. Because no matter how broken you feel, no matter how shattered and battered and barely holding on, Jungwon’s warmth fills the cracks. His presence mends the parts of you that have been fraying at the edges for so long.

When he finally pulls away, his eyes are searching yours, his breathing ragged and uneven. “Don’t ever do that to me again,” he says, his voice trembling. “Please. Don’t ever scare me like that again.”

You nod frantically, the motion sending fresh tears streaming down your cheeks as you cling to him, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt like it’s the only solid thing in a world gone mad. “I promise,” you whisper, the words spilling out with a fervency that feels like both a lie and a vow.

But even as the promise leaves your lips, you know it’s one you may never be able to keep. Because this world is a cruel, unpredictable place, where survival is measured in moments and safety is an illusion that can be torn away in an instant. And yet, despite the impossibility of it all, you want so desperately for it to be true.

Still, it’s a promise you’ll try your hardest to uphold. Even if you lose all your limbs, even if your body breaks and bends and folds beneath the weight of this relentless, unforgiving world, you’ll try. You’ll keep fighting for him. For all of them. For yourself. Even if every breath feels like a rebellion against death itself.

Jungwon tucks you in that night, his body angled towards yours as if trying to close every inch of distance between you. He lies on his arm, propped beneath his head, while his other hand gently threads through your hair, fingertips brushing tenderly against your cheek. His gaze is unwavering, his eyes tracing every detail of your face like he’s memorising you—like he’s still struggling to accept that this moment is real.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you murmur, a soft smile tugging at your lips as you nuzzle into the warmth of his touch. His fingers linger against your skin, delicate and reverent.

“I was just thinking how nice it would’ve been if we’d met in the world before all this,” he admits, his voice barely more than a whisper, each word weighed down by longing. The vulnerability in his tone is disarming. And you know exactly what he means. You’d had those thoughts before, fleeting and bittersweet. Wondering what it would’ve been like to meet him, to meet all of them, before the world tore itself apart.

“But if we did,” he continues, his eyes searching yours, “we wouldn’t have met each other the way we did. And I don’t know how I feel about that. I know I shouldn��t be happy that this is our reality. That everything’s gone to shit. But at the same time…” He trails off, a quiet, breathless laugh escaping him. “I’m so fucking happy you’re here. With us. With me.”

Your expression softens, your eyes glistening in the dim light. “Me too,” you whisper. And for a moment, the weight of the world fades away, leaving only the two of you tangled together in the fragile glow of something like hope.

“Gosh, not to break your bubble but some of us have been hauling dead bodies the entire day. Go to sleep.” Ni-ki’s voice cuts through the quiet, his tone laced with mock irritation as it echoes from the other side of the store.

You can’t help but let out a laugh, the sound coming out cracked and uneven but genuine all the same. Jungwon’s lips twitch into a smirk, the corners of his eyes crinkling with amusement.

“Sorry, Ni-ki. We’ll keep our heartfelt declarations to a minimum,” Jungwon calls back, his voice lighter than it’s been in days.

“Please do,” Ni-ki grumbles. “Some of us actually need sleep to function. Unlike you two, who apparently run on emotional angst and melodrama.”

You snort, burying your face against Jungwon’s shoulder to muffle the sound. “He’s got a point.”

“Yeah, well. He can complain all he wants.” Jungwon’s arm tightens around you, pulling you closer. “I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

Ni-ki mutters something about “disgusting couples” under his breath, but you can hear the smile in his voice. And as you drift off to sleep, cocooned in Jungwon’s warmth, you swear you catch the faintest hint of Ni-ki’s laughter from across the room.

The days blur together, bleeding into weeks. The aftermath of the battle is a bitter memory, but the world doesn’t stop for grief or guilt. It moves on, drags you with it, demanding blood and sweat and whatever scraps of hope you can muster. 

The camp becomes something of a sanctuary, though the scars of what happened are still fresh. But with each passing sunrise, life finds a way to grow amid the ashes. It’s not perfect. Far from it. But it’s something. It’s yours.

Heeseung and Sunghoon have turned the gas station’s old garage into a makeshift workshop, fabricating weapons, fixing broken tools, and finding ways to reinforce the perimeter.

Ni-ki spends most of his time tinkering with the generator they managed to find, his hands stained with grease and dirt, his eyes constantly scanning the area for new materials to scavenge. He’s been working on fixing the lights inside the convenience store—solar-powered lamps that offer a faint, flickering glow through the darkest hours of the night.

Meanwhile, Sunoo has somehow managed to coax the earth into giving life. He and Jay have cultivated a small patch of vegetables in the cleared lot behind the station, green shoots from seeds they found in the backroom poke defiantly through the cracked soil. The produce is meagre, but it’s something. Something they’ve managed to grow from nothing. And if you’re being honest, it’s a refreshing change from the endless supply of canned food you’ve all grown so sick of.

Jake, on the other hand, is tirelessly working to set up a small infirmary in the backrooms of the convenience store. It’s a crude setup—scraps of old bed sheets strung up to create partitions, tables pushed together and covered with whatever clean material he can find. It’s not much. But it’s something. And Jake has never been one to settle for nothing. 

You caught him once, hunched over the counter, scribbling notes in the margins of a medical textbook he managed to scavenge. He’s been trying to teach himself more advanced medical techniques—how to stitch deeper wounds, how to recognise infections before they become life-threatening, how to keep fevers from turning fatal. It’s admirable, if not a little reckless. But then, you suppose recklessness is a trait all of you share now.

You’re still healing, both physically and emotionally. Your stump is scarred and sore, but Jake assures you it’s healing well. You find yourself contributing in small ways, like offering the others water when they forget to hydrate themselves or helping to brainstorm plans and routes on their next expedition, all while still learning how to adapt to the limitations of your new body. And while it’s agonisingly slow, it’s progress.

And then there’s Jungwon.

Jungwon stays by your side most days, helping you adjust, never straying too far even when the others urge him to rest. He’s different now—quieter, his gaze haunted but still fierce. He’s more cautious, more deliberate. But there’s something else, too. A softness to him that wasn’t there before. Or maybe it was, and you just hadn’t seen it.

Most times, you find yourselves back on the rooftop. The place has become your refuge—an escape where the world’s chaos fades into a distant hum and it’s just the two of you, wrapped in the quiet of the night, the stars above like scattered fragments of a world that’s long since crumbled. It’s where you go when everything just feels too much, when the faces of the dead won’t leave you alone, when you need to feel like something still matters.

He’ll hold your hand and whisper reassurances you both desperately need to believe. And you’ll share stories—small, inconsequential details about your lives before everything fell apart. It feels like you can almost pretend the world is still intact. That the only thing that exists is you and Jungwon, just existing in the same space, breathing the same air. sharing the same silence, and reclaiming pieces of yourself you thought you’d lost forever. 

You remember a conversation you had with Jungwon a few days after you woke up. It was one of those nights on the rooftop, where the air was cool and crisp, the stars sharp and clear against the darkness.

It had been a conversation you wouldn’t forget, not because of what was said but because of what it meant.

“You never told me how you managed to lead the horde away,” you say, your voice quiet, almost drowned out by the gentle rustle of the breeze.

Jungwon’s gaze flickers towards you, the faintest hint of a smile playing at his lips. But it’s not a happy smile. It’s something else—something strained and distant, like he’s trying to find the right words to explain the inexplicable.

“I don’t even remember half of it…” he admits, his voice thick, roughened by exhaustion he hasn’t yet shaken off. “I was just… making a whole lot of noise to lure them out. Screaming, banging on metal, anything to get their attention.” His fingers trace absent patterns along the rooftop surface, his eyes never quite meeting yours. “Then I just started walking… for two days straight I was just walking back towards the city.”

Your breath catches. You’ve heard fragments of what he did from the others, but hearing it from him—hearing the quiet resignation in his voice—it twists something deep within you.

“It started raining somewhere in the middle,” he continues, his tone growing distant, like he’s reliving it all over again. “I was cold, exhausted, fuck, I almost collapsed right there and then. My legs were giving out, my head was spinning… but I knew if I did, if I fell, I wouldn’t be able to come back to you. So I sucked it up.”

You’re staring at him now, eyes wide, the air suddenly feeling too thick, too sharp. The thought of him out there alone, fighting against the world itself just to keep you safe—it’s almost too much to bear.

“The horde was just mindlessly walking behind me,” Jungwon continues, his voice tightening. “Occasionally something else would catch their attention and I had to shoot a few bullets to get it back. That was risky… drawing attention like that. But it worked. They kept following me.”

He pauses, the weight of his own words pressing down on him like a lead blanket. “Eventually, I passed by the village. Remember the two people we left behind?”

You nod, a cold dread settling in your stomach. You remember the desperation in their voices, the hollow looks in their eyes as they pleaded with you to stay. And you remember leaving them behind anyway.

“They were there,” Jungwon says, voice hollow. “One of them had half their face chewed out and the other… the other had their guts hanging out of their body. They were just… walking. No purpose. No sense of anything. Just… dead.”

The silence that follows is brutal. You don’t realise you’ve stopped breathing until your lungs start to burn.

“I eventually reached the city,” Jungwon continues, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “I hid out in a random store. Waited for it to clear out a little before I started making my way back.”

“Jungwon…” Your voice trembles, your chest tightening with something that feels too close to grief. “I’m so sorry…”

“Why are you apologising?” Jungwon’s eyes finally find yours, a flicker of frustration mingling with something softer. “You didn’t make me do it. I chose to do it. And you know what? When I passed by the village again, I noticed a small patch of wildflowers growing at the side of the curb.”

His lips twitch into a small, self-deprecating smile, and his laugh is more air than sound. “Stupid me thought it was a sign that you’d woken up, so I started running back. Like a maniac. I tripped over some broken glass, nearly twisted my ankle, but I just kept going.”

He’s laughing, but the sound is hollow, edged with a madness born from desperation. You stare at him, your own chest tightening with something raw and painful, wondering how he could find humour in something so devastating. “How are you laughing like you didn’t almost die?”

Jungwon shrugs, the motion careless but his eyes—his eyes are anything but. “Trust me, after experiencing your near death… everything is laughable.”

It had taken you a moment to realise what he meant. That the thought of losing you had been so unbearable, so incomprehensibly horrifying, that everything else paled in comparison. That even his own suffering had become insignificant when measured against the possibility of losing you.

You remember how you had reached for him then, your hand finding his, fingers intertwining like they belonged there. How he had squeezed your hand so tightly it almost hurt, like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

The two of you had sat there in silence, the cool night air brushing against your skin. And for that moment, it didn’t matter that the world was rotting. It didn’t matter that you were both scarred and afraid and haunted by ghosts you couldn’t outrun.

All that mattered was that you were still there. Still breathing. Still fighting.

You’ve both changed, that much is clear. But you’re trying to grow from it, not let the darkness consume you. Jungwon has his own demons to battle. The rage he harbours against A’s people is still there, burning beneath the surface. But it’s not consuming him anymore. Not entirely. He’s found something else to fight for. Something more important than revenge.

There’s a careful balance now, one of acceptance and compromise. You still argue, still struggle against the stubbornness that pulls you apart like opposing forces. There are days when he snaps, frustration boiling over when things don’t go as planned. And there are days when you retreat into yourself, overwhelmed by the reality of your own limitations. But you talk. You let yourselves be honest, raw. And somehow, it makes all the difference.

You think about the garden often. It’s a quiet thought, one that creeps into your mind during the silences between breaths, when the world feels steady and the nightmares are held at bay. You still remember the metaphor you conjured for him—wildflowers breaking through cracks, roots winding their way through stone, claiming life where there shouldn’t be any.

But now, you realise it’s not just about him. It’s about all of you.

It’s in the way Sunoo coax life from the soil. It’s in Jake’s quiet determination as he scours books. It’s in Ni-ki’s resourcefulness as he scavenges supplies, building something from nothing. It’s in Sunghoon and Heeseung’s tireless efforts to keep everyone safe, their strength unyielding even when exhaustion clings to their bones.

It’s in Jay’s stubbornness, his dedication to protecting what’s left of this fractured family, even when his own doubts threaten to swallow him whole.

And it’s in Jungwon. The boy whose name means ‘garden’. The boy who, despite the darkness pressing in from every side, still reaches for the light. Still fights to grow, to thrive, to protect the things he’s come to care about.

You think of all the times you tried to pull away, tried to distance yourself from the tangled web of connections that’s formed between you all. You think of the nights you spent on the rooftop with Jungwon, trading secrets and fears like offerings, daring to believe that maybe you weren’t as alone as you thought.

The truth is, you’ve taken root here. Somehow, against all logic and reason, you’ve let yourself be part of something. You’ve let yourself care. And as much as you’ve tried to convince yourself otherwise, you can’t keep running from that.

Because gardens aren’t meant to be contained. They’re meant to grow wild and untamed, to spread and intertwine and thrive in the most unexpected places. And maybe—just maybe—that’s what this is.

A wild, tangled, beautiful mess of people who’ve found each other in a world that’s done everything to tear them apart.

Now, you climb up the ladder with more ease, having slowly adapted to the awkwardness of using only one arm. The process is far from graceful, but you manage.

And when you reach the top, Jungwon is already there, his back resting against the convenience store sign, arms draped over his knees as he watches the fractured skyline. He looks tired, eyes bruised with exhaustion but softened by a look that borders on longing.

He glances over his shoulder at the sound of your approach, and some of that tension melts away. He offers you a small smile, the kind that feels just a little too tight around the edges.

The air is cool and crisp, autumn bleeding into winter, and you feel the cold bite at your skin. You draw in a breath, feeling the chill of the air scrape against your lungs. But the moment you settle beside him, his hand slides into yours, pulling you into his warmth without hesitation. 

You lean into him, letting yourself soak in the quiet. “Heard you had an appointment with Jake today,” Jungwon says eventually, his voice low and careful. “What did he say about your arm?”

You glance down at the stump of your arm, the place where flesh used to be. “He says it’s healing well. But I guess my body’s still adjusting.” You lift your arm—what’s left of it—and shrug as if it’s not a big deal. As if it’s not still tearing you apart from the inside out.

Jungwon’s gaze lingers on your arm for a moment, but he doesn’t flinch or avert his eyes like the others sometimes do. He meets it head-on, his acceptance so genuine it almost hurts. “Does it hurt?”

“Not really. Not anymore,” you answer, though it feels like a lie. It’s not pain in the conventional sense. “It just… feels weird. Like it’s still there sometimes. Like I can still move my fingers if I try hard enough.”

“Phantom pain,” he murmurs, the words sounding heavy on his tongue. “Jake mentioned something about that. How your brain’s still trying to make sense of what’s gone.”

“Yeah.” Your throat tightens, a lump forming that you can’t seem to swallow down. “I guess it’s like trying to walk when your legs are asleep. The more you try, the more it hurts.” The admission is raw, but Jungwon doesn’t shy away from it. Instead, he shifts closer, his warmth seeping into your bones.

He watches you, eyes searching, waiting for something you’re not sure you can give. And you hate how perceptive he is, how easily he sees through the cracks you try so hard to hide.

“I’ve been thinking,” he starts, his gaze fixed on the jagged silhouette of the city as if the answers lie somewhere beyond the darkness. “About all of this. About us. About… you.”

Your eyes flicker toward him, curious but patient. A silence falls between you, one that feels too heavy to break. And then he speaks again, this time he’s looking at you when he does. “You’ve been different since it happened.”

“What do you mean?”

“Not in a bad way,” he says quickly, his voice stumbling over itself. “You’re just… you’re quieter. You’re more careful. It’s like you’re always holding something back.”

You want to deny it, to tell him he’s wrong. But you can’t. Because he’s right. You’ve become cautious, restrained, afraid of repeating the mistakes that nearly cost you everything.

“Maybe I am,” you admit, the words barely above a whisper. “I think… I think it’s because I realised how close I came to losing everything. And not just my life. But all of you.”

“Everything feels so fragile,” you continue, your voice wavering. “Like it could all fall apart any second. And I keep waiting for something to go wrong. For someone to get hurt again. For me to lose you.” The confession spills out before you can swallow it back, your voice cracking under the weight of the fear that’s been festering inside you.

Jungwon shifts closer, his arm coming around your shoulders, pulling you into him. The warmth of his body seeps into yours, his fingers tracing gentle circles along your upper arm. “You’re not going to lose me,” he says, his voice steady and fierce. “Not now. Not ever. I won’t let that happen.”

“But you can’t promise that.” Your words tremble, tears burning the corners of your eyes. “None of us can.”

He hesitates, his expression clouded, the weight of his own words pressing against him. “No, we can’t.” His admission is soft, broken. “But we can fight for it. We can make it count. And we can do it together.”

“Together.” The word feels heavy on your tongue. You want to believe him, want to cling to the conviction in his voice. But his certainty only makes your own doubts grow louder.

Because the truth is, you’re terrified. Terrified that this second chance is nothing more than a cruel joke. That you’ll fail them again. That you’ll get someone killed. That you’ll keep making reckless decisions because you’re too stubborn to admit you can’t do this alone.

He’s quiet for a moment, his eyes never leaving yours. The silence stretches between you, thick and heavy, but not uncomfortable. Just… real. Then, slowly, he reaches up and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingertips lingering against your skin, warm and steady. His thumb brushes over your cheek, tracing small, soothing circles that send a shiver down your spine.

“Y/N. You didn’t lose us. You’re still here. And it's because you fought for this, the same way you’ll continue fighting for this. Am I wrong to say that?” His voice is low, soft, but there’s a strength beneath it—a quiet conviction that refuses to break. His eyes bore into yours, searching, as if daring you to deny what he’s saying. As if his words alone could anchor you to this moment, to this fragile hope you’re both trying so hard to keep alive.

But it’s more than just words. It’s the way his touch grounds you, the way he holds you like you’re something precious, something worth fighting for. It’s not just reassurance he’s offering—it’s belief. A belief so strong it feels like it could shatter all the doubts you’ve been harbouring since you woke up, feverish and broken and terrified you’d never be yourself again.

And you realise, with a clarity that cuts through the doubt like a blade, that he’s right.

You’re still here. Bruised and battered and so damn tired, but you’re here.

The night stretches on, the air thick with the scent of soil and metal, the quiet hum of insects, the distant creak of the watchtower Ni-ki and Heeseung built not long ago swaying in the breeze. You lean against Jungwon, your head resting on his shoulder, your hand curled around his. It’s not perfect. It’s not easy. But it’s something. And maybe that’s enough.

And then, when the silence feels like it’s about to swallow you whole, he starts to sing.

His voice is soft, hesitant at first, but it grows stronger with each note, weaving through the air like a thread of gold. You close your eyes and listen, the melody sinking into your bones, soothing the ache of old wounds and new fears alike. 

You recognise the song. It’s the same one he sang to you when you thought you might never wake up. The same one that carried you through the darkness and back to him.

Just close your eyes The sun is going down You'll be alright No one can hurt you now Come morning light You and I'll be safe and sound

The song ends, but the warmth of his voice lingers. And as you sit there, tangled up in each other, you realise that the fear hasn’t gone away. It never will. But it’s quieter now. Bearable. Something you can live with.

You’re reminded again how both of you are not just trying to survive, but you’re learning how to live. And for the first time, you let yourself feel the weight of it. The love. The fear. The hope. And you know—whether you deserve it or not—you can’t push them away. Not anymore.

