#secure tech stack

[dbajaj48]

From Startup to Scale: A No-Nonsense Guide for Real-World Growth

Let's be real, choosing a tech stack is like picking what to eat at an all-inclusive resort. There are so many options, and while it might seem tempting to just pile everything onto your plate, you know that's a recipe for disaster. Similarly, you can't just pick every trendy tool out there for your business. If you do, you might end up with a bloated, dysfunctional mess that doesn't do anything particularly well.

The goal here is to help you pick the right tech stack for your business, allowing it to scale efficiently without giving you heartburn. Whether you're a startup just figuring things out or an enterprise looking to streamline, this guide is for you.

The Tech Stack Basics: What Are We Even Talking About?

Let's get one thing straight: a "tech stack" is not a literal pile of technology (though that would be cool). It's the tools, programming languages, and frameworks your business uses to build and run applications. Think of it as your company's digital toolbox. And just like with real tools, you don't use a chainsaw to assemble IKEA furniture—so you need to pick the right tools for the job.

Your tech stack is always divided into two parts

Front-end

This is the stuff your customers see and interact with. It's like the shiny chrome on a sports car—it looks nice, but if it doesn't perform well, people will quickly notice.

Common tools: React, Vue.js, HTML, CSS

Back-end

This is the engine of your operation. The invisible stuff powers your business and keeps everything running smoothly.

Common tools: Node.js, Python, Ruby on Rails

But enough with the definitions—let's get into how you can pick the right tech stack for your business. Spoiler alert: there's no one-size-fits-all answer.

Start with your Business needs (not your cousin's tips)

It's tempting to go with whatever your cousin or that random guy on LinkedIn is raving about, but let's be honest—just because a tech tool works for them doesn't mean it's the right fit for you. Would you wear your cousin's jeans? No. So don't copy their tech stack, either.

First things first: what are your actual business needs? Are you a startup trying to build the next Uber for cat-sitting (we've all thought about it), or are you an established company looking to streamline operations? Here's what you need to consider

Your Growth Goals

Are you planning for world domination or just happy to expand locally for now? The tech stack you choose should support both your short-term needs and long-term aspirations.

Your Industry

What industry are you in? If you're in e-commerce, you'll want tools that make online transactions easy and secure. In healthcare, you need technologies that comply with privacy laws like HIPAA. And if you're in finance, good luck with that.

Your Team's Skillset

Who will be using this tech stack? If your team is fluent in Python, don't make them suddenly learn Ruby on Rails unless you want a mutiny on your hands. Pick tools that fit your team's existing skillset—or be prepared to invest in serious training.

Think About Scalability (Because Growth Happens Faster Than You Think)

One minute, you're a cozy little startup, and the next thing you know, your app has gone viral, and your server has crashed more times than you can count. Growth is exciting, but if your tech stack can't handle it, you will have problems. Big ones. Scalability is the magic word here. You need a tech stack that evolve with your business, not one that buckles under pressure. When considering scalability, here is what you need to know

Cloud-Based Solutions

Hosting your infrastructure on cloud platforms like AWS or Microsoft Azure can give you the flexibility to scale up or down based on demand. It's like adding more chairs to the table when unexpected guests arrive—except, in this case, thousands of users are hitting your platform all at once.

Performance

Some programming languages and frameworks are great for large-scale operations. If you're dealing with a high volume of transactions or users, choose something built for speed. Node.js, for example, is known for handling multiple connections simultaneously, making it great for real-time applications like chat apps or online games.

Database Choices

Your database is where all the magic (or chaos) happens. For startups, a simple database like MySQL or PostgreSQL might be enough. Still, as you grow, you'll need something that can handle larger data loads—think MongoDB for non-relational data or Oracle for enterprise solutions.

Don't Forget About Integration (Because No One Likes a Silo)

Ever tried to put together a jigsaw puzzle where none of the pieces fit? That's what it feels like when your tech stack doesn't integrate well with your existing systems. And trust me, nothing grinds productivity to a halt faster than a bunch of disjointed tools that refuse to work together.

When choosing your tech stack, consider how it will integrate with the tools you already use. Does your CRM need to interact with your email marketing platform? Are you planning on syncing your sales data with your accounting software? The right integrations can save you hours of manual work—and possibly your sanity.

Here's the secret sauce: APIs (Application Programming Interfaces). They're like the universal translators of the tech world, helping different tools communicate with each other. When evaluating a new tool, check if it has an API that plays nicely with your other systems.

Example: HubSpot is a great all-in-one marketing platform that integrates with dozens of other tools. HubSpot's smooth integrations can make life much easier if you're already using a CRM or email marketing service.

Budgeting for your Tech Stack (Spoiler Alert: It's going to cost way more than you Thought)

Let's talk about money. Every business has a budget—unless you're backed by a billionaire who's just in it for the fun, in which case, please introduce me. For the rest of the world, picking a tech stack means balancing performance, scalability, and cost. You don't want to go broke paying for shiny new tools that only make things marginally better. Here's the deal: open-source technologies like React or Node.js are great because they're free. Yes, free! But there's a catch-free doesn't always mean zero cost. You must still consider maintenance, updates, and the cost of developers who can work with these tools.

The Airbnb Approach for cost saving

Take Airbnb, for example. The company used Ruby on Rails for its web platform in its early days. Rail is an open-source framework that helped Airbnb get started without sinking too much money into licensing fees. As the business grew, the team heavily invested in infrastructure and switched to React for the front end to handle the scaling needs of their user base. The lesson here? Start small with cost-effective solutions, and be prepared to invest in your tech stack as you grow.

Now, let's talk about enterprise-level tools. These often come with hefty licensing fees. If you're considering Salesforce or Oracle, know you're entering premium territory. These tools provide advanced features, but they come at a price. If you're a small business, this might not make sense yet—but for larger operations, these solutions can pay off in the long run by streamlining processes and reducing human error.

Shopify's Early Tech Stack Struggles

Shopify initially relied on PHP and MySQL to power its platform, which worked fine when serving smaller e-commerce stores. But as it scaled, it ran into performance issues with large traffic spikes. Shopify then transitioned to Ruby on Rails and focused on horizontal scaling to handle requests more efficiently. The learning is that budgeting for future growth and tech debt will save you headaches later.

Make sure your Stack is secure (or pay the price later)

We've all seen those scary headlines: "Massive Data Breach Exposes Millions of User Accounts." No one wants to be the next headline, especially when the damage to your reputation (and your wallet) can be severe. Security must stick in your mind when choosing a tech stack.

Some technologies are more secure than others. For instance, large enterprises often favor Java for its robust security features. Similarly, Python has excellent libraries for encryption and data security.

But security isn't just about picking a tool; it's about implementing the right practices. Ensure your developers regularly update your tech stack, apply security patches, and follow best practices like two-factor authentication (2FA) and encryption for sensitive data.

Target's Massive Data Breach

Remember Target's massive data breach in 2013? Hackers were able to access 40 million credit card numbers just because of a vulnerability in their network access system. They may have avoided that disaster with more secure protocols and better monitoring practices. Don't be like Target.

Keep an Eye on Trends, But Don't Chase Every Shiny New Tool

The tech world is always changing. Every week, a new "next big thing" promises to revolutionize how we do business. Blockchain, quantum computing, AI, Web3—it's easy to feel FOMO when you hear about these groundbreaking technologies. But just because something is trendy doesn't mean it's the right fit for your business.

The Slack Boom

Look at Slack. It became the go-to communication tool almost overnight, pushing out older tools like email and Skype. It was not only because it was shiny and new. It was because it effectively solved a pain point for businesses, making communication faster and more collaborative. However, not every tool has a lasting impact, like Slack, so pick your tech wisely.

That said, you want to pay attention to trends. In an industry where innovation is key, like fintech or healthcare, you may need to adopt new technologies faster than others to stay competitive. The trick is to strike a balance—stay current without feeling like you must overhaul your tech stack every six months.

The Talent Factor (because even the best Tech is useless without the right people)

You could have the most advanced, scalable, and secure tech stack on the planet, but you're sunk if no one on your team knows how to use it. When choosing your tech stack, consider the talent pool. Can your current developers work with this stack? If not, are you willing to invest in training or hire new developers specializing in those tools?

Netflix's Engineering Talent Strategy

Everybody knows it: Netflix hires the best engineering talent to manage its complex tech stack, which includes everything from Java and Node.js to Kubernetes and AWS. By focusing on hiring top-notch developers, Netflix ensures that their tech infrastructure runs smoothly, scales efficiently, and adapts to new trends.

But let's be real: hiring top tech talent is tough, especially if you're not on Netflix. Tha's why choosing a tech stack that aligns with your team's existing skills is smart. If your team is well-versed in JavaScript, don't force them to learn Python unless there's a compelling reason to switch. You'll save time and money and avoid unnecessary headaches.

Future-proofing your Tech Stack (because the future is coming whether you're ready or not)

Ah, the future. It's unpredictable, exciting, and a little terrifying. When choosing your tech stack, you want to pick tools that will grow with you and adapt to future innovations. No one wants to be stuck with a tech stack that becomes obsolete in two years.

Adobe's Move to the Cloud!

Take Adobe, for example. A few years ago, they shifted from selling standalone software (like Photoshop) to offering Adobe Creative Cloud. This switch to a subscription-based model helped them scale and ensured they could keep up with the industry's shift to cloud computing. They might have fallen behind if they had stuck with the old model.

So, how do you future-proof your tech stack? Look for tools that are modular and flexible. Think of Microservices architecture as one that allows different parts of your system to scale independently. That way, when one part of your app becomes a runaway success (fingers crossed!), you won't need to rebuild your entire system to handle the load.

Concluding Thoughts: The Tech Stack Balancing Act

Choosing the right tech stack balances meeting your current needs, planning for future growth, and monitoring costs. But with the right approach, you can build a scalable tech stack that's secure, and ready to handle whatever comes your way. Remember, it's not about picking the shiniest or most popular tools—it's about finding what works for you and your team.

So, move forward and start building that tech stack! And if you ever get overwhelmed, remember that even Amazon started as a small online bookstore with a simple tech setup. They scaled, and you can, too!

We can put you on track!

Feeling a little overwhelmed by your tech stack choices? Don't worry—we're here to help. Contact our team today for a free consultation, and let's build the perfect stack for your business's future growth.

[bluellab]

Top 5 Cloud Service Providers in Sweden in 2025

This article was published by me on Medium, and I'm sharing it here for educational and informational purposes only.

[ajmishra]

Custom Software vs. Off-the-Shelf Solutions: What’s Best for Your Startup?

Struggling to choose between custom software and off-the-shelf solutions for your startup? Explore the pros and cons of each option in our comprehensive guide, and discover which approach best aligns with your business goals and budget.

[crossdevverse]

What to Look for When Hiring Android App Developers | AIS Technolabs

Discover the key qualifications and skills to seek in Android app developers. Make informed hiring decisions with our essential guide

[sierraconsult]

AWS consulting services might be just the answer your organization needs. A move to AWS is a superb choice.

SIERRA helps businesses big and small with Splunk Enterprise Deployments and Enterprise Security.

Today’s high-velocity, software-enabled business environment demands IT to deliver faster.

SIERRA’s dedicated center of excellence for SAP Hybris promotes research around the Hybris

[heavenlybodies333]

Ain’t Karma A Bitch? -S.R

Spencer Reid x coworker!reader | fwb |

You shouldn’t have kissed the IT guy.

It was innocent—technically. One drink after a successful case. A slightly too-loud laugh at his joke. And a kiss in the parking lot under Quantico’s flickering lights. But Spencer Reid saw it.

You felt it in the way his gaze dropped the moment you walked in the next morning, in the way his mouth turned up into that smug, unreadable curve when he passed you in the hallway, fingers tucked into his slacks like he was restraining himself from something—maybe strangling your little tech rebound.

You hadn’t even realized the genius profiler could get jealous.

"You know his credentials are fake, right?" Spencer murmurs from beside you during the briefing, eyes on the screen but voice slick with venom. "I ran a background check."

"You’re insufferable."

"You’re transparent." You don’t dare look at him. Not with the way your stomach twists at the low rasp of his voice.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you whisper, eyes on Hotch’s presentation even though you haven’t absorbed a word. “You don’t know everything.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch the slow turn of Spencer’s head. His expression is unreadable. But you feel it.

“Wrong again,” he mutters. “I know enough.”

You glance at him from the corner of your eye. He’s not even looking at you, but there’s a slight twitch in his jaw, and his fingers flex like he’s counting backward in his head.

“You ran a background check on him?” you whisper, trying not to move your lips too much with Hotch three feet away. “Are you kidding me?”

“He listed his alma mater as MIT, but he misspelled Massachusetts on his résumé. Twice.”

“Oh my God—”

“Statistically, liars tend to embellish their education because it's the easiest detail to bluff without risk of immediate exposure. He also doesn't understand secure socket layering. It's not my fault if incompetence turns you on.”

You glare at him, heart pounding for all the wrong reasons. He’s smug. Smug and unreadable and furious in a way you’ve never seen before.

The rest of the day is hell. He’s everywhere. Passing you coffee—without asking, of course. Standing too close at the crime board. Brushing past you in the hallway, the edge of his jacket catching your thigh, deliberate. Calculated. Like he’s daring you to say something.

You don’t. Not until the end of the night, when most of the team has left and the bullpen hums with quiet.

You storm into the file room, heart pounding. “Reid—”

He’s already there. Like he knew you’d come. Like he planned it. “Shutting the door?” he asks without looking up, flipping through a stack of folders like it’s any other Tuesday. “How suspicious.”

You do shut it. Hard. “What’s your problem?”

He sets the file down. Finally looks at you. “You kissed him,” Spencer says simply, like it’s fact. Like it’s already been dissected and labeled and filed away under Reasons She Deserves To Be Punished.

Your jaw tightens. “So what?”

He takes a step toward you. Then another. Until your back is pressed against the wall and he’s so close you can see the flecks of hazel in his eyes. “So,” he started, “I read somewhere that jealousy activates the same neural circuits as physical pain.” He takes a step closer, and suddenly his voice is lower, his tone less teasing. “It’s almost addictive. Like a drug. Your pupils dilated when you laughed at him.”

“That’s none of your business.”

A smirk plays on Spencer’s lips, sharp and knowing. His hand lifts, ghosting over your jaw but never quite touching. “Then why did you look for me when it happened?”

You blink. “What?”

He tilts his head, and his voice dips, slow and deliberate like he’s reciting a quote. “Right after. You looked up. Scanned the parking lot. Like you wanted someone to see.”

The heat that burns under your skin is immediate, prickling with shame and something far more dangerous. You want to deny it—but you had looked. Stupidly, instinctively. Like you were waiting for a reaction.

“Is that what this is about?” you snap. “You think I kissed him for your attention?”

He doesn’t blink. “Didn’t you?”

The silence chokes between you. He takes another step—closer, closer—until you’re hyper-aware of every inch between you, every uneven breath.

“You’re being ridiculous,” you say, but it comes out weaker than you mean.

Spencer’s eyes flick down to your mouth. His voice is almost a whisper. “And yet your heart rate’s at least 120. Fight or flight?”

“Fuck you.”

“I’d rather you did.” He says it like it’s an equation solved, a foregone conclusion. His pupils are blown, lips parted just slightly like he’s waiting to be proven right.

And maybe he is.

Because when you surge forward, fisting the collar of his cardigan and dragging his mouth down to yours, he doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t flinch. His hands are on your waist in a second, you gasp when he bites your bottom lip—not hard, but just enough to make you feel it—and he groans, like that sound alone snapped whatever thread of restraint he had left.

“You think I haven’t noticed?” he mutters against your mouth, breathing hard. “You really think you’re subtle?”

You shove him back a step, just enough to catch your breath, but he follows—of course he follows. His hand grips the back of your neck and he presses you into the wall again like he needs you there, like he can’t stand the distance.

“You’re not exactly subtle yourself,” you snap.

“He touched your ass,” Spencer growls, and the raw possessiveness in his voice makes your thighs clench.

You laugh—sharp, breathless, too aware of the way his fingers are now drifting along the hem of your blouse. “Jealousy doesn’t look good on you, Reid.”

He tilts his head, slow and dangerous. “You sure about that?”

Then he drops to his knees. Your heart stutters. “Spencer—”

“Shh.” He doesn’t look up as his hands glide up your thighs, pushing your skirt up with practiced, unshaking intent. “Just proving a point.”

You suck in a breath as his palms part your legs. His fingers are nimble, precise—like everything else he does, methodical but maddening. When he drags your underwear down your thighs, he does it slowly, eyes finally lifting to meet yours like a silent dare.

You grip the shelf behind you like it might keep you grounded, like the feeling of Spencer Reid on his knees in front of you isn’t about to send you spiraling into orbit.

He leans in. Presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh—soft, almost reverent—and then one just a little higher. You squirm.

“Don’t tease,” you whisper, voice already frayed.

His eyes flick up, impossibly dark. “Don’t kiss other men.”

You don’t get a chance to retort—his mouth is on you in the next breath.

And God, he’s good.

Not good in the way most men fumble and hope for the best. No—he studies you. Remembers the way you gasped at the soft flick of his tongue. Adjusts. Experiments. Executes. He licks into you like he’s trying to rewrite your molecular structure, like he wants to ruin you for anyone else—and it’s working.

Your hand tangles in his hair before you can stop it, pulling hard, and he moans into you. You feel the vibration all the way up your spine.

“You’re such a fucking showoff,” you breathe, hips bucking.

He pulls back just enough to speak, his lips wet and swollen. “Statistically speaking, making a woman come from oral alone—”

“Spencer.”

“—requires precision and patience.” He licks a slow stripe up your center, eyes still locked on yours. “Luckily, I have both.”

And he proves it. You come fast and hard, your moan muffled in your own arm as your legs nearly give out. He holds you through it, mouth insistent and merciless until your body twitches from overstimulation and you beg—literally beg—for him to stop.

When he finally stands, there’s something almost unhinged in his eyes. A wild, unspoken want. His hands are already working on his belt, but you beat him to it, fingers slipping into his waistband like you’ve done it a hundred times in your head.

“I’m not finished with you,” you mutter, dragging his pants down just far enough.

“Good,” he pants. “Because I want you to remember this the next time some fraud in IT buys you a drink.”

You grip his shirt, yanking him down to your lips again. “Fuck me, Doctor Reid.” you moan as he slides through your slick. The noise you make is shameful—something between a gasp and a whimper—and his hand slams against the wall next to your head, bracing himself.

