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mingapace · 2 months ago

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𝕺𝖓 𝖆 𝕷𝖊𝖆𝖘𝖍

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ᴘᴇᴛ!ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ x ꜰ!ᴍᴏᴅᴇʀɴ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ꜱᴍᴜᴛ, ᴅᴇꜱᴘᴇʀᴀᴛᴇ-ᴘᴀᴛʜᴇᴛɪᴄ ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ, ꜱᴜʙ/ꜱᴇʀᴠɪᴄᴇ ᴛᴏᴘ ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ, ᴅᴏᴍ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ, ꜰᴇᴍᴀʟᴇ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ, ʜᴜᴍᴀɴ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ, ᴍᴏᴅᴇʀɴ ᴇʀᴀ, ʜᴀɴᴅᴊᴏʙꜱ (ᴍ ʀᴇᴄᴇɪᴠɪɴɢ), ᴄᴜᴍ ᴇᴀᴛɪɴɢ, ᴘ ɪɴ ᴠ, ᴍᴏᴀɴɪɴɢ, ᴘᴇᴛ ᴘʟᴀʏ, ᴡʜɪɴɪɴɢ, ᴘʀᴀɪꜱɪɴɢ, ꜱʟɪɢʜᴛ ᴅᴇɢʀᴀᴅɪɴɢ, ᴅʀᴏᴏʟɪɴɢ, ᴍɪʀʀᴏʀ ᴘᴏʀɴ, ᴜɴᴘʀᴏᴛᴇᴄᴛ ꜱᴇx, ꜱᴡᴇᴀʀɪɴɢ, ᴇxᴘʟɪᴄɪᴛ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ, ᴇxᴄᴇꜱꜱɪᴠᴇ ᴜꜱᴇ ᴏꜰ ɴɪᴄᴋɴᴀᴍᴇꜱ. [Also, English is not my first language]

𝔹𝕒𝕤𝕖𝕕 𝕠𝕟 𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕄𝕒𝕚𝕟 𝕊𝕥𝕠𝕣𝕪

ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ: 4K

ᴛᴀɢꜱ: @lunaleah

Things with Remmick kept changing. Slowly, of course—like frost retreating in spring, leaving patches of bare earth in the ice—but they were changing.

You no longer slept with a vial of holy water under your pillow, nor did you roam the house pointing a rifle at him whenever he suddenly appeared behind you.

The tension had softened, and the sex—well, that helped quite a bit.

Still, there was one barrier he hadn’t crossed yet: the bed.

He still slept at your feet, like a loyal animal that didn’t dare claim more than what he’d been given.

Technically, you hadn’t set that boundary yourself—but you’d realized it. He was waiting for permission.

And you… you hadn’t given it to him yet.

You found comfort in not yet sharing that level of closeness. For some strange reason, sleeping next to him felt deeply intimate. Yes, more intimate than the furious, casual sex you sometimes gave in to.

But your doubts—while under analysis—were the lesser evil.

There was a bigger problem in the house: your cat couldn’t stand Remmick. A creature used to ruling the house, now forced to share its territory with a larger predator. Literally. And of course, Remmick returned the sentiment with equal intensity.

They growled at each other, hissed, traded glares like in a Western film before throwing themselves at one another.

More than once, you had to separate them. You’d learned to read the moment just before it exploded—when your cat’s fur stood up like a lit fuse.

You often had to lock the two in separate rooms. Like quarreling children. And you feared, just as often, that Remmick might lose control.

His teeth were always there—barely hidden behind his lips, sharp as razors. Ready.

One evening, after yet another incident, after scolding them both, your cat curled up on your stomach before Remmick could, almost like a further act of defiance.

And you absentmindedly stroked it, turning your focus back to the movie.

Remmick, on the other side of the couch, sulked. He didn’t say anything. Not his usual annoying remarks during the most intense scenes.

That night, he didn’t even climb to the end of the bed.

He left into the night, and the next morning, you found him already at the stove, making the usual breakfast.

For three days, he was distant. Not cold or rude, but… hurt.

As if you’d made a choice. Declared a preference.

On the fourth day, however, you pushed the cat off the couch and offered Remmick its spot—on your lap.

“Don’t want it?” you asked, your eyes soft, knowing it would make his self-raised walls crumble.

Of course, he gave in almost instantly.

You stroked his hair, and he curled into it like a dog on his favorite blanket. You let him stay there even after turning off the TV, especially because he didn’t seem eager to move.

This day, you were sitting at the living room table, the blue light of the computer casting onto your face as you scanned the dozens of rows and columns on the screen.

You were doing inventory.

Or at least, trying to.

The task wasn’t new. You had a habit of logging the store’s stock every two weeks so you could restock early.

It was a routine that made you feel in control. It reminded you who you were: methodical, precise, present.

Yet… something felt off today.

You scanned the page again, as if looking for an inconsistency, but when you realized the problem wasn’t in the file—it was in your home—you frowned.

There was silence. Too much silence.

Remmick wasn’t talking, and that bothered you more than any provocation.

By now, the vampire would’ve found some way to distract you. His voice echoed through even your busiest days: a whisper, an out-of-place question. “What d'ya reckon happens if ya mix powdered milk and blood?” “D'ya think yer cat hates me more or less than it hates dogs?" “Why've ya got two citrus juicers when there’s never a fruit 'round here and you live off takeaway from next door?”

Annoying. But predictable. And, in a way, familiar.

But today… nothing.

Not even a footstep, not a held breath, not even the muffled sound of his clawed hands tapping the doorframe in that cute, pathetic way.

Only the steady hum of the fan and the dull thud of your own heartbeat.

You closed the laptop and stood up. Your legs creaked slightly under the sudden movement—too abrupt after sitting still so long.

“Remmick?” you called.

No answer.

You sighed as you entered the hallway, walking slowly past the kitchen. The fridge was closed, lights off. Everything in place.

Your cat appeared from around the corner and brushed past your legs, heading back into the living room.

In the bathroom, the toothbrush cup was untouched. The utility closet door was closed.

Maybe he’d gone out to the garden? But it was still early. The light streamed in bright and steady, and Remmick only went out at dusk—when the sky turned orange and the shadows stretched across the walls like fingers.

You rolled your neck with a soft exhale, then made your way toward your bedroom.

The door was ajar—and your breath caught in your throat when your eyes focused on the scene.

He was standing in front of the full-length mirror, backlit.

His figure—solid and well-proportioned—was still. His left arm raised and tense. He was shirtless. The pants—the ones he had you buy in three identical pairs—were unbuttoned, revealing the curve of his hip. The suspenders hung down, abandoned along his thighs. His dark hair was messy as usual, giving him that desperate look.

But that’s not what struck you. It was what he was holding.

Your dog’s old leather collar.

He had placed it around his neck. Not buckled yet, but resting on his skin.

The clasp nestled just below his throat, and with two fingers, he held the tag, watching its reflection in the mirror.

He stood completely still, his bearded face shadowed, eyes vacant.

The air hung, suspended.

You didn’t say anything for a few seconds.

You stared at him.

As if the scene didn’t belong to you. As if you were looking through frosted glass at something forbidden.

You couldn’t take your eyes off the point where leather met his skin. Something, at that image, pulsed under your ribs. Not just by the strangeness of it—you were used to strange by now with him. It was the tenderness, the almost ceremonial care with which he held the tag.

A part of you—the part used to deflect things with sarcasm—took over, stifling the desire.

You parted your lips, half-smiling. Your voice came out softer than you’d meant.

“I think I already told you not to snoop through my underwear drawers, didn’t I?”

Remmick flinched slightly, as if he’d been too absorbed to hear you. All his supernatural predator senses drowned.

He dropped his gaze almost immediately with something like shame. Or arousal. Or both.

The hand holding the collar lowered slowly, almost reluctantly.

You saw the gold chain around his neck shimmer again in the LED light.

“I wasn’t… snooping. Was only having a look—” he stopped. Swallowed. “Spotted a wee box down at the bottom, closed up like. Got curious, so I thought it might be somethin' of yours.”

He said it like yours meant sacred.

You stepped away from the door and approached slowly. Held out a hand without speaking, and he, docile, handed you the collar.

His fingers brushed yours—and for a moment, that was all: skin against skin, brief and intense. Like everything between you.

Then you took it.

The collar weighed little, but the moment you held it, you felt the worn leather flex in your hand—as if it remembered.

You brought the tag closer, and the letters engraved in the metal etched into your heart.

Your dog’s name.

You closed your eyes. Something twisted in your stomach. A small, familiar ache. Sweet, like an old scar that flares up when the seasons change.

You saw yourself again, crouched in the driveway years ago, with that enthusiastic furball licking your face. You saw the runs in the park, his tail thumping against everything, his dusty paws on freshly cleaned floors.

A shaky breath filled your chest.

You felt Remmick’s eyes piercing your skull, like he was trying to follow your thoughts.

Trying to understand why you were aching so deeply.

You gently ran your thumb over the tag, then flipped it.

On the other side—the one Remmick had been reading in the mirror—it said:

Owner.

And below it, your name. Yours.

You smiled. A crooked little smirk. Unexpected, as a thought crossed your mind.

The memory dissolved, and you felt amused. And something more.

You turned toward Remmick. Found him exactly as bided—deep grey eyes locked on you. His bare shoulders tensed. His pale skin catching the faint light through the side window.

No more shame on his face. Just desire. Pure and simple. But not the lust that used to consume you. This was deeper. Barer. As if he needed something that once belonged to someone else.

The collar still sat between your fingers.

“Do you want one too?” you asked softly.

Your voice wasn’t teasing. It was real. Almost gentle.

Remmick opened his mouth. Then bit his lower lip. Held it. Swallowed. And said:

“Yeah… I want somethin' that says I’m yours. All of me.” His voice cracked on the last words.

It wasn’t dramatic. It was honest. It was pathetic.

Beautifully pathetic.

You stepped behind him. Slowly.

Watched him in the mirror as you lifted the collar and slid it around his neck—more resolute this time.

Remmick tilted his chin up, just slightly. Without being asked. Offered his throat like it was instinct.

He hardly breathed. Not that he needed to.

Your hand moved calmly. You brought one end of the collar around the back of his neck, following the curve of his throat. The leather slid over his smooth, taut skin like a promise spoken without words. The buckle was cold. The metal pricked your fingers. But you were careful. Precise. You slipped the other end through and began to tighten it.

Not too much—but not loose either.

You wanted him to feel it.

Remmick made a choked sound. His muscles tensed slightly again, his shoulders lowered, his throat fluttered with an almost imperceptible tremor.

In the mirror, you locked eyes with him—watching the red glow pulse in his irises.

His canines peeked past his slightly parted lips.

The buckle snapped into place with a click. Firm. Final.

The tag dangled. You heard it clink against the other chain he already wore.

You had turned it to show only your name and your ownership of him.

You paused.

Your hands still at his collar, like you were weighing the meaning of it. Your fingers brushed the skin stretched under the strap.

His scent reached you: something metallic, cold, laced with soap and your fabric softener.

He had become part of your home. Without you even noticing.

“Look at yourself,” you said.

Remmick raised his eyes.

In the reflection, your eyes meet.

Your hands glide down along his collarbone, then lower — slow — tracing the lines of his chest. You feel him stiff against you when your nail grazes a nipple. But you don’t stop. You keep descending, pressing your lips to the back of his shoulder while watching him in the mirror.

He’s cold, as always. But it doesn’t disturb you. On the contrary, it makes you want to set him on fire.

You reach the waistband of his pants, still loose, and slip your fingers underneath — unhurried. You’re not rushing. You want him to savor the torment, just like he often made you.

A thin string of drool slips from his parted lips, and you smile against his skin.

And when your hand closes around his erection, his body folds slightly forward, as if the gesture had split him in two. A moan tears from his chest — thin, hoarse, like an involuntary plea.

“Stand up straight for me, Remmick,” you whisper, gently pushing him back upright, your free hand pressing softly against his throat.

You hear him murmur your name as he tears his gaze away from the mirror, nuzzling his nose into your hair.

“Y've no idea what y'do to me, darlin'…”

Your hand slides down his shaft. He throbs, alive, almost warm in contrast to the rest of him. Your fingers outline the veins in small strokes until they reach the tip, where you collect the first sign of his desire, spreading it all around.

“Ma’am…”

The word leaves him broken — desperate — as you begin moving your hand up and down. You feel the drool mess your ear where he breathes, ragged, and a shiver runs down your spine.

“I like how that sounds,” you grin. “Say it again.”

“Ma’am, I'm beggin' ya…please don't stop...” His breath catches when you squeeze just at the base of his cock, near his balls, and he throws his head back onto your shoulder.

The mirror reflects his pitiful, desperate state. His cheeks are flushed, fangs visibly longer, forcing his mouth to remain open. Saliva slides down his throat, seeping beneath the collar.

His eyes are half-lidded but still looking, just as you told him to.

“You’re such a mess. Drooling and leaking like a fucking dog,” you whisper, brushing your cheek against his temple. Your hand keeps its steady, slow rhythm — just enough to push him into despair — and you feel him push his hips forward, craving more.

“Oh, you like that.” His cock twists beneath your palm, soaking his underwear with precum, and it almost makes you drool too. “You like being my messy little mutt, don’t you?”

He chokes out a little whimper when you sink your teeth into his neck, bent perfectly for your mouth.

“Fuckin' hell… yes. Wouldn't want to be anythin' else for ya. Yer always so good to me, love. So kind.”

His eyes meet yours again — red, filled with barely restrained lust. But you feel it. His shoulders stiffen. His thighs press together.

He’s close.

And you’re always generous with him. You wouldn’t deny him this.

Your fingers wrap fully around him and your wrist picks up speed. His cock answers eagerly, growing harder, pulsing with need.

Remmick accidentally — or maybe not — scratches his lip, and a thick line of blood joins the drool staining his chin.

“Are you close, sweetheart?” you tease, fully satisfied when he nods, fast and wild. “You’ve been good. You can come.”

And he does. You feel him melt into your hand with a sob, head falling forward, body taut like a drawn bow. His hips lock as pleasure shoots through him like electricity.

“Thank you…” he whimpers, as his release soaks through his underwear. “Thank you, thank you, thank you…”

You smile gently and your hand pulls away. He lets out a quiet moan, like losing the last point of contact with the world. You start to turn away, ready to go clean yourself in the bathroom — but he grabs you, hard.

One arm wraps around your waist, the other seizes your wrist and raises it up.

His bare chest presses against your shirt-covered back, and you can hear the low, barely-there heartbeat that accelerates only for you.

You watch as he bends to your palm and licks — slowly — gathering his own release with his tongue. It runs between your fingers, over each joint, until you’re partially clean again.

You turn in his hold. The need to look into his eyes takes over.

Remmick returns your gaze. The red is gone, replaced with a human gray. Lust has vanished, but something deeper shines in its place.

It’s not hunger. It’s not craving.

It’s something that lives in the space between his mouth and yours — which he closes in an instant.

The kiss is different than usual. Slower.

There’s no urgency. No devouring need.

It’s a promise. A prayer.

He kisses you like he’s waited years for this.

Like there’s nothing in the world he’d rather devour than your lips.

He takes your face between his hands — carefully, without claws. His fingers tremble just slightly, but they’re firm the moment they touch your skin. He holds you like that as his mouth opens — just enough to welcome yours. Your tongues brush and curl into a rhythm of recognition.

You taste blood, his release, his desperation.

When he pulls back, his eyes remain locked on you.

“I reckon the reason I didn’t die when I should've… is 'cause the world was waitin' on me to find you.”

His hands explore you with a slowness that surprises you — even now. Not like someone seeking a body, but someone seeking a home. He brushes along your arms, your ribs, the soft curve of your waist. His fingertips slip beneath layers of fabric, touch your bare stomach as though he’s tracing a secret poem along your skin.

You shiver beneath the attention, but don’t pull away. You don’t think you could even if you tried.

He takes your hand in his, silent, and guides you back to the bed. He doesn’t undress you immediately. He lays you down on the sheets as if placing you on an altar.

In the meantime, he must have kicked away his boxers and pants — because when he settles between your thighs, he’s bare. Completely. All that remains is the collar, snug around his throat.

His cock presses against your stomach, hard again, demanding more. You silently thank whatever vampire magic grants him such rapid recovery. The hem of your shirt has risen just enough to let in the cold air of the room.

He stretches out on top of you — not to pin you down, but to cover you. Protect you. Envelope you.

Remmick kisses you again, deeper now, like his heart had climbed into his throat and wants to be devoured whole. His palms splay across your bare hips, rising higher, dragging the fabric up with them.

You realize he has no intention of unbuttoning your shirt — so you lift your arms, letting him peel it off over your head. When he pulls back to do it, he kisses every new inch of exposed skin as if he’s seeing you naked for the first time.

And maybe he is.

And maybe, that’s exactly how you want to be seen. Every day. Forever.

When he gets to your underwear, he drags them slowly down your legs, and you’re sure he’s about to bury himself between your thighs again — his favorite place — but you stop him. Slide two fingers under the collar at his throat and pull upward, hard.

He gasps, a little guttural sound that’s half protest, half delight. But when your thighs close tightly around his hips, his smile returns — crooked and satisfied.

Your fingers comb through his dark hair, playing with the small knots you find along the way, and it makes him hum — like a purring cat — the sound pulling your own smile out of hiding.

You’d had sex before. Many times.

Remmick had always been hungry. Always physical. Always attentive. He’d learned your rhythms, your sounds, even your silences.

He’d always asked. Never taken. He’d touched you with worship, eaten you like a rite, taken you like a gift.

But this… this had never happened.

Not like this.

Not this slow. Not this full. Not this… domestic.

He pushes inside you while your mind is still floating. There’s no warning, no fingers — but you don’t need it. You’re so wet and open, he slides in easily. That damp pressure between your thighs could only be your own arousal.

“Rem…” you sigh, your arms instinctively circling around his neck, pulling him close. You feel the cold of the medallion brushing your clavicles as he rolls his hips forward, mouth descending toward your neck, and thrusts into you again — deep, firm, sure.

“Fuck, darlin'… I could live inside ya like this forever,” he stammers against your skin, his hands lifting your hips slightly to find that perfect spot you crave — and as always, he finds it.