The rest of the night passes in silence, leaving you alone with a thought that plagues your mind: Is it weird to say you met your soulmate in the middle of a zombie apocalypse? 

Maybe it is. And if so, then you’re weird. To find people you care about in the same way they care about you feels like a miracle in a world where kindness is punished and compassion is a weakness. Where caring too much can get you killed.

But you found them. Against all odds, you found them. And somehow, that feels more surreal than the dead walking the earth. Because, really, what are the chances? That you’d stumble upon people willing to risk everything for you? People who’ve seen you at your lowest, your most broken, and still choose to stay?

What are the chances that, even in a world this cruel and unforgiving, you’d find someone who holds your hand like you’re still whole? Someone who looks at you like you’re something precious, something worth protecting, worth loving.

The others have joked about it before. How you and Jungwon gravitate toward each other like it’s second nature. How he becomes someone else entirely when it comes to you. And maybe there’s some truth to it. Because when he looks at you, it’s not just with fondness or admiration. It’s with something deeper, something that grounds you even when everything else is falling apart.

The world outside is a nightmare, a constant fight for survival. And yet, somehow, you’ve found your place. Not just in the camp you’ve built, but in the blooming garden of the boy who holds you like you’re his reason to keep fighting. Like you’re his reason to hope.

So, maybe it is weird. Maybe it’s insane to believe in love in a world like this. But as you sit beside Jungwon on the rooftop, his arm draped over your shoulders, his fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns along your skin, you realise you don’t care how absurd it sounds.

You found your soulmate in the middle of a zombie apocalypse.

And it’s in that moment, with his arms wrapped around you, his heartbeat thundering against your own, that you truly understand what it means to be alive. To feel everything—joy, pain, love, fear, hope—so intensely that it leaves you breathless.

You’re alive. And so is he. And somehow, against all odds, you’re here. Together.

You fall asleep on the rooftop that night, your head resting against Jungwon’s shoulder, his arm wrapped around you. The stars blaze above, indifferent and eternal, but for the first time in a long, long time—

You feel safe. You feel sound.

part 6 - dusk | masterlist | extra: jungwon's pov

♡。·˚˚· ·˚˚·。♡

notes from nat: omg... i actually did it. i actually finished this. 124k words. I've peaked. I'm never recovering from this series, actually. first of all, thank you so much to every single one of you who've supported me and this series. i know the wait in between parts were lowkey incriminating, and yet all of you were still so kind and patient. I'm not an author who knows how to fully engage her audience interaction-wise and I truly appreciate all of you for approaching me and engaging with my blog. the amount of mutuals and lovely people I came to know through this series is actually insane. so thank you, from the bottom of my heart. I'll talk more about my feelings and thoughts writing this series in a separate post, but for now this is where I officially close out safe & sound. this is definitely not the last time you will hear from me but until then, please stay safe & healthy!

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non-grey/underlined = cannot tag

[blackcat-star]

A YANDARE JINWOO WHO GETS OBSESSED WITH A ERANK HEALER READER WHO DOESN'T EVEN KNOW WHO HE IS OR BIG HUNTERS ARE LIKE SHE JUTS WANNA SAVE LIVES.

(idk if u do yandare though😓)

Whatever this feeling is.

Yandere!Jinwoo x E-rank Healer!Reader.

____________________________

You never thought of becoming a hunter.

In fact, if you could, you would rather live a normal life like everyone else: go to work in the morning, come home in the afternoon to eat with your family, read a few pages of a book and go to sleep.

But this world is not for 'normal' people. When the gate appears, when monsters start to flood across the border, you are forced to choose: either become prey, or become part of the war. You are an E-rank healer - not enough power to fight, cannot lead any party, and are often left behind in raids.

But you don't care. You don't need the power to kill monsters.

You just want to save as many people as possible.

___________________________

The first time you met Jinwoo was in a C-rank dungeon. The party was short of people, and you and Jinwoo were thrown in to 'make up the head count.' They didn't expect anything from you. It was only natural, you were weak, healing magic was like a drop in the ocean.

Then everything became chaotic when a high orc suddenly appeared. The party disbanded, everyone ran away. In the chaos, you saw a person with a severe injury on his arm, curled up near the stone wall, blood pooling at his feet.

No one came to help.

They didn't want to help him. You knew that he was someone of the same rank as you. Jinwoo was only an E-rank, even called The weakest hunter of all mankind, so everyone thought it was useless to save him.

But you didn't think so. 

Your determination to save everyone never wavered even though hope was barely visible to you because you valued each person's life as if it equaled one thousand pieces of gold. Your belief in saving him compelled you to rush toward him before you dropped to your knees. Your hand trembled from anxiety while you pressed it against his bleeding wound to stop the bleeding and save his life.

Stay motionless and wait patiently for only a short time because everything will turn out fine. I'll heal you," you said, not looking up at his face.

A light glinted from your palm - weak, small, but strangely gentle.

You didn't see the way he looked at you - as if you'd opened a crack of light in his thousand-year darkness.

"Are you...a healer?" He spoke in a raspy tone which made his question sound like he had not interacted with anyone in days.

"Yeah. E-rank, nothing special." You gave him a small smile, as gentle as a touch to a wound.Then you give him your handkerchief so he can wipe the dirt off his face.

And he didn't say anything else. He just looked at you. Silent. Silent to the point of suffocation.

__________________________

After that day, you didn't think too much about it. The dungeon ended, you went home, took a shower, ate instant noodles, and went to bed early for tomorrow.

And yes, everything was still going on normally, you had also gradually forgotten about the E-rank hunter who was on the brink of death and was saved by you.

Little did you know that from the moment you bent down among the blood and stone dust, the faint light from your hand touched the body of a person who seemed to have been abandoned by the world, you became all he had left.

Little did you know that Jinwoo wanted to die that day.

He entered the dungeon to earn money, to support his family, to try to earn at least some money to make his life better. But that day, after being attacked by the high orc, he lost his faith in life. The title of 'weakest hunter' hung over his head like a curse, turning him into a shadow of himself.

Until you came. Not with a weapon. Not with a look of disdain. Just with trembling hands and a choked voice, you said "I will save you."

No conditions. No expectations. No matter who he was.

For the first time in his life, Jinwoo felt alive.

____________________________

Weeks later, things continued as usual.

You took on a few healing missions for low-rank hunter groups, or simply went whenever someone needed another hunter to fill the space. You ate cheap sandwiches for breakfast, drank cold coffee, and then went to the guild to sign up for the next mission. Life was simple, steady.

You didn't think about Jinwoo.

It wasn't that you tried to forget - it was that you never thought you were important enough for anyone to remember. In this world, an E-rank healer like you - no one remembered your name, no one bothered to notice.

And at that time, the whole country was buzzing about the appearance of the country's 10th S-rank hunter.

You don't know who he is. And you don't really care.

Honestly, you don't really care about the names of famous hunters. To you, names like Choi Jong-In or Baek Yoonho are just wind. The same goes for this new S-rank hunter. After all, you're just an E-rank healer, and those stronger than you aren't interested in a lowly rank like you. Right?

The moment after that incident you began to experience unusual feelings.

The feeling of being watched accompanied you throughout your time outside the house. Your steps became trapped by a weighty stare which clung to you as if it were an endless moonless darkness.

______________________

Snow falls lightly outside the window, creeping through the thin curtains like white ghosts. You tighten your coat as you step out of the subway station, the cold air stabbing your neck like hundreds of needles. You exhale a thin puff of smoke and walk quickly towards the training area where an F-rank team has asked you to help them recover today.

A normal day. A normal mission.

...It's just that the feeling doesn't go away.

It feels like an invisible gaze is watching. The behavior remains neither threatening nor welcoming. You feel trapped inside a glass enclosure while an unseen observer watches you from outside.

You turn around again.

It's still the same familiar street, a few people walking by in a hurry, an old woman selling fried fish balls is playing an old radio. Nothing strange. No one.

You tighten your lips while reassuring yourself before keeping your stride.

A hazy dream awoke you during the night although you could not recall its contents. During your dream you ran through a dark corridor while behind you heard slow footsteps following you. No matter how you ran, it was still behind you, each step, each breath close to your ear.

You turned on the lights in your room, trying to find peace. But the warm yellow light couldn't dispel the cold feeling that had clung to your spine from deep within.

Little did you know, at the same time, in another part of the city, a man stood in the darkness, looking at you through the eyes of a shadow soldier in your shadow that you couldn't tell when or how he had placed it.

He couldn't take his eyes off you, as if if he left, you would disappear. Jinwoo had found you. A long time ago. He just hadn't shown up yet.

Because he was waiting. Waiting for the right moment. Waiting until you couldn't run away. When you have nowhere to run.

Wait until you belong to him.

_________________________

Today's job is to support a new group of hunters. You stand by the dungeon entrance wearing a light cloak while holding your elbows tight to stay warm. A gust of cold air passes through your collar opening while you shiver although the real cause of your goosebumps stems from something else.

It's the feeling.

You feel someone standing near your back although no one actually stands there.

You turn around. There are only a few hunters checking their weapons, passersby walking by, and a stray cat sitting under a tree licking its paws.

No one is there.

You exhaled, reassuring yourself. 'I'm just tired, maybe I need to rest.'

You had no idea that a dark figure remained hidden in the building shadows just meters behind you while keeping watch with shadow soldier eyes.

From his position in front of the big window, Jinwoo gazed down at the city below while fixating on a spot only he could perceive.

He whispered softly "My angel" with a broken voice.

His hand gripped the cold coffee cup. Not because of the cold. But because his palm was shaking.

Not because of fear. But because of desire.

From the first time you touched him - with that trembling hand, that faint light - something inside him had cracked. Or rather, woken up.

No one had saved him. No one had ever taken him seriously. Just you.

Just you.

______________________

You get used to the feeling of being watched.

You accept it in a way that does not provide comfort. You learn to accept the marks that will never heal like bruises or scars you wish to forget. You don't tell anyone, because who cares? E-rank healers have no power, no reputation, and no one around long enough to listen.

Your dreams will not allow you to ignore what is happening no matter how much you try to pretend otherwise.

Someone stands near your bed while you sleep in your dreams. You dream of a shadow moving in the corner of your eye every time you turn your head. Someone whispers your name in a gentle voice which sounds confident just like a thousand previous times of naming you.

You woke up during the night to discover a slightly open window even though you had double-checked its locked position.

Your world shows signs of reality merging with dreams because each day makes the distinction harder to discern.

A strange event occurred to you when you embarked on a D-rank dungeon quest.

The monsters avoided you.

You realized it while hiding behind a tall warrior, shoulder to shoulder with your comrades in battle. A spider-like monster suddenly rushed forward, its legs long and sharp as blades, its sound echoing like a knife scraping on stone. The group readied their weapons, preparing to receive the attack. But then it stopped.

The moment its red eyes met yours.

In that brief moment, you saw the monster freeze. Its eyes widened, not from predatory instinct, but from fear. A primal fear, almost desperate. A shrill howl escaped from its mouth before it turned to flee while its feet pounded against the stone surface creating a loud echo in the dark hallway.

The group was stunned. You were also stunned.

"What the hell?" someone exclaimed.

A hunter turned to look at you, his brows furrowed. "What did you do?"

"N-No, I just stood there," you stammered, not understanding what was happening. Your heart was pounding. You looked down at your hands, nothing out of the ordinary. No aura, no new abilities, no strange signs.

But deep down, a strange feeling began to creep in. It felt like something that didn't belong to you was following you.

You began to notice.

The single spider was not the only one. The monsters that emerged in the group's progress chose to observe you instead of their typical assault behavior. Each of them made a turn before fleeing from the scene. The creature took refuge in a corner while trembling like it sought mercy from an unseen power.

It was then that you truly felt something was wrong.

You look down and this time, in the flickering light of the torch, you catch a glimpse of your own shadow.

Not in shape, but in temperament. A dark undefined form resembling a wild creature rests behind you with its half-open black eyes observing the world through darkness.

A blink, and it's gone.

You swallow. A chill runs down your spine like a silent stream of water filling your chest.

Little do you know that, from the moment you entered the dungeon, all the monsters inside have been marked by an ancient power, a mark you can't see, can't feel, but that's covering everything you pass by. It's not coming from you but from another being that's in your shadow, or worse, watching through you.

________________________

Sung Jinwoo stood in the middle of a dungeon filled with chill – not because of the wind, but because of the presence of death that surrounded him. Hundreds of shadows swirled silently like a silent storm, not a sound, but all focused on him, loyal, absolute, and alert.

He stood alone in the center.

He held a small object in his hand, an old handkerchief, the edge of which had a friend's name embroidered in silver thread. A sign of ridiculous gentleness in this hellish space.

"Do not touch her," Jinwoo said, his voice as deep as the abyss, each word as sharp as a cold knife. "Only observe and protect."

The shadows said nothing, but one stepped forward, Beru. Beru knelt on one knee, his wings folded, his eyes glowing like two turquoises under his black mask.

"My King..." Beru hissed softly, "May I ask?"

Jinwoo did not look at Beru. His deep eyes gazed at the handkerchief while showing an unusual softness.

"Why don't you come to see her?" Beru bowed slightly. "I can feel your heart screaming for her."

The pale blue illumination of shadows fell upon Jinwoo's face. He held the handkerchief with gentle pressure while feeling each individual thread without causing any wrinkles. He whispered. "...She's not ready."

Beru raised his head, his eyes flashing with confusion, a rare emotion for a Shadow.

"Your Majesty, but she's weak. She's alone. You can protect her. You have to go-"

"No."

Jinwoo's voice cut in, soft, but the room froze. Jinwoo breathed slowly. His eyes closed for a moment, as if forcing himself. "If I come now, she'll hide."

There was a moment of silence, then Jinwoo raised his head. Those eyes, the color of night, but burning, like a furnace without oxygen, were now locked into nothingness, as if looking through time, through space at you.

"But soon."

He lowered his face to gently kiss the border of the handkerchief.

"She will understand."

Beru said nothing more.

He just nodded, then turned back to the darkness, where the Shadows silently continued to circle Jinwoo, who was holding onto a small piece of cloth as if it was the last piece of his soul that kept him from going insane.

____________________________

You never intended to join this raid.

Today was supposed to be your day off, a rare luxury, when you could sleep until dawn. But then the guild called, the voice urgent on the phone. "We need a healer. Just one more healer. This is a C-rank dungeon, easy to clear, high pay."

You hesitated, but the mention of high pay made your empty wallet feel lighter. Rent was due next week, and the cures weren't much cheaper.

A new group of strangers were standing at the dungeon entrance and you too were standing there. Upon your arrival no one took the effort to learn your name.

"Just stay behind and don't get killed," the leader told you with a dismissive wave.

You nodded silently. You had already experienced this kind of treatment before.

A jagged opening in the mountainside serves as the entrance to the dungeon which appears dark and foreboding. You feel unease rising in your chest as you enter with the group.

Something's not right today.

But before you can voice your concerns, the entrance slams shut behind you with a loud bang. The group freezes, weapons half drawn, eyes wide with shock.

"What the hell?" someone shouts.

Then it happens.

The walls around you glow an ominous crimson, illuminating shocked faces in a bloody light. The earth trembles as you stand on it. A terrifying ancient sound resonates within the cave which produces no resemblance to any known animal roar.

The leader's arrogant tone fades as he utters "A red gate. It's a fucking red gate."

Everyone knew what that meant. There was no escape. There was no rescue. Either clear the dungeon or die trying.

Your heart pounded in your chest like a caged animal. Red Gates were deadly traps. Even S-rank hunters avoided them if they could.

"Move!" the leader barked, regaining his calm with trained discipline. "Regroup, stick to the plan. We'll get through this."

But you could see the fear in his eyes. He didn't believe his own words.

The C-rank dungeon was said to have transformed. The hallways expanded into darkness while the atmosphere became heavy with rotting odors. Deformed monsters emerged from the shadows instead of typical goblins or wolves because they moved too quickly and attacked with brutal force.

The warriors formed a wall of steel and flesh while the mages rained destruction from behind. You do your part, channeling every ounce of your healing power to close the wound and numb the pain.

But it's not enough.

One by one, they fall.

First the youngest warrior, then one of the mages. The leader holds out longer, his sword flashing like mercury until a barbed tentacle pierces his chest. You watch, paralyzed with horror, as the life drains from his eyes.

You run.

It's shameful, it's cowardly, but your body moves on its own. Your lungs burn as you run through the winding passages, the screams of your companions fading behind you.

Finally, you collapse in a small cave, your legs giving out beneath you. Your body hugs the freezing wall as you attempt to minimize your size. Your healing kit lies forgotten beside you, barely used. What good is a healer who can't save anyone?

In the dim crimson light, you see your own hands shaking. Useless. Weak.

You close your eyes, waiting for the inevitable. The monsters will find you soon. A lone E-rank healer in a red portal - there is no happy ending to this story.

That's when you hear it.

Footsteps.

Not the sound of fleeing monsters or the frantic running of survivors. Deliberate steps moved through the tunnels with controlled pace and sound.

You kept your breath trapped while pushing your body against the wall to avoid detection. The footsteps grew closer. A shadow fell across the entrance to your hideout.

You expected death. You expected pain.

You heard a familiar voice which had been absent for months yet constantly disturbed your sleep. 

"Found you."

Jinwoo waited at the dungeon entrance beneath the red light. But he was different from the wounded E-rank hunter you had saved. His power emitted like scorching furnace heat which felt dark and powerful. His eyes which had previously shown fatigue displayed an unnatural blue glow which penetrated deep into your spiritual core.

"You're...Sung Jinwoo!!?" You whispered.

He stepped closer, and you noticed something strange. The shadows surrounding him displayed themselves as more than simple shadows as they became animated with glowing eyes and sharp edges. His body produced these fluid entities which functioned as extensions that moved with purpose just like natural limbs.

"My Angel," His voice sounded deeper than you remembered while expressing an emotion which escaped your understanding. "I've waited so long."

His gaze produced a deep primal dread within you that differed from disgust. These weren't the eyes of the broken E-ranker you'd saved. The predator's eyes stared at me as he had finally caught his prey following a prolonged hunt.

"This is a red gate!!" Your voice shook as you struggled to understand his arrival  "Everyone's dead. How did you get in? The gate was closed-"

"I turned it red," he interrupted, his voice cold and calm.

Your heart stopped for a moment. "What?"

"I turned the gate red." The shadows moved excitedly as Jinwoo approached. "I want to find you. Alone. Undisturbed."

Horror washed over you as his words sank in. "Y-You killed them? All of them?"

His expression didn't change. "They were in the way."

"In the way of what?"

"Us."

The solitary word remained suspended between us with deep significance. Your legs trembled as you pressed against the wall to stay upright. "Jinwoo, this isn't right."

His face brightened with a disturbing expression that seemed unnatural. "I had specifically wanted this outcome." He revealed his true nature as the person he wished to become. He reached out to you. "And you made it happen."

You shook your head, backing away until you hit the wall behind you. "No. I didn't do anything."

"You saved me," he insisted, eyes narrowing. "When no one else wanted to save me. When everyone else left me to die because I wasn't worth saving. You were the only one who chose to stay."

