divaofmads

[divaofmads]

Thanatos | Dr. Crane

Pairing Jonathan Crane x Female Reader

Gif by @breakfastonuranus

Summary: A psychopath who wants to control fears — and a woman willing to become his plaything. On a journey filled with desire and fear, control and pleasure begin to blur into one.

⚠️ Warnings: +18, MDNI, NSFW, Smut, Fingering, Domination, Vaginal Sex, Rape/non-con/underage content is not present or condoned, The content explores consensual dark erotica and kink with clear agency, Age Gap (F! 20 -M! 30), Heavy sexual tension, Dark themes, Psychological manipulation, Obsession, Gaslighting, Dark!JonathanCrane, Fear Kink, Toxic relationship dynamics, Fear Serum Mentions, Experimental drug use (fictional substance, psychological context), Power imbalance (mentor x intern dynamic), Do not romanticize manipulation in real life, English is not my first language so excuse my mistakes. I write purely as a hobby, not as a professional.

Word Count: +10k

Dividers by @arcielee

📌A/N: While writing this story, I drew inspiration from Freud’s concept of the death drive (Thanatos), the life/sexual drive (Eros), and the dark line where these two opposing forces intertwine. What is told here is not just a fantasy; it's also about how people approach their desires with fear, and how they transform fear into desire. My story is both a warning and a surrender. Like a life lived under the shadow of death. Or like the sudden sense of absence that appears at the very depth of pleasure.

You began to tidy up the scattered documents on your desk. Files, pens, your glasses case. You slowly zipped up your bag and stood. Adjusted your shoulders. Noticed the bottom button of your shirt had ridden up and hastily tucked it back in. Your reflection in the mirror showed a tired but content expression, the day was over, or so you thought. Your palms were still clammy, because working in Dr. Crane’s office wasn’t merely an academic duty; it was a kind of survival art. Even his silence was a threat, and you had no choice but to obey it.

The wall clock had just passed six, its ticking sound slicing through the silence like a blade. In your mind still lingered the notes you’d taken throughout the day, the patients you observed, and Dr. Crane’s meticulous gaze. That gaze had followed you like a shadow through Arkham’s dimly lit corridors all day. Even though barely two sentences had escaped his lips, Jonathan Crane seemed to read you with a chilling precision. It was as if he knew what you were thinking, what you were feeling, what you were suppressing, better than you did. And the most terrifying part? He seemed to enjoy it.

Just as you turned toward the door… the handle clicked. And like a cold gust of wind, he entered.

He stepped in holding his notebook, and the air in the room shifted. The temperature seemed to drop by a few degrees. The dirty yellow light highlighted the pale sharpness of his features. His eyes looked at you like a hunter sizing up prey, just before striking.

“I don’t recall granting you permission to leave.”

His tone was low, measured, and deep. But the undertone was ice-cold. It wasn’t merely a sentence, it was a decision, a judgment, a command. Your heart skipped. Your hand remained on your bag strap; you couldn’t move forward or backward.

You opened your mouth, but the words stalled on your tongue. Because you knew there was no point in arguing. Jonathan Crane wasn’t just a strict professor; he was like a surgeon dissecting you. He had placed your soul on the table, opened your veins, and watched you from the inside. Not just as a student, but as a subject.

“It’s past six... I just…” you said softly, like a child retreating to defense. “I was just packing up, doctor.”

His expression didn’t change. His eyes stayed locked on your face. Then, he stepped closer. The door didn’t shut, through the crack, a line of sterile white light cut into the dark office like a blade.

“So you were preparing to escape before I dismissed you?”

His voice didn’t rise, but the subtle sarcasm scraped at your insides. Your gaze dropped to the floor, your head bowed slightly. Your shoulders sagged. You knew everything, this damned internship, hung between his lips. He had told you on the first day: “If you want to stay here, you’ll follow my rules. My rules are... changeable. Like your courage.”

“No... no, I just misunderstood, I think…” you said, but before you could finish, the strap of your bag slipped from your fingers. A small thud. And then silence. And his footsteps, ah, those slow, deliberate steps began echoing across the hard floor, sending a shiver through you.

Jonathan stood in front of you. He didn’t tilt his head or raise your chin when he spoke. The space between you was barely a breath. You smelled him; a metallic medicinal scent, a hint of sweat, and the dusty aroma of old book covers. His face was expressionless, but his eyes… they watched you break.

“This internship… requires diligence. Small details often determine fate. For instance, do you know who decides when you’re allowed to leave this office?”

You slowly shook your head. Your lips parted, but you gave no answer.

“I do,” he said, voice nearly a whisper. “Not you. Not the bell. Don’t think you’re ‘free’ just because the sun has set. I control this institution’s rhythm, Y/N. And your little sense of time can’t disrupt my system.”

He reached out. His fingers moved toward the button on your collar but didn’t unfasten it. He only touched it. With cold and steady pressure. It felt like he was pressing not on the fabric, but on your throat. A tremble rose beneath your heart. A shiver coursed down your spine. You weren’t afraid… at least, not just afraid. There was something in that touch a submissive surrender mingled with fear.

“If you want to leave…” he said, and with his thumb under your button, he lifted your chin, “...you’ll ask for permission. While looking me in the eyes.”

You stood there, head bowed. Your body motionless, but inside, storms were brewing. Jonathan Crane’s eyes were on you. He had your strings in his hand, unraveling you. He didn’t even need to raise a hand. That eye contact was pushing you back, further and further from yourself. You swallowed against the heat swelling in your throat.

“Please… may I leave, Dr. Crane?”

Your voice was soft, barely a whisper. But in the silence, it was a confession, an audible expression of your submission to his authority. You didn’t want to please him as much as you feared angering him. Because his wrath wouldn’t be verbal, it would come through action. And while you didn’t yet know what he was capable of… your imagination was more than active.

His eyes lingered on you for a few seconds. Then, his eyelids drooped slightly, and he tilted his head ever so slightly. He examined you. Smelled your helplessness.

“No,” he said flatly. The word echoed like a bullet hitting the wall. “We’re not finished yet.”

Your heart paused. What could you say? To object… would be suicide. Your shoulders dropped. You dared to meet his eyes.

“But…” you said, swallowing hard, “…it’s past working hours. For today…”

“Be quiet,” he cut you off. His voice didn’t rise. But the tone, was like a slap that shattered any thought of defiance. “If you work with me, time does not belong to you. Understand? Time is mine.”

He took another step. The sound of his shoes still echoed coldly on the floor, but now he was just inches from you. Your eyes drifted to his chest, just below the collar. You couldn’t see his heartbeat, but it was there. Close. Dangerous. Yet… alluring. With the back of his hand, he lifted your chin this time. His palm was warm, but the skin he touched went numb. When your eyes met his… your balance shifted.

“You’ll go down to the archive room,” he said softly. His fingers remained at your chin, pressure slightly increasing. “Retrieve file A-38. The one with the red label. When you bring it back, we’ll… examine it together.”

You hesitated. It wasn’t about going to the archive. You didn’t care about the contents of the file. What mattered, was his tone. His request, so unnecessary and arbitrary… was a test. A rehearsal for control. A reminder of your place, your time of surrender.

“I suggest you move quickly,” he added. He removed his hand from your face but immediately reached again for the button on your collar. “And if you try to leave again without permission… next time, we’ll speak differently.”

He didn’t press the button. He just paused there. But for a moment, you felt your whole body lock beneath the tip of his finger.

He held your gaze for a moment longer. Then turned and walked toward the bookshelf. All that remained was silence, your shallow breath, and the fragile desire trembling in the cold room.

Your fingers trembled. You tried to suppress the storm inside as you took a deep breath. You knew… when you returned with that file, what awaited you wouldn’t be limited to the pages.

And the next time you stepped into that office…

you wouldn’t leave as yourself.

As you stepped into the corridor, even your own footsteps sounded too loud in your ears. It felt as if each step echoed off the walls, amplifying the noise inside your head. Your fingers were still trembling slightly, but you weren’t sure if it was from fear… or the lingering phantom warmth of where he had touched you. Your heart fluttered inside your chest like a restless creature clawing to escape. Your body moved forward, but your mind was still in his office. That tone of voice, the breath that brushed your neck, that single word: “No.”

No.

He had said no. And for the first time in your life, after someone told you “no,” instead of stepping back, you had chosen to move forward.

That was what shamed you the most. That fluid guilt flowing through your veins. Yes, you had to obey his command. This internship was a necessity for you. But deep down, you knew, it was no longer just about obedience. There was a need rising from within, something you couldn’t name. When you looked into his eyes, there was something stirring in you, something that made you feel… tainted. Desire and hatred should never be so tightly woven together. It shouldn’t be like this. Why did the dark feel so… alluring?

Why did his humiliation burn just like his touch?

Your underwear had grown damp. Even that detail embarrassed you. If he had realized what state you were in around him… he’d tear you apart. And even as you imagined that moment of unraveling, you felt shame.

You took a deep breath. Tried to collect yourself. The archive room was at the end of the corridor. “I’m just getting a file,” you told yourself. “A piece of paper. That’s all. Calm down.”

But your steps began to shorten. Because as you neared the door, all you could see was a slit of dim light. Most of the ceiling lamps were broken. The archive room was one of the least used, most forgotten spaces in Arkham. When you pushed the door open, the metal hinges groaned with rust. The creaking sound slithered across your skin like a chill.

Inside… was a dark labyrinth.

Only one fluorescent light flickered weakly on the left. It gave off more of a tremble than brightness. The rest was in total darkness. The shelves, if you could even call them that, were chaotic. Stacks of files, labels scattered across the floor, toppled folders. The place looked like it had been abandoned after a war. Which section was A, which was B? Where were the red-labeled files? Nothing was clear.

There were narrow paths. Just barely enough space between the shelves to squeeze through. Turning, bending, even taking a deep breath felt difficult. You felt like even a moment’s distraction, as small as a loose screw, could bring the whole structure crashing down on you. The air was stale. The familiar scent of dust filled your nose. You tried not to cough. In this silence, even the slightest sound from your throat felt too much.

A-38.

With a red label.

Your mind repeated the instruction over and over. Your feet moved cautiously between the shelves. But with each step, you felt more and more lost. Not physically… mentally. This place felt like Crane’s mind: cluttered, chaotic, narrow, out of control, yet woven with a strange, magnetic logic that kept pulling you in.

You lifted a few folders. A-14, A-22… C-03… B-67… All jumbled. Some labels were torn, others faded. As your hand brushed over the folder covers, the moist, dusty cardboard tickled your skin. Your eyes were adjusting to the dark, but your body remained on high alert. You kept feeling like if you turned around, someone would be standing there. Or… maybe you wanted to feel that.

Because his voice was still in your head. “If you try to leave again without permission…”

It echoed in your mind like an unfinished threat.

And you… you were beginning to hope for more than just threats.

You didn’t know how long you’d been struggling among the files. Time seemed warped in here. Your fingers were dark with dust, your elbows scratched from the sharp cardboard edges. Your back ached from twisting and bending in this oppressive space. But above all, you felt a weight. Something non-physical… an instinctual pressure. Your heart was slowly speeding up. Your ears buzzed. And strangest of all, at the tip of your nose, you smelled him. That same metallic, medicinal tone mixed with a dark cologne… or was it just your imagination?

Just as you were sifting through the lower section of the B shelf, a shadow suddenly passed to your right and struck the floor. You hadn’t heard any footsteps. As someone appeared behind you, your body instinctively tensed, but then you heard his voice. That cold, sleek blade of a voice, full of restrained authority, familiar and terrifying.

“Truly… that a task this simple challenges you so deeply is… disappointing.”

His voice was too close. And as soon as you heard it, your heart clenched and the tension radiated through every inch of your body. Your hand still rested on the files, but your focus shattered. The space behind you… wasn’t empty anymore. Just like the silence in your mind. He was here. Quietly. Watching. Patiently. And now… he had arrived.

You swallowed, feeling your throat muscles scrape against each other. Your eyes scanned the shelf in front of you, but the letters made no sense anymore.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, barely audible. “It’s… quite disorganized. The labels are missing.”

It was an explanation, but also a defense. Because the thought of disappointing him had carved itself deeper into you than fear. It felt cruel, yes, but also… like a fragile form of attachment.

His presence shifted behind you. No sound. But your body could feel every subtle movement he made. The distance between you was shrinking. This shelf row was barely wide enough for two people to stand side by side. And he wasn’t moving past you. He was behind you. Very close.

You couldn’t move. His breath grazed the exposed part of your neck and you instinctively held your breath. Nothing touched your back, but where was he? He was close. You felt it in your bones.

“This file,” he said, his voice landing near your right ear, “is a kind of… case study we’ll be working on. If you want to learn, and you must, for this internship, you must understand what and why you’re looking for. Otherwise, you’ll wander in the dark like a blind subject.”

One more step. This time, you couldn’t suppress your breath. Because something lightly touched your back. Not harsh, not aggressive… but definite. His body, maybe his jacket… or simply his nearness was enough to make you feel it. You realized someone had bent near your waist. Then, something brushed the inside of your arm. A fine fabric. His hand. Moving discreetly at your elbow. Your eyes widened, but you didn’t turn your head. Your face was blank. But inside… chaos exploded.

And he continued speaking as if nothing had happened.

“Perhaps someone like you struggles to find what they’re looking for… because they don’t quite know what it is they’re seeking.”

The end of his sentence was dangerously close to your ear. But the real realization was that your body had forgotten how to move. You stayed as you were, hands resting on the files. Because if you moved, the contact might become more obvious. Or… it might change. It might go further.

And maybe… you wanted it to.

And the most terrifying, most shameful thought was this:

You wanted to stay like this.

As your fingers kept gliding over the folders, Crane’s presence was no longer debatable, it wrapped around you like a second skin. You stood caught between the shelf and his body, positioned so that even the lack of space itself felt intoxicating. The tightness of the archive room pressed him closer, yet he moved as if it were nothing but necessity. But nothing about this was natural. Every move was calculated, every breath rehearsed.

Suddenly, his right arm reached over you to grab one of the folders above. As the inside of his arm passed just behind your shoulder, you felt his hips brush against you, for the first time, there was no ambiguity in the contact. You held your breath, but he kept moving as if nothing had happened. His fingertips hovered over the labels, yet he didn’t move his body an inch away. On the contrary… he leaned in, just slightly.

The side of your neck was bare. Strands of your hair were messily falling. That’s when you heard his voice again. This time, lower. More personal. His vocal cords nearly touched your skin.

"Why are your hands shaking?"

It wasn’t a question. Not even an observation. It was a kind of threat, silent, implied. Not physical. Psychological. His voice seeped under your skin. The heat of his breath vibrated at your neck. Your shoulder now felt like it was pinned to his chest. There was no room to retreat. The shelf in front, his body behind. Your breath shortened. You thought of saying “stop”… but your tongue didn’t move. Because you didn’t want him to. But you couldn’t ask him to start, either. You were circling inside a moral void. And yes, you were scared it might cost you your internship.

He raised his hand again, reaching for another folder. This time, the motion was slower. As his fingers passed just in front of your arm, his palm lightly brushed your wrist. And stayed. He didn’t pull back. Not until he had the folder. The weight of his hand pressed against your skin, unmoving. You closed your eyes, tried to hold your breath—but your chest started rising and falling too fast.

And he noticed. Of course, he did. For Jonathan Crane, your body's responses were data. He didn’t need your words to understand. Your pulse, your breathing, the trembling at your fingertips... they were maps to him. And reading those maps gave him pleasure.

He leaned in a little closer. You felt him move through your hair. His lips were nearly at your exposed neck. It made your skin shiver. Your eyes locked on the labels along the far wall, but none of the letters made sense anymore.

You were scared. Every brush of his skin had carved itself into yours. But what followed shattered you even more. His other hand touched your outer thigh, just above the hem of your skirt. A warm touch. Maybe even a caress. But done in a way that suggested accident, like it was just part of the motion.

You swallowed hard. The knot in your throat wouldn’t loosen. You couldn’t speak. Your back was being pressed further into his torso. You were locked in place. And yet, his hands remained—on the surface—innocent. He was just browsing folders. Just… helping.

But his touch lingered longer each time. Each folder he reached for, he seemed to do so with unnecessary tenderness. Like he wasn’t touching paper, but skin. When he pulled one out, his hand grazed your hip. “Accidentally.” But it was too specific to be dismissed. And when your knees trembled, his breathing deepened. His chest rose beneath his jacket. He was watching you. Drinking in your reactions.

“You’re feeling too much. That pleases me. It means... there’s still something left in you to break.”

That’s when it hit you. This wasn’t just about finding a folder. This was a session. A covert experiment. You were his subject. The narrow archive aisle was the lab, and your helpless responses were the data. Every small shiver echoed inside him.

For a moment, you imagined yourself through his eyes. Someone who couldn’t move, couldn’t flee, and yet… wouldn’t say “no.” Your chest tightened. But within that tightness, something darker bloomed. A pleasure you couldn’t explain pulled you deeper.

And Jonathan Crane… he wasn’t rushing to drag you there. He was guiding you slowly. Without force. Without resistance.

Because you were already breaking.

The folder with the red label trembled between your fingers, shining like salvation. It had been wedged deep behind the shelf, covered in dust, nearly invisible. The rustling sound it made as you pulled it free shattered the icy shell inside you. Your heart began to race, but this time, it felt like breathing again.

“Ah... this is it,” you said, your voice trembling with a fragile kind of joy. “We’re saved.”

That word slipped out before you realized: saved.

Your own tongue had chosen it, as if aware of the weight of the moment. The presence of the man behind you still burned on your skin. But the file… was just an excuse.

You reached back with a gentle but decisive touch, placing your hand against Crane’s chest. It wasn’t gratitude, it was an attempt to escape. And the moment your fingertips met his warmth, it hit you like a blow. But when you pushed, he didn’t resist at all.

It was as if he’d only been there to observe you.

As if he wasn’t trying to trap you, but provoke a response. And he got it.

Once you stepped out of the narrow aisle in the archive room, you inhaled deeply. As the door creaked shut behind you, you realized something inside you hadn’t followed. It lingered on your skin. On your hip, your wrist, your neck... everywhere he had touched, a trace remained. A shadow.

You clutched the folder to your chest and started walking. Your steps became mechanical. Your left arm supported the file tightly, your other hand opened and closed in the empty air. Your eyes looked ahead, but your thoughts clung to words for distraction. You tried to smile. Maybe if you laughed, it would pass. Maybe if you spoke, everything that had just happened would disappear.

“Finally,” you said with a light smile. “Those shelves were like a battlefield. I think A-38 might be this building’s best-kept secret.”

Your voice tried to sound natural, but it felt foreign even to your own ears. Something inside you was still trembling. It hadn’t stayed behind. It was walking with you. His hands, his breath, his voice were now buried in silence, yet you could still feel him.

Dr. Crane was watching you. His eyes were on your face.

Through Arkham’s long corridors, the echoes of your footsteps over cracked ceramic tiles accompanied his silence. He didn’t say a word. Nothing. That made you feel even more on edge. His silence wasn’t a punishment, it was a clue. He knew he had read you. And now, he was enjoying the sight of you trying to wear your armor again.

You felt his gaze. Heavy. Sharp. Like fingers pressing into your back. It wasn’t the kind of desire that chased, it engulfed. A shadow wrapping around you from the inside. Picking through your mind. Memorizing your skin. The desire of a man who devoured you not with his hands, but with his eyes.

And no matter how much you clung to words, that silence… said more than any sentence could.

When you entered his office, the space transformed again into Crane’s domain. Unlike the cramped archive, it was wider, but somehow more intimate. The light was muted. The amber glow of the lamps leaned across the desk, casting soft halos on the papers, forming shadows. But here, shadows weren’t just from objects, they were intentions.

As you opened the folder, he sat down in his chair, one leg crossed over the other. His fingertips touched one another, the familiar position of the observer. His eyes weren’t on your face. They hovered just below your neck, on the fabric of your shirt. But he wasn’t looking. He was scanning.

As you pulled the files from the folder, you noticed he hadn’t moved closer. Not yet. But his breath arrived before any motion did.

On the top right corner of the first page, there was a date: 03.08.22

Below it, a name: Leonid F. Klein.

And beneath that, a note scribbled in handwriting: “The perfect lie. Even to himself.”

“Klein,” Crane said, not taking his eyes off your hands, “a case of obsessive-compulsive behavior coupled with advanced mythomania. Which means he wasn’t just a pathological liar. His sense of reality was fractured. Lying wasn’t a defense, it was structure. Pleasure.”

His voice was low, but every emphasis carefully chosen. Just like the words. You rotated the file slightly toward him so both of you could read at once. That motion brought your shoulder close enough to touch his. Your knees nearly brushed. But neither of you pulled away.

“In cases like this,” he continued, fingers tapping the desk’s edge, “we don’t just look at the lie itself. We look at what need shaped it. Sometimes, the individual... requires a process even to confess the lie they wish were true.”

He placed his hand near the page. Close, but not quite touching yours. Yet you could feel the heat of his skin. The deliberate proximity.

“For instance,” he said, lowering his voice further, “imagine someone’s made to do something they didn’t want. They may say they didn’t want it. But the body... might tell another story.”

“Klein was the same. He always said, ‘I didn’t do it on purpose.’ But his pupils would dilate. His voice would soften. His pulse would spike. The body doesn’t make alliances with lies.”

A pause followed. Not from lack of information, but to listen to your reaction.

Your breathing had changed. He noticed.

Your hand trembled. He saw that too.

His eyes slid from your face to your chest, then to your neck, and finally... to the edge of your lips.

He didn’t say a word. But somehow... he said it all.

“People often want what they claim they don’t. But knowing that, hurts. You have the intellect to understand that.”

These words weren’t direct. But their weight was unmistakable.

You felt exposed. You stared at the table.

He touched your shoulder with the outside of his hand. This time, deliberately. Gauging your response. Then he leaned in. As he turned the next page, he spoke beside your ear.

“Do you know what a liar truly seeks, more than anything?”

“To be believed?”

“No. To be caught.”

You swallowed. Hard. Your eyes drifted toward the corner of the room. But your body, as if trying to escape, shifted slightly away from the desk. Your hip slid to the side, putting space between your leg and his. The distance still looked professionally acceptable. But what you felt… had already passed those boundaries.

He brushed your fingertips with his. Brief. Soft. But calculated.

“One doesn’t only defend themselves from others… but from their own impulses. And impulses... love resistance. Resistant minds are their favorite playground.”

With those words, he finally looked into your eyes. Fully.

And brought you to the edge.

Jonathan Crane’s touch on your hand ended in a thin line. The closeness he had maintained up until that moment had been sharp and patient; but now he pulled back. He leaned back in the chair, closed his eyes for a few seconds. He left between you not a tense silence, but a calculating space. Then, when his eyelids slowly opened, it was as if he had become a completely different man, but he was still the same Crane. Only he had moved into the next phase.

He tapped his fingers on the edge of the table. Rhythmic, thoughtful. Then he tilted his head slightly to the side, his eyes returning to the pages. But there was a sentence on his lips that would pierce your mind:

“Do you remember… that new prototype I mentioned last term? A beta-typogenic class combination… a type of fluid. A formula that facilitates the confessional reflex. It is being developed to overcome behavioral blockages.”

His tone was neutral, as if you were in a classroom. But that was only the first layer. His words were presented to you as a technical reminder; but what was seeping beneath the tone… was something else entirely.

His jawline was harder. The inside of his eyes was measuring.

He was measuring whether he remembered or not, not just on the level of knowledge, but on another level as well.

“It’s a very interesting thing, chemically,” he continued. “There’s a very fine line between the neurological structures needed to tell a lie and the structures needed to repress it. If you can blur that line… everything that’s repressed comes to the fore. It spills out into words. Inevitably.”

You held your breath. Your hand was still on the corner of the file, but you weren’t looking at the pages anymore. As he spoke to you, he stood up abruptly. The slight creak of his chair echoed through the room like a small tremor. He turned his back to you and headed for a closet in the back corner of the office. His movements were not quick; each step was measured and heavy. As he opened the closet door, the fluorescent light reflecting off the metal shelves inside dazzled him.

He reached out and pulled out a small glass tube. Inside was a liquid as dark as night and quivering with a golden hue. The liquid moved slowly inside the glass, rippling as if it were breathing.

Jonathan turned to you, twirling the tube between his thumb and forefinger. His face was still expressionless. But his eyes… bore the impatience of a God about to begin an experiment.

“I’m glad you remembered,” he said. “But the question is… whether you have the confidence to put this theoretical knowledge into practice.”

He moved closer. He stood across the table, holding the tube in his palm. From where you were looking, the liquid was clearer now. The glass had been warmed by his body heat. He didn’t hand it to you. Not yet.

“The effect of the drug is temporary,” he said. “It doesn’t cause unconsciousness. It doesn’t involve external intervention. It just… brings out what’s inside. It doesn’t numb. It cleanses. It erases obstructions.”

Then he stepped forward. He came around the corner of the table and approached you. The tube was still steady in his hand. His stance was under control, but your breath was close enough to brush his chest. He lowered his voice another notch. He whispered, as if only you could hear: “Do you trust me?”

The words were easy. But their content was poisonous. And then came another sentence; that fragile persuasion that trapped you, leaving no way out: “Or… is there something you’re afraid to confess?”

Your whole body tensed. Because at this point, the choice was no longer whether to accept the drug or not.

The choice was whether to accept and accept how much you obeyed him. Whether to learn who you were in his hands or not. And he was offering you this drug as a personal tool, not just an experimental one. Would you choose to deny yourself?

Or, looking into his eyes… surrender?

Jonathan finally placed the tube on the table. He rolled it slowly to a stop. He locked his eyes with yours. There was a threatening expectation in his eyes. A cold, scientific, frightening curiosity-infused expectation. A decision that seems like "it's your decision", but in fact it has already been made for you.

The glass of the tube stopped spinning on the table. The movement had stopped, but the liquid inside seemed to still stir. It vibrated with uncertainty, fear, but also with an uncontrollable curiosity, just like the restlessness inside you.

You smiled. Forced it. Your facial muscles relaxed for a moment, your voice tried to sound natural.

“We can’t do this… I mean, it was an experiment. A prototype. I don’t know if testing it on yourself… is reasonable or ethical. It might even be… illegal.”

The rise in the voice at the end was tried to sound like a joke. But even you didn’t believe it. Your eyes still avoided his. Because there… there was a darkness reading you. A clinical coldness that analyzed not only your behavior but also your desires.

Jonathan Crane was silent for a moment. His head tilted slightly to the side. The line between his eyebrows wasn’t just a superficial sign of thought. He was watching you. He was listening to all the “no’s” you had hidden under that sentence. And then he spoke. Slow, sharp, as if every word had been chosen to tear you apart from the inside.

“I don’t meet students like you every semester. Do you know what’s interesting? They’re all brilliant at first. They’re all praised with grades. But then… they’re not tested. And no success that isn’t tested is real.”

He took a step toward you. His hands were tied behind his back. He was taller than you; his position was that of a judge rather than a teacher. He was cold. But that coldness… seemed like it would be warmed by a punishment.

“You think you’re ‘the best,’ don’t you? The most careful, the most patient, the most meticulous… even the most courageous. But none of these… should apply only to the classroom. There’s no room for these fairy tales in your professional life.”

The words seeped in. To be the best. That was the command you wrote inside yourself. You wanted to be ‘the first’ in his eyes. To be distinguished, to be seen as different. Because this internship… was the most fragile bridge of your career. And Crane had caught you on that bridge.

“Do you remember the students before you?” he asked. “Not one of them has been in this room with me where you are now. None of them have come this close. None of them… had this much potential.”

Your breath caught between your lips. Your chest heaved rapidly, but that breath was not a victory… it was a loss. He had set you apart. He had offered you the title of first place, but that title came with a price.

And Crane, as the one who held the prize, reminded you of that price:

“People like you can’t afford to be weak. They’re not afraid to make a decision. They think you won’t hesitate.”

“But now… you’re running away. You’re afraid. Because this is the first time you’ve been put to the test.”

His eyes locked on yours. Not to convince, but to leave no room for escape. Then he turned his head slowly. He opened the drawer on the desk. He pulled out a sterile syringe with a black frame.

It was the same temperature as the glass tube, but much more menacing. And he began to prepare this threat, as if it were a ceremony, calmly and methodically.

“It doesn’t change you. It just… opens you up to you.”

“Without any external interference, it just lets you face your truth. That’s what all ‘successful’ people avoid. Learning… who you really are.”

A note of tone appeared in his voice as his fingers tested the steel of the needle:

“If this is too much for you… maybe you’re not as brave as I thought.”

There it was. It was chosen to sink in. If you’re afraid, it’s because you’re weak. If you don’t accept, it’s because you’re not ready. And you… had to be ready. Because in his eyes, you were ‘the best.’

And in his eyes, being ‘the best’ was tantamount to obedience.

The hissing sound as the syringe began to draw the liquid echoed through the room. The golden liquid, flowing from the glass into the metal, was now only a few centimeters away from you. And Jonathan Crane watched you with no expression of triumph on his face.

Because he had already won.

The hissing sound as the liquid in the glass syringe vibrated into the metal needle was like a warning bell for you. It didn’t echo throughout the room, but it became an internal whisper that buzzed in your ears. This was no longer part of a laboratory experiment, but a chemical revelation ceremony played with your body. And you… You were standing there, facing Crane. Your wrist was exposed. The sleeve of your shirt was slowly rolled up. Your veins were highlighted by the effect of fear. The blue under your skin was now a direct target.

The hard rubber sound of Crane’s hands as he put on his gloves seemed to polish the seriousness of the moment. And then, the brief but infinite second of injection that would prepare you to see from within, not from the surface, would begin.

“Stay calm,” he said in a low voice. “This will only disable the voice that silences you. Everything else… already exists inside you.”

You felt the moment when the metal of the syringe needle touched your skin before it went deeper. First, the coldness. The sudden tightening of nerve endings that knew something was coming. Then a little pressure.

And then…

Introduction.

The moment the needle punctured your vein, your brain registered the moment. The puncture wasn’t sharp, but the wave that followed was…a fire that burned inside you but couldn’t seep out.

Crane slowly pushed the plunger. The fluid in the glass tube was now moving through your veins.

Your vagus system was activated. Your heartbeat slowed for a moment, then sped up. Your breathing became irregular. The fluid was directly touching the communication between your amygdala and your prefrontal cortex. The frontal lobes of your brain, which “censored reality,” began to fail like a membrane that was slowly evaporating. In its place, a more primitive layer was preparing to speak.

The drug’s intravenous spread reached your brain’s limbic system in about 8.3 seconds. And that’s when you realized that your body was no longer yours.

A vibration rose. First in your neck. Then in your shoulder blades. Finally… in the center of your chest.

The bottom of your chest tightened as if someone was pressing from inside. There was not enough air. You didn’t want to breathe because even the air you took in at that moment seemed to be under Crane’s control.

Your tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth. Your sweat glands activated. Your subcutaneous temperature rose rapidly, while your body warmed up by 0.5 degrees.

But the most dramatic change happened inside. Your mind’s voice fell silent.

Instead, whatever was repressed began to climb upwards with the chemical drive of the liquid. Just as nausea comes not from a thought, but from a physiological drive…

For a moment, an image of the past flashed before your eyes. A failure. A race. A class. Eyes looking at you. That minus sign you received after the exam. That moment when you were told “insufficient”. It opened up in your mind like an unhealed wound. And then, the voice inside you asked: “Does Crane look at me like that?”

No thought was safe for you anymore.

It was all getting ready to come out. And he… was watching you.

When Crane withdrew the syringe, a small drop of blood rose to the surface after the metal had been removed from his skin. He pressed it gently with his fingers, but for the first time the contact was truly personal. Because this time, it wasn’t just the medicine that had seeped into his skin… but also his gaze.

“This is… the first stage,” he said. “Now, not your words… but your instincts will speak.”

Your pupils were dilated, your forehead moist. The insides of your knees were tingling, your body was losing control, but you weren’t falling yet.

Because you were still resisting. But the resistance was no longer just suppressing the medicine, it was suppressing yourself.

The silence of the room had changed to something else now. There was a chemical vibrating in the air; an aura that was invisible but coursing through your veins, an effect that took your thoughts from your hands and delivered them to his fingers.

You sat in your chair, your eyes wide, your lips parted. Your breathing wasn’t smooth, but rather undulating like waves crashing against the shore. Your chest, your shoulders… all seemed to carry a weight that was loaded onto your body. Everything you had suppressed inside you wanted to come out in the uncontrolled movements of your body, but you… were still trying to resist. Confessing… meant everything.

Jonathan Crane was still standing. After dropping the syringe into a medical waste container, he slowly guided his steps towards you. His stance was calm, but this calmness was only apparent from the outside; underneath it was strategy, appetite, lustful attention. His eyes lingered on you; he seemed to take note of your every reaction. But he didn’t want to tear you apart… he wanted to have you by making you unravel yourself.

“How are you feeling?” he finally asked, his voice low but direct. “Not much. Just honestly. Are you afraid?”

Even the question was a trap. Because if you said “no,” you would be lying. And you couldn’t lie. If you said “yes,” you would be accepting the fact that he was controlling you. But you… you were torn. After a few seconds of silence, without lifting your eyes from the table, you whispered:

“A little.”

He smiled. But it wasn’t warm. It was patient, mixed with pleasure. He was starting to figure you out. And now, he had decided to dig deeper.

He moved closer to you. He took a step toward the back of the chair. You couldn’t see his face, but you could tell he was getting closer to you from the thickening air between you. There was a deep silence. Then his voice rose again, from somewhere near the back of your neck. You shivered, your muscles tightening. “So what makes it hard for you to be honest with me? Fear? Morality? Or… something else?”

Your body quivered reflexively at that moment. Because the question wasn’t direct, but the implication was very strong. The words caught in your throat. The word “morality” felt like a needle when it came out of his voice. Was it what had happened between you and him that you were questioning… or was it that you wanted those things?

You swallowed.

“It’s just… weird,” you said with difficulty. “This isn’t normal.”

Jonathan tilted his head a little to the side at that answer. Like a doctor watching a subject’s first reaction. Yet he wasn’t impatient. Because he knew that the magic of confession… lay in its delay. Then, without forcing you at all, he began to speak slowly, in a way that would mentally grip you:

“People worship mediocrity to escape normality. They force themselves into ‘reasonable’ patterns. But inside them… there is a darker, more honest self. Those like you know this very well. Because you… don’t just want to be successful. You want to be distinguished. To be noticed. To know that something that is thought to be untouchable… has been opened up specifically for you. That’s why you’re here. That’s why you don’t stay silent.”

His words were filling the voids inside you. You were trying to resist, but your lips were moist, your fingers were tightly gripping the edge of the table. That liquid running through your veins was now loosening not only the urges, but also the shame.

Then he asked the question. Slowly. Almost in a whisper. “Have you ever thought about me?”

The blood rushed to your face. You felt like even hearing that sentence was tearing you apart. Your shoulders started to sag, as if someone had reached out from inside your heart and pulled away all the walls you had stepped on.

For a moment you couldn’t answer. But then… the word came. Like a rotten whisper.

“Yes…”

Jonathan’s eyes lit up. He didn’t smile. Because this moment wasn’t something to laugh at. This was the moment when the armor that made you who you were cracked for the first time.

And then he took another step. This time he was right next to you. He didn’t put his hand on your shoulder, he didn’t touch your hair. But you could feel his presence… under your skin now.

“When?” he asked. “What moment? What thought?”

You closed your eyes. You wanted to run away. But the words… came.

“The first day of the internship… when you didn’t look into my eyes. You weren’t talking to the other students like you did. I thought about it then. But I didn’t want to. But I thought about it anyway.”

Crane lowered his gaze to you. Just like a patient is put under observation at the first moment of crisis… only this time his interest wasn’t just clinical. He wasn’t solving you anymore.

He was solving you in order to take care of you.

Jonathan Crane accepted your confession with silence. He neither mocked nor showed any surprise. He simply remained silent. But this silence was not an ordinary “I heard”. This was the first time a lock was turned. And he… had now stepped into the room behind that lock.

He took another step. His fingers were slightly tense, but he did not touch. He would not touch yet. Because you had to want him to come closer. Your mind was just getting used to this confusion, and he was slowly untangling you with his patience.

He pulled a chair from the table and sat down next to you. There was a short distance between you, but that distance was now lost in his eyes. His pupils were constricted, scanning you. But this scanning was no longer clinical. It was a preparation for possession.

“You said what you thought of me,” he said softly, “but that is only the beginning. Thoughts… can escape intention. But desires are more honest.”

He was silent for a moment. You heard his breathing. The uncomfortable warmth that his arm leaning on the table had awakened in you was seeping up from under your body. Like a fire that could not reach its depth but made you feel it was approaching.

“When I enter the same room with you… what do you feel? Really. When you see me… how does your body react?”

The question was direct and chilling. This was no longer a ‘test’. This was a transition to another layer of confession. And under the effect of the drug, the filters on your honesty were now dissolving. But this honesty was chaining you instead of freeing you. Because everything you said would mean surrendering to him a little more.

You swallowed. Only one word came out of your lips first: “Restlessness… I feel like there is no limit to what you can do.”

But he waited. He looked at you without blinking. That answer was not enough. Because when you pulled away from his gaze, he could see your heart speed up. Your eyes wandered around the room, as the words were preparing to fall from your chest, the urges that you had not even confessed to your own inner voice began to rise.

“But… also… curiosity. I want to see your limitlessness. I want to stay even when I should be leaving. And that endless unknown makes me feel attracted to you. It’s… disturbing but… addiction, Dr. Crane.”

Crane slowly lowered his head. Like a hunter watching you over his shoulder. Not your words, not your fragile tone… nothing was foreign to him. He didn’t respond as if he already knew you. He watched you patiently, as if he were shaping you right now. And then he asked something even more specific. It was proof that he was moving toward becoming not just a counselor but an object of obsession:

“So… what would you like me to know about you? When you think of me… how would you like to be seen, Y/N?”

The question was like a knife. The answer was something you were waiting for, just to see in his eyes. Maybe “to be noticed.” Maybe “to be liked.” But in that moment, a more primal urge emerged:

“I want you to see my weaknesses… especially my fears,” you said. “But without belittling me. The thought of you not pitying me triggers me…The fantasy of controlling me stimulates my groin.”

Your words caught in your throat. Because this wasn’t just a confession; this was a declaration of your voluntary inclusion in the entire system he had created.

Jonathan was silent for a moment. Then, he leaned in. Very lightly, very slowly. You felt his breath near your cheek. But still, he didn’t kiss. Because the biggest touch between them… was still your voice.

“For you, boundaries are just the outer shell,” he whispered. “I’m not helping you break yourself. You’re already broken. I… am just holding up a mirror to you.”

And what you saw in the mirror… wasn’t just you. It was how he saw you now. And it was something you had never seen before.

Crane’s words didn’t hang in the air. They had descended over you like a heavy veil, slowly descending. You were breathing under that veil now, hazy, uncomfortable, but familiar. Because the deep, clinical softness in his voice… wasn’t a cure, it was a promise of resolution.

Your shoulders had slumped, your jaw had trembled slightly. Your body didn’t feel like your own. It was a place where only his words echoed. And Jonathan Crane was the architect of this place.

Nothing was rushed as he approached you. He slowly raised his hand from the edge of the table, and with a slight bend in his thumb, he reached just below your cheek. His touch was so gentle that at first you weren’t sure if he actually made contact. But then the veins beneath your skin began to pulse at the gentle pressure.

“Has anyone ever looked at you this closely?” he said.

“With all your masks off. Without running away. Without judging. Just… watching you.”

Your eyes turned to him, but you couldn’t look. Because this wasn’t just a look, it was the first step of surrender.

He didn’t take his eyes off you. As if he was memorizing all the subconscious folds inside you by watching your every breath.

His fingertips moved from the edge of your chin to your lips. He didn’t turn your face. He just touched your lower lip with his thumb. But this contact wasn’t affection; it was a form of dominance. Not to caress you, but to see where you were trembling. And you shivered.

A muscle twitched involuntarily on the side of your neck.

Because in his palm was not only the pulse of deep desires but also of repressed desires.

Crane moved his head a little closer to you. When his breath touched your skin this time, your body moved with an internal reflex, but you couldn’t move.

This was the disintegration of a body torn between running away and staying. And he saw it.

He could now read you without the need for medication.

“What do you imagine when you think of me?” he asked, his voice low but poisonously calm. “What do you want me to do with my hands? What did you imagine me doing, Y/N?”

It wasn’t a question, it was a confession. But it had to come from you. It had to be your choice to say it. And so your last remaining boundary would collapse with your hand.

Your throat went dry. Your eyes darkened. But the answer came. In a whisper. The words seemed to come from inside you, not from your lips.

“When I think of you, we’re always in the same place: in a dark room, with only your voice. ‘Be patient,’ you say. There are handcuffs on my wrists… But not just physically… You’ve captured me. You bite me because I want to be yours. With every painful touch, I become more dependent.”

Crane’s face didn’t come closer. He just listened to you.

Because that was the moment you opened up to yourself.

And that surrender… was the greatest victory for him.

“Good,” he finally said. “Because you have now surrendered yourself to me. Not your body, but your mind. Your most fragile part.”

He moved closer to you. His hands were now on either side of your neck, but he was not squeezing you. He was just pressing you with his presence. And you… even as you breathed, you were now following his rhythm.

He looked you straight in the eye with those cold eyes. “Get up,” Jonathan said, his voice echoing through the room. His tone was commanding, yet it also carried a dark allure. You did as he said, obediently. Jonathan stood before you, but it was impossible to understand what he was thinking or doing. And that uncertainty aroused you.

His frequent tapping of the glass syringe on the table against the floor gave him away. He was a control freak, and you wanted to be under his control.

Crane’s gaze changed. The dull calm of his eyes gave way to a sharper determination. He was no longer trying to untie you, but to possess you. For once, the contact was unwavering.

His fingers reached under your chin, tilting your head up slightly. You let out an involuntary sigh as you turned to him, an echo struggling with both uneasiness and surrender.

And then… his thumb pressed the edge of your lower lip. This time harder, like a beckoning gesture.

“I’m here,” he said. “And you’re mine now.”

“You want more, don’t you, Y/N,” he said, his voice as soft as ice. “Because you… you’ve already prepared yourself for this moment.”

He increased the pressure on the corner of his mouth a little more.

The thought that your desire wasn’t yours, but his… made you shiver and pull at the same time. You parted your pale lips slightly, the suppressed fear you carried inside you like a mysterious invitation in the curve of his lips. Jonathan, at that moment, mixed with your breath, as if he were looking for a spiritual contact, not just physical. But he didn’t kiss you. No. He had to drive you crazy first. He leaned down to the side of your neck. His lips didn’t touch your skin. But his breath was directed right at that point that coincided with your pulse. Your whole body was stuck for a moment. You didn’t move. You couldn’t. Because movement could be the end of something. But you didn’t want it to end. He first touched your neck with his lips. Where your pulse beat. Your body trembled as if you’d been electrocuted. “Are you scared?” Jonathan asked, his breath touching yours. You nodded slowly. “Yes,” you answered, your voice trembling. Jonathan’s smile widened even more.

He ran his tongue first. It left a chilling dampness on your skin. Then a bite, just like in your dreams. Not enough to hurt you, but arrogant enough to claim it. “Perfect,” he said. “Fear is the strongest emotion. And you will share it with me.” As he felt the speed of your pulse, its irregularity, the pull mixed with fear, he felt like he owned you from the inside. It was as if he had completely taken over your body, like a parasite.

While you continued to feel his tongue, his lips, he moved along your neck. He brushed his lips all the way to your jawbone. From there, he reached your cheeks. But he never fully touched you. He did not let your tongues burn with each other’s wetness. His breath was now touching the spot between your cheek and ear. His fingers started from the tip of your shoulder; He moved down to your breasts, which filled the palm of your hand, over the thin fabric. Then he slowly slid and glided. First, he traced the outline of your waist, the hollow of your spine. Your body was so tense that each touch was not an observation but part of an experiment.

He bent his head ever so slightly. When the tip of his nose touched yours, your body shook. This was not a kiss. This was the first threat of contact. When your lips finally met; this kiss was a trembling and contradictory touch, dancing on the thin line of passion and death. His cold and controlled demeanor frightened you. He had the careful manner of a doctor measuring your body temperature. He measured how your lips were reacting. He pressed lightly, pulled back. He came closer again. This was not pleasure, but the application of the first dose that would create addiction.

His fingers slid to the back of your neck. Your skin shivered. And then the kiss deepened. But you were still not directing him. He lightly ran his tongue between your lips, drawing you in. But the movement of his tongue is deliberate: each curve slowly, almost calculating. Jonathan is not kissing you… he is silencing you. He is stopping all the “Is this true?” echoing in your mind by pressing it against his lip.

His eyes weren’t closed. They were open. He wanted to watch your reactions. There was power and analysis in his eyes, not affection.

When he slid his tongue into your lips, the rough, wet surface of the papillae tickled. The deepening rhythm as your tongues intertwined, as if synchronizing your heartbeats. There was no limit, but the tempo was his.

Even when he pulled away from your lips, the kiss wasn’t over. His gaze flickered to your mouth, then to your eyes. The pressure of his hand on the back of your neck continued.

“Do you realize how easily you give in?” he whispered, his fingers landing on your collarbones. “The serum I made won’t break your resistance. It will only disrupt your lying mechanism, and that comes with fear.”

And before you could respond, he pulled you closer. Slowly, but firmly. Your body touched his chest. His arms didn’t wrap around your back. He just stopped. Crane wasn’t holding you. He was locking you up.

“The void I’ve created inside you,” he said at ear level,

“Only I can fill it. And you belong to me now… in another form.”