Your eyes roll back as he hits it again. And again.

“Ya feel unreal...so fuckin' good,” he groans, his pace faltering, the rhythm of his thrusts slipping into a stutter. You hear the tiny, familiar whimpers escape him — the ones you’ve learned mean he’s close. “I can’t even fucking think straight— love—”

He rotates his hips in a way that makes you see stars, your spine arching beneath him, your nails digging into his back like claws anchoring you to this world.

You feel the climax boiling in your stomach, rising fast, your legs trembling as you try to keep up — but he holds you. One hand supporting your lower back, the other gripping the underside of your thigh, keeping you spread wide around him.

“Remmick—” you gasp, gripping the collar again, yanking it. “I’m gonna come—”

“Look at me,” he pleads, lifting his face from your neck, locking eyes with you. “I want to see ya. I want ya to look too. Look at what you're doin' to me...Come with me. Please—”

It’s hard to keep your eyes open when the knot inside you snaps. Your cunt clenches around him, pulling him deeper as you come, and he falls with you, the moment he feels it. He keeps moving, slower now, hips rocking through it, pumping the last of his cum deep into you, like he’s trying to mark your inside forever.

The blankets are tangled. Your skin is wet with sweat. Your back aches from the angle, but you feel full. Complete.

Remmick collapses on your chest, lips barely brushing your skin, still trembling through the aftershocks. Eyes closed — but you can feel it: he’s not asleep.

And then… he moves.

Carefully. Like someone who isn’t used to staying.

He lifts himself slightly, eyes scanning for his pants on the floor. Reaching for them, as if to dress. To withdraw. To return to his place.

At your feet.

Far away.

As always.

But you don’t want as always anymore. Not after this.

You reach out without lifting your head, and pull him back down by the collar, slow and firm. He drops back into the bed with a stunned look, and you roll onto your side, silent, guiding his arm around you until he holds you.

Not permitted.

Required.

Remmick stiffens at first.

Then something breaks.

A long breath. A quiet surrender. A deep, honest relief.

His body softens against yours, curling into you.

“…Can I stay, yeah?” he whispers, instantly regretful for asking aloud.

“I thought that was obvious,” you murmur, eyes closed.

Remmick smiles against your nape.

He kisses your shoulder. Once. Twice. A third time — soft and grateful.

His fingers caress your stomach, then your waist, then your hip, as though redrawing the boundaries of what he’s allowed to touch.

He pulls you closer. Nose buried in your hair.

Something moves outside the room, catching his attention.

A shadow glides past the half-open door. Light paws. A high tail. Indifferent.

Your cat.

Remmick opens one eye.

Sees him pass. The little animal doesn’t stop — just a lazy glance. The usual feline disdain.

But the vampire…smiles.

He throws the cat a look of triumph — not smug, just assured. “This time, I’m the one in bed. Next to her.”

The cat pauses. As if understanding. Then, with solemn dignity, walks away.

And with that, Remmick curls back around you and finally, peacefully — sleeps.

#remmick #sinners #ryan coogler #remmick fanfic #jack o'connell #remmick x reader #remmick smut #remmick x you #vampire #pathetic remmick #pet remmick #sinners 2025

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myficrenders · 4 months ago

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ACCESS GRANTED, WELCOME ORACLE-

SUBJECT- 381846-B "CATALYST" (identity unconfirmed)

____________________________

AGE- N/A (Hypothesized range, N/A) BIRTHDATE- N/A PRONOUNS- N/A DESCRIPTION- 6'3 - 6'4 + (based on witness description and scene analysis #97642) Stocky tall build, other information N/A

MODE OF OPERATION- Main weapon- Metal chain whip, end swappable parts (see #97658 and #98235 for base and hook attachment witness sketch) Other weapon- N/A Seen carrying vials of various antidotes, source unknown (theories file #974528)

UNIFORM DESCRIPTION- Full face metal gas mask, yellow glass eye insert (source N/A) Dark blue zip up jacket w/ hood and scarf match Blue, Grey, Black Camo pants (fabric, other details, N/A) Yellow fingerless gloves, second pair of black gloves hypothesized underneath (see evidence #97654) Metal shin guards, belt secured Cross body utility belt (see evidence #98347 for confirmed inventory) Yellow side pack (look back to evidence #974528) Yellow high top shoes (No evidence avaliable)

PERSONAL FILE NOTES- Above is the one and only confirmed digital evidence of the suspect currently proposed to be the "Catalyst" first brought to my attention by Bluejay (conversation log #182746) and later confirmed priority by Cardinal in incident (#99458). All above evidence is gathered purely through credible eyewitness testimony, nothing more.

Hopefully more to be added soon pending organized meeting date April 27th, Warehouse district (Coordinates N/A), Cardinal & "Catalyst" confirmed hypothetical attendance.

File is now sealed awaiting further evidence or orders from Batman prior to interference plans.

-Oracle. (04-26-XX)

#no tags #the drakes spoiled brat #(offical fic tag)

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jungkoode · 3 months ago

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THE 25TH HOUR | O8

“decaying truths”

"Your coffee is exactly the way you like it, though you do not remember having a preference over it, nor knowing Agent Min's. Just like you don't remember the coffee shop, or the barista. Or how, apparently, certain phrases trigger certain protocols."

next | index | wc: 5.4k

↪︎author's note : WOAH. I was so itchy to finally get into some action-packed scenes!!! I know it’s not a full-blown Marvel throwdown or anything but ughhhh I love the way it’s parried with uncovering new truths, a little sprinkling of Yoongi’s abilities, and just the faintest nod at Noma’s. We’re getting there, babies. We’re cooking with unstable temporal gas. Sci-fi + superpowers = my drug. Inject it directly into my brainstem. This fic is honestly just me going full feral in my favorite genre and I love that you’re all just vibing with the chaos. And hey—just a heads up—those golden traces / tendrils / tentacles / whatever-the-fuck you wanna call them? Yeah. They’re important. Not just plot-wise. Oh no. We’re going smut-wards. You remember that little detail about them being sensitive? YEAH. Narrative seed. Planted. You’re welcome, you horny-ass goblins. I love your deranged asses because they are as feral as mine and I respect that. Anyway. I’m gonna make that man suffer through overstimulation and there’s NOTHING you can do to stop me. Whoops. Who said that?? Godspeed and love. <3

You’ve never registered an aversion to coffee.

Analysis confirms your preference: black, minimal dilution via milk, zero sweeteners. Sugar introduces an artificial variable, a taste profile your palate rejects as inefficient data.

The cup sits between your hands now, untouched. Heat radiates outwards, a minor thermal signature registering in your system. You stare into the dark liquid, a reflective surface showing nothing but distorted ceiling lights. Your mind searches for a focal point, a problem to solve, but the what remains elusive, fragmented.

Beside you, Agent Min occupies the adjacent stool. His presence is a known variable, yet the proximity registers as… different. Static cling without the static.

His coffee mirrors yours in its lack of sugar, but deviates in the absence of milk. Plain black. Stark. Your internal database flags this information, yet registers no 'new entry' timestamp. It’s data already logged, sourced from… where?

The query returns a null set.

Error. File not found.

“Good?”

The query comes from him. Low frequency, minimal inflection. You lift your gaze, meeting his across the short distance. Dark eyes, partially obscured by mint smudges of hair that have fallen across his forehead.

Analysis identifies a lack of direct eye contact, his focus aimed somewhere near your left temple.

A defensive posture? Or observational?

You tilt your head, a minor adjustment of 15 degrees. Querying his query.

The corner of his mouth flickers. A micro-expression, barely perceptible, suppressed almost instantly. He’s withholding an upward curve, a smile response.

Why?

“I mean you,” he clarifies, voice maintaining its low, even tone. “Not the coffee.”

You redirect your focus to the cup. The brown surface ripples slightly as you shift your weight. You deliberately defocus your vision, blurring the edges of the ceramic rim.

Unconscious action.

Flagged for later analysis.

“Yeah, just…” The sentence terminates prematurely. Insufficient data to complete the thought. Or perhaps, excess data causing system overload.

He mirrors your earlier gesture, head tilting towards you. An eyebrow arches. A non-verbal prompt for continuation. Standard interrogation technique.

“I knew Robin.” The words emerge, low volume, clinical detachment coating the raw data point.

He nods once. A slow, measured movement. No verbal response. He allows the silence to expand, granting you control over the data flow.

“And now he’s gone.” You complete the statement.

Flat delivery. Fact confirmed.

His gaze drops to his own cup. He lifts it, takes a sip. The motion is fluid, economical. He places the cup back down without a sound. Four seconds pass. Five.

“I got him erased.” The statement escapes as a whisper, approximately 17 decibels.

A conclusion reached through flawed logic, yet carrying an unexpected physical weight. Something constricts within your chest cavity, pressure.

His response is immediate. No processing delay.

“No.”

The word is rough, textured like sandpaper against concrete. A rasp that cuts through the low hum.

“CHRONOS got him erased.” He pauses, intake of breath audible. “That’s what they do.”

"I mentioned the temporal anomaly to him." You mutter, the unidentified strain expanding behind your sternum. "Probability suggests that's why they targeted him."

"They were already watching him," he says, voice calibrated to exactly 40 decibels. "Your conversation may have accelerated their timeline, but he was already flagged."

You process this new data point, running probability calculations against known variables.

"How can you be certain?"

His eyes meet yours—pupil dilation increasing by 7.3% in the 0.7 seconds of direct contact.

"Because I've been tracking their erasure patterns for longer than you've been alive."

The statement contains multiple logical inconsistencies.

Agent Min does not look significantly older than you.

Yet your temporal analysis centers don't flag it as a falsehood.

Your glance moves back to the cup.

"Robin kept succulents on his desk," you say, the information surfacing without clear relevance markers. "Three of them. Arranged by height. He watered them every Tuesday at 14:27."

Yoongi's face produces some series of micro-adjustments in 17 distinct facial muscles that combine to form something your pattern recognition identifies as... compassion?

The classification feels incorrect, but alternatives rank lower in probability.

"You're processing grief," he observes, voice modulating to a softer cadence. "It's normal."

The diagnosis feels foreign. Incorrect. Your emotional processing centers operate at 98.7% efficiency. You would recognize grief.

Wouldn't you?

"I barely knew him," you counter. "We shared 17 lunch periods over 4.7 months. Total interaction time: 23.8 hours. Insufficient for meaningful emotional attachment."

Yoongi takes another sip of his coffee. The liquid level decreases by exactly 12 milliliters.

"Grief isn't always logical," he says after 2.3 seconds of silence. "Sometimes it's just... human."

The cadence in his last word triggers some unexpected response in you.

"I'm not experiencing grief," you insist. "I'm experiencing statistical anomalies in my cognitive processing."

His eyes meet yours again—0.9 seconds of contact that somehow feels heavier than its temporal parameters suggest.

"Call it whatever you need to. The result is the same."

Your fingers adjust on the cup again—pressure decreasing by 0.2 kilograms as your muscles unconsciously respond to his voice.

"What is the statistical probability that my conversation with Robin directly caused his erasure?"

Yoongi's expression darkens—brow lowering by 0.4 centimeters, jaw tensing with 31% more force.

"You're looking for a percentage to quantify your guilt," he observes, voice edged. "It doesn't work that way."

"Everything works that way," you argue. "Reality is quantifiable. Causality is measurable. Effect follows cause at precisely calculable intervals."

"Not in the 25th hour. Not with CHRONOS."

Silence spreads as his thumb traces the rim of his cup-three precise rotations counterclockwise. Then, he speaks again, needing to make a point.

"Consistency matters now more than ever. CHRONOS is auditing behavioral patterns with 62% increased scrutiny since last quarter."

You frown. "Source?"

"Erratic temporal enforcement." His finger taps the ceramic once—sharp, percussive. "Fourteen percent spike in memory wipes. Thirty-three percent decrease in Outlier survival rates post-detection."

The numbers land like ice chips down your spine. "Correlation doesn't imply causation."

His eyes narrow by 0.3 millimeters. "You think they're redecorating parks for aesthetic purposes?"

You ignore the rhetorical jab. "Recommended behavioral adjustments?"

"Normalcy. No deviations from established routines. No unscheduled interactions. No..."

His gaze flicks to your hands.

“...idle curiosity."

You follow his line of sight.

Your fingers have been tracing infinity symbols in condensation on the table.

A subconscious pattern emerging at 2.7-second intervals.

"Noted."

You wipe the moisture away with a napkin, friction coefficient registering 0.4 higher than standard paper stock.

"They're cross-referencing biometrics with temporal signatures now. Elevated heart rate during routine scans triggers immediate audits."

Your pulse spikes by 11.2 bpm at the implication. "You're suggesting emotional suppression."

"I'm suggesting survival. Your body can't afford inconvenient truths right now."

The phrase 'inconvenient truths' lodges in your cortex, sparking 37 simultaneous neural queries.

All return access-denied.

"Define 'normalcy' parameters."

"Wake at 06:00. Work until 18:30. Consume 427 calories at designated intervals. Report all temporal irregularities except the ones we cause."

"Compliance seems..." You search for the optimal term. "...counterintuitive to resistance efforts."

“You think rebellion looks like fireworks and manifesto drops?" Leather creaks as he leans closer, mint and ozone sharpening the air between you. "Real resistance happens in the microseconds they don't monitor."

Your retinas capture the exact moment his pupils dilate—3.2% expansion correlating with proximity increase.

"Such as?"

"The 25th hour. The only time they can't see us."

Your watch beeps softly—temporal variance: 0.89%.

He pulls back instantly, posture reset to neutral. "Stick to the numbers. The patterns. The lies they've programmed you to live."

The coffee turns bitter on your tongue, pH shifting by 0.2.

"And you?"

“I'll be the ghost in their machine."

Ghost.

The word settles in your chest, impossibly making it warmer.

Then, the lights flicker—a couple times—as CHRONOS agents pass outside the window. Their shadows stretch across the floor in elongated distortions, limbs warped by the glass's refractive index.

You count their footsteps.

He counts your breaths.

A soft exhale from his lips—a controlled release of 1.2 liters of air over 2.4 seconds.

Rising from the stool, he stretches his neck 37 degrees to the left, then 42 degrees right. The vertebrae produce three distinct clicks at frequencies between 73 and 81 hertz.

His cup sits empty. Yours remains 73% full.

That same suppressed curve at the corner of his mouth does a reappearance.

Your pattern recognition flags it as the third occurrence of this specific micro-expression in the past 18 minutes.

“I need to use the restroom.” His statement is direct, efficient. “Wait here.”

You nod once—a 15-degree downward tilt followed by an equivalent upward correction. Optimal response to a simple directive.

He moves 1.7 meters toward the back of the establishment before pivoting 170 degrees. His eyebrows lift by 0.4 centimeters, creating three distinct lines across his forehead.

“You’ll be okay?”

The question registers as anomalous. Its premise suggests a concern disproportionate to the circumstances. Your brow furrows, creating a 0.3-centimeter depression between your eyebrows.

He shakes his head, dismissing the moment, and disappears behind the door marked RESTROOM—white letters, slightly chipped, 7.2 degrees off center.

You pivot on the stool, body angled toward the counter.

The coffee sits there, cooling. You sip. It’s gone tepid. Your thumb traces the rim, mapping the circumference for the third time.

The bartender approaches. Male, mid-thirties, dark hair, clean apron. Smile at 65% intensity.

“Not a fan of the coffee?” he asks, voice pitched for casual friendliness. “You’ve been staring at it longer than drinking.”

You blink twice. Processing. “No, it’s fine.”

He leans in, elbows on the counter. “You sure? Most people ask for sugar. Or something sweet.”

You shake your head. “I don’t like sweeteners. They distort the baseline flavor profile.”

He laughs, easy. “That’s… specific.”

His gaze lingers, searching for something.

“You come here often? I don’t recognize you.”

You hesitate, brain skipping. “Not that I remember.”

The words fall out, unfiltered. He goes still. Smile vanishes. His hand drops below the counter—movement too smooth.

Cold metal presses to your temple. Soft click.

You catalog the sensation.

Barrel diameter: 9mm.

Temperature: room.

Pressure: firm, not shaking.

His voice drops, all pretense gone. “Don’t move. Don’t speak.”

You comply.

Data input: threat detected.

Output: unknown.

Your retinal sensors register gold first—erratic sparks at 11 o'clock, 43 centimeters from your focal point.

The barista's weapon hand undergoes rapid cellular decay: skin desiccating at 3.7 millimeters per second, muscle tissue liquefying with 92% efficiency. His scream measures 114 decibels—pain response authentic, but temporal signature reveals 0.8-second delay.

Agent Min's grip materializes around your wrist before the decay reaches radial artery. His fingers burn at 39.1°C, golden threads weaving through his leather gloves. The world blurs—not from speed, but temporal interference.

Your internal chronometer confirms: local time dilation of 47%.

"Move." The command vibrates at 87 Hz, bypassing auditory processing to embed directly in your motor cortex.

Your legs comply before conscious thought engages. Adrenaline spikes—17.3% above baseline. The cafe exits warp as you pass, doorframes appearing to bend at 12-degree angles—an optical illusion caused by the temporal distortion field surrounding you.

CHRONOS agents materialize in peripheral vision, their movements unnaturally segmented—3.1 frames per second versus standard 24. Their comms chatter fractures into your awareness:

"—emporal breach Sector 4-Alpha—"

"—arget exhibits Reality Shifter signatures—"

"—containment protocol Theta-7 authorized—"

Yoongi pivots 170 degrees, dragging you into an alley where air molecules vibrate at 0.7x normal frequency. His free hand glows faintly gold, pressed against the brick wall. Mortar ages backward then forward in precise spiral patterns—2.3 revolutions per second, creating a passageway exactly 0.9 meters wide.

"Don't breathe," he warns as you pass through particulate matter suspended in his temporal field.

Your lungs register 14% oxygen decrease.

Insufficient for hypoxia.

Sufficient for discomfort.

The alley deposits you onto a street where Agent Min(?) has slowed time by 23%. Pedestrians move at imperceptible rates, their coffee cups appearing frozen at 37-degree angles. His temporal manipulation leaves gold afterimages—3.2-second persistence in your peripheral vision.