His next step brought panic as you understood there was no escape. The only escape was behind him.

He spoke in a soft voice while saying "I searched everywhere for you."

A cold realization hits you. "It was you. You were watching me."

His smile widens. "Always. My shadow follows you everywhere."

All the previous experiences in the dreams along with the sense of surveillance and abnormal monster behavior now seem meaningless.

"Why?" Your voice cracks with fear. "Why me? I'm nothing."

Jinwoo makes a swift forward movement with remarkable speed. The wall next to your head receives his first blow as he stands before you then he grabs your chin with brutal force. He glares at you as he says through clenched teeth "You will never say that to me again. You're everything. The only light in my dark world."

His eyes fix directly on yours as his pupils expand showing a strange blue light. His eyes reveal the madness which transforms into his delusional belief of love.

He whispers. "I'll protect you. Keep you safe. Forever."

You struggle to break free from his grip. "Jinwoo, please. You're hurting me."

He maintains his position yet lets go of your chin right away. His touch on your face becomes so delicate that it creates a feeling of unease. "I'd never hurt you. Never on purpose."

Pushing against his chest, you muster the last of your courage. "Give me a break. I want to go."

His face briefly flashes with what appears to be pain. Then it hardens into determination. "You don't understand yet. But you will."

The moment he stepped away you felt a tiny bit of relief but the shadows appeared. These icy chains started at your ankles before they began their slow ascent up your legs.

"What are you doing?" You panicked while attempting to shake off the shadows yet they refused to budge. The objects felt strange because they remained unbreakable as if they combined smoke and stone properties.

"Make sure you don't flee." Jinwoo's head tilted slightly as he watched you struggle with mild curiosity. "I have exercised patience. I can't wait anymore."

A deep rumbling noise spread through the dungeon before the dungeon floor creaked from approaching footsteps. Monsters, drawn by your fear and Jinwoo's strength.

"They're coming," you said desperately. "We need to go!"

"Yes," he agreed calmly. "We must leave."

The cold darkness enveloped you completely when the shadows that surrounded your feet disappeared. Your spinning head combined with blurring vision led to unconsciousness.

Your last vision showed Jinwoo's face with shining eyes while he displayed an evil look of victory.

He said softly. "You can sleep now, my angel. We'll be home when you wake up."

__________________

You come to in a nurturing surface with dim light penetrating the heavy drapes. A few seconds of disorientation sweeps over you regarding which place you have landed. The building you are in does not resemble your cramped studio space with wet roofing and noisy flooring. 

An avalanche of past experiences surrounds you. The red gate. The massacre of your group. Jinwoo's confession.

You bolt up, heart pounding in your chest.

You crawl out of bed, running to the window. It doesn't open. Of course it doesn't. Next, you try the door. It's locked. You use your fists to knock on the door while yelling for help but the heavy wood remains unmoved from your strikes.

You beg for help before you drop to the floor with your back against the door. "Someone. Anyone."

Someone behind you responds with "There's no one here anymore."

You turn around with a startled yelp. Jinwoo stood in the middle of the room, though you were sure he hadn't been there a moment ago. He had changed - now wearing a perfectly tailored black suit that made him look like the CEO of some shady corporation.

"Just us," he continued, flashing that gentle, terrifying smile. "And my shadows, of course. But they won't bother you unless I tell them to."

"How did you get in? The door's locked."

Jinwoo's smile widened. "This is my territory. I can go wherever I want."

You pressed yourself against the wall, trying to put as much distance as possible. "Why am I here? What do you want from me?"

He moved toward you with the gentle pace of a person who wanted to avoid disturbing a wild animal. "I want exactly what I've always wanted in life. You."

"You can't just take people," you said, your voice shaking. "This is kidnapping. This is wrong."

"Wrong?" Jinwoo appeared confused as he examined your perplexed expression. "The protection of personal belongings seems inconceivable to you."

"I don't belong to you!"  Your words escaped before you could recover.

You saw a flash of dangerous predatory energy cross his face before it disappeared again. A quick move had him standing directly in front of you.

"Yes," he said softly and dangerously. "You do."

His hand reached out, surprisingly gentle as it cupped your cheek. You flinched but couldn't pull away - the solid wall behind you.

His words continued "When your light shone on my darkness, your beauty claimed me from that first touch of your hand on my wound. You used to remain beyond my possession."

Shadows curled around your ankles, cold as a winter stream. More shadows gathered in the corners of the room, watching with countless shining eyes.

"But now," Jinwoo's thumb traced your lower lip, "I have all the power in the world. I finally can show my love to you."

You tried to reason with him. "Jinwoo, this isn't love. This is obsession. You don't even know me."

"I know everything about you," he countered immediately. "I know you drink coffee with two sugars but no cream. I know you read science fiction when you can't sleep. I know you volunteer at the pediatric ward at Seoul National Hospital every other Sunday." He looked you straight in the eye.

You experienced a feeling of terror when you understood the full extent of his surveillance. "Did you observe me during this entire period?"

"Since the day you saved me. Every moment. Every breath." His whispered words came closer to your ear. "You're never alone."

Your legs gave way and you slid from the wall onto the floor. His gaze never wavered as Jinwoo sank to his knees beside you.

"Why?" you whispered. "Why this obsession? I barely did anything."

He explained that people had never seen him before because they only looked through him. "People ignored me as if I did not exist. I was invisible. Worthless." His hand squeezed your face lightly. "But you saw me. You touched me without repulsion. You saved me without expecting anything in return."

The desolate quality of his voice approached a state where you almost sympathized with him. Almost.

You began to speak with deliberate intent to Jinwoo "Your current actions destroy all the kindness I have ever extended to you."

Something changed in his expression, hardening like concrete. "You don't understand yet. But you will." He stood abruptly, pulling you to your feet. "I will help you understand."

You pled for freedom while desperately trying to escape his hold. "Please. I will keep this secret between us both. Just let me go."

"Let you go?" He looked genuinely confused by the offer. "Back to what? Poverty? Danger? Being used by groups of people who don't even remember your name?" 

He clenched his fists. "I can give you everything. Safety. Comfort. Power."

"I don't want power," you said. "I just want freedom."

"Freedom is an illusion in this world," he said disdainfully. "The strong rule. The weak must serve or die. That's the truth I've learned."

His eyes softened a little. "But you will never be weak again. Not with me."

Tears welled in your eyes because the worst part was that he was right. In this world of hunters and monsters, of daily survival and constant struggle, you had become isolated. Alone. The perfect victim.

Your voice weakly emitted a single pleasless request. "I just want to go home."

Jinwoo stated in a firm voice "You are already at your home."

You pushed against Jinwoo's chest, breaking free from his embrace. "This isn't home! This is prison!"

His eyes narrowed dangerously. "I have bestowed upon you comforts which surpass everything you have experienced before. Safety. Protection. What more could you want?"

"Choice!" you shouted, anger finally overcoming fear. "My own life! Not to be a pet or a possession!"

Something snapped in Jinwoo's expression, the careful control giving way to something darker, more primal. Shadows exploded from his body, filling the room like smoke, eyes flashing from every corner. A sudden temperature drop resulted in condensed breath vapor forming in the air.

Despite the surrounding shadowy scenes he spoke with a composed voice to ask "Do you know what I am?"

Shadows writhed around him like an aura of living darkness. "I command an army of the dead. I can flatten cities. Destroy countries. I am becoming something beyond human."

He moved toward you, each step leaving frost on the expensive hardwood floor.

He whispered as he continued "But you are the one thing I want most even though I cannot acquire you with ease. Your willing acceptance. Your..." he hesitated, searching for the word "your heart."

The darkness retreated a little, shrinking into his body as he regained control. He reached out, his fingers hovering just above your cheek, not touching.

"I could force you," he said softly. "I could use my darkness to bend your will. Make you think you loved me. Make you forget everything else." He let go. "But that would be a lie. And I've waited too long for lies."

You looked at him, trembling. "Then let me go."

"No." The word was absolute, excluding any objections. "You'll stay. You'll learn. And eventually, you'll understand that this is where you belong."

He turned away, walking toward the door. "This room is yours. This entire floor, actually. You'll find clothes in the closet, food in the kitchen. Books. Entertainment. Anything you need."

Jinwoo paused at the door, looking back over his shoulder. "This world is changing faster than you know. The portal is just the beginning." His eyes met yours, burning with that strange blue light. "War is coming. A war unlike any humanity has ever seen."

He opened the door. "When it happens, you'll understand why I did this. Why I need you to be safe."

"Jinwoo," you called as he stepped through the threshold. "This isn't love. Whatever you think you feel for me - it isn't love."

He paused but didn't turn around. "What is it?"

"Obsession. Possession. Control." You swallowed. "Love doesn't imprison people."

He was silent for a long moment. Then, so quietly you almost didn't hear. "Maybe you're right. Maybe what I feel isn't human love."

Finally he turned, his eyes shining in the darkness of the door. "But I'm becoming less and less human. And whatever this feeling is, it's the only thing keeping me clinging to my humanity."

The door closed behind him, and you heard the lock click.

You found yourself locked inside your elegant prison while an unknown beast used his obsession toward you until he became a grotesque entity. 

 You crashed to the ground while hugging your knees against your body. Outside your window, Seoul went on as usual, unaware of your situation. Somewhere out there, you are being declared dead, another victim of the red gate incident.

No one comes to save you.

And the scariest part? A small, shameful part of you wonders if Jinwoo is right. In a world filled with monsters and gates, daily death and constant danger - is freedom really worth more than his absolute protection?

You push the thought away, disgusted with yourself.

But in the corner of the room, the shadows watch with shining eyes, patient as the grave.

They have all the time in the world. And so do you.

Because Sung Jinwoo, the Shadow Monarch, has decided that you are his. And what Jinwoo has declared, he will keep.

Forever.

__________________________

I'm tired and exhausted af but I can't stop writing

I already know what will happen after this, no inspiration to write -> can't stop writing -> no inspiration

Anyway, hope you like this 💗

[deathworlders-of-e24]

We finally did it. We slipped the surly bonds of Earth to step among the stars. It took over two decades of research, billions of dollars of taxpayers money, and almost every country on the planet working in tandem, but after the International Space Coalition was founded it was almost effortless.

Faster than Light travel was accomplished almost on accident. Just the right ratios of radioactive material and an ‘ever so slight’ gravitational anomaly generator was all it took. To keep the population safe from any possible drawbacks, the first launch of the FTL drive, or Warp, was conducted at Tranquility Base on the moon. Either that was minimum safe distance or there wasn’t any, so it was decided to just roll the dice. The Angel was built there, the ship that would go further than any before it. The drive was set for Alpha Centauri, the big red button was pressed, and off they went, 300 crew members, going faster than anyone else in the history of mankind.

After 4 months, 319 ‘people’ came back. The extra 19 individuals wore special thermal suits to keep their body temperatures stable, and each had scaled skin with varying hues of greens and grays, with elongated prehensile tails. Their eyes were almost solid black, save for some red around the edges. Their hands were like a chameleon’s with only 3 fingers each. If it hadn’t been for a heads up from the Angel’s captain, the first words out of the welcoming party mouth would’ve been “they’re lizards!” Honestly the only thing they had in common with us was that they were bipedal.

Apparently the people of the ‘Alpha System’ as we called it, the Quintins, were just as surprised to see us as we were them. 2 ambassadors, 7 scientists, 10 military escorts, and a partridge in a pear tree came with them back to Earth. They just had to see it, after hearing stories of home from the crew aboard The Angel. They had to see how a world so full of dangers, from predators to the sheer deadly climates, could have allowed such a species as humans to exist let alone thrive and advance far enough to get off the ground.

The surprises didn’t stop there either, as if finding out WE ARE NOT ALONE wasn’t a big enough shock to the human race. The Quintins weren’t the only species out there, they were in fact only one people in a collective, a Grand Assembly of Intelligent Lifeforms (it sounded longer in Quin tongue but they brought auto translators) or The GAIL, and the Human race was immediately eligible for probational membership. Developing the WARP capabilities was what sealed it. Faster than Light travel was the first prerequisite for joining the GAIL. The second was a planetary inspection, and since the Quintins were our first contact, who better? It was time to meet the neighbors for the human race.

That was 50 years ago. Now the Human Race were full fledged members of The GAIL, and the International Space Coalition was renamed into simply the Terran Academy, putting out graduates of every field imaginable. We had an entire fleet of WARP enabled ships, spreading human explorers into the depths of space.

The only problem these days were the rumors. 50 years of interaction with alien species had made one thing clear to the rest of the universe at large:

Their planet is completely unstable

Their bodies are unimaginably fragile while simultaneously unbreakable

They claim not to have a hive mind but nobody believes that for a second

They seem to ‘pack bond’ outside their own species

They’ll eat anything (maybe even you)

The Humans make no sense

THE HUMANS ARE DEATHWORLDERS!

AND HERE THEY COME!

(This will be an account of various humans and their travels through the known universe. Earth, also known as E24, is a terrifying deathworld. This should be fun)

[wlw-imagines]

Knifepoint - Amelia Shepherd x Reader (Grey's Anatomy)

a/n: ignore this is a day late and also that i have disapperead for a week, work was high stress - i may upload previous days or i may disappear for another week. with me - who knows!!!

summary: You’re a trauma surgeon known for rocking black scrubs and keeping cool under pressure. When a tense situation turns dangerous and you get hurt, Amelia Shepherd steps in to save you and things get a little complicated. Between the hospital chaos and all the unspoken feelings, you both start to realise maybe there''s more to your rivalry than just work.

Part of May Prompts (a black scrub top) AND Maylancholy 2025 (held at knifepoint - @may-lancholy) - that's right, we have a combo one in day sixteen!

Early on in your career, you made a choice to wear black scrub tops.

Not charcoal. Not navy. Not a trendy graphite hue that someone from plastics might mistake for fashion. Just black. The kind of colour that takes no prisoners.

They drape like shadows around you, absorbing everything, blood, questions and grief. You make no explanation for them, and in your silence, everyone else fills in the blanks.

Some say it’s a trauma thing, a symbolic mourning, whilst others think it’s rebellion. A way to set yourself apart from the chaos of surgical life, from the rainbow of department colours that try to make life-and-death look less... well, less like death.

You don’t confirm or deny. You just keep moving.

There’s something in your gait, unapologetic and smooth, that makes people step aside before they consciously decide to. You walk like someone who’s already memorised the next fifteen steps. Your stethoscope is always coiled neatly, and there is not a strand of hair out of place.

The residents know not to chatter around you. The interns whisper your name with reverence and fear, as if you’ll materialise behind them with a glare sharp enough to lacerate.

You’ve heard the nicknames: The Void, Reaper in Reeboks. One ICU nurse calls you death in Danskos when she thinks you’re out of earshot.

You don’t mind. Better that than someone trying to make small talk.

Only one person doesn’t keep their distance. Amelia Shepherd.

It didn’t begin as antagonism. More of a clash. She barreled into the scrub room mid-glove, her ponytail swinging. Her badge hit her chest as she moved, the words NEUROSURGERY catching the light. She stopped short in front of your locker, her arms folding across her chest.

"You’re not hijacking my OR just because you’ve got seniority and a God complex," she snapped, voice sharp with adrenaline and annoyance.

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t even look up from the chart in your hand. "My patient is crashing. Yours is stable, sedated, and prepped."

"So that’s a yes on the God complex, then?"

"I’m trying to save a life," you said, calmly sliding your arms into your black gown. "If you’d like to argue about it with the chief, be my guest. But I’ll be done before you even know it."

She narrowed her eyes. "You better or you can be the one to apologise to my patient's family."

You met her gaze finally, with the slightest quirk of your eyebrow.

You’d been circling each other ever since.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

It was a few weeks later. The hospital had finally quieted to a dull hum, most of the chaos seeping into night shift rounds and whispered consultations. You sank onto the cracked leather couch with a sigh, unwrapping the worst vending machine sandwich known to mankind.

"You know," came a familiar voice, dry as desert air, "I’m starting to think you enjoy suffering."

You didn’t look up right away. "Big talk from someone eating protein bars like there's no tomorrow."

Amelia Shepherd let the door swing shut behind her with a soft thud. She was still in her scrubs, top untucked, sleeves pushed to her elbows, hair escaping in every direction. She looked like someone who hadn’t slept in twenty hours, which, given the shift schedule, was probably accurate.

"They do the job and at least they taste somewhat alright," she said, biting into her bar without a flinch. "You, however, look like you’re one bite away from a stomach pump."

You risked a glance at her, brows arching. "Did you come in here just to roast my dinner, or…?"

Amelia’s lips twitched. "I came for silence. I stayed for the opportunity to roast your dinner, obviously yes."

You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth twitched upward. You tore a piece off the sandwich, then paused, glancing over at her. "Rough day?"

She gave a noncommittal shrug, flopping into the chair across from you. "They’re all rough days lately." You didn’t respond right away. Amelia tapped her thumb rhythmically against the side of her protein bar wrapper. "You haven’t been sleeping."

You blinked at her. "Is that an observation or an accusation?"

"Just an observation." She leaned back, regarding you with that unnervingly perceptive look she had, the one that always made you feel a little too seen. "You’ve got the whole haunted-in-the-hallway vibe going."

You bristled slightly. "You don’t exactly radiate sunshine and puppies yourself."

"Touché," she said with a smirk. Then, after a beat: "But I’m not the one deflecting by working double shifts and pretending it doesn’t bother me."

You met her gaze, something sharp and vulnerable flashing across your face. "And what would you suggest I do, Shepherd? Meditate? Journal? Scream into a pillow between rounds?"

Amelia didn’t flinch. "No. I don't have an answer yet. I wish I did."

"Ah, so you dish out this empty advice for free, huh?"

For a long moment, you sat there, two people balancing on the knife’s edge between pushing each other away and pulling each other in. Then Amelia sighed and stood, tossing her wrapper into the trash with unnecessary force.

"I’ll bring you real food next time," she muttered, already halfway to the door. "Try not to die of sodium poisoning before then."

You looked up, surprised. "You cook?"

She paused in the doorway, turning her head just enough to send you a small wink, "No. But I have very convincing delivery menus."

And then she was gone, leaving the door swinging quietly in her wake and something strange in your chest. You weren’t sure if it was annoyance or interest. Maybe both.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Another three weeks later, you’re mid-chart, back hunched at the nurses’ station, eyes moving too fast over patient notes that make you wish you could just go home, when you feel it.

A presence. Off-kilter.

You look up.

The man standing in the lobby doesn’t... belong. That much is obvious from the way his body holds tension. It's coiled, like a spring waiting to snap. He wears a hoodie too thick for the weather. His eyes dart from nurse to wall to floor. Sweating, fidgeting, vibrating with something that doesn’t match his surroundings.

You’ve seen that look before, where someone balances on the edge of unreality. A place where people either break down or break through.

Then you place him.

Angela Vasquez’s brother.

Angela, seventeen, who came in with a sudden thunderclap headache and collapsed in the elevator. You’d operated for six hours, cut and clamped and prayed with every ounce of precision you had. But the bleed was too fast. Too much.

She never woke up.

You were the last one to touch her. You’d stayed after the code was called. Sat beside her body. Pressed your palm against her cooling wrist and whispered her name.

Now her brother is here, standing across the atrium with that look in his eyes.