Your body took an involuntary breath. As if your tongue had not yet reached the thoughts that were passing through it. But his fingers were now roaming the lower edge of your abdomen, carefully but insistently pushing you toward your limits. As if he were making decisions every millimeter, measuring when the touch would turn into desire, when it would turn into surrender.

One of his hands was now pressing gently on the back of your waist. He had paused there before pulling you closer. You were on the edge. And Crane knew it.

His gaze, as it slid down from top to bottom, showed neither hunger nor complete aloofness. Like a psychological prey, he watched you for when you would give in. His lips moved, but almost whispered:

“I want to see you… not what the world sees when you hide under cotton and fear.” His fingers touched the first button on your shirt. He wanted you to do it. He wanted you to watch him, but he made it clear to you before he did. He unbuttoned the button with a single movement. When he stretched the edges of the fabric to the sides, the curved lines of her breasts were visible.

There was nothing moving in the room at that moment. Only your heart. It was beating so hard that you were sure even Jonathan Crane could hear it. Your eyes were locked on his; but his was fixed, yours was searching. Perhaps you were instinctively looking for an exit. But this was Crane’s mental labyrinth. And now you had reached the last room from which there was no exit.

With trembling hands, you took off your vest and left it on the chair. Jonathan’s gaze roamed over your body, watching your every move. “Now your shirt,” he said, his voice becoming even more authoritative.

You unbuttoned his shirt clumsily. Your fingers were shaking more than usual. You felt the coolness of his skin against your underwear. You caught your breath at first. Then your rhythm quickened. This, the symptoms, occur for two reasons. Either intense desire or… fear.

Jonathan’s eyes rested on your breasts, but his expression remained blank. “Go on,” he said, as if this was just an experiment.

You prayed that your knees wouldn’t betray you as he took off your skirt. That shiver was always running up your spine. But also in your groin.

You were left in nothing but your underwear. The texture of the lace against your skin was almost whisper-light; delicate shades of purple and gray quivered like diamonds against your skin. The bra that hugged your breasts was more than just a piece of fabric, it was an intention. A clever trap between covering and exposing. The lace patterns traced thin paths across your skin, each one as clear as a line your fingers would want to cross, yet still forbidden.

Your panties were seductive with a simplicity that words failed to describe; the almost invisible thin bands dug into the bony line of your hips, the front generous enough to cover only the most intimate secrets. It was like a sensual oath, inviting you to imagine before touching.

Jonathan’s gaze traveled down your body, taking in every detail. “Very beautiful,” he said, but his voice was devoid of praise. “But tonight, your beauty does not concern me. Only your obedience.”

But you could no longer make eye contact with him. Your breathing quickens, but you can’t get enough air into your lungs. There’s a tension in the center of your chest, like your heart is stuck and hasn’t yet convinced itself to beat. Like when you’re scared.

“Look at me,” he says. His voice is controlled and measured. But you can’t look at him. When he does, eye contact is like a slap.

“You’re resisting eye contact… classic displacement behavior under chemically induced anxiety. That means it’s working.”

The serum.

Yes, the fluid Jonathan had injected into your vein for a special “test.” He hadn’t told you about his fear symptoms.

You heard his footsteps. He was approaching. You had pressed yourself against the window sill as if you could run away, but you didn’t realize it. The room wasn’t big. And you had nowhere to run now.

Jonathan stopped right in front of you. You were still looking away.

“Look at me,” he says again. There’s no anger in his voice. But there’s something there that defies argument. Like a scientist trying to keep a subject in line when they’re running away from him. With your eyes still on the floor, he took another step.

“Oh yes, you feel it, don’t you?”

The serum’s effects increased. The hormones of fear—adrenaline, norepinephrine, cortisol—danced through your blood. His hands were shaking, his knees felt weak. But he knew it, he was watching it, and he was aroused by it.

Jonathan held your chin in his fingers as you continued to look away. Not forcibly, but with an obsessive patience. He turned your face toward his.

His lips almost touched yours again. “No. You can’t look away. Not from me.”

“Fascinating,” he said when your eyes finally met his. His thumb slid to the corner of your mouth, barely touching your skin. You wanted to run away, and at the same time, you wanted to sink to your knees.

Jonathan Crane looked at you like someone analyzing you. “You’re shaking… but you’re not trying to.”

“Do you know what that means?”

You couldn’t answer. But what was going through you was neither fear nor desire. You were on a sharp, slippery line drawn between the two.

Your chin was still in his fingers. Even if you turned your head to the side, he wouldn’t let you. The pressure he applied was light but absolute.

When you tried to escape with your eyes, his gaze would bore into yours again. Looking at you was like penetrating you. And it was exactly what he wanted you to not be able to escape.

“That’s it… breathe. Let it take you.”

Let “it” take you. What? The serum? Fear? Or… it?

Crane leaned his head down a little more. His forehead was so close to yours.

"Your pupils dilated... your skin flushed... your hands trembled. Fear reached its peak. Now let's see what happens next."

He moved a little closer to you. His breath was just above your lips. But he didn't kiss you this time.

His hand slowly moved down from your chin to your neck. He stopped there. He felt your pulse with his fingertips. Much more noticeable now.

You were still shivering. But... But that touch wasn't just fear anymore. It was warmth. A desire. A mixed, dirty pulling feeling.

When he kissed your lips again, this time he was harder. He wanted fear to cascade, to merge with lust. When he pulled his lips back and looked into your eyes, he saw your pupils dilate. His cock was getting hard with this sight. And after that kiss came another one. A little more pressing, a little more burning with desire to possess.

His fingers wrapped around your neck a little tighter in the beat.

Then he put his hands on your bare waist. He squeezed you between the wall and his body. As if to remind you that he owned you.

His voice mixed with your breaths. "You can still stop this. But you won't."

Because you couldn't stop. The serum continued to flow through your veins. But now his voice, his touch, his closeness to your skin... More effective than the serum.

The wetness he left on your lips shone in the dim light, like raw meat.

Suddenly, he grabbed your hair from behind. Not hard, but determined. His fingers got into your hair, gripping it near the nape of your neck. Your head fell back suddenly, your neck tensed, your breath hitched. His breath licked your skin as he spoke.

"You're scared like prey... and I've never seen anything so perfect," he said through his teeth.

His fingers pressed against your hair roots, steadying you.

Your skin was burning. Your heart was beating like it had lost control. His other hand found the edge of your panties. And he entered between your skin and the fabric like an invader, finding the outer lips of your vulva.

It was wet... Dr. Crane’s fingers were wet enough to make them soggy. His middle and ring fingers were wet enough to slide easily into her slit.

A slick sound filled your ear as he stroked your inner lips in a circular motion.

He raised his eyebrows and smiled wryly, “Oh, my… you’re soaked,” he said, while continuing to tease your clitoris and vaginal opening. “So tell me, what exactly are you afraid of? Of me, or of the fact that I scare you and you enjoy it?” he whispered. When he reached your clitoris and stopped there, he squeezed the bud with two fingers. Even the slightest pressure inevitably stimulated the dilated capillaries inside. Your sensitivity increased to the point that your temple twitched with each stroke.

As he continued to crush your clitoris between his fingers, you felt the pain. Your chest heaved, you sighed, your mouth slightly parted. This was more than it should have been. Pain triggers your fear, Dr. He made you see Crane as a threat—and you should have. You wanted to run away. But the pleasure in the pain was so sweet, so tempting. Lust and pain balanced each other. Your mind was giving warning signals… your body was writhing in surrender.

“Ah. You weren’t expecting this, were you?” he said, his index and ring fingers stretching your outer lips. “That your fear would make you… suffer for me,” he said, his middle finger brushing along your vulva. It stopped at the entrance to your sensitive vagina, applying pressure.

You were so out of control that your breathing quickened. Your muscles tensed, you held onto the arms of the man you feared, your fingers trembling. The man who was bringing you to orgasm locked eyes with you, both godlike and beastlike. And he stared into your eyes, impassive, emotionless, and grabbed the fabric beneath him, pulling it taut. The sound of the fabric tearing didn’t fill the room, but your ears did. His dominant movements, his dull gaze, his desire to possess reminded you of death. You wanted to escape from him. To escape without looking back and to lock yourself somewhere he couldn't find you.

The wall behind you was no longer just a physical boundary. As alive as your own skin. Cold. Hard.

But he was more honest than you. Because you still thought you could escape. His presence was as close as a sentence. As heavy as a look. And you had already accepted that you couldn't escape, but you wouldn't admit it to yourself.

Jonathan threw the torn fabric in his hand to the ground and stepped back toward his desk, as if he expected you to follow him. Your inner thighs were wet as you took a step. Your arousal was flowing through your legs in a colorless, slippery liquid. It was the arousal of fear, the orgasm of death.

You stood in front of him. “Now,” he said, “you will bend over for me.” He raised one hand and pointed to the table. The files were scattered on top of it.

Your fingertips were trembling slightly. Your breath was now uncontrollably ragged. Your body wanted to get closer to a man you saw as a devil.

The moment you realized this, the inner scream began.

Your mind was screaming, “No.”

But your skin… that fire that stretched from your spine to your womanhood, knew that you were nothing but Crane’s shadow.

You turned back to the desk, your hands fixed on a place where there were no papers, your head bowed. He was right behind you, and that feeling was more dangerous than making eye contact with him. Because he was watching you. And him continuing to watch without doing anything, not taking you even though he had untied you… would leave you even more naked. Because then you would not only carry the desire, but also the shame of rejection.

When Jonathan’s hand touched your hair, your muscles clenched. His fingers tightened around the strands. He leaned your head back against his shoulder, his lips tingling your ears. “You flinch when I touch you… but your body calls me back like a prayer,” he said, his voice threatening. “Isn’t it beautiful? Your terror is what makes you… irresistibly wet.”

Jonathan’s face cracked into a smile, but it was dark. “You don’t belong in the outside world anymore,” he said, unclasping your bra. “You belong here. In this room. "Under my control," he continued. After your bra was removed, you were now as naked as your soul. Your warm body tensed when his cold hands cupped your breasts from behind. Your areolas were hard, your nipples were erect, and you felt the coldness of his fingers very sensitively. But that wasn't all you felt. His cock pressing against your hips was straining the fabric, twitching to fill your tight vagina.

He cupped your left breast and squeezed it hard. He crushed your right nipple between his fingers, just like he had done to your clitoris a moment ago. He leaned down to your ear and rubbed his tongue around it. All the way around, as if he were setting a boundary around your ear.

You, on the other hand, frowned in fear and began to moan with desire. The husky sound coming from your throat was lustful and shy at the same time.

"You're ashamed of how much you want this, aren't you, Y/N?" Jonathan said, sliding his hand from your left breast down to your belly. "But this shame... making you tighter. Wetter. Needier." His fingers were making a figure 8 at his groin now. "Don't hide it. Let it devour you. I want to see everything about you."

All of this, while the serum in your veins was still stimulating your amygdala, was getting darker and scarier. "No." came out of your lips. "No" had many meanings for you. But most of all, it was because you couldn't accept that the doctor you thought was more terrifying than your nightmares wanted to fuck you. Yet, he had been in your dreams ever since you saw him. Ever since you saw him, you wanted him to fill you with his sperm on the gurney in his lab. But the serum made everything complicated.

Jonathan pressed his hand on your back. His fingertips were strong enough to leave white marks on your skin. You bowed in lustful fear. First a little, then a little more... But it wasn't enough for Dr. Crane. He wanted you to press your face against the table.

You turned your head to the right. When your left cheek touched the file, the first thing you noticed was the cold. It was as if all the light in the room had been drained from the walls; only his silhouette remained. Your eyes were on the metal cabinet, but your mind was on him.

Your breaths were short, broken. You wanted to slowly push yourself up, but… When the warmth of his hand pressed against the center of your back, something inside you unraveled.

You were in the exact position he wanted. "I've been dreaming of this exact position since you were leaning over my bookshelf last semester," he said, his hand still on your back, applying pressure. It restricted your movement, shouting that the will was in his hands. "I almost touched you then. But I waited. Because now... now you'll remember this for the rest of your life."

And his free hand went to his tie.

You didn't see him. But you heard his movements. The slight rustle of the fabric of his tie. Time suddenly slowed down. As if every second was diminishing one more defense inside you. And you were no longer sure what was more troubling: his hand holding you or the fact that he hadn't done anything yet.

His removal of the tie was slow and precise. As if he'd done it a hundred times. But this time, not to loosen your shirt, but to steady you. His eyes never left yours as his fingers released the fabric that had come loose from his collar with a single tug. He took his time. Because he knew that fear thrived best in waiting.

And you... were motionless.

Your lungs were rising and falling rapidly in a narrow space.

Your hands were shaking, but your body couldn't move. Your head was crowded: "He chose you long ago. You always knew that."

The tie was now in Jonathan’s hands, and even before it touched your skin, you felt him tie you up. Your body froze, but your thoughts were screaming, “He won’t do it now. He’s just scaring you. It’s just a game…”

“Put your hands behind your back,” he said. His voice was low but unarguable. Just that sentence sent an icy shiver down your spine. You didn’t move. But he didn’t wait. He gently but firmly guided your wrists back. His fingertips were cold; like a doctor’s gloved hands.

He noticed you were trembling. But he didn’t say anything. As the fabric of the tie wrapped around your wrists, your heart began to race like a false alarm. But no one would wake up from that alarm. Because you were the only one in the room. And he was listening to your fear.

When the fabric was knotted, your hands were now tied behind your back. Your shoulders were tense. And he studied you like a painting. His gaze was not cold, but dark. Not satiated, still hungry.

The sound of the belt reached your ears. You knew it was your turn, but your heart was pounding with fear, and the colorless liquid flowing down your legs was thickening.

The hard, heavy click of his metal buckle echoed in the silence of the room, brief but firm. Every moment you didn’t see, your ears grew stronger with your imagination.

Then, that dry scraping sound of skin being pulled across fabric… As the buckle was released, the belt flexed like a spring at the end, then relaxed and dropped.

The sound of the zipper was more delicate. It cut through the air like a thin, continuous scratch.

The weight of his pants yielded on its own as the waistband came undone. The thick fabric made a gentle scrape as it slid down his legs; a brief stiffness at the knees, and then a muffled, rolling sound as his weight dropped to the floor.

He wore only a pair of skinny, smoky-gray boxers underneath. The fabric was neither new nor worn; it was simply “used.” He grabbed the faded seams and pulled them down. His hardened penis arched slightly as it was released from the elastic at the waist.

Jonathan was straining at the entrance to her vagina. He first took hold of his penis with his hand and flicked it toward her clitoris. A warning shot through your spine, clenching your fists. But the fabric around your wrists was straining and hurting. You sighed through your teeth.

Then he stroked your vulva a few times. He reached down from your clitoris to the entrance of your vagina, and pushed a few inches inside, but never in. It was driving you crazy. “Oh, please, Dr. Crane!” you moaned. “Please,” he begged. Like prey begging the hunter.

Jonathan was even more aroused by your words. “Should we put that in your internship report?” he asked, almost rasping. “‘Subject: Dr. Crane applied full pressure; subject responded with incoherent moans and demanded more.’” Dr. Crane could no longer catch his breath. “Let’s call it… behavioral data.”

You were aroused by these words. Both terrified and lustful. Triggered by the corrupt desire he had for you. His pursuit of you, his insatiable obsession with you, was enticing. “You scare me, Doctor…” you moaned. You paused but never stopped. “…but I don’t know why I still desire you so much.” The words came out in gasps, “I want you to fuck me, in all your sick fantasies.”

Jonathan wheezed breathlessly, “Do you really need someone to dominate you, Y/N? And someone to bring you to your knees with nothing but their eyes.”

You groaned breathlessly, “No… not someone.

Just you and your twisted mind.” You looked so eager. So needy.

When Jonathan pushed his cock into your vagina, it enveloped you completely. It wasn’t very long, but it was thick. Too thick for you. Too tight for him. He threw his head back in pleasure as the rough, warm walls of his vagina wrapped around Jonathan’s manhood. “Oh, Y/N, every breath belongs to me. Every tremor you make is my victory.”

His cock was surrounded by the knots of your warm vaginal walls. This rough structure allowed him to feel you deeper. Jonathan was losing himself in the pleasure you were giving him, moaning. Every time he pushed his big cock inside you, his swollen balls slapped your ass, stimulating both your ‘g’ spot and your clitoris, making you almost cry. And you couldn’t react at all. He had you completely trapped in his body.

“You like that, don’t you?” Jonathan asked as he fucked you like an animal. “Tell me you want me, Y/N, tell me you want to be trapped in my darkness.”

You were out of breath. With the intensity of the terrifying pleasure you were experiencing, the whites of your eyes were exposed, and your moans were getting louder and echoing in Jonathan's ears. "Oh, Dr. Crane, this is beyond my dreams."

Your flesh was slapping against each other with each impact as he rooted into your tight hole. And he continued to thrust rhythmically. "It's wonderful to feel you from the inside." he said.

You were both about to reach the peaks of pleasure. Your tight vagina felt Crane's hardness and veined surface down to the smallest cell. His penis was wrapped around your knotted walls, twitching.

You were now at the height of your orgasm. Even though his penis filled your vagina completely, the juices of pleasure continued to leak from the exit of your vagina. You were so wet that a slurry sound echoed with each thrust.

Jonathan leaned over you and put his lips to your ear. Now you could taste his moans, his short breath, the warmth of his breath just behind your ear. He bit your earlobe. It was painful, but the tip of his tongue was taking the pain to a stimulating level. "My poor obsession, just be patient a little longer. It's almost here."

The table was shaking. The creaking echoed off the walls of the room as the table legs rubbed against the floor. The muscles in his hips were now clenched, and he was about to spill his sperm onto your womanhood. But he held himself back to witness the moment his sperm slid across your skin, and he pulled out of you suddenly and came breathlessly onto your hips. As his sperm spread over your warm skin, you came right after. Your juices of pleasure had soaked the office floor, and the rest had seeped down your legs and dripped down to your ankles.

The effects of the serum had completely worn off, and you were left alone with only your interest and desire for Jonathan Crane. Your ears were buzzing, your eyes were blurry with pleasure. You were on cloud nine, realizing you had never had an orgasm before. You had never had real sex. And what you wanted was exactly what Jonathan Crane wanted.

[divaofmads]

Would you ever write for the dark knight versions of Jonathan crane and two face? Also would you ever write for Gotham series penguin , riddler , Jerome or Jeremiah ?

OH you just unlocked something inside me. I've been secretly OBSESSED with Dark Knight's Crane and Two-Face for years. And don’t even get me started on Gotham’s chaos quartet — Penguin, Riddler, Jerome, Jeremiah? Yes, yes, YES. I'm practically vibrating with ideas 😭🖤

[divaofmads]

ME and the DEVIL

Pairing: Jonathan Crane x Female Reader x Bruce Wayne

Chapter II: Bruises and Lullabies

"This isn’t a moral downfall. It’s a weakness. But in this city, weakness brings death. If I love you, I can’t protect you. If I don’t love you, I’ll lose you. Which one should I choose?"

Warnings: Angst, +18, Taboo Love (Step Daddy Bruce Wayne), Age Gap Romance, Yandere Undertones, Dark Jonathan Crane, Gaslighting, Obsessive Behavior, Fear Toxin Effects, Childhood Trauma, Possessive Dynamics, Implied Toxic Relationships, Unreliable Narration (due to drugged/dissociative state)

Word Count: +10k

Dividers by @sisterlucifergraphics @cafekitsune photos by Pinterest

A/N: English is not my first language so excuse my mistakes. I write purely as a hobby, not as a professional.

The living room was as silent as the evening itself.

Thick velvet curtains kept out the Gotham night, blocking the gentle melody of the rain tapping against the windows. The only sound in the room was the rustle of papers – like a sentence suppressed, thoughts buried before they could be spoken.

Bruce Wayne had settled into the armchair closest to the window. In his hand was a folded newspaper, the corner bent between his thumb and forefinger, but he didn’t seem to be reading it. He appeared fully focused on the pages. But focus is often an illusion.

You were sitting across from him, your legs tucked under you. You wore a red and white gingham halter top that hugged your figure, and soft pants of the same fabric that ended just below your knees. You had opened the Edward Nygma file you brought from Arkham. You were taking notes in blue ink, sometimes thinking out loud. Bruce was listening. Even when you didn’t know he was.

“Riddler’s connection to riddles isn’t a classic obsession, in my opinion,” you said, not lifting your gaze from the pages. “He’s not lost in the question itself. He wants to dissolve into the answer. It’s a kind of psychological claim. He’s not satisfied by knowing, but by solving.”

Bruce slowly turned a page of the newspaper.

“Interesting,” he said, his voice as soft as velvet, but with a subtle, scrutinizing undertone. “And what about Batman? What do you think of him?”

You raised your head for a moment. Your eyes sparkled with surprise, and a hint of playful mischief.

“Hmm. Personally or professionally?”

Bruce narrowed his eyes, tilting his head slightly with a faint smile. “Do you think you can tell the difference?”

You shrugged, but the little defiant girl inside you stepped forward.

“Batman… is someone who has buried his identity. He probably experienced deep trauma. But instead of suppressing it, he recreates it. Every night. With his own hands. He identifies with criminals. Rather than just fighting them, he recreates their fear. That’s why his mask isn’t any different from the ones criminals wear.”

Bruce locked eyes with you for a moment. The corner of his lips curved upward, but it wasn’t satisfaction. It carried a kind of melancholy.

“Wasn’t that a bit harsh? Maybe Batman is just a man trying to bring justice. Maybe he’s not that dark.”

You tilted your head slightly. Whenever he tested you like that, that slight, smug grin always found its way to your lips.

“If a man puts on a cape every night and breaks criminals’ bones, I don’t care how brightly he walks in daylight. He must be doing it from somewhere deep inside. If that place is dark… then I find it even more compelling.”

For a split second, Bruce’s expression froze. Something deep in his heart cracked with a single hammer blow. But he didn’t let it show on his face.

“Compelling, huh?” he asked. There was a touch of sarcasm laced with hidden fragility in his voice.

“What kind of effect is that, exactly?”

You didn’t answer. You turned back to the file, but the words on the page were now blurry. He was watching you. And you could feel it, even without looking.

“If you ask me...” you said at last, glancing at a corner of the file, “Batman isn’t a savior. He’s more like someone familiar. He knows loss. He knows the void. That’s why he affects me.”

Bruce turned his eyes back to the newspaper to stop watching you. But this time, the warmth in his voice was more distinct.

“Your theories are sometimes... quite embellished with imagination.”

You laughed, short and confidently.

“Well, I am Bruce Wayne’s student, after all. If my imagination wasn’t strong, I wouldn’t be interning at Arkham, would I?”

There was a moment of silence after you said that. Bruce lifted his head again, and his gaze fell back on you. There was a glimmer in his eyes you couldn’t quite name. Admiration? Guilt? Fear of something?

"Knowing some things this well... it’s a bit much for your age."

His voice was low, deep, like he was talking to himself. But he wanted you to hear.

And you did. You understood.

You smiled. Squinting slightly, you turned your head.

"You don’t have to keep reminding me of my age. I’m legally an adult now, you know."

That sentence changed the air in the room. Even the crackling of the fireplace seemed to pause for a moment.

Bruce didn’t react. But his gaze stayed on you. Long. Silent. Then, after a moment, he lowered his head and folded the newspaper.

"If you’re going to keep working with Riddler, be careful. While you’re trying to solve him, he’s analyzing you. It’s a dangerous balance."

You sighed.

"The real danger is Batman. I wish I could meet him. I feel like... he’s someone who’d truly see me."

Bruce stayed silent for a while. Then turned his eyes back to you, but his gaze was somewhere else entirely.

As if your presence was the echo of something he once lost. As if you were both his victim and his savior.

"If you had met him..." he said slowly, "maybe you would’ve changed your mind."

You looked directly into his eyes.

"Or maybe... he would’ve affected me even more."

Bruce stood. Slowly. And looked at you.

"Isn’t it past your bedtime?"

The words came in a fatherly tone, but there was another layer beneath. Like a man trying to hold himself back.

You didn’t move.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Go ahead."

"Have you ever... helped someone without being seen? I mean... someone you protected without wanting them to know it was you?"

For a moment, Bruce’s eyes froze on you. He stayed silent for so long it felt like an answer.

Eventually, he looked away and began to walk.

"Everyone has a shadow, Y/N," he said.

"But some learn to see from inside that shadow."

You didn’t say anything for a while. Just watched him. Long and still. Your eyes were slightly narrowed, but there was something swinging between a child’s gaze and a woman’s instinct.

You knew the weariness on his face by heart. How his lips pulled sideways when he tried not to smile, how his shoulder relaxed when you squeezed it...

And at that moment you realized, you had stored all these details in your memory like a file. Just like Nygma’s notes.

Bruce lowered his head. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

You straightened slightly, rose to your feet. "Because sometimes... I want to look with you from inside the shadow you live in," you said, slowly walking toward him.

You leaned on the armrest of the chair he was sitting in and gently touched his knee with your fingertips.

"And that paper-cut serious expression on your face is a bit much. When you frown, you look more like Alfred."

Bruce glanced sideways at you. His lips twitched upwards unwillingly, but he tried to keep a straight face.

"There’s no room for another personality disorder in Wayne Manor," he said. "Especially if someone’s impersonating Alfred, I’ll throw them out the door."

You burst out laughing. "Ooo! So now you’re threatening me, Mr. Wayne?" You tilted your head playfully and winked. "Or are you saving that Batman rage just for me?"

Bruce shook his head. "One day, your mouth is going to get you into trouble, young lady," he said, his voice a mix of fatherly affection and stony patience.

But you had already jumped from behind the chair as if to sit on his leg. Then you backed off like a child hopping in place. Bruce quickly moved and grabbed you by the waist.

"Gotcha," he said in a low voice, both serious and teasing. His arms wrapped around your slender waist, pulling you close enough that you couldn’t escape.

You laughed heartily, nearly falling into Bruce’s lap.

"That’s not fair! You’re so bi..." you began, but his look stopped your breath before you could finish.

You locked eyes.

The joy on your face gave way to brief confusion, then to your signature slyness.

Your lips parted slightly, your breath close enough to touch Bruce’s face. His fingers were still on your waist. Not tight, just there, holding, not letting go.

There were only a few inches between you.

You squinted and whispered.

"You know... I missed this game. This closeness. These little battles. It feels like I’m living inside a poem. One without a poet, but every line echoes in my heart."

Something flickered in Bruce’s eyes as he prepared to respond. He slowly leaned toward your hair, but didn’t kiss you. He just stayed there, waiting.

You rested your head on his shoulder. And neither of you spoke.

As the darkness of Gotham crept in through the windows of the Manor, time slowed a little more for you both.

And the shadows... deepened.

Bruce leaned back. His left hand touched your shoulder. Gracefully, yet with quiet determination. When his fingertips moved slightly, you took a deep breath. The warmth from where he touched you began to spread inward. Even in the darkness, there was that gray haze in his eyes, always thoughtful, always somewhere else, yet somehow always seeing you. You didn’t know which war he was hiding behind, but sometimes you just wanted to believe he was only here, only now, with you.

And that moment—right then—was exactly that. Real.

“You know,” you said, your voice low, warm with a tinge of sorrow. “I missed this... just being close. Without talking. Just... being.”

Bruce locked eyes with you, then glanced at your face, and finally, your lips. His gaze lingered there for a moment. Perhaps it was the moment when whatever he was trying to suppress nearly broke the surface. But of course, he was Bruce Wayne. Master of everything, even the warden of his own feelings.

“I did too,” he said in a hushed voice. “But sometimes... the more you miss something, the further it feels. Like you’re suddenly more aware of what’s slipping through your fingers.”

“I don’t want it to slip,” you said. “I want us to be like we were. Like that morning... remember? The one when Alfred tried to wake you up with coffee, but I was lying on top of you.” You rested your head gently on his shoulder. “You said, ‘Y/N, this is a form of torture.’”

Bruce dipped his head. A faint smile touched his lips. “Because it really was,” he said. “But the good kind.”

You didn’t laugh. You just closed your eyes. As if trying to drink in the silence, you inhaled his scent, his clothes, his skin, the aftershave... and beneath all of it, that hidden, complex, dark, metallic smell. Maybe it was just your imagination. Maybe it was just... the mystery that seemed to cling to him.

Then a thought crossed your mind. A glowing, mischievous, seductive thought.

You suddenly straightened. Before Bruce could react, you moved onto your knees and slipped gracefully into his lap. Your posture was elegant, yet undeniably bold. Your fingers reached toward the buttons of his shirt, not to undo them, just to touch. Tilting your head slightly, you looked at him, a spark in your eyes, a subtle secret on your lips.

“You know, that swimming race last month... wasn’t fair at all. You always bend the rules in your favor.”

With a playful smile, you continued:

“So maybe now... it’s my turn to set the rules.”

Bruce’s body tensed slightly. He didn’t look away, but his smile had faded. In his eyes, the amusement had given way to something else: a mix of desire and guilt.

He shook his head. Like he was trying to gather his thoughts.

“Y/N... No. This—” he said. He paused. Then, in a slower, wearier voice, repeated:

“This can’t happen.”

For a moment, just a moment, the sting of those words didn’t register. But then they settled in your chest. Not gently. Harshly like a crack.

You looked at him. Your lips still carried that playful smirk, but your eyes had stopped smiling.

“It can’t?” you asked. “Why not?”

Bruce’s hand was still at your waist, but now his fingers had loosened. He didn’t speak. Just lowered his head. As if the weight of the world fit into a single answer he couldn’t say aloud. Because to name it, to say it, would be to give up the secret, and push you away.

And then, the heavy oak door creaked open.

Alfred stepped inside. His gaze passed from him to you, but he said nothing. That expression he always wore, as though he’d seen everything, yet nothing at all.

“Mr. Wayne,” he said. His voice was calm but unhurried. “Charlotte Rivers has arrived. She’s waiting for you at the front.”

Silence… then the shadow on Bruce’s face deepened.

You, still in his lap, turned to Alfred.

And Bruce’s next words sank you into an even deeper silence:

“Thank you, Alfred. Let her in.”

Alfred gave a nod, paused a moment more at the door, then quietly withdrew.

You turned your face to Bruce. There was no play left on your lips. That spark had vanished.

And with only a whisper, you asked:

“Charlotte Rivers?”

That night, the wind outside Wayne Manor howled even harder.

But inside... the real storm had begun.

You were standing on the marble floor that gleamed like golden reflections of the warm yellow light beneath the towering crystal chandelier. On your left was Bruce’s familiar calm, and on your right, the approaching footsteps of a storm. Charlotte Rivers.

The sharp, steel-like sound of her heels echoed through the empty hall, and for a moment, you held your breath. When the silhouette of the woman appeared before the grand door, the infuriating entrance scene you had imagined countless times finally took flesh and bone. Absentmindedly, your hand rested on the sleeve of Bruce’s jacket—unknowingly. As your fingers drew near his skin through the fabric, the woman’s smile kept drawing closer.

“Bruce, darling…”

Charlotte smiled with a polished lie on her lips. Without the slightest hesitation, she stepped up to Bruce and pressed a short yet distinct kiss on his lips. Though the kiss was brief, her fingertips lingered on his chest for about two seconds longer than necessary. And you stood there.

You looked on without narrowing your eyes. The red mark of her lipstick may not have stayed on Bruce’s skin, but the spark in your eyes—the instant flame of jealousy—betrayed you. Still, a faint smile played on your lips, as if you were amused. You weren’t revealing the war inside you. Not yet.

When Charlotte turned her head toward you, she said, “Ah… Y/N, isn’t it? How lovely to see you again. You’re still… living in this house?” Her expression was kind, but her voice was coated with sugary poison. She had left such a deliberate pause between the words that you could almost hear the subtext: “Isn’t it a bit strange that Bruce is still with you?”

“Yes,” you replied. “Sometimes people don’t leave a place. They make it theirs.”

Your response was just like her smile: subtle, but equally sharp. Charlotte slightly raised her brows; her face suspended somewhere between surprise and delight. It showed she accepted the challenge. And you, placing your hands behind your back, took a small step back to watch.

Bruce cleared his throat to break the tension. “Charlotte, come. Let’s move to the sitting room. Alfred will bring the drinks shortly.”

But Charlotte hadn’t moved yet. She gently touched Bruce’s arm. “Honestly… I didn’t think I could’ve missed you this much. But maybe it’s the magic of Wayne Manor. Or… your presence.”

Her voice was so composed, you might have mistaken it for genuine. But you could see the calculations behind her eyes. And Bruce… said nothing. He wore that mask you knew—the mask of blankness—and responded to her words with neither denial nor approval.

But that was the moment that hurt you the most. It wasn’t that Bruce didn’t defend you. It was that he acted as if you weren’t even there. Charlotte leaned in a little more, lightly touching Bruce’s chest, her fingers tracing the seams of his jacket. These small gestures were a deliberate dance performed in your presence. Every gesture was an insult. Every smile, a provocation. And Bruce hadn’t stopped the dance.

You just watched. With your wrists clasped and your nails digging into your palms, you stood upright. You were smiling, but your teeth were clenched with fury. Your heart was tight, yet your face wore a soft expression. And your eyes… when they found Bruce again, the fragments of admiration still lingering there were now shaded with pain.

At that moment, you noticed Charlotte whispering something to Bruce, ignoring you entirely. He slightly nodded, but there was still no trace of that ghostly smile you once knew so well. That face—it no longer belonged to you. For a fleeting second, it felt like you were watching Bruce’s ghost. And that ghost had found life in someone else’s body.

That night, even the stone walls of Wayne Manor seemed to breathe—bound by a kind of ancient, ominous loyalty that refused to let anything inside or allow anything to escape. The darkness of night had devoured the scenery, and the shadows of the trees in the garden reflected on the window like silhouettes gasping for air. In the dim light of the bedroom, shadows and reality blended into one—just like inside your mind.

Your room was actually your favorite corner in Bruce’s house. The dark navy wallpaper Bruce once gifted you was still there. On the bookshelf, carefully arranged volumes of Freud and Jung stood neighborly beside plush teddy bears. The white lace curtain at the window fluttered gently with the breeze, appearing to be the only thing in motion at that moment. The room was elegant, but still youthful. Just like you.

You were pacing back and forth inside, your feet pressing into the soft texture of the dark carpet, while your heart pounded so hard you feared its sound might shatter the silence. You kept replaying in your mind, again and again in countless variations, what Bruce and Charlotte were doing, where they had gone, and how they could so easily leave you behind.

It was 1:30 a.m. now. Two hours. Two hours, and Bruce hadn’t returned. Charlotte hadn’t left. And you… you were decaying in silence, in your own room, digging your nails into your palms.

Then… that laugh came.

High-pitched, careless, far too relaxed. It was Charlotte’s laugh. Even from a distance, you could see her throwing her head back as she laughed, placing her hands on Bruce’s shirt, narrowing her eyes. That sound had made its way to the upper floors of the house, all the way to your room.

Your body reacted instantly. Your feet carried you to the door without your permission. Your palms pressed against the wood of the door; you turned your head slightly, listening. First, footsteps… then a few murmurs… then Charlotte’s voice again.

“…You’re so tense lately, Bruce. Maybe you should learn to unwind a little. That’s what nights are for, aren’t they?”

The touch within her voice poured into your ears like silky venom. The insinuations, the invitations… they made it hard for you to stay upright. Your heart started pounding again—this time, in your throat. A fist seemed lodged there, and swallowing was impossible.

“Do you remember that night? Champagne, me, you, that famous jacuzzi… I tricked you a little, but you liked it. Why are you being so distant now?”

And Bruce’s reply… never came. Or maybe you couldn’t hear it. Maybe he whispered. Or maybe he didn’t answer at all. But the silence didn’t seem to discourage Charlotte.

“Come upstairs with me. Let’s… refresh old memories.”

That was when a sharp pain hit your gut. Your knees buckled, but you didn’t collapse. Your eyes locked on a single point: the door leading to the dark hallway.

Were they going upstairs? To Bruce’s bedroom?

A moment of silence passed, then a faint click… footsteps… heels echoing on the marble stairs. You recognized them instantly. Charlotte’s walk was always a performance. And Bruce was he following her?

You leaned your back against the door, your head tilting upward with the knot in your throat. The chandelier’s crystals fractured the ceiling light, casting soft shadows on the walls. But that beauty could no longer comfort you. In your mind appeared the image of that foreign woman’s lips touching Bruce’s. You recalled that laugh. That invitation. And Bruce’s silence.

You clenched your teeth. You felt something crack inside, thin and long like a fissure. Slowly growing, pulling you into darkness.

It wasn’t just jealousy. No. It was the foreboding sense of loss, the helplessness of being forced to watch everything you love slip quietly through your fingers. It was watching another woman erase you from his memory in every moment you weren’t by his side. Quietly. Calmly. Wanting to scream, but only being able to swallow it down.

You whispered Bruce’s name. It came out like a plea from between your lips… but no one else was in the room. He didn’t hear you. And even if he did, maybe he wouldn’t turn around anymore.

And that night, for the first time, you were truly alone.

The time had long passed midnight, and the silence of the house was no longer a comfort; it settled over you like a suffocating burial shroud. The thick stone walls of Wayne Manor were woven with a cold, resentful stillness, every crevice filled with history, weight, and secrets. In the dim light of the room, even the echo of your footsteps felt like a betrayal, each step pounding like a heart caught in the act.

You couldn’t sleep. You hadn’t even tried. Your feet forced you into pacing, your hands wrapping around your own wrists as you moved back and forth across the room. The sheer curtains twisted in front of the window against the breeze, the moonlight making the delicate fabric sway as if it wanted to wrap itself around your body.

But the wave inside you was much stronger.

Bruce. Charlotte. That laughter.

That look. That touch.

You were burning from within.

In the middle of the night, you moved like a shadow losing control. Even the tiny click as you opened the door on your tiptoes startled you. The chill in the hallway slithered across your skin like a sneaky intention. Every step, every creak made you feel even lonelier, even more alien in this house. You stopped when you reached the start of the staircase leading to the upper floor. There was something inside you now: jealousy, dressed up as courage.

You didn’t know how your heart could beat so wildly as you approached something you thought belonged to you. But when you stepped into the corridor where Bruce’s bedroom was... something else happened. Your feet stopped. Your breath caught. Because you had heard it.

Those sounds.

A breath echoing. A stifled giggle. The rustle of sheets brushing together.

And Charlotte’s voice, faint, but with a seductively sharp sweetness as it rose:

"Hmm... just like that. I feel like I remember you again now. You know, Bruce… when you look at me like that, I still remember that night. My hands were pressed against the wall in the stairwell..."

Her voice sent a chill to the tips of your hair and a heavy punch right to the center of your stomach. There, right in front of the door, you leaned against the wall. Your legs had gone numb. There was no hand on your chest, but it was there. Another muffled moan came from her. Then Bruce’s low, husky voice, unclear, but the vibration of his words seemed to stroke Charlotte’s hair.

You swallowed. But your throat was dry. Your lips parted, but you had not a single word to say. What was inside you… was like the shattered shards of a mirror. Each piece slicing into a different part of your soul.

Hatred.

Desire.

Disappointment.

Betrayal.

And... mistrust.

And yet, how much had you wanted to be the one next to him. Sitting on that couch, just one more touch and you would’ve belonged to him again. And now, behind that door, Bruce Wayne was slowly unraveling in the hands of another woman. Your dreams were being carved into someone else’s skin by his hands.

Charlotte whispered again:

"You make me feel like I belong to you. You really haven’t forgotten me, have you?"

And Bruce’s response came in the form of silence. But that silence hurt you more than any word ever could.

You trembled. Your back pressed harder against the wall. Your fingers went to your chest, your throat. You could feel the rise of the anger you tried to suppress. And it was no longer just jealousy. This was a claim. Your pride had been crushed, your desires trampled.

And worst of all: Bruce had lied to you. He had looked you in the eyes and lied when he left you alone.

The line of light slipping from under the door touched your ankles. It felt like it was cutting you. You wanted to step closer to the door but couldn’t. Because if you took one more step... you would lose another part of yourself. Irretrievably.

That night, in that dark hallway, you felt completely exposed. And perhaps for the first time, you realized you could never trust Bruce the same way again.

.

There was still night in the hallway. The morning sun, seeping through the gray velvet curtains, seemed too timid to step inside the house. The walls of Wayne Manor were, as always, silent—but it felt as though everything had already been said.

You were dressed for your morning internship, moving in a simple black shirt with fine white stripes and fitted black slacks… your steps were quiet. Too quiet. You were quiet just so you wouldn't hear him. Just because you felt too broken to deserve any sound.

But life always loved testing you where it hurt the most.

As you were leaving, you saw him. Bruce. Wayne.

He was coming down the stairs, his black t-shirt disheveled, his hair messy, and his gaze heavy from lack of sleep as he looked at you. He was alone. But you knew. Upstairs. Inside. Charlotte Rivers was still in bed.

Only two staircases away from your room.

When your eyes met, time seemed to pull back—like a thread being drawn through the skin while stitching a wound; silent, tense, but amplifying the pain. When your gaze locked on him, he noticed. His lips parted, as if to say something, but he couldn’t. Because you spoke first.

You straightened your shoulders. Tilted your neck slightly. Just as he was about to say “good morning,” your voice sliced through the air: “You looked very tired last night. I hope… you were able to rest.”

Your words were like shards of glass stuck in the neck of a wine bottle; elegant on the surface, but already cutting through beneath. Bruce averted his gaze. But you didn’t. You stayed right there. You kept looking. You waited.

There was silence. And then, he did what he always did: tried to control the guilt.

“Y/N… if I need to explain...”

You raised your hand, slicing the air gently. It was a graceful, almost tender gesture. But not on the inside.

“You don’t need to explain. I already heard everything loud and clear.”

There was no shouting in your voice, no reproach. And that deepened the lines on Bruce’s face even more. Because your tone was patient. And patience was something no one your age should ever have.

He saw that spark in your eyes. You weren’t a little girl anymore. No longer that “sweet” presence who used to fall asleep reading books at his side. There was something in your eyes that the night couldn’t retrieve, and the morning couldn’t mend.

“Y/N… Charlotte is someone from my past. Something began with her.”

You cut him off. Didn’t blink. “Yes, Bruce. It began. Just like what you started to show me. While what we had was a bond far deeper than a physical one… your sense of time is truly something. Seems like you’ve lost track of the difference between hurting someone and seducing them.”

You took a step closer. Your footsteps were velvet-soft, but the storm inside you pounded against your ribs with a roar. There were only inches between you now. You looked into his eyes and whispered: “I was your future. But you chose to stay in your past.”

And right then… his throat moved. He swallowed. But he couldn’t speak. Because your eyes weren’t filled with tears. You hadn’t cried. And that was the most terrifying part: the absence of tears. If no tears were shown, there could be no forgiveness.

You turned toward the door. Just as you were about to leave, a hoarse voice rose behind you: “I still care about you.”

You didn’t stop. Just shrugged your shoulders and replied, “Then why did you share a bed with her?”

As one of the house staff opened the door, the morning sun on your face felt like it was smiling at you. But you didn’t look back. With the weight of no longer belonging to the darkness inside Wayne Manor, you walked down the steps. Your feet no longer moved like a child’s, but like a woman’s.

The corridor didn’t feel like its usual morning chill. There was a thick, scentless, but heavy chemical residue lingering in the air—like the ghost of a spill. Your footsteps made almost no sound. In a building this old and decaying, that alone was unsettling. The rubber soles of your black ballet flats made it feel like you were stepping on the soul of a ghost. The notebook in your hand had started to moisten at the fingertips.

When you reached the office door, it was closed—but someone was inside. Two male voices. One was familiar—sharp and measured, slicing each sentence into pieces. Dr. Crane. The other was older, a little more muffled… and dominant: Dr. Hugo Strange.

But the words… the words were blurry. You could only make out certain key terms in between sentences: “dosage,” “voluntary protocol,” “immunity,” “REM cycle”... and the phrase that struck your ear the most: “only at night.”

Instinctively, you took a step back. And just then, from behind you, came a sweet, slightly too loud, and definitely out-of-place voice:

“Hey there, sweetheart!”

When you turned slowly, you saw Dr. Harleen Quinzel standing behind you. She wore her white coat, beneath it a faded pink dress. Her hair was neatly tied, dark circles under her eyes from a sleepless night, but her lips were like springtime.

“When did you sneak in like that?” she asked, raising an eyebrow, her tone curious and warm.

“Uh… just now…” you whispered, though your voice didn’t even sound like your own.

Harleen stepped closer. “Like a class… If you’re standing so quietly outside a door, chances are you heard something, right?” Her voice was chirpy, but there was real mischief in her gaze. She was testing you. Measuring.

You opened your mouth to say something, but before you could, the door suddenly swung open.

Dr. Jonathan Crane’s eyes locked with yours for a brief moment. But it wasn’t the kind of look you were used to. It was cold and measured; revealing no emotion, yet seeming to read every question in your mind. That gaze had sliced through you—it was something between being seen and being exposed. The reflection of all that waiting, the eavesdropping, the fear of being caught—coldly mirrored in his eyes. But he said nothing.

As you stepped inside, Harleen whispered a warm goodbye and walked away. The office door closed slowly behind you, and the air inside thickened even more. The shadows trembling behind the window panes seemed to still hum with Crane’s voice. As he walked to his desk, he had his head down, gathering papers. He glanced at you from the corner of his eye, but avoided direct eye contact. That made you even more uneasy.

You couldn’t help but speak.

“Just now… it was you and Dr. Strange in there, I think?” you said, trying to keep your voice from trembling. “You were talking about a patient? I didn’t see any such case in my files. I was just curious if it’s an experimental—”

He raised his head.