Your Chrono-Sync Watch beeps erratically:

TEMPORAL VARIANCE: 4.89%

ANOMALY DETECTED

His grip tightens—42.7 kilograms of pressure now, necessary to anchor you against increasing temporal distortion. Without his stabilizing touch, you assume your untrained body would suffer severe temporal drag.

"Focus on my voice," he commands, words layered with harmonic frequencies that stabilize your inner ear fluid against the disorienting effects of his temporal field.

CHRONOS drones breach the time dilation field behind you, their propulsion systems screeching at 17 kHz—the exact resonant frequency that makes your temples protest.

They're designed to track and pursue through temporal distortions. You know this from your training, what they taught you. Or at least, what they wanted you to be taught.

But Yoongi never looks back; not even once.

Nature’s lumbar support leaves much to be desired.

The wall at your back is jagged, scraping through your shirt, stone biting into skin. Yoongi’s breath saws out next to you, sharp, furious. He rounds on you, eyes wild, voice pitched higher than baseline.

"What the fuck did you do?"

The question isn't a question—it’s an accusation wrapped in 87 decibels of controlled fury. You straighten 2.3 centimeters, ignoring how the rock tears at your jacket.

“I answered his query within established social parameters."

His laugh is all sharp edges. "Parameters? You told a CHRONOS informant you didn't remember him!"

"Statistical probability suggested—"

"Probability?" He steps into your space, mint and ozone overpowering the cave's damp musk. "They've activated civilian reporting protocols! That bartender was required to log every customer interaction!"

Your pulse spikes-+18bpm. "Unforeseen variable. You didn't brief me on—"

"I literally just said don't deviate from normalcy!" The wall cracks behind him, hairline fractures spreading at 3mm/second. "Normal people don't have memory gaps about coffee shops!"

You catalog the wall damage—microcrystalline structure failure inconsistent with human strength.

Fascinating.

New data point: Agent Min's capabilities exceed known parameters.

"My response was logically sound," you counter. "Approximately 72% of humans experience—"

"Logically suicidal." Gold sparks dance in his irises now. "They train those informants to flag exactly that phrase."

The revelation triggers 23 simultaneous neural queries.

"Why would 'not that I remember' trigger—"

"Because Outliers say it when their memories glitch!" He's closer now, 47cm instead of 72. "Basic fucking tradecraft, Noma."

You flinch at the nickname. "You expect me to intuit unpublished surveillance tactics?"

"I expect you to listen when I say CHRONOS is hunting us." The gold intensifies, threads weaving through his clenched fists. "That man wasn't armed until you turned him into a threat."

"Correlation fallacy." Your voice drops to 19dB. "You lack evidence that—"

The cave wall explodes.

Not literally—just Yoongi's fist connecting with stone 3.2cm from your head. Dust cascades downward as he withdraws his hand, skin unmarred.

"Evidence?" His breath ghosts across your lips, warmer than human biology allows. "You think decay patterns manifest spontaneously?"

Realization crystallizes.

The bartender's rotting hand. The gold threads. The temporal distortion.

Your eyes narrow. "You altered his cellular decay rate."

"To save your statistically suicidal ass."

"Without consent."

"Without options.”

The standoff lasts 4.7 seconds.

"You're an anomaly," he growls. "Stop acting like one."

"Variables require data." You match his glare. "Which you hoard like a fucking dragon."

His hands rake through mint hair, leaving it standing at precisely 47-degree angles.

"Because I have no other fucking choice!" The words explode from him, raw and jagged. "Every piece of information I give you is another potential trigger. Another way for CHRONOS to find you. To erase you. Again."

That word. ‘Again’. He keeps saying it, like it’s something he can’t lodge out of his throat.

Yet, for his incredible powers, he seems unable to prevent what he fears most.

What ‘again’ means to him.

Your eyes narrow, recalculating.

"So your ability..." You pause, watching his muscles tense. "Time manipulation?"

His eyes flick to yours, then away. A non-answer that answers everything.

"You aged his hand by 70 years, at minimum." Your voice steadies as you shift to analysis mode. "Accelerated cellular decay, targeted temporal field. Fascinating."

"83 actually." The correction is automatic. Petulant. He slides down the wall beside you, knees cracking at 73 and 81 hertz. "Time Anchor. That's the technical classification."

You catalog the term, cross-referencing against known temporal phenomena.

No matches found.

"I can't create or destroy time." His voice drops, rougher now. "I can only... redistribute it. Accelerate decay in one place, slow it in another."

Your fingers twitch with the urge to document, to measure. "Conservation of temporal energy."

"Something like that." He flexes his right hand, and you notice the faint gold shimmer beneath his skin—network of lines like circuitry, pulsing at 0.7-second intervals. "Every action has a cost."

"The gold." You gesture toward his hand. "Temporal bleed?"

His eyebrow lifts 0.3 centimeters. "For someone who claims to know nothing, you make impressive leaps."

"Pattern recognition is my primary function." You shift, angling your body 12 degrees toward his. "What's the cost?"

His laugh lacks humor, registering at 42% below standard mirth indicators.

"Depends on what I'm doing. Age someone's hand? Minor headache, maybe some joint pain. Stop time completely?" He taps his temple. "Migraines that would kill a normal person."

You process this, calculating energy transfer ratios.

"And the 25th hour?"

"That's different." His voice drops another 3 decibels. "That's not me. That's... a system error. Something CHRONOS never accounted for."

"That you exploit."

"That we exploit." He corrects, eyes meeting yours. "Some of us, anyway."

"How many like you exist?"

"Time Anchors?" He shrugs, the movement exact despite its casual appearance. "Only me, that I know of.”

The admission feels sad.

Terribly lonely.

"And me?"

The question emerges before your logic centers can evaluate its prudence; and his eyebrows twitch, eyes staring directly onto the ground.

"You're something else entirely."

"Define 'something else,'" you request, shifting your position against the wall to better observe him.

The movement causes a minor increase in discomfort—rock surface irregularities creating pressure points along your vertebrae.

But they do not register as important in the face of acquiring new information.

Agent Min finally exhales—which suggests internal debate about information disclosure parameters.

"I can show you," he says finally, voice dropping. "But you need to understand that what I'm about to do is extremely detectable. If there are any CHRONOS agents within 400 meters, they'll register it."

You calculate risk factors, weighing variables against known CHRONOS response protocols.

"Current location provides approximately 87% concealment from standard monitoring," you observe. "Probability of detection: 13.2%."

His mouth quirks—almost-smile that never fully materializes.

"Always with the numbers," he mutters, but it doesn't register as annoyance—rather something warmer.

He extends his right hand, palm up, and focuses his attention on it with an intensity that alters his breathing pattern by 0.4 seconds per cycle.

At first, nothing happens.

Then—

Gold.

Liquid light emerges from his fingertips, tendrils of energy that move with fluidity. They spiral outward in clockwise rotations, creating phenomenons that defy any standard classification parameters.

Your pupils dilate by approximately 28%, heart rate increasing by 17 beats per minute.

"Temporal energy," he explains, voice steady despite the obvious energy expenditure. "Direct manifestation of my ability."

The golden traces move like extensions of himself, responding to minute shifts in his focus. They emit no measurable heat signature yet appear fluid, almost liquid in their movement patterns.

"Fascinating," you breathe, leaning closer to observe better. "How do they work? What's their composition? Can they interact with physical matter or are they purely energetic manifestations?"

Your questions tumble out in rapid succession, each one triggering three more in your mind. The analytical part of you wants to measure, catalog, understand—but something else, something less quantifiable, simply wants to touch.

He watches you cautiously, measuring your reaction.

"They're extensions of temporal force," he explains. "I can manipulate objects through their timeline states—age them forward or backward, freeze them in their current temporal position."

The golden traces curl and twist above his palm, creating complex patterns that seem to follow mathematical principles.

"Can I—" You hesitate, unusual break in your typically decisive speech pattern. "Would contact damage them? Or me?"

"No damage," he says carefully. "But they're... sensitive."

The word choice seems odd, triggering your curiosity further.

"Sensitive how?" you press, eyes tracking the golden movements.

He sighs—perhaps denoting exhaustion.

"They're direct extensions of my temporal energy. I feel what they feel."

You process this information.

"Like nerve endings," you suggest.

"Yeah… Something like that."

Decision made, you extend your hand toward the nearest tendril, moving slowly to allow him time to withdraw if needed.

He doesn't.

Your fingertip makes contact with the golden energy.

The sensation is... unexpected.

The trace feels solid yet fluid simultaneously, warm without heat, substantial without mass. But what registers most prominently is Yoongi's immediate reaction—sharp intake of breath, pupils dilating by approximately 32%, micro-tremor in his left hand.

You pull back instantly, recalculating.

"Did that hurt?" you ask, cataloging his physiological responses.

"No." His voice drops by 2.7 hertz. "Not hurt."

No further clarification.

Your own pulse increases by another 8 beats per minute in response.

Oh.

You reach out again, this time with intent, and trace your finger along the golden tendril. It responds to your touch, curling around your fingertip like it's greeting you.

Yoongi's breathing pattern alters—inhalation extending by 0.7 seconds, exhalation shortening by 0.4.

"They recognize you," he says, voice rougher than before.

"That's impossible," you counter automatically. "We've never interacted like this before."

His eyes meet yours, holding for 2.3 seconds—longer than his usual 0.8-second maximum.

"They recognize you," he repeats, simply.

The golden trace wrapped around your finger pulses slightly, the rhythm matching your heartbeat with 97.3% synchronicity.

"What else can they do?" you ask, scientific curiosity temporarily overriding everything else.

He flexes his fingers slightly, and the traces extend further, creating a complex network of golden energy between you.

"They can interact with physical objects," he demonstrates, directing a tendril toward a small rock.

The stone ages rapidly, crumbling to dust in 3.2 seconds. Another rock reverts to its geological past—crystallizing into a perfect quartz formation.

"Temporal manipulation at a distance," you observe, mind going through all possible applications, limitations, variables.

"Yes."

You watch as the traces move with increasing confidence around you, never touching without your initiation, but clearly... aware of your presence.

"And these are unique to Time Anchors?" you ask, testing another hypothesis.

"Each type of Outlier has their own manifestation," he says carefully. "Mine happens to be temporal, and in tendrils of different sizes."

You detect deliberate vagueness, information being withheld.

"What's mine?"

The traces flicker briefly, responding to some change in his emotional state.

"That's something you'll have to discover yourself," he says finally.

You frown, dissatisfied with the non-answer.

"More cryptic responses. Inefficient communication strategy."

His mouth quirks again.

"Some things can't be told, Noma. They have to be experienced."

You reach out again, this time allowing your entire hand to pass through the network of golden energy. The traces respond immediately, wrapping around your fingers, sliding between them.

Yoongi's breath catches, the sound barely audible at 17 decibels.

"These are... remarkably sensitive," you observe.

"Yes." The word emerges strained, tightly controlled.

A hypothesis forms. You test it by deliberately trailing your fingers through the traces with a bit more pressure.

His reaction is immediate—pupils dilating to 7.1 millimeters, pulse visible at his throat increasing to approximately 92 beats per minute, a muscle in his jaw tensing with 47% more force.

"Interesting," you murmur, filing away this reaction for future analysis.

"We should stop," he says, voice rougher than before. "Extended manifestation increases detection risk."

Logical. Rational.

Yet you find yourself strangely reluctant to end the experiment.

"One more question," you negotiate, still not withdrawing your hand from the golden network. "Why do they move in clockwise patterns specifically?"

His eyes meet yours again, unreadable.

"Because that's how time moves," he says simply. "Forward. Clockwise."

You correlate with your observations.

"And if something moved counterclockwise?" you ask, the question emerging from some intuitive part of your mind rather than your analytical centers.

The traces flicker again, responding to something in his emotional state.

"That would be something else entirely," he says, echoing his earlier statement.

Before you can press further, he withdraws, the golden traces retracting into his skin. The absence leaves the air feeling strangely empty, lacking some vital element you hadn't noticed until it was gone.

Your fingertips tingle with residual sensation—a ghastly feeling you don’t know how to categorize but for some reason find yourself missing.

"We need to move," he says, voice returning to its normal cadence. "We've stayed in one place too long."

He is right.

You don’t know why you still want to touch those golden traces.

You rise instead, calculating the most efficient exit route while your mind continues processing this new data point: Agent Min’s golden traces recognize you, despite having no logical reason to do so.

Another anomaly to add to your growing collection.

He presses his right wrist with two fingers, applying precisely 2.1 kilograms of pressure to the outer edge of his Chrono-Sync Watch. The device responds with a soft sound—around 17 decibels, so barely perceptible even in the cave's acoustic environment.

A holographic display materializes 4.7 centimeters above the watch face, projecting a three-dimensional map of Sector 4 with pulsing red markers scattered across its surface.

You lean forward, immediately registering the discrepancy: standard Chrono-Sync Watch models lack holographic projection capabilities.

"What is that?"

Yoongi doesn't look up, his focus entirely on the floating map as he rotates it 37 degrees with a precise finger movement.

"Modified," he says simply, the explanation as efficient as always. "I told you."

You study the hologram, cataloging design parameters and technical specifications with automatic precision.

"Quantum-projection module integration into a Chrono-Sync interface would require bypassing at least seven encryption protocols," you observe, mind already mapping the engineering challenges. "The power requirements alone would necessitate a modified lithium cell with 347% increased capacity. Not to mention the spatial compression algorithms needed to maintain holographic integrity without..."

Your analysis trails off as your eyes meet his over the floating display. The corner of his mouth twitches once more.

"You helped create this," he says quietly, fingers still moving through the projection.

The statement registers, but fails to connect with any accessible memory database.

"I did not." Your contradiction emerges automatically, precisely calibrated to express certainty.

He doesn't argue. Doesn't press. Simply continues manipulating the map with those agile, gloved fingers, eyes occasionally flicking to your face as if contemplating your reaction.

Silence expands between you for exactly 4.3 seconds before your curiosity overrides caution.

"Where are we going?" you ask, redirecting the conversation away from memory discrepancies that trigger uncomfortable neural responses.

"I'm mapping our closest access point," he murmurs, more to himself than to you.

His index finger traces a route through the holographic streets, calculating distances with the same analytical precision you recognize in yourself.

"We need to reach one of the travel spots within the next 37 minutes. Our temporal signature trail is too fresh after that... incident."

"Travel spots?"

You catalog the unfamiliar terminology, cross-referencing against known CHRONOS lexicon.

No matches found.

Yoongi's fingers pause at exactly 23 degrees northeast of your current position. His throat works—a slight contraction suggesting hesitation.

"I..."

His voice hovers over the simple noun. He swallows once, recalibrating.

"Travel spots are access points," he continues, voice modulated in a way that suggests internal editing. "Strategic locations throughout the city that allow direct transport to the 7th Hour headquarters."

"Teleportation technology? That's theoretically impossible given current quantum limitations."

"Not teleportation. Temporal-spatial warping." His finger taps a pulsing blue marker on the map. "These portals use existing weak points in CHRONOS's reality grid."

Theoretical models. Probability factors. Energy requirements.

"The energy necessary to maintain stable reality tunnels would exceed—"

"That's why they're not tunnels," he interrupts, eyes still fixed on the map. "They're more like... doors. Open only when needed, closed immediately after use."

You lean closer, studying the blue markers. Their distribution follows no discernible pattern—a deliberate randomization algorithm to prevent predictive tracking.

"Why can't CHRONOS detect them?" you ask, probing for weaknesses.

"They can detect the activation," he answers, voice tightening slightly. "But not follow through. The portals are specially calibrated to recognize Outlier temporal signatures. Anyone else attempting to pass through would trigger an immediate collapse."

You frown, recalculating. "But my temporal signature is registered in the CHRONOS database. Wouldn't that trigger their defense systems?"

His eyes flick to yours briefly—0.7 seconds of direct contact.

"Your official signature is a fabrication. The real one..." He pauses, choosing his words with unusual care. "The real one is already authorized in our system."

Another anomaly to catalog.

Another fragment that doesn't fit your accessible memory database.

"So we access one of these points, and it transports us directly to your headquarters?" you confirm, redirecting toward practical logistics.

"Yes." He closes the holographic display with an easy gesture. "But we need to be careful. After what happened at the coffee shop, they'll be scanning for temporal disturbances with heightened sensitivity."

You tilt your head, considering.

"And why haven't you contacted your team? Surely they could provide assistance or extraction."

His eyes flicker to you. Presses his lips together. Then, answers.

"Communications are compromised in this sector," he explains. "Any encrypted transmission would register on CHRONOS monitoring systems. They'd triangulate our position within 3.7 seconds."

"Your golden traces," you observe, connecting variables. "The temporal display at the coffee shop would have triggered every sensor within 1.5 kilometers."

"Precisely why we need to move quickly." He cracks his neck again, just like he did back in the coffee shop. "Our window is closing. That display was necessary but costly from a strategic perspective."

Your mind reconstructs the coffee shop incident—the bartender's decay, the golden traces, the immediate pursuit.

"You risked substantial exposure to extract me," you state, the realization forming fully. "Statistically, that decision carried a 78.3% probability of compromising your entire operation."

He doesn’t explain. Doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t try to correct you. Just lets silence stretch for three seconds.

"Some variables outweigh probability," he says finally.

"I still don't understand why you can't simply use your temporal abilities to transport us directly. If you can manipulate time—"

"I manipulate time, not space," he sighs. "I can slow it, accelerate it, even stop it briefly. But I can't move through it. That's..."

He hesitates again, that same weighted pause.

"That's a different ability entirely."

You catalog this limitation, updating your mental model of his capabilities.

"And these portals combine both temporal and spatial manipulation," you deduce, connecting data points.

"Yes." The confirmation is clipped, efficient. "They were designed specifically to compensate for the limitations of individual Outlier abilities."

"Designed by who?"

His eyes meet yours again—1.4 seconds this time, 75% longer than his usual pattern.

"By us," he says simply.

The pronoun registers with unexpected weight.

Us. Collective. Collaborative.

You and him.

Your Chrono-Sync Watch beeps softly: Temporal variance: 1.07%.