You push back from the desk and murmur low to the charge nurse, "Call security. Quietly." But it is too late.

He’s already moving. Three strides, maybe four. He closes the distance with a speed you don’t expect. There’s no time to back away. His arm rises.

Metal flashes.

The folding knife is cheap, dull silver with black tape around the handle. It catches the light for half a second before pressing hard into your chest.

There’s a shout. A dropped clipboard. Somewhere, someone screams.

But all you see is him.

His eyes are red-rimmed. His breath comes in short gasps. He’s not a killer. But he’s grieving.

"Say her name," he growls.

You exhale, slowly. Keep your body still.

"Angela," you say. "I remember. I was there."

He breathes harder. The knife digs in. You feel the press of it, sharp enough to pierce fabric, bite skin. "She walked in here. Alive."

"I know."

"She had a headache. That’s it."

"I know," you repeat. "I’m sorry."

The blade jerks. He presses it harder. Blood wells and there's a sting, then warmth. You'd hardly be able to see the liquid bloom through your shirt but you feel it become damp.

"Say it again!" he shouts. "Say it!"

"I’m sorry."

His eyes glisten, fury cracking into anguish. The whole hall is still. No one dares move.

And then- "Hey!"

The voice slices through the tension. Amelia.

She’s standing at the end of the corridor, wide stance, hands half-raised, eyes locked on the man’s trembling grip. She’s wearing her normal clothes and must have just come off shift. But her presence shifts the air.

"Don’t move," she says, calm and razor-edged. "It's just us."

The man twitches. The blade shifts slightly. Your blood spreads slightly wider beneath the black.

"She didn’t care," he says, voice cracking. "Didn’t even say sorry till I made her."

Amelia takes a step closer. "You’re right. It wasn’t enough."

You shoot her a glance. She doesn’t look at you. Her focus is entirely on him.

"Hurting her won’t bring Angela back," she says, voice thick with compassion and authority. "You don’t want to carry that weight."

He trembles. The muscles in his forearm twitch. "She was my baby sister."

"I know," Amelia says. "And I’m sorry. I should’ve caught the bleed. I’m the neurosurgeon. Maybe I missed it. Blame me."

Your heart spikes. "Amelia. No."

She finally looks at you, just for a second. And what’s in her eyes is not fear. It’s fury. It’s fire. It’s something too big to name.

"I’m not letting him kill you."

The man is confused now. His rage flickering, not knowing where to land. You feel his grip loosen. And so you move. It’s instinct. You slam your elbow into his ribs. The knife slices downward as he staggers, leaving a hot, burning trail across your chest.

Then you’re falling.

But you don’t hit the ground.

Arms catch you, steady, strong, too warm. Amelia's hands are on you, pulling you back against her body, her breath right against your ear. "Okay. Okay. I’ve got you. Just breathe. Stay with me."

You feel her pressure against the wound, fingers trembling just slightly. Blood soaks into her sleeves. Her hair brushes your cheek.

"That was monumentally stupid," you whisper.

"You’re a fucking idiot," she chokes. "A stupid, noble, infuriating idiot."

You wince. "Didn’t know you cared so much."

She huffs a broken laugh. "Don’t flatter yourself."

But her hand never leaves your chest.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

You wake up in post-op and feel sore. Slow. Heavy.

And you’re not alone. She’s there. Curled in the corner chair, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, her cheek resting on her fist. Her eyes are closed but not asleep.

You whisper, "Did I ruin your day?"

Her head jerks up. "You ruined my fucking month."

You give her a tired smile. "That dramatic streak. Neurosurgeons really are the worst."

"You bled on my sweater. And almost died. You don’t get to talk shit."

You reach out. Your hand finds hers. "You stayed."

"Yeah, I never left."

There’s a silence. Then, "Why?"

She swallows. "Because I didn't to. Not when you owe me for that takeout. It's your turn to buy me food."

"That makes sense." You smile softly and she shakes her head.

"Maybe I want to keep you around to see what happens too." She hums, a slight anxiousness in her eyes. But you are too blunt for this.

Your voice barely makes it out. "Say it."

She leans in, forehead brushing yours. Her breath is warm, her voice softer than you’ve ever heard it.

"I care about you," she murmurs. "More than I should. More than I ever wanted to."

You close your eyes.

And for the first time in weeks, maybe longer, it doesn’t hurt quite so much to feel.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Two weeks later, you’re back on rounds. You turn a corner and stop.

Amelia’s waiting for you and she is in black scrubs.

She raises an eyebrow, arms crossed. "Well? Do I look intimidating?"

You glance at her, lips twitching. "You look like my evil twin. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

She smirks. "I can think of some other things."

Teddy walks past, gaping and tilts her head, eyeing both of you with theatrical scrutiny, one brow lifting. "Okay. You can’t both wear black. People are going to think you’re in a cult."

Amelia didn’t even look up from her coffee. Her tone was bone-dry. "We are. It’s called the surviving trauma and deflecting with sarcasm cult."

You leaned back against the nurses’ station, a grin spreading slowly as you raised your coffee like a toast. "And caffeine. Don’t forget the daily sacrifices to the coffee gods."

"You need a catchier name, there's no way that'll catch." Teddy came to a stop next to Meredith, who was leaning on the opposite side of the counter. Meredith lifted her head and blinked at you both and deadpanned, "You two realize you’ve been matching every day for a week now, right?"

You shrugged with mock innocence. "Coincidence." Amelia, at the exact same time, replied, "Solidarity."

That earned an amused snort from Teddy, who shook her head. "So… solidarity in looking like you’re two seconds away from scoring a record deal with a broody indie hospital soundtrack?"

Amelia finally turned toward her, her grin blooming slowly. "If the scalpel fits."

Meredith took a slow sip of her coffee, clearly savouring the moment before droping in her next line, "Honestly, I just want to know how long until you two finally stop pretending that this is just a trauma bond."

You choked on a laugh and pretended to clutch your heart. "Meredith Grey with emotional insight? Who are you and what have you done with our queen of avoidance?"

Teddy leaned in, stage-whispering to Meredith with a gleam in her eyes. "I give them two more days before Amelia ‘accidentally’ kisses her in the elevator."

Amelia didn’t miss a beat. "Please. It’ll be the supply closet. Have some respect for tradition."

"Just for the record," you said, voice lower now, intimate in a way that made Teddy raise her brows and Meredith pretend very hard to be engrossed in her phone, "if it were the supply closet... I wouldn't exactly object."

Amelia tilted her head, mouth curving upward into that mischievous little half-smile she wore when she was two steps away from doing something reckless and brilliant. "Noted," she said, her voice just as soft.

Teddy cleared her throat, "Well. That’s my cue to make myself scarce before someone violates HR policy behind the linen cart."

Meredith finally looked up, smirking. "Just make sure someone actually does kiss someone before I waste another bet on emotional repression."

Amelia chuckled, stepping close enough that your shoulders brushed. "No promises," she murmured.

But the glint in her eyes said otherwise.

[sashi-ya]

𝑲𝑨𝑰𝑱𝑼 𝑺𝑬𝑿 𝑺𝑷𝑶𝑹𝑬𝑺 𓇢𓆸 kaiju no 8 "sex pollen" hc ⟢ soshiro, kafka & reno

tw: mdni. sex pollen: "funghi type" kaiju reproductive spores and how they affect the guys. explicit scenes of sexual nature. based on a mini fic I wrote -never posted, will someday- of soshiro and reader being affected by such spores.

We often think of Kaiju as violent and dangerous creatures; some are big, other not so much, but all of them are -usually- taken as a threat for human kind. However, not every Kaiju known to mankind is exactly the type to be feared. Or maybe, actually, yes… “These are Fungi type” Okonogi says. “Ah- like the ones we killed back in Sagamihara, right?” Soshiro asks, absolutely unaware of the rare threat he was about to face. “Not really, fuku-taichou…” she murmurs, fixing her glasses, worried…

𝐒𝐎𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐑𝐎

He wore a mask but forgot that, even if every Kaiju had been already subjugated, his suit was still covered in those sexual spores. The fact that he kills by slicing them in various pieces, made him specially full of them.

Soshiro doesn’t really need a sex pollen to fuck you hard, that’s why the effects were -at first- difficult for him to control. “I don’t feel well…” he whispered to himself, feeling his body covered in sweat and the image of your body taking over every corner of his imagination. He felt like his palms were itchy, needy to squeeze your breasts, your ass, your thighs.

His tongue felt the pain of his sharpened fangs; he had to bite it while he came back to the base. Metallic taste of a little drop of blood filled his mouth the moment he saw you standing there, waiting for him, worried.

“Come here, I’m desperate to fuck you… please” he begged, whispering on your ear with his hands around your waist. Soshiro gave 0 fucks about the rest, nobody cared anyway.

Couldn’t wait much longer; he pushed you into a bathroom stall. Sat on the toilet, snatched you from your waist, pulled down your pants and lifted up your leg. A bite on your inner thigh, leaving a mark that will take some time to heal. His tongue on your sex. Up and down, sucking, slurping, tasting… devouring. Even if he is an oral sex god, this time felt like he was even better. Soshiro forgot to breathe, and from time to time you urged him to stop to get some oxygen.

Enough with the oral, Soshiro needed release; he couldn’t even stand up, his dick was freed for you to bounce -moved by his strong arms- up and down. The slap and the juices that dampened his pants and belly, felt for him like a true blessing. Those Kaiju wanted us to reproduce as well…

𝐊𝐀𝐅𝐊𝐀

My man here knew about the spores, however he felt asleep right before reading that the effects included a desire to “reproduce”. Probably due to his Kaiju nature the effects kicked a little later than the rest; he was still sitting in complete peace -actually fantasizing with him being the one saving the day- as he looked through the van’s window.

Sitting by his side, you were sleeping the way back… however, your dreams were suddenly interrupted by someone pulling on your arm.

“Mmhwhat?”. “I need… I- help-“ Kafka murmured, desperate. It seems to you he was having a “Kaiju emergency” and nobody, still, could know he was one. Quickly you eased the sleep away and began assessing him in silence to know what was happening. Yet, you noticed nothing.

Kafka opened his turquoise eyes as big as plates; and instead of explaining he snatched your hand and took it to his crotch. It was hard, harder than ever before. It felt almost like a rock, like a pulsating, throbbing, pleading and suffering rock.

“The spores… I am dying… I’m scared of transforming” he cried, almost inaudibly.

If he is transforming, it’s over. He is dying? Then let’s save his life… you took your jacket off and threw it, in complete silence, over his crotch. It was a blessing that you two sat at the very back of the van. Everybody, tired -and probably some affected by the spores- were completely unaware of the rest. And that, also, become an advantage for your intrepid hand as it slid inside the pants of your kaiju hybrid “friend”.

You knew exactly how to help him, ups and downs, playful taps and circles with your palm on top of his gland. Oh, poor Kafka, he fought back the urge to turn into a Kaiju and eat you alive… And you thought staining his pants with pure sticky whiteness was enough? Wait until you get to the base…

𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐎

The calmer of them all; mature, silent, hiding sweaty trembling hands. As one of the younger, he was able to conceal his growing appetite; at least until getting to the base. Reno became silent, trying to focus the mess on his head and the hardness inside his pants at bay. However, your beauty brought detrimental consequences to that state of pure meditation.

“Why are you running around in such revealing clothes?” he asked, looking and sounding almost mad. You stopped running; he didn’t seem to notice the towel hanging from your arm, but only the short shorts and gym bra you were wearing.

“I forgot my towel, I’m gonna shower” you explained, noticing the way he seemed to transform into something similar to a feral, hungry beast.

Reno pounced into you, pinning you against the wall of that empty hall that lead to a lively bathroom. “You were going to…” he whispered, with pale lips pressed against your neck. Reno inhaled your scent, he seemed to enjoy the perfume of your unwashed, sweaty skin. His fingers knew exactly where your core was, his teeth carved marks on your neck, his sex felt hard on your belly… that night, shower had to wait… because the more he sniffled on your flesh, the more he sucked in those kaiju spores.

[meganwhalenturner]

So, last November I got to try my hand at Alchemy

Maddalena Rumor, in the Classics Department of Case Western Reserve University came to have dinner with us and mentioned she'd just successfully turned silver gold.

She had an alchemical recipe from a 7th century BCE cuneiform tablet from the library of Ashurbanipal. She'd been working with Rekha Srinivasan, from the Chemistry Department to see if they could translate the cuneiform, identify the substances mentioned, and then try the recipe to see if it worked.

They traveled to the British Museum to examine the tablet up close. By studying the partial strokes along the edges, Maddalena could make some educated guesses about missing words. Rekha, in turn, could use the descriptions of the substances to make some guesses about what they might be. Then they could start testing their best guesses with experiments.

This is complicated by the tendency of alchemical texts to use code words or inside jokes to describe materials or techniques. Something like me making a recipe that calls for 2 Legs and 1 Arm of Policeman and my friends all knowing it means 2.5 ingots of Copper.

I know the word alchemy comes from the Arabic al-kimia and that it eventually developed into chemistry, but I've always associated it with the worst of the Dark Ages in Europe--charlatans or wannabe magicians in smoke-filled, poorly lit cellars full of of mummified animals and just generally gross stuff that is not my jam.

I'm wondering now if that's because medieval alchemists were reading a lot of things literally that weren't meant to be taken that way. There's a reference in one of Maddalena's article's to a rare case where "human excrement" called for in a recipe is revealed to actually mean "garlic." I can see a lot of ancient alchemists laughing up their sleeves.

I had just learned during a trip to Naples the previous summer that the alchemy of Renaissance philosophers like Pico Della Mirandola was very different from the stuff in the basements of Prague. Instead of dreckapotheke, they were translating texts from the Ancients Greeks, texts that were perhaps based on the very tablets from the 7th Century BCE that Maddalena was studying. I promptly begged to observe her next experiment.

She very graciously said yes, so I went down to a lab at Case and I wish I had taken better notes, but I did not, so what I've got is a bunch of pictures, and I'll have to go back and badger Maddalena for details.

These are the ingredients for the next round of testing.

They will be mixed into a solution in the flask on the right and then heated on a burner.

Then silver tablets will be dipped into the solution:

And turn gold!

Not *into* gold. That was not the plan. Hope you aren't disappointed.

If you thought the object of alchemy in those dark basements in Prague was turn to lead into gold, yeah me, too. And maybe it was, but the alchemy of the ancient Near East seems to have been more clear that transmutation wasn't on offer. After reading some of Maddalena's articles, I now know there were four main practices of alchemy back in the day: coloring silver gold, making a silver alloy that still looked like silver, coloring glass to look like precious stones, and dying wool purple without using those expensive snail shells from Tyre.

I talked about alchemy a lot (really, a lot, everyone was very patient) at a recent writing retreat. Erin Bow called it the Science of Knock Offs.

There are multiple ancient sources that say that this "holy and divine art" (hē hiera kai theia technē) was taught to mankind by fallen angels who were sharing the secrets of heaven. I know it seems ridiculous that an all knowing divine being is going to focus on the Secret Science of Knock Offs, but the more I I think about it, the more I can see it.

ARMUMAHEL: We will share with you the great mysteries of heaven!

MANKIND: . . .

ARMUMAHEL: I can save you some money on purple dye.

MANKIND: YAY!

SAMYAZA: So how did the secret sharing go today, Armumahel? Did they ask about the language of birds? The control over monsters of the deep?

ARMUMAHEL: I told'em how to make glass marbles look like sapphires.

SAMYAZA: You do know Enoch is writing all this down. His book is going to be stuck in the apocrypha and we're going to be laughing stocks.

ARMUMAHEL: I promised to tell them tomorrow how to turn silver gold.

SAMYAZA: Ah! Transmutation of matter! That's a good one!

ARMUMAHEL: No, not transmutation. They just want the silver bowls on the alter to be yellow and shiny.

SAMYAZA: . . .

My shiny yellow tablet. : )

[motorghost]

john watson, tenderness, and colonialism

one thing I like imagining about the brand of masculinity that Watson (can) represent is tenderness. this isn't actually a natural quality of his profession; army surgeons were more benevolent butchers back then, even if the simple desire to heal is what started watson down that road in the first place. there is not a lot of room for tenderness when you have to make split-second decisions regarding another soul's flesh, when you have to listen to their screams and their threats and their pleas and still do what your mind knows is the best course of action to save them. i imagine watson writing little stories as an escape from the horror as well as from his own (often pointless) role in it. perhaps he had his fill of being the decision-maker early on. and perhaps he yearned for tenderness at the hospital, confined for months to a bed and to his pain, perhaps seeing tenderness in his carers but also, perhaps, seeing the same resignation and emotional distancing he knew was necessary in medical practitioners in order to make good decisions, to think clearly. on top of that, the many immortal lessons of war. one of which: there is no god but what we make on this earth, for ourselves and for each other.

i imagine him arriving in london a flayed thing. snarling inside of an old costume that no longer fits: that of a gentleman (he's not, he's of the new middle class, and poor besides,) of a noble soldier (the cause was a sick joke, the honors not earned,) and of a skilled physician (what skill, when his hands barely answer his head and his heart jumps at every abrupt sound?) self-obliterating through gambling and drink. lingering in pointlessness with no way out. going on simply because it would be immoral not to, and he has endured enough shame already.

then: holmes. here is someone who has made an art form of the same detachment watson had to employ during the war. though he is dazzled by holmes's intellect and exhilarated by this scientific method of crime-solving and impressed by his iron will, he also sees the burden holmes bears. the proximity to mankinds' worst elements that lowers holmes even as he conquers heights unimagined, not to mention the pains his own otherwise magnificent mind afford him, as well as the invisible pain of loneliness (of living as Othered; of living in the city, as existential depression rises alongside industrial progress.)

as anyone who suddenly discovers their raison d'être—their reason for living—watson enthusiastically throws himself into offering the thing he most wanted to bring to his patients but could not: tenderness. in response to holmes's pain, watson offers gentleness and kindness and years of unquestionable, indefatigable loyalty.

colonialism relies on the strict differentiation between Us and Them, good and evil, black and white. it demands that actions be judged so that they can either be glorified or condemned. "there is so much that has to be denounced, and also so much that has to be praised."* watson praises holmes in print, and condemns those who harm the vulnerable, but for holmes himself, watson gives tenderness. tenderness is not a fist around a gavel, it is an open palm. holmes believes that watson is better than any british jury because he is tender. and perhaps holmes doesn't even understand the value of watson's tenderness until he's spent three years alone in eastern lands, away from the dominance of western, imperialist thought, and away from the man who helped him in ways he didn't recognize until he was gone.

perhaps watson learned that true healing can only be done at a level unreachable by physical instruments. in more ancient times, doctors more resembled priests; the treatment of the body and the treatment of the soul were not so separate. and maybe he learned that true healing is impossible in this life; that while there is much to live for, there is also forever pain. and the only way to mitigate that pain is through tenderness. and what is more tender than a little story about a great man who solves impossible problems, written in such a way as to stick out in the mind of readers for over a hundred years? even if it only distracts you from the pain for a few hours, that is surely enough.

[zorostitties]

Aurora, 3 (m)

⤕ Your existence had been an endless night, where shadows whispered long forgotten secrets. Trapped in a golden cage, your fragile mind and shattered memories were chains that kept you from dreaming of freedom. Then, he appeared with the first light of dawn, like a gentle sun warming your cold skin. In his gaze, the promise of a new beginning; in his presence, the sunrise your soul had longed for.