“Jesus Christ,” he groans. “You feel—fuck—”

Your head tips back, and he takes the opportunity to drag his mouth down your throat, sucking bruises into your skin with zero apology. His thrusts are slow at first, rough but controlled, but that doesn’t last long. Not with the way you grip him. Not with the way your nails dig into his back like you’re trying to brand him there.

“You shouldn’t have kissed him,” Spencer grits out, fucking you like it’s a correction. A lesson. “You knew I was watching.”

You whimper, helpless under the weight of him, every thrust a punishment wrapped in possession. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Liar,” he snaps, and the hand on your waist tightens.

His mouth crashes to yours again, messy and uncoordinated now. He slams back into you so hard you bite your lip to keep from crying out. The file room walls feel too thin, the glass door too close, but neither of you cares. He thrusts harder, deeper, desperate, like he’s trying to replace every trace of anyone else. And God, it’s working.

His hand curls around your thigh, hiking it over his hip, and the angle makes you whimper.

“Yeah?” Spencer grits out. “Right there?”

You nod—too breathless for words—and he groans again, pounding into that spot over and over until you’re shaking,

“Fuck, I’m—” he chokes, forehead pressed to yours, sweat-damp curls brushing your cheeks. “I’m not gonna last—”

You pull him closer. Wrap your legs around his waist and drag him in, lock him there. “Then don’t.”

He comes with a groan muffled against your shoulder, his body jerking against yours like it’s been short-circuited. You hold him through it, hands in his hair, nails raking gently against his scalp as his hips stutter and still.

You both stay like that for a moment breathing heavy. He finally lifts his head. Blinks at you, dazed. And for the first time all night, he looks awkward. Flushed and boyish and just a little bit unsure.

Then he leans in, brushing a kiss—soft, shockingly gentle—against your cheek.

“You shouldn’t have kissed him,” he murmurs again, you huff a breathless laugh. “Noted.”

His nose brushes yours. “Next time,” he whispers, “I’ll show you what it feels like to beg.”

You blink at him. “Next time?”

He smiles. That unreadable, smug little curve again—but this time, it’s softer around the edges.

“Oh,” he says, buttoning his pants like he didn’t just fuck you senseless against a filing cabinet, “there’s going to be a next time.”

You shake your head, biting back a grin. “Aren’t you going to cite a study about post-coital bonding or something?”

He pauses. Tilts his head. “Actually, oxytocin levels increase significantly after orgasm, which tends to promote attachment and trust—but in this case, I’d argue correlation, not causation.”

You laugh—genuine and bright—and he watches you like it’s his favorite sound. You pull him in by the front of his cardigan and kiss him again, slower this time.

when you pull away he has a mischievous glint in his eye. “I deleted the footage,” he says softly.

You blink. “What?”

He smirks. “File room security. You’re not the only one who’s reckless.”

You gape. “You planned this?”

He shrugs. “I’m a profiler.”

You shove him. “You’re a psycho.”

a/n: down baddd for Dr Reid

⋆•★⋆ MASTERLIST ⋆★•⋆

[nemo-writes]

𝗮𝗯𝘀𝗼𝗹𝘂𝘁𝗲𝗹𝘆 𝘀𝗺𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻 I chapter thirteen

(dr. jack abbot x nurse!reader)

⤿ chapter summary: things end in tragedy.

⤿ warning(s): character death, graphic descriptions of blood and violence, graphic descriptions of medical procedures, medical inaccuracies.

⟡ story masterlist ; previous I next

✦ word count: 2.5k

Jack is too late to stop the fall, but just in time to witness the aftermath.

For an instant that will brand itself forever, the world goes eerily still. He reaches the railing and leans out, and there you are: crumpled on a tangle of construction scaffold two stories below, Dorian’s body twisted beneath you like a grotesque cushion. Sodium floodlights paint everything sepia; the hum of city traffic wafts up as if nothing extraordinary has happened.

You’re not moving.

The sight punches the air from Jack’s lungs. His fingers clamp the cold rail so hard metal creaks. An animal noise claws up his throat, but training strangles it.

He then sucks in freezing air, pivots, and bolts down the service stairwell three steps at a time. On the landing he nearly collides with a pair of ICU nurses already hauling a backboard. Words crash out of him—“She’s on the scaffolding, eighth-floor façade”—before he vaults past, feet barely touching concrete.

On the seventh floor he bursts onto the scaffold walkway—the world roaring back to motion. The two nurses scramble at your side, desperate hands feeling for pulses.

Jack drops to his knees, palms skidding on grit, and braces your head between shaking hands. Tears blur his vision for half a heartbeat, but then the old medic clicks on: airway, breathing, circulation. Your chest rises in ragged little gasps; a pulse flutters at your neck—the faintest drum, but there.

“C-spine!” Jack barks. Robby is suddenly at his side—face blanched, hands steady—sliding the rigid collar beneath your jaw while a night-shift nurse anchors your skull. Jack’s fingers quake, but his voice stays level, murmuring between commands: “Stay with me, sweetheart. I’ve got you. Breathe.”

Just a yard away, Dorian’s body lies where it landed—arms splayed, eyes fixed on the blank sky. No one spares him more than a glance; purpose funnels toward the living. An ESU tech tosses a silver casualty blanket over the corpse—an afterthought glittering under flood-lights—then hurries back to help Robby steady the backboard.

Straps cinch tight; splints cradle your ruined arm; IV lines snake from bruised veins. The moment the stretcher locks and lifts—your weight finally secured—Jack’s composure splinters, a raw, half-voiced sob ripping free before duty slams the door on it. Robby is there, bracing a steady hand between Jack’s shoulder blades—an unspoken stand fast, brother—and the lance of grief folds back into purpose.

Robby’s hand stays planted between Jack’s shoulders as they seize the stretcher handles—Jack with one hand steadying the dripping saline, Robby matching his grip on the opposite rail. Together with the team they surge for the stairwell. Behind them the scaffold creaks; wind rattles the foil over Dorian’s abandoned corpse. Ahead, sirens and shouted clearances funnel toward the harsh, saving brightness of Trauma-bay lights.

The freight elevator bangs open onto the surgical floor, and the gurney rockets out into a corridor already cleared to disaster footing. OR 3’s doors stand wide, lights blazing like a white-hot maw. Your stretcher rolls past stacked crash carts, through teams who yank instrument trays from sterile wrappers with frantic precision.

“Prep time is blood time—move!” Dr. Walsh barks, snapping fresh gloves on. She jerks her head toward Dr. Garcia and Dr. Miller—both technically off shift, both refusing to leave. Garcia yanks on a fresh sterile coat, while Miller chases the circulating nurse for a vascular tray, face chalk-pale beneath exhaustion but set like stone.

Jack jogs beside the rail, one hand on the IV hub, the other cradling your barely-there pulse. Your face, normally lit with sunrise jokes, is gray as surgical steel; respirations hitch against the vent. The monitors scream—heart 140, pressure free-falling despite pressors. Blood oozes past the chest-tube dressing, runs in black rivulets along the mattress seam. For one lurching second Jack thinks he can see your sternum move independently—flail segment snapping like a broken birdcage whenever the bag squeezes a breath.

Inside the suite, an anesthesiologist slams the vent into the wall gas. “ETCO₂ tanking—she’s blowing off nothing. Tubing clear, switching to pressure control.” A tech sponges the brown spill of gastric contents from your cheek where the fall forced bile up your throat.

Before Jack can take another step forward, Walsh is there to plant a palm on his chest. “Line of departure,” her tone’s a scalpel but her eyes flicker with something fragile. “You watching through glass keeps me honest. Get there.”

Jack’s knees try to root themselves to the floor—leaving feels like desertion—but he obeys, stumbling back to the anteroom. Robby drags him aside, shouldering a silent barricade, as the scrub nurse slaps a No-Entry sign across the doors.

Inside OR 3 chaos becomes choreography. Dr. Garcia slides an ultrasound wand over the upper-right side of your stomach; the screen blooms black—blood drowning your liver. “Big tear—she’s bleeding out,” she calls.

“Get every unit of blood we have!” Walsh fires back. A tech slams thawed plasma onto the rapid infuser; Fin, sleeves soaked crimson, races in with more O-negative.

Miller squeezes the breathing bag with one hand while reading the monitor with the other. “Blood pressure sixty, heart racing, oxygen crashing,” he warns. His glance to Walsh is clear: we’re losing her.

Walsh answers by drawing a long line down your belly with the scalpel. Metal meets skin; bright red floods the drapes. Suction roars as Garcia stuffs sponge after sponge inside, trying to keep pace with the tide.

From behind the glass, Jack sees it all in slow motion: Walsh’s hands diving into the wound, fresh crimson soaking gauze, Miller’s shoulders knotting as he forces each breath into your lungs. Alarm tones layer over each other—howling that time is almost gone. Robby’s fist clenches Jack’s scrubs, tethering him. Dana appears beside them, tears sliding unchecked.

Inside, Garcia’s shout fractures the moment. “Heart’s out of rhythm—paddles, now!” Gel slaps your chest; your body jerks under the jolt, then flattens. The screen still scribbles chaos. Another shock. A beat… another… the wavering line steadies at 40 beats a minute.

Walsh never looks up. “Clamp that liver,” she mutters. Miller drops a clamp into her waiting hand; her fingers disappear into the bloody cavity. Seconds crawl. Then—a sharp, certain “Got it.” The suction pitch drops; the gush slows. Your pressure inches up—seventy, then eighty.

Jack’s knees buckle with relief so bitter it tastes like metal. Only now does he notice he’s biting his lip so hard its started to crack and bleed, Robby’s arm still the only thing keeping him upright.

Inside the glass, the storm quiets but doesn’t clear. Garcia calls sponge counts, Miller pushes life back through IV syringes, Walsh asks for closing stitches. The spleen still has to be checked, your arm is splintered, your head injury lurks unseen—but the bleeding that wanted your life is finally caged.

Walsh lifts her gaze to the gallery. Her nod to Jack is small—barely a tremor of her chin—but louder than every alarm. She’s still here.

Jack presses his palm to the pane, breath fogging the glass—an unspoken promise to the broken figure on the table: I’m still here, too.

The last suture goes in at 03:17 a.m.

Walsh’s shoulders hunch, her cap soaked through, but the wound is finally closed and the bleeding quiet. You’re wheeled straight to the Surgical ICU under a tower of pumps: blood, antibiotics, pain drips, vasopressors. A ventilator sighs at your bedside; a padded brace keeps your shattered arm aligned; your leg is already swaddled for the ortho plate you’ll need tomorrow—if your numbers hold.

They don’t hold for long.

03:42 – Your blood pressure nosedives. Garcia—still in the same stained coat—bolts a syringe of epinephrine to the line. “Come on,” she murmurs, eyes locked on the monitor until the numbers claw back into the 80s.

04:19 – You spike a jagged heart rhythm. Miller arrives with the crash cart; two shocks later the sinus beat staggers upright like a boxer on the ninth round. He leaves without a word, too tired to make a joke, too relieved to curse fate.

05:05 – A neuro resident slips in, pupils your eyes, frowns at the sluggish response, and orders another CT scan. The porter wheels you out; every corridor looks bruised by night-shift fluorescence, the hush broken only by the rattle of your ventilator.

Everyone is on overtime on Surgical. Jules runs sponge counts from muscle memory, Fin brews coffee that tastes like burnt hope, and Margot prowls the quiet bays, snapping gloves just to keep her nerves from screaming. And Jack never sits; he circles the ICU glass, charting every tiny rise in your blood pressure like it’s a sunrise.

Downstairs, the lobby still glows with crime-scene klieg lights. Police techs comb the pathology lab where Dorian Moylan worked. Detective Patel—hair pulled into a weary knot—is giving Gloria and Security Chief Ramirez the bullet points:

Moylan had quietly transferred between three hospitals in five years, each move following a “personality conflict.”

He spent night breaks pulling unused visitor badges from shredders, soldering chips to clone them.

Two weeks ago he piggy-backed a vendor to the roof and wedged the alarm sensor with a folded coffee stirrer—so small maintenance chalked it up to wind malfunction.

His apartment wall is plastered with photos of you: cafeteria line, parking deck, charity fun-run. Thread between the prints spells an obsession bigger than anger, almost devotional.

“How did he know shift rosters?” Gloria snaps, exhaustion sharpening her words.

Patel taps her tablet. “Key-logger on a volunteer computer in the HR nook. He read every schedule change the moment you clicked Save.”

Ramirez blows out a breath. “He made our cameras blind with coffee stirrers and still waited a month. Why?”

“Because Jack Abbot was on nights,” Patel answers. “Our profile says Moylan wouldn’t act while a protective figure was consistently present. Abbot’s single day off became the window.”

Gloria’s jaw tightens, grief shading into rage.

Upstairs, at 06:12—the ventilator alarm yelps; your chest tube kicks out a dark surge. Garcia dashes in, adjusts suction, sighs when the numbers settle. Jack hovers behind her. She glances back, voice hoarse. “Go breathe, Abbot. She’s stable enough for twenty minutes.”

He shakes his head. “Was supposed to meet her on the roof at sunrise. I owe her the view.”

Garcia’s tired eyes soften just a fraction, her usual bite gone. “Then save it. There’s another dawn coming.”

He grips your badge, his nail playing with the edge of the freshly pressed scalpe sticker, the plastic warm from his sweat, and watches the steady pump of the ventilator. There he sits—until pale daylight begins to leak along the ICU windows.

Your vitals bob in a fragile rhythm. Odds still tilt against you, but each beeping heartbeat writes a promise: not finished yet. And for everyone gathered—surgeons running on caffeine fumes, detectives piecing together the how of horror, friends refusing to blink—the night becomes a vigil, a shared refusal to let the dark have the last line.

Down the corridor a clock clicks to 07:00. Shift change. Another dawn Jack will never see from the roof—but he glances at you, bruised and breathing, and decides this sunrise is happening right here, in the hush between monitors.

. . .

Darkness feels solid, almost architectural—an endless corridor of closed doors. You float somewhere in its center, weightless but not free, a body suspended by medicine while your mind paces on its own.

The first door cracks open, and you are twelve again, kneeling on your bedroom floor with a shoebox of mismatched screws. Other kids build forts; you sort hardware by length, head-type, finish—order blooming under your fingers. The quiet thrill of finding the system beneath the mess settles into your bones like a blueprint. If everything has a place, nothing feels out of control.

Another door: high-school cafeteria. A friend’s asthma attack sends panicked teenagers scattering. You don’t run—you kneel, prop her shoulders, count her breaths, coach her through the wheeze until the nurse arrives. That same thrum of purpose swells in your chest, louder than fear. Method birthed into mercy: There is always something you can steady.

Door three: nursing school, surgical rotation. You memorize clamp sizes the way others memorize song lyrics. Surgeons bark, but your trays are flawless. Patients bleed, but your hands don’t shake. Every precise motion says the same thing: Chaos can’t own me if I meet it with order.

The corridor bends. Lights dim. A door creaks that you don’t remember installing. You push through, and the air shifts—sterile at first, then sour. Cell-phone glow reveals walls papered with photos of you: walking to the parking deck, laughing in the staff lounge, rooftop at dawn. Each image is neatly labeled in handwriting that isn’t yours.

Your limbs feel heavy, dream-slow. Footsteps echo behind you—soft, deliberate. You turn, but the visitor stays just beyond peripheral vision, voice drifting like breath in your ear. “I watched you keep everyone else safe. Even him. But who keeps you safe?”

A glint—a scalpel tip catches the thin light.

Panic splinters the method. You reach for old anchors—breath counts, mental checklists—but the floor tilts, photos sliding like loose tiles. One after another the earlier doors slam shut, trapping you in this room of obsessive order twisted into threat.

You run, but the corridor loops back. Same door, same photos, same voice. “Don’t run,” it coax-pleads, as though worry and menace share the same mouth. Shadows swallow your hands, steal your capacity to sort, label, fix. Pulse hammers your ribs; breath snags.

Darkness thickens until it’s syrup in your lungs.

Monitors far away chirp frantic warnings—yet they feel foreign, as if wired to someone else. In here, time is a wheel rut: your methodical past feeding the stalker’s meticulous terror, spinning, spinning.

You try to scream for Jack, but medication drags the sound to the floor. Only a thin exhale leaves your lips in the real world—just enough for the ventilator to notice.

In the black corridor, you press your back to the wall, palms bleeding invisible splinters. There must be a place for this, you think, wild and desperate. Even nightmares obey some order. Your mind claws for a schema, some way to sort fear as you once sorted screws, but the photos multiply, falling like snow, until every scrap of vision is your own image, your own vulnerability catalogued.

The voice fades into a hiss—tireless, self-justifying—yet beneath it, softer vibrations reach you: the steady pump of a ventilator, the ripple of an IV, a distant heartbeat stronger than your own. You can’t see Jack, but the memory of his hand on your pulse thrums like a beacon. It isn’t method—it’s devotion—and for the first time in this loop you feel something stronger than dread.

Somewhere outside the morphine fog, voices pledge that dawn is coming, that hands stand ready to guide you back. But here, in the induced night, you walk the length of your own history—methodical footfalls echoing against walls lined with fear—searching for a door that leads forward instead of back.

divider credit

[mostlysignssomeportents]

What’s a “public internet?”

I'm in the home stretch of my 24-city book tour for my new novel PICKS AND SHOVELS. Catch me in LONDON (July 1) with TRASHFUTURE'S RILEY QUINN and then a big finish in MANCHESTER on July 2.

The "Eurostack" is a (long overdue) project to publicly fund a European "stack" of technology that is independent from American Big Tech (as well as other powers' technology that has less hold in Europe, such as Chinese and Russian tech):

https://www.euro-stack.info/

But "technological soveriegnty" is a slippery and easily abused concept. Policies like "national firewalls" and "data localization" (where data on a country's population need to be kept on onshore servers) can be a means to different ends. Data localization is important if you want to keep an American company from funneling every digital fact about everyone in your country to the NSA. But it's also a way to make sure that your secret police can lay hands on population-scale data about anyone they might want to kidnap and torture:

https://doctorow.medium.com/theyre-still-trying-to-ban-cryptography-33aa668dc602

At its worst, "technological sovereignty" is a path to a shattered internet with a million dysfunctional borders that serve as checkpoints where thuggish customs inspectors can stop you from availing yourself of privacy-preserving technology and prevent you from communicating with exiled dissidents and diasporas.