"We need to move," he says, already turning toward the cave entrance. "The nearest travel spot is 1.7 kilometers northeast. If we maintain optimal pace while avoiding main thoroughfares, we should arrive within the acceptable window."

You follow, legs automatically adjusting to match his stride, body responding to cues your conscious mind hasn't processed.

Another anomaly. Another piece of the puzzle.

You catalog it alongside all the others, building your database of inconsistencies, contradictions, and inexplicable familiarities.

Someday, you'll find the pattern that connects them all.

But for now, you follow the ghost with golden traces, moving through a city that feels increasingly like a simulation with every step.

next | index

— taglist @cannotalwaysbenight @taevanille @itstoastsworld @somehowukook @stutixmaru @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @ktownshizzle @yoongiiuu93 @billy-jeans23 @annyeongbitch7 @mar-lo-pap @hobis-sprite0218 @mikrokookiex @minniejim @curse-of-art @cristy-101 @mellyyyyyyx

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ghostlynightpanda · 2 months ago

Note

Hello! Calculations of Trust is amazing! Can you do a second part? 🥹

Calculations of Trust - Part 2

Synopsis: After forming an alliance with Chishiya, you soon discover your feelings for him are growing. But what happens when a game arrives that puts your trust in each other to the ultimate test?

warnings/content: Chishiya x fem!reader, fluff, canon-typical blood and violence, 1.860 words

Part 1

You were in the library.

The Beach's version of one, anyway — a dusty corner room on the second floor of the hotel, filled with abandoned books and furniture that didn't quite match. Most people didn't come here. They were either too drunk or too afraid to be alone with their thoughts.

But you didn't mind the quiet.

You were scanning through a game log you'd reconstructed — pieced together from memory, overheard conversations, and fragmentary notes left behind by the dead. You'd pinned four distinct player behavior patterns. All predictable. All exploitable.

A soft knock interrupted your train of thought.

You didn't need to look up.

"You usually don't knock," you said.

Chishiya stepped inside, hands in his hoodie pockets, moving with that same silent grace he always had. He didn't sit right away — just stood near the doorway, like he hadn't quite decided if this visit was necessary.

"I'm trying something new," he replied, voice dry. "Thought it might make me seem less intrusive."

You marked your page with a folded napkin and looked up at him, brows raised. "Is this your version of small talk?"

"Only if it works."

You allowed a quiet smile to form, small and fleeting.

He finally moved closer and pulled up a chair across from you. You noticed the folder under his arm — worn, creased, a little too organized to be accidental.

You gestured toward it. "More game data?"

He nodded, placing it on the table between you like a peace offering. "I wrote down some of the stories from other survivors—descriptions of games, their rules. Figured we might need to start predicting what comes next, beyond just the cards."

You flipped it open without hesitation. Charts. Player groupings. Hypotheses. It was methodical — not unlike your own work, though a bit more ruthless in its assumptions.

"You've been busy," you murmured, scanning the pages. "Didn't think the Beach parties left room for homework."

"They don't," Chishiya said evenly, watching you instead of the files. "But I prefer reality over distraction."

You hummed. "We're similar in that."

He didn't deny it. Just leaned back slightly, eyes narrowing in thought.

"You've started tracking emotional spikes during Hearts games," he said after a moment, tapping a note you'd scribbled in the margins.

You looked up. "I wanted to see if there's a predictable limit to compassion before it collapses into self-preservation."

His expression didn't change, but something shifted behind his eyes. "You're not just playing the games. You're analyzing the people."

"So are you," you shot back.

A beat passed.

Then Chishiya smiled — barely. "That's why this works."

You should've felt satisfaction at the confirmation. Instead, you felt... steady. Like this was inevitable, a pattern that had always been unfolding beneath the surface.

The day was winding down, the sky bruised violet and orange as you and Chishiya walked along the hotel balcony. Below, the Beach still buzzed with music and laughter — hollow things. Masking the weight no one wanted to carry.

You carried it anyway. Always had.

"I used to think working with someone would slow me down," you said, eyes on the horizon.

"I still think it's risky," Chishiya replied. "But the data says otherwise."

You looked over at him. "You mean I say otherwise."

A flicker of a smirk played at his lips. "Same thing."

You shook your head, exhaling a quiet laugh — one of the few since arriving here.

He didn't smile again. But he didn't look away either. Instead, he said, almost offhandedly, "I trust your analysis more than anyone else here."

It was quiet, but it landed with weight.

You didn't respond right away. Because trust in this world wasn't light. It wasn't casual. It could kill you. But it could also be the one thing that made survival possible.

And this — whatever this was — had become more than strategic convenience.

You didn't just work well together.

You understood each other. Silently. Sharply.

"I trust yours too," you said finally.

Chishiya's expression didn't change much. But something in his posture softened — barely perceptible, but there.

And when you both turned back toward the sky, the silence between you wasn't empty anymore.

It was full.

Of possibility.

You noticed it the way you noticed everything else — in the details.

In the way your heartbeat started to spike when Chishiya approached unexpectedly. In the way your eyes started finding him in a room before your brain even told them to. In the way silence between you wasn't just tolerable anymore — it was safe.

At first, you tried to ignore it. Reframed it as data. Proximity breeds familiarity. Familiarity breeds behavioral shifts. It was basic psychology. Predictable. Manageable.

But then it stopped being manageable.

The moment you caught yourself waiting — not just for the next game, but for him. For his opinion, for his sarcasm, for that flicker of interest he didn't show anyone else.

That was when you knew.

You were becoming attached.

And that… was dangerous.

You told yourself it didn't matter. That survival still came first. That the calculations didn't change just because your chest started to tighten every time he said your name in that low, unbothered voice.

But the truth was — it did change something. It made your logic slower. Not your intelligence, never that, but your emotional processing was no longer a controlled environment.

You'd caught yourself looking at him longer than necessary during strategy meetings. You began noting not just his conclusions, but how his hands moved when he spoke, how his voice dipped when something genuinely intrigued him.

You knew what it was.

You were falling for him.

In any other world, maybe you'd admit it. Maybe even explore it.

But not here.

Not in a world where alliances died and people with kind eyes stabbed each other in the back before breakfast. Not in a world where trust was currency, and affection could be the most lethal misstep of all.

So you did what you always did.

You pushed it aside.

You filed the emotion into a locked part of your mind, like an equation with no solvable output. Not until the system changed. Not until this world gave you a reason to believe it wouldn't turn that feeling into a weakness.

Still, some nights — when the Beach was loud and the stars were sharp overhead — you'd find yourself walking past the room where Chishiya stayed in, maybe sleeping, maybe analyzing god-knows-what. You never knocked. Never went in.

But you always paused.

Just for a second.

Just long enough to make sure he was still there.

Just long enough to know you still cared.

And then, you'd walk away — as if the moment hadn't mattered at all.

Even though you knew it did.

The city was dead quiet.

Not just quiet in the absence-of-sound kind of way, but in the suffocating kind of silence where even your own footsteps felt too loud. The dying neon lights of the last game flickered above, casting fractured patterns on the rain-slick pavement as you and Chishiya walked side by side.

No one spoke.

The game was over.

You'd survived. Both of you had. That should've been enough.

But something still clung to the edges of your thoughts — something neither of you seemed ready to name.

The car was parked a block away. The walk felt longer tonight. Every shadow looked like a threat. You didn't know why you were so quiet — maybe the adrenaline hadn't faded, or maybe it had and now there was just the echo of what could've happened. What should've happened.

Chishiya walked slightly ahead of you, hands in his pockets, hoodie drawn up just enough to shield his expression.

When you reached the car, he didn't get in right away. He stood there beside the door, staring out at the hollow skyline, the kind that never felt like home anymore.

Then, finally — a quiet sigh.

He slid into the driver's seat. You got in on the passenger side. Still no words.

The engine rumbled to life, headlights slicing through the mist.

"We shouldn't be alive."

His voice was so soft, so matter-of-fact, it almost didn't register as strange. But it was strange — because Chishiya didn't usually talk first. And never like that.

You turned your head slowly, watching his profile as the light from the dashboard cast a soft glow along the curve of his jaw.

"That game," he said, fingers tightening slightly on the wheel, "wasn't designed for both of us to survive."

He didn't sound angry. Or shaken. Just... confused. Like he'd found a problem in an equation that didn't balance.

"It made more sense to betray you," he continued. "Or for you to betray me. That would've been smart."

You let out a quiet breath. "But we didn't."

He looked at you now. Really looked.

"No," he said. "We didn't. We trusted each other. And that... that wasn't logical. You would've been guaranteed to survive if you'd betrayed me. But you risked your life — put your trust in me."

Silence fell again. But it wasn't heavy this time — just real.

You leaned back against the seat, the hum of the car grounding you.

"Same goes for you. You trusted me too. You didn't betray me."

"We survived because we were lucky," Chishiya continued, ignoring your interjection. "Not because we based our solution on logic. Based on the facts, both of us should've died. It doesn't make sense why we chose trust."

You gave a breath of laughter — too tired to be sharp, too raw to be bitter. You didn't look at him when you said it: "We made a choice. Not based on numbers or odds or strategy. Just... based on you. On me."

There was something fragile in the quiet after that. Something that felt like a first step onto ice that might not crack after all.

"You know why I didn't betray you," you said eventually. Not a question. You were sure he knew how you felt.

"I know," he murmured.

"You think we're weak for it?"

A pause. "I used to."

You turned your head just slightly, just enough to meet his eyes again. "But now?" you asked.

His jaw worked for a moment — not in conflict, just in consideration. Then he spoke, quieter than before. "Now I think maybe we're just… human."

You nodded once, the corner of your mouth twitching upward. Not quite a smile — but something like it.

"And maybe," he added, "not everything has to make sense."

The rain dropped softly onto the windshield, tapping out a soft pattern. And without looking, without further planning, his hand brushed against yours.

You didn't move away.

Not immediately. Not instinctively. You simply… paused.

Then, gently — as if either of you moved too fast it would shatter the moment — your fingers shifted.

And intertwined.

No words.

No glances.

Just a subtle squeeze — a silent acknowledgment of everything you couldn't say yet. Everything you didn't need to.

For once, the world didn't demand survival.

For once, you let yourself just feel.

Side by side. Fingers laced. Two minds that once thrived in isolation… Now, somehow, beating in sync.

And for now, that was enough.

Masterlist

#alice in borderland #chishiya x reader #chishiya shuntaro #chishiya fluff #chishiya alice in borderland #shuntaro chishiya x reader

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lagomorphique · 8 months ago

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Mouthwashing and Capitalism - Analysis

this did unexpectedly well on twt so I'm gonna force people on tumblr to endure my takes as well for posterity (plus i can speculate and elaborate a bit more on here without the character limit). disclaimer that this includes untagged spoilers for both the game itself + the how fish is made dlc. I also refer to some of the meta facts from the dev qnas and to the demo version of curly's psych evaluation. Most of this is gonna be under a readmore and I'll elaborate a bit more on each character in reblogs

firstly, let's state the obvious - the working conditions enforced by pony express are atrocious. "do not indulge in over 5 hours of rest, including leisure time. sleeping over the allowed budget will result in disciplinary action."

Compare this to irl guidelines for pilots. Neither Curly or Jimmy are getting anything close to the required amount of rest for such a demanding job. This edges more into headcanon/speculation territory, but I've been trying to figure out how their shift patterns are supposed to work. I'd imagine that both of them don't always need to be on duty at the same time, so their shift patterns are probably more variable than everybody's else's. At the same time, we see them both on shift at the same time multiple times during the game and Curly is the only one with clearance to make certain extremely important navigation decisions (like turning off the autopilot). The tldr is that the crew is extremely overworked and running on dangerously little sleep for extended periods of time. It's enough to make anyone go crazy.

Next, the company routinely engages in collective punishment, as seen in the below screenshots. This is particularly important because I think it directly informs a lot of Curly's decisions in particular, especially with how he reassures Anya that her stealing the gun case will not go on the performance log. Given her precarious financial situation, she literally cannot afford to have her pay docked. I don't think he has any nefarious intentions here about covering up what's happened.

I think it's really interesting that each of the employee ID cards have an EMV chip. This would imply that they also function as payment cards. Perhaps they also have to pay for the food on board. It is possible that the 'credits' they are paid in are not even money per se, but rather a sort of company currency. Company currencies, or 'scrips,' have historically been used to exploit workers by making them solely dependent on company stores and products, enforcing loyalty.

Corporate communicates with Curly using something that looks no more sophisticated than a fax machine. It it also not clear whether this communication channel even goes both ways, which calls into question whether it would have even been possible to send out a distress signal in the event of an emergency (or, for example, a HR report needing to be filed).

The ship is not equipped for 5 people. It's notable here that Curly says "bigger" here, implying he /did/ raise this as a safety issue with corporate, but was shot down.

It's a plot point that there were only 4 cryopods, which meant that one person would always have been left out in the event of an emergency, even if they were all functioning.

I also wonder if this affects the rations available to the crew during the trip. I highly doubt that Pony Express bothered to provide extra food and other essentials to provide for an extra person, which means that the crew are probably dividing rations meant for four people amongst five.

#mouthwashing #mouthwashing game #wrong organ #not tagging the characters lmao #analysis

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iloveslasher · 18 days ago

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The Weight of a Trigger

POV: Captain John Price | Poly!141 x Reader | Post-Interrogation | Angst. Part 3 of "Shatterpoint"

Johnny's POV, John's POV, Kyle's POV, Simon's POV, Finale.

They trusted me to lead.

And I trusted the intel.

That was my first mistake.

Day 0.

The file hit his desk just past midnight. Classified intercept logs. Flash drives discovered under your bunk. A blurred photo from a blacksite op with your name printed in bold red ink underneath it.

Asset compromised. Codename: Echo-Five. Authorization: Detain. Interrogate. Neutralize if necessary.

Price didn’t blink.

He’d sent men to their deaths on thinner evidence. This was a matter of national security. Protect the team at all costs.

Still, something twisted in his gut when Ghost asked, “You sure you want to do this, Captain?”

Price didn’t answer.

Because if he hesitated, he wouldn’t be able to go through with it.

And if he didn’t go through with it… What if you really were a traitor?

He couldn’t afford doubt. Couldn’t afford sentiment.

So he gave the order.

"Bag her."

And the last shred of humanity in his voice died with it.

Day 2.

He sat across from you in the cold room, cigarette smoke curling between you.

You were shaking. Bleeding. Voice cracked from screaming.

“Who are you working for?” he asked, voice flat.

“Please—John—you have to believe me. I didn’t do this.”

Your voice nearly broke him.

But he didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Didn’t speak to you like a lover. He spoke like a soldier.

"You made us trust you. You made us love you. And then you stabbed us in the back."

You sobbed. Not loud — not hysterical — just this quiet, broken sound that made his stomach twist.

Still, he said nothing.

Because the moment he showed you mercy, the mission would be compromised.

He told himself this was necessary.

But the truth?

He didn’t want to look weak in front of his men.

And he didn’t want to admit that he’d rather lose the war than believe you were capable of this.

Day 5.

He hadn’t eaten.

Couldn’t sleep.

Kept seeing your eyes — wide with betrayal — every time he closed his own.

Soap tried to talk to him.

“Cap… you think maybe we got it wrong?”

Price didn’t answer.

Because if he spoke, he might scream.

Day 6.

Intel dropped like a sledgehammer.

New decrypts. Voice analysis. Satellite manipulation.

A frame job. A full-scale operation to make (Y/N) look like the leak.

They’d fallen for it.

He had fallen for it.

Price stormed into the medbay before anyone else.

You were curled on the bed, thinner, weaker, silent.

Your eyes found him — hollow, sunken, too tired to be angry.

He knelt at your side. Reached for your hand.

You flinched.

And that single, involuntary movement tore his heart out.

“I was wrong,” he said. “I see that now.”

You didn’t speak.

“I should’ve questioned the data. Should’ve talked to you first. Should’ve—” His voice broke. “Should’ve protected you.”

You blinked slowly. “You were supposed to love me.”

“I did,” he whispered.

“Then why did you let me rot?”

He had no answer.

Because there was none.

Later…

The team left you alone to rest. But Price didn’t go.

He stood in front of the mirror in your hospital room.

He stared at his reflection, searching for the man he used to be.

A leader. A protector.

Instead, he saw a coward. A bastard. A man who traded love for blind obedience.

He’d always believed torture was a last resort. Something they did to monsters.

But now… he was the monster.

And the woman he loved might never look at him the same way again.

He sank into the chair beside your bed. Folded his hands. Bowed his head.

And for the first time in years, John Price prayed.

Not for forgiveness.

Just for a second chance.

One he wasn’t sure he deserved.

END (Price POV)

#john price cod #john price x reader #john price #cod #141 headcanons #tf 141 #141 x reader #cod 141 #poly 141 #task force 141 x reader #task force 141 #tf 141 x reader #tf 141 x you #soap mactavish #johnny mactavish #soap cod

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shadesofhogwarts · 2 months ago

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Ghost Hunter!Marauders x New Recruit Reader (pt.5)

You ran from the boys, from the truth, from the fire that was slowly building inside you. But the past has a way of catching up, dragging you back to where it all began. Back to Grimmauld Place. Back to the night everything burned. And this time, there’s no one left to blame but the one who struck the match.

Wordcount: 14.6k

pt.1, pt.2, pt.3, pt.4, pt.5...

The air inside the abandoned archives room was thick with dust and stale cold, the faint hum of old ventilation mingling with the distant drip of water somewhere beyond the cracked walls. She crouched low, fingers trembling as they traced the edge of a worn manila folder half-buried beneath a crumbling pile of discarded papers. Her breath caught when the top of the file, faded and brittle, bore her name– unmistakable, painfully real. On the cover:

Classified: Project Anchor – Subject 7

Her name was scribbled underneath. A faint line slashed through it.

Heart hammering, she peeled back the folder’s yellowed cover, revealing a black-and-white photograph pressed carefully between the pages.

The photograph slipped free. A younger version of herself, pale and bruised, staring dead-eyed into the camera. Behind her, a looming manor– its shuttered windows and scorched brick left a residue in her bones. The image pulsed with some strange gravity, like it remembered her better than she remembered herself.