In which Alucard saves you from Erzsebet.

pairing: alucard (castlevania) x (f) reader

genre: angst, romance, slow burn, eventual smut

warnings: violence/blood, explicit language, mental health issues, grief, physical abuse.

rating: 18+

word count: 6k

A/N: Happy one week anniversary to this fic!!! Three chapters in seven days??? I don't write this much or this fast since I was like 15. Oh God. Hyperfixation go BOOM Thank you everybody that left comments last chapter!! Reading them makes my day!! Without further ado, let's hear Alucards thoughts. Enjoy! <3

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The fast passage of time never failed to surprise Alucard.

The way the pages of his favorite books would get yellowed and frail without him noticing. How stone pavement would get slippery, worn out, after years of feet walking on it. How quickly a small village with only a few families could turn into a city bubbling with thousands of lives. How a small seedling would turn into a tall apple tree laden with fruit before he could take notice of it. The way fashion changed rapidly; how his clothes would get outdated and he’d be forced to acquire new ones in order to fit better into society.

How fast humans aged.

He didn’t like to ponder too much into it. Not anymore. It always made old scars ache again. However, as he looked at Juste Belmont, he couldn’t stop himself.

A part of his brain still expected to see a skinny and clumsy boy when Richter mentioned Juste. After all, that was his last memory of the Belmont, although he knew it was impossible. And yet… when Alucard laid eyes on the man, he couldn’t help but be shocked. He knew he’d see an adult, yes… not an elderly man with white hair, beard and deep wrinkles, a man that looked older than him (even though he was in much better form than the average human his age).

How many years had it been since Alucard last saw Juste...? It was around the time his grandfather passed, if he wasn’t mistaken. Was it around 50 years ago, perhaps?

Hell. Only 50 years had passed, and Juste already looked like a raisin.

Half of him knew that was part of the beauty of human existence: its fleetingness. Every human had a clear and direct story: beginning, middle, end. Their will to build, transform, adapt, improve and sometimes destroy, despite the little time they had on Earth. That was why human society changed so much in all those years. They had limited time: they were in a hurry to do everything they could with what they got – and that’s why Alucard admired mankind so much. Despite their immortality, vampires didn’t seem as willing to make significant changes, always choosing complacency or destruction instead.

The other half of him – the half where his deepest scars where hidden – hated this fact about humans. Even felt bitter of them, although he wouldn’t admit it out loud. Humans came and went before he could notice. They marked his life and left him alone before he could even prepare himself.

Alucard inherited the human heart that an immortal shouldn’t have. That was one of the small curses he carried for being who he was.

“Why don’t I come to Paris with you?” Juste argued with Richter, which honestly humored Alucard a bit. The younger man was acting as the adult, coming with up with rational reasons, while the elder was eager to join the fight with them. There it was… humans’ will to do something despite everything.

The white-haired vampire watched the scene in silence, sitting on a tree trunk with Annette by his side. The morning fog over the lake and around the clearing made him keep his guard up despite his relaxed demeanor, as it could hide spies easily; in fact, he was almost sure there was someone out there, but he couldn’t tell exactly where. The smell of burnt wood, ashes and vampire corpses was disorienting.

“Are all Belmonts like this?” Annette wondered out loud with a quirked eyebrow.

“Irritating? Oh, yes.” Alucard knew that it was a genetic trait inherited by every Belmont (other than their clear blue eyes). “To be honest, it’s been years since I’ve had much to do with them.” He admitted. Even so, it seemed that things hadn’t changed much in this aspect. “But if I can’t stop Erzsebet, I’ll need a Belmont to finish the job. Or a revolutionary witch, of course.” Annette opened a small, bashful smile at his last sentence.

Richter started to list reasons to why Juste should stay in Machecoul – he owed it to Maria’s mother, he didn’t care if Juste wasn’t great with teenage girls, all the usual Belmont family drama. Well, something else that time hadn’t changed. Alucard almost had a deja vu, as it wasn’t the first time he witnessed a scene like that.

So he decided to lay his attention elsewhere.

Ruby was standing at a good distance from the rest of the group; she had a focused – slightly annoyed, even – expression on her face as she analyzed the pairs of boots in front of her. She had taken them herself from the corpses before the three men collected the deceased vampires to throw them at the fire burning in the Belmont’s now ruined cottage.

She took a boot and placed it next to her barefoot feet, measuring it. Apparently, it was too big. She sighed and did the same with the next pair.

Alucard had been paying much attention to her. He’s one to always focus on the task at hand – said task meant to stop the impending doom hovering over mankind on Europe – however, from the moment he entered her room through her window, things took a different turn. Got more complicated.

The white-haired vampire knew she wasn’t lying. After you live that long, you learn how to pick up the mannerisms of deceit, especially in humans. They blush, blink, avoid your gaze, stutter, their voice gets higher. It takes a lot of practice to get rid of these involuntary quirks. From the moment they first met, Ruby seemed absolutely honest in her fright; in fact, it was as if she couldn’t lie even if she wanted to. As if… she was trained to never lie.

However, it wasn’t enough to make Alucard less suspicious of her. Too much was at stake to let himself be carried away by her story. He knew he was too old to get fooled, but he also knew to never say never – thus why he kept his attention on her, even if he didn’t show it.

He was trying to understand her. Get a glimpse of what was really going on.

Ruby kept silent during most of the way to Juste’s cottage – and that was a lot, given they walked the entire night. She barely made questions. She didn’t ask to rest, to get some water, didn’t complain about her tight shoe (Alucard could feel the faint smell of blood coming from the scratch on her heel). She kept her head low most of the time. Well… she did promise that they wouldn’t even notice she was there, but Alucard didn’t think she was so serious about it.

It made him feel bad for her, to be honest. He could tell it was another thing she was trained to do.

Three moments of their long walk towards Juste’s location caught his attention the most.

The first was during one of their few stops, when Ruby stood apart of the group and stared at the sky for quite some time, in complete silence. She had a focused expression he hadn’t seen her show yet; one that didn’t somehow look pained. The second was when she caught glimpse of a squirrel – the tiny animal ran up a tree so fast that Richter and Annette didn’t notice it – and gasped, her eyes widened, as if she’d never seen a squirrel before. When the two asked what happened, Ruby brushed it off in embarrassment.

The third moment was while Annette explained what they were going to retrieve in Paris – Sekhmet’s mummy which contained half of her soul. And… Ruby didn’t react.

Alucard remembered that both Richter and Annette got confused at what a mummy is. Ruby didn’t. As if she already knew what it was.

That put a question mark in his head.

Alucard wanted to trust her. She seemed genuine. He got really worried about her at the forest, when she learned about Drolta’s death; there was no way she could lie about that. But… how could he trust someone whose own mind was untrustworthy?

Ruby measured her feet with another worn out leather boot, knee-high and with a very short heel. This time, it seemed to match. She put on the pair. Tip-toed, turned her ankles around, took some steps. Finally, she opened a tiny satisfied smile and sighed in relief. “This will do,” she muttered to herself.

Alucard narrowed his eyes slightly.

There was a time – a long time ago –, when he was young, Alucard would trust her in a heartbeat. He wouldn’t even question her. He’d let himself be carried by his inexperience, his naivety… and his inherent taste for beautiful, delicate things. Because yes, Ruby was beautiful like a flower. She reminded him of a weeping begonia – graceful, colorful, yet with a certain melancholy to it. He’d offer help, cook for her, give her a shelter. He’d even offer himself to carry her on his back the entire way due to her hurt heel.

But Alucard wasn’t naive anymore, and there was too much at stake to have faith in her like that.

Of course, one could argue that if that’s the case, then he shouldn’t trust Richter and Annette as well, given he barely knew both. But Richter was a Belmont – and like all Belmonts, he carried his heart on his sleeve; Richter was incapable of deceit. Annette was mature, much more than someone her age should be, due to her past; Alucard could recognize someone with a strong sense of justice and pride like her. There was nothing complicated about them. Ruby was complicated. Ruby meant mystery in a situation that demanded clarity.

Ruby was their upper hand against Erzsebet, but she was also a problem.

“Annette,” the white-haired vampire called quietly. The girl looked at him immediately, understanding his quiet and serious tone. “I’d like to ask you a favor.” She nodded. “Try to… stay close to Ruby. She might feel more comfortable to talk with another woman.”

Annette narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips. It might’ve sounded that he was just caring for Ruby, but the suspicion in his expression told her otherwise.

“Do you think she’s lying?” she asked in the same quiet voice.

“No,” Alucard said. “But she doesn’t remember anything from her past, so it doesn’t mean much. Perhaps… the real Ruby hidden in her memories might not be who she seems to be.”

Annette appeared hesitant – Alucard knew she had sympathy for Ruby – but nodded anyway.

The white-haired vampire sighed, tired of hearing the Belmonts talk, and got up.

“Richter. We need to go.” He was about to call Ruby as well, but she was already running towards them.

“Did you find one that fits?” Annette asked as she also got up. Ruby nodded.

“Yes. It doesn’t even smell bad, either.” She appeared so content with something so simple. Annette sent her a small smile before frowning and crossing her arms.

“What happens if we get to Paris and the mummy doesn’t hold any power, it’s just some old corpse that was stolen hundreds of years ago?” Annette wondered – but Alucard didn’t really pay attention to it.

Richter hugged Juste. Ruby watched it in silence – and the faint happiness she held seconds ago for finding good boots immediately faded away, being replaced by… longing. It was like watching a flower wither in front of his eyes.

A weeping begonia, indeed.

It was another one of those moments when Alucard wished he didn’t have his human heart. One of the few things that the fast passage of time hadn’t been able to change.

“Then at least it’s no use to Erzsebet, either,” he answered Annette’s question and turned around, not waiting for anyone to follow him.

When the great flowing river appeared, you couldn’t help but feel a bit of excitement.

Rivers and lakes kept frozen most of the time in Erzsebet’s country. It amounted to your pile of new experiences. In 24 hours, you’d already seen and done much more than during your time in imprisonment.

You tried not to gasp. This river was much larger than the one you’d seen a few hours ago, during one of the stops you’d made to drink water. The sound of the serene current was hypnotizing; it reflected sunlight beautifully, its surface shimmering with the glow of a million diamonds. A bit of fog still hovered over the nearby trees of the river bank.

“The river will take us much of the way from here,” Alucard explained. Since leaving Juste’s clearing, he had taken the lead and resumed himself to not talking much. Richter and Annette were carrying all of the conversations, to be honest, as you decided to also keep quiet.

Since you left the ruins at Machecoul, you noticed that Alucard was a bit… aloof. Or at least, he decided to act this way due the current situation – and you could understand that. The half-vampire wasn’t being rude, and never once did he appear annoyed anytime Richter and Annette made questions; in fact, he was more than eager to debate their plans or to explain how his hunt for Sekhmet’s mummy went over the years. And at the same time… his expression stayed nonchalant all throughout the way.

Well. You couldn’t expect anything less from a man that stayed extremely calm as he invaded Erzsebet’s chateau.

Nevertheless, it made you feel a bit… weird. You didn’t want to say lonely, but that’s more or less how you felt. Alucard was the one to talk to you at the forest after all, and Richter and Annette… they seemed too enthralled in each other, so you didn’t want to interrupt. You didn’t have the courage to initiate a conversation with Alucard either, scared to bother him. So to you, the entire travel had been a long, weird silence.

There was also the fact that you were in panic of attracting any attention to yourself. They must be extremely confident to walk around at night, you thought; how many vampires could be lurking under the moonlight, between the shadows? As much as the sights amazed you – heavens, you even saw a squirrel! –, you couldn’t help but also shiver whenever one of them stepped on twig.

“We won’t be stopping, so if you need provisions, get them now,” Alucard continued. “Keep out of sight. For sure, we’re being followed.” There it was. Just as you were thinking of vampires lurking, he confirmed your fears. And yet, instead of taking a fight stance or getting tense, he just furrowed his eyebrows and completed in an annoyed tone: “I’m always being bloody followed.”

Richter looked back. Then, you saw as his chest bubbled with excitement.

“Are you going to turn the tables on them, surprise them and then take them out with your flying-sword-thing?!” he asked on the same beat, not taking a second to breathe, his blue eyes shining with anticipation.

Alucard stared at him an embarrassingly second longer than normal.

“...I’m going to find a boat.”

And walked away.

Annette covered her mouth to muffle her laughter. Richter’s face got redder than a tomato. You looked down, unable to hide your chuckle as well. He seemed… very impressed by Alucard, you noticed. Once again, excited like a child. It was cute – and you got surprised at yourself, because you didn’t remember thinking anything was cute before.

Richter recovered from the embarrassment in a second. “I’ll hunt, you gather,” he said, pointing with his thumb. “I mean… you could hunt, too.”

Annette giggled once again. “I’ll find some mushrooms.”

They started to walk into the woods while talking about mushroom types.

For a second, you stood in place like a scared cat. Should you follow Alucard? Would that annoy him? Should you follow the other two? Would you annoy them? Didn’t they said you’d have to keep under watch at all times? But what if you became a burden? What if–

“Why aren’t you coming, Ruby?”

You jumped.

Annette and Richter stopped walking to look back at you. The girl had a little smile on her lips. “Do you like mushrooms?”

Oh. Right.

You ran to reach them. “I do,” you said awkwardly. The only good thing about living under Erzsebet’s enclosure was that you were, in fact, well-fed. It wasn’t always like that… but after you became obedient, you were served good food – and creamy mushroom soup was one of the dishes you liked.

“Let’s just hope that Alucard likes it, too,” Richter pondered, holding his chin. “If he even eats at all.”

“Of course he eats. Why wouldn’t he?” Annette raised one eyebrow.

Richter shrugged. “Well, I’m not an expert in half-vampire anatomy to understand his physiological needs.”

You clasped your hands behind your back, taking courage to speak up. “Is he… always like that?” You knew Alucard must’ve been far by that point, yet you still lowered your voice, as if afraid that he might hear it.

You didn’t even need to explain what “like that” meant. Annette pursed her lips. “I can’t tell. To be honest, we know him as long as you do.” That took you by surprise; you mean that Alucard trusted Richter and Annette without even knowing them?! The girl in yellow smirked and sent a teasing look towards Richter. “I mean, I didn’t know him; Richter right here knows everything about Alucard.”

“Hey– it’s not like that,” the boy blushed yet again and scratched the back of his neck. It seemed to be a quirk of his whenever he felt embarrassed. “It’s just that my family knows him for a long time, okay? I’ve… always heard stories about Alucard.”

“And is he what you were expecting?” Annette asked. Richter hummed, taking a second to answer.

“...Not exactly.” He crossed his arms. “I always imagined he’d look older. I mean, if you heard the stories they told me when I was a kid, you’d expect to meet a giant, like five meters tall.” Annette chuckled.

“Why does your family know him?” you asked Richter. He sighed.

“The Belmonts… we’re a long lineage of vampire hunters. Hundreds of years ago, my ancestors helped him defeat Dracula.”

Hundreds of years ago? So Alucard was that old? You shouldn’t be surprised as you knew that vampires didn’t age, keeping the same appearance they had when they were turned. Yet, since Alucard was only half vampire, you thought that he actually was the age he looked to be...

Annette narrowed her eyes. “I don’t think she knows who Dracula is. I didn’t know.”

“Riiight.” Richter nodded awkwardly. “Well, Dracula was considered by many the Vampire King for a long time. He was extremely powerful. And he almost wiped out life on Earth. Lovely guy,” Richter shrugged. “There’s also the detail that he was Alucard’s father.”

You widened you eyes. That meant that… Alucard had to kill his own father?!

“Does that make him the Vampire Prince?” Annette wondered, not appearing to care about what the blue eyed boy just stated at all.

“That’s one of his titles in the legends, though I don’t think he likes it,” Richter crossed his arms. “Well, he does look like a prince.”

The girl opened the most playful, devious grin you’ve ever seen – in fact, that was the most emotion you’ve seen her show up until now. Annette was somewhat serious and her reactions were very contained, so you were a bit surprised by that. It seemed that only Richter could evoke these reactions from her…

“Oh, God. Are you going to ask his hand in marriage? When you do, tell us previously, so we can leave the room,” she playfully elbowed his ribs.

“Wait– That’s not– What I meant is–“ Richter stumbled over his words, his cheeks redder than ever – and this time you couldn’t help but giggle with Annette, covering your mouth. It also seemed that only Annette could get Richter flustered like that…

“Alright, lover boy. This seems like a good place,” she stopped walking, pointing to her right side. “Let’s see if we can find some good ones. Take care to not get hurt by your dangerous rabbits,” she sent him one last playful look.

Still blushing, Richter smiled, shook his head and kept walking ahead.

Her eyes lingered on his figure. For a second, you wondered if she forgot you were even there.

Finally, she looked at you. “Shall we?”

You nodded, following her into the woods.

And… back to silence.

Awkward silence.

You didn’t really know how to start conversations. You didn’t even know if you should. That might annoy her, you thought. I’m not her friend like Richter. It’s better if I just keep silent to not attract unwanted attention.

With the corner of your eye, you observed Annette.

Richter commented that Alucard looked like a prince - and talking about royalty… you also thought that Annette looked like a princess. Her features were delicate; she was soft spoken, polite and intelligent. Her round brown eyes reminded you of kindness and warmth, although you could see they were clouded with some sadness and distress. The way she matched her yellow vest with the golden hair rings and earrings reminded you of a sunflower. Earrings… looking at them made you feel the ghost of a familiar pain. Whenever they dressed you up for Erzsebet’s night balls, they’d have to pierce your ears to put earrings on them. Every single time. And the skin would constantly try to heal around the earring, making them itch uncontrollably until you’d finally rip them off–

“Oh! Looks like we found some,” Annette cut your line of thoughts before they could spiral. “Well, that was fast…”

She pointed towards the ground nearby. There was a tree with a couple of mushrooms growing near the roots. Annette took a small wooden bowl from the shoulder bag she carried across her chest and knelt down in front of the tree.

You narrowed your eyes as you got closer to the tree…

“These aren’t edible.” You blurted out.

Annette looked back at you.

You stepped closer, shyly pointing towards the mushrooms.

“They’re… too white. The gills. Poisonous,” each word that came out of your mouth made you frown more.

The girl in yellow looked down at the mushrooms, softly pushing them with her fingertips to see under the cap better. Then, she looked back at you.

“You’re right,” she got up, watching you in silence.

You looked back at her in silence, too.

Silence.

“I didn’t know I knew that,” you admitted in a whisper.

Annette cracked a small smile. “That’s a good sign, isn’t it?”

“Why?”

“You remembered something.”

You remembered…?

You were sure of one thing – never once in your life have you ever went mushroom picking under Erzsebet’s imprisonment. Your memory could be a mess, but of that you were sure. So why would you know how to spot a poisonous mushroom?

Was that… was that really a memory?

“You look very shocked,” Annette pointed out. You realized she was already some steps ahead of you looking for another tree. You ran to reach her.

“I… well, I… do you think this could be a memory?” You didn’t like how high pitched your voice sounded.

“Of course it’s a memory. What is knowledge if not a collection of memories?” she said softly.