When his gaze hit you, that same chilling silence once again filled the room. Only his eyes spoke; and in them, there was no anger. No rage. But a kind of warning. Slow, patient, slithering like a snake.

“Curiosity,” he said. His tone was sharp, but there was no smile. “In psychiatry, it’s a variable all its own. When not properly guided… it can be harmful.”

You swallowed. Your instincts told you to break eye contact, but something—pride, or maybe the need to explain—kept you rooted there.

“I wasn’t trying to… I didn’t mean to listen. I just happened to be nearby. I overheard because—”

“Because you were standing by the door,” he said, calmly. Almost kindly. “And you overheard. Because you want to show how good of an intern you are… don’t you?”

He used the silence you left as a blade. He took two steps toward you. His footsteps barely made a sound on the carpet, but something inside you coiled. His hands were tucked into his coat pockets. He tilted his head slightly, as if examining you.

“You’re in your sixth week, Miss Wayne. A bit early to be searching for all the answers. Some questions come with a price,” he said slowly. “Some knowledge... shouldn’t be so easy to gain.”

You instinctively took a step back, but he noticed and stepped closer. So close now that you could feel the chill of his breath on your skin. Yet he hadn’t yelled, hadn’t raised a hand. And still, you were already trembling.

“I… I’m sorry,” you said, your voice sounding like it didn’t even belong to you. “That wasn’t my intention. I didn’t mean to overstep.”

There was a curl at the corner of his lips. It wasn’t a smile. It was the reaction of a man who had shaped someone into exactly the mold he wanted. He had pushed you into that pit of guilt. And then left you there.

He returned to his desk, straightened the folders. Then, shattering the silence, he said:

“In your next session with Edward Nygma... continue to use your observational skills. But don’t forget to draw boundaries. The line between observation and obsession... you know, it’s very thin.”

You felt your insides freeze. You knew that was a reference. But to whom, it wasn’t clear. To you? To himself? Or perhaps… to both of you.

Dr. Crane’s gaze had sliced through your soul like the edge of a scalpel. He hadn’t even asked the question. He had asked it with his eyes; accused you with a look, passed judgment in silence. Just looking into his eyes had been enough to put you in your place. The words that came from his mouth weren’t sentences—they were cold, procedural, as if part of a treatment protocol. He hadn’t hurt you. He had ruined you.

You had lowered your head, trying to salvage the moment with a short “I’m sorry,” but the word stuck in your throat the moment it left your lips. Feeling like a child in his presence had become something you were slowly getting used to. But this time… this time something was different. Was he acting like this because you had heard the argument? Or had he always been like this and you were only now beginning to see it?

When you turned to your chair and opened your notebook, your fingers were trembling. Every letter you tried to write clashed with the thoughts echoing in your head. “What was it about? Who was in the room at night? ‘Extrasynaptic neurotransmission’? ‘Chemical orientation curve’? They hadn’t sounded like medical terms, more like the passwords to some secret ritual…” You placed your hands on your knees and took a deep breath. The air you inhaled through your nose didn’t carry the sterile metallic scent of the clinic—it carried the depthless darkness seeping from Crane’s office. That room… often felt less like an office and more like a coffin. Quiet, intimate, and soundproof enough that even if someone screamed, no one outside would hear it.

Just then, the silence was torn apart like a scalpel slicing through skin.

“Y/N?”

Dr. Crane’s voice wasn’t raised, but it carried a sharpness in its depth. He didn’t even glance at you from the corner of his eye. But his voice pierced right through you. When you lifted your head, you saw him standing among the files.

“Do you remember Arnold Wesker?” he asked, his voice like a warning you’d never want to hear in a dream. “The decision has been approved. He’ll be admitted today.”

You swallowed.

Wesker. The Ventriloquist. The Puppeteer.

Your hand instinctively gripped the pen tighter. You bit the inside of your lip, just to avoid reacting to the name. But the familiar hum had already taken hold of you. A fear crawling to the tips of your fingers. Puppets. Those dark figures without hard eyes, but always watching you… He knew. Before he even said it, he knew what your reaction would be. That’s why he had spoken the name out loud. He was watching your response. Perhaps he had already made up his mind.

“I want you to conduct the initial assessment,” he said quietly. The light from the room reflected off his glasses; you couldn’t see his eyes. But you could feel their presence. “It’ll be the first time we make such close contact with his mind. You may want to witness it.”

His tone wasn’t inviting. It wasn’t threatening either. But somewhere beneath, deeper than command, something more subterranean lingered. This wasn’t an offer. This was a test.

A knot twisted in your stomach. But on your face, you wore that professional mask. You nodded slightly.

“Understood,” you said. “I’m ready.”

But you weren’t.

And he had already seen that.

When Dr. Crane's voice fell silent, a brief stillness settled over the office. It stood in sharp contrast to the noise inside your head—your heartbeat pounded against your temples like pressure building behind your eyes. But when you looked at him, it was as if nothing had happened. As if he hadn’t just dropped a name like Arnold Wesker into your lap and walked away. As if he hadn’t noticed how your hands clenched tightly, how your pupils had shrunk the moment you heard it.

But he had noticed.

Still, he didn’t let the slight curve at the corner of his lips falter. He observed you behind the glass of his spectacles—long and measured. Then, his voice suddenly softened. In that dark room, it felt like someone had extinguished a lamp and replaced it with candlelight.

“You don’t have any other tasks at the moment, Y/N,” he said. “If you’d like, take a break. A new coffee machine was installed downstairs—it’s not half bad.”

Was that all? After all that intimidation, was he going to speak this gently? At first, it felt like a trap. But his voice was so calm… so naturally carried by the flow of the moment… that it planted a seed of doubt inside you, while also gently pressing your shoulder toward the door.

You nodded, keeping your gaze steady, your smile cautious but not revealing it.

“Alright… Thank you, Doctor,” you said.

That was what he wanted. Both the words and the submission. He was sending you out through that door—but only physically.

You walked the hallway with brisk steps, as if shaking off the tension clinging to your shoulders. Arkham’s walls were as cold as ever, but for the first time, they felt suffocating. When you reached the lower floor, the corridors were nearly empty. The corner with the coffee machine had become a temporary refuge for a few staff members at the start of the night shift. You got yourself a plain coffee, though your hand was still trembling slightly.

And then, your phone buzzed.

Bruce.

Seeing his name on the screen made something tighten inside you. You slowly reached into your pocket and pulled the phone out. The screen was still lit:

“How are you?”

Then, a few minutes later, another message:

“I’m sorry for what happened this morning. I’ll make it up to you.”

You inhaled and exhaled, but didn’t reply. Your finger hovered over the screen, unmoving. You slid the phone back into your pocket. Saying anything felt like it would require an apology. Or worse: an explanation.

And right now, you didn’t want to explain anything.

And somehow, that silence felt oddly comforting.

When Jonathan Crane quietly closed the door to his office behind him, the only thing that followed the sound of his footsteps echoing through Arkham's corridors was the voice inside his own head. His steps were measured, but his mind worked like a metronome of calculations. With your departure, the warmth left in the office had instantly cooled, replaced by the sterile chill of a laboratory. Exactly the atmosphere he needed.

First, he adjusted his glasses. Then, from the inner pocket of his coat, he retrieved a magnetic key and placed it just below what appeared to be a rusted screw hole on the elevator's call panel—an unremarkable spot to most. A soft “click” sounded. The elevator began descending without delay. This was a floor unknown to regular staff: Sublevel D, one of the clinic’s basement levels long buried in Arkham’s past and missing from any official blueprints.

When the doors opened, they revealed a corridor wrapped in ancient lead pipes, flickering under the broken rhythm of fluorescent lights dangling from the ceiling, the walls rotted with age and damp concrete. But to Crane, this wasn’t ugliness. This was a kind of silent divinity. A place where science was no longer shackled by ethics, where playing god came down to nothing more than technicalities.

As he opened the lab door, the groan of rusty hinges echoed out. Inside, under the pale yellow light, the air was thick with the mixed scent of distilled water, glycerin tubes, nitrous compounds, and potassium cyanate. On the central steel table sat half-filled beakers, ampoules held in dry ice, and gas cartridges preserved under inert atmosphere. Everything was orderly. Everything exactly as it should be.

Jonathan reached for the shelves. It didn’t take long to find the specially labeled serum. A small bottle marked only with “Variant 5B-Y.” It was a new liquid form of his fear toxin—based on the core 5B fear series, but the “Y” made it personalized. The “Y” wasn’t an initial; it was a target: Y/N.

The liquid, unlike the classic aerosol versions, had a finer diffusion profile. Its low evaporation rate at room temperature allowed it to interact only with the sensory threshold of those nearby. It wasn’t an attack, it was a touch. Its chemical makeup: a synthetic alkaloid blend accompanied by delta-phenylethylamine and hydroxytryptamine. He understood fear as not only a biochemical state but also a psychodynamic resonance. The formula was designed to travel through the olfactory bulb and activate symptom clusters previously marked by trauma.

Meaning: when Wesker’s puppet combined with Crane’s gas, your defenses would collapse. And no one would call it an attack, because Crane would have merely “stood beside you.”

He poured the liquid into a thin, matte black glass vial. Not like cologne… like perfume. The exterior was textured to leave no fingerprints. Its dual-valve spray mechanism ensured that upon contact with skin, diffusion wouldn’t start immediately, it would be activated by body heat.

The antidote was stored in a small cryo unit in the corner of the lab. A small, metallic gray tube—usable only with a needle, and providing just a few minutes of reversal window. Crane pocketed the antidote in his coat and, as if nothing had happened, carefully removed his gloves and placed them on the steel table. As he sterilized his hands, a serene smile crossed his face.

This was his sanctuary. The birthplace of every plan.

And you were his most carefully observed hypothesis.

Wesker’s puppet was ready. The psychosis trigger was active. And your mental balance was about to dance on a razor-thin chemical line. Crane adjusted his glasses once more, then turned off the lamp. His eyes had already adjusted to the dark.

Because some learn to see from within the shadows.

Coffee… the only solace of the morning, a bitter, warm, and familiar refuge clinging to the corner of your lips. Your fingers curled around the foam cup, your palms still carrying the tension from Crane’s office, and as you sat at the rusted metal table outside, under the pale sunlight, it didn’t feel like you were waking to a Gotham morning—but to your own darkness. As your fingerprints melted into the heat of the cup, your eyes drifted to your phone—the grayish glow of the screen once again presenting you with Bruce’s name.

Bruce Wayne

“I’m sorry for everything you thought about last night. I want to talk to you. I’m looking forward to you coming home.”

The sentence felt like it didn’t come from his voice, but from someone else’s fingers. Too late… or maybe you were just too tired. You looked at the screen, a little long, a little silent, a little hurt. You didn’t delete the message. But you didn’t reply either. When your fingers pulled away from the screen, your eyes locked onto something far off. You wondered where Bruce’s hands were now, what voices he was smiling at. Maybe he was too blind to really see you. Or maybe he was just human, too human to want to.

And then, the footsteps echoing behind you pulled you out of that thought. Smooth, rhythmic, quiet… but familiar. If anyone could walk this softly on Arkham’s decaying stone corridors, it was Dr. Jonathan Crane.

“I knew I’d find you here.”

His voice settled over you like a morning mist. Then, as you turned slightly to look back, you saw him in his deep navy coat thrown over his white shirt, his gaze hidden behind glasses, lingering on you again, studying you.

“They’ve brought Wesker into the room.”

He announced it, but his eyes said something else. “I think it’s time you met him. Are you ready?”

You nodded slowly as you set your coffee down. Your eyes didn’t meet his completely. It was as if you were still stuck on Bruce’s screen. Still there… and still alone. Crane noticed this. He reached into his pocket, and like drawing out a handkerchief, he pulled something between his fingers and began walking toward you.

“If this encounter is making you uneasy,” he said, his voice softening, “...just remember: this is only the first contact. We’ll observe. We won’t interfere. So… I’ll ask you to act like a shadow.”

You started walking. He adjusted his steps to match yours. The corridor walls were damp, and from somewhere distant came the clanging sound of something striking metal bars. But you were no longer alone. Crane’s presence seemed to mute the rest. As you walked, your hand came dangerously close to his—so close it nearly brushed. You noticed it, but he had already adjusted, his fingers lowering toward the seam of his trousers as he continued beside you, in sync. He said nothing. He simply wanted to feel you nearby. You knew that.

Then he turned slightly. Your shoulder neared his torso. The scent… yes, familiar, but also something new. Not floral, not woody, sharp, a bit damp, but drawing you in. Like warm metal. There was something unknown in that scent. In that moment, your steps slowed. Your heart beat as if two hands were pressing down on your chest.

Crane adjusted his glasses gently. Tilted his head toward you.

“Nervous?”

He asked it like he genuinely wanted to know. But beneath his voice was a faint vibration.

You smiled—or pretended to.

“I think I am.”

“Perfect.”

He said slowly, in that tone you liked, not like a medical professor, but like a confidant, a partner in crime.

As you walked, your hand once again nearly brushed his. But this time, it felt like he let it. It wasn’t a touch. It was permission. You noticed that. He was letting you step into that space.

And you… as you recalled Bruce’s night with Charlotte and searched for something in Crane’s eyes, responded to him without meaning to. With just a few seconds of contact, you accepted the calm he placed over you. It wasn’t trust. It was a silent need.

The corridor ended. You arrived at the steel door that led to the isolation cells where Arnold Wesker was held. Crane stepped ahead. But then he paused. Turned to you.

“If you’re ready, let’s begin,” he said. “But first… take a deep breath.”

You did. But what you inhaled wasn’t just air. It was the scent of a dark intent. You didn’t know it yet. But it had already touched your body.

The door opened.

Jonathan stepped in first. His gaze behind the glasses was echo-less and cool. He extended his hand slightly, as if to guide you in from behind. And again, that scent — like before, but now stronger, sharper. Sweat mixed with cologne, like rusty metal. He pressed you toward his chest. You didn’t pull back. Because there was nowhere left to run.

“Y/N,” he said, in a low tone.

“Start taking your notes when you're ready. This is his first admission. It'll be a good observation for you too.”

There was a tenderness in his voice, but underneath it, a playful note. Who was he trying to fool, right?

Arnold Wesker was in the center of the room. He wasn’t chained — because what could a man talking to himself really do with his hands? The wooden puppet on his lap, however, was much more upright and alert. Scarface… the cracks on his gray wood looked like bloodstains, his tiny eyes fixed on the void from their hollow sockets. You didn’t want to raise your head. But your notebook already read: “Scarface: passive object.” You wrote it down too.

“Mr. Wesker,” Crane said with soft professionalism. “I need to ask you a few questions. Just answer them, alright?”

Arnold lowered his head. His eyelids trembled, his voice came in a thin tone. “Of course, doctor. Scarface will be here too, but... don’t worry.”

Scarface didn’t move. But you could feel the tremor beneath your fingernails.

“Your name?”

“Arnold Wesker.”

“Your age?”

“Sixty-two.”

“When did you first start talking to the puppet?”

“...I don’t remember exactly.”

You were writing. The words were trembling. Your eyes were glued to the notebook, but your nose… your nose was still filled with that indescribable scent Crane wore. Something spinning slowly in your chest, blurring your stomach, yet lifting a veil inside your mind. Like thin splinters starting to circulate in your bloodstream.

Crane glanced at you from the corner of his eye. He noticed the breath between your lips as you wrote. The trembling of your lashes… even if you didn’t, he noticed.

“How would you describe your relationship with Scarface?”

“He’s my… protector. My brain. Sometimes my heart. He speaks for me.”

“Does he threaten in your place?”

“Not a threat…”

At that moment, Arnold’s voice faltered. He looked at the puppet.

“He only... tells the truth.”

Then you heard a sound.

The sound of wood scraping.

Did the puppet move?

No, that wasn’t possible. You were just tense. Maybe afraid. But no… it moved.

Your eyes briefly locked on Scarface’s tiny fingers. His nails… were they always that long?

Crane continued asking:

“Is Scarface here right now?”

Arnold didn’t respond. But Scarface’s head suddenly turned a few degrees to the side.

YOU SAW IT.

Your breath caught in your throat. Your heartbeat started pounding against the walls of your chest. Your fingers dug into the edge of the notebook. Jonathan turned his head for a moment — but by then, Scarface was still.

He had moved only for you.

Crane fixed his eyes on you behind his glasses.

“Y/N?”

His voice was calm. But at the edge of his smile, there was something he knew.

You tried to steady your breath.

“It’s nothing… just... a reflection, I think.”

But even as you lied, your lips trembled. And he noticed.

Crane’s mind:

The antidote had worked.

The dose: small.

Delivery method: diffusion from skin surface to respiratory area.

Y/N did not “resist.” Did not fight.

But she saw.

She reacted.

Initiation complete.

Your breath spilled from your chest and clung to your collar. You could hear your heartbeat; it didn’t even feel like your own anymore. There were still echoes deep within your mind. Was it Scarface’s voice? Your father’s? Or… your own inner voice? You didn’t know. “You should’ve been a puppet, Y/N…” kept circling in the folds of your brain, as if repeated by a nailed, wooden tongue.

But when Crane’s fingers were beneath your chin… you found some calm. He was touching you so slowly, so carefully—you couldn’t tell if it was to avoid frightening you, or to prolong his own pleasure. His thumb tilted your chin upward. Your eyes locked with his. A blue emptiness watching from behind glass. But it wasn’t empty inside.

“Just a little longer, Y/N,” he said in a low voice. Meanwhile, Arnold Wesker had lowered his eyes, looking away with an ashamed expression. Unlike Scarface, he was timid, in a passive role.

Dr. Crane continued his therapy with Wesker. Your eyes had welled up with tears, but you hadn’t cried. Maybe out of fear, maybe to keep control. But more so… because you didn’t want to appear weak in front of him.

“I… I heard him. It was my father’s voice,” you thought. “The puppet was speaking. The eyes—THE EYES were looking at me. Just like his.”

You were supposed to be taking notes on Arnold Wesker’s statements, but you were lost in thought.

“I’m still there. I still hear his voice.”

Reality… was like the jagged edges of a shattered mirror. With every step, you felt like you were stepping on another shard. Your hands were still trembling; you threw the notebook between your fingers onto the metal table. Wesker flinched. He seemed to seek comfort from Scarface, as if hoping for protection.

You stood up, feeling that you had to stop there. Even the creak of the chair was like a whisper: “Run, run, run.”

Dr. Crane grabbed your wrist and called your name. But you didn’t hear him. When you looked at him —and at the puppet— you saw its sinister gaze, and heard your father’s voice.

“You should’ve been a puppet, Y/N.”

“You should’ve obeyed me…”

“Now we’ll hollow you out, turn you into wood…”

That puppet… it was speaking with his voice. Your father’s. And you had seen its mouth move. At least you thought you had.

Just as you stepped forward, the world seemed to turn upside down. But where was the door? It felt like falling into a void. Your foot slipped. A scream rose from your chest and caught in your throat. Marble veins curled in your vision, and above, puppets seemed to hang from the walls, watching you. Puppets… no. Scarface. And his voice…

You tried to find the door, but your feet dragged you. Your knees were shaking. You spun around in panic. Your fingers slid along the walls, then found the cold metal surface of the door. You were out of breath. Your chest heaved, but breathing felt like anything *but* breathing.

At last, when you reached the door and turned the handle, you threw yourself out without knowing what you were doing. You started to run. You had to go upstairs. The stairs would save you. You wanted to get away—but you reached the landing’s railing. You took one last step and lost your balance. Your foot stepped into nothing. You were about to fall. But you didn’t.

Because a pair of arms caught you. Jonathan Crane.

His fingers pulled you to his chest. His arm wrapped around your waist. He anchored you in the curve between your hip and his torso. His chest was warm. But those eyes. That familiar gray, dead calm was still there. But this time… something else too. Maybe a flicker of panic. Maybe attentiveness. Your hands were clenched on his coat, nails digging in so tight they nearly tore the fabric.

“Y/N,” he whispered.

He held you like that. His fingers still at your waist. You felt his breath on the side of your neck. His lips weren’t touching your skin, but your body absorbed his presence. As the hallucinations in your mind slowly receded, something else started to take their place. Something darker. Something more personal.

“Hey… make eye contact with me. Breathe.”

His voice was low. Barely a whisper. When it brushed past your ear, it sank into your mind like a splinter. You didn’t want to pull your nails from the fabric. For a moment, you allowed that false sense of salvation to completely envelop you. As you pressed closer to his chest, you didn’t hear his heartbeat, but the mechanical silence within him. Crane’s heart didn’t speak to the outside world.

“You need to calm down,” he said. Then, a sharp pain echoed in your arm, piercing through the fabric of his white coat. The tip of a needle entered and left just as quickly, stinging as it went. Then you felt his lips just above your ear.

“You’ll be fine soon.”

You tried to regain your breath. Your entire body was beginning to relax. Now your body was slowly surrendering to Dr. Crane’s arms.

“What’s happening to me, doctor?”

Dr. Crane tilted his head slightly to the side. As if observing a lab rat.

“I gave you an injection to calm you,” he said. “You’ll feel better soon.”

He placed one hand on your back, the other beneath your knees. He held you tighter. His fingers seemed to feel your skin. He pressed you against his chest. Your heart was pounding wildly. His was silent, but it was there. Like a metronome, arriving long after yours, measured and steady.

Suddenly the floor slipped from beneath you; you felt a sense of falling. Your eyes blurred. Something cold licked at you.

Dr. Harleen Quinzel was the first to reach you after hearing the noise. The heels of her shoes echoed with a metallic ring. Her brows were furrowed, anxiety all over her face, but when she saw the scene, you in Crane’s arms, something stuck in her throat.

“Jonathan… what happened to her?”

Crane didn’t turn his head, still holding you, as he replied.

His voice was frozen in its usual calm:

“She had a traumatic reaction during the Arnold Wesker session. A deep neurovegetative response… possibly an acute dissociative seizure. She’ll need to be kept under observation.”

Harleen was still inspecting you.

“Just now? What did you say to her?”

Crane turned his eyes to Harleen.

“She trusts me. She left the room in a panic. I was the first to reach her.”

He paused. Then turned his whole body toward Harleen.

“I’ll take her myself.”

There was a flicker of suspicion in Harleen’s eyes. But then she helped with her hands.

“I’ll walk you to your car,” she said briefly.

“No need,” said Crane, a faint smile forming on his lips. “I can take care of her.”

He was carrying you… but this wasn’t just a physical burden. At that moment, he was dissecting you in his mind into a thousand pieces, memorizing every detail, your fluttering eyelids, your racing pulse, the dryness of your lips. As if you were his most special experiment. But he didn’t call it an experiment. To him… it was passion. Desire mixed with science. And more than anything, this was the first step in transforming you.

Dr. Jonathan Crane’s car moved silently through Gotham’s narrow, fog-laced streets. Sitting behind the wheel, Crane gripped it with his usual precision, his attention shifting occasionally to you in the passenger seat. Your eyes were half-lidded, your breaths short and irregular. Your skin, under the pale light of the moon, looked like cold marble. You had leaned your head against the seat, but your body hadn’t relaxed. Fear still echoed in your bones. And that scent — it still clung to you. Sweet, chemical, warm… It was Jonathan’s.

At that very moment, a muffled vibration came from inside the bag. Then a melody echoed—like a warning stubbornly ringing out against time. Crane’s brows furrowed.

“What now?” he muttered to himself, in a low tone that slipped almost through clenched teeth. Without taking his eyes off the road, he reached back — his fingers moved through the contents of the bag with surgical precision, not slowing down for even a second. At last, he found the phone screen. The incoming call was clear and jarring.

Bruce Wayne is calling.

Crane stared at the screen for a few seconds. The muscle in his jaw twitched slightly. Then, with a click, he answered.

“Yes?” he said, his voice distant, but wrapped in carefully composed professionalism.

Bruce’s voice came through immediately. There was a tension in his tone, as if racing against time.

“Crane? Why isn’t Y/N getting back to me? I’ve been calling, she’s not answering. What’s going on?”

Jonathan kept his eyes on the road as he spoke, his voice now a little softer, but filled with a cold, veiled game of hide and seek.

“Mr. Wayne. At the moment… Y/N is in a rather delicate condition. She had a minor episode during Arnold Wesker’s intake. She must’ve been affected, early childhood traumas might have been triggered.”

“What do you mean, an episode?” Bruce’s voice rose an octave. “Where are you right now? How is she?”

“We’re not at Arkham,” Jonathan replied, still as calm as ever. “She’s under my supervision. I’m driving. I’m taking her to my residence.”

“No. No, no. Bring her to my house,” Bruce said, his voice now trembling with barely contained anger. “Wayne Manor. She should stay there. We can provide the best care for her here.”

Crane exhaled quietly behind the wheel. His fingers gripped the steering wheel a little tighter. His eyes flicked briefly to you.

The veins in your neck were visible, your skin seemed cloaked in the very image of fear. And even in your unconscious state… you were his. At least for now.

“Yes… of course,” Jonathan said. “If you think that’s best, I’ll take her to Wayne Manor. She’s stable. But there might be memory fractures… it’s better if she isn’t left alone for a while.”

“Thank you, Crane. Really. I appreciate your help.”

Bruce’s voice had softened slightly, though concern still lingered. The call ended.

Jonathan drove in silence for a few more seconds. He let out a quiet breath through his teeth.

“Of course,” he said to himself. “Of course you’ll take her… Wayne. You always do, don’t you?”

He slowly turned his head and looked at you again. Reaching out, he gently brushed the strands of hair away from your cheek — a delicate but calculated motion.

“You see,” he whispered in a low voice, “Even when you’re under my control, they still can’t stop wanting you.”

As the car rolled toward Wayne Manor, everything inside you swelled quietly.

You murmured something in a low voice. It sounded like it echoed right next to your ear:

“…not a puppet… I… I’m not a puppet…”

Your voice cracked, lips dry. Your mouth seemed to struggle with every word, as if language itself was trying to abandon you.

Jonathan glanced at you from the corner of his eye. Your pupils were dilated, your face pale yet delicate, like porcelain on the verge of shattering.

The liquid form of his Fear Toxin didn’t induce panic directly. It brought you to the brink, then blurred the line between the conscious and the subconscious. Its effects weren’t fleeting. They left marks. Especially on a target caught in an emotional void with enough resistance to struggle...

You were such a target.

“I’m not a puppet…”

You whispered it again, barely audible, but Jonathan heard. He smiled. Still in control of the wheel, but his true focus was now entirely on you.

To himself, barely a whisper:

“I didn’t say that to her. Not yet.”

Good… That meant this fear came from within. That this fracture belonged not just to Arnold Wesker… but to a deeper past.

When he stopped at a red light, he leaned over to adjust your seatbelt. His hand brushed your back, and you shivered slightly, but couldn’t react.

“Don’t be afraid…” he murmured. His voice was calm, like someone who hadn’t slept in years. “You’re not a puppet. Not anymore. No one’s going to pull your strings again.”

The irony in his words belonged only to him. Because he had already taken hold of your strings.

One hand moved to the back of your head. His fingers slid through your hair as he gently tilted it back. You had squinted, but Crane had already brought his nose close to your neck. He was breathing you in, imprinting you into memory. His breath moved along your nape like a wandering perfume. Then he whispered:

“This version of you is so... docile. Do you know how beautiful you become when you stop fighting?”

His words carried a corrupted desire. In his tone was a blend of affection and admiration, dangerous, impure, and unstoppable.

By the time they reached Wayne Manor and parked, you were somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. You thought you heard your father’s voice. But this time… it was the puppet that spoke it.

“You should’ve been a puppet, Y/N… you should’ve obeyed me…”

Your eyes filled with tears. They didn’t fall. They simply stayed there, frozen.

Jonathan saw them. He noticed your tears but said nothing.

He simply unfastened your belt and slipped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. Your head rested against his chest. His fingers roamed your nape, his touch soft like a caress, but beneath it, there was still control.

“I won’t be one of your puppets…” you whispered, your eyelids falling.

Jonathan didn’t reply. But the familiar curl at the corner of his lips was there as he held you in his arms.

Another plan had worked. And you, gently, weren’t falling into his mind... You were falling into the space he had made for you inside it.

The doors closed silently. Even Alfred’s footsteps outside couldn’t reach into this room; this wing of Wayne Manor was a refuge Bruce had hidden even from his own past. The dim, yellow lights turned the paintings on the walls into hazy dreams. The bedside lamp cast its pale glow on your sweaty forehead, highlighting the dull shadow of your face.

Under the blanket, your legs were sprawled to one side. Your arms still bore the marks of tension, your fingertips stiffened, nails dug into your palms. The warm, pale hue of your skin, filtered through fear, burned something deep within Bruce.

He was sitting beside you, at the foot of the bed. He had already taken off his jacket, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows. His palms seemed to merge with your hands, as if he could protect you with his touch, as if he could erase the past and rewrite it anew.

His eyes were watching you. Your breathing was steady but deep, each breath a sign your body was still at war. The fine line beside your nose, even in sleep, was proof that fear lingered on your face.

Bruce quietly took a cloth and dabbed your forehead. The movement was gentle, but carried the weight of guilt. He knew you so well... Those puppets left by your father, the lifeless figures with red wigs around your house — you had told him everything, sobbing in his lap at the age of fifteen.

“The puppets are watching me, Bruce,” you had said. That day he had promised:

“None of them will ever watch you again.”

But he hadn’t protected you enough. Now, seeing you like this, that old, guilt-filled silence settled once again in his eyes.

You stirred slowly. Your eyelids trembled. A faint murmur escaped your lips, your breath quickened briefly.

“Y/N?” Bruce whispered, leaning in. “I’m here. You’re safe.”

Your eyes opened slightly. A few seconds of blurriness… then the room began to take shape. Your gaze slowly focused on Bruce’s eyes. There was a moment of hesitation, as if you didn’t recognize him at first, then you leaned toward the edge of the pillow.

Bruce lowered his head, brought his face closer.

“Don’t be afraid. You’re here now. It’s all over.”

You turned your head slightly to the side. Your lips moved. In a voice barely above a whisper:

“…Crane… Dr. Crane…”

Bruce’s face tightened immediately. It wasn’t just jealousy — nor was it pure anger. His face bore the weight of pain. His eyes, for a moment, were not on you, but on a silhouette imagined on the wall. Maybe he was pinning Dr. Crane to it. Or maybe, it was the weight of being unable to stop you from feeling safe with him.

But he recovered quickly. Tried to smile.

“He’s not here. And he doesn’t need to be. You’re under my care now.”

You, a little embarrassed, buried your face into your arm. Yet even in that embarrassment, you clung to the softness in his voice. Just like you did when you were a child.

“I’m sorry,” you said in a hoarse voice. “It’s just… in that moment… he was the only one there.”

Bruce nodded. He reached out, slipping his fingers into your hair, moving them gently to soothe you.

“I know. In fear, the person you reach for isn’t always chosen by reason. But… I won’t let go of you. Not ever.”

You slowly lifted your head. Searched his eyes with your gaze. Eyes that had once adopted you as family, but now, something else shimmered in their depths. Something you couldn’t quite name.

You were drunk on his tenderness. You felt safe. Bruce Wayne loved you. Truly loved you. But there was something inside… something you couldn’t quite define.

Bruce looked closely at your face. With his thumb, he brushed one side gently.

“I wish…” he began, then stopped. Held his breath.

“Wish what?”

He looked away. His jaw tensed slightly.

“I wish none of this had happened… Then some things could’ve been so different.”

A silence fell between you.

He pulled you close, helping you sit up. And within himself, he silenced a thousand words.

You had begun to hear the beating of his heart. Right where your head rested, just below his chest, was that rhythm. Silent, yet strong... perhaps the only safe rhythm in the world. His arm wrapped around you like a blanket, not just enveloping you, but your past as well.

Bruce ran his hands gently through your hair. Each breath he drew seemed to burn inside his lungs, as if seeing you like this scorched him from the inside. But his voice... still steady. Still in control. Only you could sense the break in it, only you.

He placed a hand on your forehead. Wiped the sweat away, then reached for a damp cloth from the tray beside him. As if you were trembling, he pulled the blanket up to your shoulders. Then he noticed something, your lips were silently moving with a fragmented sentence:

“I… I’m not a puppet…”

Bruce's eyes widened at the whisper. He took your hand and pressed his thumb gently to your wrist. Checked your pulse. Then looked at your face.

“Y/N…” he said, his voice softer now. “You own your mind. No one can control you. Not your father… not him…” — he didn’t finish the sentence. He refused to say Dr. Crane’s name. He didn’t want that name to echo through the walls of this room.

But he knew. He knew everything.

Ten years ago. A gray sky, a closed-off Gotham morning. The rain had just stopped. Inside the dark-tinted car, Bruce had seen you for the first time in a case file. The photo was small, but your gaze was immense. You held a wooden puppet in your hand. Through the soaked strands of your hair, something in your eyes looked straight through, and it wasn’t the look of a child. Maybe you were just one of thousands of children who had forgotten how to be young in this city… but there was something in your eyes: “I don’t want to be saved. I just want someone to come.”

That gaze had broken Bruce. He had pulled you out of all that darkness and brought you here. Not to give you shelter, but to give you a new foundation, a home that could protect you.

You were beginning to come to. “Bruce…” you whispered.

Bruce immediately leaned down.

“I’m here. You’re safe now.”

He took your hand. This time, tightly. As if you might slip away between his fingers.

“My father… I saw him… he was going to turn me into wood…”

Bruce’s throat tightened. His eyes welled with tears, but he didn’t cry. A Wayne didn’t cry, but inside, a part of him broke every time he couldn’t protect you.

“No,” he said firmly. “No one can touch you now. I’m here. I’ll stay with you all night if you want. I’ll breathe in time with you. I won’t leave you.”

Then he leaned in slightly, gently pulled you into his arms. You rested your head on his chest again. You, like a child; he, like a father. But underneath it all, something else stirred. Something buried, suppressed, locked in chains.

Love.

But a forbidden love.

While tending to your wounds, he had realized he loved you. While trying to protect you, he wanted to belong to you.

He was angry with himself. Angry for the way he looked at you, not like a girl, but like a woman who made him feel something uncontainable. But he couldn’t let go of you either. He couldn’t allow it. Because if he let go, he’d never get back that girl with the haunted eyes. So he didn’t let go. That’s why, when someone like Crane got close to you, it crushed him.

And you felt it. His heartbeat, close to your skin, had quickened. You noticed. For one moment, your eyes met. Bruce looked away. But he didn’t let go of your hand.

“I’d do anything for you, Y/N. If I have to… I’ll shield you with my own darkness.”

And he was there. Without ever leaving. Sitting beside you through the entire night. He placed two pillows behind your back, tilted your head gently so you could breathe easier. Pulled the thin blanket up to your shoulders, wiped the sweat from your forehead with a soft cloth again and again. Checked your temperature by pressing his fingers to your temple, counted your pulse. Each time he touched you, it was like he was handling delicate glass. One hand on his own knee, the other wrapped around yours. And when your fingers twitched from time to time, like rejecting something, perhaps the dreams, or the bottomless pits of memory, he stayed, always calling you back.

He placed his hand on your forehead again. Your fever had slightly lowered. You took a deep breath. Your lips parted:

“Don’t go…”

That word shattered every wall inside him. Bruce heard that sentence from a different place in his heart. Don’t go… because now you needed him.

And he wouldn’t go.

He lay beside you slowly, but didn’t touch you. Rested his head near your shoulder. From over the blanket, he reached for your hand again. Closed his eyes, but didn’t sleep. He just listened. To your breathing. To the rhythm of your heart. To the occasional murmurs of unrest. And once again, he faced the darkness inside himself.

He held you like a father, but couldn’t let go of you like a man.

By dawn, when the sun began to filter through the gray curtains, Bruce was still there. You squeezed his hand. This time, you were aware. You knew he hadn’t left you. You knew he had stayed through the night.

And in that moment, Bruce said to himself:

“When you wake up, I’ll lie again. I’ll say I only care about you. Not that I love you. Not that I’m terrified of losing you. But still… with just one look, you’ll know everything.”

[divaofmads]

Lover Headcanon

Pairing Jonathan Crane x Female Reader x Edward Nygma

Summary: Crane touches your fears, while Nygma locks onto your mind. One tries to solve you, the other memorizes you. Neither can associate losing you with staying sane.

Warnings: +18, Smut, Psychological manipulation, Obsessive behavior, Power imbalance, Dubious consent (emotional and psychological), Dark romantic themes, Possessiveness / control dynamics, Touch aversion and intimacy issues, Discussions of fear and trauma, Fetishization of mental/emotional control, Potential toxic relationship dynamics, English is not my first language so excuse my mistakes. I write purely as a hobby, not as a professional.

Word Count: +3k

Dividers by @cafekitsune photos by Pinterest

A/N: First time diving into the headcanon format! Still figuring out where the line between headcanon and imagine is, but I tried to keep it focused and atmospheric. Thank you for reading—I’d love to know what you think.

Dr. Jonathan Crane 💉

• How You Met? First Impressions:

Imagine you're a psychiatrist at Arkham. That day, when Jonathan saw you for the first time — the moment he noticed you — it wasn’t an ordinary introduction. In his world, people generally fall into two categories: the observed and the ignored.

You... you were one of the unignorable.

The first thing that caught his attention was your eyes. They held a glimmer of someone who wants to know, but isn't afraid to question. Most people settle for the permission to observe. But you... you looked like you'd come there to lose yourself.

He was passing through the corridor, files in hand. You lifted your head. Eye contact — just a second — but in Jonathan’s mind, it echoed like a bell that wouldn’t stop ringing.

• Morally Grey Love Interest:

Jonathan elevates you — he praises your intellect, your intuition, your emotional depth. But then, he begins to dismantle you. Subtly. At first, you won’t even notice. He might bring up a fear of yours “coincidentally.” You’ll think you’re in control… until he uses it against you in the middle of an argument.

Why does he do it?

Because for him, love is synonymous with power. He doesn’t necessarily want to dominate the one he loves — but he needs to be superior.

And if your intellect and insight begin to threaten that sense of superiority, something inside him — that old, festering inadequacy — begins to surface… and then he starts to see you as a mental experiment.

Being with him would be intoxicating, consuming, and destructive. He sharpens your mind — but leads you right to the edge of darkness. If you want to survive this relationship, you’ll have to guard your sense of self without getting pulled into his games.

Otherwise, you won’t be Jonathan Crane’s lover — you’ll be something he created.

• Acts of Service:

He’s no romantic. But if he senses a threat, he’ll act — first by analyzing you, then by protecting you. Because your mental integrity is valuable to him. He loves your mind.

He hides sensitive information to protect you. Keeps you away from dangerous patients without ever telling you why.

When he notices your insomnia, he leaves you strong but effective medication — quietly, no explanation — “Make your own decision,” he’ll say.

• Quality Time:

Time with you isn’t about sharing — it’s about observing. But over time, without realizing it, he begins to let you in.

He stays late to analyze case files with you.

When he goes to get coffee, he doesn’t ask if you want any — but always brings one for you.

He works in his office without locking the door — because you’re the only one allowed to enter.

• Receiving Gifts:

One day he gives you a small toy, a scented eraser, or a piece of merch from an old cartoon you loved as a child. You never told him about it. But somehow… he knew.

The note is simple: “This made you who you are. I won’t let you forget.”

He leaves you a journal — a clinical analysis of your fears. Not emotional — scientific:

“January 10th — Avoided eye contact in the afternoon. Topic at the time: spiders. Direction of gaze aversion: lower right. Suggests fear related to memory.”

It’s a psychological file — but written with care. A mirror of sorts.

He gives you an old, worn book. Scattered between the pages are handwritten notes:

“Did you remember me after this page?”

“The shadow inside you... it looks like this paragraph.”

It’s both an intellectual offering and a coded love letter — a way he frames the relationship.

• What He Loves About You:

Your refusal to hide from fear. Your stubbornness. Your resistance. You don’t surrender easily to his manipulation. Sometimes, you defy him with nothing but your eyes. And to him, that’s intoxicating. Your openness to his mind games.

He can talk to you in symbols. Ask you to interpret your dreams.

When you lean in with fascination, you pull him into a place no one else has ever reached.

• Your Sex Life:

It would be BDSM-based — but far deeper, far more psychological.

Thanks to Scarecrow, Jonathan believes fear is an erotic emotion. Fear — or the act of inducing it — is what arouses him the most. So he needs to be sure he’s analyzed you perfectly.

Fear toxin will be part of your fantasies. Low doses — not enough to cause hallucinations — just enough to sharpen the edges of whatever you're afraid of.

He uses sensory deprivation to push you out of your body and into your mind. Blindfolds. Noise-cancelling headphones. Restraints. When your senses are taken away, every touch feels ten times more intense. Fear. Arousal. Curiosity.

It all blends together. If you have a fear of puppets, he’ll tell you you are one. If you fear the dark, he’ll fuck you in pitch black. If it’s spiders… you’ll feel the legs on your skin.

He uses mirrors and masks. In the reflection, you’ll see every reaction your body makes — in horrifying detail. With the mask, he hides himself to strip you open.

Denial is his addiction. He can bring you to the edge, feel your pulse, your trembling, your contractions, then stop. He sits down. And watches you.

He restrains his own touch. Sometimes he prefers to come just from watching you need him. For Jonathan, the ultimate thrill is not telling you what to do — but making you want to do it.

This is where mind control fantasy begins: “If I were in your place… what would I do to me? Come on. Do what you feel. I planted it there.”

He doesn’t punish — he reprograms. If you disobey his rules, you must be reshaped.

He may ask you to have sex with his alter ego. He carries two personas in one body: Jonathan Crane and Scarecrow. He wears the mask. You’re no longer with the man, you’re with the monster.

To be desired by something terrifying and powerful. That’s how he teaches you the meaning of submission.

He’ll whisper: “Jonathan might love you. But Scarecrow… He wants to consume you.”

• Jealousy:

When Jonathan Crane is jealous... It’s never a simple "him or me" situation. He doesn't feel jealousy like others do.

"I'm not jealous. I'm doing what’s right."

He begins passive-aggressively. Uses intellectual superiority. Mocks the other man’s intelligence with surgical sarcasm.

“He told you about Wernicke’s area. How... impressive.”

If he sees him as a real threat, he investigates. Finds weaknesses. Plans how to ruin his status, reputation, even his psyche.

If you’ve been physically close recently, his jealousy manifests as control more intense. More possessive.

He’ll try to overwrite the idea of anyone else. Make you repeat his name until the thought of someone else vanishes.

He’ll say: “Did he touch you? Even if he did, you won’t remember. Because tonight, I’ll rewrite you.”

If you break his control...

If you question him, resist him, disobey him —It won’t just hurt his pride. It will fracture the very foundation of how he sees himself.

“Do you think you’re smarter than me? No. It’s just… a coincidence. I couldn’t solve you because… YOU are not normal.”

He won’t see you as an enemy. He’ll become obsessed.

If you don’t leave — if you stay in the game, even after defying him — that’s the most dangerous point. He won’t stop loving you. But love will no longer mean letting you go. It’ll mean owning you.

And he’ll say: “I love you too much to let you leave. If you try to go… That decision will no longer be yours.”

He wants to both punish you and bind you more tightly.

He builds a mental logic like: "I have to love you in order to understand you."

Sexually, this can turn into a more intense, boundary-pushing passion.

But this passion is not pure desire; it's a need to reclaim your mind and body.

• What He Hates / Can’t Tolerate

- Sudden physical contact (especially in crowds)

- Superficial conversations

- Fear being mocked or made light of

- Excessive optimism / comments like “Everything will be fine”

• His Ideal Dates

- Spending time in a quiet, isolated library

- Studying old psychology files together

- Debating fear-based experiments (Romantic? To him, yes)

- Walking through an abandoned campus on a rainy day

- Nights where he analyzes your dreams

• Pet Names

- "Subject Y/N" (half-joking, but also a little too real)

- "Darling" (started out ironically, but grew into something sincere)

- "My little anomaly"

- Says your real name clearly and deliberately — affects you with his tone

• Welcome to the inside of his mind:

Edward Nygma 🧩

• Fear of Abandonment / Becoming Addicted to You

When Edward begins to love you, it’s not an ordinary affection — it becomes an existential need. In his eyes, you’re not just his partner; you are the only fixed point in his mental chaos. His attachment to you becomes like a person’s need to breathe.

Every minute spent by your side silences the noise in his head. It quiets the Riddler. But he becomes so used to that peace, he gets addicted to it. He starts believing you must be there whenever he needs you — in your absence, he feels emptiness and a loss of control.

If you don’t respond for a few hours, for example:

- He begins calculating all the possibilities. ("Did she lose interest?", "Is she with someone?")

- He starts constructing entire scenes in his mind, convinced that whatever is pulling you away must be fixed.

• Panic Attacks Triggered by the Fear of Losing You

These panic attacks are usually set off by: an argument, you ignoring him for a while, or him thinking he saw you with someone else.

In a panic episode:

He breathes rapidly, crouches down, and clutches his head.

He whispers to himself: “She’s just angry… it’ll pass… she won’t leave me… she wouldn’t DO that…”

The sentence he repeats most often: “Don’t leave me.”

If he doesn’t hear your voice, he might damage his surroundings — not you, but himself, out of rage and despair.

He tries to hide these attacks. But if you’re there during one, he’ll suddenly cling to you, bury his face in your chest, and try to calm down just by listening to your heartbeat.

• Whispering “I Love You” Like a Threat

This phrase takes on a different weight when he’s in Riddler mode.

Normal Edward:

When he says “I love you,” there’s softness in his voice.

But when he shifts into the Riddler — his eyes dimmer, his voice lower and rougher — he says:

 “I love you. That’s why I’ll do whatever I have to. Do you understand?”

In his world, love becomes a vow, a threat, even a seal. To him, loving you means possessing you, being responsible for you, and declaring that no one else can ever have you.