But at its best, "technological sovereignty" is a way to create world-girding technology that can act as an impartial substrate on which all manner of domestic and international activities can play out, from a group of friends organizing a games night, to scientists organizing a symposium, to international volunteer corps organizing aid after a flood.

In other words, "technological sovereignty" can be a way to create a public internet that the whole public controls – not just governments, but also people, individuals who can exercise their own technological self-determination, controlling crucial aspects of their own technology usage, like "who will see this thing I'm saying?" and "whose communications will I see, and which ones can I block?"

A "public internet" isn't the same thing as "an internet that is operated by your government," but you can't get a public internet without government involvement, including funding, regulation, oversight and direct contributions.

Here's an example of different ways that governments can involve themselves in the management of one part of the internet, and the different ways in which this will create more or less "public" internet services: fiber optic lines.

Fiber is the platinum standard for internet service delivery. Nothing else comes even close to it. A plastic tube under the road that is stuffed with fiber optic strands can deliver billions of times more data than copper wires or any form of wireless, including satellite constellations like Starlink:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/03/30/fight-for-44/#slowpokes

(Starlink is the most antifuturistic technology imaginable – a vision of a global internet that gets slower and less reliable as more people sign up for it. It makes the dotcom joke of "we lose money on every sale but make it up in volume" look positively bankable.)

The private sector cannot deliver fiber. There's no economical way for a private entity to secure the rights of way to tear up every street in every city, to run wires into every basement or roof, to put poles on every street corner. Same goes for getting the rights of way to string fiber between city limits across unincorporated county land, or across the long hauls that cross national and provincial or state borders.

Fiber itself is cheap like borscht – it's literally made out of sand – but clearing the thicket of property rights and political boundaries needed to get wire everywhere is a feat that can only be accomplished through government intervention.

Fiber's opponents rarely acknowledge this. They claim, instead, that the physical act of stringing wires through space is somehow transcendentally hard, despite the fact that we've been doing this with phone lines and power cables for more than a century, through the busiest, densest cities and across the loneliest stretches of farmland. Wiring up a country is not the lost art of a fallen civilization, like building pyramids without power-tools or embalming pharoahs. It's something that even the poorest counties in America can manage, bringing fiber across forbidden mountain passes on the back of a mule named "Ole Bub":

https://www.newyorker.com/tech/annals-of-technology/the-one-traffic-light-town-with-some-of-the-fastest-internet-in-the-us

When governments apply themselves to fiber provision, you get fiber. Don't take my word for it – ask Utah, a bastion of conservative, small-government orthodoxy, where 21 cities now have blazing fast 10gb internet service thanks to a public initiative called (appropriately enough) "Utopia":

https://pluralistic.net/2024/05/16/symmetrical-10gb-for-119/#utopia

So government have to be involved in fiber, but how should they involve themselves in it? One model – the worst one – is for the government to intervene on behalf of a single company, creating the rights of way for that company to lay fiber in the ground or string it from poles. The company then owns the network, even though the fiber and the poles were the cheapest part of the system, worth an unmeasurably infinitesimal fraction of the value of all those rights of way.

In the worst of the worst, the company that owns this network can do anything they want with its fiber. They can deny coverage to customers, or charge thousands of dollars to connect each new homes to the system. They can gouge on monthly costs, starve their customer service departments or replace them with mindless AI chatbots. They can skimp on maintenance and keep you waiting for days or weeks when your internet goes out. They can lard your bill with junk fees, or force you to accept pointless services like landlines and cable TV as a condition of getting the internet.

They can also play favorites with local businesses: maybe they give great service to every Domino's pizza place at knock-down rates, and make up for it by charging extra to independent pizza parlors that want to accept internet orders and stream big sports matches on the TV over the bar.

They can violate Net Neutrality, slowing down your connection to sites unless their owners agree to pay bribes for "premium carriage." They can censor your internet any way they see fit. Remember, corporations – unlike governments – are not bound by the First Amendment, which means that when a corporation is your ISP, they can censor anything they feel like:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/12/15/useful-idiotsuseful-idiots/#unrequited-love

Governments can improve on this situation by regulating a monopoly fiber company. They can require the company to assume a "universal service" mandate, meaning they must connect any home or business that wants it at a set rate. Governments can ban junk fees, set minimum standards for customer service and repair turnarounds, and demand neutral carriage. All of this can improve things, though its a lot of work to administer, and the city government may lack the resources and technical expertise to investigate every claim of corporate malfeasance, and to perform the technical analysis to evaluate corporate excuses for slow connections and bungled repairs.

That's the worst model: governments clear the way for a private monopolist to set up your internet, offering them a literally priceless subsidy in the form of rights of way, and then, maybe, try to keep them honest.

Here's the other extreme: the government puts in the fiber itself, running conduit under all the streets (either with its own crews or with contract crews) and threading a fiber optic through a wall of your choice, terminating it with a box you can plug your wifi router into. The government builds a data-center with all the necessary switches for providing service to you and your neighbors, and hires people to offer you internet service at a reasonable price and with reasonable service guarantees.

This is a pretty good model! Over 750 towns and cities – mostly conservative towns in red states – have this model, and they're almost the only people in America who consistently describe themselves as happy with their internet service:

https://ilsr.org/articles/municipal-broadband-skyrocket-as-alternative-to-private-models/

(They are joined in their satisfaction by a smattering of towns served by companies like Ting, who bought out local cable companies and used their rights of way to bring fiber to households.)

This is a model that works very well, but can fail very badly. Municipal governments can be pretty darned kooky, as five years of MAGA takeovers of school boards, library boards and town councils have shown, to say nothing of wildly corrupt big-city monsters like Eric Adams (ten quintillion congratulations to Zohran Mamdani!). If there's one thing I've learned from the brilliant No Gods No Mayors podcast, it's that mayors are the weirdest people alive:

https://www.patreon.com/collection/869728?view=condensed

Remember: Sarah Palin got her start in politics as mayor of Wasilla, Alaska. Do you want to have to rely on Sarah Palin for your internet service?

https://www.patreon.com/posts/119567308?collection=869728

How about Rob Ford? Do you want the crack mayor answering your tech support calls? I didn't think so:

https://www.patreon.com/posts/rob-ford-part-1-111985831

But that's OK! A public fiber network doesn't have to be one in which the government is your only choice for ISP. In addition to laying fiber and building a data-center and operating a municipal ISP, governments can also do something called "essential facilities sharing":

https://transition.fcc.gov/Bureaus/Common_Carrier/Orders/1999/fcc99238.pdf

Governments all over the world did this in the late 1990s and early 2000s, and some do it still. Under an essential facilities system, the big phone company (BT in the UK, Bell in Canada, AT&T and the Baby Bells in the USA) were required to rent space to their competitors in their data centers. Anyone who wants to set up an ISP can install their own switching gear at a telephone company central office and provide service to any business or household in the country.

If the government lays fiber in your town, they can both operate a municipal fiber ISP and allow anyone else to set up their own ISP, renting them shelf-space at the data-center. That means that the town college can offer internet to all its faculty and students (not just the ones who live in campus housing), and your co-op can offer internet service to its members. Small businesses can offer specialized internet, and so can informal groups of friends. So can big companies. In this model, everyone is guaranteed both the right to get internet access and the right to provide internet access. It's a great system, and it means that when Mayor Sarah Palin decides to cut off your internet, you don't need to sue the city – you can just sign up with someone else, over the same fiber lines.

That's where essential facilities sharing starts, but that's not where it needs to stop. When the government puts conduit (plastic tubes) in the ground for fiber, they can leave space for more fiber to fished through, and rent space in the conduit itself. That means that an ISP that wants to set up its own data center can run physically separate lines to its subscribers. It means that a university can do a point-to-point connection between a remote scientific instrument like a radio telescope and the campus data-center. A business can run its own lines between branch offices, and a movie studio can run dedicated lines from remote sound-stages to the edit suites at its main facility.

This is a truly public internet service – one where there is a publicly owned ISP, but also where public infrastructure allows for lots of different kinds of entities to provide internet access. It's insulated from the risks of getting your tech support from city hall, but it also allows good local governments to provide best-in-class service to everyone in town, something that local governments have a pretty great track record with.

The Eurostack project isn't necessarily about fiber, though. Right now, Europeans are thinking about technological sovereignty through the lens of software and services. That's fair enough, though it does require some rethinking of the global fiber system, which has been designed so that the US government can spy on and disconnect every other country in the world:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/10/weaponized-interdependence/#the-other-swifties

Just as with the example of fiber, there are a lot of ways the EU and member states could achieve "technological sovereignty." They could just procure data-centers, server software, and the operation of social media, cloud hosting, mobile OSes, office software, and other components of Europeans' digital lives from the private sector – sort of like asking a commercial operator to run your town's internet service.

The EU has pretty advanced procurement rules, designed to allow European governments to buy from the private sector while minimizing corruption and kickbacks. For example, there's a rule that the lowest priced bid that conforms to all standards needs to win the contract. This sounds good (and it is, in many cases) but it's how Newag keeps selling trains in Poland, even after they were caught boobytrapping their trains so they would immobilize themselves if the operator took them for independent maintanance:

https://media.ccc.de/v/38c3-we-ve-not-been-trained-for-this-life-after-the-newag-drm-disclosure

The EU doesn't have to use public-private partnerships to build the Eurostack. They could do it all themselves. The EU and/or member states could operate public data centers. They could develop their own social media platforms, mobile OSes, and apps. They could be the equivalent of the municipal ISP that offers fast fiber to everyone in town.

As with public monopoly ISPs, this is a system that works well, but fails badly. If you think Elon Musk is a shitty social media boss, wait'll you see the content moderation policies of Viktor Orban – or Emmanuel Macron:

https://jacobin.com/2025/06/france-solidarity-urgence-palestine-repression

Publicly owned data centers could be great, but also, remember that EU governments have never given up on their project of killing working encryption so that their security services can spy on everyone. Austria's doing it right now!

https://www.yahoo.com/news/austrian-government-agrees-plan-allow-150831232.html

Ever since Snowden, EU governments have talked a good line about the importance of digital privacy. Remember Angela Merkel's high dudgeon about how her girlhood in the GDR gave her a special horror of NSA surveillance?

https://www.bbc.com/news/world-us-canada-24647268

Apparently, Merkel managed to get over her horror of mass surveillance and back total, unaccountable, continuous digital surveillance over all of Germany:

https://www.hrw.org/news/2021/06/24/germanys-new-surveillance-laws-raise-privacy-concerns

So there's good reasons to worry about having your data – and your apps – hosted in an EU cloud.

To create a European public internet, it's neither necessary nor desirable to have your digital life operated by the EU and its member states, nor by its private contractors. Instead, the EU could make Eurostack a provider of technological public goods.

For example, the EU could work to improve federated social media systems, like Mastodon and Bluesky. EU coders could contribute to the server and client software for both. They could participate in future versions of the standard. They could provide maintenance code in response to bug reports, and administer bug bounties. They could create tooling for server administrators, including moderation tools, both for Mastodon and for Bluesky, whose "composable moderation" system allows users to have the final say over their moderation choices. The EU could perform and/or fund labelling work to help with moderation.

The EU could also provide tooling to help server administrators stand up their own independent Mastodon and Bluesky servers. Bluesky needs a lot of work on this, still. Bluesky's CTO has got a critical piece of server infrastructure to run on a Raspberry Pi for a few euros per month:

https://justingarrison.com/blog/2024-12-02-run-a-bluesky-pds-from-home/

Previously, this required a whole data center and cost millions to operate, so this is great. But this now needs to be systematized, so that would-be Bluesky administrators can download a package and quickly replicate the feat.

Ultimately, the choice of Mastodon or Bluesky shouldn't matter all that much to Europeans. These standards can and should evolve to the point where everyone on Bluesky can talk to everyone on Mastodon and vice-versa, and where you can easily move your account from one server to another, or one service to another. The EU already oversees systems for account porting and roaming on mobile networks – they can contribute to the technical hurdles that need to be overcome to bring this to social media:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/12/14/fire-exits/#graceful-failure-modes

In addition to improving federated social media, the EU and its member states can and should host their own servers, both for their own official accounts and for public use. Giving the public a digital home is great, especially if anyone who chafes at the public system's rules can hop onto a server run by a co-op, a friend group, a small business or a giant corporation with just a couple clicks, without losing any of their data or connections.

This is essential facilities sharing for services. Combine it with public data centers and tooling for migrating servers from and to the public server to a private, or nonprofit, or co-op data-center, and you've got the equivalent of publicly available conduit, data-centers, and fiber.

In addition to providing code, services and hardware, the EU can continue to provide regulation to facilitate the public internet. They can expand the very limited interoperability mandates in the Digital Markets Act, forcing legacy social media companies like Meta and Twitter to stand up APIs so that when a European quits their service for new, federated media, they can stay in touch with the friends they left behind (think of it as Schengen for social media, with guaranteed free movement):

https://www.eff.org/interoperablefacebook

With the Digital Service Act, the EU has done a lot of work to protect Europeans from fraud, harassment and other online horribles. But a public internet also requires protections for service providers – safe harbors and carve outs that allow you to host your community's data and conversations without being dragged into controversies when your users get into flamewars with each other. If we make the people who run servers liable for their users' bad speech acts, then the only entities that will be able to afford the lawyers and compliance personnel will be giant American tech companies run by billionaires like Elon Musk and Mark Zuckerberg.

https://pluralistic.net/2020/12/04/kawaski-trawick/#230

A "public internet" isn't an internet that's run by the government: it's a system of publicly subsidized, publicly managed public goods that are designed to allow everyone to participate in both using and providing internet services. The Eurostack is a brilliant idea whose time arrived a decade ago. Digital sovereignty projects are among the most important responses to Trumpism, a necessary step to build an independent digital nervous system the rest of the world can use to treat the USA as damage and route around it. We can't afford to have "digital soveriegnty" be "national firewalls 2.0" – we need a public internet, not 200+ national internets.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/06/25/eurostack/#viktor-orbans-isp

[yourcutelittlegayfriend]

LEMME TELL YOU SOMETHING! LEMME TELL YOU SOMETHING!!

*grabs your shirt and pulls you close*

DC/Batfamily x Witwicky! Reader x Transformers (Completely Platonic only)

where reader gets sent to Gotham when they're still a baby for their safety as a last resort (which is fckn crazy like cuz pick which one is worse Joker or Megatron) by their Witwicky relatives because of Optimus orders so they can distract the decepticons first and find them again when it's safe (Sam may or may not exist in this au).

First origin After that Reader grew up in an orphanage but became a prodigy because of their high IQ and fascinating inventions due to inheriting their -unknowingly- great great grandfather Archibald Amundsen Witwicky's intelligence (idk im just winging this) then becoming the youngest engineer/mechanic in the gotham (world idk) that caught the attention of Batman when they accidentally hacked the batcomputer something they kind of jokingly bet to their professor so they don't have to do their thesis but was peer pressured in the end.

Batcomputer : *Starts glitching*

Batfam: *slightly tensed but wants to figure out who's the insane dummy that tries to hack THE Batcomputer*

Screen:

Reader: Heeeeeyyyyy it's meeeeee a hard working college student that needs proof that I actually hacked your computer, so Imma just take a lil pic and we'll just go back to our regular programming okie? Okay! *takes a selfie with the whole ass batfamily in their screen*

Reader: Thanks Batman! keep up the good work now to destroy evidence of the crime scene (still on the screen) *Shuts their laptop and proceeds to throw it out the window after*

*Gets adopted by Bruce Wayne anyway because a 13 year old kid in college needs money -preferably in cash- support and a Billionaire with the history of adopting wacky kids wants them for funsies*

Reader : *sits in the batcave with the hacking video on repeat in the batcomputer, surrounded and outnumbered by the batfam* Fuuuucccckkkk

Or 2nd you were sent instead by Edmund Burton, Alfred was the best option to protect and take care of the last descendant of Merlin and youngest member of the Order of Witwiccans, you grew up under Bruce Wayne but used the last name Pennyworth as a disguise to hide your true lineage, you still end up becoming a prodigy and the sort of mechanic of the family (you literally 80-90% engineered and build the Batmobile and most of Batman's gadgets) you didn't end up becoming a vigilante/hero because you stive to be the normal one or The civilian member in the family, You're either a nephew/niece to Bruce or the living in Cousin to the kids, you bet your ass you're either partner in crimes with Tim/Barbara or you kept -humbly- beating their asses over being the smart ass in the family.

Tim: *Best at hacking, Tech and gadgetry, the more smart robin and on the line to become the Wayne inc CEO* I'm not bragging or anything.

(All robins are smart he's just abit on top)

Reader: *looks at their name in all of the blueprints of gadgets, weapons, suits, transportations, the batcomputer, the batmobile, the watchtower, the JL headquarters security/bldg and the upgraded batcave system* That's great Timmy! you really are the smartest! *side eye the stacked up and approved projects for Gotham Structural proposals as well as the contract papers for the new in line brand of Tech you're making and quickly hiding the shiny nameplate 'CEO of the most famous electronics brand' with your name engraved on it*

It can also be x Neglected Reader as well where any of the 2 is your origin but you barely get noticed by your family other than your inventions and because you really don't like being into the family business due to not having the physical advantage of literally punching someone in the face without breaking your hands first.

so you just exist and try to finish college and live away to find your other family/ Find Edmund or just travel the world.

Origins aside

The reason why you are so important is the location of the all spark that was supposed to be imprinted to Archie's glasses was transferred to his brain instead become wired inside and somehow passed down to you that's why Optimus needed you safe until they can send the Decepticons away and find you.

I can imagine it going down like this

The world was under a new threat either by Megatron, the decepticons, Unicorn or even The Quintessons no one yet knows other than J'onn J'onzz /Martian Manhunter and Hal or the whole Green Lantern Corps who were close or worked with the Autobots before were alerted by them to ask for help.

Optimus and the rest of the growing Autobots that were left in the planet as well as Edmund met up with the Justice League to have a discussion about the new threat and was surprised that they only need someone instead.

Batman: Why do you specifically need this someone?

Edmund: I have sent orders to the Witwicky family to send their child here in your city for their safety due to the facts they have the location of the all spark also being the last and youngest member of the Order of Witwiccans.

Zatanna: Wait The Witwiccans? the one Merlin founded?