You felt excitement bubbling within your chest, making your heartbeat increase and you grab the fabric of the skirt.

“Then I think I had another memory past night.” This caught Annette’s attention. “I… I saw a squirrel.” She quirked one eyebrow up, confused. “See, back in Erzsebet’s castle, I was always locked up. And it’s a cold place, there’s always too much snow. Even if I’d go out, I don’t think I’d ever see a squirrel.” You looked up at her, eyes gleaming with excitement. “B-But I saw a squirrel yesterday and I knew what it was, you see? It’s the same situation, isn’t it? A… a knowledge?”

Annette chuckled, but you saw in her eyes – they were very honest – that she didn’t find the situation funny at all. It was… maybe similar to what you saw in Alucard’s eyes past afternoon. It had sympathy and, again, a hint of sadness.

Oh… you let it slip the part about being locked up in a castle.

She was probably feeling bad about you.

“It might be,” she spoke, once again, in that soft tone. “Perhaps those things are common to you, and now you’re beginning to remember.”

Right.

Right, right, right. She was right. Your heartbeat kept up its fast pace as a million ideas flooded your mind. This was the first time you weren’t being mistreated and tortured. When you weren’t being tortured, you were under the constant anxiety of when it was going to happen next. That’s why you slept so much. This was the first time you refused to sleep in order to take in everything happening around you, even the smallest things. What if it was somehow healing your mind?

What if you used to live in a place with mushrooms and squirrels? What if it was a cottage like Juste’s, near a clearing? What if it had trees all around? What if… what if you had relatives that would hug you like Juste and Richter? What if they taught you the difference between an edible and a poisonous mushroom? What if you had parents?

What name did your parents give you?

What was your name? Your actual name, and not this mockery Erzsebet named you that night?

Ruby. That beautiful necklace, bejeweled with diamonds and a big ruby stone that you hated so much. It seemed to burn your skin, seemed to weight tons. But yes, it had the same color of your blood; the necklace got soaked with it whenever Erzebet’s fangs sank in your throat, it’d soak the collar of your dresses, it’d paint your body in that color, it’d paint the Vampire Messiah’s lips–

You gasped and flinched away when you felt a hand on your arm.

Annette looked at you with worry.

“I’m sorry. I called you a few times but you didn’t listen…”

You gulped, putting your hand over your chest and feeling your heart thundering nonstop. The way she was looking at you…

It happened again… just like yesterday, with Alucard…

You hated how your hands were shaking. You hated that you could feel your vision get blurred. You hated all of it, and you hated how a simple thought could make you drift back to her.

You also hated that this thing happened, yet again, with someone to witness. Heavens… you didn’t want to appear weak. These people already had enough problems; all you had to do was not bring them more trouble, to be as unnoticeable as possible, but how could they not notice you if you kept embarrassing yourself like that over and over again?

“My apologies.” You managed to speak somehow. “I’m fine.”

Annette pressed her lips together. Oh, you hated a bit how genuine her eyes were… she couldn’t hide any emotion at all. She felt bad for you. She was worried. You didn’t want to worry anyone.

The girl let out a deep sigh. She held the wooden bowl with both hands, pressing it close to her abdomen, and looked down. For the first time, you noticed the symbol burned on the skin of her right hand… it looked like a flower. Was she branded…?

“I… understand how you feel,” Annette started in a quiet voice. The way she somehow sounded fragile took you off guard; it was the first time you’d seen her like that. “I really do. Those people… they keep haunting you. On your sleep, or even when you’re awake…”

Wind swayed the trees above, played with Annette’s hair, made the golden rings around her locs tinkle softly. In that moment, she looked very young… no. She was very young. Yet, it was the first time you noticed it. She always kept a certain posture, a certain way of speech, that didn’t let this fact be noticed easily. Her fragility almost made her look child-like.

Oh…

The sadness in her eyes… it didn’t have much to do with you. Your state just reminded her of something painful.

“I am not saying that it’s easy to get over it. I still struggle myself,” she admitted quietly, as if she wasn’t proud of it. “And I am not saying that you should be embarrassed to feel this way. It’s… natural.”

Finally, she lifted her head, looking at you once again.

“I don’t know exactly what you went through. But what I can say is that… to be truly freed is to not be afraid. Because when you’re not afraid anymore, they can never hurt you again, even in your mind.” She opened a small, dimpled smile. “And when we defeat Erzsebet, justice will be done. You will be entirely free.”

Sunlight that breached through the leaves touched her face softly. Made her golden earrings glow; lightened her deep brown eyes, making them look caramel. The hint of sadness was still there, but they also shimmered with something else: hope. Courage.

You wondered what Annette must’ve been through; you weren’t brave enough to ask. You could see that life hadn’t been kind to her… her eyes didn’t lie. And even so, she was walking towards indescribable evil to fight against it, even though she had her own demons to face. She was taking her time to offer you encouraging words.

Annette was really like a sunflower; despite the darkness of the world, she chose to face the sun.

You didn’t even know what to reply.

“Thank you,” was all you managed to say now that your heart had fallen into a slower pace again. Luckily, Annette didn’t seem to expect you to elaborate. It’s like she knew you couldn’t.

She nodded and tapped the side of your arm. “We still have mushrooms to pick. And it’s better if you find them… I was about to poison us all, apparently,” she managed to jester, earning a chuckle from you.

When Annette came back, she had the weirdest expression on her face.

After you finished picking enough mushrooms, she went to look out for Richter. Although you were still uneasy, she declared that there was no danger nearby, so you could rest a little if you wanted – which you accepted to do, sitting under a tree for a while. It was nice being alone for some moments. You tried to hear your own mind; maybe it could whisper new memories…

However, Annette came back barely five minutes later with her eyes widened.

You got up immediately. “Did you find Richter? Is everything alright?”

The girl blinked several times. “Y-Yes, I found him. Everything’s alright.”

Annette… stuttering?

Then you noticed… she was blushing.

What…?

“We s-should reunite with Alucard,” she sounded a bit exasperated and rushed. “Richter’s still hunting, but I bet he–“

That’s when you heard the sound of the explosion.

The floor shook beneath your feet. The loud noise came from close by, followed by a loud grunt. Richter’s voice.

Your entire body got tense. Your eyes widened. Your breath hitched.

But, before you could say anything, Annette looked at something behind you and widened her eyes.

“Get down!”

She didn’t need to say it twice.

You dropped, covering your head with both hands, one second before a scrawny looking vampire could stab your temple with a knife.

The thing hissed – and for a second you got desperate thinking, Annette is going to die.

Only for one second, though.

It was the time it took her to kill him.

With a quick gesture of hers, the knife the vampire held melted into somewhat a formless pulp mid air and floated to her hand, where it was reshaped as a spear. With a groan of effort, Annette pierced through the vampire’s skull as if it was butter.

You looked at her in absolute shock.

“Nice reflexes!” She said. But you heard Richter’s voice again, the sound of flames whooshing in the wind, and other unknown voices; the sounds of a fight. “Let’s go!”

She grabbed you by the wrist and ran.

Your most primitive instincts wanted to run in the opposite direction; hell, you’d barely recovered from whatever just happened a second ago. Your worst fears became true; there were vampires deep within the forest, hiding in the shadows even during the day. And you were alone in the woods… if Annette had taken a minute longer, you’d have been knocked out. Maybe that vampire would’ve taken you and ran back to Erzsebet’s entourage. Was Alucard nearby? Did he heard the fight? Was he coming to help you three–?

All your thoughts disappeared.

Richter was fighting two vampires at the same time with his bare hands. You watched, in shock, as he switched from fire to ice to lightning, covering his punches and kicks in blue elemental magic, not showing any sign of struggle at all.

He managed to knock two of them – but didn’t notice as a third short vampire was ready to shot him with a shotgun. Annette was faster. Once again, she controlled the metal of the bullet, disintegrating it before it could even touch Richter, and forced the projectiles to ricochet back at its shooter.

Richter looked at you and Annette.

“I would’ve dodged that,” he complained, pouting.

“Is ‘thank you’ so hard?” Annette retorted.

The blue eyed boy looked at you. “Stand behind us, yes?” As if he needed to say it. Another tall vampire wearing an armor sprinted at them as they took their offensive positions.

You were in such a deep shock that you couldn’t even be scared anymore.

They… they weren’t struggling. At all. They were just human beings, fighting against vampires and winning, winning with the help of magic. They predicted the vampires’ moves and broke their attacks like it was nothing. They were so overwhelmingly superior that the enemies barely even noticed you were there, too focused in trying to survive.

Now you understood why Alucard trusted them without even knowing them well.

They didn’t even need Alucard’s aid.

Annette fought against a tall and skinny vampire. She controlled the blades he used on his sleeves, preventing him to run away; she then reshaped his blades into a sharp spear. After exchanging a few blows, she launched the spear with a scream of effort – and hit bullseye. Quite literally. The spear pierced into the vampire’s eye through his skull, killing him immediately.

Richter had ran off after the last vampire, disappearing from your sights.

“Where’d he go?!” she asked in a rushed tone. You pointed towards the direction he sprinted on, unable to speak.

She didn’t need to ask you to follow her.

When you reached him, the situation seemed under control. Richter had retrieved his whip, and the short vampire was down on his knees.

Richter smirked confidently.

“I hope the vampires in Paris are better than this bunch of blood wankers,” he boasted in a cocky way…

But the vampire smirked as well.

With a puff of black smoke, he turned into a small bat.

“Richter!” Annette called. At the same time, another vampire appeared from within the shadows.

The blue eyed boy didn’t know which to chase – but the new enemy seemed faster and more dangerous. His whip got involved in blue fire; with a single whiplash, the vampire was killed.

But the bat had already disappeared.

“The little one’s escaped!” Annette groaned. It was the first time she looked even slightly annoyed at Richter. She had a breathless scowl in her face, her nose slightly crunched. “Great! Now they know where we are going!”

Richter was distressed. He looked around, his cheeks flushed either because of the physical effort or sheer embarrassment. “Let’s– Let’s look around for him, he mustn’t be far!”

“A tiny bat flew away between the trees, Richter. We won’t find it.” The girl put her hands on each side of her waist.

They started arguing on what they should do next. You didn’t have it in you to interrupt.

Now that adrenaline was slowly fading away, you felt… pretty useless. All you could do was stand there like a frozen statue while these two fought like beasts. At least you didn’t disturb them or made the situation more difficult.

The bigger part of your brain was still frightened. A tiny part of it was… a little excited.

“I suppose we should tell Alucard,” Richter admitted defeat after apologizing over a hundred times, shoulders dropped and a flushed pout on his lips. Annette sighed.

“Let’s not. It probably won’t matter.” Maybe she had a point… these vampires didn’t look like Erzsebet’s servants. No cloaks, no moon symbol on their foreheads. She crossed her arms. “And I don’t want to give him another excuse for that ‘oh, you children’ look he does.”

You wanted to disagree, but you didn’t feel that you had the right… not after what you saw them do.

And… you couldn’t judge them for hiding something.

You were hiding something, too. Something you didn’t want to talk about – at least, not yet.

Three memories of yours awakened that day.

You knew what a squirrel was. You knew what poisonous and edible mushrooms were.

And...

I don’t think she knows who Dracula is, Annette said back then.

She was wrong.

You did.

[witch1nghour]

𝜗𝜚 ⠀𝗕𝗬 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗣𝗥𝗜𝗖𝗞𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗢𝗙 𝗠𝗬 𝗧𝗛𝗨𝗠𝗕   ﹔   various  sentence  starters   (   platonic/romantic/antagonistic/etc   )  from   JEKYLL AND HYDE: THE MUSICAL   (   1990   )   .  please   , like   or  reblog if   you   plan   on   using   .   don’t   claim   as   your   own   .   content   warning   :   tw murder, violence, religion  .   

in  each  of  us  there  are  two  natures.

he's  beyond  help.

he  stil  has  a  soul  -  as  pure  and  good  as  yours  or  mine.

madness  is  the  cruelest  of  all  prisons.

there  must  be  a  way  to  help  him.

my  theories  convince  me  there  is  a  better  solution.

use  your  gifts  wisely.

once  there  was  morning,  now  endless  night.

if  I  could  reach  you  I'd  guide  you  and  teach  you  to  walk  from  the  darkness  back  into  the  light.

please  try  to  hear  me.

I'll  never  desert  you  -  I  promise  you  this  till  the  day  that  I  die.

I  need  to  know  the  nature  of  the  demons  that  possess  man's  soul

why  does  he  revel  in  murder  and  madness?

I  need  to  find  a  way  to  get  inside.

I  need  to  try  to  separate  the  good  and  evil  -  if  I  can.

give  me  courage  to  go  where  no  angel  will  go.

there's  a  face  that  he  hide  till  the  nighttime  appears.

man's  a  master  of  deceit.

what  is  his  sinister  secret?

if  we  could  extract  all  of  the  evil  from  each  of  us  think  of  the  world  we  could  create!

what  makes  you  think  you  have  the  right  to  play  god?

my  fate  is  yours  to  choose.

I  did  try  to  warn  you.

you  should  exercise  greater  caution.

you  have  come  this  far,  remember  what  you  have  at  stake.

comments  on  style,  madam,  should  never  be  made  by  those  who  have  none.

you'll  get  what  you  want  in  the  end,  you  always  do.

the  only  thing  to  fear  is  the  unknown.

we  knew  there'd  be  a  price  to  pay.

look  in  my  eyes  -  who  do  you  see  there?

love  is  the  only  danger.

we'll  make  our  one  dream  come  true.

you  know  who  I  am...take  me  as  I  am.

give  me  you  hand  -  give  me  your  heart.

swear  to  me  we'll  never  part!

goodnight,  my  angel.

goodnight,  my  devil.

if  we  want  our  love  to  grow,  we  musn't  be  afraid  of  letting  go.

you  are  playing  a  very  dangerous  game.

a  little  touch  of  sin  -  why  wait  another  minute?

why  should  tonight  be  different?

here's  to  the  night!

if  you  only  knew  the  games  we  could  play.

you're  not  up  to  the  chase.

you  have  got  a  lot  to  lose  ...  think  of  the  consequences.

for  all  these  years,  I've  faced  the  world  alone.

I  have  started  this  alone  ...  and  I  must  finish  it  alone.

I  have  a  thirst  that  I  cannot  deprive.

tonight  I'll  take  from  all  mankind,  conquer  all  the  gods.

I  see  the  pain  in  your  eyes.

have  I  become  my  work  and  nothing  more?

what  kind  of  monster  would  do  such  a  thing?

I  am  in  love  with  the  things  that  I  see.

if  someone  like  you  found  someone  like  me  then  suddenly,  nothing  would  ever  be  the  same.

I'd  feel  so  alive  if  someone  like  you  loved  me.

it  warms  my  heart  to  know  that  romance  still  blossoms.

how  dare  you  speak  to  me  like  that?

you  don't  seem  like  yourself.

I've  been  better,  name  ...  I've  been  better.

I  did  everything  I  could  to  save  the  others.

I  am  dangerous.  more  dangerous  than  any  wild  animal  stalking  its  prey  ...

my  love,  what's  happened  to  you?

I  must  be  left  alone  to  finish  what  I've  started.

yu  never  promised  me  the  journey  would  be  easy  -  only  that  we  would  take  it  together.

you  were  heaven-sent  to  me,  was  it  never  meant  to  be?

don't  abandon  me  now,  name.

if  you  need  me  you  know  where  I'll  be.

did  you  really  think  that  I  would  ever  let  you  go?

do  you  think  I'd  ever  set  you  free?

you  will  never  get  away  from  me!

this  is  not  a  dream,  my  friend,  and  it  will  never  end!

no  matter  what  you  may  pretend.

I'll  rejoice  as  you  breathe  your  final  breath.

there's  a  beast  at  the  door,  and  he's  wild  and  free.

[shycloudkitty]

You're too sweet for a monster like me

Summary : Leon's drowning his pain and suffering with whiskey. But you might be his true salvation.

Pairing : Vendetta Leon! × Fem Reader (A little bit of pre vendetta)

Tags : Established relationship, self deprecating talk (Leon does with himself), mostly angst with little comfort. (But it's there) and alcoholism

A/N: Update on why I disappeared for a while. It's because things got rocky with my academics and I recently broke up :( But not to worry I'm not gonna let a little heartbreak set me back.

And for this fic I'm thinking it to be a little pre vendetta Leon, like the incidents that led to him having depression in Vendetta. It's gonna a be short fic, may or may not write a part 2 about this. Let me know!

Part -2

WC: 1.6K

Masterlist | Ao3 account

Sound of whiskey getting poured in a glass fills the emptiness of the living room he was in. After all this was all he could do, the only thing he had control in his poor pathetic life.

One mission after another after another. Leon was getting tired after endless fights with the B.O.Ws, corrupt governments in countless countries that were ‘speculated’ to have a new damned virus or a bioweapon war waiting to happen.

And every damn time he was supposed to deal with it, he was supposed to do the government’s dirty work for them, he was supposed to fight every goddamned ugly creature created by the worst of mankind, he had to carry out every gut wrenching decision that government instructed him to do, everytime he was the last man standing and he was never gonna get out of this cycle.

Yes, that's right. He was just a little puppet for the government that was supposed to fight B.O.Ws for them. Someone who was blackmailed into this life and do their bidding, by of course the government.

At first, he tried to take it positively and thought of how many people he could save like he always wanted to and at such a large scale. Something he was extremely passionate about since he was a kid… saving people's lives, protecting them. That's why he wanted to be a cop and now that he was a government ‘special’ agent he would be able to do more.

But he definitely didn't expect the destruction those missions would cause on his own self too, taking every piece of his humanity, every last hope he seemed to have, gone & extinguished in the flames of every bioweapon war he was called in. He definitely didn't expect and could never have anticipated what he was getting thrown into.

When will this cycle end?

A question he thought every second of his life but never had the answer. Forced to play hero each time and with no real win, fighting was like choosing between the lesser of two evils.

He was just a weapon, just a pawn that the government moved each time when they wanted to achieve something. And why would a pawn's life matter in the grand scheme of things? A pawn was created just to be shot down. And that's what he was.

While he was lost in thoughts and his whiskey all alone. He almost missed the soft voice whispering his name, such a gentle voice calling out to him. Feeling a soft hand on his back, trying to get his attention. He turned back to see who it was… and there was the reason. You.

Soft eyes looking at him with a sympathetic smile asking him how he was or that he had eaten anything today?

Leon slowly shook his head to get out of the fog clouding his brain and blinked a few times to focus on you.

Leon's words slurred as he spoke “What?”

“I asked how are you doing today?” Your soft words of concern clearing his brain fog better, making him aware of his surroundings and himself.

Leon blinks once more and looks down at his whiskey and then back at you. “... Better than yesterday.” A lie, he was the same as yesterday.

He could see her lips twitch in a small smile as she sat down besides him on the couch and said. “You're a terrible liar when drunk…”

Leon managed a soft huff at her reply. It almost weirded him out that you could see through him, but he guessed that's what happens when you have someone who cares for you. Leon looked away, sighing deeply and replied. “I'm just tired…”

Leon heard a soft sigh, feeling the soft couch dip a bit as she shifted closer to him, resting her head on his shoulder and gently held his hand. “Leon… I'm always here for you, you know that right? I may not be able to give solid advice to you, but I'm a good listener.”