In the middle of the night, leaning close to your ear, he might whisper:

“I love you... because I can’t let anyone else love you.”

And then, he may act completely calm — because the threat has been made clear.

• Nightmares and Sleep States

Edward’s mind never truly goes quiet. Not even in sleep. When he's falling asleep, he tries to calm his brain by counting numbers or mumbling mathematical formulas to himself.

Sometimes, as he's curled up beside you with his head under your arm, you whisper, “Edward... just sleep already.”

But he still mutters through his teeth. “5... 3... 7... No, that’s wrong. That’s wrong…”

His nightmares aren't just about things he’s done in the past — they’re about the possibility of losing you in the future.

One night he wakes up in terror, soaked in sweat. He clings to your chest, trembling. His eyes are hazy, his mind still not fully back in reality.

“They can’t take you. No one... no one can take you from me...”

He’s still halfway in the nightmare. Even as you gently stroke his back, he trembles like a frightened child. But after a while, his arms tighten around you. He starts counting your breaths.

Some mornings, it’s not Edward who wakes up — it’s the Riddler. He stares at you with cold eyes.

“Shall we test how much I deserve you this morning?” he says.

Suddenly, a puzzle is left at your feet. Or maybe during breakfast, there’s a small piece of paper in your coffee:

“The secret of breakfast is three letters. If you don’t answer, I won’t speak.”

He feels satisfied when you solve it. But if you don’t, he watches you in silence all day. He smiles, but his eyes do not.

These little tests are the product of his obsession with you, his desire for control, and his need to exalt your intelligence. Even though he places you above all else, he still needs to feel superior.

One day, while using your hairbrush in the bathroom, you find a small box.

Inside are a few strands of your hair and... tiny notes:

“May 11. Today she called me ‘darling’ for the first time.”

“This strand of hair got caught in the shirt she wore that day. I smelled that shirt all day long.”

Sometimes when you speak without realizing, Edward secretly records your voice. Later, while working in his lab or when he’s alone, he listens to those recordings: your laughter, the words you mumble in your sleep, even moments when you're angry…

When he makes a mistake, when a plan fails, or when he despises himself... he breathes and imagines you. He remembers the scent of your skin, the curve of your shoulder, the rhythm of your voice.

To calm down, he repeats one line to himself:

“She loves me. She’s still here. She’s the meaning behind everything.”

• Protection / Possessiveness

In a city like Gotham, Edward’s way of protecting you can be summed up in one word: preemptive aggression.

He keeps a mental list of everyone who could potentially harm you.

If someone follows you from behind, he discreetly makes sure they disappear.

If someone bothers you, he leaves an intelligent yet unsettling threat note. (And you never find out.)

But if he sees you smiling a little too much at someone else?

In that moment, he becomes the Riddler. Silent, calculating, burning with quiet jealousy.

• Riddler's Pet Names for You

- Puzzle Piece: This nickname means a lot to him. You are the one who fills the gaps in his mind. He doesn’t just see you as a lover, but as the missing piece of his puzzle.

- My Constant: Using a scientific term is typical of him. By calling you his “constant,” he likens you to a mathematical fixed value. In the equation of his life, you are the unchanging variable.

- My Equation: Clever, romantic, and disturbingly obsessed. In his eyes, you’re an equation where every path leads back to you.

• Your Sex Life:

For Edward, mental compatibility comes before sexuality. "Preparing" you mentally is, for him, a form of physical interaction in its own right.

He leaves you small boxes: inside them, old notes, scribbled words, a perfume sample, and after a while… maybe fingerprints smudged on your lipstick.

You must solve each one; every solution brings you a step closer to him.

- On your first correct answer, a brief kiss on the corner of your lips.

- On the second answer, a long, lingering kiss—then he suddenly pulls away.

- In the final stage, his tone persuades you to surrender, slowly:

"You already know the answer… So when will you give yourself to me?"

For Riddler, this process is the act of conquering your mind and body together. In his view, true desire isn’t something guessed—it’s something earned.

In the early stages, as introverted Edward, he's shy in his sex life. But as he embraces the Riddler identity, his more dominant and darker sides begin to surface.

Roles: He positions himself as a "god who asks questions."

Your Role: The one who answers, tries to solve, and slowly unravels as she does.

Each correct answer gives him power, each mistake is an excuse to “punish” you — but these punishments usually end up rewarding you. That means:

The apparent purpose of punishment: discipline, control.

The true purpose: erotic tension and mutual pleasure.

Edward never loves “lightly.” Sexuality, for him, is a form of claiming. That’s why after sex, he leaves reminders on your body to show you belong to him. For example, a bruise on your neck. Then he watches you — almost as if he's noting down what you feel when you see those marks.

The simplest of your belongings can be triggers for him, and he wants physical contact with them while being intimate with you. For example, sometimes he holds your pen while kissing you, because you once touched him with it. Maybe he wears the glasses you lent him for a day. He looks in the mirror, trying to see how you see him. Then slowly removes them and places them beside his bed.

"Seeing through your eyes… more arousing than I expected," he says.

Outside the home, his preferred places to have sex with you are abandoned spots around the city or hidden laboratories.

As your relationship with Edward Nygma progresses, he will begin to reveal other sides of himself. During your sexual encounters, he won’t be satisfied with old fantasies—he will develop a deeper interest in sadomasochistic themes. For example, he will prepare riddles for you, and if you fail to solve them, he will punish you. These punishments may become more professionally crafted. The green light that symbolizes him, a metal chair, and custom-designed coded handcuffs become essential elements of his punishments. Moreover, your fear mixed with excitement will only arouse him more.

He might say: His hand lifts your chin as he says, "You know how much I’ll enjoy delivering your punishment, don’t you? Sometimes intelligence hurts." Suddenly, he loses his composure. With veins bulging, he whispers, "Now it’s your turn. The question is: Can you pass through pain to reach the reward?"

And in that moment, at the border where sadistic pleasure meets aesthetic beauty, Riddler will push your limits with both delicacy and force. Before every “punishment,” a small riddle; with each answer, an increasing level of touch. A mental game where you swing between pain and pleasure...

• Things He Can't Tolerate / Dislikes

- Mental laziness: To him, “empty talk” or shallow ideas are a waste of time.

- Leaving sentences unfinished: Especially when you’re trying to explain something but stop halfway or aren’t clear. He gets irritated. “Am I supposed to figure it out? Is this a riddle?” he thinks inwardly.

- Ignoring him / showing indifference: While he’s observing you, if you give more attention to something (or someone) else, he sees it as an insult. He won’t forgive it easily.

- Being jealous (irrationally): He wants you to know how intelligent and attractive he is—but he expects pride, not jealousy. If you act possessive, he silently thinks, “You still don’t understand me,” and starts crafting a mental game to punish you.

- Not reacting: If he surprises you or makes a clever remark and you show no reaction at all, he takes it personally. “What, you didn’t think that was brilliant?” echoes in the silence.

• Gifts He Would Give You:

A personal cipher journal: Custom-made just for you, filled with secret messages and encrypted notes he's written. Some pages are left blank—those are for puzzles he hasn’t given you yet.

A timer / hourglass: He wants to emphasize the value of time. A note is attached: *“Time can never be wasted when it’s with you.”*

A complex puzzle game (hiding a meaningful gift inside): Once you solve it, it reveals a small necklace, a note, or an object that refers to a childhood memory.

A box containing your small personal items: But he doesn’t give it to you directly. He wants you to stumble upon it by chance one day.

• His mind, in melodies:

[divaofmads]

ME and the DEVIL

Chapter I: Not Yet

Pairing Dr. Crane x Female Reader x Bruce Wayne

Summary: When you're caught between the man who steals your heart and the one who dissects your mind... even you might forget who you are.

Wayne’s smile might feel safe. But Crane’s silence... is slowly consuming you. And by the end of the night, whose eyes will haunt you?

Warnings!: Slow-Burn Tension, Dark Romance Elements, Mild Stalking Elements, Step Daddy Bruce, Subtle Erotic Undertones (Non-explicit), Jealousy / Envy, Obsessive Behavior, Age Gap, Yandere Themes / Possessiveness, Angst, Emotional trauma and guilt, English is not my first language so excuse my mistakes. I write purely as a hobby, not as a professional.

Word Count: 9k

Divirder by @sisterlucifergraphics @cafekitsune

Darkness seeps slowly through the cracked walls. A clock ticks in the room, not counting time... but the end.

You open your eyes, but your body won’t move. You’re lying in a child’s bed, under a torn blanket pulled up to your neck. The nightlight on the bedside table is broken; a dim yellow light flickers faintly, then blinks and disappears into darkness.

A wooden creak.

At the foot of the bed... something is there. It’s not moving, but it’s there. A puppet. It looks like a grotesque marionette, but its eyes... its eyes are human. Old. Wet. Glowing in the dark.

It laughs.

“Y/N... Do you remember me?” The voice... it’s your father's.

You want to scream, but no sound comes out. Like a knot has been tied in your throat. The puppet slowly turns its head, the hinge in its jaw creaking.

Then... other puppets enter the room. Walking by themselves. Wooden feet scraping against the crackling floor.

And each one carries a piece of your father's voice.

“Puppets see everything, Y/N. They never blink at night.”

“I never left you, I’m still with you. Inside you.”

“They don’t love you. Because I didn’t either. You were never my puppet. You didn’t obey.”

One of them climbs onto the edge of the bed. Its fingers are cracked, nails missing. It touches your cheek. Cold. Like a frozen, dead hand.

And then something stirs in the corner of the room. A shadow. Not human. Its posture is off, its head crooked. No face. But in its hand... are the strings of the puppets. Each one is connected to it by invisible threads. It’s the Puppeteer. Speaking in your father's voice, but the words belong to something else.

“You were a little girl... I never loved you... but then you grew up. You should have been a mute puppet, Y/N. You shouldn’t have spoken in your own voice. You shouldn’t have turned your head. You shouldn’t have resisted. Now we’ll remake you.”

The puppets suddenly leap into the air. Strings tighten. One comes so close its wooden teeth are just inches from your nose. It tilts its head and whispers: “You will be carved. We’ll hollow you out. Fill you again... You’ll love me... This time, you’ll look like me.”

You thrash, but your hands are tied.

The Puppeteer pulls out a long, rusty needle from the shadows. He threads a string through it. A new puppet will be born tonight.

And then...

As the Puppeteer approaches, all the puppets scream in unison: “Don’t close your eyes, Y/N! Because in the dark, WE have the eyes!”

“You are no longer flesh. You are now WOOD.”

You try to scream, but you feel something in your throat. A string. A voice whispers: “Don’t move. You’re a puppet now.”

09:47 AM - Internal Security Zone, D-Block

The lab was filled not with the chill of a sterile chemistry room, but with the unease of a dark experimentation chamber. Pale yellow lights cast a sinister hue over the white tiles; every footstep echoed through the windowless walls, imprinting itself into the concrete.

Dr. Jonathan Crane pulled a black-covered notebook from the pocket of his white coat. His long, thin fingers carefully flipped through the pages. Among them were handwritten notes, brainwave maps, cortisol measurements, and several chemical formulas corrected in red ink.

“The controllability of subjective fear response through artificial stimulants...” he murmured. “...the unconscious mind can only be explained by the suppression of fear. Fear... is the shape of freedom.”

Behind the transparent wall stood Subject 27, chained to a chair. A large, bald man with tattoos on his chest, whose eyes held more emptiness than sharpness. According to the file, his name was Marcus Till. Severe dissociative episodes, delusional paranoia, and daytime visual hallucinations. His criminal record included three executions and one case of abandonment leading to death.

But for Jonathan, the past wasn’t what mattered only the response to fear.

The door opened.

The sound was soft, but Jonathan recognized it immediately.

You. Y/N Wayne. Attentive, cheerful, yet not afraid to appear a little “silly.” A young intern.

In Dr. Crane’s eyes, someone who “talked too much, smiled too much, and reeked too much of Bruce Wayne.”

Jonathan didn’t look up from the file. He hadn’t expected you to be punctual; no one with the Wayne surname ever is. Punctuality is a small courtesy for ordinary people trying to prove themselves. The Waynes had no need for that.

There was hesitation in your steps.

You didn’t stumble, but you didn’t walk with confidence either.

He noticed that. But didn’t care.

“Those who get their internship here through their surname usually don’t last more than two weeks,” he said with clear disdain. “I was surprised you managed to survive a whole month.”

He spoke without looking directly at you. As if he were addressing a piece of furniture. His eyes were still focused on Marcus Till’s EEG results.

“Come closer. We’re going to prep the patient.”

There was a faint shadow under your eyes. You hadn’t slept. Your skin, normally glowing with a well-kept complexion, now carried a grayish pallor. Jonathan merely filed this as an observation. He wasn’t interested. He didn’t want to be interested.

Your hands trembled slightly as you reached for the IV set he handed you. Maybe you didn’t even notice, but Jonathan did.

And for the first time, he looked directly at you.

He slowly lifted his gaze. Cold, sharp analysis. No empathy. Only observation. “Your focus is off.” He put his pen on the desk. His voice still monotone, but the sentence was sharper. “Weren’t you trained in trauma response? Any lapse at Arkham can lead to death. Not your death. You killing someone.”

In the background, Marcus’s breathing grew heavier. Serum data streamed across the screen. You didn’t speak for a moment.

You swallowed. But then... you smiled.

Such a genuine, warm smile appeared on your face that Jonathan’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“You’re right, Dr. Crane,” you said. “Just had a rough night’s sleep. But it’s fine. I was only expected to last two weeks, wasn’t I? Making it a month is quite the achievement.”

Your tone was cheerful. But beneath your words, there was a metallic resistance.

And then, something else happened.

A corner of Jonathan Crane’s mind twitched slightly. Because he recognized that expression. The smile of those who bury fear deep within...

But he didn’t show it. He was about to say something else, but just then Marcus’s brain waves suddenly spiked.

Crane turned to the screen immediately.

“Beta frequency spike... 14.2 Hertz... Triggered.”

He adjusted his glasses. You leaned over the table, looking at the monitor. But you had to squint slightly to understand what you were seeing.

Jonathan noticed this. The effort to comprehend a subject you didn’t yet master. Not by rote, but with real curiosity.

But he still wasn’t affected.

“If this is the level you’re going to stay at,” he said calmly, “I could recommend an easier supervisor for you. Dr. Langley, for example. Less technical, but more patient. You’d bring the reports to me; no one expects perfection from you.”

The condescension this time was sharper, much more personal, and you felt a sting right at the tip of your nose. It had struck your pride.

But along with your pride, another part of you stirred: stubbornness.

“Thank you, but I’ll pass,” you said. “I believe I have a lot to learn from someone as perfect as you.”

Your eyes met Jonathan’s.

And for a moment, just a moment, your gaze trembled by a mere millimeter.

Because his eyes were searching for something else. Watching. Looking inside you.

And he hadn’t decided yet: Were you just a waste of his time—or something unnamed…?

As you stood up without taking your eyes off the monitor, Crane watched you only from the corner of his eye. Your trembling fingers moved toward your left wrist, and you subtly tugged at your sleeve to hide it. Another tremor, one you suppressed quickly. Crane noted it, even with a side glance. His mind worked like a notebook; every micro-expression, every small physical reflex was logged like a symptom.

But this time… he had trouble categorizing you.

“That kind of eye contact,” he thought, “a typical defense strategy. But not out of confidence. That’s the look of someone swallowing fear to survive.”

And then another voice in his mind spoke: “Wayne.”*

“Bruce Wayne’s daughter can’t be this fragile. Maybe she’s putting on a show. Or… is there a trauma beyond the usual life of luxury?”

He held a grudge against your family. Crane’s antipathy toward the Waynes wasn’t simple. Bruce’s authority to evaluate him as a psychological consultant had created an irreparable fracture in Crane’s ego, and now here you stood—trembling, despite bearing the Wayne name. This suggested two possibilities to him:

1. Either you were genuinely weak, sensitive, painfully fragile.

2. Or… there were traces of a much darker past being hidden from you.

Crane glanced at the EEG graphs on the monitor one last time. The results were inconclusive, but sufficient. The Marcus Till experiment could end here.

He powered down the screen and slowly stood. Closed the file, but his gaze lingered on your face.

He peered at you over his glasses.

“Tomorrow at eleven a.m., the Forensic Psychiatry Jury will convene,” he said. His voice echoed off the corners of the room. “The subject: Arnold Wesker.”

It was the first time you’d heard the name. You couldn’t help but frown.

“Arnold… Wesker?” You hadn’t meant to ask, but your tongue betrayed you.

Crane tilted his head slightly. A faint smile appeared on his lips—but it wasn’t a smile, more the expression of a clinician making a diagnosis.

“You don’t even know who you’re working with, do you?”

You didn’t respond. That only dug your grave deeper.

Crane walked to the desk, pulled out a file, placed his hand on it—but didn’t open it. This was more of a test. As if he were measuring your patience.

“Arnold Wesker,” he said, “also known as the Ventriloquist.

A case of paranoid schizophrenia and dissociative identity disorder. But what makes him interesting isn’t the diagnosis—it’s the wooden puppet he owns. Scarface. The puppet is the dominant identity. Wesker is the passive host. Allegedly, the crimes are committed by the puppet. In other words… the mob boss inside his mind.”

That last phrase changed the atmosphere in the room.

Puppet. Scarface. Ventriloquist.

Each word stabbed your chest. Your heart rate subtly increased.

But your facial expression didn’t change a single millimeter.

Only your eyelids lowered slightly. Your pupils shrank by half a tone.

A trauma response of the type that shouldn’t be noticed.

But Crane noticed.

He didn’t open the file. Instead, he studied you.

And you were reliving the nightmare in your mind: Wooden joints. Clicking sounds. Puppets coming at you with fixed grins. And that dark sensation that turned you into a puppet against your will.

“Scarface…” Crane’s voice snapped you back to reality.

“Wesker fought on Joker’s side during the Joker-Riddler War. His psychotic breaks intensified afterward. Some sources claim that his puppet has evolved into a personality that no longer obeys him. Supposedly, the puppet… punishes him. A real projection of rage.”

You were silent. Very silent.

That gave you away. Not just to Jonathan—but to yourself.

Crane tilted his head slightly.

“Puppet phobia isn’t common,” he said suddenly. “But when combined with a sense of loss of control experienced during childhood… Puppets can lead to a collapse of identity perception in the unconscious. The fear here isn’t tied to the external object, but to the inner self.”

He’d hit a nerve.

Was it on purpose, or just analysis? You didn’t know.

But still, you didn’t give yourself away.

You smiled. So slight, so graceful a smile.

As if all this talk meant nothing to you. “Will you be attending the jury tomorrow, Dr. Crane?” Your voice was calm, but the tension beneath your tone laid you bare.

Crane paused briefly, then answered.

“I will. I’m an active member of the forensic psychiatry advisory board. The Wesker file is being brought with a recommendation for total isolation rather than medically assisted sentencing. And I don’t want him—or Scarface—back in Gotham.”

You nodded. “I understand,” you said. But you didn’t understand anything.

Well… you understood. But you couldn’t say anything.

Crane gave you one last look.

And in that moment… a spark.

Something about you unsettled him.

Your fear was deep. Very quiet. But real. And Crane knew how the subconscious worked better than anyone.

WAYNE MANOR – INDOOR POOL

Time: 9:27 PM

Outside, Gotham’s darkness had fallen like a gilded veil. The echo of footsteps in the wide halls of the manor had long ceased, the servants had settled into the rhythm of night. The indoor swimming pool, hidden behind the old stone walls of Wayne Manor’s west wing and rarely used, was now filled only with the sound of your breath and the soft rippling of water.

The towel left by the poolside, bearing Gotham’s crest, was damp. You moved through the water almost imperceptibly, surrendering your shoulders to the coolness with each stroke. When your fingers brushed the marble edge, the faint chime that rang out seemed to blend into the night like a melody. With every stroke, it was as if you were trying to shed the weight of the day.

Your head tilted back, hair spread out over the water. Your chest rose and fell quickly, but your face was calm. Your mind, however, was a storm.

“Swimming alone... not really your thing,” said that familiar voice, soft but carefully measured.

When you turned your head, you saw Bruce Wayne emerging from the shadows, dressed in a black t-shirt and loose gray sweatpants. With a towel slung over his shoulder and a relaxed walk, he almost looked ordinary. Almost.

“Shouldn’t you be at your computer by now, studying the city maps?” you said with a slight smirk as you turned in the water.

He smiled too.

But Bruce Wayne’s smile was more like a shadow of his past. It existed for a moment, then vanished again.

“Alfred told me,” he said as he came closer. “You haven’t talked much today. You probably mentioned Crane at dinner. You were smiling... but your eyes didn’t quite join in.”

He sat by the edge. Rested his elbows on his knees.

He didn’t look down at you, he spoke at eye level. That was his style. He didn’t corner anyone—he shared the space instead of stealing it.

You didn’t look away. But your voice was sarcastic, a little superficial.

“Oh, Dr. Jonathan Crane. The man who prides himself on terrifying everyone but whose shirt collar is soaked with sweat. I think he’ll always hate me. Actually, I’m sure. Today he frowned at the EEG monitor like it was me, probably the fifth time he couldn’t figure me out. Someone get him a coffee.”

Bruce let out a short chuckle through his nose. “Crane doesn’t like anyone. He doesn’t even consider himself. But if he’s trying to figure you out, that means he’s interested. He’s... a careful man.”

You tilted your head slightly. Your eyes seemed to shimmer, but it wasn’t joy—it was a kind of light seeping from a hollow place inside.

“Everyone who tries to figure me out ends up disappointed,” you said in a near whisper.

Bruce’s expression didn’t change. But he placed his hand on the edge of the pool, near you. Again, that silent space-sharing. Again, that “I’m here” stance.

“What happened?” His voice was slower now, lower in pitch. “Something happened today. It’s not just the Crane thing. Talk to me.”

You looked at the water for a while. You wanted to see your own reflection, but couldn’t. All that appeared were dim lights and emptiness.

“This morning... when I woke up,” you said, “it was the same nightmare again. Someone was there. Watching me. But it wasn’t me. I was like a puppet. Then... my father’s voice. Even though he’s dead…”

You paused. A knot had formed in your throat. Swallowing your pride was hard, but you didn’t fear being this vulnerable with Bruce. Because he always knew when you took off your mask.

“I know it’s stupid,” you said. “My dad’s dead. He put that gun to his own temple…” You closed your eyes. “But sometimes... I still feel like he’s going to come back from somewhere. Like... his darkness found a little place inside me. Like it’s still in my blood.”

Bruce lowered his head. Reached out his hand to the water, to you.

His palm was facing upward. He wouldn’t force you to take it. But if you did, he would offer it like a shelter.

You reached out without hesitation. When your fingers met his under the water, the touch of skin was warm and real.

“You’re not that man,” Bruce said. “And you never will be. Because I was there. That night, when they couldn’t silence you, you survived with your own scream. That shows who you are. You didn’t become a puppet to survive. You chose.”

His voice was deep enough to swallow every echo from the past. The affection he felt for you flowed silently.

You didn’t say anything for a while. Then you smiled slightly—this time, genuinely.

“Are you always going to read me this well?” you asked with a sweet reproach.

Bruce winked, then slowly stood up.

He took off his t-shirt. The old scars on his chest formed distorted shapes in the reflection of the water.

When he rolled up his pants and stepped into the pool, you tensed a little. Because with his entrance, the solitude was over. The darkness was no longer yours alone.

The water was warm. But Bruce’s presence was warmer. He came closer. He didn’t touch your face but placed a hand on your shoulder. That touch was not a father’s—it was that of a guardian, a friend, a...

...perhaps the one man you had always felt was missing.

“I’m here whenever you want,” he said in a low voice near your ear. “But unless you want it... no one can hold you.”

As you leaned into him, his warm breath echoed in your ears.

But your heart... had taken on a different rhythm.

Because he didn’t feel like a father. He shone like a fallen star. And without meaning to, you were growing more attached to him.

You were safe—and at the same time, that safety scared you. Having someone understand you this deeply... it was too much. A dangerous kind of closeness. The kind that blurred lines.

Then Bruce’s voice poured into your ear in a warm, slightly teasing tone.

“So... are you excited for the event in two days?”

You lifted your head slightly and looked at him. Your brows furrowed. He read the blankness in your eyes instantly.

“Event?” Your voice was laced with a suppressed panic, hidden behind a chuckle. “What event?”

Bruce narrowed his eyes slightly. Smiled.

That annoying smile of his—the one that told you he knew everything.

"Frankly, young lady," he said, his voice turning a little more theatrical, "for a young girl making her debut into society to forget a charity night planned months in advance... is definitely a scandal."

You put your hands over your mouth and giggled, albeit guiltily. "Bruce, I’m serious, it completely slipped my mind!" You splashed water toward him as you pulled back. "It was... because of Dr. Crane! I mean, he scolded me like, ‘the observation form is three days old but the linguistic analyses are missing,’ and I suddenly felt like a 45-year-old depressed academic writing a dissertation!"

Bruce staggered backward and fell, though he was already in the water — now he was submerged up to his shoulders.

He pushed his hair back after a wave hit his face, paused for a moment… then his gaze sharpened.

"So... you dared to threaten me with water? The one and only troublemaker of Wayne Manor... you little water creature."

You burst into laughter and tried to swim a step back, but it was too late. Bruce caught you in one swift move.

"No! No no Bruce, stop, don’t!" you said, flailing.

But he, maintaining his serious expression, wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you down into the water in one motion. The sound of your fall vanished among your shared laughter.

When you emerged, your hair was falling over your eyes, and you were breathless — but in the middle of a fit of laughter.

"You... you're so cruel!" you said, wiping the water from your face as tears streamed from your eyes from laughing.

Bruce, however, still looked serious. But it was a playful seriousness.

"If you ever push me into the water again, this won't be the end of it."

Amid your laughter, you rested your face against his chest. Your breathing was still uneven, but you could feel your heartbeat.

Beating in sync with his.

"But you never really get mad at me," you said in a sweet, childlike voice. "Because I always make you smile. Isn’t that right?"

Bruce lowered his head. His eyes grew more serious, but that protective gleam was still there. He cupped your cheek, brushing away a drop of water with his thumb as he studied you carefully.

"You... you're not someone easily forgotten," he said slowly. "Your laughter, sometimes it takes me back thirty years. But then I look again and you’re right here in this moment — and I find myself forgetting everything else."

You shivered inside. Leaning on him... wasn’t just about feeling safe. It was like thirsting for a warmth that shouldn’t be touched.

"Tomorrow Dr. Crane won’t be there," you said suddenly, as if changing the subject but actually making plans. "He’s on jury duty for the Arnold Wesker case. My whole day is yours."

Bruce raised an eyebrow. His smile now carried a different meaning. It also felt like a warning.

"That’s a dangerous offer. If you give me your whole day, I might threaten you with your whole life."

You smiled. But a seriousness settled on your face.

In the water, you moved closer to him, your fingers trailing on the surface as they reached for his chest. Your voice slowed.

"You’re the only one who's ever really stood up for me in my life. Maybe... everything started the moment I met you."

Bruce lowered his head, resting his forehead against yours.

He wasn’t touching — yet the closeness meant more than any touch.

And as the water enveloped your bodies, words gave way to presence.

Yours and his.

That morning, when the Wayne limousine pulled up at your door and you saw the gleaming black leather seats, the mini bar, and the soft notes of jazz playing inside, the feeling you suddenly had wasn’t one of indulgence.

It was acceptance.

You felt like you truly belonged to Gotham now — from the very top.

Bruce sat beside you. Wearing sunglasses, a classic Patek Philippe on his wrist. The most expensive suit in Gotham, but one that never showed off its brand. Navy blue, made of silk, tailor-made.

"Remember," he had said along the way, placing a hand gently on your knee,

"In this city, money talks, but attitude commands. When you walk in, make them forget who the Wayne is — but never let them forget who the Wayne is."

You smiled. As you walked in with him, every window display seemed to change in the blink of an eye. The moment you stepped into a boutique, the store was cleared out. Customers were politely ushered outside, and the staff lined up.

Bruce had only said one word: "Wayne."

That was enough.

Then everything began for you. Haute couture consultants, off-season collections specially brought from Paris and Milan, the quiet moments when tailors took your measurements.

Classical music drifting from a corner of the room, silk fabrics brushing gently against your skin, the Louboutins you tried on one after another, followed by Roger Vivier, and then a pair of avant-garde heels from Maison Margiela...

"If you wear this dress, every eye will be on you," Bruce said, handing you a Givenchy dress adorned with a sheer back.

The look in his eyes wasn’t just that of a father seeking elegance. He was studying you closely.

But with a kind of admiration he would never say aloud.

Maybe not even to himself.

Yet in every decision he made in silence, you were always a part of it.

As you tried on a dress, you looked at your reflection in the mirror. You gently grasped the thin gold necklace at your neck and said:

"Bruce, you know what? I wish the whole of Gotham wouldn’t see me or recognize me for just one night. But you... you, see me."

He paused for a moment. "I always see you," he said, slowly.

At that, you had let the dress fall, letting the silk slip away from you like it was leaving of its own will.

Then, suddenly, while your back was turned, you caught yourself watching him in the mirror.

He was sprawled on the armchair, resting his elbow on the armrest, watching you.

Not your nakedness, but you—as you were standing there.

"You’re beautiful enough to turn this city upside down," he said, as if the words slipped out without thinking. "And I love you not for that, but for being able to stay good despite yourself."

Something cracked in your heart at that moment.

You tried not to look at him, but you smiled. And taking the blame on yourself, you said,

"Unlike Dr. Crane’s gaze that tears me apart, you… you look into me without breaking me."

Bruce lowered his head, smiling. Then he stood up and took your hand.

"You have to make the final choice now," he said. "Because Alfred is already about to lose it. We had to open the third floor’s private gallery just for the shoes."

You tilted slightly, turning your hand inside his palm and narrowed your eyes.

"So if my little shopping frenzy has pissed off Alfred... we should blame Bruce Wayne’s spoiled ward. Everyone in this city has a role. Mine’s the fancy, pretty, but troublesome girl."

Bruce burst into laughter. He slowly leaned toward you, brushed your hair to the side, and whispered into your ear:

"No. Your role... is to be the woman who will change this city.

But tonight, first play the girl who will enchant it. With your eyes, your mind, your smile."

You let yourself fall into his hands.

But inside, another whisper was passing through:

"A man who blesses me this much... I must bless him in return."

And maybe that night, not just Gotham, but you too would change.

You were already on a path with no return.

And Bruce Wayne was waiting at the center of it.

Outside, Gotham’s purplish mist was pouring into the night…

The flickering reflections of yellow lights on the streets bent under the streetlamps like a kind of hopelessness.

But as you stepped into Le Pavé Noir, the city had left you at the door.

It was as if you had entered a protected zone.

As if Gotham paused at the sound of Bruce Wayne’s voice.

You and Bruce were sitting at the most isolated table inside, with a tall, thin vase between you, holding just one blue orchid.

Outside the glass, in the zen garden, tiny koi fish were circling as the ceiling slowly opened above you.

A starless Gotham night overhead… but still peaceful.

That evening, Bruce had chosen a black tuxedo. No tie, the first button left undone. A classic watch on his left wrist, his fingers resting on the stem of the glass.

And his eyes… were always on you.

You, on the other hand, were the embodiment of elegance that would make Audrey Hepburn jealous.

The Chanel dress Bruce had picked left your back completely bare, but somehow, it covered you even more.

Because it was his choice.

Even being at his boundary felt like armor.

"You look stunning," he said, as quietly as water.

You averted your gaze. Smiled. But your heart paused for a moment at those words.

"You spoil me too much," you said, trying to soften your voice.

"Just being here with you already feels like a dream."

Bruce watched you, long and carefully.

Maybe there were no lines at the corners of his eyes, but his gaze… was aged.

That night, he was not only cherishing you, but himself, too.

The waiters arrived almost invisibly and placed the food.

Thinly sliced wagyu beef sashimi, wild mushroom risotto heated on lava stone, and truffle butter brioche covered in gold dust.

But your appetite wasn’t for anything on the plate—it was for the man sitting across from you.

You watched him for a while without saying anything.

Drew circles in your food with the tip of your fork.

Then, tilting your head slightly, you lowered your voice:

"You know… as a child, my mother’s plates were always half full. My father… always finished everything.

Maybe that’s why I’m learning to feel full while working.

Like… when my mind is busy, my hunger disappears."

Bruce paused. Looked at you with that typical expression—not with pity, but trying to understand something.

"When someone can’t digest certain pains… they develop a different kind of appetite," he said.

"Yours is the hunger for work.

Some burn the city, others bury themselves.

But you… you chose to build yourself."

You didn’t want him to see the mist clouding your eyes.

You turned your head away.

But then his eyes pulled you back.

"Tomorrow," he said slowly, "if you want, you don’t have to go to your internship.

Tonight will be long. I don’t want to push you.

I can talk to Hugo Strange.

Taking a day off… wouldn’t be a problem at all."

You responded with that familiar, gentle smile.

"I have to go, Bruce. Dr. Crane wasn’t even there, and Arnold Wesker’s case kept him away from the hospital.

If he doesn’t see me tomorrow, I’ll have to deal with his annoying comments the day after." you said with a teasing tone.

Then, with a slightly somber look, you added,

"Actually… sometimes, my only way to quiet my mind is being with those people at the hospital.

And in their problems… I feel myself a little less. And I can live that way."

Bruce’s lips tightened.

He wanted to say something, but stayed silent.

Because there you were—glowing like a fragile, yet stubbornly resilient being, right in front of him.

Slowly, he reached out and took your hand.

He gently wrapped your tiny fingers in his palm.

It wasn’t a father’s tenderness—it was a man’s.

"I wish I could protect you from everything," he said.

"But that darkness you were born into… it made you different.

And that’s exactly what made you strong."

But you didn’t let go of his hand.

For a moment, you looked into his eyes.

There was another sentence inside you you tried to silence, but it slipped out anyway.

"When you look at me… sometimes I feel like someone else.

Not just the girl who carries the Wayne name.

Not just a student or an intern.

Like… actually me. Really me."

Bruce’s eyes became slightly misty, but he quickly gathered himself.

He looked away. Took a sip of his wine.

But you saw how hard it was for him to hide that.

Because just like you… he was holding himself back.

"Stay who you are," he said.

"I... I just want to be a light on your path.

Never… turn you into me."

But that sentence—“never turn you into me”—cut through you.

Because maybe… he already knew exactly who you most wanted to become.

And that night, after dinner, as he was putting you into the car, he looked at you once more before closing the door and whispered:

"Don’t forget... tomorrow night, you’ll show Gotham who you are.

But I see you today, at night, without the mask... too."

And in that moment, Bruce Wayne buried a feeling even deeper—one he would never confess.

But you?

The moment you looked into his eyes… you already understood everything.

06:12 AM

Location: Arkham Asylum – Psychiatry Wing, Dr. Crane’s Private Office

There was still over an hour left until the shift started. Gotham's heavy metal sky was cloaked in a dull gray, as if it resented the sun. The Asylum’s windows let in almost no light at this hour; outside was nothing but a world of mist drifting like sheer curtains. You had come in earlier than usual that morning. Your insides were restless, you were sleepless, but your mind was sharp like a blade. You had straightened the layout of the files on Dr. Crane’s desk and noted down a report listing the order of the cases to be reviewed that day.

No one had actually asked you to do any of that. But you wanted to prove that you were more than just a spoiled rich intern in Jonathan Crane’s eyes. Maybe an assistant. Maybe... something more.

After finishing with the files, you had moved to the leather chair tucked just behind the metal bookshelves in the corner. You took your notebook onto your lap. After biting down on the tip of your pen, you began to draw. The page filled first with a dark void; then emerged serpents eating their own tails, forked tongues, interwoven eyeballs, and eventually a humanoid figure with decayed internal organs... A woman, head bowed at the shoulder level. She had no eyes. Only sockets. And on her forehead was carved a single symbol: a “?” question mark.

Just then, the door opened. It wasn’t heavy, but you heard those signature dark footsteps Crane always walked in with—silent, composed. When you looked up, his tall silhouette had grown even larger against the faint backlight.

Dr. Jonathan Crane was wearing a dark navy suit. The collar of his cashmere coat was still up. He was cleaning the fog off his glasses when he noticed you.

He put on his glasses and tilted his head slightly, almost as if he’d seen a ghost.

“It’s rare… almost unheard of, for interns to be in my office before me.”

You smiled as you quickly closed the page you were drawing.

“Being early never hurts, right, Doctor?” you said, reaching to place the notebook on the table. “I just... wanted to prepare for today’s schedule. Thought I could be helpful.”

Crane’s eyes studied you carefully, but his gaze didn’t remain fixed. From behind his glasses, he examined you with the clinical chill of a scientist scanning data. Your clothes, how neatly your hair was arranged, whether you had washed your face that morning—he seemed to be decoding it all.

“Help... is a valuable word. Help… can save lives, if it comes from the right person.” His voice was soft. Almost hypnotic. Then he walked to his desk and reached toward the notebook you had just closed—but without letting you notice.

He paused suddenly.

“Actually… since you’re so eager, I could ask something of you. A file needs to be retrieved from Lab 3 on the lower floor. It requires my seal to open, so take this card.”

He handed you a silver-colored ID card embedded with a microchip.

“But be careful. It’s not the best place for the claustrophobic. The tunnels are... narrow. Dark. And due to the soundproof insulation, if you hear screaming, it’s not real.”

He smiled. It wasn’t warm. But it was polite. And strange.

As you stepped out, you turned slightly to glance at your notebook. Going back to get it might seem odd. You just hoped he wouldn’t look inside.

After you left, Dr. Jonathan Crane didn’t sit at his own chair. Instead, after sending you off, he walked toward the chair you had just occupied, where your body heat still lingered in the synthetic leather. He slowly removed his glasses and laid the metal frame on his knee. Your notebook was in front of him. Black cover, slightly worn corners, yet carefully used.

He stared at the cover for a few seconds. No name. No label. Only a subtle embossed phrase on the corner: “Nulla Vita Sine Arte.”

(Life without art is meaningless.)

With his long, slender fingers, he opened the cover. The first page was blank. Like a silent warning. A threshold. Crane turned the pages. One by one.

First Drawing

On the left, a female figure suspended by thin strings tied to her neck, being lifted skyward. No face. Just a flat, mask-like surface. Her abdomen was split open; a heart inside, fastened with spiderwebs. Beneath her right ribcage, a small cross mark. Her feet were chained—but the chains didn’t lead to the ground. They vanished into empty space.

Beneath it was written: “The order from above is balanced by punishment from below.”

Crane thought: “She codes herself as both victim and judge.”

“By erasing the skull’s features, she anonymizes her identity. This could either be from shame or to conceal a destructive urge. The heart is still fixed in place, that... is interesting. She retains the capacity to love. But what if she had to tear herself apart to keep those feelings alive?”

A faint smile traced his lips.

“She’s forgotten who she is, but she still remembers what she feels... how strange.”

Second Drawing

A hospital bed. A woman lying on it. Tubes connected to her veins, but instead of fluids, ink is flowing through them. The tubes link up to a massive pen-tip structure hanging above. Her eyes are blindfolded. Her face looks like it’s melted from crying. Above, a single word: “Diagnosis.”

Crane frowned.

“Ink… transformed into the venom of words. She’s attempted therapy through writing, but drowned in the text. In trying to empty her mind onto paper, she’s triggered incubation from within.”

Crane’s gaze darkened. A psychotic patient injecting herself with words through her veins. He was enthralled by the idea.

And only someone who harbors true darkness inside could draw such things, he thought. Yet his assumptions about you had always leaned another way. How could you have hidden the real “you” so well, especially next to someone like Dr. Crane?

Jonathan eagerly flipped through more pages. And there it was—the last drawing. The one you had just done.

Then he leaned back. Closed his eyes.

He inhaled the scent of your notebook. Printing ink, graphite dust, and that faint, citrusy perfume you used—sweet but bitter…

Silence.

His breath… almost stopped.

Suddenly, he stood up. He didn’t throw the notebook on the desk. He closed it gently. Then walked to the corner of the office.

Looked outside. Gotham was still drowning in mist.

“I need to understand her,” he thought. You were no longer just a subject for contemplation. This “understanding” had become something ritualistic. In Crane’s mind, you were no longer just a case… you were beginning to feel like a possession.

A subtle smile appeared at the corner of his lips. It wasn’t lustful.

It was closer to obsession.

And as Crane slowly returned to his desk, he whispered:

“I’ll enter your mind. With your own will… maybe even your desire. Because fear, Y/N... is the most powerful form of lust.”

The door handle knocked three times. Precise. Calm. Confident.

Crane slowly looked up. His voice was softer than usual. But the low-frequency vibration beneath it was something only trained ears would catch—a trace of extra attention, extra interest.

“Come in.”

There you stood at the threshold. Your left hand clutched a file tight to your chest, your right shoulder slumped slightly. Under the flickering fluorescent light, your pupils vanished in the dark for a moment, then gleamed again.

When you entered, the notebook was exactly where it had been.

As you handed him the file, Crane let his thumb brush briefly across the back of your hand. The touch stayed within professional bounds—but it was calculated. He wasn’t wearing gloves.

“Lower floor, Lab 3... I’m surprised,” he said softly, without looking at you. “Many interns manage to get lost down there.”

You laughed lightly, partly to ease the tension.

“It’s... interesting down there. A lot of old equipment, useless bottles, but organized. As if someone archived the past.”

Crane turned his gaze to you. Behind the lenses, his eyes met yours directly for the first time.

“You try to understand the spaces you enter. You believe you can’t move forward without understanding.”

You averted your eyes. For a moment, you felt naked in his gaze.

As you leaned forward to place the file down, Crane placed his hand on the edge of the desk. His fingers were level with yours. At that moment, only a hand’s width separated your bodies. And that space… seemed to shrink with every breath.

You placed the file on the desk. Just as you were about to ask what else you needed to do—

"Starting today, you’ll be present in some of the sessions with me," he said suddenly.

His words seemed to fall from the air.

No explanation given, none needed.

As if it wasn’t a task, but… a ritualistic invitation.

You didn’t understand. Your eyes widened, but your mouth stayed silent. Then, with a forced smile:

"You... weren’t very warm to the idea at first."

Crane sat in his chair and fixed his gaze on you.

"Trust should be chosen carefully. Trust doesn’t form through chemistry, but through physical proximity. Your observation skills are sharp. Besides... watching patients opens more than just them. It opens you, too. It allows me to discover you."

That last sentence. It slithered between the words like a snake. Discover... you?

You didn’t know what to say. Your lips twitched.

You turned, took a step toward the door.

"Y/N?"

It was the first time he said your name with such weight. His voice held both syllabic admiration and restrained command. You paused.

"Have you ever analyzed your own fears?"

That question… wasn’t random. He had read your notebook. He had touched your words. Maybe he had decoded your mind, line by line.

But you didn’t yet know how deep he’d delved into your psyche.

"Fears… open doors," he said in a low voice, almost like whispering to himself. "But some doors... once opened, never close."

Then he looked down. Gave you permission to leave.

But one thing had become clear: He would no longer be content just watching you. He wouldn’t just use you — he would *understand* you. He would *transform* you.

And you... you wouldn’t realize you were changing until it was far too late.

Location: Arkham Asylum – West Wing, Corridor 4

Among cold, sterile, and suffocating walls, two figures walked: Y/N and Dr. Jonathan Crane.

The flickering white of fluorescent lights reflected off the ceiling, echoing their footsteps through metal-lined marble beneath. The west corridor of Arkham… the oldest, narrowest, loneliest stretch. Hanging cables from the ceiling, soot stains casting shadows on the walls. This corridor carried the echo of souls that had long since given up on daylight — and now, another tension added itself to that echo with every step they took.

Dr. Crane walked ahead, his back straight. His coat lightly fluttered behind him, his thin fingers twitching impatiently near his pockets. You followed a step behind, but mentally you were further ahead — your mind filled with a name you were about to ask.

"Dr. Crane?" you said, your voice deliberately low and composed.

Jonathan didn’t turn his head. "Speak," he said plainly.

You bit your lip, hesitated. Then:

"Any developments about Arnold Wesker’s case? Has the court… decided?"

This time, Crane tilted his head slightly and kept walking. A smirk may have crossed his lips, or perhaps it only flashed in his eyes. Your voice had a distinct tone. A mix of fear and curiosity, a deviation, a sort of… personal pull.

"Wesker…" he said. "How long do you think someone like him would last in prison?"

You remained silent.

"He’ll most likely be admitted to Arkham. Why do you ask?"

It sounded like a jab, but there was no mockery in his tone. Only measurement. A test. An experiment. Your face flushed slightly. You looked away. You didn’t realize it, but even your lack of answer was recorded in Crane’s mind. Silence was his data. A sign of deviation, suppressed impulse, unconscious admiration.

And you weren’t even aware of how personal that question was.

Suddenly, a scream rang out from one of the cells. Crane turned his head with a smile:

"Did you hear that? For some, therapy is just another form of torture. I hope it won’t be for you."

You didn’t say a word. You gripped the file in your hand a little tighter.

You arrived at the security checkpoint with glass walls and uniformed guards. Inside… Edward Nygma.

The door opened with a special code. The room was one of Arkham’s most sterile. It was divided in two: one side for doctors, the other for patients. A glass partition allowed light through, but distorted reflections. The patient could see the doctors, but couldn’t hide from their gaze.

Edward Nygma sat in a chair in the corner, dark circles under his eyes, hands propping up his chin as he stared at the floor. He was mumbling. The words didn’t make sense, but there were letters... unraveling into words that hadn’t yet formed.

Crane turned to you and whispered as if saying something mundane:

"Today, you're the therapist. I’ll just be watching you."