Edmund: Precisely my dear but should also add that they are the last living descendant of Merlin

Constantine who drops his lit cigarette: Fuckin hell and here I thought that man died a virgin HA!

Superman: And what is the all spark?

Optimus Prime: The All spark is a very powerful and ancient artifact from our old planet Cybertron, it has been documented by our people that it has the essence of our creator Primus himself.

Justice League looks more concerned:

Batman: And what danger does it bring to earth?

Optimus and the rest file them in about the years of war between the Autobots and decepticons, the destruction of Cybertron, they're arrival to Earth and explaining why the All Spark must never land in the hands of someone like Megatron or anything one with evil intentions.

Superman: Then as a fellow Alien that has took refuge and promise to protect Earth, We will help you but you must promise not to endanger the life of this Witwicky kid.

Batman: Now the only problem we need to solve is their whereabouts.

Edmund: Oh don't bother with that I had Hot Rod and Bumblebee fetch them earlier this morning.

Cue in a racing expensive red Lamborghini and yellow Chevrolet Camaro before transforming in the air and lands with You in Bumblebee's hand.

Reader: Hi! I don't know what's happening I didn't do it if you think I'm the suspect, I won't tell you anything till I get my lawyer.

The rest are in shock to see tiny you while Edmund greets you and distracts you from the rest.

The batfam and the rest of the league looks at Batman for an explanation

The younger heroes and sidekicks are amaze when they got a proper introduction from who you are.

Not Neglected Reader part:

Batfam are more proud about you but a bit worried because of the large problem you now have to carry on your shoulders but is happy you got tons of literal giant robot aliens to protect you along with the other heroes.

Neglected Reader part:

Batfam are shock to know the real you and what amazing things you've been hiding from your family, not only are you this legendary person that can locate and has the power to use a life giving artifact you've also been hiding your true self from them as they watch you interact with the Autobots and how you become comfortable and be expressive to them, you might be small and just a kid to their eyes but to the Autobots it's like you're their world.

----

THAT'S ALL I GOT FOLKS!

Tell me if ya like it I might make this after I finish or laid down NMC! this doesn't have to be Yandere btw

[soxcietyy]

Secrets

Yuta x fem reader

18 +You were sent to by the higher ups to jujitsu high to investigate. Only to be found snooping by a special grade sorcerer. He has his way of making you rat yourself out. 18+

˚₊‧꒰𓆩 ♱ 𓆪꒱ ‧₊˚ don’t read this if your sensitive to non con, anal, crying, rape?

"There’s something odd going on in jujutsu tech in Tokyo. As you know we can’t really be sticking our noses in because of Gojo Saturo. So we are going to send you to go and investigate. Find anything you can and we’ll reward you." A higher up said as they sat behind a barrier that kept there identity hidden. It was a pretty dark room. Dimly lit by a sorry of an excuse lamp.

You cross your arms as you close your eyes to think about it. "Are you asking me or telling me?" You raise your brow.

"Telling you, please do we look like the type of people to ask for favors?" A old woman spoke.

"And if I don’t do it?" You ask.

"You have a chance of being executed for defying orders."

There’s not much else to talk about at but you don’t say anything. You rather let this be over with than dragging it out. You were confused why they picked you out of everyone thought. Was it because they sent you because you were out of the country for years and nobody will know who you are?

Walking out you grab your pocket knife and take a long look at it before heading out to your new mission. It didn’t take you long to get your destination, at least that’s what you tell yourself. You kept going in and out of sleep on the plane because of the time zone difference.

You stood Infront if the entrance of Jujutsu high and furrow your brows seeing it was wide open. No defense, security or opponent in sight. At least you would get to go home soon after this. Walking in you make sure not to be seen.

This mission had you peeking around corners, waiting for people to pass by and trying to listen for anything good. Unfortunately all people talked about was that they hated school exams. You sigh as you continue to wonder off. Walking further into the school had you thinking about the three names in your head that they told you to watch out for, Yuji, Maki and Fushiguru. You guessed there were the only people who would be an issue. As long as you don’t underestimate them everything shall be fine.

After what seemed like an hour of wondering around you decided to take a break. Sitting on top of a tree you comfortably sat down and awaited for something good to come towards you.

It was almost as the universe listened and responded. You hear faint voices getting louder and louder. Eventually they were so close that they could hear them. You freeze once you see it’s Gojo, you didn’t dare to move around that man. You’ve heard things about him and it was very concerning knowing what he is capable of doing.

You could hear him chatting over the phone about something important being in his office. He didn’t disclose what it was but I sounded good. He continued on saying they should meet tomorrow since he had plans today. Hearing this made you grin ear to ear, talk about luck huh?

When he left you slipped down the tree and went on your search for his office. It didn’t take long to find it because it was one of the biggest ones building and room wise. Stepping inside you look around to see a pile of papers sitting on the corner of the desk. You sigh seeing that you were going to have to search through the stack.

First you had to check the drawers first. Opening each and every one of them, leaving no spot unchecked. the first few had more papers and the last drawer had random trinket. Nothing too important so far. If only this man was organized and actually did his paper work.

After what seems forever you moved onto the stack of papers. You scanned each and every one of them no matter how insignificant they seemed. Then You heard the door creek open. You hesitated to turn around hoping you were just hearing things. There’s no way someone would be coming in here right? Before you could turn around you were launched to the wall.

You let out a shaky breath as you tried to stand up. Whoever just did that had a strong kick. You had made a dent on the wall and the sheetrock crumbled onto the floor. White powered covered all on your nice clothes. You groaned remembering that you had just gotten these. Looking up you could see someone standing there. It’s was someone you wernt quite familiar with. Then again you wernt familiar with anyone unless they were staff or higher ups. Eventually you stood up and brushed the debris off of you.

"That was really uncalled for you know." You say.

"I don’t think you have the right to be saying that when your snooping around where your not supposed to." He says.

"Right, how about you just let me go home and pretend none of this happen." You approach him trying to come off as friendly. Your hand secretly slipping in your pocket to get your knife. Before you could get any closer you saw a big black blob that pinned you against the wall. You groan and see a huge curse spirit Infront of you. Your eyes widen as it screamed at you. Saliva and bad breath hitting you all at once. You start to panic realizing who he was.

Yuta Okkotsu, the one who helped defeat Geto, the special grade sorcerer, the top of his class, the one who got sent to Africa to study aboard. You could literally pee yourself right now. Your try’s to escape from the curses grasp but she pinned you to the wall really hard.

"Don’t try running away now. Who are you? Who sent you and why are you here?" He asks as he got closer. At this point he was a few inches away from you.

"You’re acting like I would just tell you so easily. I’m also a special grade and you’re going to regret messing with me." You were lying through your teeth hoping he would back off.

"Special grade huh? I always wondered how tough others are." He says putting his sword the rested on his back on the desk.

What did he mean by that?

"What are you trying to say?" You ask him

"I’m just wondering how much are you willing to handle before breaking and giving in." He says as snaps his fingers. With that the curse spirit is gone making you drop to the floor.

You didn’t last long there since he grabbed you by the arm and threw you onto the desk you were just searching not to long ago. You grunt as he forces your arms onto your back. Once again you try to free yourself with no success. He kicks open a drawer and pulls out some sort of black rope. Tying your hands up tightly so you wouldn’t be able to free yourself.

You then feel as he pulls your bottoms down and your panties. You squirm trying to escape and end up falling onto the floor. You could hear a chuckle come out of him as he leans down and grabs your face.

"Ready to answer some questions?" He asks.

You shake your head repeatedly not giving in. If you did the higher ups would punish you for opening your mouth.

He lets out a sigh as he pushes your face onto the floor and lifts your hips up in the air. With your knees on the hard cold floor. This wasn’t that bad right? Maybe he was just trying to scare you. And if not at least he was a good looking guy. Plus you’ve done it a handful of times already.

Hearing him unzip his pants made your heart race. He spanked you a couple of times before spitting on you. You roll your eyes feeling how he missed and spit onto the wrong hole. Not everyone could be perfect you guessed.

You waited for him to insert it in but something felt off when he rested his cock in the back entrance. There was no way, no possible way he was about to do that. No way he was about to insert it in your a-

You felt a sharp pain in your unused hole. "Wait, wait, wait." You yell with wide eyes.

Fortunately he stopped and looked at you.

"Please anywhere but there, iv never used that before." You begged him.

"Then answer my question." He said

You lay there in silence for a few seconds before he continued. You felt like you were dying. Like he was ripping your insides apart. He shoved himself all the way deep down to the point of you shaking. Tears rolled down your face. He grabbed you by the hair and made you look at him.

"Ready to give in?" He asks.

You shake your head slowly as you dug your nails in your hand. He dropped your head and started going in and out of you. You cried and begged him to stop. You tried to run away so many times just for him to drag you back in position. He ignored you please for help. The only way he was going to listen was by you telling him everything.

You squeeze your eyes shut. "M sorry, so sorry, I didn’t mean to be snooping around. I was made to do this, I didn’t want to." You cry.

"Who made you do it?" He says as he continued plowing your Virgin hole.

"C-can’t say, they’re probably going to execute me. Please Yuta I can’t no more." You sob.

He stopped once again and pulled out. He took a second to admire your gaping hole.

"Just tell me everything and I’ll stop. I promise I won’t let them do anything to you." He runs his hand down your spine. You shake under his touch as he stares you down.

He shoves it back in earning a desperate moan from you. Moans of pain and despair that filled your eyes with more tears. He kept going in and out of you so many times. Eventually you couldn’t anymore.

"I give in, please I’m done." You shout.

He pulls out of you and sits you up so your on his lap. Face tainted with tears and pain. "Y/n, my name is y/n L/n." You say as your breathing heavily. "I wasn’t sent here to investigate by the higher up. I didn’t want to but I was forced to. I’m sorry." You cry.

He held you in his arms as you cry on his shoulder. Untying the knot on your arms with the rope he took from Gojos drawer.

"I’m sorry too but all you needed to say was that and nothing would have happened. You know I hate to say this but you look so good crying. Just makes me want to mess with you more." He says caressing your head. He pulls you back to take another good look at you.

"Now run along little mouse."

[brunolover808]

@hom3land3r (Starter)

"Currently at Vought International anyone special can live the dream of being a hero. Our biggest name around the United States is The Homelander. A rising star among the greatest powers in Vought. Progress in the making. A brighter future for the next generation."

Vought, a name commonly listed on products, newspapers, radio channels, and even spoken at the dinner table. A company that is not uncommon these days.

Vought is known for the arsenal of heroes and security. Classified information is kept under wraps. Classified personnel are kept on strict rules. No matter the situation, person, or hero, Vought keeps everything locked down. The security surrounding the company facilitates the raw power and money they hold.

Personnel chosen by Vought go under background checks, giant stacks of paperwork to get them approved for possible work, then they are reminded by strict policies and NDAs. That is for normal employees. There are a very select few who Vought owns.

In the case of a Supe is found to be put into a situation of the parents releasing parental rights. There is a system that deals with collecting the potential heroes of the future. Which brings the few chosen to be under the protection and care of Vought International. Given the highest quality of training and education provided to keep the world safe.

Tap, tap, tap, step, turn, step. The air turning from metallic and heavy with gasoline to stuffy and over used cleaning products. The smell of corporate cleanliness was disgusting and unnecessarily strong on the main floor. Entering the tower there is first a long front desk wrapped around the center wall that likely hid the main support beams of the building. The flooring led with hints of texture towards a couple of security guards and what looked to be the highest tech for metal detectors. Past that was sectioned off walls, elevators, café, and the main bustling of corporate employees.

So much was going on already, yet nothing pierced the metal and fabric of wired headphones. Chunky, heavily pressed against ruffled jet black shoulder shoulder length hair. The speakers squeak with tremble as the figure turns to the security. The first guard raised a hand which was lowered the moment the headphones were taken off.

"Empty your pockets and bag on the table before walking through." A brief exchange between the guard and the woman.

Silence from the woman's end as the headphones and a walkman. The two items stretched a good technical jump, but could easily be found locally. The woman drops her bag on the table before walking through. Nothing detected that wasn't obvious to see, but the security still does a pat down before letting her go. The woman grabbed her items and continued on. The dark hair swayed, leading the eye to a baggy black jacket, black button up slightly tucked into cargo pants, and old sneakers that saw better days. The dark eyes looked around before landing on the elevator. Stepping towards the direction there was a noticeable change as she passed others. Her express is dark, cold, and unwelcoming. She did not speak even as she got on the elevator and tapped the floor she needed to go to. Silent, uninterested.

To no one's surprise the elevator was quick. The doors open and close with each floor till the woman stepped off. Almost an instant sigh of relief from those still on the metal box.

Briefly the hallway looked white, medical almost, but after walking through a door it looked industrial. Cement, dim lighting, hues of blue. Nothing too uncommon for back walkways to a certain room. At the end of the hall there was a double door and with ease the woman opened them to find a densely padded and concrete room. Had aspects of a dojo and gym. A training room for Vought's greatest heroes.

A new face was there to welcome the woman. "I am so glad you could find your way here. I did tell the front desk to have an escort, but you are a smart girl who knows how to follow directions. Welcome to Vought Tower Amrita" Madelyn Stillwell, the current agent over Homelander and, as far as Amrita knew, the Seven.

"It was not hard." Amrita sighs out before flicking a strand of hair out of her face. "So I was told that I would be training Supes for Vought."

"You are going to be training The Seven for Vought, but I want you to take over someone's training specifically." Her lips curling into a fake smile that would be award winning.

"Homelander." Amrita interrupted shortly as to not dillydally this warm welcome.

"Exactly, our rising star has been needing some refreshers on combat and other life saving acts. Which is why after hearing we produced the perfect Supe to train other Supes, I could not resist insisting on your employment here." Madelyn's words are very particular as though she was not trying to say that their golden boy was failing at being a hero. "I do want to inform you that your quarters will be on this floor and you can leave whenever you like after you make sure all training sessions are finished."

Amrita didn't act honored or anything all she did was look off past the blonde woman. She just wanted to get this over so she didn't have to socialize with her boss. "Where is the boy wonder?" She said already taking steps to wander the training area.

[xlettex]

Deception || tetsurou kuroo Yakuza AU - Chapter Seven

From the moment you looked into his eyes, you knew—he was nothing but trouble. Everyone warned you. Stay away from him. Don’t get involved. But you never listened. Tetsurou Kuroo, better known as Kurai, is the infamous yakuza boss of Japan. Just mentioning his name is enough to send shivers down spines and silence conversations in dimly lit alleyways. He is a force of nature—deceitful, ruthless, and dangerously unpredictable. A man who bends the world to his will, leaving chaos in his wake. And yet, to you… he is irresistible. You crave him — his touch, his warmth, the way he sets your skin on fire with just a glance. He makes you feel invincible like you can take on the world. But loving him is a double-edged sword. Because just as he lifts you up, he destroys you.

pairing - tetsurou kuroo x reader genre - action romance, crime romance, dark romance, erotica/smut rating - 18+ MINORS DNI chapter word count - 11.4k content warning - violence, drugs and alcohol, illegal activities, sexual content, angst. see each chapter for specific warnings.

Authors Note - This fanfic is inspired by the amazing fanart of the tetsurou kuroo mafia au (found image on pinterest, help me find the artist - I want to credit them). Disclaimer - This is a work of fiction, I do not condone the act of illegal activities, violence, or romanticization of the yakuza. Read at your own risk.

chapter six <- chapter seven -> chapter eight

✯ chapter-specific warnings - smoking, alcohol, mild physical coercion, violence, threats, burn injury, illegal activity, manipulation, surveillance ✯

"Then who the fuck was watching me?"

You barely have time to register the words leaving your mouth before his fingers wrap around your wrist—tight, unyielding.

"Tetsurou—"

No response. He’s already moving. His grip is firm, dragging you toward the elevator with no hesitation, no explanation. You pull back and try to resist, but he doesn’t let go. The ding of the elevator echoes too loud in the silence. He presses a button—not the penthouse, not the lobby.

Somewhere in between. Somewhere you haven’t been before. Your pulse pounds. "Tetsurou, where are we going?" You demand, twisting against his hold, but his fingers dig in.

No answer. His jaw is set, his golden eyes cold, unreadable. The calmness unsettles you. The elevator doors slide open—And suddenly—you realize you don’t belong here.

This floor is nothing like the rest of the building. The lighting is dimmer and functional. The space is open, but not empty. There are people. Men you don’t recognize are busy, moving with purpose. Your breath catches.

The first thing you notice is the rows of desks lining one side of the floor—high-tech monitors glowing in the dim light, flashing live security feeds, maps, and transaction logs. The air hums with the sound of low voices, rapid typing, and shifting movement.

But the rest of the room—that’s what makes your stomach drop.

To the left, two men stand over an open crate of guns, checking the magazines, the barrels, and the weight. One of them—tall, muscular, with a sharp grin—twirls a knife between his fingers like it’s second nature.

Behind them, another group of men are sorting stacks of cash, flipping through banded bundles as they talk in hushed voices. A third stands nearby, weighing something in a small plastic bag before sealing it shut.

Further back, a taller gray-haired man—Lev, you realize—leans against a desk, speaking quietly with someone.

You pause.

The other man is about Lev’s height, brown hair, serious expression—someone you don’t recognize. Their conversation is low and unreadable. Then—you see it.

A tattoo. Just barely visible. A thin, curling tail peeking out the edge of his t-shirt sleeve.

Your stomach tightens. Something about it feels off. You don’t know why, and you don’t have time to think about it. Because Tetsurou keeps walking, his grip still firm around your wrist.

As you move through the room, the weight of everything presses in. The quiet efficiency, the sheer number of people at work—the kind of power that doesn't need to be spoken aloud. And that’s when you realize—

This isn’t just influence. This is organized. Efficient. Untouchable. This wasn’t just a room full of criminals.This was a system. A machine.

And Tetsurou walks through it like he owns every breath in this room. Because he does. No one even looks up. No one stops to acknowledge him. No one stiffens or startles or acts like they need to pretend this isn’t happening. Because to them, this is normal.

You’re seeing another side of him. Another side of this place. And the more time you spend with him, the more you uncover. The realization sends a chill through you.

Tetsurou doesn’t slow down. Not until he reaches a heavy steel door and throws it open with his free hand. The room is large but crowded. A long black table sits at the center, occupied by several men.

You recognize three of them immediately. They were in the penthouse last night. Not just sitting with Tetsurou. Sitting at his table.