You could feel him relax under your touch a bit and saw him look your way from the corner of his way, still not facing you. “...I know.”

“So, you know I'm also worried about you?”

Leon winces at that, the last thing he wanted was you to worry about his pathetic self. You already have done so much for him just staying by his side through all this. Hell, you were an angel just for putting up with him and actually loving him. You weren't supposed to be worried about him and you definitely weren't supposed to fall in love with him.

Leon clears his throat and shifts a little bit away from you although he didn't let go of your hand and says. “I…It's nothing.”

You couldn't help but frown at how closed off he was being for the last few days, you understand that his last mission was rough although he never went into details about his missions with you. And you knew he needed space to process all of it but you hated the way he was ‘processing’ his loss. Drinking, lost in thoughts and closing off when you tried to get close. It was hard for both of you.

You slowly shifted towards him again, getting close to him once again. Gently taking the whiskey glass from his hands and moving it away from him. “Leon…”

He looks back at you and he looks…lost. A raging storm of emotions present in those pretty blue eyes of his that you loved so much. “I know it's hard Leon and I'm happy to give you space to think but the way you're doing it… is making me worried.”

You took a deep breath and continued. “Is there anything I can do to help? I can't… see you like this.”

He closes his eyes and deeply sighs once more, years of weariness and defeat visible on his face. He shakes his head and whispers. “You're not supposed to worry about me…”

Leon feels soft hands cup his face gently as she replies. “Can't help it. It sorta happens when you care.”

Leon opens his eyes to see you staring at him with a soft warm smile, your faces close. He presses his forehead against yours for a while trying to calm his anxious thoughts. He then pulls you closer by your waist, pulling you in a hug and burying his face in your neck and taking a deep breath. Your scent filling his senses and offering some peace that he needed to ground himself.

He often wondered what he did to deserve you? Did God or whatever the power universe has, take pity on him and decide to gift him an angel? You were always so sweet, so gentle with him, loving, caring, understanding. You were his sunshine and he couldn't look away. All he could do was soak up in the warmth that you always seemed to radiate everywhere you stepped.

You were perfect and it scared the hell out of him.

He was scared that one day you will see the monster he actually was. That one day you will wake up and see him for who he was, the things he had to do to make a living and think what a disgusting monster he was, what he truly was… not some ‘Hero’ or the ‘Golden boy’, just some monster and a weapon crafted to perfection to destroy the undead. And he hopes that day never comes.

He continues to hug you tightly to himself, his face buried in your neck as he takes deep breaths to calm himself. He then softly whispered. “You smell…like daffodils.”

The sudden comment made you chuckle a bit and kissed his cheek, hugging him tightly. “Yeah, I bought a new perfume today, didn't think you would notice. Does it smell bad?”

“... No, it smells good. It suits you.” And sighed deeply. He then whispered. “You're too sweet for me. Don't know what you see in me.”

You turned to face him and kissed his cheek. “don't say that… I see that you're a hard working, resilient person who keeps going even when the odds are stacked up against him. Whatever it is that you're going through… you can pass through it.”

He turned his head to face you, his expression softening into something more vulnerable as you say that. Clearly touched by your words. Feeling a lump rise in his throat as he closes his eyes once more and exhales shakily.

You were so…innocent. You had no idea what was going on in his head or what actually he turned into. You also had no idea about the vicious but repetitive cycle he was in.

Opening up about this life of his…would ruin such a sweet and innocent thing like you, he was sure of that. He knew you weren't a kid or anything or that you never faced hardships in your life. But this…he can't tell you about what he faces out there, what kind of ugliness his line of work shows him everyday, the dark side of humanity.

He can't taint the only ray of sunshine he ever found in his life.

You look up at him with that sweet dazzling smile, thinking he was someone ‘great’. But reality couldn't be farther from the truth.

Hello everyone! Long time no see, I'm sorry for my disappearance. I promise I will try to be regular now, I know this was short I will probably try to make a part 2? Idk but this was mostly written for my creativity to start flowing again. If you liked it please like it and reblog. I would be very grateful 😊

Fun fact: Daffodils are a sign of hope!

Thank you for reading this, hope you have a good day!

-Bella

[simp-ly-writes]

The Letter's

─────── · · Dreams of Dragons (pt.5)

PAIRING: Daemon Targaryen x Fem!Targaryen!Reader, Cregan Stark x Reader

SUMMARY: Words are said to be the most powerful force all. And that statement continues to be truthful when letters are exchanged between the King of the North to that of the Seven Kingdoms. Eager eyes drink of the ink as you cherish your final moments in Winterfell.

TAGS: alternate universe, canon divergence, no use of y/n, second person perspective, female pronouns used, coarse language, protective!Daemon, angst, blood and gore, hurt/comfort, soulmates, time travel, targ-cest, engine-translated high valyrian, not beta read. MASTERLIST | TAGLIST REQUEST | WORDCOUNT: 4,763 | PRIOR | NEXT A/N: i should be doing school work rn... but i my mind is HERE 😭

─────── · ·

DISMOUNTING FROM YOUR HORSE THE GROUND LOOKS TO BE TOUCHING THE SKY AS THE GREAT ICE WALL STANDS TALL ABOVE THE SILENT WHITE LANDSCAPE. The wooden elevator creaks with the weight of you all standing within the box. It swings slightly with every gust of wind sending your heart rate skyrocketing unlike the pace you were being brought up with.

You grip the wall tightly with your gloved hands, eyes frantic as you watch the ground become more distant before becoming minuscule to the sky. "Afraid of heights, your highness?' one of the guards asks whilst adjusting the crossbow on their back.

You offer a weary smile before adverting your eyes to the opening doors ahead of you all. "Well this is no dragon," you counter knowing that you couldn't begin to explain what an aeroplane is and you receive a chorus of humoured grunts before stepping out and on to the wall.

You first take a long look in both directions in order to try and grasp the sheer mass of the structure, your hand glides across the equal wood and ice walls with silent fascination as you pay no attention to the various men and women that stumble in seeing your presence before returning to their duties like nothing happened in the first place.

"I cannot begin to imagine how mankind created such a structure," you state while looking towards the Lord to already find his eyes upon you. Holding one another's gaze, Cregan takes his time to reply, "and so you must know why such a thing had to be created?"

You bow your head deeply, walking up a series of steps towards an outlook point and it as if all of the South fades behind you, your eyes stolen by a sea of nothingness that unsettles your bones better than the winds like a lingering dread that you cannot look away from. "I-" you are unable to respond, your mind painted in scenes of smoke and blood like your earliest dreams.

You twitch underneath your furs, leather boots creaking as you shuffle your feet at the gruesome scenes that play out in your mind. That familiar and overwhelming smell of copper laces through your nose finding its way right to your gut and suddenly a hand pulls your arm back as you squint as realities blur together.

It is a silent scream as you see red eyes and white skin appear before you, the hands move up your shoulders giving you a light shake, your name is bellowed to overcome your senses as you look into silver eyes and brown hair once more.

"You had a vision..." Cregans hands slide off your form, he takes a half step back, just far enough to give you space yet just close enough to let you know he's physically there to support you. "...what did you see?"

You swallow hard, the information you hold within yourself is dangerous in the wrong hands and in that moment you realize you are in a foreign state with men surrounding you that you fully didn't know. But the Starks saved me... surely... You take a hesitant look upwards at Cregan who tilts their head slightly in a silent ask to tell me.

Shaking your head, you step back away from the wooden raining, bumping your shoulder into an oil lantern that swings on a post before settling once more as does your heart rate. "If I speak anything on what is to come, it will change the outcome I know to be," you cryptically answer, tearing your eyes away and looking over the small group that tries hard to act like they were not listening to your conversation the whole time.

Amongst this group sits a man hunched over on a stool, his left hand gently grasps a piece of charcoal that drags across a cream coloured page. Their white eye-brows are furrowed as you raise your chin, trying to gain a clearer view of what they were sketching- two figures, you observe... one in a dress the other with a large sword- oh.

The artist looks up, offering you a smile before continuing their drawing. Cregan's arm brushes up against your own, you feel his warmth radiating out from his armour and off from his furs. "It is proof for the letter," he speaks quietly, eyes casting a stern look to the formed group that returns to their positions without another word. "You are distracting my men, princess," Cregan notes, eyes looking at the side of your face before returning to the artists hands.

You chuckle, moving a strand of fallen hair from your eye, "you are not the first to tell me that." Cregan hums in response, his hand moving to casually rest on the hilt of his dagger. A mutual silence is shared as the artist concludes their drawing, you both are presented the final image, your fingers drift over the corner as to not blur the unsettled material atop the page.

In all your studies it was rare to come across a complete drawing and now you held an original and better yet, an image of yourself. You pass the image towards the Lord, thanking the artist politely and watch as they take back the drawing and head back towards the elevators.

"It is sad that the drawing will have such a short life time," you comment, watching as people move up and down the hall with various supplies of alternating shapes and sizes. Cregan furrows his brow, "and why is that?"

You turn to face the Stark seeing as he has two cups in his hand of steaming liquid, he silently presses it into your hands before taking a sip of the dark liquid and your face lights up at the taste of hot chocolate. Yourself internally laughing at the Cold King of the North drinking the beverage with a stoic expression.

"Odds are if my mother or sister is not first to receive the letter... my father or uncle will be quick to crumple and burn it," you giggle, shaking your head as you waft the comforting smell of the drink towards your nose. Cregan watches you with an amused expression, lips turned to the smallest smile that falls all too quickly in remembering what he just heard.

Clearing his throat, he places your empty cups in a bucket of other used items before walking off with a silent expectance for you to follow along and you do so further across the wall.

You do not know how many hours you spent between the icy walls as Cregan noted the history of his ancestors to your eager ears, taking the occasional glance back to see your bright eyes lighting up with every fact you absorbed.

"Your father, grandfather and all those before you's dragons refused to pass the wall, the most ancient and deadly creates afraid of what lies beyond the horizon..." the Stark pauses, his next words seemingly hesitant in comparison to the calm even tone you were used to hearing, "...death and destruction." You misstep with your footing, a flash of red snow beneath your feet before you stabilize yourself.

Cregan adjusts the sword on his back, "I seem I guessed your visions correctly." You do not meet Cregan's gaze that provides him with enough of an answer, "And so is also why I am hesitant to continue our connection for I am not able to face two directions at once, your highness. I understand more than ever my duty to the North and I would not want to keep you from your family as other's have."

You open your mouth to outright protest but before you can speak a new face steps forwards, two swords swinging down by their hips, their hair grey and weathered yet they stand upright and at attention to their lord with their message, a small paper enclosed with a blood red seal, "a message from the Red Keep, my Lord."

The note is promptly handed over before they walk away, disappearing into the white walls. You stare at the small note in Cregan's large gloved hands with interest as he beckons you forwards, opening the small seal and rolling out the paper for both of you to read.

For the eyes of Lord Stark only...

Cregan raises a brow to you, head tilted ever-so slightly in a teasing manner in seeing that you don't even begin to look away from the note, eyes quickly skimming over the fresh ink and your fathers signature and stamp at the bottom.

I know the South and the Middle Lands by the back of my hand as you do the North and in reviewing every scar on the back of my hand that travels up my arm and past where I can view, my search is brought into your territory and so I must make a request of the North. My eldest daughter has been discovered missing, you know of her condition- of her value- and so I am lead to believe she is somewhere within your lands. If you are to find her, your reward in exchange will be grand- your name will be praised. And if it is found that you are to be withholding her- know that your blood will water the lands that will all but forget you and your people with our victory.

You watch as the letter rolls back into its original state, Cregan pockets the note as you both share a look before a smile breaks out on your face in seeing the Lords almost horrified expression. You place a hand on the Starks arm for reassurance, "Like I told you before, I will address my family and make sure you are rightly compensated for your kindness and hospitality."

"Yes, Princess, but it is but a half-lie that you have been kept here for longer than you-" You cut off the Lords anxious lecture, walking back towards the elevators, a few guards following in tow looking between you and their leader with concerned glances.

"I asked to stay, did I not? If my father is that thirsty for blood he shall drink mine as well if he strikes down upon innocent men," you counter, stepping into the shaft and spinning on your heel to face the Lord who stares at you for a long while. Eyes tracing over your schooled features before closing his eyes and taking in a long breath, releasing it as he stands beside you.

The doors shut as the cart is lowered to the ground, "you are already willing to die for a man you have just met in the name of supposed righteousness?" His tone is low, eyes having not left the doorway as your eyes cast up his frame and nod your head whilst looking away.

"I would argue the role you play is even greater than mine, even without morals it would be downright foolish of me to forgo the logic of it. Your army alone is enough to sway many battles and," you giggle to yourself, "you are a young man with great prospects and land to their name- the perfect set up for a heir," your smile leaves you with your next words, "As for my life... well... best not to think on it too heavily..."

─────── · ·

And yet when settling yourself back on to your saddle and trotting down the barren frozen paths before you- it was all you could think about. My life's a lie, my real parents only talk to me like I'm a pawn... and they are not wrong. My sisters going to have the throne, she will marry my uncle as the texts dictate...

The very words send a sicking feeling right down to your gut as you grit your teeth at the image of them close, of his hand caressing her cheek, of their lips connecting... your whirlwind of thoughts only continue on a downwards spiral... she will hold Dragonstone and befriend the King of the Seas while I'll be... there...

"Are you well princess?" Cregan slows his horse to a trot, his eyes cast over your face in seeing your soured expression that you try and cool. "I am fine," you respond albeit with a bit too much force that shuts down any progress you made with the reclusive lord, "I'm sorry," you breathe out after collecting your thoughts, stuffing them into a deep corner near the back of your mind as you open your eyes towards the present, "my father's words just made me see my choices differently."

The Stark nods understandingly, "fathers have a way of doing that," and you can tell by the way in which he speaks his words, they are from the heart. Your rekindling moment is soon broken as a flash of yellow snaps your attention down the path, you briefly hear as Cregan mumbles something underneath his breath before the direwolf, North comes into picture.

You lean to the side in your saddle to be closer to the Lord, "what is going on?" you ask as the party comes to a standstill.

"There is a bear on the path ahead," Cregan notes, looking over to you, amber swirling around steel in his eyes that he blinks away, cutting off his connection with the animal. You watch as he guides his horse to turn simply with his legs, his arms already directing the men and weapons are distributed.

You open your mouth to think of another way not to kill the animal before remembering that this was their way of life and the very furs that now rested upon your shoulders must have been made by a very similar situation. You swallow down your words before offering to help, "with horse riding my parents also made me do lessons in archery." A bow is soon tossed into your hands, a quiver of arrows stationed at your hip.

Your head is turned on a swivel, eyes casting wide and out towards the horizon for any signs of movement. The air is still in these quiet moments, no one dares to speak- wanting to get catch the animal off-guard for an easier kill. You adjust the arrow in your bow, cracking your neck side to side before freezing as the shadows appear to be moving in the tree line. Setting your horse parallel to the forrest you raise your bow, squinting your eye to combat the shimmering reflection of the setting sun off of the snow.

Watching where your arrow is pointed, Cregan casts his arm forwards as other men take a similar position and ready their aim. Once again you hear a mumble from Cregan and the furious growl of a bear has you jumping on your mount before taking aim once more as North darts back towards you all, a massive black bear chasing behind them.

Taking in a deep breath you pull back the arrow and watch as the animals sprint begins to falter as arrows land in its hip and torso, another shot in its neck- you don't remember letting your arrow fly. You hear its the scream of its long tail running across the plane before striking the creature in its eyes.

It's head swings side to side before you feel the force of its body fully greeting the earth. Next a spear is thrown, ensuring the animal to be dead before Cregan dismounts, walking up towards the bear and crouching down. His hands pick of the animals head, his fingers brush over the teeth before he looks over at you.

Dismounting you are quick to rush over and take a similar position. You feel as Cregan's hand pulls at your wrist, your fingers finding the softness of the black fur as you stroke one of the bears short ears with a sigh. You watch as the men that surround you lower their heads, a silent prayer is shared that you close your eyes to respect their culture.

Standing, Cregan looks to you as he unsheathes the large sword from his back, holding it between both of his hands as he takes aim to decapitate the animal. Look away now if you must, his eyes convey yet after everything you had seen today, you felt that it would be of disservice to yourself for not seeing the full practice.

You back away, seeing as red splatters onto the white carpet beneath your feet, some landing on your cheek and garbs that you pay no mind too. Cregan holds the heavy head in his arms before handing it off to another man who straps it to the back of their horse.

Next the skin and fur is stripped as thoughts are shared on how the pelt should be used when you all reached the estate. A flask is then shoved in front of your face that you silently drink from before handing it back to the Lord. "In my position I was often so far removed from these practices... the final product presented in front of my like magic with no prior thoughts," you comment, interlacing your fingers in front of yourself.

Cregan hums, taking a drink himself before storing it back at the side of his saddle, "I will have something commissioned for you when we reach back home."

You shake your head, moving to stand beside your horse seeing as the men had taken as much meat as they could, leaving the rest for nature and its predators to feast upon. "But you took the killing shot, princess, by my tradition you get first choice, often which is the head."

You bite your lip, sighing, "I have no idea what I will do with a bear head nevertheless some teeth, I already have plenty of those," you joke yet Cregan takes your words as truth and confusion clouds his features, "But I thought you did not hunt?"

It is your time to fully laugh as you hike up your skirt and mount your horse before trotting ahead, yelling back, "I meant myself, my Lord." You do not get to see or hear Cregans reaction yet you feel his gaze upon your back as you look back and smile before picking up more speed; feeling the wind in your hair and the kisses of winter burning your cheeks with its bitter attention.

─────── · ·

Back at the House of Stark, the gates shelter your company as you dismount once more and are welcomed by warm hugs from your staff Alexi, Eda, and Lyah. The first practically squeezing you to death while whispering in your ear, "Lady Stark yet?"

You flush sending the younger girl a glare before turning back to catch a flash of worry in Cregan's eyes that vanishes with your smile. Little did you know how hard the Lords heart was racing at the sight of it and how it ached knowing that this would be one of the last times you might see one another.

He raises the head of the bear to hear the praises from he crowd before placing it in the hands of another and from one loud moment turns to a quiet one. A sense of familiarity washes over you as you sit on the large stone fireplace once more and watch as Cregan sits at his desk, feather in hand, ink well just above, and an open page waiting to be marked.

He looks up without picking up his head, you lean your head back against the stone wall, crossing your ankles as you play with the ends of your sleeves. He props the feather back on his desk with a sigh, your head tilts to the side, eyes raking over the strands of hair that dangle over his forehead. "I have never been so worried over a mere letter before."

You do not laugh at his words as you hear the truth that lies behind the humorous tone, "words leave us when we need them most so it is no wonder we love them so much. For when we finally hear the words we need- nothing else matters."

"Usually my jokes are answered by silence or laughter, never poetry," Cregan deadpans as you crack a smile, standing and moving to the corner of his desk. Your eyes trace over the various letters, nicknacks and paperweights across its surface with utmost interest, your hand twitching to touch the dagger staked through a few notes and into the solid dark wood.

Cregan leans back in his chair, looking up at you, "I will miss you, Princess."