Your eyes widened. "Me? But..."

"I’m not asking for a diploma. I’m curious about your reactions, your instincts, your analytical mind. Let’s see which mask Edward wears when he looks at you."

You stepped toward Edward. Your breath caught in your throat, but your face remained neutral. Like Scarecrow without the mask. You crouched to his eye level and sat.

"Edward… do you know who I am?"

He lifted his head. His eyes were glassy. Then he flinched.

"You… you’re the one bringing the answer," he said. "You’re the answer to the riddle, aren’t you? Or don’t you know? If you don’t, I could destroy you."

You didn’t flinch. You smiled.

"Destruction would be easy, wouldn’t it? But no one kills the answer."

There was a pause.

Crane’s eyes looked as if they might burst from their sockets. Not in shock… but in delight. A twisted admiration blooming in rot. You weren’t speaking with Edward — you were *dancing* with him. With words, fear, and balance.

Edward nodded.

"You… you’re a complicated answer. But an answer, nonetheless. Beautiful…"

The session lasted forty-five minutes, though it felt like days to you. Still, you didn’t falter. Edward suddenly turned in his chair, gripped his head, and screamed. He had collapsed inward.

Dr. Crane stood up. His eyes never left you.

"That’s enough. You were brilliant. Braver than I expected. More instinctual."

You didn’t know what to say.

But what Crane thought in that moment… was silent. And terrifying.

The voices in his head had begun to form a single face.

"Untrained. But instinctual. There's something untamed in her..."

When Crane returned to his office, he washed his hands. The scent of soap lingered as he stared into the mirror.

Your face filled his mind. Eyes that gleamed even in darkness, a stillness that knew fear from the inside.

"She’s no longer Wayne’s daughter. She’s... a variable that must be rewritten. Unpredictable. Definitely… mine."

He had decided: you should never be left alone again. No session should be free from your observation. No smile, no tremble should go unrecorded.

And touch... yes, that must increase. The reaction he got when his hands brushed yours — it was a crack in the surface. He needed to watch you. Direct you.

This wasn’t just scientific obsession.

This was Crane’s darkness falling in love with its own reflection — in you.

When you entered, you noticed the room had a scent of its own.

Chloroform-like, but older… perhaps a memory seeping from a long-forgotten lab, clinging to the walls.

Dr. Crane leaned on the edge of his desk, hands clasped behind his back.

His eyes studied the girl entering from the door. Deep and tinged with red, his gaze focused on one thing only: control.

"You’re here. Good. Sit," he said.

"To my left."

You slowly sat down on the chair. You weren’t nervous, but you weren’t exactly comfortable either. Your shoulders were straight, your knees together. You traced the corner of the file with your fingers. Crane, however, didn’t move the chair. Instead… he stood right behind you.

“You’ll enter today’s session notes into the system using the CR-47 template,” he said.

“But first… you need to bypass the software password.”

As he spoke, his tone was serious yet soft. It carried a suggestion that left no room for questioning, without being overtly threatening. You nodded. Crane leaned in. Just slightly. You could barely feel his breath on your shoulder. But there was something you did feel… like a finger touching your heart from behind your ribcage—a quiet unease.

Crane didn’t place his hand on your back. But as he spoke, the shadow of his fingers danced across your shoulder blades. He inhaled through his nose. Vanilla. And… adrenaline. A hint of sweat, but mixed with a velvet shiver.

The glow of the screen washed Crane’s face pale. Yet his eyes never stopped watching you.

“CR-47 is a template used for cases of post-traumatic dissolution and projected identity change. Suitable for subjects like Edward Nygma. Check the box labeled ‘dissociative symptoms’ at the bottom. If you get stuck… ask me. Or… let me show you.”

You reached for the keyboard. Your fingers touched the keys, and Crane leaned closer, placing his hand over the keyboard—not to restrain, only to guide. Yet it lingered. The distance between you was no more than a breath. His fingers brushed your wrist ever so slightly. It could have seemed like nothing from the outside. But from within… something stirred.

A voice inside you, repressed, the kind born in childhood as a form of protection, warned you. “Be careful. This touch… isn’t ordinary.”

Still, you didn’t turn your head. You only blinked. After a moment, Crane spoke again, barely louder than a whisper.

“Sometimes, to understand a patient… empathy isn’t enough. You have to become them. Project your identity into their mind and confront it with your own darkness. Do you have the courage for that, Y/N?”

You swallowed. “I think… yes.”

There was silence. The computer fan hummed quietly. Then, Y/N gently turned in the chair.

“Dr. Crane… I have a favor to ask.”

“Of course.”

“There’s a charity event tonight. Hosted by the Wayne Foundation. I was wondering if I could get ready here and leave a little early.”

At that moment, the room’s temperature shifted. Like the instant a chemical reaction begins. Dr. Crane’s facial muscles didn’t move. But his eyes… his eyes deepened like a blade.

“Wayne Foundation?”

“Yes.”

“Bruce Wayne?”

“Yes, I’m going with him.”

Crane took a step back. He didn’t look away. But his voice, now a lower tone, came like ice—like anger with no garnish.

“Mr. Wayne… doesn’t frequent Arkham very often these days. But when he does, it’s as if he believes he can magically solve every case.”

“You don’t think his help is… genuine?”

“It may be genuine. But it’s arrogant.”

You lowered your head.

Crane walked over to the edge of his desk. He clasped his hands behind his back. He turned away, but his voice came from him like a wall. “Enjoy your evening, Y/N. But a mind that belongs to you… if it stays too long in foreign lights, it may no longer recognize its own shadow.”

That sentence… was a warning. Not a threat, but more like a vow.

“Dr. Crane?”

Crane slightly turned his head. But his eyes remained still.

“If one day… those lights don’t let me go back… will you be the voice that helps me recognize my shadow?”

Crane smiled. But it wasn’t a man’s smile… it was a shadow’s.

“I already am… that voice.”

And you stood up, walking toward the cabinet in the office. You took the dress you had hung on the hook and looked at Dr. Crane one last time before closing the door behind you. As the door shut, Crane clenched his fingers. Beneath the blanching of his skin, there was jealousy. The name Bruce Wayne had stirred something venomous in his veins.

“I won’t let him watch you,” he whispered to himself.

He slowly sat down in his chair. His fingers touched the edge of the desk, then his gaze shifted to the chair you had been sitting in.

The fabric that had touched your body still felt like you to him. The curve of your shoulders, the arch of your back… your breath, the warmth your skin radiated…

When he closed his eyes, he could still smell the vanilla on you. But to him, that scent wasn’t just an aroma; it was a call. A dangerous call.

“Bruce Wayne…”

He murmured the name like one would utter the name of a disease. The thought of him standing beside you now was slowly rotting Crane’s mind.

“He’ll watch you with his hands in his pockets. He’ll smile. Pretend to care.”

Crane constructed the image in his mind. His eyes misted over.

“But he won’t know. He can’t analyze your weak spots like I do. I feel them. Because I... will touch your mind.”

He laced his fingers together. Pressed his nails into his palms. The veins in his hands bulged.

“I could rip your mind out. Break every dream into pieces and show them back to you. And what will Bruce Wayne do? Offer you a drink and look into your eyes? Weak. He tries to keep you at the edge. I… would devour you.”

At that moment, he imagined you behind his eyelids. But this time at the benefit night, dressed elegantly… your back bare, your shoulders gracefully exposed…

And Bruce Wayne whispering something to you. Touching you.

Crane clenched his teeth. A deep rage twisted in his stomach. But it wasn’t just jealousy. It was a claim.

“I won’t give what’s mine… to anyone. You don’t know it yet. But I will shape you. Slowly, carefully. And soon, I’ll be the only one left there.”

He rose from the chair. Walked to the window. Rain was pounding against the glass now. The drops blurred the world outside. But in his mind, he saw your silhouette. Wet hair falling onto your shoulders. A smile on your lips. Bruce beside you.

And at that moment, Crane touched his darkest urge: He didn’t want to destroy him. He wanted to watch him decay in front of your eyes. Because the real punishment wasn't disappearance—it was losing what you couldn’t have, again and again.

And Crane smiled. But there was no warmth at the corner of his lips. Only a cold patience. Time was his weapon. And you… were on his clock.

When the door opened again, the first thing to fill the room was the familiar, but this time stronger, scent of your perfume. As if that smell had taken you away from yourself and made you belong to that other life outside.

Then he saw you. You entered the room.

Slowly. As if time itself obeyed the rhythm of your heels.

He saw the dress first. That fabric in which midnight competed with navy blue, leaving your shoulders exposed… you glided like a shadow. Your hair cascading down your neck looked like a mark. And in that moment, Crane’s mind filled with a void. No—this void wasn’t absence. It was hunger. Even if he devoured you with his eyes, it wouldn’t be enough.

But he said nothing. Looked at you with the corners of his eyes. Gave a slight nod. As always. Stillness was his mask. Silence his armor. But inside… inside, a forest was burning. He didn’t need to swallow—his throat was already dry. He suppressed the word that came to his tongue: Mine.

Your lips moved. “I’m ready,” you said. “I just wanted to let you know before heading to the benefit. I straightened up a bit in the office. I’m leaving now.”

Politeness… pressed down on Crane like a weight.

Every time he looked at you, the fragments of clinical knowledge in his mind began to scatter. You weren’t his patient. But in his mind, he couldn’t help turning you into a kind of diagnosis. Obsessive-compulsive transference. Beyond the classical countertransference line. The cognitive layers inside him were collapsing with a crackling sound. You made him something more than human. And at the same time… a monster.

“Of course. You may go,” he said. His voice was calm. But that calm was like lava flowing just beneath ice.

“Good evening,” you said. And turned around. A smile not born of joy but shaped by courtesy. Your footsteps joined the corridor once again.

He didn’t leave immediately. He waited. Counting. Six. Five. Four… He closed his eyes, inhaling the time your scent lingered in the room. Then he stood, slipping out of the dark office toward the door. Silently. His feet barely touched the ground, like a ghost.

He reached the end of the corridor. The dimmest part, away from the cameras. He fixed his eyes on the small window that offered a view outside.

Despite Gotham’s gray descent, a sliver of light filtered in. Wayne’s armored, sleek black car was parked at the curb. And there he was. Bruce Wayne.

Smiling as he watched you.

You walked toward him slowly, heels tapping. The car headlights cast a glow on your shoulders. Your skin trembled… maybe from the cold, maybe from excitement. And at that moment, one sentence echoed in Crane’s mind: Everything inside you trying to leave no space for me… now bears the name Bruce Wayne.

He pressed his lips together. A deep line settled between his brows. What he held down in his chest now was not just desire. It was justified fury.

Because no matter how clever Bruce Wayne was, he would never understand you. He would smile at you.

But he would never know where you break.

The hands that repaired you weren’t his. They were the eyes that watched you bleed. And those eyes… right now, were watching from that window. Like a predator that knew your every cell. Not focused on you—but on the man watching you. Bruce’s hands, his gaze, his steps. How he touched you.

A whisper rose from inside Crane: You’ll go with him. But in your mind, the mark I left will remain. At the end of the night, he may be the one unzipping your dress…

But the only one who’s solved your secrets… is me.

He didn’t take his eyes off the window. Watched as you got into the car. The door closed. And with Bruce Wayne, you slowly disappeared into the night.

And this time, Dr. Jonathan Crane… did not smile.

Beyond the city lights, in the silence of the car, soft melodies slipped between the seats. The interior of Bruce Wayne's car felt isolated from the outside world.

You stared out the window, your thoughts twisting with the curves of the road. Bruce was saying something, his voice was gentle, but you couldn’t focus.

The fabric of your dress against your shoulder merged with the stillness around you, making your body feel all too real.

When you chose that dress, a part of you knew it was for him. The way Bruce’s eyes lingered a bit too long on your shoulders, on the curve of your neck… it hadn’t gone unnoticed.

“You look comfortable,” Bruce said, eyes still fixed on the road ahead. “Doesn’t seem like you’re afraid to be in the same room with Gotham’s richest five hundred.”

“You’re here with me,” you replied, careful not to let your voice sound too natural.

He only nodded. He didn’t look at you for long—but when he did, you were sure he always saw more than he should.

As the car pulled up to the main entrance of the hall, flashes burst in rapid succession.

Journalists, crowds constantly tracking Wayne Enterprises, shouts... You were already blinded by the lights before the door even opened.

The door was opened for you. And Bruce extended his hand, helping you out. The moment your hand touched his, time seemed to freeze.

You were twenty-two.

But in Bruce Wayne’s eyes, you were still sixteen.

The crowd fell silent for a moment. Because they didn’t recognize the young woman who had arrived with him.

“Mr. Wayne! Is there a special reason you’ve come with your ward tonight?”

“Mr. Wayne, is it true that you claim Y/N as your ward because of the age difference between you?”

“Is it true that there’s a romantic relationship between you two?”

The questions came one after another, each one pushing a different boundary.

Bruce’s lips curled slightly. That famous, careless businessman smile was on his face.

But you could feel the other man behind that smile.

“Tonight’s guest of honor,” he said. “And no… I won’t be answering your strange questions.”

“So Mr. Wayne, are the rumors about a romance true?”

“In Gotham, Alfred might be the only one without any romance rumors,” Bruce said. “Though he was apparently quite the flirt in his youth.”

Laughter echoed. Microphones were held up to you, cameras flashed, lenses zoomed in... You were being objectified.

Part of you felt like it was all a game. But another part remembered the old, old days—when Bruce looked at you that way.

Once inside, the hall was filled with white flowers. Crystal chandeliers glittered, live music played behind velvet curtains.

Champagne flowed everywhere, along with furs and expensive jewelry... The mayor of Gotham was giving a speech on stage, but no one was listening.

They were just watching each other. Who came with whom. Who wore what. Who was holding Bruce Wayne’s arm.

You.

But then, your eyes caught her.

Charlotte Rivers. She entered in a black satin dress. As if she *belonged* to the night. Her hair was perfectly styled, her smile trained for television.

Your stomach tightened. Because you knew how she looked at Bruce. And how Bruce had once looked back.

You had seen them.

Years ago. Charlotte had been his woman—at least in Gotham’s eyes.

Charlotte’s gaze settled on you. One second. Maybe two. Then she smiled. But it wasn’t warm. It was the smile of a woman who pets her dog while tightening the leash.

Bruce stood tall beside you, a show of strength. But you noticed the way his jaw tensed. He didn’t turn to you. Nor did he move toward Charlotte.

But between the two of you, a history hung in the air. And that history was heavier than the most expensive jewel in the room.

The music kept playing. Flashes still burst now and then. But your mind turned further inward. Bruce’s hand on your shoulder—maybe it was to soothe you.

But maybe to control you.

Maybe to remind you that you were his.

Or maybe… just to remember.

“Y/N?” His voice pulled you from your thoughts. “Want to get some air? Let’s go upstairs—the terrace is quieter there.”

The connection wasn’t broken. But it had shifted into something else.

Tension.

Something historic, buried, repressed.

Unspoken—but known by all.

The night was heavy. Tangible, almost. Even Gotham’s chaos echoing below couldn’t pierce the stillness that wrapped itself around the terrace.

The first thing you felt stepping onto the upper balcony wasn’t the cool brush of the wind against your skin.

It was the contrast.

Inside, laughter still rang over the tinkling of piano keys, light pooling from chandeliers like golden wine—warm, indulgent.

But out here…

Time hesitated.

As if this place belonged not to the masked crowd inside, but to another world.

A forgotten summer night, perhaps.

Or a future that never happened.

Your heels clicked against the stone floor as you approached the wrought iron railing.

You didn’t need to turn around to know Bruce was following.

He made no sound—he never did.

But you felt him. Every molecule of him.

The heat from his body nearing yours. The air shifting as he breathed.

His presence always quiet, yet commanding enough to change the way your heart beat.

He made you alert.

Made you softer, somehow.

Sharper.

More woman.

More exposed.

"Still nervous?"

His voice was low. Calm.

But something was caged within it.

You shook your head slowly. But you turned your face away, knowing he wouldn’t be looking into your eyes.

Because when you met his gaze, you both knew what it could become.

And one of you always looked away.

Usually him.

"Of course I’m nervous," you said, voice light with forced amusement. But your tone carried layers even he couldn’t ignore.

"Walking into a room on the arm of Gotham’s most powerful man isn’t exactly a stroll in the park. Especially when everyone knows where I came from."

Bruce turned toward you, his eyes tracing your shoulder, trying to catch your face.

"Y/N... No one cares about your past," he said softly. "They care about you. Who you are."

Something ached inside your chest.

Because when he said "you"… You didn’t know who he meant.

The child he once knew?

Or the woman standing before him now—whose curves and edges he had memorized in a single glance, but whose gaze still terrified him?

You lowered your head, hiding behind the skyline.

At night, Gotham looked like a different city.

Far in the distance, Arkham’s gothic spires loomed like a ghost in the mist.

And then you said it.

You didn’t know why.

"I had my first session."

A beat.

"Crane put me face to face with Riddler."

You felt the tension snap through Bruce’s shoulders.

But he said nothing.

"I thought he didn’t trust me at first," you continued. "But it wasn’t that. It was a test. For both of us. Me and Riddler. We were… measuring each other. It was strange. But I learned things. About myself. Even Crane looked at me differently by the end. Like he finally saw me not just as ‘the intern’… but something else."

You could feel Bruce watching you now.

Even if he hadn’t spoken yet.

"Something else," he echoed, his voice low, rough.

You turned.

And for the first time that night, he met your eyes.

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t look away.

That alone gave you courage.

You stepped closer.

Like a woman realizing her power.

Dangerous.

Beautiful.

Real.

The wind brushed your skin. But Bruce’s nearness was warmer. Heavier.

His gaze held the war within him.

Yours held a decision.

"You never saw me as a child, did you, Bruce?"

The question hovered in the silence.

Even Gotham’s sounds seemed to pause.

His eyes darkened.

But he didn’t step back.

Didn’t lie.

He just swallowed hard, looked down, and took in a breath like it hurt him to breathe.

"You… were never a child to me," he said. "But this—Y/N— this isn’t right."

You smiled.

Because when he said it’s not right, what he really meant was I’m trying not to fall apart.

You stepped closer again. The flicker in his pupils. The twitch in his jaw.

The way his hands no longer knew where they belonged.

You tilted your head, letting your gaze fall to the hollow at the base of his throat.

You’d imagined pressing your lips there, once.

Back when you didn’t know what that desire meant.

Now you did. Now you saw the fear in his stillness.

"I haven’t seen you as a father figure in a long time, Bruce," you said, voice soft but unyielding.

"And I know how wrong that sounds. But knowing it’s wrong… doesn’t stop me anymore."

He looked at you. And there was fire in his eyes. But also something chained behind them.

A Batman who held himself back—for you to protect you. But you didn’t need protecting anymore. You were past that.

Bruce turned. Took a step away.

His fists were clenched at his sides.

"No, Y/N," he said.

And his voice was jagged. Like he hated himself for saying it.

"Don’t. Please."

For the first time, you saw the anger. But it wasn’t just at you. It was at himself. For wanting. For needing. For losing control.

"This isn’t about how I feel," he said. "This is about protecting you."

You leaned against the cold iron rail, your heart crashing against your ribs.

But you smiled. Proud. Defiant. Because now, you knew.

You knew how much he wanted you.

And that knowledge made you powerful.

The terrace had grown a bit quieter now.

The mechanical joy from below—laughter and the clinking of crystal glasses—had been drowned out here by the whisper of the wind. The darkness that settled over the city covered everything like a heavy blanket; not just you, but the man in front of you too. The way he looked at you moments ago still lingered on your skin. The echo of the feelings you had just confessed hung in the air with a boldness that surpassed the words themselves.

You were leaning against the iron railing, trying to push back your hair whipped by the wind, and you could hear your heart not just beating, but pounding. Bruce had stepped away a little. As if he realized he had gotten too close to something growing inside you—and recoiled. His hands were in his coat pockets, his head bowed. And as you watched him pull away, you faced something you'd never had to face before: not the fear of rejection—because you knew he wanted you too—but a deliberate retreat.

Then the terrace door opened. And a silhouette as cold as the moonlight glided in.

Charlotte Rivers.

Her arrival was like stepping onto a stage—dramatic, calculated, and perfectly timed. Her satin evening gown shimmered with dark red undertones beneath black fabric, slithering like a snake, cascading in waves across her skin. The fur draped over her shoulders wasn’t vulgar—it was a statement of power. Her lips were flawlessly painted—but not like yours. Hers were made for the stage. Yours were made for truth.

Charlotte saw you. She scanned you. Not the way a woman looks at another woman—but the way a woman sizes up a girl with condescension. With a smile that seemed to recall every moment between you, she turned toward Bruce.

"Bruce," she said, her voice hitting the night like the shatter of a glass. "I didn’t expect you to leave me all alone."

Bruce’s expression softened for a brief second.

But that softness wasn’t for you. It was a defense mechanism. A wall he was building against you, his feelings for you, and the things you had just said.

And Charlotte positioned herself right in front of that wall.

"Charlotte," Bruce said. "If you can still escape the crowd, it must mean no one in there has caught your interest."

The woman smiled faintly. Stepped closer. She leaned toward Bruce’s collar—not to kiss, just to hover, barely touching. But that delicate threat had already started to slither into your veins like a slow sting.

"You always manage to distract me, don’t you?" Charlotte murmured. "But I see... tonight you’ve brought a young companion. Very young."

She turned to you. But her voice wasn’t really directed at you—it was aimed at Bruce, evaluating you as if you were a decision he hadn’t made yet.

"I’ve heard a lot about you," she said. "The young intern under Bruce’s wing. What an honor. Bruce is improving in the fatherhood department, isn’t he?"

That word—“fatherhood”—twisted in the air like a sharp blade and pierced you. You instinctively took a step back. But Bruce didn’t respond. He didn’t defend you. He said nothing.

And then it happened.

Charlotte gently touched Bruce’s arm.

Her hand rested on the inside of his wrist.

And Bruce didn’t hesitate to accept it. He even smiled.

That smile... it wasn’t for you. It didn’t belong to you.

And the moment you realized that, something inside you collapsed. A part of you dropped, like falling from a height.

Like when you're a child and jump down the stairs, knowing you’ll fall but letting yourself go anyway—that feeling.

Something didn’t break, but it cracked.

"Charlotte, would you like to go inside?" Bruce said. "There are a couple of things we should probably talk about."

That sentence. Simple. Polite. But the most graceful form of betrayal.

You were still there. At the edge of the terrace.

Just minutes earlier, you had opened your heart to him. And now, he was speaking to another woman without even turning his back on you—as if trying to forget you.

Charlotte turned to you and nodded slightly. Not with triumph. Just with a look that said: Know your place.

As they walked back inside together, Bruce turned his head one last time. Your eyes met.

Inside... maybe there was an apology. Maybe a self-defense. But mostly... there was escape.

And you stood there, leaning your back against the iron railings. The wind was tossing your hair across your face. Your eyes were burning, but you didn’t cry. Because this wasn’t something tears could fix.

This was the beginning of a war.

Bruce had hurt you. Not unintentionally. On purpose.

Because he wanted you. But he was afraid of that want.

And men who are afraid—hurt the ones they love.

The rain hadn’t fallen yet, but the city was already grey. On this night, dressed in expensive coats and adorned with expensive intentions, no one spoke the language of shadows.

Inside the car, it was silent. The engine was off, the windows fogged. Motionless. But inside the car, a storm raged in the mind. He was sitting. Back straight, hands on the steering wheel.

And behind that wheel sat one of the city’s most cold-blooded doctors, a man who knew the chemistry of the human mind by heart, yet had long lost control over his own emotions: Dr. Jonathan Crane.

Behind his glasses, his eyes gleamed with a passion that didn’t shine. Without blinking, he aimed his small binoculars at the upper terrace of the opera house. Yes, he saw you. In all your nakedness, your vulnerability, the raw state of your broken heart.

You were up there, leaning against the iron railing, slowly sipping a drink from your crystal glass. That glass in your hand was actually filled with the empty phrases that had fallen from Bruce Wayne’s lips, and as you drank it, you knew exactly what you were consuming. Betrayal. Neglect.

And most of all, the helplessness of watching his eyes turn to another woman.

Charlotte’s laughter, the small, involuntary gestures Bruce gave in response—each one chipped away at you.

Slowly, but surely.

And this was what Jonathan Crane loved watching the most.

Weak moments. Vulnerabilities. Shaken pride. Tiny cracks forming in the walls of the mind. Because through those cracks, he could seep in. He could seep into you.

He lowered the binoculars. Slowly leaned back in the seat.

As if a warmth washed over him, he exhaled deeply, but that warmth didn’t come from compassion or empathy. It was the primal satisfaction of a predator. The dark, poisonous pleasure taken in a victim’s pain.

He slowly moved his left hand into his pocket and took out his phone. The screen lit up. Your name appeared—like a trembling anticipation. When he saw your name, the corner of his lips curled into a smile. But this smile wasn’t one of affection; it was the thrill a chemist feels when the right element reacts in the perfect crack.

His thumb began to type a message. But what could he say?

How could he make you feel possessed without showing ownership… reveal he was watching without being caught… pull you in without overtly reaching out?

He wrote:

Your communication with Riddler today was more effective than I anticipated. I’ve been following your behavioral patterns with curiosity from the beginning. They don’t see it, but… I do. Everything. Your early synchronization with criminal psychology—does it stem from past observational experiences, I wonder? Let’s talk in the morning.

When he pressed send, something flickered across his face.

Not pride. Not victory. A sense of right. His right over you.

You were his student. His object of analysis. His project. His! And now, even emotionally, even with the shattered pieces of your heart that still belonged to Bruce Wayne, it was time to seep into you.

He saw you take out your phone under the dim yellow light coming from the terrace above.

You tilted your head down. Looked at the screen. Your eyes scanned that familiar message. Your face froze for a moment. One second, two seconds… You read it. Looked at the screen for a while. Slowly put the phone away, but something in your expression shifted.

As Charlotte’s laughter echoed below and Bruce’s exaggerated chivalry whispered from ear to ear, he kept watching you. You stood there, unaware you were being watched by a psychiatrist who saw you as a test tube. Broken. Exposed. Accessible.

Jonathan’s pupils dilated. His gaze, shining from behind his glasses, processed every detail like a microscope—every muscle twitch, every tiny facial expression, every flicker of emotion.

You swallowed. Blinked. Briefly turned your head toward Bruce, then back to your drink. And maybe you weren’t even aware, but that message had made you feel warm for a moment.

Like a drug injected into your cracked moment—it had left you dazed.

Crane knew the effect. He could explain it scientifically. But this time, it wasn’t about science. It was personal. He wanted to see you. In your wounded state. In your chaos. And he believed only he could pull you out of it.

And now, as Bruce continued to ignore you, that sense of ownership grew even more.

Because no mask could hide this fragility.

“Go on, Bruce,” he murmured in the dark. “Hurt her a little more… leave her a little more alone…”

Because in that loneliness, a space was opening. And Jonathan Crane was impatient to enter it.

He didn’t write the next message. Not yet.

It wasn’t time. When the time came, he would write that sentence—the one that would reach into the depths of your darkness and pull you all the way to the surface. But until then, he only watched. Watched you unravel, fall apart—

But only to be pieced back together by his hands.

[divaofmads]

One Glance, My Obsession.

Drawing by @divaofmads

[divaofmads]

A Love Meant To Burn

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female Reader (Oc)

Chapter I , Chapter II

Chapter III: Your Name Was the Enemy

Chapter Summary: She knew exactly what she was doing. He was already broken the moment she looked back. Now, their story isn't about right or wrong. It’s about how far they’ll go when love feels like ruin.

Warnings: Angst, +18, Emotional trauma and guilt, Suicidal thoughts and themes of death, Complex and challenging relationship dynamics, English is not my first language so excuse my mistakes. **I write purely as a hobby, not as a professional**

Word Count: 10k

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

A/N: This one took a piece of me to write. it’s the kind of chapter where you know the characters are making choices they might never recover from, and you just sit there — helpless — watching it all unfold.

This isn’t just about love. it’s about the kind of love that hurts. the kind that demands you to choose between your heart and your sanity. between what you want, and what you can live with.

When the day revealed itself through the pale light slipping into the mouth of the cave, you were still asleep. Your cheek rested against Joel’s chest, your breath gently touching his skin — warm, patient, and innocent. One of Joel’s arms held you close, while the other rested on your shoulder; his fingertips moved slightly, not gripping you tightly but carrying a sense of possession that made it clear he wouldn’t let go. Your breath was like a soft echo rising and falling on his chest; each exhale a form of penance for him, a reminder.

He wanted to watch the peace spreading across your face when you woke up and realized you were still beside him — but it wasn’t time. Not yet. He hadn’t told you. Not yet… he hadn’t stolen you from yourself.

Joel’s head was leaned back against the damp stone wall of the cave. After a sleepless night, his eyes were bloodshot, but his mind was wide awake. The body that bore the marks of war seemed a little lighter in his arms. But the weight in his heart… that had become a burden harder and harder to carry. When his fingers tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear, what passed through him wasn’t just love; it was also fear. Guilt.

Jackson was close now. Beyond the jagged cliffs lay that small, protected town — full of truths. Names. Faces. Answers. And Joel knew he wouldn’t be able to look into your eyes there. Because that town carried the truth that would tear you from him: that the man holding you so tenderly right now was the one who had killed your father.

But this morning… these few hours… you were still in his arms. He could still feel the soft rise and fall of your chest beneath his heart. And when he gently pulled the blanket over both of you, it wasn’t just to keep you warm — it was to make you a little more unforgettable. As though he wanted to protect you from more than just the cold of the cave. Wrapping his arms around your body, he rested his head in your hair for a moment. He closed his eyes. He wanted the moment to last forever. But time had never been kind to Joel Miller.

When he opened his eyes again, the first chill of morning brushed across his face. You exhaled softly and stirred a little. Your body still leaned into his, but you were waking up.

Joel saw your eyelids flutter, and he reached out to caress your cheek. His fingers glided gently from the curve of your cheek to just under your chin. Then his voice came, soft as a whisper.

“Hey... time to wake up, darlin’.”

In the way he said it, there was a kind of refuge. A way to say he loved you without saying the words. When your waking eyes met his, he saw the sleepy smile spreading across your face. Not the gaze of a stranger, but the look of a woman who trusted him.

And in that moment, Joel’s heart ached just a little more.

Because he didn’t know how he’d look into those eyes soon.

By the time night fell, snow had begun to fall slowly. The sky had closed over them like a gray blanket; the wind had turned into a whisper humming in their ears. But this night was different from the others. Joel stopped the horse to tend to your bleeding wounds. But…

You saw it as he searched through the inside of the backpack. His fingers reached for things that were no longer there: a roll of bandages, sterile gauze, a single dose of antibiotic capsules… all used up when Joel had refreshed the dressings on your wounds. The last bottle of alcohol had been used yesterday to clean the gash on yout knee.

There was nothing left.

No painkillers, no antiseptics.

Only a few dirty bandages, a half-dried spool of suture thread, and a broken pair of scissors.

Joel’s gaze drifted down to the worn-out pack beneath his hand. Then he quietly bowed his head. He knew it too. The truth lived in the silence. This was the phase of wounds that no longer healed.

The injury on your shoulder… that had been the beginning. Every minute a wound remained uncleansed, time turned into the enemy. And the enemy in your shoulder had already started creeping beneath the skin.

The edges of the wound had begun to bruise. Your skin was hot to the touch, but hard like stone. Every contact with that area triggered your body’s defense systems, setting your nerve endings on fire. The infection was spreading from within, beginning to take hold of your entire system.

You tried not to show Joel. You staggered as you stood but fixed a determined expression on your face. “We have to keep moving,” you said, as if nothing had happened.

But you hesitated for a moment as you took a step.

Joel noticed. He took a step toward you, wanting to reach for your shoulder, but you pulled away.

“I’m fine,” you said again. Like a wounded animal… and took another step.

Joel stopped. He knew. He had seen that look in the last days of Tess. The ones who tried the hardest to hide their pain were often the ones suffering the most.

But with you, it was different. You weren’t carrying pain — you were carrying vengeance. Your wound was burning not just your flesh, but your soul. And you were someone too strong — or perhaps too broken — to let the man beside you carry you.

The rhythmic sound of the horse’s hooves striking snow-covered stones rose through the silence like a kind of music. The pale light of the sun seeped gently from the mountain slopes, and the droplets sparkling on the frozen branches along the path looked like crystals hanging from the sky. The air was still sharp, still cold… but the wind blowing inside you now belonged to an entirely different climate.

You were in front of Joel, seated in his lap. Nestled between his knees, your back leaned against his chest. Your hands were wrapped around his; your fingers locked together tightly, as if they had known each other across the passage of time. Your body had surrendered to his warmth. And so had your heart. There was a promise now, in the way his arm wrapped around you.

“You’re quiet,” you said, resting your head back toward his shoulder. Your eyes weren’t focused on the horizon — they were focused on him. “You’re thinking.”

Joel’s throat was dry. With the horse’s slow but steady steps, his thoughts were moving too. Each step brought you both closer to Jackson; each vibration pushed him further toward the truth… the truth he had to tell you but still couldn’t bring himself to.

“I always think,” he said, voice low and husky. “But someone like you... you drown out a man’s thoughts.”

You smiled. Without hesitation. No matter how much pain you had endured, the bond between you and this man had begun to outshine the past.

“What did you think when you found me?” you asked in a whisper. “Honestly.”

The muscles in Joel’s jaw tightened. When the horse flinched slightly, he tightened the reins, but the real jolt had been inside his chest.

“I wondered... who you were. Why you were alone. Why you were so close to death.”

“And still, you saved me,” you said, resting your head on his chest. “I’m glad you did.”

Silence hung for a few heartbeats. Joel swallowed the words rising to his lips. *I killed your father.* The words hovered on the edge of his mouth, so close they nearly slipped free. But then you turned slightly toward him on the horse, your face glowing with affection.

“When I look at you, my pain quiets,” you said. “Everything inside me goes still. Only you remain.”

In that moment, Joel felt like someone crushed beneath his own weapon in battle. Defeated. Defenseless. And ashamed.

He brought his face close to your neck, breathed you in deeply. “I’m not the man you think I am, darlin’. I might… let you down.”

“Have you?” you asked, turning slightly. Your eyes were serious, but carried hope too. “Have you abandoned me? Hurt me? Loved me with lies?”

Joel wanted to look away, but couldn’t. Because your eyes were locked onto his. Only a few inches separated your lips, and your breath scorched his skin.

“It’s not possible to love you with lies,” he said at last. “Because loving you... is already the purest kind of truth.”

As the horse continued on its path, you laid your head against his chest again. Your eyes had welled with tears, but the smile on your lips remained. This journey was nothing like the one you’d first started. You weren’t just leaning on Joel anymore — you had surrendered to him. Without fear. Without question.

But Joel’s eyes were now fixed on something else in the winding bend of the distant valley. As Jackson drew near, the past cast its shadow again.

And in that shadow, something as sharp as love was waiting: the truth.

As the cold seeped through the forest like a thin mist, you continued your journey. With each trot of the horse pressing into the snow-mixed earth, the rising shadows of the mountains whispered that Jackson was near. But in that silence, it wasn’t just the sound of hooves that filled the air—there was something else between you: pain.

The wound on your shoulder was the only thing that truly kept you awake. Beneath the bandage, it throbbed relentlessly, each breath sending a knife-like jolt through your flesh. But you didn’t make a sound. You clenched your teeth. You didn’t want anything to cast a shadow over the bond growing stronger each day between you and Joel… the trust… the love.

But Joel Miller was a careful man. He knew that in silence, even body language could be a scream. And your scream was the trembling in your shoulder. No matter how hard you tried to sit upright on the horse, he had noticed every time you shifted your weight away from your right side, every moment you secretly rubbed your shoulder, every sharp breath you held back.

Suddenly, he stopped his horse. You instinctively pulled away.

“We need to stop,” he said. His voice was firm, but there were cracks in it—he could hear your pain.

You lowered your head, clenched your jaw. “No… no, please. We can keep going. Jackson isn’t far.”

Joel looked at you. His gaze was soft but stern—there was the expression of a man on the verge of breaking, holding himself back just to protect you.

“I see you,” he said. “You’re in pain with every step. Your shoulder’s in bad shape, the bandage is soaked through, there’s blood.”

You averted your eyes. “I can push through a little longer… How much farther could it be? Five, six hours? Maybe seven. Joel, please. If we stop now, we’ll have to spend the night in the mountains. We can’t afford to slow down any more.”

Joel’s face hardened. “We have to stop. Your health—”

“No!” you interrupted, the only word that came out loud. “You don’t know how much pain I can take. This wound is not more important than getting there. We need to warn them about the threat in Northpoint. You’ve already been delayed enough because of me. You can’t wait any longer. We have to make it. Both of us.”

Your words hung in the air. Joel locked his eyes on yours. The silence lasted long. Then he clenched his jaw, turned his head, and urged his horse forward.

“Alright,” he said, simply. His tone was hurt, but resigned. “But if we have to stop… this time, it’ll be my call.”

You nodded, burying the whirlwind of emotions inside you. You hoped this small victory over the man you loved would be enough to silence the ache. Joel pressed on, wrapped in silence, but his eyes kept drifting toward you.

If something happened to you… if you didn’t make it to Jackson together… it wouldn’t just be your anger he’d have to face.

And you, you had placed the invisible bond between you — the passion, the unfinished sentences, the traces of every touch — above everything else. Despite the pain, you kept riding, as if what you were fleeing wasn’t just the wound.

As the rhythmic steps of the horse echoed beneath you, the cold air surrounding you pressed down harder, like leaden clouds hanging low in the sky. Snow had started falling again during the night, and now it had seeped into the veins of the forest as a fine layer. But to you, the cold was not just a matter of weather — it was the echo of a threat rising from within your own body.

The wound on your shoulder was no longer just a source of pain, but a warning. At first, it had only throbbed — like the first sparks of infection, as your tissues battled the heat beneath your skin. But now, that throbbing had turned into a tremor spreading toward your internal organs. Your muscles were stiffening, your movements growing more mechanical by the hour.

You were aware of these symptoms. And you paid attention to every move to make sure Joel didn’t notice. You held your shoulder a little straighter, pinned your trembling hand to your thigh. Your breathing had quickened, but you released it slowly through your lips, as if it were only from exhaustion. But inside, you were burning.

Sweat traced from your scalp to the lines on your forehead. But this wasn’t from the cold — it was from the fire within. Your body was overflowing with white blood cells fighting off the infection, your immune system waging a war that was draining every ounce of your energy.

Your head began to spin. The images around you blurred in and out, the trunks of trees overlapping one another. Joel was behind you, always watching, always giving you space. You straightened up, not wanting him to notice your condition. Rubbed your eyes. Bit your lip. Your pupils had dilated — another sign of the fever.

You clung to the only weapon left in your mind: your will. You wouldn’t be a burden to Stranger. You’d already been enough of one. You had to tell them about the new infected type, and fast. And of course, there was also revenge.

JM. Two letters circling in your mind. And your father’s revenge. Joel Miller was in Jackson, and he was waiting for you to kill him without mercy.

You swallowed. It was a hard swallow, like a stone sinking down your throat. “I’m fine,” you told yourself. “Just a few more hours. Hold on.”

But Joel’s glances toward you were lasting longer now. He sensed something was wrong. Maybe he was waiting for you to realize it yourself. Maybe he was searching for a way to stop you before you even knew you needed to stop.

You pressed your knees tighter to the sides of the saddle to keep your balance. But this time, the nausea hit. The infection was reaching your core, your internal organs. Your heart beat faster, your lungs struggled to expand. Still, not a single groan escaped your lips. You swallowed. Blinked. And kept going.

Jackson had risen just beyond the final bend — molded by winter’s hands, covered in snow, silent and solid. Its walls, built by human labor, were as real as hope itself. As the radio towers stretched into the sky in the background, for the first time in a long time, arriving somewhere felt like a true “arrival.”

But for you, this was more than just an arrival. It was a reckoning.

The wound beneath your shoulder wasn’t just a cut — it was a silent prophecy reminding you of your father’s bloody end. As your body rotted, your soul marched toward one goal: find Joel Miller, confront him... and maybe even kill him.

Hiding the pain wasn’t easy, but for someone with a purpose, it became possible. Because revenge was more resilient than the immune system.

At the foot of Jackson, as you turned that final bend, your vision blurred. Snow poured before your eyes like rain. The white glare erased the boundary between your mind and reality. The only sound echoing in your ears was that of a figure calling from far away.

“Y/N?”

Joel’s voice came from a distance. Muffled, restrained, but worried. Yet you didn’t hear him.

You had already slipped into the past. Hallucinations often appeared in the final stages of such severe infections. The mind, rather than protecting reality, clung to memory. To your father... your final goodbye... and the name Joel Miller.

Your lips were dry, but parted involuntarily. The first syllable was bare and fragile: “Joel…”

Joel Miller. Your enemy. Your lover. Your killer.

In your mind, he stood there. With the gun pointed at your father, on that dark night, where it had all begun. And now, you had found him. Right at Jackson’s gates, just a second before your knees gave out. But this Joel wasn’t real. Just a ghost made of cortisol, inside your head.

“Dad…” your voice trembled. Raspy. “He… you…”

Joel pulled the reins, and the horse stopped abruptly.

“Y/N?”

He leaned forward, panic in his voice.

“Hey, look at me. What are you saying? What… what’s happening?”

Your eyes were already full. Your pupils had dilated, your body entering hyperthermic shock. Joel’s voice was fading. But to you, his face was clear. Even if it was a hallucination, his eyes were the same as the night he killed your father. And now he was in front of you. With your breath trembling, you whispered one last word before letting go:

“Joel… Miller…”

Joel’s eyes went wide. He dropped the reins and reached to catch you.

“Y/N! No, no… Damn it, NO! Sweetheart, look at me!”

As his hand touched your shoulder, your body began to slide from the horse.

And in that moment, the whole world went dark.

The last thing you heard was your name — called out in the voice of the man you loved, trusted, but were meant to hate:

“Y/N!”

A scream from the darkness startles you. Just one step ahead, you see your father collapsed to his knees—blood seeping from his chest, dripping onto the snow, turning into a dark red stain as it freezes. His face is pale, his breath ragged; his eyes turned to you in fear. Behind you, the silhouette of Redhill burns, like a city swallowed beyond the flames.

“Stop! Please!” you scream. Your voice echoes, but it’s as if no one hears it, swallowed by the apocalypse. Your foot won’t move forward, as if the ground is holding you, like a swamp… Every step delayed. Every breath feels like broken glass in your lungs.

That’s when you see the shadow for the first time.

A figure emerges from the mist. No face, no clear form. Only a shadow, only a silhouette… A gun in its hand, standing right in front of your father. Time feels frozen. You try to run toward the figure, pleading with a voice that cracks from your throat:

“Don’t! Please… What did this man ever do to you?!”

But there’s no answer.

You look at your father’s face. He looks like he just wants to see you one last time. His lips move:

“Run… sweetheart…”

Then the gunshot.

It’s like a bomb goes off inside your head. Your father’s body falling back happens in slow motion. Your legs give out beneath you. You collapse to your knees. Your breath shortens. Only one sound echoes in your ears: the shot, and then your father’s lifeless body.

Then you look again at the silhouette.

It begins to sharpen… The lines become clear… The eyes, the mouth, the hands… And suddenly, that name you’ve kept buried in your mind for years takes the shape of a face.

It’s Joel Miller.

But what shatters you more is that you *know* him.

The man you fell in love with. The one who saved you, held you, looked into your eyes and said, “I won’t let anything happen to you.” His eyes are on you now, his face filled with pain. As if his heart is breaking, too.

“You…” you whisper. “You…”

And then that world starts to collapse.

The ground cracks, the sky darkens. Everything pulls downward, and you’re falling with it… Falling… Falling. And then—

Your eyelids felt like lead. It was as if you were slowly rising to the surface from a dark and formless void, one you couldn’t remember falling into. Like someone approaching the light… but the light here, in the real world, burned like a sharp dagger. You wanted to open your eyes—but couldn’t at first. The world beneath your eyelids throbbed with pain.

There was a high-pitched ringing in your head. Your ears were buzzing. Time and space felt distorted, your skull echoed like an empty tin can. You shifted slightly. Your whole body ached from head to toe. Especially your right leg—that place... it felt like it was on fire. But you were still alive. The pain, unbearable yet real, was proof of that.

You let out a soft breath. The sheets beneath you smelled unfamiliar. The dry, heavy scent of harsh soap, ash, and old wood fibers... You had definitely never been here before. Everything was unfamiliar.

That was when a voice echoed nearby. A young girl’s voice. Its tone was cautious, but laced with a faint kindness, like she’d been waiting patiently for you to wake without scaring you.

“Hey… looks like you’re finally waking up.”

At first, it sounded far away. Like you were hearing it underwater. When you strained your eyes open a little more, your vision was blurry. In the doorway, backlit by soft light, you could make out the silhouette of a young girl in a pale, long-sleeved shirt, with pony tailed hair. Your eyes blinked a few times, and the world slowly came into focus. She stepped closer, and when you tried to sit up, stumbling slightly, she raised her hand gently to stop you.

“Easy, take it slow. You’re still really weak,” she said. “You’ve been asleep for two days. Maria and I took care of you. Well... as best we could.”

Her voice was unfamiliar, yet it carried a strange kind of balance—calm, cautious, but trustworthy. Her movements were controlled, like she knew she was in a room with someone unpredictable, but still had the courage to offer that person a glass of water.

“Where… am I?” you asked, your voice cracked, hoarse and raspy. Your throat was parched, your tongue glued to the roof of your mouth.

The girl turned her head slightly, not looking away but also avoiding the question directly:

“We’re in Jackson. North of Wyoming, small settlement… pretty safe, all things considered.”