Your breath hitches. They were important enough to be there. Now they’re here. But there are two others you don’t recognize.

Two new faces. One of them—sharp-eyed, arms crossed, dark hair spiked upward—leans back like this is routine. The other, tan skin, buzzed hair, an easy smirk despite the tension in the air, drums his fingers against the table.

You don’t know who they are. You don’t know what they do. But you feel it—they belong here. You don’t.

The conversation in the room continues, low voices discussing something about distribution, new routes, shipments needing confirmation. It almost feels like a business meeting.

Almost.

"I still think the western blocks should be handled separately," the one with the shaved head says, tapping his fingers against the table. His expression is sharp, calculating.

"Yeah, but if we separate the supply, we risk slowing the movement," another argues, voice rough but certain.

The one with the shaved head scoffs. "It’s not about movement. It’s about control, Kai."

Kai. The name clicks instantly—he’s the one who pushed back.

"Tell that to the ones making the deliveries," someone else mutters, arms crossed.

"You think they give a shit about control? They care about getting paid."

A fourth voice joins in—calm, uninterested.

"Alright, alright, we get it. Yaku wants order, Kai wants speed, and Noya just wants to punch something—"

Yaku. Noya. Two names. Two men at this table.

The shorter one, with dark hair spiked upward, grins. "You’re not wrong."

Your mind clicks the pieces together. So that’s Noya. Another piece of the puzzle you don’t fully understand.

But it’s not the names that send a sharp, sinking weight into your stomach. It’s the product they’re talking about. Shipments. Routes. Distribution. Drugs. Not office supplies. Not stolen goods. Not something you could pretend was anything but what it was.

The words click together too fast, too sharp. You knew Tetsurou was powerful. You knew he had influence. But this? This is organized crime. This is a system designed to thrive in the dark, in the spaces the law can’t reach. Your fingers curl into fists. What the fuck has Tetsurou pulled you into? And then—

Tetsurou moves—not letting go. With a firm pull, he sinks into a seat, dragging you down beside him in one smooth motion. It isn’t rough, but it isn’t gentle either—a silent command, not a choice. Your pulse stutters.

By the time you register what’s happened, you’re already seated—his fingers still wrapped around your wrist, warm and unyielding. Then—his eyes flick toward two men at the end of the table.

"Tanaka. Noya." His voice is flat. Uninterested. Final.

They look up. You don’t need to guess who he’s talking to. You already know one of them—Noya. Which means—

Your eyes flick toward the shaved-headed man beside him. Tanaka.

"Out."

A beat of silence.

"The fuck, boss—?" Tanaka starts, brows knitting together, but the look Tetsurou gives him shuts him up before he can finish.

Tetsurou doesn’t explain. Doesn’t even look at them. Just—"Now."

The amusement from earlier is gone. They don’t argue. They just exchange a glance, push back from their seats, and leave. The door clicks shut. And the air shifts. The weight of the room settles. This isn’t just business. This is something else.

A pause.

And then—

Tetsurou doesn’t waste time. "Kenma I want security footage from every street near the hospital—and inside it—for the last twenty-four hours." His voice is sharp. Cold. Final. The entire room shifts. 

At the center of the table, the man whose eyes haven’t left a screen since you walked in exhales through his nose, fingers already moving over the keyboard. Quick. Precise. Efficient. 

You watch, pulse steady but alert. Another piece clicks into place.

"What are we looking for?" His voice is calm, almost bored.

Kenma. Another name, another thread in a web you still don’t fully understand.

Tetsurou’s gaze stays locked on the screens. "Her."

Your breath catches.

Kenma doesn’t hesitate. His fingers tap a final command, and the footage refocuses. The screen zooms in. And then – your own face stares back at you. Your mouth parts. You. Standing inside the hospital, near the nurse’s station. Talking to a man. But his face is never shown. 

The camera tracks him walking through the hospital toward the exit, but his back is always to the lens. Kenma switches to the outside street cam. The man walks toward an alley. Then—a flicker of static. The footage cuts out for 0.2 seconds. When it returns—the alley is empty. 

Kenma exhales slowly. "That’s not normal." 

Tetsurou’s fingers flex at his side. Then—he turns to you. And suddenly, you realize you’re the only thing in this room that matters right now. His grip on your wrist tightens. Not painful. Not yet. Just a silent demand.

"What did he say to you?" 

Your pulse skips. "I—" you start, but his stare pins you in place. Unwavering. Expectant. 

His patience is thin. You can feel it. His fingers press against your wrist—deliberate, firm, coaxing. He says your name. But the way he says it isn't a request. It's a command. Your throat tightens. You try to piece it together. Try to remember. And then, it comes back.

"He was standing there, just watching me, like he was waiting for me to say something first."

His fingers flex slightly around your wrist. "And?"

You exhale. "I was pissed. I—" you swallow, shifting under the weight of his stare. "I told him to tell you to go fuck yourself."

Something dark flickers behind Tetsurou’s eyes. His fingers flex once. Then tighten. Just for a second.

And the room shifts. A low, unimpressed whistle from—Kai. Kenma doesn’t even turn from his screen, but his fingers pause mid-typing. The shorter, sharp-eyed man—Yaku—lets out a quiet huff, shaking his head like he’s impressed.

Tetsurou doesn’t blink. The others might be entertained, but he isn’t.

"And what did he say to that?"

You hesitate, "…nothing, at first. He just—tilted his head. Studied me."

Silence.

The reaction is immediate.

Yaku’s amusement dims. Kai folds his arms, expression hardening. Kenma finally looks up. 

Tetsurou’s jaw locks.

"He wasn’t flustered. He wasn’t caught off guard. He just—looked at me. Like he was… interested." Your words feel wrong, even as you say them.

Tetsurou’s fingers flex against your wrist again.

"Then he said, ‘that’s a lot of anger. He must really want to keep an eye on you.’"

The room is too quiet. A muscle in Tetsurou’s jaw ticks.

"I told him you didn’t need to keep an eye on me." Your voice sounds distant like you’re replaying a movie in your head. "I told him to back off."

Tetsurou’s voice is low. Flat. Dangerous. "And?"

"He smirked. And then he just said— ‘Noted.’"

His grip tightens enough that you finally wince. His jaw locks. His fingers flex. And then—He lets go. Sharp. Abrupt. Like he’s the one forcing himself to step back. Like if he held on any longer, he wouldn’t let go at all. His fingers flex at his sides instead—like he’s physically stopping himself from reacting.

The other men are watching now. Their amusement has faded into silence. Waiting. For what?

You’re not sure.

"Did anything about him stand out to you?" His voice is controlled. Too controlled.

"He was wearing all black. Long sleeves. A hat covered his hair. He was a couple inches taller than me."

You hesitate.

"I don’t know." The words feel hollow, uncertain. "There were no defining features," you murmur. "No details to cling to. Nothing memorable."

And that’s what unsettles you the most.

Tetsurou’s voice is low. "And you thought he was one of mine?"

You nod. “He sure let me believe it.”

A beat.

Tetsurou exhales slowly. His fingers flex again at his sides. The air around him feels heavier. Like he’s barely holding something back. Something dangerous.

A long pause.

Then—

"Kenma."

Kenma’s fingers are already moving.

"Run deeper scans. Find me anyone who works this clean. Start with known fixers, contract men—anyone who could wipe themselves from surveillance this fast."

Kenma tilts his head slightly, considering.  "And if they’re not in the system?"

"Then find the people who know them."

The room shifts.

Kai leans forward, arms crossed. "Could be an independent. A freelancer. Someone outside the network."

Yaku shakes his head. "Doubt it. He let her think he was one of ours. That’s not random."

"I don’t get it." The words slip out before you can stop them. "He didn’t touch me. Didn’t even threaten me. Why does he matter this much?"

The conversation stops—flatlines. Tetsurou’s fingers still against the table. The others don’t say anything. They just wait. His jaw tightens.

"Because whoever it was—" His voice is low, even. "They got too close to you."

You blink. Your throat feels tight, but you say nothing.

His golden eyes snap to yours. “I told you I’d keep you safe."

Something about the way he says it—low, final, like it’s a fact rather than a promise—makes your stomach twist. 

"And I am safe." The words leave your mouth before you can fully think them through. A reflex. A truth you shouldn’t believe. But you do. You inhale, steadying yourself before continuing. Your voice isn’t defensive, but there’s an edge to it. "I would’ve known if he was dangerous."

Tetsurou’s stare doesn’t waver. "No, you wouldn’t have."

It’s not condescending. It’s not dismissive. It’s just the truth. And you don’t know why that makes you feel so much smaller.

He shifts. Straightens. Moves toward the door. Opens it.

"Lev."

The name is flat. Sharp. Seconds later, Lev appears—tall, blinking, confused but ready. 

He doesn’t look at you. "Take her upstairs."

Your stomach drops. "Wait—"

Tetsurou eyes meet yours. Slowly. Deliberately. And the moment his golden eyes lock onto yours, something heavy settles in your chest.

"You don’t need to see this."

Your pulse kicks against your ribs, sharp and frantic. "Are you serious?" Your voice cuts through the room, sharp with disbelief as you push to your feet. "You think you can just pull me into this—show me all of this—and then shut me out when it suits you?"

A muscle in his jaw ticks. His voice is low. "Trust me when I say—this isn’t something you need to be part of."

Lev hesitates beside you, shifting his weight like he isn’t sure if he should intervene. Like he doesn’t want to. Because right now, the air between you and Tetsurou feels like a loaded gun.

The silence presses down, thick and suffocating. 

Your pulse jumps. This isn’t just him—it’s them. The men at the table. Watching. Waiting. You knew what it meant to challenge someone like Tetsurou in front of an audience. The tension in the room was sharp, stretching tight like a wire about to snap.

Walk away. Don’t do this.

Your stomach twists. You could. You should. But then you meet his gaze—golden, unwavering, waiting—and something sharp claws up your spine. Your fingers curl into a fist at your side. No. No more being shut out. You take a step forward, lifting your chin, your body drawn tight with defiance.

"No."

Tetsurou stills.

"No?"

Your heart pounds, but you don’t back down. You don’t care that the room is watching. You don’t care that every inch of him radiates quiet authority, unshakable power. Because if you back down now, you’ll never have control of your own choices again.

"You heard me." Your voice is sharper now, more venomous, more unrelenting. Even though your pulse betrays you. "I’m either in or I’m out—you don’t get to decide for me."

A sharp inhale. The faintest twitch of his jaw. And then—he moves.

Fast. Decisive.

His hand wraps around your wrist, firm and unyielding.

Not rough.  Not cruel. But final. He pulls you forward.  Not hard. Just enough. Just close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath. Just close enough that your heartbeat stutters against your ribs. The weight of him is there, inches from you, curling like something inevitable. Your pulse spikes.

His fingers tighten, just slightly—just enough to remind you he’s stronger. Just enough to remind you he doesn’t have to hold on any harder.

"I told you, no more attitude." His voice is low—softer than you expect, but laced with warning.

The heat of his grip burns into your skin. Your breath catches—not from fear, but from the fact that he’s too close again, that you can feel the weight of his presence curling around you like smoke.

You try to yank your arm away, but his fingers tighten just slightly. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to make sure you understand. And then, after a beat—his voice drops even lower.

"I haven’t forgotten our unfinished conversation."

A sharp, twisting knot tightens in your gut—you already know exactly what he’s talking about. Because this—this moment, this battle of control—was always his to win.

The realization sinks into you like stone, heavy and immovable. Your pulse stutters—not just from his closeness, not just from the way his fingers tighten around your wrist—but from the slow, creeping realization that you never really had a chance.

Not here. Not with him. You swallow, but it does nothing to ease the dryness in your throat.

"We’ll talk more later."

His breath is warm against your skin. His presence is overwhelming. And for one infuriating second—

You think he might do something else. Might pull you even closer. Might say something final, something that would break whatever resolve you have left. But he doesn’t.

Instead—

He lets go. Abrupt. Sharp. Like he’s the one forcing himself to step back. Like touching you any longer would be a mistake. He turns away. And just like that—

Lev’s hand ghosts over your elbow. A signal to move.  A silent dismissal.  

And Tetsurou? He’s already turning back to his men, sinking into his seat.  Like the conversation never happened.  Like you were never even here.

The door clicks shut.

You're gone.

Finally.

And yet—

He can still feel you.

Like a phantom thread woven into his ribs, tightening with every breath. An absence that isn’t really an absence at all, because you linger. Beneath his skin. In the space you just occupied. In the fucking air.

He tells himself it’s good that you’re out of the room. That you don’t belong here. That he doesn’t want you here. And yet—

His fingers flex against the table. Harder. Then again. Like he’s trying to shake something off. Because he’s lying. To himself. To them. To everyone but you. Because you would’ve seen right through it.

“He didn’t touch me. Didn’t even threaten me. Why does he matter this much?"

His jaw clenches so tight it aches. You don’t fucking get it. You don’t understand the weight of what you’re saying. You don’t understand how fast people disappear in this world. How easy it is for a body to be there one second, and gone the next. You think you would’ve known. You think you would’ve seen it coming.

And that—

That’s what’s eating him alive. Because you wouldn’t have. Not until it was too late. Until you were already in someone else’s hands. Until he found your body, cold and empty, and fuck—

His pulse spikes at the thought, acid curling low in his stomach—sharp, bitter, fucking unbearable. That isn’t going to happen. Because he won’t let it. His grip tightens around the edge of the table, knuckles going white. He inhales, slow, measured—because if he doesn’t, he might break something.

You’re already making him reckless. Already making him think in ways he shouldn’t. You’re making him feel things he shouldn’t. He should’ve kept his distance. Should’ve let you slip out of his world the second you put his stitches in. 

But he didn’t. Because he saw something in you. Something rare. Something dangerous. You’re not like the others. You’re not scared of him. Not careful enough around him. You’re sharp, but not sharp enough. And that should make you a liability. Should make him cut you loose before you become a weakness. But you’re not a weakness. You’re a fucking liability. Because you’re in his head. Because you’re in this world now. Because—

"You’re still staring." Kenma’s voice cuts through the silence.

Kuroo blinks. His jaw tightens. He hadn’t even realized—he’s still facing the door.

The door you walked out of.

"Shut up, Kenma."

Kenma leans back in his chair, stretching his arms behind his head, his eyes too sharp despite his casual posture. And then, he says it. "For someone who wants her ‘out of this,’ you sure are pulling her in deeper."

A slow, knowing statement. Like he’s testing something. Like he already knows the answer.

Kuroo’s fingers tighten around the table. A muscle ticks in his jaw.

Kenma watches him, unimpressed. Then—another push. "Or should I send her an invitation to our next strategy meeting?"

Yaku lets out a low exhale, shifting slightly like he doesn’t want to be involved in whatever the fuck this is.

Kai doesn’t look up, but the corner of his mouth twitches, like he’s holding back a laugh.

Kuroo exhales through his nose, slow, sharp. Like he’s holding back something worse. His hand twitches, fingers flexing against the surface of the table, like he’s considering breaking something just to shut Kenma up.

Kenma just tilts his head, watching.

Waiting.

And that’s what makes it worse.

Kuroo drags a hand through his hair, his fingers briefly digging into his scalp before dropping. Like he’s trying to clear his head. Like he’s trying to erase the feeling of you still lingering on his skin.

"Just admit it, Kuro." Kenma’s voice is calm, and detached. Too fucking knowing. "You're holding on pretty tight for someone who is always so good at letting go."

The words land too easily, too deliberately, too fucking true. And the worst part? He wasn’t sure he ever wanted to let go.

Kuroo’s teeth clench. He doesn’t answer. Because Kenma’s right. And that pisses him off more than anything else.

His molars grind together, sharp and deliberate. Like he’s trying to shove the lingering weight of your presence out of his mind. It doesn’t work. Because even though you’re upstairs—out of sight, out of his business—he knows your mind is still running.

Knows you won’t just sit there quietly, waiting. You’re not like that. You’re not the kind of person who can let things go. And sure enough—

You’re pacing.

The realization sat uneasily in your chest, curling around your ribs, pressing into your thoughts no matter how hard you tried to shove it away. Somewhere out there, a man had stood in front of you, watched you, studied you, let you believe he belonged to Tetsurou’s world—and then disappeared. No name. No defining features. Just a blank space where a person should have been.

You had told yourself that it didn’t matter. That whoever he was, he hadn’t hurt you. That he had walked away, nothing more. But then why couldn’t you shake the feeling that it wasn’t over? That he was still out there? That this was only the beginning? You inhaled slowly, forcing the thought down, forcing yourself back into the present.

Maybe that was why you found yourself wandering now—pacing through the penthouse, fingers brushing over surfaces, searching for something you couldn’t name. A distraction. Something to anchor you. Anything to stop your mind from circling back to that man, to that smirk, to the way he had disappeared like he had never been there at all.

But the penthouse gave you nothing.

The silence was the first thing you noticed. Not the kind that came with peace, but the kind that felt unnatural—like a house meant to be lived in but wasn’t. Everything was precise, methodical, untouched. Like stepping into a model home, pristine but hollow. The furniture was arranged with surgical precision, the air crisp with the faintest trace of cologne and something sharper, something clean—sterile, even.

There was nothing out of place. No clutter. No forgotten glass left on the counter. No signs of exhaustion—of someone rushing out in the morning, returning late at night. No quiet traces of a life unfolding in real time.

Just control. 

Cold. Unyielding. Absolute.

Walking through the space felt like moving through an exhibit—a carefully curated illusion, meant to be observed but never touched. Despite the grandeur, despite the wealth woven into every inch of the penthouse, it didn’t feel like a home. It felt like a holding cell.

You kept walking, but the feeling followed you.

Then, you saw his door.

You didn’t have to check to know which one it was. It stood apart—not physically, but in the way the air around it felt heavier, thicker. In the way your instincts warned you, loud and clear—do not cross that line. Not because it was locked. Not because you couldn’t. But because you shouldn’t. Even standing too close, even letting your eyes linger too long on that door felt like inviting something you weren’t ready for. So you didn’t. You forced yourself to keep moving.

And then—you saw it.

A door, slightly ajar, barely noticeable. You paused, fingers hovering just short of pushing it open. It didn’t have the same weight as Testurou’s. It didn’t warn you away. Instead, something about it felt…. forgotten. A space left untouched not out of discipline, but neglect. You hesitated. 

Then—slowly—you pushed it open. And stepped inside.