"And I you," you extend your hand feeling as his scared one traces over your knuckles before pressing a soft kiss, lingering before letting go. You bring your hands up to your chest, stroking your collarbone before turning your mutual attention back to the letter. "As any good letter should start, we should say hello."

"I am not saying a simple hello to the fucking king of the seven kingdoms," Cregan speaks in an even cold tone. You shrug, "thats all I've got," you say in a false sad tone, eyes gleaming with happiness as you catch yet another small smile from Cregan that makes you notice just how far your short relationship with the Lord has come since your near death in the woods at the beginning of the week.

Soon ink hits parchment as you begin to walk around the study once more, humming to yourself as the Lords eyes trail up from his note and back towards his page every time you cast your eyes back with a smile, "thought you couldn't look in two directions, my Lord," you tease to receive a grunt.

"I see your confidence grows the longer you stay, do not allow your fire to burn you from the inside out, Dragon-guide."

"I will keep that in mind, King of the North, if you promise to think of me too?" You receive no reply for Cregan knew he would think of you and your shared moments for the rest of his life with fondness. You listen as the paper is rolled and wrapped by a simple piece of twine.

You watch as a crow rattles in its cage by the Lords desk, stirring in preparation for its next job. You look to Cregan for permission to open the window, holding one another's gaze for longer than necessary knowing that this was but the first part of saying goodbye, and then he nods. The iron latch is cold to the touch as is the breeze that sneaks in before you shut it. Watching as the crow soars up into the clouds and flutters above the tree line before disappearing from sight.

"May I ask what you asked for your reward?" you do not turn to face the Lord, keeping your eyes to the outside landscape, trying to paint this scene in your memory so that you could request an artisan back in the Red Keep to paint the same scene in all its perfection.

"Do you truly wish to know?" Cregan stands, you feel as his footsteps shift the planks on the floors as he nears your side. You look at yourselves in the reflections off the glass with a nod.

"For a future Targaryen princess to marry one of my heirs." Your breath hitches, so this is how it happened, how it ends, you think to yourself before responding, "a fair ask," in an even tone, raising your chin so that the tears of disappointment do not fall down your cheeks understanding that your part of the story was only to be an observer that ensured the right story played out, nothing more.... nothing less.

You could shout at your younger self for always desiring to learn more but perhaps the excitement always came from the unknown rather than the prospect of knowing.

"I apologize for not being able to do more," Cregan whispers, eyes tracing over the side of your face with a heavy sigh, "I- you-" he closes his eyes before continuing, "I hope you find another man more selfish than I have already been with your attention."

"Nonsense, I am the selfish one, have we not already had this conversation? But thank you for your words.... maybe I will run away and marry a simple man and live a simple life with.... ducks and little fluffy cows." And the sound of Cregan's boisterous laughter filling your ears warms your heart.

─────── · ·

A CROW'S CAW BLEEDS THE EARS OF THE STAFF IN THE RED KEEP AS GUARDS WORKING THE TURRETS AND WALLS COVER THEIR EARS AS THE SCREAM PELTS AT THEIR EARS UNLIKE THE ROAR OF A DRAGON. And without another word, the young princess Rhaenyra takes off from a small council meeting and towards the halls, racing up a winding stair well in order to fetch the letter, an unknown force pushing her every step as she offers a few seeds to the creature, unhooking the note from its feet before watching as it takes back off into the blue horizon.

The paper is a dull yellow in colour, a simple unsuspecting twine laced around the scroll. The Princess wants nothing more than to see the occupants of the letter yet thinks otherwise of all the potential eyes around her as she tucks the paper into a pocket of her gown and walks at a more pleasant pace back to her room.

Seeing the oak frame in view, she picks up her skirts, heart pounding in her ears as her curiosity peaks, the paper burning against her side knowing that whatever was inside must have been important to have such a magnificently groomed bird drop it off.

Yet before she can twist the handle of her door open, a scream yet again sounds through the halls of the Red Keep and as she looks left and then right, she finds the source of it to be coming from herself as her Uncle Daemon grips her arms down tightly to her sides. His teeth gritted together, features sharp and eyes cutting through her weak smile.

"Uncle," she greets, feeling as bruises begin to form across her skin. "Don't think I didn't see that blasted bird as well, Niece. You know what I want so when I let go I expect that you present it to me."

The Princess blinks, mimicking innocence, "the note I hold is from Alicent Hightower, surly some mundane gossip is not of interest of the Rouge Prince?" She smiles, trying to shake out of the Princes grip that remains unwavering just like his hissed words, "you lie terribly. If you were one of my men your tongue would already be in my hand as I dare to to try again."

"Ao dare threaten se dārilaros naejot se Dēmalion Āegenko, kepus? (You dare threaten the heir to the iron throne, uncle)?" Daemons dark laugh rings through the Princesses ear drums as he releases his touch, hands clasped behind his back as he leans daringly close to her face, "Gaoman daor dare, mērī kivio, (I do not dare, only promise)."

"Only the troubled make promises for if you were a good man, people wouldn't need your word- they'd. just. know," and with that the Princess quickly turned into her room, slamming the door closes and pressing a chair to lock the handle in place. She listens to her Uncles shouts with a glee-filled expression, watching as the door vibrates with every knock and shove pressed to it as she sits on her bed and unravels the note.

Eyebrows shooting impossibly upwards with the large gasp she intakes in seeing who signs the letter. Sister, what have you gotten yourself into this time?

To the Mighty King of the Seven Kingdoms, I have received your letter, I have heard your worries and by my words and the image provided by my artisans, see that your daughter is indeed safe and has been resting under my care. She is healthy as she is well and has been learning about our culture in her stay and will be coming with a gift of our shared hunt- she by far had the sharpest eye out of all of my men. A feat not to be hidden but highlighted immensely. But in my praise, I do not wish for her hand, yet ask that in return that a future Targaryen Princess is to marry one of my heirs. May this letter find you with speed, grace, and health, Lord Cregan Stark

─────── · ·

A/N: back to being responsible now *heavy sigh*

─ · · DREAMS OF DRAGONS TAGLIST: @blkmystery @inlovewiththefictionalcharacters @themoonlitquill @hnslchw @myownevils @vermillionwinter @r-3dlips @jubilee40 @wisdomcrys @purplecloaks

[corseque]

I wrote an unhinged bullet point list comparing just Solas' last scene to Emet-Selch's last scene and why I think one was more successful than the other, and why maybe playing one after having already played the other didn't do it any favors, and I have nowhere to put it so I'll put it here behind a cut

EXTREME spoilers for FFXIV and DA, because I'm talking about the last scenes these characters appear in their stories.

So why am I comparing these two characters' last scenes in the first place? Well, I think they're very similar, verging on identical scenes, each trying to accomplish about the same things as each other. In both scenes, each of them:

reappears to confront the final antagonist alongside the main character

reconciles with an ancient Mother Goddess who had caused him great pain after being at odds with her for thousands of years

has a final conversation and reconciliation with the main character that he has great affection for and a fraught and turbulent history with

admits that his goals would not have brought them as far as the main character's goals, had his been successful

makes the choice to leave in a fairy tale manner (reunited with a loved one so he’s FINALLY not alone) to go to the land of the dead, which he is lord over

incredibly incredibly beautiful and emotional music written for the character comes back one last time

both have the character moment where they refuse to even consider asking their loved one to go with them into the land of the dead

the things that Solas does in his scene that Emet-Selch does NOT have:

Solas kisses his wife and calls her "vhenan" heartbrokenly

Solas holds Lavellan's hands as they are reunited

the nice love lines to each other

Solas and Lavellan together in the land of dreams forever

Solas CRIES (sob)

Solas wavers in his millennia-long plans and stops fighting for them in a seemingly arbitrary and convenient way

and yet, though Solas' scene has so many outward displays that I should love more than anything, I think Emet-Selch’s scene is better, dare I say it!!! In Emet-Selch’s scene he also

is an extremely comforting presence in a scene that was extremely intimidating and frightening before he appeared (literally he is THE source of light and hope when you are in the depths of the farthest reaches of physical loneliness at the edge of space in the metaphorical blackness of existential despair, so he is a source of strength and help for you, the protagonist, when you thought it was impossible to get help)

Emet casually saves the entire universe and everyone in it, a few times in a row (WoL would have never had the Azem crystal in the first place if it wasn’t for Emet, so he saved the entire universe multiple times over by preserving the crystal for all those millennia and then by answering the crystal's call in just that one scene)

Emet is allowed to proudly and boldly proclaim the theme of the entire hundreds-of-hours story in a way that galvanizes and literally brings life back to every other character and spurs them unwaveringly and unbrokenly into the final climactic action of the entire story

gets a very very long (15 min) conversation where he talks about how he feels!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

he gets much longer and more conclusive conversations with everyone than Solas does

It is a scene involving multiple people, but it doesn't feel voyeuristic or make you wish certain characters were not there

the scene tells you more about Emet's characterization as someone who will never ever be straightforwardly sappy and really values being a pillar of stoic strength to others ASDHFASHDFH

he reiterates that he fulfilled his duty and his purpose and that he is no longer consumed with worry about mankind facing the Final Days again, and he fulfilled his duty by passing the responsibility on, which he was hoping to do as the path of lesser tragedy, and he confirmed that he is very happy and got a version (among many possibilities) that was exactly what he wanted, and maybe more happier than he was picturing it would ever be

that emotional gut-punch when you realize Emet doesn’t want to leave WoL with WoL frowning and sad, so he tantalizes them with descriptions of lands they haven’t seen, which is something that would be catnip to Azem/WoL and makes WoL part ways with Emet with a smile on their face

the revelation that EMET BORE AZEM’S CRYSTAL AND SO HE FELT DUTY-BOUND TO DO THEIR TRAVELING AROUND AND COUNSELING DUTIES FOR THEM, AND IT PROBABLY SAVED THE WORLD AND UNIVERSE BECAUSE IT PRIMED EMET TO ALWAYS BE LOOKING AT THE PEOPLE AS PEOPLE COMPARED TO THE OTHER UNSUNDERED SOBBB

truly devastatingly emotional reference to the short story that explains how Emet always smiled when he bids Azem farewell, and he always actually deeply loved bidding Azem farewell when Azem left on a long journey

how Emet’s and Hyth’s ending is actually not sad at all, and we’re literally canonically going to meet them again at the end of our own journey because there’s no way his ass is going to go without us after all that time he waited

Emet does NOT get self-righteously fucking lectured by an idiot about things Emet has thought about for 15,000 years

all the horror and darkness he experienced and all the horror and darkness he caused for all those lifetimes were not pointless - he was able to see his bretheren/Hythlodaeus freed from their trapped tortured existence within Zodiark and he was able to reconcile with Azem’s legacy, all memories restored

Emet-Selch’s character qualities and strengths (and even things about himself that HE considered his weaknesses!) (his deep deep everlasting love, his sentimentality, his dedication, his stubbornness, his memory, his unwavering sense of duty) were ALL absolutely key to saving the entire universe multiple multiple times, the strength of his love and his specific kind of stubborn personality literally saved everyone and everything, and the story is incredibly grateful to him for all the horror and darkness it put him through. The narrative REWARDS him for sticking to his ideals!! The narrative loves him for his strength of will and sense of duty.

He is allowed to stubbornly stick to his convictions!!! Because we love him because he feels so strongly and he is proud of what he fought for for so long.

just a very beautiful final, complex character portrait - “My ideals are inviolate. Invincible.” BEAUTIFUL. BEAUTIFUL. The most beautiful send-off to the most beautiful character.

The difference between them is like... do I want kisses or do I want actual character exploration and a satisfying conclusion to a story with a beginning, middle, and ending?

Comparing them overall, I just get so much condescension from Solas' ending. Because his point of view and his motivations were never actually taken seriously or delved into, he sort of just gives in and agrees that he was wrong and was stupid to have thought his point of view had any merit to begin with.

Meanwhile, we have Emet-Selch, who literally admits "our methods would not have brought us this far" but STALWARTLY insists that it was his duty to fight for his version of the future, to represent that faction and those particular hopes, and he would not change a single thing about how things happened.

Because there was a LARGER threat and a plot that unraveled with an extra layer of complexity, Emet was allowed to be portrayed as a great hero (who would cradle you in the palm of his godlike hand and save the entire universe because his love is just so powerful) and a great antagonist (who would crush you in the palm of his godlike hand and crush your entire world because his love is just so powerful) simultaneously, something that I think they probably did want for Solas but didn't know how to portray nearly as well. Or they sacrificed that potential complexity in exchange for a black-and-white "that's bad and you're bad" protagonist who is always right about everything and never has to confront a situation that is gray.

[dfortrafalgar]

It's A Match

Law x Fem Reader

Maybe some things are just meant to be.

A/N: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA. did you know if you open your google docs at 1am and find over 10 finished or almost finished fics from the start of requests on this blog that you might feel immense amounts of guilt never seen before in mankind? me neither

ugh. i miss law. and this blog... sorry to keep ya'll waiting so long </3

This is the second part to my request fic An Out!

Warnings: None! Just lighthearted fluff and good vibes <3

Law snorted at his phone before shoving it back into the pocket of his baggy sweatshirt, trying to turn his focus back to his anatomy textbook in preparation for an upcoming exam.  It was quite hard to fully turn his mind off, however.

A rumor had started circulating around the small college campus by a certain girl, peeved at how ‘Her date ended in a complete disaster!  She walked in on him making out with another woman!  He led her on!  He’s such a scumbag!’  Given this girl’s reputation as a fairly popular figure, the accusations were quickly pointed at Law.  Not like his friends helped to bail him out in the slightest.  Though, she failed to mention many important details, such as the fact that they were in a public bookstore, the fact that she spent the better part of three hours insulting everything about Law’s personality and interests, and had made him pay for her overpriced lunch with his already feeble college income.  Not like her expansive social circle would care about Law’s point of view, anyway.

Oh well.  It certainly could’ve been worse.

And besides, the girl Law did end up dating as a result of his disaster outing ended up being the best thing to ever happen to him, and it had only been about a month.

She was quick on her feet, dedicated and committed to her friends, hobbies, and work.  She was as intelligent as she was witty, sensitive and empathetic, the kind of girl who would help elderly folk cross a busy street… and then bash a dent into the side of a pompous asshole’s overpriced SUV for not stopping while she helped the elders.  And it was true that she attended the same college as Law.  She was even in one of his general education lectures, but the class attendance was so large that she had never stuck out to him.

Until now, of course.

Now, he turned heads by making a beeline toward her at the start of every lecture, the girl moving her bag to the side to free up the seat she had been clearly saving for him.  He dutifully took notes on PowerPoint slides that had no relevance to his future as a cardiopulmonary surgeon while she whittled away the monotonous hours playing Minesweeper on her laptop.  But she was the one who would lend him the required reading for the class, Law being too frugal to pay for his textbooks himself and instead choosing to coin them off of others, or straight up pirate them.

They seemed like a match made in heaven.

“And I’m Dr. Heart Stealer’s girlfriend,” she boasted to nobody but Law while taking a bite out of her deli sandwich in the cafeteria.  “If I ever see that girl on campus again, I hope you dip me super far down and make out with me sloppy style.”

Law nearly choked on the potato chip in his mouth.  “Never say that ever again.”

“What, you don’t want to make out with me?” she asked, feigning offense, clearly knowing that he was more concerned about the other part of her sentence.

“No, I want to make out with you.  But if you ever say ‘sloppy style’ to my face ever again I’m getting a restraining order.”  The look in his eyes told her that he was serious, but the smirk on his lips proved otherwise.

“And Dr. Heart Stealer claims another victim,” she sighed woefully.

Law flicked a chip crumb from his hand toward her, laughing under his breath as it bounced off of her forehead.  A surprised giggle left her throat as she pretended to scoff at him.  She swallowed a witty comment with a hefty bite of her sandwich.

“I’m too hungry to keep bickering with you,” she muttered with her mouth full.

“There’ll be plenty more time for that,” Law countered, smiling into the back of his tattooed hand.  A chime sounded on his phone, causing him to pull the device from his pocket.

“Time to go?” she asked, wrapping up her unfinished sandwich in the aluminum foil it had come in.

“Unfortunately,” Law groaned.  “I have another exam this afternoon.”

“You’re going to become the world’s greatest surgeon with the amount of tests they make you take as an undergrad,” she added, packing up her things and watching with bright eyes as Law did as well.  “If I ever have a severe heart condition, I’d want you to give me a transplant.”

‘There’d probably be conflict of interest about a surgeon operating on his wife,’ he thought, before quickly scrambling his thoughts.  His cheeks flushed with a deep red hue.

“Hey, what about that was so crazy?!” she demanded with a laugh.  “Why are you blushing?”

She slipped her hand into his, noting his quiet mumble in response, as they proceeded out of the dining hall and into the chill air of early autumn.  She shivered and pulled the collar of her coat tighter around her neck with her free hand.  “I don’t know how you can stay so warm dressed in so little,” she sighed.

“When you’re raised in the North Blue, you get used to the cold,” he stated back.

“Us South Blue folk don’t have it so easy, but you’d probably melt instantly in our summers,” she replied with a laugh.

“I don’t know how to swim, either, so that would definitely suck.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” she demanded, whirling around to face Law and cutting off his walking path.  “You don’t know how to swim?!”

“Nope,” he responded, accentuating the P sound with his lips.  “My dad likes to joke that I’m cursed or something.  When I get in the water, I just sink.”

“I’ll teach you how to swim,” she boasted reassuringly.  “I only ever float.”

Law glanced down at her chest for a brief second, then back up to her eyes.  She smirked at him.

“Saw that.”

“Did not.”

“Did too.”

Instead of continuing the endless cycle of denial, Law simply laughed, snatching her hand back into his and dragging her to her own dorm building so they could depart and he could take his last exam of the day.

“Want me to get anything while you’re hunched over some paper?” she asked.

“Some popcorn would be nice,” he answered.

“And a movie?  We can watch that new crappy B-rank film that just came out LineTube.”

Law answered her last question by placing a warm, slightly chapped kiss against her lips.  “A movie sounds fantastic, baby.”

With a wide smile and sparkling eyes, she nodded and darted back into her building, adrenaline coursing through her veins as a result of his sudden, fiery kiss.  Law chuckled as he watched her round the corner into the building, shouldering his backpack and proceeding toward his lecture hall.

He never thought he could ever have this much fun in a relationship, especially not a romantic one.  He shouldn’t have doubted this girl in the first place though, not with the way she gripped the collar of his shirt and pulled him into a breathtaking kiss and public display of completely fake rom-com style betrayal in order to bail him out of a shitty date.  She had been nothing but a light in his otherwise boring life in the month that had passed.  No longer did Law wake up just to go to class, study, eat, and study some more.  Now his daylight hours were spent hanging out with this gorgeous, hilarious and impactful girl who liked to spurt out facts about insects just as much as he liked to indulge in graphic descriptions of open heart surgery.  And studying, obviously.

His best friends loved making fun of him for it, but he could see it in their eyes just how much they loved her too.  Having her around encouraged Law to go out more often, visit his friends’ apartments, go out to bars and restaurants, or take spontaneous drives around town at night.  He was like an entirely new person.  Still broody and short-tempered, but far more understanding and even somewhat outgoing, more than he had ever been before.

She was like a dream come true.