The first page was clinical. Stark:

Name: Subject 7.

Memory Anchor Effectiveness: Declining.

Conditioning: Inconsistent.

Subject exhibiting signs of Rejection.

Then the names– each one like a strike of lightning in her skull.

James.P– Emotional Conditioning & Obedience Anchor

Sirius.B– External Threat Simulation & Attachment Control

Remus.L– Cognitive Monitoring & Emotional Decompression

Peter.P– Data Logging & Internal Feedback Analysis

Each name had a weight, a role. A betrayal.

Peter’s name was circled in angry red ink.

Your eyes scan the next page, and your breath catches.

Subject maintains stability only if unaware.

Your name is scrawled beneath it, listed under Monitored– Status: Unstable. The handwriting isn’t neat. It’s jagged, hurried. You recognize it– it’s Sirius’.

You blink, the paper blurring. You try to focus, but everything feels too sharp and too hazy all at once.

A sudden rush– a broken memory, or maybe a dream– flashes behind your eyes.

You’re screaming.

Your arms are tied down, and the air is thick and heavy.

A voice shouts, angry, desperate:

“She’s rejecting the reset!”

You try to recall more, but it slips away like smoke.

The file hints at an event. A fire.

You see flames licking at a window.

Your hands press against cold glass.

Locked inside.

Your heart stutters.

Your family– where are they? Not dead, you’re sure. But gone. Or erased. Or maybe running.

A woman’s voice whispers your name in your mind, soft and distant.

Then silence.

You try to picture your mother’s face–

But all you see is static.

For the hundredth time again, you wonder why.

Why can’t you remember your own family? Your own life?

Why have you never gotten the answers all these years?

Your eyes fall to the back of the page.

Faint, nearly erased, a note is scribbled:

“You were never supposed to remember. But you did. And now everything burns.” –P.P.

Her knees nearly buckled. The file felt heavier now, as if soaked with blood or something worse.

Another page, smudged with ink and fingerprints. Scribbled margins:

“She’s waking up too fast. Suppress again.”

“Memory loop, instability increasing.”

“Subject believes control is organic. Proceed.”

“Risk of collapse if anchor resets fail.”

Surveillance photographs fell out like ghosts. James reading to her in a hospital cot. Sirius gripping her wrist, fury on his face. Remus kneeling beside her, his expression soft, calculated.

But no Peter. Who was Peter?

Something inside her cracked.

Her eyes landed again on one line, bold and underlined in heavy black:

Subject maintains stability only if unaware.

Unaware. Suppressed. Controlled.

The handlers– James, Sirius, Remus, Peter– they weren’t just friends. They were assigned. Constructed. Scripted into her life like actors in a carefully curated lie.

A sharp knock echoed in her chest- panic. Her skin felt too tight. Her breath, too shallow. The study spun around her like a sinking ship. The house was no longer a home. It was a lab. A cage.

She backed out, clutching the file like a blade, every creak of the floorboards under her bare feet now a gunshot.

She had to run.

They would know she’d found it. They’d feel it in her silence, her eyes, her absence. They were watching. They always had been.

And something told her: they wouldn't let her go easily. Because these boys know about a past she does not and that's dangerous.

...

Your footsteps echo down the hall like they belong to someone else.

The folder burns against your side, hot under the roll of paper towels and the cleaning rag– like it’s aware, like it knows you weren’t supposed to touch it. You walk stiffly. Not too fast. Not too careful. Just enough to look normal. Just enough to pretend you aren’t unraveling.

Laughter spills from the living room– then stops.

Too sudden. Too clean.

Your throat tightens.

You round the corner. They’re there– James, Sirius, Remus– spread out across the battered furniture like nothing’s wrong. The television glows a dull blue, painting flickers across their faces. But the moment they see you–

Silence.

James leans forward slowly, forearms on his knees, his expression unreadable.

“You alright?” he asks.

Casual. Concerned.

Too casual.

You nod stiffly, the folder like a brick under your arm. You say nothing.

His eyes linger. Too long. There's something behind them– calculation? Confusion? A code no one ever taught you to crack?

“You’re pale,” Sirius mutters from the arm of the couch. He doesn’t look up. But there’s a sharpness in his tone now. Measured. Tense. Like he’s listening more than speaking.

“I’m fine,” you say, your voice too small, too rehearsed. You edge toward the stairs.

Remus smiles– soft, careful. Like he’s trying to be kind. But his eyes are locked on you, still and watchful.

“You sure?” he asks. “You’ve barely eaten. Long day right, with all the cleaning?”

His voice used to soothe you. Now it crawls over your skin.

“I just need to lie down,” you mumble.

You move past James. His knee almost brushes yours. The scent of his cologne, familiar, warm, safe– hits you like a memory. Or a lie.

“Sweetheart?” Sirius calls behind you. You pause mid-step.

His voice is flat. Too flat.

“You didn’t go poking around in the storage room, did you?”

Your heart stumbles.

You don’t turn around. “No.”

“Good, cause it's so dusty. Wouldn't want you catching something.”

You keep walking. Force yourself to.

You don’t see the look James gives Sirius. Don’t see Remus slowly setting his mug down with barely a clink.

But you hear Remus. Low. Measured. Almost like a sigh.

“She’s waking up.”

The stairs groan beneath you like they’re protesting. You grip the banister. The folder is still tucked tight beneath your arm, a lifeline– or a loaded gun.

You don’t breathe again until your door clicks shut behind you. Locked.

Your pulse drums in your ears. Your thoughts spiral.

Handlers.

The word slithers through your mind, heavy with implication. Like you’re not a person, but a subject. An asset. A controlled variable in an experiment dressed up as a life.

Why had they kept you here?

Why did you feel like a stranger inside your own skin?

Your mind feels like shattered glass– no reflection, only fragments.

Your eyes flick to the file again. Coordinates.

A place.

Not here. Maybe hope. Maybe a trap. But not here.

You swallow hard. The weight of the choice presses into your spine.

If you stay, you’re their captive– smothered in soft lies, studied behind friendly eyes.

If you run, you’re alone. Blind. Memoryless. Untethered.

The room feels colder now. Shadows stretch in the corners like they’re listening. Watching.

And somewhere, beneath the shock and fear, a sharp ache unfurls.

Alone.

The line of coordinates on the file is where you have to go to get answers.

You move without thinking.

Quiet hands. Quick decisions.

You begin to pack.

Avoid floorboards that creak.

Pull on your hoodie and slip out the window.

The yard is still. Moonlight spills across the ground. You move in the shadows.

And then–

Motion-activated Floodlights.

A harsh, electric glare slices through the dark. She freezes like prey.

A voice floats from the porch– calm. Too calm.

“It’s late. Where are you going?”

Sirius.

His voice isn't angry. It's controlled. Off. Like he's trying not to startle her.

“Dove? Did you read the file?”

Remus.

That word– Dove– slams into her like a bullet.

Her breath jerks. Her pulse stutters.

A memory shatters through her, sudden and violent:

Straps on her wrists. White walls. A woman screaming– no– herself.

“Let me go! Let me go!” A warm hand on her cheek.

“She’s rejecting the reset! Dove, you're fine, okay? Hold on, dovey–” Panic. Needles. Fire. Flatline.

Then nothing.

She gasps.

Staggers back into the now.

Footsteps are coming.

Lie? Pretend? Reason?

No.

Run.

She bolts.

Feet pounding across the grass. Cold air slicing through her lungs. The night splits open behind her with shouts.

“Stop!” Sirius’s voice– raw, panicked.

“Just listen!”

“Don’t run from us!” James now, frantic, desperate.

But she doesn’t stop.

She can’t.

Because now, maybe her life depends on it.

“There!” James yells. “She’s heading for the woods!”

They’re running. No hesitation. No plan. Just instinct.

“Split off. Remus, west trail!” Sirius barks. “We can’t lose her again!”

Remus vanishes into the dark, lungs burning, heart pounding like a war drum. Sirius is already vaulting the railing. James follows close behind.

Leaves slash their faces. Branches grab at their jackets. None of them stop.

“She’s scared out of her mind,” James gasps. “Why is she scared of us?”

“We should’ve told her,” Sirius shouts back “We should’ve told her everything.”

Their feet slam against the forest floor, adrenaline drowning out thought.

They don’t even know what they’ll say if they catch her.

They just have to catch her.

Because if they lose her now, they might never get her back.

But they will.

She can only be safe– only be happy– with them.

Outside, she disappears into the trees.

But they’re right behind her.

She knows she’s not alone in the dark.

The forest tears at her.

Branches claw her face. Her arms sting. Her hoodie is soaked with cold sweat and rain.

Mud sucks at her shoes. Her legs scream with every step.

But she doesn’t stop.

Behind her- shouts. Then silence.

That was worse.

Because if they weren’t yelling anymore, it meant they were thinking.

Planning.

She had to get somewhere.

Somewhere they couldn’t reach her.

She ducked deeper into the woods, heart a thunder in her mouth. Her thoughts weren’t thoughts anymore. Just fragments.

Subject 7. Handlers. Obedience Anchor. Emotional Conditioning.

Her stomach flipped.

Every second she ran, those words chased her harder than the boys did.

The forest thinned.

Gravel and fencing appeared ahead. She didn’t hesitate.

She climbed.

Barbed wire tore into her palm. She didn’t feel it. Her bandaged hand from earlier was unravelling.

Not until she landed hard on the other side– her knee buckling beneath her.

She whimpered. Bit down on it.

Had to move.

They know where you’ll go, a voice whispered inside her. They always know.

She didn’t trust anything anymore.

City lights smeared across her vision. Every corner felt like it had eyes.

Every time she thought she’d lost them, something flickered-

A movement.

A shadow.

The shine of leather.

The echo of boots on pavement.

Sirius was always faster. A shadow on her heels.

But it was Remus’s voice she heard most– lodged somewhere in her ribs.

“You’re safe with us, Dove. I promise.”

Lies.

Now it tasted bitter.

How had she let herself lean on him?

How had she let James in– his warmth, his stupid, easy grin, like a sun made to orbit?

All of it- lies.

Emotional conditioning. Obedience anchor.

They didn’t love her.

They were assigned to her.

She slipped through back alleys, stole a coat off a laundromat line. Her hoodie was soaked through. Her hand throbbed, slick with blood through the bandage Remus had so carefully wrapped around her just this morning.

She slipped once– skidded across a wet curb. Skinned her elbow.

No time to cry.

No one was coming to save her.

And still, behind her, the footsteps never really stopped.

They just got quieter.

Smarter.

They knew how to stalk.

Attachment Control. Threat Simulation. Decompression.

This wasn’t their first time.

...

She had found the coordinates in the file.

Scrawled in the corner of a classified incident report, barely legible beneath redacted lines and water stains: “Location: GP-12 | Archive Access Pending.” There was no name. No explanation. But something in her gut twisted when she read it. As if her bones remembered what her mind had long buried.

So she followed it. Miles on foot. No sleep. Just instinct.

The heavy iron gates groaned as they opened, revealing what looked like the husk of a mansion– cold, sterile, newly rebuilt into something it was never meant to be. This wasn’t a home. It was a laboratory dressed in architecture. As she stepped inside, the air turned clinical. The scent of antiseptic stung her nose. Every footstep echoed too loudly in the dark halls. Shadows gathered in sharp corners, watching.

She froze near the threshold, her eyes wide and unfocused, as murmurs rippled through the small group gathered in the vast entryway. Faces she didn’t know– stoic, unreadable, and tinged with disbelief– turned toward her. One whispered, “Is that... her? Subject 7? But she was– she was gone.” Another shook their head, unable to hide a mixture of shock and wariness. The weight of her name, spoken so quietly yet so urgently, bounced off the cold walls like a ghost– someone declared dead years ago, suddenly returned from the ashes of a past too painful to confront.

Her own mind spun, fragmented images flickering like a broken film reel: flickers of a house she couldn’t place, the roar of flames swallowing everything she once called home, and the haunting echo of a voice whispering accusations she wasn’t ready to face. Questions clawed at the edges of her memory– what had happened to her? Why did her feet bring her here? Why was everything she thought she knew unraveling so quickly? These people seemed to know her.

The oppressive stillness settled over her as a figure stepped forward amidst the masses all gathered around at a distance from her– calm, clinical, the embodiment of cold authority. The words began softly, deceptively gentle, but each syllable was a razor edged in intent: “You must understand, what happened years ago was tragic. There was a fire– right here– it was not by accident. It was you. You set it all ablaze. This was your home, do you remember?” The statement hung in the air, heavy and absolute, designed to crush any resistance before it could take root.

Her eyes flared with disbelief, a sickening knot tightening in her stomach. No, it couldn’t be true. The very idea was unbearable, a monstrous weight forced upon her by hands she no longer trusted. Yet the faces watching her, expectant and unyielding, offered no comfort, only the cold certainty of her supposed guilt.

The walls seemed to close in tighter, the fluorescent lights above flickering like the last breaths of hope. The sterile scent invaded her senses, the silence broken only by the clipped, rehearsed words meant to erode her from within. Every lie planted was a seed of doubt, every accusation a chain tightening around her will.

Her thoughts spiraled as the machinery of control began its relentless work, weaving falsehoods into the fragile threads of her shattered identity. Grimmauld Place was no sanctuary– it was a prison, and here, beneath the weight of shadows and whispered betrayals, her freedom was being methodically stripped away, piece by agonizing piece.

The moment the words left their lips, she crumpled, as if the very ground beneath her fractured and gave way. “You set the fire. You killed your family.” The accusation crashed into her like a tidal wave, relentless and unforgiving. Her breath hitched, heart pounding in her ears, a scream caught in the depths of her throat. Her knees buckled, and she sank to the cold, unforgiving floor, tears streaming down her face, hot and desperate. Her hands clawed at the walls, at the air, anywhere– anything– to hold onto something real. “No, no, please–” she sobbed, voice cracking, “Tell me the truth! Please, I need to know. I didn’t– I couldn’t have! I remember nothing!”

But they showed her the footage. Grainy. Warped. Her, standing in a hallway as flames devoured the walls. Her own voice shouting “Run!” over the roar of fire. Faces– familiar yet lost from her mind– twisting in pain, disappearing into smoke.

Panic spiraled into raw terror. Her breath hitched and then broke, ragged sobs ripping from her chest as the impossible truth seeped in– she had done what? They say she had set the fire. She had destroyed everything. But it couldn't be. If she was from here, why doesn't she remember any of it? But then her mind has been blank for years. The knowledge crushed her like a hammer blow, shattering what remained of her fragile sense of self. The room spun, walls closing in, suffocating, and she clawed at the door, frantic. “No! Let me out! Please, I’m not dangerous! You’re lying– this isn’t me! Why do I not remember anything then?” Her screams echoed, desperate and raw, bouncing off sterile white walls that seemed to press closer, colder with every second.

Suddenly, the harsh clang of metal doors locking reverberated through the room, the lights flickering violently overhead, plunging her into a strobe-lit nightmare. Then a voice– cold, mechanical, and unyielding– filled the room from hidden speakers, detached and final: “Subject 7: Memory destabilization detected. Initiating lockdown.”

Her screams turned frantic, the last flickers of resistance burning fiercely as the world tilted and blurred. Strong hands grabbed her, cold and unrelenting, pressing a needle into her neck before she could resist. Her limbs went heavy, a creeping numbness swallowing her senses as sedation took hold.

When her eyes fluttered open again, she was alone. Cold white walls stretched endlessly in every direction, harsh lights glaring down like sterile suns. The silence was a crushing weight. Somewhere far off, someone screamed– and then it stopped, like a switch had been flipped.

She curled into herself on the cold floor, the taste of fear thick on her tongue. The system had won– for now. And in this sterile tomb, she was nothing but a prisoner of her own mind, haunted by a monstrous truth she barely understood and a past that refused to let her go. Even if she knew nothing of it.

...

They began with silence.

No loud interrogations, no restraints– at least not at first. Just a white room, windowless and humming with fluorescent lights, where time dissolved and the sterile air never shifted. She was left alone for hours. Maybe days. The lights never dimmed. The walls were too smooth, too clean, as if nothing human had ever happened here. Every second stretched long and strange, until her thoughts curled in on themselves.

Then the voice began.

Soft at first. Gentle. Feminine. Maternal. “You’re safe now,” it told her, from somewhere above or within the walls. “We’re here to help you remember the truth.”

She flinched the first time it spoke, recoiled the next. But eventually, after long bouts of silence where she would press her hands to her ears just to hear something– anything– she began to listen.

“You were always different. Special. Important. That’s why they chose you.”

Images followed. Projected onto the white wall opposite her bed: grainy footage, photographs, documents stamped with redacted ink and barcodes. And always, the fire. Its sick orange glow spilled across every surface, flickering in her peripheral vision like it was still alive. She tried not to watch, but they kept showing it.

“You lit the match, sweetheart,” the voice cooed. “Don’t you remember? You always wanted to feel in control. They told you it would make everything better.”

Sometimes, when she cried, the room would soften– the lights dimmed to a warmer hue, and the voice would hush, like a lullaby. “You didn’t know what you were doing. They made you believe it was the right thing. But it was your hand. Your fire.”

She screamed at first, begging them to stop. Pounding her fists against the wall until her knuckles cracked. But every outburst was met with silence, and then another session. More footage. More photographs. A name whispered over and over: Subject 7. Arson-Class Outlier. Emotional Liability. It became harder to hold onto the edges of her memories– were the boys protecting her? Or using her? Had she run away from danger… or straight into it?

Then they gave her a mirror.

She hadn't seen her reflection in so long. She barely recognized the girl staring back at her: hollow-eyed, sleepless, wearing clothes too white, skin too pale. There were burn scars she didn’t remember. On her hands. Her wrist. Her shoulder.

“What did you do?” the voice asked softly.

She stared at her reflection, and for a moment– just a breath– she believed it.

Maybe she had done it.

The voice began to change then– less gentle, more clinical. “You’re dangerous, Subject 7. You’re unstable without regulation. This is why the program existed. To keep you from hurting others.”

More footage. Her handlers– James, Sirius, Remus– standing beside her in blurred images. She wasn’t smiling. They were. A report displayed: “Obedience Anchor breach: Subject exhibited resistance. Required secondary simulation exposure.”