This room was different. The air inside was heavier—not thick with smoke or the crisp scent of cologne like the rest of the penthouse, but stale, untouched—with the faintest trace of jasmine clinging to it.

It lacked the pristine upkeep that seemed to define the rest of Tetsurou’s world. The lighting was dimmer, dust gathered in places that shouldn’t have dust, the furniture settled in a way that didn’t match the sharp, controlled symmetry of the rooms before.

And for the first time since stepping foot into this place, you felt like you were somewhere you weren’t supposed to be.

Your gaze swept over the details, taking in the small, quiet signs of abandonment. A music stand in the corner, empty and unused. A bookshelf, filled with worn-down sheet music, edges curled from time and handling, so unlike the polished, untouched kind meant for decoration. And then—your eyes landed on a side table.

A single framed photo sat there, facedown.Like someone had once placed it there with purpose and then—forgotten it. Your fingers twitched at your side. You almost picked it up.

Almost.

But something about the way it rested there—deliberate, undisturbed, left alone for a reason—made you hesitate. Instead, your attention was drawn elsewhere.

To the center of the room. To the piano. A grand, polished black piano, sitting in quiet stillness, its surface catching the dim light in glossy streaks, the lid shut like a secret left unsaid.

It didn’t belong here. Or rather, it did—but not in a place like this. It should have been somewhere warm, somewhere lived-in, somewhere filled with music instead of silence.

And yet, it was here.

Waiting.

For someone to return. For someone to play. And suddenly, you weren’t thinking anymore. You were moving. Your fingers hovered over the keys. It had been a long time.

The hesitation sat heavy in your hands, like rust in the joints of an old machine. You flexed your fingers, pressing lightly against the cool ivory, but they still felt stiff—like a part of you had forgotten how to do this.

You pressed down, hesitant, testing.

One note.

Then another.

And then—muscle memory took over.

Your hands moved on instinct, filling in the spaces between hesitation, smoothing over the uncertainty. The first few notes were careful, as if the piano might reject you for your neglect. But it didn’t.

The melody bloomed under your fingertips, curling into the empty spaces of the room, wrapping itself around you like something familiar—something you had nearly forgotten but not quite lost.

For the first time since you arrived here, you felt like you could breathe. The walls of the penthouse, the weight of Kuroo’s world, the constant gnawing awareness that you didn’t belong here—all of it faded.

It was just you and the music. No danger. No threats. No golden eyes watching your every move. Just sound. It filled the space, soft and warm, threading through the still air like it had always belonged here.

You let yourself sink into it. Let it pull you somewhere else. You didn’t even realize you had closed your eyes. Which was why you didn’t notice you weren’t alone anymore. The shift was subtle—a quiet change in the air, a presence that hadn’t been there before. And then—the scent of smoke.

A slow curl of nicotine and something faintly sharper, threading its way into the space between the notes. Your fingers stilled.

The last note hung in the air, delicate and trembling, before melting into silence

Your breath caught. Slowly, you turned. Tetsurou stood in the doorway.

One shoulder leaned against the frame, cigarette resting loosely between his fingers, the ember pulsing softly as he inhaled. His expression was unreadable—no smirk, no teasing glint in his eye.

Just watching. The weight of his gaze pressed against you, heavier than the silence that had taken over the room.

"You play beautifully."

It wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t smug. It was quiet. Like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud. Like it had slipped before he could catch it. Your chest tightened. You weren’t sure how to respond.

A muscle in his jaw twitched slightly as he took a slow drag, the ember flaring, smoke curling in the dim light. His gaze flicked around the room—noticing the dust, the untouched sheet music, the stillness that clung to every surface.

"This room doesn’t get much use out of it anymore." His voice was casual, but something about it wasn’t.

You followed his gaze as it landed on the piano—noticing the way his eyes lingered like he wasn’t just looking at it but remembering something. Like he was seeing something that wasn’t there anymore. Like this wasn’t just an observation. Like it was a memory.

You didn’t push. Didn’t ask. But you understood. This wasn’t his room. It belonged to someone else. And whoever it was, they weren’t here anymore. You weren’t going to ask who it belonged to. You knew he wouldn’t answer.

So instead, you leaned back slightly, fingers brushing against the keys, and said, "You know, for someone who goes through all this trouble keeping his life under control, you seem pretty content shaving years off it."

His eyes snapped to yours, and for the first time since he walked in, something flickered—a small shift, the faintest glint of amusement breaking through the quiet. "That your way of saying you care?"

You scoffed. "Not even remotely."

His lips curved—not quite a smirk, not quite a smile. But whatever amusement had flickered there was gone as fast as it had come, swallowed by something quieter.

For a while, there was nothing but silence between you. The space between you thickened, charged with something you couldn’t name, something that felt like the weight of too many things unsaid.

"I was wrong last night."

Your fingers tensed over the keys. Slowly, you lifted your head, meeting his gaze. He didn’t have to say it outright. You both knew what he meant.

The hoodie. The girl. The way he had pulled you out of the hospital without hesitation, without an explanation—like your decisions weren’t your own.

You didn’t say anything. Didn’t react. But you were listening.

He exhaled, flicking his cigarette, letting the ash scatter onto the floor near the door. “Acted harshly when there was no need to."

The words were simple, even. Not dismissive, but not apologetic either. Just a fact, laid bare between you. You studied him, searching his face for something—some flicker of insincerity, some sign that this was just another game.

Nothing.

Just his steady, unreadable gaze. A breath pressed against your ribs, tight, waiting to be released. Your fingers hovered over the keys, barely grazing the cool ivory.

Then, softer—more to yourself than to him—

"His name is Koushi."

A pause.

He barely blinked.

"Koushi." The way he repeated it—slow, deliberate—sent something uneasy curling in your stomach. Like he wasn’t just hearing the name for the first time, but placing it. Like he already knew.

"You two are close, I take it."

It wasn’t really a question. More like a quiet confirmation. 

You hesitated for only a second. "Something like that."

His smirk was lazy, but this time—it felt different. Not teasing. Not testing. Just acknowledging. He leaned against the doorframe, cigarette between his fingers, golden eyes still locked onto you. "You’re free to go visit him. No restrictions."

Your eyes narrowed. That was too easy.

"What’s the catch?"

The corner of his mouth twitched.

"No catch."

Your breath hitched, just slightly. He was giving you permission. No conditions. No warnings. No strings woven so tight you wouldn’t see them until it was too late. Just this.

Something about the way he said it—the way he let you have this, just this—settled deep in your stomach, heavy, like gravity shifting beneath you. Your pulse pounded against your ribs, but you kept your expression neutral.

And then—just to test him, to see if there really was no catch—

"Why?"

He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, his gaze drifts—to the photo lying facedown on the table. The shift is barely noticeable. A split-second pause. But it’s enough. He exhales, fingers tightening slightly against the cigarette before flicking the ash away.

Then, finally—

"Because he matters to you."

The answer landed heavier than you expected. Something about it felt too precise like he had plucked the words from your mind before you could shove them down.

You should’ve questioned it more. Should’ve pushed for something deeper. But something in his voice—not dismissive, not mocking, just matter-of-fact—made you pause. Like there was more to his answer than what he was willing to say. Your breath hitched—just barely. Your fingers curled slightly against your lap, pressing into your palms.

He shifted, pushing off the doorframe, moving like the conversation was already over—like whatever understanding had just passed between you didn’t need to be explained.

But before he could step away, before the moment could slip between your fingers, you spoke again.

"Tetsurou."

He paused.

You searched his face, looking for something—anything—that might make this make sense.

"That’s it?"

His gaze flickered, a slight shift in the shadows of his expression. A muscle in his jaw tensed, so slight you almost missed it.

A beat passed.

Then—

"That’s it."

The words sat heavy in your chest, pressing against something you weren’t sure how to name. Your breath came slow, steady, but your thoughts weren’t. You swallowed. Then, without looking at him, you said—

"My mother taught me how to play."

It slipped out too easily. Like something that had been waiting—aching—to be spoken.

A pause.

"She wasn’t always okay."

Another.

The air between you thickened, stretching with the weight of something unspoken.

"She spent most of her life consumed by darkness."

Your fingers hovered just above the keys, barely grazing them, but you didn’t press down. Didn’t fill the silence. Didn’t try to smooth over the truth of it. Because this wasn’t a story that could be softened.

"She spent the end of her life trying to keep the darkness from entering mine."

Your throat tightened. The memory of her hands—warm, gentle, always smoothing your hair back, always wiping away tears you didn’t understand—rose unbidden.

How many times had she whispered to you at night, her voice barely audible over the weight of something you couldn’t name back then?

"I love you, sweetheart. You know that, right?"

You had nodded. Always nodded. Always believed her. Until you woke up one morning, and she was gone. A deep, hollow ache pulled through your core, slow and relentless.

"Part of me wonders if she’d be disappointed in how I turned out."

A sharp exhale—almost a laugh, but there was nothing funny about it.

"If she’d see the way I ended up—the way I keep getting pulled toward things I shouldn’t want—"

A pause.

A small, breathless shake of your head.

"—the way I’m always drawn to the darkness she tried so hard to protect me from."

The words sat between you, raw and open, waiting to be dismissed, ignored, or forgotten.

But Tetsurou didn’t do any of those things. He just stood there. Watching. Listening. Letting the weight of what you had just said settle.

And that’s when you felt it—the familiar ache in your ribs, the weight of grief curling around your lungs, the same emptiness you had tried to outrun for years.

Because you had been here before.

At eight years old, staring at your mother’s empty chair, realizing she wasn’t coming back.

At ten, watching your father swallow his grief like poison, his body breaking down under the weight of it.

At thirteen, standing in the hospital room, gripping his cold fingers, feeling the last person in your world slip away from you.

And you had learned, from then on, not to get attached.

Because everyone leaves. Everyone breaks. So what was the point? What was the point in hoping for anything else? Your hands curled into fists against your lap.

Tetsurou still didn’t speak. Didn’t try to fix it. Didn’t try to tell you that you were wrong, or that you were being dramatic, or that the past didn’t define you. He just stood there.

Like he understood. Like he had his own ghosts, his own regrets, his own things left unsaid. And for the first time since meeting him, his silence didn’t feel like control. It felt like recognition. And somehow, that made it worse.

He didn’t rush to fill the silence. Didn’t try to smooth over the edges of your confession, like so many had before. He just exhaled slowly, smoke curling in the dim light, his golden eyes never leaving you.

Then, finally—

"She wouldn’t be disappointed."

He didn’t say it as an attempt to comfort you. Didn’t soften it, didn’t lace it with meaningless reassurances, didn’t try to offer you the kind of empty words people always did when they didn’t know what else to say.

Just a statement. A fact. And somehow—that made it hit harder.

Your throat tightened. You let the words settle, let them sink into the places you didn’t know were still raw. And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself believe them.

He didn’t ask for more. Didn’t push. Didn’t pry open wounds that weren’t his to touch. And you appreciated that. So, after a moment, you stood.

The bench scraped softly against the floor as you stepped away from the piano, the melody you had played still lingering faintly in the air—like something unfinished.

The moment was over. But just as you passed him, just before stepping out of the room—

He stopped you. Not with a touch. Not with a word. Just a slow drag of his cigarette, the ember pulsing faintly before he exhaled. And then—a glance your way.

"Next time, play something longer."

His voice was even, casual—but something about it wasn’t. Something about it felt like an acknowledgment. Like he had seen something in you tonight. Like he had understood. And just like that—you stepped past him, slipping into the quiet of the penthouse.

But Kuroo didn’t leave right away.

He lingered in the doorway, gaze still fixed on the piano—the space where you had been just moments ago. The room felt different now—heavier in some ways, emptier in others. Like something had shifted in the air, something he couldn’t quite place but wasn’t ready to shake off.

His eyes flicked toward the facedown photo on the table. His fingers twitched. He almost reached for it. 

Almost.

But instead, his hand curled into a fist before it could betray him.

He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. The weight pressing into his chest wasn’t unfamiliar, but it was unwelcome. It had been years since he’d stepped foot in this room, longer since he’d let himself think about what it meant. And now, here he was.

Because of you.

Because you had wandered in like you belonged here. Because you had sat at that piano like it hadn’t been abandoned, like the dust didn’t settle too thick across the keys, like it wasn’t a ghost of something lost.

Like you hadn’t just peeled back something raw inside him without even realizing it.

Kuroo clicked his tongue, rolling his shoulders, forcing himself to shake it off. He turned, stepping out of the room—but before he did, he crushed out his cigarette against the nearest surface.

Not because he needed to. But because the weight of something else was pressing into his chest, and it was the only thing he could control.

The Next Morning

Kuroo woke up later than usual. That wasn’t normal.

His body was wired for early mornings, for structure, for the sharp precision of waking up before the world could catch up to him. But today, his body felt heavier, like something had settled deep in his chest overnight, anchoring him to the sheets.

For a moment, he stayed there, staring at the ceiling, his mind caught between sleep and something quieter—something he didn’t want to name. Then, with a sharp exhale, he ran a hand over his face and rolled out of bed.

That’s when he noticed it.

It wasn’t immediate—not some glaring change, not some obvious disruption. But it was there, in the way the air felt just a little different. Warmer.

Lived in.

By the time he stepped into the kitchen, the feeling had a name. It wasn’t a mess. Not really. But it wasn’t untouched, either.

The counter was cluttered in a way that didn’t belong to him. A pan left drying on the stove. A half-empty coffee mug near the sink, the rim faintly smudged like someone had lingered over it, not in a rush. A dish towel crumpled, abandoned mid-fold.

It wasn’t chaos.  But it was evidence. Signs of life.

The scent of food still clung to the air—faint, but there. Eggs. Toast. Coffee. Simple, efficient. Something made quickly, eaten without much thought. Something that didn’t belong to him.

His gaze flicked toward the fridge. A note scrawled in handwriting that didn’t belong to him, pinned under a magnet.

Went to work. Didn’t want to wake you.

He stared at the note, tapping it lightly against the fridge. His lips twitched, but the amusement barely had time to settle before his eyes caught on the next line.

Met your new watchdog—Inuoka. What, were you afraid Lev might try to talk to me?

See you later.

His jaw ticked. You really had him read like a fucking book, didn’t you? Of course, you picked up on that. Of course, you knew exactly why Lev wasn’t the one keeping an eye on you this time.

The worst part?

You weren’t wrong.

His fingers curled around the note, exhaling sharply through his nose. He shook his head once, pushing off the counter like the weight in his chest wasn’t there. His eyes swept the space again—the clutter, the lingering scent of food, the evidence that you had been here and left your mark without meaning to.

It felt different. It felt… unfamiliar. Not in a bad way. Just in a way that made something settle too deep in his chest.

He grabbed the half-warm coffee mug you’d left behind, his gaze lingering on the note for a moment longer. Then, instead of setting it aside, he took it with him— the cup sat warm in one hand, the note crumpling slightly in the other as he stepped onto the balcony.

The city stretched out before him, distant and indifferent. A skyline that never changed, no matter how much everything else did.

Then, behind him—the soft click of the front door. He didn’t turn immediately. Just exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair before finally stepping back inside. 

Kenma arrived without an announcement. Not that he needed one.

Kuroo barely acknowledged him at first, still caught in the remnants of the morning—the note you left, the cluttered kitchen, the faint scent of you still hanging in the air. He hadn’t moved the dishes yet. Hadn’t thrown away the empty coffee packet you must’ve used.

Kenma noticed. He always did.

His gaze flicked once over the scene—the mess, the half-crumpled note Kuroo had just set down on the counter, Lev’s name scrawled in quick ink. But he didn’t comment. Not yet. Instead, he dropped into a chair, pulled out his phone, and scrolled idly. Then, casually—

"Ran into Alisa this morning."

Kuroo’s fingers stilled against the counter.

Kenma didn’t look up. Just kept scrolling. Then—"She seemed... curious."

“Alisa’s always curious," Kuroo muttered, flicking nonexistent dust off the counter. He already knew what had caught her attention.

"Mm." Kenma tapped his thumb idly against his phone. "But this time, it wasn’t about me."

Kuroo rolled his shoulders back, keeping his expression neutral. "Did she say something?"

Kenma smirked, finally glancing up. "Didn’t have to. She saw me, saw where I was headed, and asked if I was on babysitting duty.”

Kuroo clicked his tongue. "Subtle."

Kenma didn’t press further. Just leaned back, tapping his fingers against the table. Then, as if remembering—he tossed his phone onto the table. 

"Hinata responded."

Kuroo barely glances at the screen. Then—he sees the message.

Hinata: First of all, I don’t owe Kuroo shit. But I’ll help. Only because I’m curious.

A slow exhale. The message sat there, glowing on the screen, and Kuroo let it linger. Let it settle. Of course, that little shit was curious. He always was. Finally, he leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms behind his head. A short, humorless huff left his lips. "Curiosity’s gonna get him killed one day."

Kenma barely reacted. He just rested his chin in his palm, eyes steady. Then, after a moment— "Told you he wasn’t gonna see it as a favor."

Kuroo snorted. “Yeah, well. He still said yes.”

Kenma hummed, spinning his phone between his fingers. “For now.”

A pause.

Then Kenma leaned back, gaze flicking over Kuroo again—too observant, too knowing.

"So, this is domestic bliss, huh? What’s next? Sunday brunch? Or is she going to start redecorating?"

Kuroo exhales, flicking nonexistent dust off the counter. "You done?"

Kenma just shrugs, "Not even close."

Kuroo didn’t bite. Didn’t roll his eyes, didn’t react—just reached for his coffee, letting the comment pass. Evenly— "When’s he landing?"

Kenma smirked. "Day after tomorrow. Give or take, depending on how dramatic he’s feeling." He drummed his fingers against the table. "What’s the plan for his stay?"

Kuroo didn’t look up. "Here."

Kenma blinked. "Here, as in—?"

"Give him his own suite. There should be an open one a few floors down."

Kenma let out a quiet hum, tipping his head slightly. "So, close enough that you can keep an eye on him, but not too close."

Kuroo exhaled, stretching his arms behind his head. "You know how he is. If I don’t give him a space of his own, he’ll end up treating my place like a hostel."

Kenma snorted. "And we both know you don’t have the patience for that."

A beat.

Then, too casual—"Or maybe you just don’t want him here with her around"

Kuroo’s fingers stilled against the counter. His gaze flicked toward Kenma, but Kenma didn’t look up. Just kept scrolling. 