Jackson. That name rang a distant bell. Maybe from the crackling voice over the radio at the power plant, or Tommy’s echoing shout… or maybe from even further back. But your mind still felt clogged, like it was filled with mud. Nothing would stay in your grasp.

“Who… who are you?” you asked, lifting your head slightly from the pillow.

“Ellie,” she said plainly. “But don’t worry about that now. You need to rest.”

She had said her name—Ellie—but you noticed something else: she hadn’t mentioned the man who brought you here. The one who made it possible for you to stay, who had rescued you or carried you into this room. It was like she was hiding something—or had been told not to say. And yet, that voice… that voice still echoed in your ears. That deep and husky tone that had told you, as you trembled on horseback, “Don’t you give up.”

Ellie picked up a cracked-glass pitcher from the small nightstand. She filled a glass with water, its surface flecked with bits of dust. She held it out to you. Your fingers struggled to reach. You wanted the water, but you also wanted to grasp the truth behind everything.

She helped you, gently supporting your back and bringing the glass to your lips. Even the water burned as it passed down your throat. But at least you were drinking. You were alive.

As Ellie placed the glass back down, your eyes wandered around the room. Dark wooden walls. A few faded drawings hanging. Books lined up on a shelf. A guitar leaning in the corner—there was no dust on it—it had been played recently. An old curtain on the window, a faded denim jacket hanging on a nail. And the smell of the bed… you knew that smell. Somewhere deep inside, your skin remembered it.

But still… you couldn’t name it yet.

Everything was still watching you like a shadow.

Sitting up in bed felt like trying to pull a bullet fragment lodged deep inside your body. Every muscle, every fiber, every breath burned like an open wound. Your chest was tight, a dull pressure in your abdomen. Your left arm had gone numb, and the throbbing in your right leg could still be felt beneath the bandages.

As you struggled to sit up, Ellie instinctively moved forward, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder, careful to make her touch guiding, not forceful.

“Hey… slow down. Your stitches are still fresh. It’s gonna hurt if you move too much,” she said, eyes serious, her voice a warning.

You pressed your fingertips against the sheet, gritting your teeth as you pulled yourself up. Your head spun, your vision briefly darkened, but you gathered your will. By the time your back rested against the pillow, you were breathless. Heat trickled down the back of your neck, mingling with the sweat at your hairline.

Your eyes turned to Ellie. Questioning, cautious, maybe even a little… suspicious.

“He brought me here… didn’t he?” Your voice was hoarse and cracked, your throat still dry, but the words came out clear.

Ellie averted her gaze for a second. She fidgeted with the sleeve of her jacket. That small, almost invisible hesitation told you a lot. The girl was careful. Every word she spoke was weighed in her mind before it left her mouth.

“Which ‘he’?” she asked, her voice casual, but tension simmered underneath. She didn’t lean toward you or move from her spot. Not defensive, more like she was giving you space.

“The man I ran into… out there,” you said. “The stranger.” You didn’t look away. “The one who lifted me onto the horse… and saved me.”

Ellie frowned. The corner of her mouth twitched slightly, then she turned her eyes to the window. A cold-lit morning lay outside; heavy clouds, wind gently stirring the curtains.

“He’s in a meeting,” she finally said. There was no mistaking the certainty in her voice. “About the new infected types. They’re discussing the signals from Northpoint.”

Your heart suddenly started to beat faster. Northpoint.

That place… hazy, silent, full of death. Its walls cracked, machines broken. The hum that echoed through the quiet. Your desperate attempts to repair that cursed network to send a signal to Jackson. And then… your call for help. And his arrival.

“In a meeting, huh,” you said quietly.

Ellie nodded, turning her eyes back to you.

“I looked into Northpoint. Everyone’s talking about it. They said the systems were dead, but you got some of them working again. You established communication… even if briefly. That’s something most people here couldn’t manage right now.”

She paused. There was a strange expression on her face—somewhere between admiration and cautious distance. “Fixing things like that. Surviving that long. Alone. Even Maria was impressed.”

You were still listening, but something else echoed in your mind. A background noise behind her words, like the static of a broken recording bleeding into your thoughts.

Joel.

His name still hadn’t passed from Ellie’s lips. But an image suddenly formed in your mind. About six months ago. You’d just set out. Winter hadn’t fully set in, but the nights were already freezing. While traveling a rocky path, you’d stumbled across an abandoned gas station. You’d found a rusted map. Thick and faded. Marked with hand-written notes—arrows, lines, scribbles.

A name was written there. You still remembered. “Joel & Ellie.”

You still carried that map. It had been soaked in rain, the edges frayed, but you never threw it away. Back then, the names had seemed ordinary. But now…

Your heart skipped a beat. Your eyes turned back to Ellie. Your lips parted slightly, but no words came out. You felt something crack open in your chest. Deep and sharp suspicion.

Every detail in the room—the guitar on the wall, the bookshelves, the scent in the air, even Ellie’s voice… there was an answer hidden in all of it. But you couldn’t name it. Not yet.

Ellie noticed your gaze but said nothing. Instead, she refilled your glass from the pitcher. The glass had a crack, but her hand didn’t tremble.

“Keep drinking,” she said. “You need to rest.”

But you were no longer focused on the glass. You were locked in your memories. And something in your chest was slowly beginning to awaken.

The room fell silent once more. Only the sound of the distant wind brushing against the windows scratched at your insides like a cold thorn. As Ellie set the pitcher back down, you were still silent. She tilted her head slightly, glancing at you out of the corner of her eye. Then she shoved her hands into the pockets of her pants.

She was just about to leave the room when your voice held her back.

“What was your name?”

Ellie stopped. Every muscle in her body tensed, as if frozen mid-motion. You could see from the movement in her shoulders that she was preparing an answer. Slowly, she turned to look at you, her eyes a deep brown and her expression cautious.

“Ellie.”

You only nodded. But she looked directly into your eyes. For too long. There was something in it. Not absentmindedness—scrutiny.

Ellie narrowed her gaze.

“That’s the second time i’ve told you that. Why?” she asked. Her voice sounded soft, but the tension in her tone was obvious. “I mean… have we met before? Or…” Her eyes squinted for a moment. “Are you from FEDRA?”

Your face remained expressionless. No confirmation, no lie. Just that empty, yet meaning-laden stare. Ellie’s pupils shifted with unease as she received no answer. It was clear she now felt like a threat hovered just under her nose.

She quickly dropped her hands to her sides, then took a step back. It was obvious she was trying to change the subject.

“I mean… you’re probably hungry,” she said quickly. “You haven’t eaten in two days. I’ll… I’ll make you a sandwich. Just wait here, okay?”

Still, you said nothing. Ellie was clearly unnerved by your silence. As she turned and hurried out of the room, she seemed almost swept away like a gust of wind behind her. The door clicked shut. Her footsteps faded down the stairs.

At that moment, alone in the room, the silence was no longer just emptiness—it was weight. Even the cobwebs in the corners of the ceiling looked menacing. The wind slipped in through a cracked corner of the glass, lifting the edge of the curtain slightly.

This place... this was someone else's life. Not yours. And slowly, a cold suspicion began to crawl through your veins. Your breath quickened. You looked at the pillow, the blanket, the bookshelf on the wall. All of it… had a masculine order to it. Clean, but slightly messy. Old books on the shelves, a broken guitar string, a charm made of dried pine branches. Flannel shirts hung behind the door. Most of them were large. One had a loose thread dangling from a missing button on the collar.

Ellie’s face replayed in your mind. Her tension, her panicked exit. The sandwich excuse—it was almost childlike. And once you realized that, you couldn’t stay seated any longer. No matter how tired, how broken, how wounded you were...

...you had to get up.

You pushed off the blanket with your hands. Your skin prickled. When your toes touched the cold floor, it felt like stepping onto a frozen river. Your breath was uneven. You clenched your teeth. As you rose, the stitches in your chest throbbed, but you didn’t care. You would endure.

As Ellie’s footsteps faded away, the silence inside deepened. You were alone now.

But this solitude wasn’t peaceful. Like a growing ache in your chest, a feeling inside you wouldn’t settle: You were in the wrong place. And looking for the right person.

You glanced around once more. The blanket still lay tangled around your knees. With the sting of the stitches on your body, you pushed yourself upright from the bed. For a few seconds, your balance faltered, but you managed to stand by pressing your hands against the edge of the mattress. Your head throbbed, your vision still blurry. But your mind—your mind was clear.

The watch.

You remembered suddenly.

The one thing keeping every ounce of anger and every trace of vengeance alive in your veins.

The watch found next to your father’s body.

With the killer’s initials carved into its back—your most tangible memory that even time couldn’t erase. Without it... you might forget why you were fighting.

Panic set in as you turned your head. You looked under the bed—nothing. You reached into the small drawer of the bedside table. Empty. You slammed it shut.

Your bag. Where was your bag?

After a quick scan, your eyes landed on the torn backpack resting on the chair in the corner of the room. You moved toward it with hurried steps—despite the pain of your wounds. Your hands trembled as you unzipped it. You looked inside.

Maps... an unfinished notebook... a few bandages... but...

No watch.

A wave of cold fear washed over you. You hadn’t left it behind. You always kept it in the innermost pocket.

It couldn’t have been stolen.

Maybe...

No.

Then your eyes caught the drawer of the small desk in the corner. It sat half-open beside the chair. You moved toward it. Your legs trembled, but you didn’t stop.

When you opened the drawer, the first things you saw were a few crumpled papers. Notes. Scattered scribbles. Faded words. But beneath them was a stack of paper that caught your attention. Lines written in shaky handwriting had been pressed into the pages. As your eyes began to grasp the words, something inside you shifted. Your pulse quickened. You carefully flattened the paper with your hand.

These... these were song lyrics.

But not like the kind you’d seen before. They weren’t random.

As if between the sentences... you found yourself.

“I saved a woman—maybe

she was already lost when I did.

She asked me for direction,

but the path... the path was me.

Her eyes left, but my heart stayed with her.

And now whenever the night comes...

I’m bleeding in a dream shaped by her voice.

But you know me now.

So... say something.”

Your knees nearly gave out at the first line.

Your eyes were locked on the paper. You turned to the next page.

“There’s a place in my nights—

filled only with the sound of that woman’s voice.

Even when she pointed her gun at me,

there was warmth in her hands.

Loneliness,

sometimes fades with the breath of a stranger.

I saved you.

But really, you killed me.”

The song wasn’t finished.

Some sentences were cut short. Letters scratched out. Notes written over them.

“Will tomorrow birth revenge from this night, or a bond built upon regret?”

Your throat tightened.

The air in the entire room seemed to grow heavier.

It became hard to breathe.

Your eyes lifted from the paper.

You read the word again.

"I saved you.

But really, you killed me."

As your heart echoed within your chest, you felt this line was kin to your blood. The words were no longer just ink—they were a projection of a past that echoed inside you, of broken hopes and a face you still couldn’t decipher.

"Even when she pointed her gun at me..."

Your eyes froze on the line. Something inside you snapped. This couldn’t be a coincidence. A sentence this accurate, this familiar, could only be written through witness. But... you had never pointed a gun at that man. Not before. Not yet. And still… it was as if the words said one day you would, and he knew it.

There was only one question echoing in your mind:

“Did he write these?”

The stranger must have brought you to this house, right? It was his house. And she — the girl with Joel Miller, Ellie—was assigned to look after you.

Suddenly, it felt like the air around you had gone cold. A quiet unease spread through the room. And just then—

The door opened.

You flinched instantly, gripping the papers reflexively to keep from dropping them. Your heart had leapt to your throat. Your fingers trembled. Your breath caught in your chest like fractured glass.

The first to step in was Ellie, holding a plate. Her expression was tense. She stopped in her tracks the moment she saw you standing, the papers from the drawer still in your hand.

"What are you doing?!" she asked, voice sharp with worry. "You shouldn’t be up. You barely started walking again."

Your eyes shifted past her shoulder.

And he was there.

Standing at the threshold.

That familiar face. Harsh features. Shadows hanging beneath his eyes like the weight of years of guilt carved into skin. And yet... his eyes were soft. The man you loved was looking at you with love.

Your hands trembled as you looked at him. You tried to speak, but the words stuck in your throat. You couldn’t describe what you felt. You were grateful to be alive, and yet… you were in the middle of a swamp. And every step was pulling you deeper.

Ellie turned to him as she realized he’d entered. Her brows were furrowed. "She’s up... I told her she needed rest."

Joel Miller knew the secrets would come to light one day—he just never thought they'd be so eager, while you were still limping through the aftermath.

Joel gave her a small nod. His gaze didn’t just fall on Ellie—it carried a weight as it passed over to you. He was calm. What he was thinking was impossible to read.

"Thanks for watching her, Ellie," he said. His voice was firm. But beneath it, something else lingered. A message: leave.

Ellie’s shoulders tensed slightly. She hesitated, as if she didn’t want to walk out that door. Her eyes moved back to you. Then to Joel. But Joel didn’t look away. It was like a silent message passed between them. About danger. About trust.

Finally, Ellie sighed. "Sandwich..." she said, setting the plate on the nightstand. "So she won’t go hungry."

Then she turned back. And as she stepped out the door, she cast one last glance back. As if it might be the last time she saw you.

And silence fell.

You were alone now.

Joel studied you for a few seconds. He’d noticed the papers in your hand—the ones from the drawer. His eyes drifted there, but he didn’t ask you anything directly.

You, on the other hand, couldn’t move. Your body and your mind were fighting the same war. The words in your hand, the man before you, Ellie’s strange silence…

You slowly placed the papers on the table. Your fingers were still trembling, but you made no sound. The weight of the moment was carried entirely by the silence. It felt like the air in the room had thickened, time sinking beneath your steps. You didn’t take your eyes off him.

And then… you started walking.

Unsteady, but resolute. Quiet, but stormy.

Your steps echoed across the wooden floor until you stood right in front of Joel.

Only a few inches separated you. And when you looked into his eyes, you saw the weight of years—pain, loss, and exhaustion. But you also saw something else… familiarity. As if… you’d been here before. As if his gaze had been calling you for years.

Joel parted his lips to speak. But that word… that first word… never made it out.

Because you spoke first. And your voice rose not from your throat, but from deep inside, from your soul.

“Have you ever heard of Redhill?”

Joel’s expression didn’t change. But that name, that familiar syllable, caused a flicker behind his eyes. He understood. But he didn’t speak. His eyes didn’t leave yours. He was waiting.

“It used to be a home,” you said. “It had walls. It had my father. And his faith… it kept me alive. He believed it was still possible to trust people. To build something with them.”

Your eyes filled with tears, but not a single drop fell.

“Then… that day came. Fire fell from the sky. Bullets rained. Screams, gunfire, blood… everything blurred together. And I… that day… as I carried my father’s lifeless body, I made a vow.”

Your voice cracked. But your words were heavy, steady, and sharp.

“I’d find the man who killed him. And I’d kill him. No matter what it cost.”

Joel was still looking at you. But the edges of his eyes had quivered just a fraction. Maybe it was just a trick of the light. Maybe it was his heart. But you saw it.

“A year and a half. I walked alone for a year and a half. Maps, abandoned roads, shadows… until… I saw you.”

This time, Joel’s brow furrowed slightly. He let out a breath without realizing it. But he still didn’t speak. He only listened.

There was a quiet waiting in his eyes. And a fear.

“You were a stranger,” you said. “And something inside me shattered the moment I saw you. I didn’t understand it. Because… I loved you. Beyond revenge, beyond hate… in that moment, I loved you.

And that feeling… it started to ruin everything.”

Your hands were clenched by your sides. Your eyes glistened with tears, but your voice… your voice didn’t waver anymore.

“As I loved you, I forgot my purpose. But there was something I never let go of… something that kept me tied to my past. I always had it with me. That watch. The watch of my father’s killer. It was always with me. When I slept, when I walked, when I fought. The only thing that reminded me why I was still alive.”

You studied Joel’s face carefully. And in that moment… a tiny muscle moved in his jaw. As if time shifted once more. But still… he remained silent.

“In this room… I looked for it. But it’s gone. Please, tell me I didn’t lose it. Tell me I didn’t lose my watch.”

Joel didn’t speak for a long time. It was as if the room had stopped breathing. Time had lodged itself in your chest like a bullet. It couldn’t move forward, couldn’t turn back. It could only wait. You were both inside a silent apocalypse.

Then... very slowly, Joel reached into the inside pocket of his jacket. It was a small, careful movement. As if he were carrying a grenade. His fingers, moved by a familiar habit, found it. And he pulled it out. That old, worn wristwatch — its scratches telling the story of the past.

It carried the weight of time. And now... something else too.

He held it in his palm for a while. His fingers brushed the surface, as if uncertain. But then... he took a step. Then another. Closing the space between you.

You held your breath, standing still.

One of your hands was clenched into a fist. Your heart... your heart was pounding wildly.

Joel let out a slow, trembling breath.

Then, with his fingertips, he turned the back of the watch.

Without ever looking away from you, he held it out.

But before... before he called you to take it, he showed you the two letters.

A faint engraving.

Not faded with time — on the contrary, deepened by it: J.M.

Those letters… and the truth you’d been chasing for years.

Joel still held the watch in his hand. His eyes were lost in shadow, but his voice… his voice came like an echo from the past. Deep. The voice of a fallen man.

“I remember that day… The watch had stopped. But I never took it off. Even if it couldn’t tell time anymore… it was the only promise I made after my daughter was gone. Not to forget.”

Joel’s voice held no anger, no defense. But he didn’t try to hide what was inside him. That sentence… was the gravestone he carried on his back.

In that moment… the world lost its sound. But the words crashed off the walls. Echoed in your head. The watch had stopped. But your time was only now beginning.

Your eyes widened. Your heartbeat changed. In that moment, all the pieces in your mind came together: Redhill, the promise you made your father, the single name echoing through the silence… And it slipped from your lips like a whisper: “It’s you.”

You took a step toward him. With everything burning in your eyes: “Joel Miller.”

And the past pierced the chest of the future.

In that moment, you couldn’t control your breath, nor the familiar rage that began to burn inside your eyes.

You locked your gaze on Joel’s. But what filled your eyes now wasn’t just the silence of the man you knew — it was someone else. A silhouette of a past stained with blood, ashes, and curses. In that moment, those eyes didn’t belong only to Joel. Behind those eyes were the ashes of Redhill. Behind those eyes lay your father, a single bullet in his head, lying on his back.

“You…” you began, your voice hoarse, tangled with breath. On your face was not just disappointment; there was the sharpness of betrayal. “You knew. All along. Who I was.” That last word felt like it scratched your throat.

Joel said nothing. He neither denied nor confirmed. His gaze fell to your hands — you were still holding the watch.

“You did it on purpose,” you said, stepping forward. “When you found me, when you saw who I was… you knew. And you said nothing. Why? Tell me, why?!” What came out of you wasn’t just pain; it was a cry made at the edge of a grave buried deep inside. “You made me fall in love with you,” you whispered. Your eyes were filled, but the tears didn’t fall. If they fell, you’d fall apart. If they fell, your rage would turn to helplessness. “You lied! You stayed silent. You hid your identity. And I…” You pointed to your chest. “I carried this every day, every night… this watch, this memory, this dead man! You… you stole them all from me!”

“You’re heartless.” The words slipped through your clenched teeth. You were so close now, you could feel Joel’s breath.

Joel lowered his head. As if trying to push the last word stuck inside him through his throat. From between his pale, cracked lips, a quiet “Y/N” escaped, but it didn’t echo in the room. Because the only thing cutting through the silence now was the roar of the emotions exploding inside.

“I never lied,” he said at last. His voice was heavy. So heavy, it was as if the words had given in to gravity. “I just… couldn’t tell the truth.” He looked up. The lines around his eyes looked deeper now. He was tired. But this tiredness wasn’t physical. It was the sorrow of a man who, after losing too much, believed he didn’t even deserve to live.

“I owed you a life,” he said, stepping forward. “But part of that life had already been taken from you. I couldn’t give it back. What was I supposed to do?” He paused, then continued with pain in his voice, “I didn’t tell you my name. I warned you. Again and again. I told you I wasn’t right for you. I did everything to keep you away. But… God knows… I couldn’t stay away from you.”

There was a tremble in his face now. His eyelids were quivering. His breath came in short bursts. He swallowed hard. It was as if another Joel had emerged from within him. Not the one Ellie knew — this was the man who hadn’t opened his heart to anyone since Sarah, and when he did, it shattered everything.

“I didn’t want you because I love you,” he said. “Because loving you… was hell. Loving you was like staring into the face of every person I ever killed. In your eyes… they all died again.” His voice cracked. For the first time, his eyes filled with tears. “I wish we’d met in another way.” His shoulders sank. “I wish this path… wasn’t so damn cursed.”

The air had grown cold. The house was silent. In the silence, the only thing echoing was a broken breath—like the outcry of a scream held back. In that moment, time neither moved forward nor stayed in the past.

Your fingers trembled; it was unclear whether from anger, the cold, or the weight in your chest you could no longer bear. Your eyes were locked on Joel Miller—not as a man, but as a ghost. He was the embodiment of a shadow hidden among memories, now returned in flesh and blood.

Your throat was dry; the words burned as they left your lips.

“I… I set out on this path to kill you, Joel Miller. Not just for my father… but for Redhill. The curse of all of them settled on my shoulders like a burden. At the end of this road, I was supposed to shoot you!”

Your voice cracked. Your eyes filled, but no tears fell; hatred was a feeling that didn’t allow tears.

“But do you know what happened? I fell in love with the man I swore to kill! In this damned world, I loved you! How could… how could it be like this?! This isn’t how I imagined this scene. This confrontation. This truth.”

You gripped your hair with your hands, turned away as you tried to control your breath, but looked at him again.

“I hate myself. For loving a man like you… I want to die!”

With those words, it was as if the silence cracked in the room. The only sound was the faint creak of a footstep on the wooden floor. Joel, without saying a single word, slowly reached for his waist. His hand found a gleaming piece of metal. He let out a deep, weary breath.

SIG P226: A semi-automatic pistol favored by federal agents and some military units—reliable, trusted. Joel always trusted this weapon. It never let him down. Aged, but loyal. Just like him.

In the silence, the sound of the mechanism pulling back echoed like a chilling whisper: “CLICK.” But it wasn’t the sound of death—it was the sound of surrender.

Joel raised the gun to his chest. But now, its loyalty had changed.

He turned the pistol and held it out to you, slowly, deliberately. The grip—marked with his fingerprints—faced you. The muzzle pointed downward. His fingers were ready to let go. His eyes, bound to the past.

“Take it,” Joel said. His voice was dry, hoarse, but steady. “I’m right here. Do whatever you have to do. Give me what I deserve… let your finger be on the trigger.”

You stared at the gun as if frozen. Your hand hovered in the air for several seconds. Your breathing grew erratic.

When you held the weapon, its coldness spread from your fingertips to your heart. With trembling hands, you reached for the trigger, but what you were really touching was his fate—or maybe your own. In that moment, time stopped; neither the weight of the past nor the possibility of the future remained. Only you, him, and the decision in your hands.

He was looking at you. Without saying a word. He offered no defense, no apology. In his eyes, there was only a quiet acceptance—as if he had long been waiting for this moment, as if every sleepless night had prepared him for this.

You didn’t look away. You didn’t want to. Because you were supposed to hate him. Because once, you had sworn. That you would kill him. When you stared at your father’s lifeless body in the ruined streets of Redhill, when the hopes of your people were crushed underfoot, when you set out on this journey whispering his name… it had all started that day. And it was all… supposed to end today.

But everything had changed, hadn’t it?

That stranger was no longer a stranger. The fury you carried in your heart had been pierced by the nights you’d shared with him.

You applied pressure to the trigger. Just a little… just a click. But your finger couldn’t go further. Because his face didn’t change. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t beg. He had surrendered himself to you.

“Do it,” said his eyes. “Do what must be done.”

You couldn’t do it.

You lowered the gun.

Your arm trembled. Your shoulder dropped.

Tears slid down your cheeks, but you didn’t say a word.

Slowly, you sank to your knees. You placed the gun on the ground with care.

The sound… that metallic clatter… hit your ears heavier than bullets.

You rose to your feet.

Joel stayed silent for a long time.

The gun was still on the floor.

His old leather jacket rustled faintly; even the dried bloodstains were just shadows now.

He looked into your eyes—only your eyes.

Then, suddenly, his voice cracked with an unexpected tone.

“Why didn’t you?”

It was such a simple, bare question… there was nowhere left to run from it.

“You should’ve killed me,” he said again, his eyes locked with yours.

“You were so close… pulling the trigger was just a second.

And… I deserve it.”

You didn’t move.

Your hands were clenched into fists, but they weren’t shaking anymore.

It was like you had shed all hatred, all rage.

Only silence remained.

Then your voice, breaking in a whisper-like confession, came out:

“Because I… already knew.”

Joel furrowed his brow, tilting his head slightly.

You kept talking, your voice layered with depth.

“When we were in Northpoint… when I was close to repairing the device. I made contact with Jackson. Someone named Tommy answered. He asked, ‘Is Joel Miller with you?’ The words were hard to catch through the static. But I ignored it, wanted to think I was being paranoid. Tried to convince myself I’d misheard.”

Your voice cracked again, but there was no stopping now.

“I knew. For days… maybe weeks… I knew.”

Your eyes locked onto Joel’s.

There was no fear left in your gaze, no denial.

Only the raw truth—like an open wound, still bleeding.

“I forgot the promise I made my father. I opened my heart to the man I was supposed to hate. And now, I have neither revenge… nor peace. Only a love cursed—born from the ashes of everything it burned.”

You cried for the first time. But quietly. “I thought you betrayed me. But I’m the one who betrayed. My father’s grave. My people. Justice… Myself.”

Joel stood frozen where he was, your words echoing around him like ghosts.

He couldn’t run. Couldn’t turn back.

Your voice still echoed in his ears—that voice which had once been the only light in his darkness.

But now, that light was setting itself ablaze before his very eyes. That strong, ever-composed face of his…

It looked too tired to carry its secrets anymore.

His eyes were full—but no tears fell.

Joel Miller had stopped crying the day Sarah’s body grew heavy in his arms. And now, maybe for the first time since then, he’d been struck in that same place again.

Perhaps that’s why he stayed silent.

Because words… never bring anything back.

But in that silence, there was a scream.

A scream of a man who wanted to reach for you, but had no right to touch.

Joel Miller had survived death.

But not you.

Not the shattered light in your eyes.

And in that moment, he knew one thing for certain: Love doesn’t always heal.

Sometimes the greatest hell is looking into the eyes of the woman who still loves you.

He slowly straightened up.

Took a step forward.

Then stopped.

And in a hollow voice, he asked only one thing:

“So what happens now?”

That night, you made the decision that changed your life. And maybe you'll never know... whether you did the right thing, or made the biggest mistake of all.

When you straightened your back, your body still ached. The pain beneath your ribs was a sharp reminder of wounds that hadn’t quite healed—but even that pain was nothing compared to the wound in your soul, much deeper, much sharper.

As your knees trembled, your eyes locked on Joel. He was still there. Silent, wounded, and regretful. But a very different war raged inside your heart.

There was a moment of silence. Then you spoke.

"I'm leaving," you said. Your voice was calm, but filled with ashes. "I can’t wake up every morning and share the same sky with you."

Your words hung in the air like a blade. Joel didn’t say a word.

You took a step. You staggered slightly, but gathered yourself. Your gaze still fixed on him. And as you spoke your final words, it was as if you were carving them into your own tombstone:

"Joel, because the more I forgive you... the more I hate myself."

When your words ended, everything seemed to stop. You’d come to understand that a love soaked in blood and betrayal couldn’t be silenced. You weren’t angry at Joel anymore—you were angry at yourself. You realized you couldn’t carry this weight.

And Joel—he didn’t fall apart when he first heard your words… but when he first felt what they meant, his knees gave out.

When you said you were leaving, your voice didn’t even sound like your own. It was foreign, cold, determined. Love had turned you into a stranger. And there was no forgiveness left—not for Joel, not for yourself.

Joel didn’t speak at first. As if every word might drive you further away. But when you turned your back and took a step, he moved. His fingers, strong but trembling, gripped your shoulders. He still had strength—but it wasn’t to hurt you anymore. It was to keep you from leaving.

"You can’t go," he said, his voice torn like a prayer. "Not like this… not in this state… you won’t survive out there alone. You’ll die, Y/N."

But you lowered your head slightly. Your eyes weren’t on Joel—they were fixed on your past.

"Maybe… I should," you said. But it wasn’t defiance. It was a sentence. Accepted. Your fate. And when Joel understood that, he lost his breath. "I think I deserve this," you said. "Redhill... needs me, yes. But if I return with this stain inside me, I’ll be neither leader nor daughter. So maybe… this is how it ends. In the middle of the road. Quietly."

Joel stepped closer, his hands still on your shoulders. But this time, they were a refuge.

"I did something to you, yes," he said. "I hurt people. I’ve been doing it for a long time. You know who I am now. But there’s one thing I need you to understand…"

He paused. His eyes pierced into yours. As tired as the dead, as hopeless as a prisoner.

"Along the way… watching you… each night by the fire, when you turned your back and couldn’t sleep, when you woke up from your nightmares… my heart was always in your hands."

You stayed silent. Maybe you heard him. Maybe you didn’t. But Joel wasn’t expecting an answer anymore. This wasn’t a confession. It was a moment of punishment.

"Y/N…" he said softly, his voice the final hope of a man breaking apart. "I loved you. I still do. But no matter what you do, you’re right. I broke you. What I did to your father… to myself… I’ve already sentenced myself. Every day, every hour, every breath…"

You shook your head slowly, still locking eyes with him.

"It wasn’t just you, Joel," you said, your voice cracked. "I betrayed too. Before my father’s blood even dried… I loved you. And that’s the one thing I can’t forgive."

Joel’s eyes widened. Because for the first time, the guilt that once crushed only him had now begun to bury you too.

"When I made contact with Jackson… when I was in Northpoint… I found out who you were," you continued. "But I couldn’t say it. Because saying it… meant losing you. And losing you… meant losing everything."

Your lips trembled. Joel tried to speak, but the words caught in his throat. In that moment, his hands fell. Because you weren’t holding him anymore. You had chosen to walk into your own hell.

As you slowly turned your back, Joel’s eyes clung to you. You were leaving. Taking your heart with you. And leaving him alone. Just like how it all began. In silence. Without gunshots. But with a far deadlier pain.

Joel was still there. Standing. Wounded. His blood-covered hands were still holding you—as if letting go would send you plummeting off a cliff, or worse, he would lose everything. There was an unusual panic in his eyes. Joel Miller, always so cold-blooded before killing a man, had now lost that calm. Had he ever been this afraid in a war? He didn’t know. But the thought of losing you… that weighed heavier than any hell he had ever endured.

"Y/N..." he said again. His voice was hoarse, torn from his throat. "Don’t leave me now. No matter what... we’ve come all this way together. Don’t say it’s over. Please... we can find another way."

"Joel, it’s over," you said. Your voice didn’t tremble. "This path... it only leads to a grave."

Joel staggered. As if your words had punched him in the gut. His eyes lingered on you. His lips moved but no words came out. He stepped forward again, maybe ready to fall to his knees and beg. That would’ve been a sacred fall for Joel Miller. And he could only do it for you.

"I’ll do whatever you want," he said. "If you’re going back to Redhill… we’ll go together. I won’t pretend nothing happened, but… I can’t stay away from you. I thought I had a future with you. Maybe it’s too late. Maybe it’s madness. But..."

You didn’t look at him. You slowly reached for your backpack. You weren’t ready, not really. Your wounds were still bleeding, your bones still begged for rest—but staying meant not healing. It meant rotting deeper. Joel’s voice echoed behind you, but it had already turned into a memory. Your fingers were cold, like every vein inside you. Your eyes locked on a single point. You had to repeat to yourself that it was over. Otherwise, you’d take it all back.

You turned around one last time. Your eyes met. Joel wasn’t begging anymore. He was just standing there, stripped bare in loneliness. His lips quivered, but the tremble didn’t come from cold—it came from the loss gnawing at him. Something had broken in the depth of his gaze.

"I need to pack," you said.

Joel remained silent. As if even that line gave him hope. He looked at you like he was thinking, So you're not leaving right away. But that was what Joel Miller never understood: the journey had already begun in your heart. Goodbyes don’t start at the door—they begin when something inside finally lets go.

And in that moment—maybe he would speak again, maybe take another step—but you beat him to it. You slowly walked forward, standing directly in front of him. Your body was tired, your eyes as dark as the night. As his hand reached for your shoulder, you suddenly pushed against his chest. He stumbled back toward the door. For a second, he didn’t understand what was happening. But then his back hit the doorframe, and reality returned.

"Y/N—"

The door shut. Loud. Heavy.

He heard the turn of the lock. That sound hit sharper than a gunshot. His hands no longer trembled. The decision had been made.

Joel stood frozen before the door. The silence inside was louder than the wind outside. His palms curled into fists. He didn’t knock. Because he knew now: it wasn’t the door that had closed—an entire lifetime had.

And you, inside, were breathing. Slow. Heavy. You’d probably start packing a bag. Take some bandages. A little food. But most importantly: you’d leave your heart behind that door. It had grown too heavy to carry any longer.

This time, he didn’t want you to die. But he no longer had the courage to stop you. And maybe this time… it really was the end.

[divaofmads]

A Love Meant to Burn

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female Reader (OC)

Chapter I | Chapter II: Wounds and Kisses | Chapter III

Gif by @iamasaddie Dividers by @saradika-graphics

Summary: Y/N, whose father was executed by Joel Miller, sets out for revenge—only to find herself falling for the man she swore to destroy. Every answer is shadowed by deeper secrets as love and hatred intertwine. This is a passionate reckoning that asks: is salvation found in forgiveness… or in the kill?

Chapter Summary: As Y/N begins to heal the wounds of her dark past through the trust she places in Joel, he silently burns with the truth that he killed her father. While their closeness deepens into a passionate love, the devastation beneath that bond draws nearer as they approach Jackson.

Word Count: 10k

!Warnings!: +18, Fluff (Romantic softness, emotional moments), Hurt/Comfort dynamic, Oral Sex to Female, Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Soft!Joel / Protective!Joel, Angst, Slow-burn romance with emotional conflict, Age gap dynamics, Post-apocalyptic setting (violence implied, survival context), Sex with Stranger, Mature Themes (Emotional intensity, implied intimacy), English is not my first language so excuse my mistakes. I write purely as a hobby, not as a professional

The day hung heavy, like a lament falling eastward.

The sky was cloaked in rust-colored clouds. On the horizon, it wasn’t the sun that seemed to rise—it was the smoke of a past still burning. The wind wandered down Redhill’s dusty roads, licking the wooden walls of old houses as it passed. It wasn’t just the people saying goodbye; the earth itself seemed ready to let go.

Your horse was ready.

A broad-shouldered, gray mustang. A heavy saddle on its back. Ammunition pouches hung at the sides, a sack of dried meat, an old canteen, a few syringes and bandages—all packed with care. A rifle slung over your shoulder, a knife at your hip, a silenced pistol strapped to your thigh.

Not preparations for survival—but for killing.

You stood in the heart of Redhill, beside your horse. An old but sturdy leather jacket hugged your frame, maps and notes tucked into its lining. Your hair whipped in the wind, your eyes fixed on a single point: the horizon. That was the road that led to Joel Miller.

Nico appeared beside you. He was young. His eyes still held hope. He had fought beside you the night Cutter fell, escaped that hell with you. Now, his shoulders bore the weight of worry.

“Don’t go alone. Let me come. I’ll carry the map, help set camp... Every day someone takes that road, and they never come back, Y/N. Think of us.”

You silently checked the cinch strap. Stroked the horse’s neck. You didn’t answer. Because the answer was a storm inside you: I have to do this alone.

Reuben stayed silent, at first. But in the end, he couldn’t hold back. He stepped toward you, his eyes laced with that familiar wounded fury.

“This isn’t a search anymore. It’s an obsession. Joel Miller... what will you do when you find him? Just kill him? What if he tells you why he dropped the watch? What if that night wasn’t what you think?”

Your eyes locked onto his. Your words cut between you like a rusted blade. “That man killed my father. The reason doesn’t matter. The story doesn’t matter. There’s only one moment that needs to be made right, Reuben. And I’ll carve it in his blood.”

Reuben’s lips parted, but he said nothing. His eyes welled up. Still, he stepped back. Because he knew you. And in your gaze, he didn’t see a decision—he saw a vow.

Rory stood further off. He didn’t come forward from the crowd. He simply bowed his head. He, too, knew that some roads had to be walked alone.

You climbed onto the saddle. The horse snorted gently. The crowd around you fell quiet. Children swallowed their words, women averted their eyes. Everyone knew they were witnessing a moment—the leader of Redhill riding out alone. A story to be retold for years.

You secured your backpack. Checked your weapons. Then you pulled out the most important item from your pocket: a watch with a cracked face.

You had found it beside your father’s corpse, lying in blood and dust. Two initials carved into the back: J. M.

Now, those letters rested between your fingers.

Time had stopped that day.

But for you, it would begin again now.

You stared at the watch’s face. Your vision darkened, your heart clenched. Joel Miller.

You whispered his name, softly, yet with resolve. “I will find you. And I’ll take everything from you.”

Then you pulled the reins. The horse neighed, reared up. Dust rose, the shadows of the past fell behind you.

And you left Redhill.

No song played at that moment.

But if one had, it would’ve been a dirge written in death, rage, and vengeance. Because this was no longer a journey.

This was fate.

And at the end of the road, either Joel Miller would die…

Or you would.

One Year Later...

The sky was split in shades of gray, like a cracked bone.

A cold, dry wind blew from the east, clinging to your horse’s mane and your hair like a banner of vengeance. The ground hadn’t seen rain in days; it had cracked open. You galloped without stepping on those cracks.

Each strike of your horse’s hooves sent a shiver through the earth,

Every step, a bullet to the past.

Every breath, a challenge to the future.

You rode with your chest held high, pushing against the wind.

The rifle slung over your shoulder was not a burden but a reminder: of who you were, and why you were on this road.

A silenced pistol strapped tight to your belt, a slim steel blade at your left hip. They had become part of your body with every step. The way you sat in the saddle was like a warrior clad in armor. You were alone, but never incomplete.

Your eyes were sharp, your jaw locked, your mind sealed with one name:

Joel Miller.

As you rode, you tried to paint his face in your mind.

How old was he now? Was he tired, or still a ghost trailing death?

What were his eyes like? Cold and gray, or dark with regret?

And when he saw you, what would he say?

Would he remember that night? The gun pointed at your father, the blood spilled on Redhill’s soil?

Or would he try to kill you before saying a word?

But in your mind, he said nothing.

Because your fury had already pressed a blade to his lips.

“My name is Y/N. I’ve come to settle a score.”

That sentence echoed in your head with every gallop.

Days passed.

At night, you camped alone. You didn’t light fires—flames attracted both infected and the living.

Instead, you tied your horse quietly to a tree and slept on edge in the dark.

You followed the trail. Abandoned outposts by the roadside, dried bloodstains, places where civilization once existed...

And danger, of course, waited in ambush.

A gang started tracking you.

While searching for water at an old gas station perched on a ridge, you noticed them.

They weren’t just scavengers. They were coordinated, signaling each other.

But you were a hunter who had caught their scent.

Before stepping into the station, you noticed tire marks on the ground.

The twitch of dry branches beneath the trees.

A glint of a blade behind a rusted fridge to your left...

It was a trap.

But you thought faster than they did.

You crouched, left your horse behind the trees.

Your hands went to your ammo box. Silently, you screwed on the suppressor.

The first one—a lookout with only one eye—never saw you. A bullet opened a hole in his forehead.

The second and third shouted. But it was already too late.

As you ran toward the station, you lit the Molotov you’d left on the ground.

Glass, gasoline, and fire came together.

As the gang scattered, you slipped in through the back door.

You stabbed one, shot another in the throat with his own gun.

But that wasn’t all, because inside, you found a map.

Dirty, bloodstained, old paper.

A small settlement marked in red: Jackson.

Below it was scribbled: “Eli’s guy. Ex-smuggler. J. Miller???”

You felt your heart stop for a beat.

Jackson...

Eli’s guy...

Joel Miller.

It wasn’t confirmation, but it was a trail.

If it was real, it was your first step toward the target.

But you hadn’t reached a star yet.

The darkness was still thick. You were still at the beginning. You didn’t know if Joel was even still in Jackson or alive.

But now, you had a place.

A direction.

And a hope that fanned the fire inside you.

“Found you, bastard...”

Your whisper disappeared into the silence of the night.

You called your horse, mounted the saddle again.

You rode toward the horizon, but this was no longer a journey. It had become a hunt.

As you tucked the map into your belt pouch, only one sentence crossed your mind:

“I haven’t forgotten you, Joel Miller. I can’t rewind time, but I’ll be the one to mark your final hour.”

Snow was not a silence—it was a threat.

Each flake drifted from the sky not to soothe, but to sear, its chill sinking not just into your skin, but into your bones.

This was nature’s final warning: this far, you may come. Beyond this, a price must be paid.

The mountain passes leading to Jackson were now only lines on a map. In reality, they were icy trails skirting cliffs, rope bridges replacing collapsed ones, and cemeteries buried under snow.

One night, during a blizzard so thick you had to set up camp, you heard the sound.

First, a rasp. Then, a scream.

When you grabbed your weapon and rushed out, it was already too late.

A stalker, with infected flesh hanging from its eye, was tearing into your horse’s throat.

You burned them both.

But when you looked at Cobalt’s lifeless body, your breath caught for the first time.

Your horse’s corpse had taken both a loyal friend and the silent shadow that carried your burden.

Days passed.

Now, you had only a backpack, two weapons, and a steel knife.

Food? A few cans, a piece of dried meat.

When you reached a town, it was rubble: houses burnt down, signs toppled, windows shattered.

But something caught your eye behind a toppled bus in the middle of the street. Bodies.

Rotting—but recent.

This was the work of a gang.

Man-made horror.

You stayed in hiding. Scanned the area with your eyes, finger on the trigger.

Two men, crouched behind cover, were speaking.

Their voices tangled with the howling wind, but one word stood out:

“Jackson.”

One of them was holding a map in his lap. You waited. Patiently.

Despite the dagger of cold, you stayed motionless for hours…

When night fell, you moved silently.

You took the first man out with a suppressed bullet lodged in his throat.

The second you silenced with your knife.

When you grabbed the map, your hands trembled.

Whether from cold or a rekindled hope you didn’t know.

The map was old. But there were a few notes scrawled on it:

“Jackson, last confirmed.”

“Ex-Firefly? Dangerous. Avoid.”

You dragged your finger over that name.

You were one step closer to the trail of Joel Miller.

But you were at your limit.

Your shoulder was bruised, your feet swollen with infection, your stomach screaming in pain.

As you walked, your head would sometimes spin, your ears ringing.

But still, you stood tall. Because this wasn’t just a walk—it was a vowed journey.

And at the end of this path stood a face whose name you knew: Joel Miller.

When you collapsed beneath a tree, the sky above was thick with snow.

You stared into the void with dulled eyes, and slowly, your eyelids fell shut.

The cold was no longer gnawing just at your body—it was devouring your soul.

As you collapsed beneath the tree, your legs barely carried you anymore. The cracks on your hands were bleeding, your fingernails darkened with rot. Your feet were swollen; the cold mixed with infection, and in places your skin was riddled with open wounds, oozing pus without even the mercy of a scab. The trembling in your knees wasn’t just from fatigue—your body was giving out.

You were giving out.

Since your horse died, sleep had become nothing more than the act of closing your eyes for a while. But this time… this time was different.

When you shut your eyes, it wasn’t just darkness.

There was a voice.

“End this road… my girl… that man is still breathing…”

The voice was familiar. It came from deep inside, from somewhere that crushed your chest. It was your father’s voice. That earthy tone mixed with tobacco—the one you used to hear every morning, long forgotten until now.

“Don’t let him live… not before you die…”

The wind turned to a moan. The whispers grew louder.

Branches thrashed, the earth beat with a pulse. Your eyelids grew heavy. Your breath faded into the dark.

CRRKKK!

A twig snapped.

When your eyes opened again, the cold was no longer in your bone. It was pounding in your ears. You shifted. Your hand accidentally knocked over a snow-covered tin can.

Clink.

You froze. Your breath halted. Something, no, several things, moved. The silence broke into groans.

“HRRRkk, kkkrrhhh…”

They were getting closer. Creatures that found their prey by sound, with no eyes. Clickers.

Three of them. Maybe four.

One of them creeping between the trees had a face split down the middle. Its teeth jutted out from its throat. It wasn’t human. It was death, walking.

You tried to stand. Your knees collapsed .You pulled out your gun. No suppressor. Bullet count: Seven.

The first clicker, shot straight in the head. The sound drew the others. They snarled and turned toward you. One got so close, you could feel its breath. You pulled your knife and drove it into its lower jaw. But the other one… was faster. It lunged. Threw you to the ground.

Your shoulder slammed into stone, stars burst in your vision. You screamed. It tore through your throat. “HELP ME!”

No one came. No one would. You were alone. Alone again.

Your scream was muffled by the snow, mocked by the mountain’s echo. The clicker had you pinned.Its claws reached for your throat…

You fired your last bullet. Right into its mouth. It exploded. Blood and flesh spattered your face.

A moment of silence. But your body couldn’t keep going. Your shoulder bled, your chest heaved with pain. There was nothing left.

You slowly leaned back against the tree. The cold blanketed you like a shroud. Your eyes dropped shut.

One more click, no. A footstep. Heavy. Steady. Leaving prints in the snow. Approaching with an unbroken rhythm.