Her head pounded. Her eyes burned. “No,” she whispered to the empty room. “No, this isn’t right. I didn’t– ”

But another file opened on the screen. A recording. Her own voice– cracked, deranged, sobbing: “If I can’t be free, I’ll burn it all. I swear I will.”

She collapsed then. On the floor. Heaving. Her screams shredded her throat as she begged for someone to tell her what was real. For someone to tell her it wasn’t true. That she wasn’t a monster.

The lights went out.

And from the dark, the voice whispered: “This is who you are. This is what you’ve done.”

That night, they gave her a pill.

She didn’t fight it.

...

She awoke again to a thick silence. The world came back in pieces–white ceiling, blinking red light in the corner, a faint antiseptic sting in her nose. Her limbs were leaden, her tongue dry. When she tried to move, her arms obeyed sluggishly, dulled by whatever they'd pumped into her. A heavy blanket covered her legs, but it didn’t bring warmth– only the sensation of being pinned in place, like a patient, like a prisoner.

The room looked like a bedroom. A nice bedroom, even. Pale blue walls, soft sheets, a familiar rug near the bed– one she couldn’t place, but her fingers twitched when they saw it, like muscle memory tugging at something buried. A bookshelf stood in the corner, filled with titles she almost recognized. Everything was soft, sterile, warm-toned, but the warmth was artificial, curated. She could feel it– the hollowness beneath the details. Like a stage set meant to look like home but missing the soul of it.

A soft chime sounded.

“Subject 7 has regained consciousness,” a voice announced overhead, not cruel but not human either. Calm. Pacing. Detached. “Welcome back. You’ve been through a trauma event. Please remain still. Your recovery is being monitored.”

She tried to sit up. Her vision blurred at the edges, heart pounding as the words Subject 7 sank in like teeth.

“Where am I?” she croaked. Her voice felt foreign.

“You are safe,” said the voice. “You have been found, after years of destruction and disappearance. It’s time to heal.”

Heal.

A flicker of memory jolted through her– fire licking at her skin, the weight of hands gripping her shoulders, someone screaming her name– Dove, not her real name, not anymore– and then the sound of her own voice cracking open as the truth sank its claws into her.

She gripped the blanket tighter. Her body had moved through those memories like a ghost, but now they clung to her skin. No one was coming for her. She was the danger. That’s what they had told her. And that’s what she feared was true.

The door hissed.

And he stepped inside.

He introduced himself as Peter. Peter Pettigrew. From the file. One of her handlers.

Soft sweater, tired eyes. Slouched shoulders like he carried something heavy and long-carried. His presence didn’t scrape or jar. He didn’t smile. Didn’t flinch at her panic. He simply sat in the armchair beside the bed like he’d always been meant to be there, as natural as breath.

“I– I don’t…” she started, voice breaking.

“You don’t have to speak,” Peter said gently. “Not yet.”

He sounded kind. That was the worst part.

The others– they'd always filled the room with gravity. James with certainty, Sirius with fire, Remus with mournful calm. But Peter was quiet. Gentle in a way that didn’t demand trust– it invited it. He didn't seem like he was her handler.

“You’re not crazy,” he murmured, watching her hands twist the blanket like a lifeline. “You’re not broken. And you didn’t deserve any of it.”

She blinked at him, confusion fogging everything. “They said I… I killed them. My– my family. They said I set the fire.”

Peter’s throat moved in a slow swallow. “I know.”

A beat.

“They lied to you, dove.”

The nickname shouldn’t have felt safe, but coming from him, it didn’t sting. It shuddered something deep inside her.

“They programmed you,” he whispered. “Conditioned you. Broke you down and built you up again and again until you only fit their shape.”

Her mouth parted, but no sound came.

“They made you love them,” Peter continued, words low and trembling with some barely-contained grief. “Made you need them. And when it didn’t work the way they wanted– when your mind started slipping through the cracks– they made you the villain. Framed you for everything.”

Each word dropped like lead.

“You’re not a monster,” he said. “They are.”

Tears filled her eyes before she could stop them. She didn’t even know who “they” were anymore. The boys? The government? Herself?

Peter didn’t move closer. He didn’t ask her to believe him. He just was there, watching with eyes like an open wound.

“I know you want to run,” he said softly. “But you’ve been running a long time. And I’m the only one who doesn’t want to use you. Just… let me help you sort the truth from the noise.”

And in that moment, with her body aching and her mind full of shadows, Peter didn’t look like a threat.

He looked like a lifeline. A quiet one. A soft one.

...

She’s kept in Grimmauld Place for days. Weeks, maybe. Time drips through her fingers like the IV fluid they pump into her at night, a silent sedative humming through her bloodstream. They don’t call it prison. They call it “sanctuary.” “Rest.” “Rehabilitation.” The words are soft and sterile, like the sheets on her bed. Like the voices that echo from the intercoms in the ceilings. Like the whitewashed walls that seem to breathe when the lights dim.

But she doesn’t trust them. She doesn’t trust the flickering cameras, or the guards in medical whites, or the woman with red lipstick who always smiles too long when she says, “Tell me again about the fire.”

She trusts Peter.

At first, it’s just because he’s quiet. The only one who doesn’t ask. Doesn’t prod. Doesn’t shove a clipboard between her ribs and say, Tell us again how it felt when your house burned. The others– therapists, agents, doctors– leave a film of sickly dread behind them when they exit the room. Peter leaves behind warm tea. Tissues already folded. Gentle eyes like a dog that’s been kicked too many times to bark.

She doesn’t feel anything for him. Not yet. She's still too wary.

That’s the thing.

She doesn't love him– not the way she adored Sirius, with his razor-blade grin and wildfire gaze. Not the way Remus made her ache with his haunted hands and ancient eyes. Not the way James smiled like summer and made her feel like the whole world couldn’t crush them. He is just another one of her handlers.

But Peter… Peter doesn’t ask to be loved.

He just stays.

When she screams, he’s already there, crouched by her bedside with a blanket. When she throws things, when she cries and begs for the truth, he never flinches. He watches her fall apart like he’s seen it before. Like he’s lived it.

And in the beginning, she’s skeptical.

Peter Pettigrew was always background noise– sweet and soft-spoken, but forgettable beside the others.

But now, when the world is shattering like stained glass and nothing feels real, it’s Peter who sits with her through the sharp edges.

“Do you want to know the truth?” he asks her one night, voice low as the hum of the lights. “Really know?”

She nods. She’s so tired of not knowing.

He opens a box.

Inside: a stack of yellowed letters, photographs bent at the corners, and one cassette tape. The smell of old ink and lies rises into the room.

He places one letter in her lap.

“She’ll do anything for them. Sirius knows that. It’s why they chose her.”

Peter doesn’t speak. He just watches her. Waiting.

Another letter. More writing. More cracks in the mirror she’d built of her life.

“Remus says the ritual will only work if she believes it’s her choice. James is getting impatient. I think he’ll do something drastic soon.”

Her fingers tremble.

“This isn’t real,” she whispers.

“I thought the same thing,” Peter says softly.

And the tape– God, the tape.

She plays it, knuckles white.

Her voice. But warped. Screaming. Crying. Laughing in a way that makes her sick.

And their voices– James, Sirius, Remus– cold and clinical.

“She’s compliant now. Burn it tonight.”

“We’ll reset her again after.”

“She is never meant to remember.”

She vomits in the corner of the room. Peter doesn’t touch her. He holds the bucket. Rubs her back. Doesn’t say I told you so. Doesn’t even look triumphant.

He just looks sad.

“They built you,” he says gently. “And they broke you. Over and over again.”

She curls up on the floor. Shaking.

Peter kneels beside her. His sweater smells like mint tea and hospital soap. His hands stay at his sides. Never touches her without permission.

“I tried to stop them,” he says, voice breaking. “I didn’t mean to leave you. I just– I wasn’t enough. But I never stopped looking.”

She cries then. Not because she believes him.

But because she wants to.

Because Peter is the only one who looks at her like she’s still human. Not a project. Not a weapon. Not a ghost.

And slowly– God, slowly– he becomes her anchor.

He doesn’t ask her to remember.

He asks her what she feels.

And when she says, “I feel like I don’t know who I am anymore,” he just nods. Like he’s been there too.

And maybe he has.

Maybe he hasn’t.

But the way he sits quietly and lets her fall apart, the way he holds her truth like it’s too delicate to crush– it breaks her in a different way.

The others had fire. Peter is a tide.

Soft. Relentless. Patient.

And she begins to wonder.

What if he’s right?

What if the others– the ones she trusted– were the ones who made her into this?

And what if Peter was the only one who never wanted anything but her freedom?

What if this is the truth?

What if he’s the only one who never touched her– and that’s what makes him safe?

What if, this time, she’s not being broken?

What if Peter’s the one putting her back together?

...

It’s late. The lights are dim. There’s a fog of silence between them, thick and heavy, like the Veil itself is listening.

She’s sitting cross-legged on the mattress, hospital socks scrunched at her ankles, voice hoarse from sleep and crying and not knowing anything real anymore. Peter’s in the armchair beside her, hands folded neatly in his lap, a steaming mug of chamomile untouched at his feet.

“Tell me the truth. Why am I here?” she says. Not begging. Not whispering. Just… tired.

He doesn’t ask what she means. He just nods. Like he’s been waiting.

“You want to know what you are.”

She flinches. “What they made me?”

Peter finally lifts his eyes. “No,” he says gently. “What you were, before they touched you.”

She doesn't answer, so he does.

“You're an Anchor.”

She blinks. “What is that?”

His voice is steady, like reading from an old storybook.

“Anchors are… rare. People who can touch the Other Side. See ghosts. Hear them. Some can step into it, like walking through a dream. The dead are drawn to them– clinging, whispering. You don't just sense death. You hold it. You pull it in.”

The word pull tastes wrong in her mouth. Heavy.

“That's not real.”

“It’s very real,” he says softly. “You’ve been seeing them your whole life. The shadows. The voices you thought were dreams. The way people left a room colder after touching you.”

She stares at him. “So what does that make me? A freak?”

“No.” Peter’s eyes don’t leave hers. “It makes you a weapon.”

She jerks like he struck her.

He doesn’t flinch.

“That’s what they think,” he amends. “That’s what Project Anchor is for.”

She says nothing, but he sees the question in her silence.

So he tells her everything.

How the government discovered the Other Side. How they built underground labs and put white coats on people who still believed in ghosts. How they didn’t want understanding– they wanted control. Power. Ghosts as spies. Spirits as soldiers. Anchors as weapons.

“How do you think they found you?” he says. “They’re always watching. Near-death experiences, disappearances, sightings… You were on a list before you could read.”

“And the others?” she whispers. “James? Sirius? Remus?”

Peter’s expression flickers.

“They were never your friends,” he says carefully. “They were your handlers. Sent in to study you. To manage you. To… guide your powers into something useful.”

“No.” She shakes her head. “No. They took care of me in the brief time I spent with them..”

“They made you think they loved you.”

He slides a thin folder across the bed.

Inside: surveillance photos. Dossiers. Charts mapping her emotional responses. Clinical notes about memory wiping. Behavior conditioning. Emotional control via positive reinforcement.

There’s a line scrawled in red on the top page:

Subject shows increased stability when emotionally bonded to Handler S. Black. Recommend continuation of affection simulation.

She almost throws up again.

Peter’s voice is low. Almost apologetic.

“You burned down your house, love. Not because you wanted to. Because they made you believe it was the only way out. They triggered your Anchor state. Then wiped your memory clean.”

Her hands are shaking. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because they’re still watching,” Peter says. “Because if you remember too much, too fast, they’ll reset you again. Start over. You know they'll not stop getting you back.”

She’s breathing too fast. “Then why aren’t you stopping them?”

He looks at her like that’s the saddest question of all.

“I tried,” he says. “I failed. I was meant to be the passive one– the one you never noticed. I was the fallback, the safety net. When they broke you, I was the one they sent in with a soft voice and no sharp edges.”

“But you– ” She looks at him, dazed. “You didn’t–"

“I didn’t touch you,” he says. “Not like they did. I didn’t lie to you. I didn’t break you and call it love.”

She starts crying.

Peter doesn’t reach for her.

He waits.

Because Peter never touches without permission. Peter doesn’t want to own her. He just wants her to know.

...

Grimmauld Place becomes a fixed point in her life. A compass, of sorts. It’s no longer a cursed home or haunted manor– it is a hospital now, a holding cell, a place between madness and mercy. The curtains are always drawn. The walls are a muted grey-blue, like stormlight on old film. Everything is softened– edges dulled, sounds muffled, light filtered through gauze.

They say it’s for her comfort.

They say it’s so she doesn’t panic.

Every morning begins the same: pale sunlight diluted through enchanted glass. Warm broth on a tray. A blue capsule slipped between her fingers with practiced ease. “Just for the nerves,” someone says– always someone new. Their faces blur together: quiet smiles, trimmed uniforms, names she doesn’t bother to remember. But Peter is constant.

He’s already seated in the corner when she wakes, ankles crossed, reading glasses perched low. Never imposing. Never loud. He always knocks, even when the door is open. He always asks before sitting closer.

She never tells him no.

Her body is weaker now. Slower. Limbs weighted. Mind fogged like glass breathed on too long. The pills blur the edges– take the sharpness out of grief, memory, rage. Some days she barely speaks. Some days she whispers fragments: names, dates, the smell of burning wood. Peter just nods. Never pushes. Only listens.

And she begins to crave that silence. The safety of it.

He teaches her to eat again. To drink without flinching. He slips small comforts into her world: soft sweaters, worn books, a clock that ticks gently instead of ticking loud. When she spirals, when her head is pounding and her chest feels too tight to breathe, Peter reaches for her hand, but never grabs. He waits for her to meet him there.

“You’re doing so well,” he says, voice soft as flannel. “I’m so proud of you.”

The others– her new handlers– come and go with steady rhythm. They’re always polite. Always still. They speak in quiet tones and careful phrases.

“You are healing now,” they say as they inject her with something faintly sweet, faintly silver.

“Truth is a mercy,” they whisper as they guide her through old reports, doctored memories, half-truths worn into shape.

“They made you fire. We’re making you still.”

Every time she hears her own name on one of their tapes, she jerks like she’s been slapped. The screen lights up cold and blue in the dining room– a room she only uses when they want her awake. Her file spills open like a wound.

There’s footage– grainy, spliced, but chillingly believable. There she is, in the halls of the old Grimmauld Place, clutching her head, shrieking, crying. Screaming for voices to stop. There is kerosene puddled on the floor around her. Everywhere. A match is struck. Standing there as the flames eat everything. And then the boys appear around her before the footage cracks.

They watch her reaction like surgeons monitor a dying pulse.

She turns to Peter, throat dry. “Why do they keep showing me that? I want to forget.”

Peter’s eyes glisten. But he doesn’t answer.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he says. “But it was your hands.”

The words land like a bruise. Quiet and cold and inarguable.

She stops protesting. Just a little.

That night, she doesn’t fight the sedative.

By week three, Grimmauld Place feels like the only reality she remembers. The rest– hogwash and fever dreams. Ghosts with names she no longer wants to say. Boys with soft hands and too-sharp teeth. When Peter offers her a file labeled “The Handler Logs,” she opens it with steady fingers.

She reads how James manipulated her emotional highs to trigger psychic spikes. How Sirius flirted, then punished, to reinforce dependency. How Remus gaslit her into believing her powers were dreams.

“You loved them,” Peter says. “That’s what makes it cruel.”

She doesn’t cry. She just stares at the page that claims Sirius hand-fed her sleeping pills to keep her pliant. That James gave her false projects. That Remus watched her fall apart and only took notes.

She whispers, “They were supposed to protect me.”

Peter lowers his eyes. “They were paid to monitor you.”

The lines between truth and poison blur. She can’t tell if she’s dizzy from sedatives or despair.

But she starts believing.

Not fully. Not yet.

But enough.

She stops saying their names out loud. She stops picturing their faces when she dreams. Her hands stop shaking when she watches the videos.

And when Peter brings her warm tea and reinforces, “You are healing now,” she believes him.

A little more each day.

Her descent is quiet. Soft. Not a scream, but a sigh.

She doesn’t even feel herself slipping.

Not yet.

...

It doesn’t happen all at once.

Hatred never does.

It starts in the stillness between sedations. In the hours where her mind floats– neither dreaming, nor waking, but open. It starts with every rewatch of grainy footage of The Fire. It starts with the whispered mantras she barely registers anymore:

“They made you fire.”

“We’re making you still.”

“Truth is a mercy.”

She hears them like background music– like white noise behind the flickering of tapes, behind Peter’s steady voice guiding her through another report.

One day they show her interviews. Or old surveillance chopped into pieces. Sirius pacing. James smiling at something unseen. Remus talking to someone off-screen. The voices are altered slightly, the tone just off enough to curdle her stomach. But it’s them.

Sirius says, “She’d tear the world apart for us if we asked nicely enough.”

James says, “She’s more useful when she’s not thinking too hard.”

Remus says, “She needs to feel safe. Not *be* safe. There’s a difference.”

It plays on a loop.

She vomits the first time. She seems to be doing that too much lately.

Peter is there, holding a towel to her lips, wiping her mouth.

“I didn’t want you to see that yet,” he says. But he lets her watch again. And again.

The more she sees, the more the lines solidify. The ghost of doubt becomes the seed of loathing.

“They twisted your gift,” one of the handlers tells her, smoothing her hair like a nurse. “Do you remember when you first saw them? You were unstable. Shaking. They pretended to help. But they needed you to stay broken.”

She shakes her head weakly. “No. They– they helped me… they– ”

“They lured you to them. How do you think you ended up with them of all the people in the world? They used you to track spirits they couldn’t find on their own. They needed your senses. Not you.”

“You were an asset. Not a girl.”

“You were leverage.”

“You were bait.”

“They were obsessed with you. Sick in the head.”

She starts flinching at the sound of their names. Stops correcting the doctors when they call them her captors.

Peter never speaks in absolutes. He just listens. Offers fragments. Lets her fill in the gaps.

“They loved each other more than they ever loved you,” he says one night, after the screen shows James and Sirius laughing together, her watching from a corner.