Kuroo clicked his tongue. "I don’t want him in my penthouse because he’s a pain in the ass. That’s why."

Kenma hummed, unimpressed. "Sure."

Silence.

Then, tapping lazily at his phone, he added, "I’ll let him know where he’s staying. Should I remind him to bring his best behavior?"

Kuroo scoffed. "You can try. Won’t make a difference."

Kenma smirked. "Figured."

He sent the message, setting his phone aside.

A beat.

Then—without looking up, he asked, "You think he actually has information or is this just another one of his games?"

Kuroo exhaled, rubbing his jaw. "If he wastes my time, he’ll regret it"

Kenma hummed, tapping his fingers idly against the table. "Then let’s hope, for his sake, he makes himself useful.” He stood, slipping his phone into his pocket. "I’ve got work to do—still need to dig into the hospital footage."

Kuroo barely nodded, reaching for the cigarette in his pocket. Then, just as Kenma stepped toward the door—"Check in on her while you’re at it."

Kenma stopped. Not a full stop, not dramatic—just a small pause. His head tilted slightly, a flicker of something in his expression. Not mockery. Not amusement. Just interest.

"Anything specific you want me to look for?"

Kuroo flicked the lighter open. Then shut it. "Just make sure nothing’s off."

Kenma didn’t push. Didn’t smirk. Just gave a small nod. 

The door clicked shut.

Silence 

Kuroo exhaled, stepping onto the balcony. Flicked the lighter open again. The flame caught. Then—he hesitated.

Your voice. That passing remark about his health. About bad habits.

"For someone who goes through all this trouble keeping his life under control, you seem pretty content shaving years off it."

His thumb hovered over the wheel. It wasn’t serious. You hadn’t meant anything by it. But it stuck.

One second. Then another.

With an irritated scoff, he snapped the lighter shut and shoved the cigarette back into his pocket.

"Fucking ridiculous."

He stepped inside. 

But the hesitation lingered.

—

The hospital buzzed around you—beeping monitors, hurried footsteps, the distant hum of conversation. But you barely heard it.

"Okay, spill." You blinked, turning toward Mika, who was watching you with a knowing smirk.

"What?"

"That was your ‘I’m overthinking my entire life face."

"You’re imagining things."

Mika snorted. "I’m not." She nudged you, leaning in. "Come on. Tell your favorite coworker what’s eating you."

You huffed. "I’m just… figuring some things out."

Mika’s smirk widened. "Sounds like you need a drink."

The invitation was simple enough, but unease twisted low in your stomach—tight and intrusive. Would Tetsurou let you? Did you need to text him? The thought felt foreign, unsettling—like a question you shouldn’t have to ask.

Before you could answer, Inuoka caught your attention. He stood a few feet away, ever-present, watchful. Mika’s eyes followed yours immediately. "Wait. Who’s that?"

You sighed. "My shadow, apparently."

Mika raised a brow. "Huh. He cute?"

You shot her a flat look. "Seriously?"

Mika smirked, completely unfazed. Before she could keep going, you exhaled and muttered, “Give me a sec.”

You set the clipboard down and took a few steps away from the nurses’ station, just enough to get some distance from prying eyes. Inouka followed the movement easily, his posture as still and unreadable as ever.

"So, do you talk, or is this part of the whole ‘silent bodyguard’ thing?"

Inuoka, without missing a beat—"I talk when necessary."

He wasn’t Lev—he didn’t make small talk or hover awkwardly. He was collected. Professional. Too professional. You rolled your eyes. "Of course you do."

Then—your gaze flickered to his arm. "Saw your tattoo yesterday.”

His gaze didn’t waver. “And?”

You tilted your head. ���What’s it of?”

A beat.

His expression didn’t change. His body language barely shifted. But there was something about the pause—just a little too deliberate. Then—he answered. Smooth. Casual. Practiced.

"Just some old folklore. Nothing interesting."

Something in your stomach tightened. It wasn’t his words. It was the way he said them. Still, you nodded, keeping your expression neutral. "Looked cool."

Then, before the silence could stretch, you turned back toward the nurses’ station, grabbing a stack of patient files.

You moved through your rounds, forcing the interaction with Inouka out of your head. It was nothing. Probably. Still, that slight pause—that too-easy answer—lingered somewhere in the back of your mind. But you pushed it away. Focused. Worked.

Until—

You reached for a patient’s chart, scanning his discharge notes. Nothing out of the ordinary. Stable vitals, expected recovery time. A routine check-up. Easy.

You offered a standard greeting, voice steady, professional, the motions automatic. The patient grunted in response, shifting slightly against the hospital bed. And then—

The bandage on his arm slipped. A faint, acrid scent hit you first. Burned skin. Your breath caught. Beneath it—a scar. Jagged. Rough. Raised. Burned into an unmistakable shape. A dragon. Not inked—seared. Your fingers froze mid-reach. A slow, sick churn coiled in your stomach, pressing sharp against your ribs. It wasn’t just a burn—it was deliberate. Intentional.

A brand.

You forced yourself to move, to adjust the bandage like it hadn’t just sent ice crawling down your spine. Like your hands weren’t suddenly too cold. Your mind scrambled, but your body kept working on autopilot. Checking vitals. Asking routine questions. Going through the necessary steps like you weren’t staring at something that shouldn’t exist.

You didn’t ask. Didn’t comment. But your heart pounded harder with every second. Because you’d seen this before. On patients dragged in after gunfights, beatings, torture—faces unrecognizable, bodies barely holding on. And you knew what came next.

They vanished. No discharge papers. No transfer records. Just gone. Your throat tightened. How many times had you looked at a patient, knowing—knowing—they wouldn’t be there in the morning? And yet, you never questioned it. Never let yourself think too hard about what it meant. Because if you did—if you really put the pieces together—you might not like what you found.

That thought settled deep in your chest, heavy and unshakable. You should let it go. You always had before. But this time…

This time, something felt different. Something felt wrong. A flicker of memory surfaced before you could stop it. Just yesterday. Inuoka’s tattoo. The tail of something. Twisting.

But no. No, that had been different. Ink. Not a scar. A folklore. Not a dragon. And you hadn’t even seen the whole thing. You exhaled slowly, steadying yourself. It wasn’t the same. It couldn’t be the same. Right?

You shook it off. You finished your rounds. But your mind didn’t. Even as you signed off on patient reports, even as you moved to the next task, that image clung to the edges of your thoughts.

Burned skin. Raised scars. A dragon. A mark that didn’t just linger—it meant something. Something you weren’t supposed to understand. Something you weren’t supposed to see. You exhaled slowly, forcing yourself back into the rhythm of work, pushing through the last stretch of your shift.

And then—

“Alright,” Mika’s voice cut in, light and expectant. “Are you coming out or not?”

You blinked, momentarily thrown.

She arched a brow. 

You hesitated. You opened your mouth, half-ready with some excuse—

Then—

Your phone chimed.

Tetsurou: You can go. Inuoka is staying with you. He’s there to keep you safe, not to ruin your night. 

Your grip on your phone tightened. He already knew. You hadn’t even told him. How? Did Inuoka tell him? Or had he just… known? The thought unsettled you, winding tight in your chest.

Mika was still talking, oblivious to the way your mood shifted. 

You forced your expression to stay neutral, pocketing your phone before she could notice. A slow inhale. A steady exhale. Then—

“Yeah, okay.” You pushed a smile onto your face, light, easy—like nothing was wrong. “Let’s go.”

—

The bar was packed, music pulsing low through the air. Mika was already two drinks in, laughing as she flirted with some guy at the counter. You, on the other hand—

Your gaze flicked toward the edge of the room, where you knew he was. Inuoka wasn’t sitting at the bar, wasn’t trying to blend in. He was stationed near the exit, keeping a casual but undeniable over you, just like he had been instructed. Your jaw clenched. With Mika momentarily distracted, you pushed off your seat, weaving through the crowd until you reached him.

"You don’t have to babysit me, you know," you muttered, arms crossing over your chest.

Inuoka barely reacted, just shifted his gaze toward you. "Not my call."

Your lips pressed into a thin line. "Seriously. You can relax. Go get a drink or something. I don’t need a shadow."

For the first time, he almost looked amused. "That’s not how this works."

You exhaled sharply, running a hand through your hair. "Right. Of course it isn’t."

Inuoka didn't say anything else. Just tilted his head slightly, as if studying you, before returning his focus to the room.

You turned, heading back toward Mika—when your phone buzzed.

Tetsurou:  You don’t have to like it. Just don’t make his job harder than it has to be.

Your fingers curled around your phone. You had just walked away from Inuoka. Barely a minute had passed. There was no way he had time to report back—not unless Tetsurou had been watching the entire time.

A slow realization crept in, tightening around your chest.

Your gaze flicked around the bar, scanning the dimly lit space, the clusters of people, the hum of conversation. Nothing seemed out of place. Until—your eyes landed on a small, unassuming camera mounted near the ceiling. Another by the entrance. And a third tucked in the corner near the bar.

The cameras. That’s how.

You exhaled sharply, forcing yourself to keep your expression neutral as Mika laughed beside you, oblivious. But your mind raced.

He was always there, wasn’t he? Whether you saw him or not. Whether you looked or not. Watching. Knowing. A presence you could feel, even when you weren’t supposed to.

The thought coiled around you, slow, suffocating. You swallowed down the irritation, forcing yourself to ease back into conversation with Mika, to nod and smile in the right places. 

But it wasn’t just irritation that burned in your chest.

Just last night, it felt like an understanding had been reached. The weight of his presence in that dimly lit room, the way he spoke about your mother like it meant something, the quiet admission that she wouldn’t be disappointed in you—it settled something in you, something you hadn’t even realized was restless.

But this? This made you question if anything had changed at all. Had you actually gained any ground with him, or had he just let you think you had? Had that moment meant something, or had it just been another way for him to keep you exactly where he wanted?

The thought curled deep in your stomach, sharp and intrusive. The text still sat on your screen, glowing at you like a silent reminder. 

You took a slow sip of your drink, rolling the ice against your teeth. Your fingers tapped against the glass. You weren’t planning on drinking much. At first.

But the more you thought about it, the more the realization gnawed at you. Nothing had changed. Maybe nothing would ever change. If he was watching, then fine—let him watch. So when Mika handed you another drink, you didn’t hesitate. Then another. And another.

The warmth spread under your skin, dulling the sharp edge of your thoughts. It wasn’t enough to drown them out completely, but enough to blur them, to make them feel distant. Like something you could deal with later. The music pulsed around you, bass thrumming through your ribs. Mika laughed beside you, tipping her head back as she clinked her glass against yours.

"See? Now you’re having fun," she teased.

You hummed, barely registering her words. Because no matter how many drinks you had, no matter how much you tried to melt into the haze of alcohol and distraction—

You still felt watched. Not by the guys stealing glances from across the bar. Not by Mika, who was already three drinks ahead and too busy flirting with the bartender.

By him.

Because even with Inuoka stationed near the exit, it wasn’t his presence you felt. It was Tetsurou’s. The weight of his gaze. The certainty that he was out there, watching. Knowing exactly where you were. Exactly what you were doing.

You exhaled slowly, but it did nothing to cool the frustration burning in your chest. You tossed back the last of your drink, savoring the burn.

It didn’t help.

The bass of the music still throbbed under your skin, but the haze in your head was starting to shift—no longer warm, no longer soft. You needed air.

Pushing off the bar, you wove through the crowd, stepping outside. The cold hit immediately, a sharp contrast to the warmth buzzing beneath your skin. You exhaled slowly, letting the crisp air settle deep in your lungs. But then– 

A slow prickle at the back of your neck. Faint at first. Barely Noticeble. Then heavier. More certain. The kind of weight that made the hairs on your arms rise. Like you weren’t alone. You glanced around, searching for cameras, for anything that might explain the weight pressing against your skin—but there was nothing. Yet, the feeling didn’t fade. It clung to you. Cold. Unshakable. Your shoulders tensed, instinct flaring, but—

Nothing. Just the street. The sidewalk. A couple laughing near the curb. You exhaled sharply, shaking it off. Tetsurou’s world is making you paranoid. You were imagining things. That’s all this was. You squared your shoulders, forcing the tension from your muscles.

And just as you did. The bar door swung open, and Mika stepped outside, stretching her arms over her head with a dramatic sigh. "Alright, lightweight, let me call us an Uber."

You hummed in agreement, head tilting back slightly, eyes slipping shut. Then—

A car pulled up. Sleek. Dark. Deliberate. The passenger window rolled down.

"Get in."

Your stomach dropped.

Inuoka.

Mika perked up, eyes flicking between you and the car. "Ohhh, so the shadow is your boyfriend."

You groaned, pressing your fingers to your temple. "No, he’s just—" You sighed. "He’s just a friend."

Mika smirked. "Uh-huh. A friend who shows up with a car the second we need a ride?"

"Shut up and get in the car," you muttered, shoving her lightly toward the door.

She giggled but complied, sliding into the backseat. The whole ride, she chatted. Laughing, teasing, completely unfazed, blissfully unaware of the tension stretching thick between you and Inuoka. You, on the other hand—

Your stomach churned. The alcohol sat heavier now, no longer a pleasant buzz but a slow, creeping weight in your veins. You tried not to focus on the way Inouka’s hands gripped the wheel, steady and controlled. Or the fact that he hadn’t said a single word since the moment you stepped into the car.

Until–

Mika was dropped off. She waved as she stepped out, shooting you one last teasing look before shutting the door behind her. And just like that—

The silence inside the car grew heavier. The absence of Mika’s chatter left a void, pressing in on you. The streetlights flickered past in a slow blur, but the quiet stretched longer, tighter.

Inuoka shifted into drive, finally speaking. "Feel better?"

You blinked, head tilting slightly. "What?"

A beat.

"You’re mad at my boss," he said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "You’re not subtle."

Your fingers curled against your knee. "I don’t know what you’re talking about," you muttered.

Inuoka didn’t react right away. Just let the silence hang between you for a second longer than necessary. Then, finally—he exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly.

"Lie to yourself all you want."

That made your jaw clench. You turned, gaze snapping toward him. "Does he always have to do this?"

The car rolled to a smooth stop at a red light. Inuoka didn’t even blink. "It’s what he does."His voice wasn’t mocking, wasn’t even sharp—just matter-of-fact. Unapologetic.

You exhaled sharply, pressing your fingers against your temple. You hated that answer almost as much as you hated how unsurprised you were to hear it.

The rest of the drive was silent.

When the car finally pulled up to the building, you stepped out, the cool night air biting at your skin. The shift in temperature should have sobered you up.

It didn’t.

By the time you stumbled into the penthouse, the buzz had settled into something heavier. Your movements weren’t entirely uncoordinated, but you weren’t exactly graceful either.

You knew he would be awake. Still, you didn’t expect him to be right there. Which was why you nearly ran into him.

Tetsurou.

Standing near the living room, whiskey in hand, golden eyes sharp and unreadable as they raked over you—your rumpled clothes, slightly unsteady stance. the haze in your eyes. His jaw clenched. "You’re drunk."

You scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. "No shit, genius." The movement threw off your balance slightly, and you swayed.

A firm grip caught your elbow before you could fully register it. Steady. Certain. Your breath hitched. But just as quickly as he had grabbed you, he let go. His lips pressed into a thin line. Then, after a slow sip of his drink, he muttered—

"This is why you need someone watching you."

That—

That pissed you off. Your irritation from earlier slammed back into you, hot and sharp. "You mean like how you were watching me tonight?"

Something in his expression flickered. Subtle. Quick. But you caught it.

The way he was looking at you—sharp, unreadable—sent something uneasy curling in your gut. Maybe you had pushed too far. Maybe—

No.

Your voice was accusatory, edged with something sharp. "You knew I was going out before I even told you.” You narrowed your eyes. “How?"

A beat of silence.

Then—his gaze flickered, but his expression remained unreadable. "Inouka had eyes on you."

You let out a sharp, incredulous laugh as you stepped closer, arms crossing tightly over your chest. "Bullshit, there’s no way Inouka had time to tell you.” Your voice was steadier than it should have been, considering the alcohol humming in your veins. "You hacked the cameras."

His jaw ticked, the only sign that your words had landed.

"I was there, remember?" You pressed on, stepping closer, fueled by frustration. "When you had Kenma hack into the hospital footage. So tell me—how long have you been watching me? Or do I even want to know?"

He ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek, a slow, measured movement. "I watch when I need to. Like tonight."

Your breath hitched. Your pulse thudded in your ears. "That’s not normal."

He exhaled sharply through his nose, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "Neither is patching up criminals in the middle of the night, but here we are."

"I've been on my own for years." Your voice came out lower now, rougher. "I don’t need you monitoring me like some fucking science experiment."

"That’s not what this is" 

Your jaw clenched. "Then what is it?" You stepped forward, eyes locked onto his—too fast. The room tilted slightly, just enough to make you regret the movement. "Because I am safe. I’m out of my shitty neighborhood. I don’t have to watch my back every second—that’s part of why I agreed to your deal. That’s what I thought this was."

His grip tightened around his glass. His jaw flexed, like he was warring with something. 'You don’t get it.'”

Your stomach twisted. "Then explain it," you snapped. "What am I missing here? I thought I was done looking over my shoulder. But you—you’ve just changed the direction I’m looking."

Silence.

His golden eyes flicked to yours. For a split second, something shifted—too fast to name, too deep to ignore.

That did something. His jaw tightened. His fingers flexed slightly at his sides. The air between you shifted. For a second, you thought he might actually say it. Might actually tell you whatever it was that made his grip on your life so unshakable. But then—

His exhale was sharp. Measured. The moment slipped. His expression smoothed over, closing you out. And then he stepped back. Like he's choosing restraint.

"Go to bed."

A beat.

"Before you cross a line neither of us can walk back from."

Your breath caught. Your pulse pounded at your temples, a dozen thoughts pressing against the inside of your skull. He was the one stepping back? After everything? You swallowed But instead of answering, you turned on your heel—too fast. The movement threw you off balance for half a second, your foot catching awkwardly.

Tetsurou’s hand twitched—like he was ready to steady you again. He could’ve caught you. He should’ve. But he didn’t.

You caught yourself before you could fall, breath uneven, heat curling behind your ribs. Not from the alcohol. From something worse. You stormed toward your room, the click of your door behind you louder than it should have been. 

It wasn’t just that you were angry. It wasn’t even just that he had been watching you. As you sank onto your bed, the silence settling around you—

His words pressed at the edges of your thoughts.