Your eyes half-opened. You saw through a haze.

A face… Half-covered in beard. Eyes full of history. Eyes that had seen too much and forgotten none of it. A leather jacket, dusted with snow. A rifle over his shoulder. A pistol at his hip, worn but well-maintained. Pain written in the lines of his face.

He stepped closer. He was looking at you. Just as you reached out a hand toward him, your breath turned to mist, and your eyes closed.

Darkness came again.

Cold…

It wasn’t just the cold of the earth or the dry snow brushing your skin—it was stubborn, silent, and unfamiliar.

You felt suspended somewhere between dream and death, perched on the edge between consciousness and oblivion. Your chest rose and fell, but your soul had buried itself deep, waiting motionless in a body too tired to carry its own weight.

And then a shadow fell over you.

A heavy, deliberate step, carrying the weight of a life long lived.

The crunch of half-frozen leaves and mud merged with the low howl of the wind.

When the man knelt beside you, he made no sound.

He scanned the area, holding his rifle at throat level. His eyes—caught somewhere between gray and brown—shifted from your face to the tracks in the snow, like peering through a mist.

Soon, his attention locked onto the shards of glass embedded in your body, the bruises blooming beneath your skin, and your frostbitten fingers stiff with cold.

“Goddamn…”

His voice was taut and weary, like wind groaning through the branches of a dead tree.

As he examined your wounds, his brow furrowed. He hesitated before touching you. He reached out. He pulled back. His face tightened. He closed his eyes.

It was as if long-buried graves inside him had begun to stir from years of silence.

Then, as he was trying to turn you around, something small and metal slipped out of your backpack.

It hit the frozen earth with a faint chime that rooted the man in place.

He sank to his knees. With cautious fingers, he reached for it. It was a watch—small, round, and familiar. He turned it in his palm. On the back… “J.M.” Two small letters.

It stared back at him like a wound in time.

His pulse quickened. His throat dried. His eyes returned to your limp, nearly lifeless body. He inhaled deeply, but the weight in his chest wasn’t the kind you could breathe through.

“How... how is this possible?”

The watch didn’t tick anymore, but the memories inside it were still turning.

He had lost it years ago—maybe during a firefight, or in the ashes of a burned-out camp.

Maybe buried with a body. And now, it was in the hands of this girl.

Who was she? Why did she have this watch?

And why had this silent curse from Joel Miller’s past suddenly crawled this close to him?

His gaze drifted off. He didn’t want to stay. Didn’t want to leave either.

“Just walk away,” he muttered.

“Everyone carries their own damn grave on this road.”

But even gravestones have names carved into them.

And this girl didn’t deserve to be buried with a name that wasn’t hers.

He clenched his jaw. Sank into the snow beside you and slid his arm beneath yours.

Your body was so heavy—not just with your weight, but with the curse of the road you’d walked.

A weak moan escaped your throat.

But you didn’t wake. Your eyes remained cracked open, lips pale, fingers near frozen.

He turned to his horse.

Lifted you onto the saddle, holding you in front of him.

Your head collapsed against his chest. But his eyes weren’t on you—they were gazing into the distance, through the snowfall, into the past, into a life long gone.

And as he tugged his horse forward, boots sinking into the snow, he whispered a sentence—barely a prayer, not quite hope.

Just the echo of a burden too old to shed:

“Jackson’s far… but not as far as you.”

And then he rode into the unknown.

The sky darkened. The snow swallowed every trace.

And you… you no longer heard the ticking of the watch in your ears.

You carried it now—inside the heartbeat beneath your chest.

The shelter used to be a Ranger outpost. Hidden deep in the forest, tucked beneath a winding mountain path, it had become nearly invisible over the years. The logs were moss-covered, the roof partially collapsed, but the door stood firm. The walls were thick enough to block the cold wind outside. Inside, the air reeked of dampness—mold and the rot of forgotten times seeped from every splinter of wood.

When the man took you into his arms, your body was nearly frozen. Your fingers were purple, your skin dry, your lips cracked. The deeper wounds hadn’t even had time to scab over—pus had seeped into them. A long infected gash from a claw ran down your back, a bullet had grazed your right thigh, and your wrists were cramped from exhaustion. You were so weak that even the arms carrying you trembled with guilt.

He laid you down on the broken-down bed inside the camp. Threw a dry blanket over you, then spread an old medical kit on the floor.

Inside were a syringe of antibiotics, clean bandages, a scalpel, needle and thread. He had nothing else—just years of experience and the instinct to survive.

He disinfected his hands. Heated a small metal bowl on the stove. He started with the worst of your wounds—the claw mark on your back.

Each time he tried to clean the wound with gauze, your body flinched involuntarily. You were murmuring in delirium.

The same word, over and over again. “Daddy...”

Your voice, in that moment, was like a child’s. Vulnerable, broken, filled with longing.

Joel’s hands paused. His eyes locked onto you. He brushed back the dirty hair stuck to your forehead. That restless sleep flickering beneath your eyelids reminded him of his own daughter.

Someone who had once laid her head against his chest, mumbling in her sleep in the dark...

But time was cruel. Now it was your head resting against his chest. You were a stranger, but the curve of your body, the rhythm of your breathing, the pain you carried—somewhere in the rusted corner of his heart, it stirred something.

After cleaning your wound, he warmed the needle and injected the antibiotic into your muscle. Every movement was silent. He carefully cut your pants with the knife. Examined the bullet graze, removed the dead skin, then pressed antiseptic on it. Your skin burned like fire.

Joel placed a cold compress on your forehead, kept your lips moist, and occasionally lifted your head to help you drink water.

One day passed. Night fell.

The wood crackled in the small stove, and you were still asleep.

There, the watch he had just slipped into his pocket...

He slowly took it out and held it in his palm.

With his thumb, he touched the back of the watch again. “J.M.”

He paused. Something stirred in his mind.

Like opening the lid of a dusty chest… memory first wandered through the fog, then began to sharpen.

Redhill.

A small settlement. Once full of traders and sentries.

Joel had gone there with the Vultures.

Back then, the job was to “clear” enemy territories—either drive the people out, or silence them. Redhill’s leader... he was a strong man. There had been a confrontation. Blood was spilled. Y/F/N... Joel had shot him himself. At close range.

The man must’ve been Joel’s age. There had been no surrender in his eyes. There was no surrender in his eyes.

And that watch had been on Joel’s wrist.

His breath caught. He clutched at the ache that ran down to his wrists, as if trying to suppress it. He put the watch down. Raised his head. Looked at you.

Your skin still pale, your eyes still closed, your breath shallow. But your pain was etched clearly on your face.

“Was that your father?” he whispered, only to himself.

“Did I kill him?”

And in that moment, he understood.

The woman lying before him was the very sin he had carried on his back for years. The watch was in his hand.

Your words, the voice in his dreams, the cries for help… they all pointed in one direction.

You were looking for Joel Miller.

And he had saved you. Slowly nursed you back to life. That warmth he had felt when he first held you against his chest—it was the herald of a disaster.

But now it was too late. Because in that moment, it was as if fate had already begun to write its story.

You hadn’t opened your eyes yet, but Joel Miller was looking at his enemy with compassion for the first time.

For the first time, someone who didn’t deserve forgiveness... wanted to be forgiven.

Your eyelids felt like lead. Amid the muffled hum echoing inside your mind, there was a voice—one that reminded you to breathe. But that voice was always there, like a patient morning. Like a tone pulled from fire.

When you finally opened your eyes, you stared at the ceiling under a dim light. The beams were veiled with cobwebs. The scent in the air... wood, antiseptic, and a faint sour trace of burned skin.

Then, when you turned your head to the right, you saw the man in the shadows. He was silent. Cleaning a knife in his hand. Slowly, carefully. His face, caught between shadow and light, was etched with lines carved by time and regret. His hair was slightly unkempt, his beard darkened.

But his eyes... In his eyes was the solitude of another era.

When you stirred, he flinched. He set the knife aside. Came closer.

He asked only with his eyes: “How do you feel?”

Your throat was dry. Your voice barely came out. “Water…”

He touched your lips with a piece of cloth. Even a few drops helped you cling to life.

As you laid your head back onto the pillow, you saw he was still watching you.

As if he was trying to memorize every contour of your face, every wound.

“Why did you save me?” Your voice was clearer this time. It was part defiance, part search for meaning.

He said nothing. Then bent his knees and sat in the chair beside the bed.

“It had to be done,” he said. His voice was deep, rough, yet soft.

You frowned.

“What’s your name?”

He paused. His eyes lingered on you.

Then he looked away. Calmly, he cut the word like a blade. “Stranger.” No more, no less.

Silence settled into the room.

The fire in the stove crackled and sparked. Each pop flung the unspoken between you into the air.

“And you?” he asked then. “Do I need to ask who you are, what you’re looking for?”

You turned your head back to the ceiling.

A smile tried to push through your throat, but it felt more like pain.

“I’m someone who’s lost,” you said. “I’m looking for someone. But… I’m not so sure why anymore.”

This time, he said nothing. But his jaw tightened.

The vein beside his chin grew more defined.

Fragments of dreams that reminded you of that night slammed into your mind. Flames, screams, your father’s eyes, and a bullet from within the darkness. A silent vow.

But now, in this man’s eyes, there was something that made you more than a stranger. Not just a saved soul…

He was a spirit tired enough not to judge, yet observant enough to see the darkness you were hiding.

Joel Miller… acted as if he didn’t know you. But in the depth of his heart, he recognized you—from the shame he buried years ago. The watch was still in his pocket.

His hands kept going to that pocket, as if to check it. He couldn’t give it to you. Not yet. He didn’t have the courage.

The stove’s dim orange light timidly illuminated the dark corners of the shelter. The wind brushing across the roof occasionally made the wooden walls tremble. In the snow-covered mountains, this little world existed only through your shared breath.

You, leaning against the pillows in the bed, saw Joel approaching with narrowed eyes. In his hand: a roll of bandages, a small metal box, a bottle of disinfectant—and a muffled silence.

“This is going to hurt a little,” he said in a low voice. “All you need to do… is endure.”

He carefully unwrapped the bandage on your shoulder. He examined the dried blood, the cracked skin, the edges of the wound filled with pus. When he reached your torso, he pushed back the torn edges of your shirt. When the warmth of his hand touched your skin, you felt something different for the first time.

Not pain. A pull. You realized your body was focusing on that contact independently from you.

"Your hands aren’t cold," you whispered.

"You seem used to this."

His eyes -carrying all the shades of brown- met yours.

There was something in his gaze. As if what you said echoed a voice he remembered. But still, he frowned and looked down.

"Getting used to something usually means it’s not good for you," he said.

"I’ve seen too many wounds. Ones that never closed… and some I caused myself."

That last sentence hung in the air.

You held your breath. Joel poured antiseptic on a cotton swab and pressed it to your wound. The pain burned through you, but you didn’t make a sound. You only clenched your teeth. And when Joel looked up, there was a hint of respect in his eyes. A silent admiration for something unbroken.

"I still don’t know your name," you said, your voice soft but cautious.

"Stranger... does that still apply?"

He shrugged. Avoiding your eyes, he replied,

"It does. Anything more... might be dangerous right now."

There was shelter in that sentence. A desire to protect himself... not from you, but from what he might hear from you. And you knew that.

Because you were doing the same thing.

"Do you think," you asked, "a person can choose not to know certain things?"

Joel stayed silent for a while. He carefully wrapped the bandage around your arm. Every movement was slow, measured. As if touching you required not just physical, but emotional distance too.

"Because once you know," he finally said,

"everything changes. Sometimes... there’s no going back."

Your eyes lingered on his. You were about to say something, but his hand settled on your shoulder.

"Now... I need to get you on your feet," he said.

"You need to take a few steps before your muscles atrophy."

You nodded. Slowly, with his help, you stood. Your knees trembled, your scars ached deep inside. But you were standing. Leaning on him.

You took a step together.

The shelter was small but wide enough; despite the snow-covered, leaking roof, it was still breathable in here. Your steps were heavy and unsteady; as your feet touched the ground, it wasn’t the pain of your bruises you felt the most... but the warmth of where he held you. Joel’s hand on your waist wasn’t just support. That hand... was like a memory reaching out from the darkness to keep you alive. And you, in the palm of a stranger… were trying to walk in the warmth of a man you didn’t know, but somehow had no choice but to trust.

You paused every five steps. Your chest tightened. Joel immediately slowed down. He matched his pace to yours. He leaned toward your shoulder.

"If we need to stop, we stop," he said quietly, almost a whisper.

"This isn’t something to rush. You’ve lost blood."

"No…" you said, breathless. "I can walk. At least… I have to try."

Your eyes… every time they met Joel’s, you found a deep emptiness. Not emptiness, maybe... a repressed pain. There was a collapse inside him. And strangely, you saw your own grief in that collapse.

When you reached the broken mirror in the corner of the shelter, Joel stopped.

So did you. Your breath was fast, your skin trembling. Joel turned his head slightly. He glanced at you over his shoulder.

"You’re alone," you said suddenly.

"I feel it… when I look at you."

There was a moment of silence. That typical, stony expression on Joel’s face… but a tiny fracture appeared between his brows. Then he straightened his shoulders and looked off into the distance.

"I needed to be alone," he said.

"This... is a mission. If I weren’t alone, it would draw attention. Being alone is sometimes the safest way to survive."

A mission...

Your hand instinctively reached for the edge of the bandage on your arm.

"What mission?" you asked, curious. But deep inside, this was a test. Not one to force a confession, but a truth you would weigh yourself.

Joel didn’t look away. His jaw clenched slightly. He clearly considered not answering. But then, he made a decision. He didn’t lie.

As if he owed you something...

"I was sent from Jackson," he said.

"One of the border surveillance outposts, Northpoint, lost contact two weeks ago. We thought it was the weather. But when the second week ended... someone had to check it out. I had to go alone. I know the area… and how to track."

Jackson.

Something stirred inside you. But you didn’t show it. You looked away.

Swallowed hard.

So he was there. He really lived in the same place as Joel Miller. But you couldn’t ask that. It had to stay hidden.

"Surveillance outpost," you said, nodding slightly. "Tracking… missing teams… radio cuts. So that’s why you were alone."

Joel had narrowed his eyes. He was observing you closely. You knowing too much made him uneasy.

"I... can help," you said suddenly.

Joel frowned immediately. "No. You can barely walk in this state."

"I’ll be fine," you said, locking eyes with him. "And this kind of stuff… radio systems, signal loss, technical things… I can handle them. Back then… when I worked with my dad, we used to repair these kinds of systems. Antenna connections, power supplies, frequency matches… If the system is broken, I can either fix it or help you collect backup data."

Joel was silent. He narrowed his eyes. He was weighing you inside. That offer was both a gift and a threat.

"Stranger," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. "You brought me here. You healed me. Now I owe you. And… if we want to survive in this world, we also have to learn not to stay alone."

Joel tilted his head slightly. His gaze swept over you. For a moment… his lips trembled. As if he was trying hard not to say "no."

But then he nodded. "Then focus on healing," he said. "We leave at dawn."

And you… for the first time, felt that this man truly trusted you.

You didn’t know what you were yet.

But something had begun.

You were the one who cracked Joel Miller’s heart for the first time. And that crack… carried both light and darkness within.

Then Joel guided you back to the bed. He pulled up the blanket.

As you closed your eyes, he was still watching you.

And in his pocket, the watch still remained. The initials J.M. echoed in his mind. The flames of Redhill danced before his eyes.

He knew he had killed your father.

But now, for the first time, he realized, none of the things he’d ever killed had hurt him this deeply.

Early in the morning, while the sky was still leaden gray, the cold that rushed into your eyes as you opened the shelter door seeped into your bones. But you had no other choice. While Joel packed up the supplies, you remained wrapped in the blanket. Your fingers were still numb, and you couldn’t feel your feet. Your body was dealing with wounds that had started to heal but were still fragile, while your mind… was fighting a different battle.

Joel. The man whose name you still didn’t know but whose presence you felt in your very flesh. He had called you “Stranger,” yet he had cleansed the poison from your veins with his hands, held your face during feverish dreams, and let you rest your head on his chest at night.

And now… you were leaving together. To Northpoint.

When Joel brought the horse out from the grove next to the shelter, you were still shivering at the door, wrapped in the blanket. A thin layer of snow had gathered on the animal. Dark steam rose from its breath, and it pawed the ground restlessly. Joel stroked the animal first. He spoke to it in a low voice. “Alright, girl… you’re not alone today.”

Then he turned to you. “Ready?” he asked, holding out his hands from inside his gloves.

“Enough,” you said. When you lifted your face and met his eyes, for a moment… there was no difference between them and the sky. Cold, gray, misty… but those eyes held a glimmer of hope that surrounded you.

When Joel lifted you, your breath caught. The stitches on your arm stretched. You clenched your teeth. But at that exact moment, like a father, he gently placed his arms around your hips, leaned your body lightly against his, and helped you onto the horse’s back.

When his hand touched your back, its warmth reached your very core. You held your breath while he tilted his head slightly and asked without looking away, “Does it hurt?”

“No,” you said quickly. But it did hurt.

And somehow, it wasn’t the pain itself—but the way he asked—that caused a deeper ache inside.

When Joel mounted the horse behind you, you were now in front of him. His arms encircled you from the sides. When he took the reins, his hands brushed against your waist. His fingers were gentle.

But inside… storms were raging.

And you set off.

As you moved through the trees, in the silence echoing among the snow-covered branches, there was no sound except the horse’s hooves. The cold had numbed your hands. Your body still hadn’t recovered. And you couldn’t help yourself.

Your head tilted back… you rested your shoulder against his chest.

Joel paused for a moment. His breath caught in his throat. But he didn’t push you away.

On the contrary, he held the reins tighter.

And you, nestled in his embrace, on that broad chest… found peace in your exhaustion for the first time.

His heartbeat… slow, steady, and oddly reassuring. His warmth spread all the way to the nape of your neck. And Joel began riding the horse carefully, as if he were carrying you inside him, despite the freezing air .But Joel’s heart… wasn’t like yours. As you drifted into sleep or a dream, he kept his eyes fixed on the road, searching for shadows behind every tree.

Tracking… while holding you. And while holding you… he was feeling you.

The weight of your injured body leaning against his ribs… the soft breaths rising from the nape of your neck… your fingers, unconsciously brushing against his thighs… These things stirred another truth within him. His interest in you. The desire he had denied since the moment he found you.

But this desire… was dirty. Because he knew. You may not have known who you were, but he… he now knew that you were the daughter of the Redhill leader, whose name echoed in his mind every night.

He had killed your father. And now you were in his arms. In Joel Miller’s embrace. Silent, innocent, fragile.

And Joel… wanted to protect you, and run from you at the same time.

He narrowed his eyes. His brows furrowed as he looked toward the horizon. Northpoint…

If any remaining team member there recognized him… said his name…

If they said “Joel Miller”...

You… would understand everything in that moment.

And this quiet, sacred yet cursed bond between you… would be drenched in blood.

Joel thought to himself: I need to find something.

Logs, broken radios, or… if no one from the team survived…

Only silence.

Only darkness.

And you… slowly drifted to sleep against his chest. Your cheeks were pink from the cold. Your eyelashes trembled.

And Joel, driven by a sudden instinct, brought his cheek close to yours. He didn’t touch. But you felt his breath. As you slept, he suffered the pain of falling in love with you.

...

As the wind clawed at your face like a predator sinking its sharp teeth into flesh, Joel slowed the horse. The reins slackened, and the animal's breath rose into the gray sky like vapor. Northpoint Station loomed ahead; its rusty roof quivered with the wind, ice crystals scattered against the walls… and silence.

It was indeed far too quiet.

Without releasing the reins, Joel said in a low voice, “We’re getting off.” Each word escaped his lips as a misty breath.

As you swung your leg over the horse, Joel immediately stepped beside you to offer support. A flicker of pain crossed his face, but he placed a hand on your back to steady you. His fingers seemed to carry the last remnants of tenderness after a long war against darkness. In that moment, you felt protected.

The outer door hung ajar on a sagging hinge. Wind crept inside and howled through the empty hall. Joel crouched, eyes scanning the ground. He searched for footprints—none. Only a mess smeared with mud… but old. No signs of recent activity.

“Stay sharp. Even if it looks clear... I’ll follow my instincts.”

You nodded, hand going to your knife.

Joel stepped inside with heavy footsteps. Each step echoed on the wooden floor. You followed close behind him, down the corridor dimly lit by flickering light. The metal hooks on the walls were empty. Most of them still swung slightly, as if someone had left in a rush.

“No blood.” you whispered.

Joel turned his head slowly, catching you in his peripheral vision. “That’s worse.”

As you moved further in, the temperature dropped abnormally. Your chest tightened; the tip of your nose stung like ice. As you struggled to understand why the cold was affecting you so deeply, Joel pushed open a door. The communications room.

It was in chaos. Radios shattered, wires cut, some equipment missing. But what stood out most was the word scrawled across the wall: “TRUST NO ONE.”

Joel entered without hesitation. He aimed his flashlight at the ground—footprints. Small, mixed with snow, some barefoot. Joel knelt, studying the traces on the frost-covered metal.

“Humans did this,” he said, voice low and sharp. “The radio was sabotaged. Entry logs wiped.”

You looked closer at the wall. Fingerprints, scrape marks… there had been a struggle, but the traces were old. And above all, something didn’t add up:

“Why aren’t there any bodies?”

Joel stood. His gaze lingered on you for a moment. Concerned, though he hid it well. “Either they ran... or were dragged out.”

In that moment, a shiver ran through you, cloaked in the intoxicating silence of the cold. But giving in to comfort wouldn’t help. You’d come here to repay a debt to a “stranger”—and because it was the only gate you saw toward Jackson.

“Give me a few minutes,” you said.

You knelt. Opening the radio panel revealed a chaotic mess of circuits. Some cables had been torn out, others burned by a short circuit. But what was interesting was that someone hadn’t just broken the system—they’d reversed the battery connections inside.

“Whoever did this knew electronics,” you murmured to yourself, but Joel heard you.

“So... this wasn’t an accident?”

“No. It was deliberate sabotage.”

Joel found a repair kit from a small supply cabinet inside the room.

With trembling fingers, you pulled out the kit. Inside were a few spare cables, a mini soldering pen, a battery tester, and a voltage meter the size of a lighter. You kept your gloves on to protect from the cold, but your movements were practiced.

Joel stepped back slightly, watching you. At first he looked like a guard… but in that moment, something else was in his eyes.

As you wrapped your fingers around a cable, Joel thought those hands were meant for more than just helping someone. Then, as if ashamed of the thought, he looked down. His brows furrowed, lips pressed into a line.

“You… really know what you’re doing,” he said, voice husky.

You turned your head slightly toward him. “I learned from my dad. He liked old systems. I mean… before he was killed.”

You paused. “That’s why I can tell what’s wrong and why it doesn’t work.”

Joel was silent for a while. His fingers tightened around his rifle strap. Then, without taking his eyes off you, he said, “I don’t think we should stay here.”

“What do you mean?”

His gaze swept every corner of the room, but you were what held his attention.

“This place… it’s too quiet. Too tidy. But something’s wrong. I need to understand what.”

He looked like he was about to say more but stopped himself. When he looked at you again, his eyes had softened.

“Being this close to you… is a bad idea.” he said suddenly. A cold, honest confession.

You turned your head away, continuing to connect the wires. As the soldering pen touched the battery slot, your hands trembled with the words inside you.

Joel turned, walking to the door, but raised his voice. “I’ll do a quick sweep inside the building. Maybe I’ll find a journal. We need to know what happened.”

“Are you going alone?”

“This time, yeah.”

And he left.

Joel took a cold breath as he stepped into the corridor. His breath rose like mist. He walked through the empty halls, keeping his steps as silent as possible. He slowly placed his hand on the wall. The wall... was soaked with moisture. Snow and ice had seeped into the building, but still, something didn’t add up. It shouldn’t have been this cold inside.

He gently pushed one of the doors open. A small dorm room. Three bunks. Blankets messily tossed on them, but one thing caught his attention: under one of the bottom bunks, a small silhouette. He bent down and saw it—an empty pill bottle. No date on it. Completely emptied. Could it have been a sleeping pill?

He quickened his pace. Moved to the next room. One of the bulletin boards had fallen. Beneath it, a scratch—no, not a scratch, nail marks.

His throat tightened. His instincts screamed: You’re being watched.

He turned around quickly. No one. The corridor was empty. Only the wind slamming against the walls from afar. But the feeling wouldn’t go away.

He brought his hand to his shoulder, gripped his rifle. Took a deep breath. The sweat on his back mixed with the cold, and he shivered. As if... someone had already been here. And was still inside.

...

The panel was still warm. One of the temporary connections sparked slightly, but the circuit was still holding. On the radio’s speaker, a soft static, then a voice crackled through the interference.

“…—ckson… this is Jack…son. Listening... Are you there?”

A shiver ran down your spine. You carefully pressed the button as you picked up the radio.

“There’s someone here. I’m from Redhill. I… Y/N.”

The reply came a few seconds later, still filled with static. As if it were speaking to you from a distant memory, not from the present but a dream from the past.

“Y/N… is it? I’m… Tommy… one of the team… El… Elroy… is he there?”

You tried to raise your voice, but the radio felt like it was suffocating even you.

“There’s no one here. It’s abandoned. Looks like sabotage.”

One of the wires sticking out of the panel crackled again. Your eyes immediately flicked to the power gauge. The signal wasn’t stabilizing.

Tommy’s voice came back, more muffled, more broken.

“Y/N… is someone with you? Is he… the one they sent… J… Mil…”

A burst of static in the middle of the sentence.

Then silence.

Did you really hear what you thought you did? “Joel”…? Or was it just interference from the failing radio?

Your hand slowly lifted from the radio. Your heart beat faster, harder. That name, lodged like a splinter in your mind… now brought a new question:

Had he asked about Joel Miller? Or was this just another reminder that you hadn’t let go of your father’s story?

You couldn’t answer.

Before the radio fell completely silent with a dull crackle, Tommy’s voice returned one last time:

“Miller…? …Y/N…”

The system went dead.

You looked at the panel. Some of the live connections were still lit, but the frequency had shifted. You’d have to work harder for more. But your hand wouldn’t move. Because your mind was already stuck on another name.

Joel.

But this time, not just the name.

It felt like you wanted to know what lay beneath that name.

The signal was completely gone.

A soft “click”… followed by a dull “thud”. As if something had scraped against a metal surface outside.

You turned your head. Focused for a moment on where the sound had come from, but it didn’t repeat. Maybe it had come from the radio’s broken frequency. Maybe…

No. It was real.

Another sound. This time louder. Like a footstep. But it was… dragging. Not human. The floor scraped beneath it. Your heart tightened like a drawn wire.

You reached for the pistol beside your shoulder. Your trigger finger instinctively flipped the safety off after so long. You leaned back, exhaled slowly. Moved silently toward the door.

You wanted to call out to Joel. ‘Stranger,’ but your lips couldn’t speak his name.

When you stepped into the dark hallway, your eyes met a shadow right in front of you.

Half-human… but not. At first glance, you’d think it was a Clicker. But the fungal tumors on its head didn’t click—they hummed with a faint vibration. Its shoulders trembled. Bits of damp skin still clung to its eye sockets. But no, this wasn’t a Clicker. This was something else.

Just then, a gunshot rang out.

Bang! Bang! You flinched as the bullet ricocheted off the wall.

Joel.

You turned toward the direction of the sound and saw him in the corner of a side hall, kneeling with his rifle, aiming at another creature.

It was fast like a Runner, but its movements were wavy.

Part of its face had opened like a flower; but the bloom extended halfway down its neck. As if it had lost its sense of smell and now responded only to sound and vibration.

Before Joel could turn around, a third infected—silent, sneaky—leapt from the wall.

“Watch out!” you shouted. Time bent. Your trigger finger acted on reflex, and with the crack of your gun, the creature’s shoulder shattered. But it didn’t fall.

It staggered, then charged again.

Joel’s knife flashed like a star in the dark. After a short struggle, he brought the creature down, but his face showed something beyond exhaustion:

Disappointment. Not in himself. In you.

Because he hadn’t wanted you in danger.

But you were there. And you helped.

“I’m fine,” you said. Your breath was short.

“I don’t know what they are. This… This is something new.”

Joel turned to you. The anger in his eyes mixed with a need to protect.

“Why did you leave the room? I told you to stay inside.”

“The connection was lost. I heard the voice. And…” Your voice trembled. “I wanted to help you.”

Your words floated away like mist, but in that moment, despite the weight of your weapons, the space between you felt lighter than ever.

All the fighting, all the fear… was now distilled into those two seconds of eye contact.

You no longer felt like you were fighting just to survive—but for each other.

Joel looked away. Reloaded his rifle. “We have to go. If there are more… I can’t keep you here. We already know what this is.”

“I can fight,” you said quietly.

“Not like you, but… this is my fight now too.”

Joel studied you carefully. There was fire in his eyes, but he held it back. The lines on his face deepened. “I’m trying to protect you.”

“But I’m already broken, Joel. And in this broken state, I want to stay with you.”

At that moment, you were both full of words unsaid. Your weapons were empty, but your hearts were full.

As you turned back toward the station door, Joel placed a hand on your back—not just to guide you. That touch… wasn’t just protection. It was sanctuary.

Snow was seeping in. Through the cracks in the doors, the broken window frames… The storm that had started outside was now being inhaled inside, too.

In the darkness, the corpse Joel had laid over a toppled table was different from the others.

Not just in appearance… but inside as well.

You stood a step behind, holding your breath as you watched him. Joel Miller worked with care. His back slightly hunched, brow furrowed; his hands experienced, slow and patient. He used a shaving razor with almost surgical precision to begin slicing under the creature’s jaw.

“Look at this,” he muttered to himself.

“No spore spread. Head area partially opened, but… the fungal spread isn’t directly linked to the nervous system.”

With his fingertips, he grasped a piece of tissue and slowly lifted it. “This... is a new evolution. Probably a regional mutation.”

Your breath tightened. “So... does that mean this infected is something else entirely?”

Joel lowered his head. His eyes locked on the tear in the corpse’s throat. “They don’t hear… but they’re good at sensing. Their walk is unsteady but fast. Reaction time is short. Spontaneous aggression is high.”

Then he turned to you. “Write this down.”

Your eyes widened.

“Uh… what exactly?”

“Our observations.” He reached out. “The notebook in the saddlebag. There’s a pen too. Go!”

You obeyed. With trembling hands, you stepped just outside the door, reached into the spare gear by the horse’s side. You found the black notebook wrapped in soft leather. The cover was a bit wet, but the inside was intact. The pen still worked.

When you returned, Joel was watching you.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said quietly. “Knowledge is stronger than fear.”

You knelt and began to write.

“New type of infected… Hearing ability reduced.

Head region has underdeveloped fungal structure. Sharp reflexes. High aggression. Extremely quiet. Reacts spontaneously.”

As you wrote, your hands adjusted. Expressing it through scientific language calmed you a little. Joel eventually straightened. His face grew more severe. “We can’t stay here any longer.”

He spoke briefly and firmly. He turned his head toward the door. “I still don’t fully understand what’s going on, but… if this mutation started here, everyone here is either dead or mid-transformation. And part of this station was sabotaged. By human hands.”

You looked up. “So… this new type… might’ve been spread intentionally?”

Joel paused. That familiar darkness flared in his eyes. “We can’t say yet. But we can’t linger.”

He threw his coat over his shoulder, grabbed his backpack, slung his rifle. “Let’s move. We’ll share this data in Jackson. Maybe Ellie too…” He stopped for a moment. Swallowed. Things would be very different there between you two. “... the science side is stronger there.”

You stood up.

Carefully tucked the notebook into your pocket.

As you walked to the door together, Joel placed a hand on your shoulder. “Still, you did good,” he said gently. “Facing that thing… I won’t say you weren’t scared, but… you were brave.”

“With you around,” you whispered,

“… the world doesn’t feel quite so dark.”

Joel looked at you. A moment of pause… then he turned his head. “Let’s go. If night catches us here, we won’t make it to morning.”

Behind you: a deserted, silent station.

Ahead: an unknown reality.

But one thing was clear now. You were not alone.

Not against the infected, not against the past, not against the future…

ONE DAY LATER — WYOMING MOUNTAIN PASSES

The cold cut to the bone.

The wind felt like knives against your face; every step in the snow became more difficult. The horse was tired, and you were even more so. But you kept moving. Northpoint was behind you now; quiet, dark, like a grave. And the road, as always, was not safe. It never was. The day darkened under a dirty white sky.

Joel was in front, you right behind him.

Your posture on the horse was slackening; your body still not fully recovered. The pain in your back sometimes stabbed into your left shoulder; the cold burned your lungs.

Joel had been watching you like a mirror for a while. When he noticed you slowing down, he pulled the reins and stopped his horse.

“Hey.” His voice was stern but concerned. “You’re out of breath. You didn’t say it, but I noticed.”

You tried to deflect. “I’m fine.”

The lie came easy, but it was one Joel knew all too well.

He frowned. “We’re not going any farther.” He scanned the area.

He leaned forward, spotting a half-snow-covered dip among the trees on the side of the road.

“There’s a hollow over there. Like a cave.”

After a short silence, he looked at you.

“We’re spending the night there.”

You didn’t argue. You barely had the strength to stand.

The cave looked like an ordinary rock outcrop from the outside. But once you went inside, it was deep and enclosed enough to shield you from the cold. Joel had lit a small fire with a few branches. The flickering light of the flames danced across the stone walls. In that glow, Joel's face looked older, more worn-out.

You had your back against the rear wall of the cave. Legs stretched out, sitting shoulder to shoulder. The silence was long, but not tense. Fatigue had settled between you, as had the weight of words.

Joel took a sip from the metal cup in his hand. The faint smell of coffee he'd mixed into the hot water reminded you of home. For a moment, you remembered your childhood kitchen. But the memory quickly faded with Joel’s gaze.

His eyes wandered over you.

Your hands were clasped in your lap.

Your lips were dry.

"You're shivering," he said softly.

He opened the front of his jacket, then hesitated.

Then he offered you one side of it.

"Come on. The fire's not enough. We need to share."

You accepted silently. When your shoulder touched his chest, it felt like your heart stopped for a moment. The warmth wasn’t just from his body—it radiated from his heart. Joel’s body was worn by years of war, but somewhere inside, something had stayed human.

You sat like that for a while. Then you spoke, in a voice no louder than a whisper:

"You don’t have to take me to Jackson. I know that. I… I’ve been a burden."

Joel turned his head. His gaze was deep.

"No." He cut off the thought with a single word. "You’re not a burden. I don’t remember carrying anyone this willingly."

A smile escaped your lips.

Your eyes lit up. "Stranger..." Saying his name echoed inside the cave.

It wasn’t just a word—it was a calling.

Like a secret whispered into the heart of silence.

Joel averted his eyes. A shadow fell over the stubble on his chin. He sighed.

"You don’t know me," he said. "You shouldn’t. Jackson… it’s a good place. Safe. And someone like you… should be there. Not with me."

You tilted your head slightly. Your cheeks glowed in the firelight.

"I… I’ve been alone for a long time. People… out there, in this world… they either kill you or forget you." You paused. "But you… you saved me. You healed me. You fought for me. Knowing someone like you still exists in this world made me feel like I wasn’t alone."

Joel closed his eyes. A muscle twitched at his temple.

A storm was raging inside him. He wasn’t ready to admit he fought for you—but he wasn’t ready to let you go either.

"I…" His voice caught in his throat. "I’m not a good man."

"I didn’t love you because you were good, stranger," you said, your voice warm and hazy. "Just because… you were real. And because you were there."

In that moment, you felt Joel place his hand on your knee. It was rough.

Protective. But at the same time… it trembled.

Neither of you spoke for a while.

You listened to the crackle of the fire. The snow pressing down on the earth outside the cave… and your hearts pressing down on your chests.

The fire was dying.

Charred branches crackled; the glow was now just a flicker of warm red light. Joel was still leaning his back against the cave wall. His knees were pulled close, his head bowed. His eyes were closed, but he wasn’t asleep. He carried the weight of everything — the past, the sins, and the hope in your eyes.

You were staring at him.

In the fracture of darkness and light, his features looked softer. Joel had entered your life as a stranger. But now... you didn’t care who he was anymore.

"You know," you said, your voice almost a whisper. "I still haven’t asked your name."

Joel lifted his head slightly. His brows were furrowed, his expression tired. "You haven’t." There was unease in his voice, because he felt the inevitable question finally arriving.

But you said something else. "It doesn’t matter." Your words echoed off the stone walls of the cave. "Your name, who you are… I don’t care anymore. When I’m with you... nothing else matters."

Joel’s gaze was hard. But the armor inside him had begun to crack.

"You don’t know me," he said again.

His words were sharp, but trembling. "You don’t know what I’ve done, what I’ve lived through."

"Who you are, what you did… what you became… I don’t care."

There was a slight movement on Joel’s face. Perhaps a bitter smile, perhaps a warning. But you didn’t stop. "When I saw you, in that bed… when I first opened my eyes… I was in darkness. I was dying. But you… you brought life back into me."

You leaned forward. When your knees touched Joel’s, he slightly pulled his head back — but didn’t move away.

"I’m here. I’m not running. Don’t try to push me away, stranger. Why are you still trying?"

Joel’s eyes welled up. A vague mist clouded his iris. "Because…" His breath faltered. "Because I love you." His voice was low, almost like a confession to himself. "And when I love someone like you… that person dies."

Your eyes shimmered. "It’s not your fault. None of it is your fault." Your hand slowly reached for Joel’s. "You saved me, remember? I was dying in that bed. When I opened my eyes… you were there. I was in the dark, and you were the first light. Joel…"

Your hand reached for Joel’s face. When your fingers touched his cheekbones, he closed his eyes instinctively. His face was hard, but he was melting under your touch.

He was a man who had battled time. But with you… he surrendered to the moment.

Your voice trembled. "In this world, for the first time since my father… I trusted someone. I felt strong beside a man. And that man is you."

Joel lowered his head slightly. His cheeks touched your forehead. For a moment, only your warmth passed between you.

Your breaths mingled.

But then…

"Y/N…" He said your name in a way that was both a warning and a prayer. "This… is wrong."

"No," you said. Your voice was firm but fragile. "This is the only right thing."

Joel’s fingers closed around your hand.

His gaze was dark but open, conflicted but honest.

Silence. Breaths. Inner war.

Then Joel spoke. His words were trembling, uncertain — but surrendered:

"…I can’t resist you."

And you kissed.

The first touch made you forget the chill of the rocks. His lips were rough, but when they touched yours, they softened. Your wet, warm breaths mingled. As he tilted his head slightly while capturing your lips, it wasn’t just a kiss—it was an attempt to memorize you. As he kissed you, it was as if every fracture inside his chest began to speak. When your tongue first touched his, Joel’s body shivered slightly. That brief exploration between your lips suddenly turned deeper, hungrier. When your tongues met, your breath caught. His fingers reached your nape, pulling you closer. The air between you—in that icy cave—was suddenly warm, burning. Your heart raced but felt at peace. His was crumbling slowly, sinking deeper with every kiss.

Your lips were moist, his worn but full of passion. It was a passion that carried confessions he never dared to say aloud. As his tongue danced with yours, time felt like it had stopped. This wasn’t just a physical connection—it was your souls speaking, ending years of silence with a single kiss.

When Joel’s hands gripped your waist, the kiss intensified. Your breath tangled in your throat as his lips moved down to your chin, making your skin shiver. He kissed there first—slow, patient. The warmth of his lips touched that sensitive spot beneath your chin, and you felt a twist deep in your chest. Then his lips, wet and warm, trailed down gently, sealing that place like a secret.

But he didn’t stop at kissing. As his breath caressed your skin, he pressed his lips harder and let the tip of his tongue briefly trace the line of your jaw. It felt like that line was the boundary between you, and Joel was crossing it—with fear, longing, and desire. Then he returned to your lips. Now, there was nothing to stop you—only a thirst for one another, growing with each kiss.

To you, this was a refuge—found at last, with the man you loved.

To him, it was like stumbling into a heaven he didn’t deserve.

When the kiss ended, Joel leaned his forehead against yours. Your breaths mingled. Silence settled in the aftermath—not frightening, but heavy.

As your fingers found the edge of his shirt collar, Joel held his breath with you. “We shouldn’t do this,” he said again, but there was no conviction in his voice. He didn’t pull away. His hands came to rest gently on your shoulders, and when his fingers felt your warmth, he closed his eyes. “You’re too... pure. Something this world didn’t make.”

You smiled. “I’m not pure. Just... not lost. Like you.”

That sentence broke him completely. His fingers slid to your cheek, then under your chin. He kissed you again—hungrier, more honest, more tender. When he wrapped his arms around you, your body fit into his perfectly. His firm chest, war-forged hands, breath heavy with years of sorrow—they all wrapped around you.

When he pulled the blanket from your shoulders, it was his gaze that touched your trembling skin before his hands did. "If this is what you want... but tell me. Do you really want this?" he asked, his voice hoarse yet still protective.

You nodded. “I just want to be with you. No matter what.”

He embraced you again. His fingers slid to your waist, his lips to your neck. You closed your eyes, and your heartbeat matched his. Joel began to explore you with care and slowness—as if every touch was an apology. As if every kiss was a prayer to forget the wrongs he’d done. And every breath you took was a silent pardon.

Time stood still. Outside, the world was still plagued and dark with the past. But that night, inside the cave, there was only the two of you. Quietly, slowly, and with deep feeling… you were touching each other’s forbidden places.

You pressed your chest against Joel’s, rising to your knees. Now you were much higher than him. As you put his weight on him, Joel couldn’t resist it. Maybe at that moment, all that was left in the world was this dark cave, the wind outside, and two souls clinging to each other.

Joel was lying down on the ground now. His back was leaning on the stones beneath him, but his eyes were only on you.

Placing your knees on the sides of his hips, you sat on his groin and climbed on top of him. The pink on your cheeks shone in the shadow of your face, in the dark. Your palms were pressed against his chest. He was carrying your weight, but also your emotions. Joel’s hands were lost in you. As if he were holding you for the first time, he slid carefully and slowly down to your waist, then your back, then your hips. Every movement of his fingers seemed to memorize you as you were. Your sighs mixed with each caress of your hips. You shouldn’t have done this. You both knew it.

You first unbuttoned his shirt halfway. Then followed the salty sweat trail down his neck with your fingertips. You began to recognize his neck and ribcage with your lips. Your skin felt its warmth first; a slight shiver ran down Joel’s spine at that moment. The rough texture of his areola, the balance of salt and heat as it spread across your tongue, lit a small signal of pleasure in his mind. With each lick, your tongue traced the curves of his chest and then his abs. Joel leaned his head back. He whispered your name with a muffled sigh, but then his tongue hit the roof of his mouth; this genuine closeness frightened him. In that moment of colliding guilt and desire, he thought about all the danger that came with wanting you.

Your trembling breath brushed over Joel’s chest, your hands roaming his body like a hero marching in triumph. Your fingertips recognized the lines of his muscles, the rhythm of his veins.

Your breath mixed with his lips as you carefully moved your hips toward his groin. When your eyes met, you both felt the same thing inside you: passion, lust, and love. Your breaths mixed. You were now standing over Joel’s penis, with only the fabric between you and the warm pressure of your vulva. He could feel you much more now as you undulated your waist rhythmically but in a controlled manner. Your touch made him more sensitive with every movement. Joel’s eyes closed for a moment, his lips falling to your neck again. He found a spot under your jaw that burned your skin. When he stopped there and let out his breath, you felt him shiver.

He whispered breathlessly. “I shouldn’t want this… but hell if I can stop.”

You locked eyes at Joel with such intensity that your voice was barely a whisper, coming out of your lips with a tremor. “Then stay. Here. With me. Just for tonight, be mine.”

He wrapped one arm around your back, the other around your hips, wrapping your body like armor. He wasn’t just holding you, he was hiding you. Your heartbeats mingled as your chest pressed against Joel’s; each breath that passed between your lips was drawn into you like the last oxygen in the air.

“Goddamn…” Joel whispered, his voice almost husky and deep. “You’re gonna be the end of me.”

You looked up. There was a gleam in his eyes—a light of both triumph and surrender.

“Then let me end you slowly,” you whispered, pressing his forehead to his.

Joel smiled. Tired, painful, but real. And he kissed you again. As if kissing was as natural as fighting. Every kiss was a memory. Every touch a vow.

“Now it’s my turn,” Joel said. His voice was firm and determined, but underneath it was a pent-up desire ready to explode.

You tried to smile, but the curve of your lips was as threatening as a challenge. “So,” you whispered. “Let’s see if you’re as good at it as you are at fighting the infected.”

Joel’s muscles tightened in response, and he grabbed you by the waist, holding you beneath him. The speed of his turn took your breath away, but you didn’t resist, you couldn’t. Because there was fire in his gaze now, deep, intense, and unbridled.

The bandage on your shoulder had taken a slight pressure from the fall; your face tensed for a brief second, and your breath caught with a flicker of pain.

He immediately leaned in. Placing one hand on the ground, he brought his face close to yours. His eyes were filled with concern—and something else, something he was trying hard to suppress: desire.

"Are you okay?" he whispered, his voice hesitant and gentle, but his gaze still lingered on your lips.

You nodded slightly. "It hurt… but not too bad," you said, your voice as thin and trembling as your breath. When your eyes locked with his, unspoken words danced silently between you.

Your back was still touching the cold ground. The bandage on your shoulder still left a shadow of pain on your face, but Joel’s presence was slowly erasing that shadow. His hand gently reached up to hold your back, gently lifting you up and placing the blanket under you. When he laid you down again, his fingers slid into your hair, holding it under your head as if to support it.