“They only brought you close when it served them. When it hurt to be outside the warmth.”

Another night, Peter sits at the foot of her bed, voice quiet and broken. “Do you remember what they made you do in the church basement?”

She doesn’t.

But the silence he leaves afterward is enough to make her believe something happened. Something awful.

The room begins to shrink. Every hallway echoes with footsteps she swears used to mean safety. She starts to hate the smell of leather. The glint of gold. The curve of a grin in a photograph. She tears them all down. Screams when they try to calm her.

“They lied to me,” she says, voice cracking. “They played me.”

Peter doesn’t deny it. He doesn’t say, Yes. He doesn’t need to.

He just holds her hand.

“You were eighteen,” he murmurs. “They were trained men.”

Her body goes still.

It was never fair.

They taught her to trust them. Then they trained her to obey.

She spends an hour staring into the mirror one day, whispering to her reflection:

“It wasn’t your fault. But it was your hands.”

It echoes like scripture.

That night, she dreams of the fire again.

But this time, they’re the ones screaming.

And she’s the one holding the match.

...

It’s morning. Or at least, they tell her it is.

The lights above hum in soft, sterile gold. Her room always smells faintly of antiseptic and mint tea– soothing. Controlled. The curtains don’t open. The clock ticks in an artificial rhythm. Her limbs feel lighter today, though the air still pulls slow, like walking through water. The sedatives haven’t fully worn off, but her thoughts are sharper. Sharper than they’ve been in days.

Peter brings her breakfast on a tray, like he always does– oatmeal, blueberries, honey drizzled just the way she likes it. He places it on the table near the bed, careful not to make sudden movements. He never does. He doesn’t hover. He waits until she sits up on her own.

She doesn’t touch the food.

“I want to hurt them,” she says, voice low and calm. Almost too calm.

Peter doesn’t flinch. He simply lowers himself into the chair across from her, folds his hands in his lap, and says nothing.

“I want them to feel what I felt,” she continues. Her eyes are glassy, fixed on the edge of her tray. “To be afraid. To doubt everything. I want to look at them and know they don’t get to sleep at night. That they wonder when it’s coming.”

Peter tilts his head slightly. His eyes are soft. Always soft. “Do you want them dead?”

She blinks.

The question floats between them like smoke.

“I don’t know,” she whispers. “Maybe.”

He nods. Not in approval, not in shock. Just in acknowledgment.

“They deserve pain,” she says. “Real pain. Not just punishment. Not clean. Dirty. Scars they can’t see but feel every time they breathe.”

Peter doesn’t try to talk her down.

He doesn’t offer hollow words like you’re better than this or revenge won’t help. No lectures. No shame.

He just says, “Then we’ll make sure they understand. In time.”

She looks up sharply. “We?”

Peter meets her gaze. “You’re not alone in this.”

His voice is barely more than a whisper, but it carries something solid. Steady.

“I tried to stop them. I failed. I’ll never pretend otherwise. But I saw what they did to you. I saw the way they– ” he cuts himself off. Swallows hard. “I didn’t have the power to protect you then. But now I do. If you want to make them pay… I’ll help you.”

He leans forward just slightly, the gentleness in his eyes becoming something darker, heavier.

“When the time comes,” he says quietly, “I’ll be there. With you. Every step. We’ll make sure they never forget what they did to you. I promise.”

It silences her.

Because part of her expected him to pull back. To chide her. To turn her fury into a lesson.

But instead he’s just… with her. In it.

She studies his face, trying to find deceit. Malice. Manipulation.

All she finds is that same tired sorrow. That quiet regret he always wears like a second skin.

“Why are you doing this for me?” she asks.

He hesitates. Then answers with brutal honesty.

“Because I need to believe you’re stronger than they made you. And because I need to believe that standing beside you now will count for something.”

She exhales.

The hate begins to root deeper.

She imagines James flinching. Sirius shaking. Remus pleading.

And she doesn’t feel guilt. She feels clarity.

Peter rises to leave, but he pauses at the door, glancing back.

“They broke you to build their perfect Anchor,” he says. “But you’re not their weapon anymore. Starting tomorrow, we'll begin practice. I want you to hone your powers for when you finally face them.”

She closes her eyes.

“Truth is a mercy.”

“They made you fire.”

“We’re making you still.”

But today, she doesn’t want to be still.

Today, she wants to burn them up.

...

She stands in the cold, dimly lit training room again, the sterile walls reflecting back a fractured version of herself. Her breath hangs heavy in the stagnant air, and every muscle in her body trembles– not from weakness, but from the relentless storm inside. The power she holds is raw and unpredictable, pulsing beneath her skin like a wild, untamed fire she can barely contain.

They tell her she’s special. The strongest Anchor they’ve ever found. But strength tastes bitter on her tongue, laced with the poison of what she’s done– and what they say she was forced to do. Her hands ache with the memory of the flames she set, the screams she caused. They replay in her mind like a broken record: the fire roaring, the heat scorching every last piece of her innocence. It wasn’t just destruction. It was murder. Her family. Her home. Burned to ash because of her– because of them.

Peter stands quietly across the room, arms folded. He doesn’t shout or demand. He waits. Watches. And when she falters, when her breath hitches with the weight of the past, he speaks– not like a commander, but like someone who’s also been broken before.

“Don’t run from it,” he says, voice low. “You can’t control what you won’t face. Let it come. Let it burn.”

The program pushes her, pushes her harder, telling her that this power inside isn’t a curse but a weapon, a tool for her to wield. To control. To use when the time comes to make them pay– the three boys who used her, twisted her mind, made her set that fire, and then left her to drown in the wreckage. They remind her, with clinical calmness, that her hands were the ones that burned everything down. The guilt claws deeper with every lesson, every training session.

Peter never repeats the script. He doesn’t bring up the boys. He doesn't call it “justice” or “mission.” Just asks her, simply, “What do you want to feel when you touch your power? Fear? Or control?”

She focuses, summoning the faintest echoes of the Veil– the other side where restless spirits drift like shadows. At first, it feels like slipping beneath icy water, suffocating and vast. But with each breath, she learns to stretch her senses farther, to hold onto the edge of that realm without drowning. The cold seeps in, but so does a flicker of power. It’s terrifying and exhilarating. She tastes her own potential– the terrifying freedom of a force that could destroy or protect.

Peter steps closer. “Anchor it,” he says, steady, as if that word alone could hold her grounded. “Not to your pain. Not to your fear. Anchor it to you.”

But it’s always haunted by the faces she can’t forget. James, Sirius, Remus– the ones who promised loyalty but betrayed her in the cruelest ways. The ones who made her this monster and then abandoned her. Every surge of power is tangled with rage. Every step forward is shadowed by the weight of what she’s been made to carry.

They say this training is to make her ready– ready for the reckoning, for the punishment she’s meant to deliver. She swallows hard, the fire burning low but steady inside, fueled by the horror of the past and the twisted love they denied her. She trains not just to reclaim control, but to sharpen the weapon she never asked to become. Her hatred is her fuel. Her guilt, a chain she’s determined to break.

In the silence of the room, with nothing but the echo of her own heartbeat, she lets the anger rise. It is hers. It is raw. It is the only thing left untouched by their lies.

Peter’s voice slices through the silence. “Now. Let it out.”

She draws in a sharp breath– and releases.

The world stills.

At first, there’s nothing.

And then, a flicker.

A ripple through the air, so faint it could’ve been imagined– but it wasn’t. The shadows shift. The cold trembles. A single spark of energy arcs across the space between her hands, burning silver-blue, alive and real.

Her breath catches.

Peter nods once. A flicker of approval– no smile, no celebration. Just quiet recognition. And that warms up her chest.

“You broke through,” he says.

She stares down at her hands, chest heaving. For the first time, they’re not shaking.

She nods.

For the first time, she knows: she can be more than what they made her. The spark is small. But it’s hers. And it’s just the beginning.

And when the time comes, it will be enough.

...

Seems like the day came sooner that she expected.

She sits beside Peter in the quiet hum of the observation wing, knees pulled to her chest, a steaming mug of bitter coffee cradled in her hands. The sterile white lights buzz faintly overhead, but for once, the room feels almost peaceful. She lets herself lean back into the silence, the kind that only comes after months of noise– of training, screaming, remembering. Peter doesn’t speak, and neither does she. They’ve always shared this kind of silence– sharp and steady, like the calm that precedes a storm.

She watches him out of the corner of her eye. He’s sitting still, hands folded in his lap, staring at the monitors on the far wall. He’s more tense than usual. His shoulders too rigid, jaw tight, foot tapping once every few seconds like he’s bracing for something.

A faint sound slices through the room– low at first, like a tremor, then louder, shrill.

Alarms.

The stillness snaps.

Flashing red lights wash over the walls as the klaxon wails, signaling what she already knows before Peter even stands.

“They’re here,” he says, voice clipped but calm. He grabs his coat from the back of the chair. “The boys broke in. All three of them. This is it.”

Her breath catches. That storm inside her stirs, awakening like something old and half-buried.

Peter looks at her– hardly. “Now’s your time. You know what to do.”

She swallows hard, lips trembling. “Peter, I- I can’t set this place on fire again. People will get hurt. This isn’t like before.”

But Peter’s already shaking his head. “Everyone here knew this day would come. Every person who trained you, every person who stayed– they’re ready. They’re waiting for you to punish them.”

Outside, the chaos grows louder– doors slamming open, voices barking orders, a sudden crash of something heavy breaking.

Peter takes a step closer. “You were never meant to stay caged forever. You are not a girl anymore. You’re the reckoning.”

She looks down at her hands. They don’t tremble. Not this time.

Peter leans in slightly. “When the time comes, you set it all on fire.”

Her voice is small. “What happens after?”

“I’ll find you,” he says. “I’ll get you out. Once it’s done, I’ll come for you. But for now– ” He glances toward the door, then back at her, softer now, but with steel in his voice. “They can’t see me. I have to go.”

She nods, even though everything inside her is screaming.

Peter lingers for a second longer. “End it. Correct your past wrongs.”

Then he’s gone, vanishing through a back exit before the next alarm bell even finishes ringing.

She’s alone now.

But the fire is already building in her chest.

And this time, she won't run from it.

The door creaked open– not slammed, but pushed with urgency, trembling beneath the force of desperation. The moment stretched thin, fragile like a thread about to snap.

James, Sirius, and Remus stumbled into the room, breathless, their eyes wide with panic and hope– hope– as if the sight of her might undo the weeks of silence, the nights spent wondering if she was still alive. The sterile air, thick with chemicals and stillness, clung to their skin like guilt.

She was there.

Standing upright, pale beneath the harsh white light. Her wrists were bare now, no restraints, but the weight of the room still held her like a cage.

The world seemed to stop.

James was the first to move. He took a slow step forward, his voice cracking just from the sight of her. “You’re awake…”

She didn’t speak.

Her eyes met his– and then Remus’, then Sirius’. A moment passed. Two. Something ancient and aching stretched between them.

Their faces softened– no masks, no pretenses. Just boys with broken hearts. Remus’s lips parted like he was about to say something tender. Sirius looked like he might cry. And James... James had never looked so unsure in his life.

Their eyes shimmered with everything they’d never gotten the chance to say: We’re sorry. We looked for you. We thought we lost you.

But her eyes…

There was no softness there.

Only fire.

Only rage.

The silence broke with a breath– shaky, bitter, venom-laced. Her laugh was quiet but raw, the sound of something unraveling. “You found me.”

The words weren’t a relief. They were an accusation.

James reached toward her instinctively, like his touch might pull her back into something safe.

She flinched. Hard.

“You think I’m coming with you?” Her voice was low, splintered at the edges. “You made me burn it all down.”

Sirius looked like he’d been punched.

Remus opened his mouth– closed it again. His eyes brimmed with something unspoken, something terrible and tender.

James shook his head slowly, his voice nearly a whisper. “We didn’t know. We didn’t understand what they were doing to you. We tried to fix it–”

“You betrayed me,” she snapped, louder now. “You put a monster in me and you watched me wreck everything.”

The words hit their target, sharp and sure.

“But we’re here now,” Sirius finally said, voice hoarse. “We came back for you.”

Her expression twisted. “Too late.”

The fire was stirring beneath her skin again. Her breath trembled. The ghosts of her family screamed behind her eyes. The guilt. The hatred. The truths Peter whispered into her ears every night. It all swelled like a storm.

“He said I’d get to hurt you,” she said softly, a tremor running through her voice. “And today’s that day.”

James stepped forward again, almost helpless. “You don’t have to do this.”

“I do,” she whispered, fists curling at her sides. “Because this… this is the only thing that feels real anymore.”

The lights above them flickered.

The machines around her hummed like a warning.

And as the alarms blared again beyond the door, drowning out the world, the first glint of flame sparked at her fingertips– small, but alive.

The fight hadn’t begun. It had already found them. And it would end in fire.

...

The alarms shattered the sterile silence, shrill and relentless, echoing through Grimmauld Place’s cold corridors like a scream that refused to be swallowed. The walls trembled with urgency– heavy boots thundered down the halls, radios crackled orders, and steel doors slammed shut one by one, locking the chaos in like a beast in a cage.

She stood at the center of it all. The eye of the storm.

Breathing hard, chest heaving, hands trembling. Not from weakness– but from power. From everything that had been buried deep, drugged down, smothered. The fire inside her pulsed beneath her skin now, aching to be set free. Her fingers twitched. Sparks crackled faintly along her knuckles.

James, Sirius, and Remus closed in, their movements careful, like approaching a wounded animal they had once called their own. Fear etched their faces– not of her, but for her. And beneath that– grief. It settled in the creases of their brows, the tremble in their voices, the unspoken weight of all they couldn’t undo. They reached out to grab her, to pull her back into the shadows they had painted over her mind, but she recoiled as if they were poison– poison she had no intention of swallowing again.

“You don’t get to have me,” she spat, the words venomous. Her voice broke like glass, sharp and splintered. “You left me to burn.”

“Please,” Sirius choked out, hands raised slightly in surrender. “We didn’t know–it wasn’t supposed to go like this– just come with u-”

Her eyes snapped to him. “But it did. Didn’t it?” The fire flickered at her fingertips. “You watched it happen.”

“We tried to fix it,” James said, voice raw. “We tried, alright? But everything was already coming undone– we thought we could protect you if we just–”

“Just what?” she cut in, stepping closer, the air crackling between them. “Erase me? Rewrite me?”

Remus moved forward, tears brimming. “You’re not thinking clearly. You’ve been through hell and they’ve twisted everything. Let us get you out before you get hurt– please.”

Her eyes filled with something colder than fire– betrayal that had turned into something far sharper.

“I am thinking clearly. For the first time in weeks. I remember everything. Every second. The fire, the screams, the ash– my family, gone because you wanted to make me your weapon.”

A tremor ran through James. “That’s not true,” he whispered.

But her lips curved into something broken. “Isn’t it?”

The air vibrated. Sparks danced up her arms now, glowing faintly like embers waiting for breath. The guards were closing in. The facility’s last defense. Peter had said they’d come. He had said this day would end in fire.

“You’ll die if you stay,” Sirius said suddenly, stepping forward. His voice cracked open with fear. “You’re powerful– but this place has kill orders. We heard them. The second you lose control–”

“I already lost control,” she hissed, eyes locked on his. “And no one came.”

Remus reached toward her like it would matter. “Let us come with you. Let us fix it. You don’t have to do this alone– ”

“I was always alone.”

Silence dropped like a blade.

The flames leapt higher at her sides, casting their haunted faces in flickering gold. They looked like the boys she had once loved– fragile and furious and breaking. But she was breaking, too. She had broken long before they realized they couldn’t save her.

“It was all for you,” Remus whispered one last time, voice soaked in ache. “It’s always been for you, love.”

Her eyes glistened, something sharp and unspeakable catching in her chest. And then–

“You don’t get to call me that,” she whispered. “Not anymore.”

The corridors around them became a battlefield. Shouts of commands clashed with the metallic clatter of weaponry and the sharp snap of energy– her power stirring in the air, unstable and unpredictable. Every glance at the three boys was like a dagger twisting deeper, a reminder of every scar they had left behind.

And through it all, a quiet shadow lingered just out of reach– Peter. His soft eyes never left her, steady and unwavering, a tether in the swirling madness. But even his presence couldn’t quell the storm raging within her.

She wasn’t ready to run yet.

Not until everything they built– their lies, their control, their guilt– was ash.

She took a breath.

And then she let go.

With a single, sharp motion– fingers splayed, eyes blazing– she unleashed it.

Flames erupted from her hands like a living scream, hissing and snarling as they tore across the ground. They raced up the walls, hungry and untamed, devouring paper, wires, curtains, the very bones of the facility. The cold, calculated brightness of the hallways was replaced with an infernal orange glow, shadows flickering and twisting like demons summoned from the depths of her broken mind.

The scent of burning plastic choked the air. Smoke curled like black serpents into the vents, swallowing oxygen, swallowing light.

But she barely noticed.

Destruction was freedom.

The fire was her voice, her vengeance, her reclaiming of the self they had tried to erase.

And ahead of her– watching, frozen– stood the boys.

The moment the flames touched the walls, everything else fell away. Time seemed to fracture. James went still, his eyes wide with disbelief, as if reality had betrayed him. The girl he knew– the one who once laughed like sunlight– was now cloaked in flame, her fury pouring out in waves that made the walls tremble. His lips parted, but no words came. He couldn’t recognize her, and yet he had never seen her more clearly.

Sirius stumbled back a step, his breath caught in his throat, a strange, helpless sound. The heat stung his skin, but it was the guilt that scorched him. His hand lifted slightly, instinctively, like he could shield her from the fire– but the truth was brutal and immovable: they had lit the match. Every crack in her voice, every tremor in her hands, every lick of flame was a consequence of choices they’d made. Of truths they'd kept from her.

Remus didn’t move for a long moment. His mind, always the calmest among them, scrambled to make sense of what they were witnessing. But the fire wasn’t a mystery to solve– it was pain incarnate. It was her scream after years of silence. And it was beautiful and terrible and unstoppable.

“James,” Remus murmured faintly. “We have to get to her. She’s not in control.”