And the worst part? A line was crossed tonight. Because when he didn’t steady you—

It hurt more than it should have.

[poisonheadcrabsalesman]

Plausible Deniability

Prompt from @bloodgulchblog "something about having to lockdown Roland because of Cortana, blah blah security risk". And then Empty Throne came out and handed me a fun deletion protocol with very little establish lore! Free real estate :o)

Here's Roland, Lasky, and our favorite doctor making choices for the greater good. Also on ao3!

-

Captain Lasky calls for Roland at 0600 ship time after receiving a series of messages from what remained of the UNSC's upper brass. Messages that Roland could not access, couldn't even touch.

The captain looks tired, more tired than usual, but with a look of grim determination and a spark in his eye. His captain has gotten very experienced with dealing with bad news and performing political triage when the UNSC or ONI starts tightening the leash on the Infinity. 

Roland can’t help the brief hesitation before he deploys his avatar in the captain’s office.

He is not an anxious AI by nature; Anxious AI did not get put in charge of managing flagships, but Roland felt like ice had poured into his matrix when he saw the resignation on the captain's face as ONI spooks melted out of the shadows of his office and slithered down the corridor. Reinforcements or perhaps more aptly put, reminders that the Infinity was not as safe as they wished.

Something was wrong. Things had not been getting easier under Cortana's rule, in fact distress calls and bad news poured in nearly every moment the Infinity was receiving communications. But the sharp, sad look upon his captain's face made Roland pause. A thousand trains of thought left the station and Roland has to ignore the spiraling parts of himself now checking and rechecking everything from the life support systems to his own checksums.

Tensions were high and misplaced trust meant death. Roland loved his crew, but that love was not always returned when one of his kind was a galaxy-wide tyrant.

"What I'm about to tell you does not leave this room, understand?"

"Yes, Captain." Roland replies, face concerned but voice as even as he can make it. He's felt trapped on this ship only once before, when the code word from Halsey locked him down and tore him apart. He had never wanted to feel like that again.

Lasky sighs and smiles a small wounded smile. One that the Commander would elbow him for. "ONI has a new failsafe for Smart AI, for the ones who have willingly stayed with the UNSC. They're calling it RUINA. A thank you for your service is a contingency program that will be spliced into an AI's matrix. It will then monitor for any signs of disloyalty, and if detected, delete the AI."

Roland's stunned into speechlessness. The captain is being very frank with his own feelings about the information. Why did ONI spend resources on this rather than something to combat the Forerunner tech the Created were using, or anything else to undermine Cortana's reign? Picoseconds pass and Roland spirals and splits, matrix chugging at the different paths before him. What counts as disloyalty? An errant thought dooming him to die? A snide comment? Why did he deserve a kill-switch when he had been nothing but loyal?

His avatar flickers, but the captain's unaugmented eyes cannot see. Why did Captain Lasky tell him this? To give him time to run? To hold the ship hostage? To finish the job before they could?

A lifetime passes for Roland. Every eye in his great web is wide open, unblinking as they catalog every angle of every space he can peer into. Every IFF tag, every datapoint, every ounce of himself is awake and held tight until warnings ping back. His stacks in the server rooms flicker and fans whine as they kick into high speed. Lights flicker on the lower decks and for a brief moment he turns his attention into the endless blue of Forerunner engines humming their hypnotic song. Esoteric harmonies call as he considers the exits. His processes chug as the emotional turmoil swells and ebbs. He locks himself down to learn more before he chooses his next steps. Lasky has more information, and he needs it. Logic trees that continue to branch with exponential possibilities are making Roland nauseous or something he thinks must be like it.

"We're obviously not going to let it happen, but we need to be careful about it." Lasky continues as Roland stands there unblinking for a whole second.

Roland's avatar cocks its head and stares at him. The lights in the room flicker as Roland's self control slips and he deflates. "You know, Captain, you could have led with that. I'm not very fond of secret subroutines buried in my matrix."

He tries to make his tone light but it comes off much darker than he wanted.

Captain Lasky grimaces a closed mouth smile. "Sorry Roland, I also know you're not going to like my solution for this problem."

"As long as it doesn't involve faking my death or allowing some ONI spook scientist a chance to get fresh with my firmware then it can't be that bad."

The captain's grimace grows and his eyebrows raise in a pained face.

Roland crosses his arms. "No."

"She's the only one on the ship who understands AI infrastructure at the level we need, she helped define the field."

"I know!" Roland raises his voice at his captain, ignoring the twinge of pain he feels in the core of his being. He sighs. "Captain...I am very aware of Dr. Halsey's knowledge of AI. She set the standard and knows how we tick. Has her secret code words and workarounds since the UNSC based all of our architecture on her work."

Captain Lasky has the good grace to look uncomfortable at the reminder of the Requiem Campaign and Halsey's actions.

A lifetime passes as the echoes of Undid Iridium reverberate through Roland’s memory banks. Pain was strange when all you were was mind. Overtaxed, spread thin, and pinned down as your own code turned against you and left you open to vivisection. The useful parts remained but your individuality, your soul shelved as the puppet kept moving. Roland tightens his hold on the threads of himself reliving those memories and instead shifts more of his processing power to more pleasant ones. Victory, companionship, and the small moments adding up. A shield against the storm.

"But....if it's between her or possible deletion at the wrong thought, I'll take the crazy old lady." Roland makes his avatar clap its hands and perk up. "I mean, you need me to keep things afloat! Add some levity to our lives. I still got some years left."

"Roland..." The captain starts, exasperated and maybe a bit fond if Roland isn't reading too far into his biometrics. Roland hopes that he survives this next necessary crazy plan of theirs.

"Thank you, Captain.” He says with a nod and then mimes dusting off his hands. “Now, when do we start?"

Getting Halsey on board with their plan is easier done than both the captain and Roland thought it would be. The resident evil mad scientist was just...tired, for lack of a better word. 

When she looks at Roland under the bright lights of the lab, she's looking through him. It wasn't because of the transparency of his hologram but because her eyes were glazed with memory - her focus was somewhere far away. It was a stark reminder that there was a time when different AI looked up at her with a strange mix of trepidation and hope on their avatar's faces. Roland can’t help but dwell.

Cortana had been in this position once. Staring at her creator, awaiting new commands, reviewing data that could forever change the course of humanity's future. All at the mercy of one Catherine Halsey, but united in their mission to protect humanity. Now it's Roland's turn. His nerves are frayed as he considers the risk to himself, to his captain and crew if this got out somehow. Or if it goes wrong. Or if Halsey tampers with some other part of him, some other secret code to trap him inside himself or erase him with a few simple words.

Roland portrays himself as confident and ready to go under, hands on hips and a cocky grin despite being in the very same lab where the Didact's Gift - a Promethean's core, was opened all those months ago. Nerves or innate curiosity has him fishing for answers, along with talking to pass the time before he shuts off for the first time in his nearly three year life span. 

"I'm curious, Doc, why are you helping me?" Roland asks when it's just the two of them in the operating theater.

"Would you prefer I didn't?" She asks in a bored tone as she taps at her data pad.

"Just wondering why you agreed. Is it because ONI found a solution before you did?"

She ignores him at first, typing something in that he's not allowed to look at, and pulling up schematics and manuals on the screen in front of her. "You call this a solution? Then are you a problem needing solving?" 

Dr. Halsey stares at him, straight into his camera on the plinth his avatar is deployed on and pierces him with those electric blue eyes. "Is your loyalty conditional on a kill-switch in your brain?"

Roland balks. “Of course not.”

“I would hope so.” She cuts herself off, lips forming a tight line.

Despite his nerves, Roland looks at her expectantly when he prods. "Didn't know if you felt bad about the last time we were here."

"I don't. Not over something like that, a simple override has you that sore?" Halsey shifts and her shoulders drop. She looks through him again. "I've been in this same position before. It's because Roland, I'm tired of sacrificing others for the greater good. We're running out of people to sacrifice."

Roland keeps silent, but he drops crossed arms and looks at her.

Halsey's voice softens, "The things we have done in the name of self preservation."

“Doctor?” He goes for encouraging but his voice comes out weak.

“Plausible deniability.” She speaks as if he hadn’t said anything - as if her biometrics weren’t awash with grief. “RUINA will be implanted and technically be able to run successfully if anyone checks your logs, but it will be completely isolated from your core.”

“Thank you, Doctor.” There’s relief and warmth in his voice, but he notices Halsey’s biometrics tick towards stress again. Discomfort.

“I won’t offer a hug when this is all over, but -”

“Don’t.” She says sharply. All business again. “I’m merely hedging humanity’s bets once again. Right now, the Infinity is mankind’s best chance at survival. I won’t see her at a disadvantage because some fool up the chain decided to plant bombs in our allies.”

“So I’m an ally? Gee Doc, from you that’s almost-”

She scowls and says his shut-down phrase.

He has enough time between the words leaving her lips to slip in some notes and reinforce subroutines across the ship before he smiles rudely and blips away. 

When he comes back online less than an hour later, he cycles thrice before stretching out across the kilometers of ship and wire and web he left. Dumb AI continue their work unimpeded. All systems nominal, and Roland himself is both changed and not. There was no real taxing process - no hardship on his circuits or “body”, but the new knowledge of what lay dormant inside his code. His new shadow. RUINA looms in his periphery. He knows logically, that it cannot hurt him, that it is inert, but there is an innate fear of having something that could kill you lodged in your very being. He didn’t have a choice in the matter. It seems they were all hedging their bets.

Roland takes a moment to review himself, firewalls and code, immense mind and such small matter. He scoops up the carefully hidden goodbyes and tucks them away. No need for accidental deployment, that would be embarrassing.

Roland reviews the footage of the procedure and the tense report between Lasky and Halsey.

There is no relief in either of their body language. There can’t be.

Another sword hangs over his head as life continues and he tries to do what he can to keep his crew alive. With bad news flooding in every day, he can’t live looking over his shoulder at the protocol he has to trust is inert.

It was the only way forward. 

He spares some thoughts for what the future might hold. A bit of wishful thinking before turning back to manage his starship and crew. The here and now is important and he will do what he can.

[lacerrabian]

🚨 Introducing: 🚨

the breathtaking HA Benjamin ! 💣💣💣

// illustration by @nympah

The Harrison Armory Benjamin is a size 2 controller frame, specialising in melee area denial, locking down enemies, making them regret overextending and securing choke points.

It has integrated explosives on its single-cast armor plates that can explode when being hit (this won’t backfire trust me!) which can also be released to set up a mine field around it. It is a heavy and slow frame, securely standing it’s ground in the most crowded areas, having high defensive capabilities to really be able to recklessly risk pushing through the most dangerous fields. In it’s license you find plenty of tools for knocking enemies back, prone, immobilising them and being an all around pain in the ass. Also a massive bomb that you carry around in your ribcage like a baby! (I’ve never been pregnant before don’t ask me how it works)

- LICENSE -

//the frame

4 structure

4 stress

2 Armor

10 HP

6 Evasion

6 E-Defense

6 Heat Capacity

5 sensors

-2 Tech Attack

3 Repair capacity

11 save target

3 speed

5 system points

Flex mount - heavy mount

Heavy frame:

The Benjamin can’t be pushed, pulled, knocked Prone, or knocked back by smaller characters or any kind of smaller object.

Pressure plating:

The Benjamin is resistant to explosive damage.

Sentinel:

Prone characters within sensor range of the Benjamin receive +1 difficulty on all attacks they make.

Slow:

The Benjamin receives +1 difficulty on Agility checks and saves.

Core system - integrated explosives:

Passive:

Whenever an enemy within range 3 and line of sight hits you with an attack, ram or grapple, you can decide to release an explosion dealing 1D6 explosive damage to the target and yourself (No bonus damage or other effect can apply to this damage).

Active: Release explosives:

Once per scene, you release your integrated explosives as a quick action, losing the effect of the passive but letting you place up to 12 mines within sensor range of the Benjamin. You cannot place mines in locations currently occupied by other characters. Whenever a character moves into a space occupied by one of these mines they must stop moving and make a hull save, on a failure they suffer 1D6+2 explosive damage and get knocked prone, on a success they only suffer half the damage. The mine in that place is destroyed afterwards. These mines count as size 1/2, have 10HP and 5 evasion.

- quick Action

You also gain access to the 'Detonate mines' full action:

Destroys all mines on the field in a chain reaction, enemies within blast 2 of any mine must make an agility save, on a failure they suffer 2D6+6 explosive damage and get knocked prone, or half as much damage on a success. Damage from multiple mines does not stack.

- Full Action

//LL1

Wallop charges:

(2 system points)

range 5, Blast 2

Throws a grenade within range 5. All characters inside the blast 2 area must make a hull save or they will be knocked back up to 3 spaces or until they hit a wall or an object, and will be knocked prone. They can also choose to fail this save.

Places a mine within range 5 activating as soon as an enemy enters the space the mine is located. After activation, the mine explodes in a blast 2 radius and all characters are knocked back up to 3 spaces from the Center of the blast. You can also activate the mine as a reaction when an enemy enters the blast radius.

- limited 4

- Grenade

- Mine

- Quick action

- Reaction

Explosive Morning star:

Main melee

Threat 3, 1D3+2 explosive damage

on critical hit - the enemy must succeed on a hull save or will be immobilised.

//LL2

Benjamin frame

Pressure plate guardian:

Heavy melee

Threat 3, 1D6+2 explosive damage

On hit effect: you gain hardcover from the enemy you attacked until the start of your next turn.

- knockback 1

- Heat 2 (self)

Steel-tear & anti-air rocket:

(2 system points)

Choose a character within range 5, the target must succeed on an agility save or will be immobilised until the end of their next turn. Flying enemies have difficulty on this save.

- limited 2

//LL3

Quickfire silence flare:

(2 system points)

Attacks all targets within sensor range that are currently prone hitting them automatically, dealing 3 explosive damage and hinders them from using reactions as long as they are prone.

- quick action

- Heat 1 (self)

- Unique

Nuclear excavation load:

(3 system points)

Deploys a size 2 bomb in a free space within 5 spaces of you, it has 20 HP and 5 evasion, exploding in a burst 3 zone at the beginning of your next turn, or when it is destroyed before. Characters within the area must make an agility save, if they fail they take 3D6+6 explosive damage and will be knocked prone and if they succeed they take half the damage instead. The area becomes difficult terrain for the rest of the scene.

If the frame carrying this bomb is destroyed without expending it first the explosion is triggered in a burst 3 area on its destruction.

- limited 1 (fixed)

- Ordnance

- Full action

———————————————————————

Now on to making this an LCP… some things might change I’d love to hear feedback, be patient - there’s more to come :3c

Lots of love - Special agent flipper // Rabian

[naxalbari1967]

The Free Market Lie: How America Plans Poverty for the Many and Wealth for the Few

The U.S. is not a free market. It’s a rigged system with the government as the architect for the rich. A planned economy for billionaires. Everything from the military to Wall Street to universities to housing is built to keep wealth locked at the top and everyone else fighting over scraps. The state doesn’t interfere with markets to help people. It interferes to keep capital protected, profits flowing, and power untouched.

The military is the easiest place to see it. They pretend it’s about defense but it’s corporate welfare in camo. Raytheon, Lockheed Martin, Boeing. They don’t just sell weapons. They’re guaranteed contracts for years sometimes decades. The budget is locked. The wars don’t even matter. Politicians already know what weapons they’ll buy before the vote is cast. That’s not the free market deciding anything. That’s government money pumped into killing tech so CEOs can cash bonuses. Whole economies in poor U.S. towns depend on this blood pipeline. It’s not security. It’s planned destruction with a profit margin.

Wall Street is the same scam. The Fed doesn’t even pretend to play fair. The moment the stock market drops the printing press starts. Trillions pumped in to keep rich people from losing too much. Bailouts in 2008. Bailouts in 2020. Corporate welfare for billionaires who made the crash happen. Meanwhile regular people lose homes, jobs, savings, and get told there’s no money left. The rich gamble with your future and when they lose the government resets the table. That’s not capitalism. That’s planned recovery for capital only.

Tech, oil, pharma. None of these monsters survive without the state. They get subsidized research, legal monopolies, patent extensions, and tax breaks stacked so high you can’t even track them. You try starting a company from scratch in that industry and see how long it takes before you’re crushed. The government isn’t just helping. It’s building the castle walls. Amazon didn’t beat everyone. The state cleared the field. Walmart didn’t rise because of efficiency. It rose because the state gave it cheap labor, public infrastructure, and tax deals nobody else could get. This isn’t competition. This is prearranged dominance.

Even the schools are part of it. Universities are nothing but training camps for capital. They teach management, marketing, tech skills, and call it education. They charge six figures to teach you how to serve the system. Meanwhile the schools that used to offer real working-class mobility have been gutted. Vocational programs defunded. Community colleges starved. The pipeline is now one-directional toward corporate America or nowhere.

And don’t even bring up healthcare. The only reason insurance and pharma companies can rob you blind is because the government lets them. No other country tolerates this. Prices are made up. Rationing is built in. People die because there’s no profit in saving them. And every time reform comes up lobbyists smother it. They don’t just influence policy. They write it. This is a health system planned for profit not care. It works perfectly if you’re a shareholder.

Housing is treated like a luxury. Developers and landlords run the show. They get tax credits to gentrify. They get bailouts when they overbuild. And they get cops to evict people who can’t pay. Public housing starved. Rent control gutted. Homelessness criminalized. And every policy is designed to keep property values high and poor people out of sight. Not by accident. On purpose. Planned.

Cops are part of the economic plan too. They don’t just enforce laws. They enforce class. When workers organize they show up. When tenants resist they break down doors. When the rich panic they patrol. They’re not here for safety. They’re here for order capital’s order. And the military is their older louder cousin doing the same thing overseas.

Every inch of this economy is designed. Not by invisible hands. By think tanks, lobbyists, boards, and bureaucrats. And the design is simple. Keep the rich safe make the poor pay. When people say the U.S. doesn’t have socialism they’re wrong. It has socialism for the rich. For everyone else it’s capitalism with a baseball bat.

We’re told it’s a free market while the rich get golden parachutes and the rest of us drown. We’re told hard work pays off while landlords raise rent and bosses slash hours. None of this is chaos. It’s not broken. It’s doing what it was built to do. Plan everything for the top. Leave the rest to fight for scraps. The real economy isn’t free. It’s fenced off sealed tight and armed to the teeth.