James blinked, the words breaking through the fog of horror. He tore his gaze away from the inferno and back to her– just a silhouette now, framed in flames, standing at the heart of their ruin. “We’re not losing her,” he said fiercely, though his voice cracked under the weight of it.

“She’ll burn herself alive,” Sirius snapped, stepping forward, shielding his mouth with his arm from the rising smoke. “We have to reach her– now.”

And so they ran. Into the smoke, into the heat, into the chaos she had conjured. The corridor outside collapsing into a battlefield– sprinklers burst but hissed uselessly, electricity arced across broken wires, the floor cracked beneath the pressure of it all. Each step was a gamble. The building groaned like it was dying.

But still, they ran.

Because she was in there.

Not just the girl with fire in her hands, but the one they had laughed with. The one who trusted them once. The one they still loved, even if she would never forgive them.

The fire surged again, reacting to her anguish– a living storm lashing out in every direction. The walls rippled with heat, the air became a furnace, and through it all she stood, unmoving, eyes locked on the ruin she was bringing down.

She didn’t flinch when they appeared through the smoke, coughing and frantic.

“You’re going to die in here!” Sirius shouted, voice frayed and breaking. “This place isn’t worth your life– we aren’t!”

She turned slowly, flames curling up her arms like armor. Her gaze met theirs– empty of hope, full of wrath. And yet, for the briefest second, it flickered. Just barely. Like a memory slipping through.

“This place was my grave long before I lit the match,” she said quietly. “At least now– I get to choose how it ends.”

And yet–

Remus stepped forward and grabbed her arm roughly, the fire licking at his boots, his skin already blistering from the heat. “Then let us die with you,” he said. “But we’re not leaving you in the fire alone.”

And there it was.

That old wound, deep and endless.

She looked at them– faces streaked with soot and desperation– and for a moment, she faltered.

Not enough to douse the flames.

But enough to remember that once, long ago, she had hunted ghosts with them. And they made her feel like she belonged.

And in the very next breath, she yanked her arm from Remus’ bruising grip, and the ceiling groaned– then collapsed.

The fire roared.

And the world went white.

Flames spiraled upward, shadows dancing like mad specters on the walls. Smoke billowed thick and black, curling like poisonous serpents as it clawed toward the vents, choking the halls in darkness. The acrid stench of burning plastic and paper seared her throat and eyes, but she didn’t falter. Her mind locked onto one truth as she ducked to take cover from the wreckage: destruction was freedom.

Guards shouted. Footsteps thundered. Desperate orders echoed. But the fire was louder– an extension of her scream, her anguish, her rebellion. It swallowed the sterile light, transforming the halls into a hellscape of orange flame and ruin.

Every shattering window, every collapsing beam was a monument to her war– a pyre for the lies, the chains, the years of silence. This wasn’t a cry for help.

This was vengeance.

And amid the chaos, the three boys saw her.

They were too late– too late to stop it, too late to pull her back. The flames were already everywhere. And she crouched at the center, silhouetted against the blaze, an avenging spirit wreathed in fire.

Their faces, streaked with soot and sweat, held an unspoken promise: no matter how broken she felt, no matter the walls she built with flames, they would fight to reach her. Because love, as fierce and consuming as fire, was what remained– raw, painful, and impossible to extinguish.

The moment the flames had erupted, the boys froze. She was getting away.

Time fractured.

The fire clawed at the walls with hungry, furious hands, roaring like a beast freed from chains as Peter’s grip tightened around her wrist. The heat was suffocating– an unbearable wave that pressed against their skin, searing the air with each labored breath. Smoke coiled and twisted around them like living shadows, thick and choking, burning eyes and scraping at lungs that begged for mercy. The acrid taste of ash filled their mouths, mixing bitterly with adrenaline and fear.

Peter didn’t hesitate. His steps were swift but careful, guiding her through the chaos with an urgency that never became frantic. Every moment felt fractured, time splintered between the snap of collapsing beams, the hiss of flames licking closer, and the deafening alarms that screamed out a warning none could ignore. The world they had known was unraveling, and beneath it all, the fragile thread of something new and uncertain stretched taut between them.

Her heart hammered against her ribs, wild and untamed, a mirror of the storm inside her– rage, despair, and a desperate hunger for freedom tangled with confusion and the faintest flicker of trust. She glanced at Peter, his face illuminated by the flickering firelight, calm and steady despite the inferno surrounding them. In his eyes was a sorrow that matched her own– a silent promise that maybe, just maybe, this flight through fire was the first step toward something that wasn’t poison.

Behind them, the flames consumed Grimmauld Place with merciless appetite, swallowing memories and lies in a blaze that was both end and beginning. The past– the cages, the betrayals, the manipulation– burned to ash, leaving only smoke and the sharp sting of loss in its wake.

James, Sirius, and Remus were stuck in the haze, faces pale and etched with desperation. They saw Peter clutching her hand, leading her away through the suffocating heat, the fire swirling hungrily around them like a living thing. Shouts tore from their throats– pleas, commands, heartbreak– but it was too late. The walls cracked and groaned, the inferno an impenetrable wall between them and the girl they had come to save.

James’s voice broke with anguish, “No! Don’t take her– she’s ours! Peter, don't! I beg you. Not again!”

Sirius’s wild eyes searched frantically, hands reaching out as if to pull her back from the edge of the burning abyss. Remus’s screamed so raw that the other two had to hold him back from running into fire.

But Peter moved with unyielding resolve, carrying her through the choking smoke and heat, away from the fire that was both her prison and her rebellion. The burning building behind them was a raging monument to everything broken and betrayed– yet in the roar of destruction, there was a fragile heartbeat of hope.

Away from the flames, in the cool air that burned their lungs with relief, she felt it– the terrifying, raw possibility of a new path. The fire had taken much, but Peter’s steady presence whispered that maybe, beyond the smoke and ashes, there was still something worth holding onto.

And so they fled– two fragile figures leaving behind a world ablaze, stepping into the unknown where trust was fragile, but real. The fire raged on, but the future waited, waiting for her to claim it.

Behind them Grimmauld Place went up in flames once more and yet more destructive and heavily-hearted than the last time years ago. She looked back one last time but the three bodies she was looking for, had disappeared amid the tragic gold flames. And her heart sank for a reason she didn't understand.

...

The car’s engine purred low beneath them, a steady hum in the quiet night. Rain streaked across the windshield in thin, glassy veins, blurring the world outside into a smear of headlights and darkness. The road twisted through a lonely stretch of forest, slick with storm and shadow, and the silence inside the vehicle was thick enough to choke on.

Peter’s hands were steady on the wheel, knuckles pale, jaw set. His voice broke the stillness softly. “You did the right thing.”

She didn’t respond.

Her head was pressed lightly against the cold window, breath fogging the glass as her gaze tracked the blurred trees whipping past. The fire still lived in her nose, smoke tucked into her lungs like it had claimed a home there. Her fingertips itched with leftover energy– residual heat from the blaze she had summoned, uncontrolled and furious.

“You did well,” Peter said again, gently, as if reassuring a child waking from a nightmare. “They tried to use you. Twist you. That wasn’t your fault. I am proud of you. ”

She closed her eyes.

But it felt like her fault.

There was something fractured inside her– a wrongness that pulsed deep beneath her skin. Every time she tried to remember what came before Grimmauld Place, it slipped through her fingers like ash. But not always. Lately, slivers had begun to rise. Not memories, not exactly. Dreams, maybe. Visions.

She saw Sirius’s face, wild and furious, but not cruel. James standing in front of her like a shield. And Remus– his hand brushing her cheek, his voice so real in her ears even now.

“You’re not safe here.”

Her heart twisted painfully.

“Peter…” her voice cracked. “Did I ever– was there ever a time I didn’t hate them?”

His eyes flicked toward her, just for a second, unreadable in the dim orange glow of the dashboard. “You were scared of them. Rightfully so. You didn’t see it then, but I know what they did to you. I saw what they turned you into.”

He reached across the console and gently touched her knee, grounding. “But you’re free now.”

Free.

Why did it feel like a lie?

The rain hit harder, drumming against the car roof like anxious fingers. She curled in on herself slightly, clutching her arms as tremors rippled through her muscles. Her skin felt like it was humming, her body caught between ghost-touch and memory, like something was pressing up from inside her, trying to speak.

“Peter…” she whispered again, hesitant. “Why do I keep hearing them?”

His voice came soft and soothing, like honey in tea. “Trauma plays tricks on the mind. They imprinted themselves on you, branded you like cattle. That’s how they kept you weak. But you’re healing now.”

He smiled faintly, turning down a narrow, overgrown road. “We’re almost there.”

Somewhere behind her eyelids, she saw James’s blood-smeared face. Sirius screaming her name through flame. And Remus, again and again– You’re not safe here.

But she was with Peter now. She had destroyed everything they built.

So why didn’t she feel safe now either?

The car rumbled on and the rain softened to a misty drizzle, steam rising off the hood of the car like breath. Peter drummed his fingers lightly on the steering wheel.

“You’ve come so far,” he said, his voice warm with pride. “They never thought you’d survive without them, but look at you now. Stronger. Sharper.” He leaned back in his seat, eyes flicking toward her. “Exactly what they feared you’d become if you weren’t in their leash.”

She glanced at him, then down at her lap, where her fingers had begun to curl into fists.

Peter’s tone was light, casual. “It’s almost funny, isn’t it? They spent so long building you up, training you like a weapon– and now that you’ve finally become what we designed, they’re the ones who should be afraid.”

The words hung heavy in the air.

Her heart gave a slow, hard thud.

What we designed…?

She turned her head slowly toward him. “What did you say?”

Peter blinked. “What?”

“You said I finally became what you designed.” Her voice was quiet, precise. “What does that mean?”

He hesitated for the briefest second– just long enough to send a spike of unease down her spine.

“I meant… what they tried to force you into. What they were turning you into without your consent.” He smiled, but there was something brittle at the edges now. “You rose above it. You didn't become that. You become better in our care. That’s all I meant.”

But her mind had latched onto the phrasing. Not helped you. Not supported you. Not picked up. Designed. Almost as if manipulated.

A word like a blueprint. A plan.

Her breath slowed.

Peter kept speaking, softer now. “They taught you to burn, but they never expected the fire to turn on them. You did what had to be done. I was there– I saw what they were making you into. I saw how Remus just stood there when you begged for it to stop– ”

“I never begged,” she said sharply.

The silence snapped like a taut wire.

Peter’s mouth parted slightly, like he realized too late he’d crossed some invisible line.

She turned her whole body to face him now, blood loud in her ears. “How do you know that?”

He paused. Then: “You told me.”

“No,” she said slowly, carefully. “I didn’t.”

They stared at each other. And in that space, in that breath, something shifted.

Something inside her woke up.

Peter’s hands clenched the steering wheel, knuckles pale. Rain tapped softly against the windshield, as if trying to fill the silence stretching like a blade between them.

“You told me,” he repeated, quieter this time. “In the facility. You don’t remember.”

“I don’t,” she agreed, eyes narrow. “That’s the thing. I don’t remember telling you. I don’t remember begging. But you do.”

Peter didn’t look at her. “You were in pain. You said things. Screamed things. We pieced together what we could.”

Her voice was a whisper now, dangerous and sharp: “So you watched me?”

He flinched.

“You watched me,” she said again, the words tasting like poison in her mouth. “In the program. While I was broken and screaming and drugged– you watched me. You were part of them.”

“No– no, that’s not– ” he ran a hand through his hair, frantic, face flushed with urgency. “I was with you. I protected you. They would've killed you if I hadn’t–”

“But you never said that before,” she cut in. “You said they lied. You said they made me a monster. But if you were there from the beginning…”

Her throat felt tight, choked with too many truths rushing in at once.

“Did you ever tell me the truth, Peter?” she asked. “Did you ever tell me what really happened?”

His eyes were wild now. “I protected you,” he repeated. “They were going to erase you, burn everything. I stopped it. I pulled you out. You have me to thank for still being alive– ”

Her voice rose, cold and hollow: “You drugged me. You sat beside me and watched me forget who I was. You fed me stories. Showed me footage. Made me doubt myself.”

“I saved you from them!” he snapped, hitting the steering wheel. “They were going to use you again! Just like last time! You think Remus really cared? James? Sirius? They were rebels– traitors– before they were your friends. I was the only one who stayed.”

“No.” Her voice was shaking now, a tremor of rage and horror. “You didn’t stay. You stayed quiet. You let it happen. And now you’re still doing it.”

Peter’s mouth opened. Closed. He looked like a man caught in the open, exposed under floodlights. The charm had vanished from his face. All that remained was something desperate, cornered.

“They would’ve destroyed you,” he said hoarsely.

“And you didn’t?” she whispered.

He turned his head sharply toward her, pleading now. “I’m the only one who knows what you’ve become. They can’t handle it. You can’t even handle it– ”

“I’m starting to,” she said, voice like ice.

Her hands burned in her lap. Not with fire– but with something deeper. Awareness. Truth.

And he saw it, then.

The beginning of her slipping from his fingers.

She looked out the window, into the misty grey woods beyond. Something inside her– fractured and repressed– was stirring with dangerous clarity.

“I’m not safe,” she murmured to herself. “And I never was.”

Peter didn’t respond.

He didn’t need to.

Because the silence spoke louder than anything else.

The car jolted slightly as Peter gripped the wheel harder, the tires slipping on wet gravel as they veered off the main road into the forest path. Trees loomed outside like tall, silent witnesses. Inside the car, the air grew heavier by the second.

“What do you mean? You are safe here. With me.”

She snapped forward in her seat, breath sharp and uneven.

“Peter,” she said, her voice strangled. “Peter, look at me.”

He didn’t.

Her pulse thundered. “What are you hiding?” she demanded.

Still no answer.

“Peter!” she screamed, fury rising from her chest like wildfire. “What are you hiding?! I swear to God– if you had any hand in what they did to me, if you stood there and watched it happen– I will not hesitate. I will burn this whole car down with you in it.”

His jaw clenched. His eyes stayed forward.

“I’m not kidding.” Her voice cracked at the edges, high and hysterical now, but filled with deadly promise. “Tell me. Tell me what it is you’re hiding.”

Rain pelted harder. Thunder murmured in the distance.

Peter inhaled, sharp and shallow. His voice, when it came, was low. Tight. “You don’t understand what they were turning you into. You– ”

“No,” she cut him off, trembling. “Don’t give me that. Not again. Don’t twist it. Just answer me. Did you know what they were doing? Did you help them?”

His fingers twitched on the steering wheel.

And that– that was the answer.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t deny. Didn’t protest.

Just silence.

Silence, and the sound of her heart shattering into something wild.

Her breath caught, and her vision blurred– not with tears, but with rage. “You were there,” she whispered, horrified. “You let them do that to me.”

“I tried to protect you,” Peter murmured, finally glancing sideways– but not with guilt. With calculation. “You were slipping, and they said you were a threat. I did what I had to.”

She stared at him, the image of him sitting by her bedside– smiling, soft, trustworthy– flashing through her mind like poison in reverse.

All of it.

Fake.

She pressed her hand to her mouth, trying to hold back the scream rising in her throat. Her fingers tingled. Her palms were hot.

“Pull over,” she whispered.

“What?”

“Pull. Over.” she snapped.

Peter didn’t move.

And that was another mistake.

Because now she wasn’t scared.

She was awake.

And she wasn’t his anymore.

The car shuddered as her rage broke through the last thread of restraint.

She moved– fast, sharp, and without hesitation. Her hand crackled with heat, raw and electric. The interior lights flickered as the air changed. Thicker. Heavier. Charged.

Peter barely had time to blink.

The dashboard lights dimmed to red as her power surged– raw, volatile, alive. She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t have to.

“Stop the car.”

“I– ”

Her fingers twitched. The gear shift melted.

Peter yelped and slammed the brakes. The tires screeched across the rain-slicked road, the car jerking to a halt at the side of the tree-lined path. They sat in silence for a second– only the patter of rain on the windshield filling the space between them.

Then she turned to him, slow and predatory.

Her eyes were fire.

“You really thought I’d never wake up, didn’t you?” Her voice was eerily calm now, like the quiet before the earth split. “You fed me lies. You made me hate them. So tell me what was your role there? What you really did.”

Peter pressed himself back into his seat, arms slightly raised like she was holding him at gunpoint. “Okay– wait, just– please–”

“You let them turn me into a weapon.” Her voice dropped. “You watched it happen. And then you smiled at me like you were saving me. You let them brand me a monster, and you tucked me in like you cared.”

“I didn’t have a choice!” he blurted out, sweat beading at his brow. “The government told me you were dangerous, they said they were traitors, that they were using you, and I– I just– I made it easier!”

“Easier?” she snarled, her power rippling from her like a furnace ready to erupt. “You drugged me. You lied to me. You made me burn everything down. That wasn’t easier– that was convenient.”

She leaned forward, close enough to watch the panic bloom in his face. “You’re not a protector, Peter. You’re a coward. A rat.”

He whimpered now. Trembling. “Okay– okay– I’ll tell you everything. Everything. Just don’t hurt me. Please.”

She watched him crumble in front of her.

The man who whispered mantras like lullabies, who promised her strength, loyalty, purpose– a liar. The fear in his eyes wasn’t fear for her.

It was fear of her.

“Start talking,” she said coldly. “And choose your words wisely. Because if you lie to me again– I will bury you where no one will find what’s left.”

The flames behind her eyes had only just begun to rise.

He gulped then averted his eyes from her. Then burried his head in his arms. And from within came a whisper that rattled her to her core and destroyed everything in her.

“I lied about everything,” he whispered. “You never set The Fire. They did. To save you from us.”

Then

“You weren’t a monster,” he whispered. “But I needed you to believe you were.”

A/n) wheww long break I took there but thanks for the well wishes, my exams went great!! Thankyou for waiting so long and so patiently for the next part right after I left you all on the nastiest cliffhanger ever. But the cliffhanger on this chapter is no better, I must say hahaha.

Thankyou everyone for all the support on this series as we have one last chapter remaining. You all really make writing so very fun (even though I got the ickiest writers block on these last few ones). I would really appreciate your precious feedback and I just hope you enjoy it!💗💗

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