“Damn it… I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he mumbled, his voice almost muffled as a sigh.

You couldn’t respond because Joel’s hand slid across your cheek, his fingers holding your chin with trembling tenderness. When his lips leaned down, he kissed your forehead first. It was light, but it resonated in your heart. Then to the corner of your eyes, then to your cheek… And finally, to your lips.

His kiss was cautious at first. But when your lips returned it, Joel’s kiss deepened again, but he still took his time. Joel Miller never rushed anything. He loved like he was walking across a battlefield—carefully, carefully, but eventually, inevitably.

As your breaths mingled, he carefully moved his fingers to the top button of your shirt. As if he might break the magic of the moment if he hurried. His eyes stayed on yours as he undid each button; he was searching for confirmation, approval, but also affection. When the fabric of his shirt parted, there was only silence between him and your skin. Joel’s fingers parted the slightly exposed fabric on either side, then his eyes fell on the bruises and scratches just below your breast. Time seemed to freeze in that moment. His eyebrows furrowed; not in anger, but in sorrow. Joel leaned down, never taking his eyes off you. He touched one of the scars with his lips. Gently at first, almost a whisper. Then to another… and to another. Each touch felt like an apology. His fingers trailed down your arm, as carefully as if he were stroking a shard of broken glass.

When you were out of breath, Joel moved his hand to your breasts. He began to play with your nipples, crushing them between his fingers. You felt a tingling and arousing sensation at your nipples. The dampness he left on your skin cooled your flesh, and that only excited you even more. Your face was much calmer and more relaxed than before. You moaned softly, closing your eyes.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Joel said, his voice a little harsher this time.

You nodded slightly, your lips parted, your eyes now on Joel’s. “Only hurts when you stop,” you whispered, your lips trying to smile.

That sentence broke something in Joel’s gaze. Then he leaned down… to your neck. Slowly, warmly touching your skin. The first kiss went to your collarbone. Then to the curve of your neck. He lingered there a little longer—as if he wanted to release his breath into your skin. His hand continued to caress your breasts. Each caress was like a silent oath saying, “I’m here.”

When your fingers grabbed hold of Joel’s muscular arm, it wasn’t to stop him, it was to feel him more. Joel knew that too. He leaned his body over you, careful not to hurt the wound on his shoulder, carefully distributing his weight—enveloping you without crushing you, as if his body were your shelter.

Joel reached out slowly. He touched your waist first, firmly but reassuringly. His fingers traced a path from your stomach to your belly button. But as his hand slid down to your groin, he paused when he got close to the wounds. His fingertips hung in the air. He couldn’t touch them.

His hand continued down your body. He made small, meticulous circles to avoid the wounds. His breathing became ragged, because the guilt that was gnawing at him had settled into his chest. When he reached the button of his pants, he took a deep breath; he held his hand there. The mechanical sound filled your ears as he undid the metal button. Then he grabbed the zipper, his fingers lingering briefly on the fabric, pausing. His eyes never left yours. Then he pulled the zipper down: the worn metal teeth opened with a sharp “zzt”. The fabric gave way. He squeezed his fingers between the fabric and your skin, pulling down.

Joel felt how wet you were when he wrapped his fingers around your outer labia over your panties. He began to rub, applying gentle pressure. The wetter the fabric became, the more tactile it became. He conquered the folds from your clitoris to the entrance of your vagina.

Then Joel carried himself down. His hands were supported by the stone floor on either side of your waist. He lifted one hand up and brought it to your groin. He placed his index and middle fingers between your vulva and panties. Using his powerful muscles, he pushed the fabric aside hard, squeezing it where it met your inner thigh and groin. Now you were right there in front of him, shining brightly. The surface of your outer labia shone like crimson glass, reflecting light from every angle. It was as if you were holding yourself together to tempt Joel’s lips. Joel placed his calloused hand behind your knee and spread her legs apart. Now he could see your clit between them. He leaned in a little further. His lips touched your skin, first gently, then with a more passionate hunger. He stuck his tongue out and placed it on your clitoris. The capillaries inside it had dilated, the blood flow had increased. This caused your clitoris to swell and you to taste the pleasure more deeply, so you closed your eyes and leaned your head back. Your chin lifted that neck tensed. Your fingers gripped the blanket tightly. The knuckles in your hands were white, the muscles in your outer thighs were trembling. The groan that escaped your lips gave Joel the green light to continue.

“Your color is as shiny and unique as satin, I can’t take my eyes off you,” Joel said, gently pulling his lips away from yours. He wanted to make you feel good and gain your trust. But he wasn’t lying either. When he dipped his tongue into your inner lips, they were so sweet, so juicy… Delicate like the thin skin of a sweet peach, yet deep and tempting like the flavor it held inside.

He began to move his tongue slowly around your clitoris. He began to latch onto you with big, slow strokes at first. The tongue movements moving from the entrance of your vagina to your clitoris... He was using the top of his tongue as he went up from the entrance of your vagina, and rubbing the bottom as he went down. Then he started to stroke faster with smaller circles with the tip of his tongue. This change of rhythm surprised you, made your moans longer, and made you gasp. There was nothing to say, you just wanted to say his name over and over again. But he was just a stranger. "How do you do this... I'm losing myself..." you said, your moans mixing with his words.

Joel said growlingly, "I'll show you how much you can take, Y/N..." Then he gently took your clitoris between his lips and started sucking. Your nub continued to swell and become sensitive inside his mouth. As he gently crushed it between his teeth, the capillaries inside were stimulated and the pleasure he was giving you caused a buzz in your ears. He continued to repeat it rhythmically, slightly increasing the pressure. You opened your eyes, feeling like you couldn't take it anymore. You lifted your chest. Your hands gripped the blanket tightly, straining the fabric as if they were going to tear, and your legs involuntarily closed. Joel suddenly grabbed your legs, which were squeezing around your head, and he forced them open wider than before, applying force to your inner thighs.

You pulled your hands away from the fabric and ran your fingers through your hair. You forgot all your pain as your body writhed in pleasure. You pulled your hair roots hard. "Oh, please! This is too much!"

Joel was vibrating your clitoris with quick and light vibrations. At the same time, he was increasing the tingling sensation by blowing out light breaths. He breathed through his teeth. "Are you giving up so easily? We've only just begun..." he buried his head harder into your vulva. His tongue continued to hungrily lick the pre-cum flowing from your vagina, he was drinking the colorless and thick fluid that had accumulated on his tongue with pleasure.

Your vaginal fluid felt like wine to him. The moment the slippery fluid met his lips, he made a delicate touch on his tongue; the sweetness of the peach fruit, the hidden depths of cinnamon and spice. As the fluid slid down his throat, each drop turned into an explosion of pleasure, the warmth instantly enveloping his body.

Joel suddenly pulled his head away from your vulva and rose to his knees, making eye contact with you. "I will give you everything. My soul, my heart... because you are not just part of my life, you are everything."

The blanket was rumpled unevenly, the smell of scorched bushes wafting around you.

His body was shaped by the maturity of his age; it was neither exaggerated like the insanely muscular bodies of young men nor did it show the signs of aging completely. His shoulders were broad, his stance confident. Life had taught him how to carry his body; he did not try to show his strength, but it was felt in every movement. But what was most striking was the experience that lay beneath his skin and muscles. A natural charm worked by time, experience, and life, something most young men lacked. He had a raw, masculine grace; the years had not aged him, they had only made him more apparent and impressive.

The attraction between you was so intense that neither of you wanted to let the distance widen even for a moment. He slowly placed his hands on your sides and slowly crawled between your legs. There was a look in Joel’s eyes that wanted to possess you, yet at the same time worshiped you. He slowly lifted himself onto you. Joel’s weight, combined with the reassuring warmth of his presence, made you feel as if you were out of breath.

“You know what?” Joel whispered, placing his fingers on your jaw and turning your face to his. “I can’t believe how much I want you.”

Your heart raced. His touch was gentle yet authoritative; there was a hidden possessiveness in every movement. His hands slid down your waist, and you brushed your lips over the edge of his. Your breaths mixed, and you shivered as your skin touched.

Then your fingers reached Joel’s leather belt. You wanted to feel him inside you now, your body no longer had the strength to resist. You could feel the warmth hidden behind that thick fabric. That metallic click of the metal buckle turning was familiar, just like the sound of the knife you had been carrying with you for years. When you loosened his belt, the soft hiss of the leather rubbing and undoing filled your ears. Joel was helping you now. He could see that you were ready for real intercourse. While you were unbuttoning his button and belt, he was busy with his zipper. Your fingers were touching each other hard and urgent. Joel pulled his pants down from the curve of his hips. His cock, hard as iron inside his boxers, was suddenly pressing against your vulva with a swift waist movement. Your pupils were dilated and your chin was lifted when your sensitive womanhood was suddenly aroused. Joel was aroused when he heard the moans coming from your lips.

He hooked his fingers into the elastic of your underwear and pulled it down. Very slowly, slowly, which fueled your impatience. His cock was exposed as the fabric slid down, showing prominent veins. It was big. And when his cock was completely free of the fabric, it swayed slightly. You were excited to think about how you would be ecstatic under Joel when he saw this big cock about to enter your vagina.

Joel placed his hands under your knees and made you stretch your legs. This way, he could easily slide between your legs, allowing your slit, which was burning with pleasure and completely soaked in precum, to be able to place his cock between them. You gasped when Joel’s vein-throbbing cock pressed completely against your inner lips, and you punched the ground with sudden force. You moaned loudly. Joel laughed with pleasure. He rubbed the tip of his iron-hard cock against your vagina to excite you, while he breathed out, “It drives me crazy to hear you make such noises…” he said, his voice fierce and mocking. Your vagina was so wet that the fluid leaking from your legs was starting to spread on the blanket fabric.

Joel was forcing the entrance to your vagina, first grabbing his penis with your hand and flicking it towards your clit, then stroking it from side to side a few times, inserting a few millimeters of his tip into the entrance of your vagina, but never entering. This was starting to drive you crazy. “Oh, please!” you moaned. “I want you inside me now.”

Joel was aroused by these words of yours. “I'll give you my love to night.”

You were aroused by these words. It was interesting that Joel was treating her differently than the other men. “Yes,” you moaned, “I want to be yours.”

When Joel pushed his cock into your vagina, it completely enveloped your vagina. It was too tight for him. You threw your head back in pleasure as the rough, warm walls of your vagina wrapped around Joel’s smooth manhood. “Oh, Y/N, it feels so much better.”

Each time he pushed his large cock inside you, his swollen balls slapped against your ass, stimulating both your g-spot and your clitoral, making you almost cry.

“You like that, don’t you?” Joel asked between growls. “Tell me you want me, Y/N, that you love me.”

Your flesh slapped together with each thrust as he thrust into your tight hole. And he continued to thrust rhythmically.

You were both on the verge of peak pleasure. Your tight vagina could feel Joel’s hardness and veiny surface down to your smallest cell. His cock twitched, wrapped around your gnarled walls.

You were at the peak of your orgasm now. Even though the penis filled your vagina completely, the pleasure juices continued to leak from the exit of your vagina. Joel closed his lips on your lips. He kissed you passionately. "Be patient a little longer. It's almost time." Your body was shaking up and down. The muscles in his hips were now contracted, he was almost about to pour his sperm into your womanhood. But he held himself back and suddenly pulled out of you and ejaculated on your groin, out of breath. As his sperm spread over your warm skin, you came right after. Your pleasure juices had spread, wetting the blanket. Your ears were buzzing, your eyes were blurry as snow from pleasure.

Joel suddenly grabbed your arms, straightened you up and placed you on his lap so that you were sitting on top of him. There was a mixed expression of surprise and happiness on his face. He looked at your face between his hands and looked at you with eyes half full of affection and half full of love.

The cold had settled over the world like a silence that gnawed through bone. But within the curved walls of the cave, there was still warmth. Shadows cast by breath, skin, and a fire that still held the pale glow of minutes past lingered. The sky felt distant, the earth endless. But as you sat in his lap, the bloody, sharp edge of reality faded into a blur.

Joel’s thick, calloused hands gently cradled your face. His fingertips moved slowly across your cheeks as if memorizing your face, his thumb grazing the corner of your lips with a hesitant kind of affection. His gaze lingered on you—dark and weary, yet somehow still strong enough to carry you toward the light.

“I... I’ve never felt anything like this before,” you said, your voice cracking. “Feeling this safe. Just existing with someone, without having to say anything. Like breathing.”

As you leaned against his shoulder, Joel’s throat tensed like he wanted to say something. But he only swallowed. His hand moved to your hair, then back to your face. It felt like he was trying not just to hold you—but to atone.

You were smiling. Soft, fragile, like a flower slowly opening in the morning light. “No matter what happens. My heart is already with you.”

But Joel knew your heart was balanced on the edge of a blade. The truth sat in his chest like a tumor, pulsing. He remembered pulling that trigger. Watching your father fall. And now, that man’s daughter was resting in his arms, breathing love into him. Giving him her heart.

“I’m here for you,” you whispered again. “And no matter what happens, I don’t want you to let go of me. Not the past, not the pain. I don’t want to be alone anymore, okay?”

In that moment, Joel’s world split in two. On one side, your warmth, your voice, the endless trust in your eyes… On the other, the moment that awaited in Jackson. When the truth would break free. When his name would be spoken. When his face would be recognized.

He knew that after that moment, you wouldn’t be able to stay in his arms. That forgiveness might never come.

But leaving you now would be its own kind of betrayal.

He lowered his head, resting his forehead against yours. Closed his eyes. I can’t do right by you, he thought, but didn’t speak.

The tremble on his lips was the silent cry of a man caught between pain and tenderness. He clasped his hands behind your back. Tight. Like it was the last time.

Outside, the wind howled. Inside, there were only two people. One bearing the weight of truth. The other yet untouched by it. But it was clear now: the road to Jackson would crack not only the path ahead, but both of your hearts.

[divaofmads]

A Love Meant to Burn

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female Reader

Chapter I: The Hour Behind the Bullet | Chapter II

Summary: Y/N, whose father was executed by Joel Miller, sets out for revenge—only to find herself falling for the man she swore to destroy. Every answer is shadowed by deeper secrets as love and hatred intertwine. This is a passionate reckoning that asks: is salvation found in forgiveness… or in the kill?

Word Count: 5k>

Warnings!: Angst, Violence, death, and execution scenes, Themes of trauma and grief, Gunfights and post-apocalyptic survival elements, Moral dilemmas, revenge, and justice themes, Mature romantic/emotional content, English is not my first language so excuse my mistakes. I write purely as a hobby, not as a professional

A/N: This chapter marks the beginning of a story where Joel Miller has not yet appeared, but his shadow lingers in every line. His name is a whisper—etched into the back of a watch, a secret that stretches from the darkness of the past into the vengeance of the present. It doesn't just delay the encounter with Joel—it builds it into an unforgettable, strikingly dramatic moment. The reader knows the meeting is coming… but never when, how, or in whose hands it will unfold.

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

As the moon vanished with the first light of morning, the mist still lingered on the mountainside. The air was dry, but the sharp chill remained; the earth had not yet shed its nightly frost.

With a bow on your back, a knife on your belt, and mud clinging to the soles of your boots, you walked silently. “Two hours, maybe three,” you said in a low voice. “But it hasn’t gone far.”

Footsteps behind you were followed by muffled laughter.

“My God, Y/N, did you just tell time from tracks?” Nico bent down to examine the ground with you. The sleeve of his jacket was torn, but his smile was intact. “Hunting with you always wrecks my self-esteem.”

“I’m just doing my job,” you said, without turning your eyes. “You’re the one who brings the noise, the jokes, the troublesome sounds…”

Nico placed a hand over his heart. “Was that a thank-you I just heard?”

“You’re welcome to imagine it that way.”

You stood up. Bow on your back, knife on your right hip. You wore a waterproof cover sewn from the sleeve of your father’s old jacket. He had been of the hunter breed, and you were determined to carry that legacy.

The tracks led you to an old gravel bed by the river. Small footprints stuck in the mud.

Not a rabbit. A fox.

“Eyes open, Nico,” you said. “This isn’t just a fox. There are feathers on the ground. This animal was attacked before. We’re in a predator’s territory.”

Nico drew his knife. “You mean a Clicker?”

“No. I know those tracks. This is different. Maybe a lynx. Maybe a hungry wolf. Be careful.”

You crouched, focusing on the scent. There was a faint smell of blood, mixed with damp earth. Your hand went to the head of your arrow. You were tense, but exhilarated. The dance within the hunt always fascinated you.

About an hour later, you reached a forest clearing. The trees thinned out, and the sky began to show itself.

At the edge of the forest, in the shadow of a tree, you spotted a grazing deer.

“A pair,” you whispered. “Female and male.”

Nico squinted. “Which one do we take?”

“The female. Slower. Her meat will be more tender. And the male won’t charge if we don’t threaten him. We need to stay unnoticed.”

You readied your arrow. Placed your left knee on the ground. Pressed your elbow firmly against it. Raised the bow with your left hand, and drew the string to ear-level with your right.

You held your breath.

Thwip...

The arrow pierced the deer just beneath the neck. The animal staggered, then collapsed. Nico’s eyes widened with admiration. “Every time… you blow my mind.”

You smiled and stood up. “Well… you’re allowed to be a little impressed.”

“Being impressed by you might be dangerous.”

You set up camp by the riverside that night. As the meat cooked over the fire, Nico watched you.

“I just don’t get it… how this world still manages to make you happy.”

You shrugged slowly. “Because there’s still a sky. I still have a friend I can smile at. I can still breathe. It’s that simple.”

Nico sighed. “Finding someone like you in this world feels like a miracle.”

You smiled, but your eyes drifted to the horizon.

In your gaze, there was a shadow your subconscious refused to name.

But tonight, there was no past.

Only firelight, laughter, and the warmth of survival.

The deer was tied securely with two strong ropes. Hung by its hind legs, it dangled slightly off the side of Nico’s horse. Its hide was still intact; the surface lightly salted to stop bleeding and keep flies away. That had been your suggestion. Salt not only preserved but also kept the meat from spoiling during travel.

“If we don’t make it to Redhill in three hours,” you said, tightening your horse’s reins, “this meat’s going to turn sour. I’d rather not have my father scolding me over dinner.”

Nico grumbled as he balanced the load on his own horse.

“Not just scolding… Don’t be surprised if he sends us to fix fences. Last time we were only ten minutes late.”

“And we hauled hay for three days,” you said, smiling with embarrassment. “My spine is still plotting revenge.”

As you crossed a narrow rocky path, stones crunched beneath the horses’ hooves. The sun was slowly pulling back behind the mountains, casting long shadows. The road to Redhill used to be a hiking trail. Now it was a lifeline—overgrown with weeds and scattered with forgotten footprints.

“Your father…” Nico said quietly, “has he ever offered you leadership? I mean… has he ever thought you’d take his place one day?”

You tugged the reins gently, slowing your horse. “My place is with the bow, the tracks. His is with people—untangling knots in their minds. My father keeps Redhill standing because he knows when to be soft and when to be firm. I haven’t learned that balance yet.”

Nico nodded, his gaze wandering to the horizon. “But you… when I watch you, I see exactly what a leader should be.”

You paused. His words echoed through the quiet forest like a bell. Then you offered him that familiar smile. “Because of what you just said, I might make you carry rocks until morning.”

Nico laughed and lowered his head. “There’s no punishment worse than you.”

“Oh, believe me, there is,” you said, narrowing your eyes and turning back to the riverside trail. “But right now, I’m bored. Too much silence.”

You took a deep breath. Your voice was soft at first, then carried over the wind. From the depths of a fallen world, you began to hum a song from long ago:

“What have I become, my sweetest friend?

Everyone I know goes away in the end.”

Nico rolled his eyes but smiled. He knew how much you loved to sing that song. He joined you.

As the horses moved on, even the birds seemed to sing along. Until Redhill appeared on the horizon, your laughter raced the wind. Just another evening. A quiet, simple, ordinary journey home.

But none of you knew.

None of you.

This would be the last peaceful journey you ever shared.

The path through the canyon leading into Redhill was familiar; the sound of hooves on dirt, the intermittent calls of birds, and the scent of earth carried by the drifting breeze... Everything was as it should be. Maybe that’s why it took you so long to realize something was wrong.

The deer was the prize of a two-day hunt. These kinds of tasks had become routine over the years. In a self-sustaining community like Redhill, surviving the hunt was only half the job—preserving the kill was just as vital.

You were in the lead, Nico behind you. The young man had talked endlessly like an impatient child; about his new bow, how he’d outshot you, how the second deer was still out there somewhere… But something was bothering you. Whenever you approached the Redhill valley, you could always catch the scent of fresh smoke drifting from between the hills. Burnt wood, simmering stew, a lit pipe... That smell wasn’t there this time. Only damp earth and silence.

“Y/N?” Nico asked, his voice laced with uncertainty. “Is it just me, or... are the sentries gone?”

When you fell silent, the silence itself felt like a scream.

The wooden archway at Redhill’s entrance stood ahead—its painted emblem half-burned. The watchtower beside the gate was empty. No laughter or whistles from above like usual. No children, no women, no crates of tomatoes... It was as if everything had vanished all at once.

“Maybe it’s harvest time. Everyone’s in the back gardens?” Nico said, hopelessly.

You didn’t answer. You dismounted in a swift motion; the stones beneath your boots weren’t dry—they were laced with ash. As your eyes scanned the valley, more came into focus. Broken fences, an overturned wheelbarrow… and then… blood.

Without another thought, you started walking. Nico followed, but your steps had slowed, grown cautious. Your hand instinctively went to your knife. You searched for a threat—but the threat was gone. Only the aftermath remained.

It didn’t take long to find the first body. It hadn’t been covered. The face was charred. A knife stuck out from the back. You didn’t recognize them, but the handmade Redhill clothing was familiar—crocheted edging, handwoven fabric.

The second... the third...

Your legs carried you on their own now. They trembled, but you kept walking. And then, in the center of the courtyard, in front of a still-burning tent, two figures appeared. Reuben and Caleb. Reuben’s arm was in a sling, his face smeared with blood and ash. Caleb had his rifle leaned against a wall, his head buried in his hands. When they saw you, their eyes widened.

“Y/N…” Caleb said as he stood. “Goddamn it…”

“What happened?” you asked. Just two words. But the crack in your voice carried a weight nothing else could.

Reuben tried to speak, cleared his throat. “Attack... The Vultures...” he said. “Marcus Flint was leading it himself.”

The words hung in the air. You didn’t hear them. Only saw the movement of his lips. Redhill had been attacked.

Your eyes scanned everything. Trampled fields. Shattered fences. Broken doors of shelters. It looked like an army had passed through. But Redhill wasn’t a battlefield. It was your home.

“My father?” you asked. Your voice sounded like it came from someone far away.

Reuben lowered his head. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he whispered.

Your knees nearly buckled. But you didn’t fall. Something inside you—a cold, sharp feeling—held you upright. In this world, falling was a luxury. And you no longer had that luxury.

“Take me to him,” you said. Your voice came out steady and cool. It didn’t shake. But something inside had snapped, like a wire pulled too tight.

Caleb stepped forward quickly. “No, Y/N… No. That’s not something you want to see,” he said gently, panic flickering behind his calm tone. “Remember him the way he was. As a leader… as your father. Don’t see him like this.”

You looked at him. Your eyes were cold, but a storm raged behind them. “Get out of my way, Caleb.”

“Y/N, please. His body… it’s unrecognizable. You don’t want to remember him like that.”

Reuben stood a step back, waiting for your decision. Unlike Caleb, he knew you. You weren’t weak. You never were.

You stepped forward, locking eyes with Caleb. “I’m his daughter,” you said, your voice like lead. “And if Redhill’s legacy is mine now\... then I will see the truth with my own eyes. Now move.”

Caleb looked away, his jaw clenched. Then he stepped aside. Over his shoulder, he looked at Reuben.

Reuben nodded slowly. “Come with me,” he said. “Be ready.”

Ready? What did that even mean now? Wasn’t surviving without being ready the very essence of this world?

Reuben led you to a cold shelter behind the stone storage buildings. The door hadn’t been this heavy even when the place was used to store medicine. Inside, it was dim. And there he was.

Your father.

Lying there, half-covered by a dark blanket. His hair was dusted with ash. His beard matted with dried blood. His eyes were closed. One side of his face was unrecognizable—bruises, shattered bones... But the other side... still him.

Your knees gave out, but you didn’t collapse. You knelt beside him. Your fingers trembled as you pulled the blanket back a little more. A massive lump formed in your throat—one you couldn’t swallow.

Your hand reached out and took his. Still warm. Thick, callused hands… The ones that first taught you how to handle a bow. That pointed out spring herbs, that rested on your shoulder when you made small triumphs… the hands of a leader.

“Dad…” you whispered. Just once. Knowing it was the last time you ever would.

Tears fell from your eyes, but there were no sobs. Your tears were silent. You were strong, but not ice. That day, the child in you died. And something else took her place: the beginning of a leader, shattered but standing tall.

After a while, you stood up. Your heart in pieces, but your shoulders squared. You turned to Reuben.

“Where are the rest of the dead?” you asked.

“We managed to gather a few,” he said. “But more might be under the rubble…”

“We’ll find them. Every last one,” you said. “Tomorrow. At dawn. We’ll hold a ceremony—for them… and for my father.”

Reuben bowed his head. Caleb looked at you from behind, his eyes still wet.

“Y/N…” he said in a hushed voice. “You… you’re now…”

You turned to him. Met his gaze.

“No,” you said. “I’m not ‘now.’ I’m still his daughter. And I’ll remind the world what Redhill means.”

When you stepped outside, the sun was beginning to set. Long shadows stretched across the valley. Ash and silence. But you walked. With each step, you became someone else.

The funeral… wouldn’t just be for the dead. An era was ending, and something else was beginning.

At dawn, as the sun lit the ridges of the valley, Redhill was wrapped in silence. The sun was rising, but yesterday’s cold still clung to the air. A coldness that came from deep inside.

You walked toward the main square, repurposed from the old quarantine center, every step echoing beneath your boots. The mud beneath your soles clung with a mixture of blood and ash. But your stride never faltered.

You wore a dark brown leather jacket—your father’s. Its inner lining still stained with blood. The scent of it had nearly broken you as you put it on. But you’d endured. Because you were no longer a daughter. You were a leader.

The people had begun to gather in the square. Women, children, elders… The wounded and the quiet fighters. Some carried arms in slings, others leaned on sticks. The same expression on every face: a fog of grief and fear.

The dead were laid side by side on a carefully prepared platform in the center of the square. Your father’s body was at the center. A single torch burned above his head. Nothing else. No flowers, no ornaments. This world was now made of simplicity.

When you stepped forward, there was a moment of silence before you spoke. The wind wrapped smoke around you as all eyes turned your way.

You took a deep breath. You could hear your own heartbeat. Then you spoke. “They were our companions. Our neighbors. Our brothers and sisters.”

Your voice didn’t crack. Your eyes didn’t water. Every syllable struck like a hammer. “When my father founded this community, he said survival wasn’t about fighting—it was about being together. He brought order to this land. He brought safety. We’ve protected the life we built here for years. But now\... they’ve taken it from us.”

You lifted your head. The eyes of your people met yours. In them, a spark began to burn.

“The Vultures didn’t just go after one man—they targeted a whole people. They stole bread from a child’s hands. Gunned down the sick and the old. These are not enemies. They’re filth. And we... we will not stay silent.”

Your words echoed off the stone of the square. A child cried somewhere in the distance. A woman bowed her head in silence. But most of them—most of them now held something else in their eyes: fury. A fury ready to act.

“Their leader, Marcus Flint—he tried to quench an old grudge with fire. He thought burning us would end it. But Redhill rises from ashes. And now I, as my father’s daughter, will carry on the fight he left behind. We will not only mourn our dead. We will not forget them. We will speak their names alongside justice.”

The crowd fell silent. Then Reuben stepped forward, dropping to one knee and bowing his head.

“Daughter of Y/F/N... Y/N. I know you. I see your father’s fire in your eyes. I stand with you. Just as I walked with him, I’ll walk with you.”

Caleb, on the other hand, took a hesitant step back. His eyes scanned the area, filled with worry, yet also the fear of being left behind.

“Y/N... this path... it could cost us even more. The Vultures aren’t an easy target,” he said.

You turned to him. Your shoulders straight, your gaze unwavering. “What more can we lose, Caleb? I lost my father. My people are dead. Our land is scorched. All we have left is our honor. Should we give that up too?”

Caleb fell silent. He lowered his head. Then, slowly, he nodded. “Alright... damn it. I’m with you. But we’re going to make a good plan. No rushing in blind. With our minds. Just like your father would’ve done.”

Reuben stepped forward. “First, we track The Vultures’ movements. Pinpoint their locations. We don’t strike… we dismantle. We isolate their leader. Then, you’ll be the one to end Marcus Flint.”

You narrowed your eyes and looked out toward the horizon. It was like a map formed in your vision. The dark towers of The Vultures… their arrogant laughter… your father’s final breath… That feeling inside you had evolved beyond vengeance. This was the first step toward justice. And Redhill would rise again—with you.

As evening fell, the mist leaning against the hills of Redhill slowly began to swallow the rest of the camp. Torches flickered like trembling flames, casting long shadows between the cabins. Most of the community had withdrawn into silence after the funeral, mourning their losses in solitude. Many were still under the spell of your morning speech. But you carried the weight of those words now.

The small wooden cabin you were in had once been your father's "map room." His old papers still lay on the desk; dried ink stains and yellowed notes remained. An old plan of Redhill, tucked into the corner of a map, was still in place. Your fingers traced the borders he once drew. Fragmented memories spun in your mind like clipped reels of film.

The door creaked open. Reuben entered. The old jacket on his shoulders had faded to the color of dust over time. His hands were covered in mud, sweat lined his brow. His face was as hard as ever, but tonight his eyes were soft. The loyalty he had once shown your father had shifted into a quiet respect for you.

He walked toward you and let out a heavy breath.

"People expect things from you now," he said. "Not just your name... but his resolve, his heart."

You turned your head to look at him.

"Do you think I have that in me?"

Reuben furrowed his brows. He paused, then nodded.

"Sometimes you're even more. But I can't ask you to be anyone else now. So... you need to know the truth."

You sat up straighter, perched on the edge of the desk. Your hands rested on your knees. You waited.

"You keep asking why the attack happened..." Reuben began.

"Marcus Flint, the leader of the Vultures, claimed our community was hiding a criminal. He said the man was a FEDRA agent. That he escaped and found refuge here."

You frowned.

"I never saw anyone like that. No one's sought shelter here recently. And if he was FEDRA, why pick Redhill? Would he really risk that much for a group hundreds of miles away?"

Reuben nodded.

"I know. I thought it was nonsense too. But he needed an excuse. There was bad blood between him and your father—goes back years. In the early days of the outbreak, they worked together for a time. But they clashed over a trade deal—meds and food. Your father stopped Flint from selling out his own people."

Your eyes fixed on a point in the room. Something stirred in your veins—heavy like poison. Flint’s name was no longer just a threat—it had become a personal wound.

"So this attack... it was old revenge," you said.

"Yes," Reuben confirmed. "It was his way of settling the score."

You both fell silent. The only sound in the room was the wind whistling outside. Cold air crept through the cracks in the ceiling, brushing your shoulders.

Reuben turned to leave, but paused at the door. He looked back at you over his shoulder. There was hesitation in his eyes. Then he reached into the inside pocket of his coat.

"I’ve got one more thing," he said quietly.

"It was by your father's body. I don't recognize it, but... maybe you will."

He stepped closer and opened his hand. Inside it was a wristwatch. Its metal band was scratched, its glass cracked—but it still resisted time. You took it. It was cold. Its weight seemed to come not just from metal, but from the burden of the past.

You turned it over.

An engraving: J.M.

You didn’t move for several seconds. Time itself seemed to stop. Your fingers traced the letters. The mark of a stranger... yet the only clue found beside your father’s blood.

"I don’t know what it means," said Reuben.

"But I felt you should have it."

Your eyes remained locked on the watch. Narrowed. You repeated the letters in your mind again and again.

J.M.

That watch was a whisper of fate. Maybe a name. Maybe the gateway to hell. But now, you had a target.

And you would find him.

Two months later...

The sky that morning was a pale, ashen gray. The earth still bore the marks of blood and gunpowder. But Redhill was breathing. Wounded—but not dead.

Y/N stood at the top of the wooden watchtower, overlooking the valley. Beyond the thorny bushes, broken fences, and ruined cabins, there was an effort to be reborn.

Caleb, working on wires pulled from a broken radio transmitter, spoke without looking up.

"If we can reroute communications to the northern outpost, maybe we’ll learn where Cascade’s storing the old meds. That’d be good leverage for trade."

"Set up the line, but be cautious. Not everyone out there trades," you said. Your voice was firm, but warm. Leadership sometimes weighed heavy on you, but you didn’t show it.

Reuben entered, making marks on a map as he walked.

"Y/N, the boy from the north is back," he said. "The scout you sent."

"Rory? Send him in."

The door opened and Rory entered—sun-scorched, tired-backed, but sharp-eyed. Young, but seasoned in the field.

"Ma'am," he said, nodding.

"What did you find out about the Vultures?"

"Strange things. Their headquarters doesn’t seem as stable anymore. We used to hear constant chatter over the radios. Now… almost silence. A lot of Flint’s people have left. There’s even a rumor—he clashed with his own men."

You listened to Rory’s words in silence. Then leaned forward, fingers pressing the table.

"We need confirmed intel, Rory. If Flint’s alive, he’s still a threat."

Reuben added,

"And if he’s weakening, that’s our window."

Caleb, more cautious, frowned.

"But what if it’s a trap? What if they want to lure us out?"

You raised your head, eyes hardened.

"If they killed my father to provoke me or this people, then they already chose war."

A few days later, under your leadership, a secret meeting was held. Maps, radio data, Rory’s hand-drawn sketches of their base were spread out before you. Where Marcus Flint was last seen, which lookout towers were still active, which water routes had been cut—everything was being charted.

You pressed your finger against a point on the map.

"We’ve pushed them this far. Now they’re on the brink of collapse. We need to wait for the right moment… but if we wait too long, they’ll regain their strength."

Caleb nodded.

"When do you plan the attack?"

"Two weeks from now. I’ll send Rory out again. If Marcus is at the compound and we can strike a deal with someone on the inside, we’ll open a door from within. If not, we’ll infiltrate from the north."

Reuben smiled.

"That’s how your father used to do it. He’d read the enemy first, then end the fight with a single bullet."

You dipped your head slightly. Inside, you carried both the burden and the strength of walking in your father’s footsteps. This wasn’t just about revenge anymore.

It was about Redhill’s future.

***

The wind whipped violently at the flag hanging on the border of Redhill, nearly tearing the fabric apart. The sky was covered in that hazy orange that comes just before darkness falls, as if even the sunset sensed the coming reckoning. In the center square of the community, there was a flurry of preparation. Weapons were being oiled, knives sharpened, bags packed. Every movement was silent but purposeful, because everyone knew: this wasn’t a mission—it was a journey of vengeance.

You had just returned from the old medical center. The first aid kit on your shoulder was filled with collected pain-relieving herbs, antiseptics, and bandages. Reuben and Caleb were waiting for you at the large map table.

"The first team will enter from the west at oh-three-hundred," Caleb said, pressing his finger on a red-marked spot on the map. "The second team will sneak in through the old warehouse door on the north wall. Rory said it’s still unguarded."

Reuben nodded. "There’s also someone inside they've made contact with. Someone Rory’s been in touch with... Might buy us a few minutes."

You placed your hands on your hips, looked at the map for a moment, then raised your eyes and met theirs one by one.

"Remember, Marcus Flint will die. But this isn’t just about him. We’re doing this for Redhill. For my father. For our people."

Reuben bowed his head, eyes shimmering with a sorrow almost proud.

"Your father built Redhill from nothing at your age. Now you’re rebuilding it."

When night fell, Redhill sank into silence. A team of twenty—the best warriors and trackers you had chosen yourselves—mounted their horses and rode eastward in silence. Aside from the soft clatter of hooves on earth, no sound broke the stillness. The moon split the sky like a blade, painting your path in silver.

You remained silent during the ride. Sitting tall on your horse, your hand rested on the shortbow at your side. Countless memories clashed in your mind: your father's voice, Caleb’s doubts, Reuben’s support, Rory’s intel… and the wristwatch. The one that started it all, engraved with those cursed letters: J.M.

After five hours of silent travel, you made camp near an old watermill. Rory had already gone ahead to make his final contact with the insider. The rest of the team knelt, checking their gear one last time. You scanned the entire group carefully.

At first light, you reached The Vultures' camp.

From the outside, it looked abandoned. The cabins were in disrepair, most of the watchtowers broken down. Rory had been right—Marcus Flint had lost most of his forces. Something had collapsed from within. But that didn’t make him any less dangerous.

The plan worked perfectly. The north warehouse door was still unlocked. While Caleb and three others slipped in from the north, you and Reuben entered from the west.

Behind the cabins, the space was littered with scattered rubble, rotting crates, and toppled barrels. It was as if time had forgotten this part of The Vultures' camp. But you hadn't. You lowered your footsteps as you moved forward, stepping into the narrow path leading to the backyard. Your shortbow, slung over your shoulder, was ready at your fingertips. Reuben was on your left, and young but fearless Nico on your right. Each of your breaths was silent but sharp. This wasn’t a walk—it was the beginning of the end.

The first guard was on the roof of the cabin to the left. As he turned his head to scan the surroundings, you suddenly drew your bow. Your fingers, guided by muscle memory, pulled the string to your ear. You held your breath. One second. Two. Three.

Shhhft.

The arrow hissed through the air like a snake and sank into the guard’s neck. He fell backward without a sound. The thud of his body hitting the roof jolted the camp like a disturbed ant nest.

"They saw us!" Nico whispered, but you were already in motion.

Two men burst from the cabin to your left. They held modified rifles, barrels rusted but deadly. As they fired the first shots, Reuben pulled you down by the shoulder. Bullets whizzed past just above you, followed by his return fire.

"Down!" Reuben shouted, bracing his rifle on the rooftop edge and taking aim.

The first man was thrown back with a bullet to the forehead. You handled the second one. You dropped to a position parallel to the ground, released your hand from the shortbow, and pulled the silenced pistol from your belt. Aim, breathe, trigger.

Tak!

The man hit in the shoulder staggered for a moment, then collapsed to the ground with a scream. His weapon fell from his hand. When you reached him, your eyes met. He was about to say something, but you stayed silent. Instead, you pressed the silencer to his head and finished the job with a second shot. This wasn't mercy—it was resolve.

“Nico!” you shouted. “On the right! Two just came out from the entrance!”

Nico was young but agile. He’d learned archery from you. He turned to the target, drew his arrow, and released it. The first man was hit in the shoulder, the second in the chest. They collapsed in front of the barrack.

“The camp's almost empty!” Nico called out, breathless. “These are just Marcus’s leftovers!”

“So they still don't take us seriously,” you said, your eyes locked on the large building at the center of the camp. “That’ll be their last mistake.”

As you passed between the shacks, three more men appeared. One had a shotgun, the others charged with knives. The first bullet came from Reuben’s gun, bringing the shotgun-wielder down. You slung your bow onto your back, gripped the knife from your belt in a reverse hold, and rushed in.

The first attacker swung at you before reaching, but his move was clumsy and fueled by rage. You ducked and drove your knee into his thigh. As he stumbled, you buried the blade into his abdomen. When you pulled it out and turned, the second attacker’s punch grazed your face. You rolled backward, bounced up from the dirt, and struck back quickly. You pinned him to the ground with your knee on his chest and pressed the blade to his throat.

Nico was wrestling with the last man. He was tall, trying to overpower Nico. In a blink, you intervened, stabbing the man’s knee. He fell with a scream, and Nico struck his head with a rock.

Silence. Only distant gunshots from the rooftops. And slowly, even that faded.

Reuben rubbed his shoulder, looking at you. “You’re not your father’s daughter. You’re the war itself.”

Your face was cloaked in shadow. The dirt and blood on you had become a warrior’s blessing. But your eyes... they still mourned your father. Even in the heart of revenge, they searched for ways to remain human.

There were almost no obstacles left between you and Marcus Flint.

The office building was one of the strongest structures in the Vultures' camp. Built years ago, its concrete foundation still held, but the walls were moss-covered and the windows shattered. The front door was ajar. One hinge had fallen to the ground, the other creaked with the wind. This was the place where Marcus Flint made decisions, where lives were determined. But now it felt more like a tomb, devoid of his footsteps.

Your gun was in your hand. The cold metal clung to your palm, heavy with sweat, rage, and the weight of a long journey. Reuben and Caleb had stayed outside. This confrontation was yours alone. It was your father’s blood that had been spilled. You needed answers.

Your footsteps echoed on the wooden floor. Then a voice came from inside the office. “Close the door,” it said calmly. “The wind’s messing with my thoughts.”

You stepped in. Gun raised with both hands, you locked onto your target. “Marcus Flint!” you said. Your voice cracked, but your resolve did not falter.

The man behind the desk looked up. His hair, a reddish shade of brown, was streaked with gray. His face was stern, the corners of his eyes lined with fatigue. He sat proudly, but his spirit had aged more than his body.

“Marcus is gone,” he said. “I’m Cutter. The last remaining owner of this structure.”

Your finger trembled on the trigger. “Don’t lie to me. Marcus is here. I came all this way for him. Where is he?!”

Cutter smiled faintly. He leaned back, nudged some empty casings on the table with his fingers. “Marcus is dead,” he said. “Last month. Drowned in his own filth. Took his pride with him.”

Your throat tightened. It wasn't supposed to end like this. You wanted to look into his eyes, steal his breath, then pull the trigger. But now someone else sat before you. And in his eyes, there was not death—but truth.

“How?” you asked. Your voice dropped slightly, but the determination remained. “Who killed him?”

Cutter shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. In the end, he became a victim of what he created. False alliances, shattered decisions... This place wasn’t a camp anymore—it was a swamp. Your attack was just the final blow.”

You took that object from your backpack. The watch. Rusted, the glass scratched. You didn’t strap it on your wrist, you placed it in your palm. Showed it to Cutter. “This,” you said, “was found beside my father’s body. There’s something carved on the back.”

Cutter recognized it without looking. His eyes widened slightly, but were quickly replaced by quiet acceptance.

“Joel,” he said. “Joel Miller. I recognized the watch. Never met a man so obsessed with time. If he dropped it... he must’ve thought he made a mistake.”

The blood drained from your face. You hadn’t heard that name before. “Who is he? Why was the watch with my father? Did he...”

Cutter lowered his head, silent for a moment. Then he stood from his chair and looked out the window. At what remained of the camp.

“Joel Miller was a mercenary. But not your average killer. Quiet, precise, did everything his way. Marcus hired him to kill your father. Joel did the job. But... he disappeared right after payment. As if... the weight of what he did broke him.”

You swallowed. “So... he’s the one who killed my father?”

“Yes,” said Cutter.

The words hung in the air for a while. The watch in your hand was no longer just an item. It was the key to a door leading into the past.

"Joel Miller..." you murmured to yourself. The name left a sharp taste on your tongue; metallic, rusty, like blood.

Cutter was still by the window. His shoulders were slumped. His voice held no triumph, only exhaustion. “Look. Flint is dead. He was your father’s enemy. He had him killed. Now he’s buried too. The score is settled.”

He slightly turned his head, eyes locked on yours. “I don’t want to hurt you. I know there’s no redemption for what we did here. But… you’re different. You think like a leader. For Redhill’s future…”

“Stop,” you said, low but sharp. “Did you see that day?”

Cutter didn’t answer.

“Did you hide? Did you run? Or did you watch my father get shot?”

Cutter’s lips twitched. “I want to protect you,” he said. “Like everyone who died here, I fell apart too. I just wanted you to know that.”

You stepped forward. The grip of your gun fit so well in your hand, it felt fused with your bones. The watch was still in your pocket. It weighed you down—but not as much as the burden you carried inside. Like a curse flapping its wings in your chest.

“I will find Joel Miller,” you said. Your eyes no longer trembled. “And I’ll find out what happened that day. Turns out it wasn’t just Flint. The man who executed my father had a name. A voice. A breath. And now, that breath belongs to me.”

Cutter nodded slowly. “If you’re going to find Joel…” he said quietly, “pray he doesn’t recognize you… or that he does.”

You paused. There was a threat in those words, in Cutter’s voice—a lingering fear that made your skin crawl. This wasn’t just a warning. Joel Miller was the kind of man whose name burned itself into memory, who made lips dry when whispered in the dark.

“Who was he?” you asked. “Who was the man who killed my father?”

Cutter clenched his jaw. “He spoke with darkness. Sometimes he didn’t even know who or why he killed. You make a deal with him, he gets it done. But he always leaves a trail of blood behind. Flint made a deal. But Joel was never anyone’s dog. Maybe he killed Flint too. Maybe his conscience caught up. But… that conscience buried a lot of people.”

Cutter stepped back. At the end of his words, it was like a weight had fallen from his shoulders. He was waiting. For mercy. Forgiveness. Maybe just to be spared.

But you only looked at him for a moment.

“That man executed my father,” you said. “Neither Flint’s rotten orders nor your aged guilt can change that. My father built Redhill with hardship. But I was the one who buried him.”

And you pulled the trigger.

Cutter’s head slumped to the side. His eyes stayed open in surprise, as if even in the end, he couldn’t believe it was your hand that sent him off. When his body hit the floor, silence swallowed the room. No triumph, no grief… only that sharp clarity creaking in your bones: Nothing could stop you now.

You closed your eyes for a moment. Took a deep breath. The watch… was still in your pocket.

Your footsteps echoed as you left the office. Your eyes weren’t on the darkness—they were fixed on the horizon of vengeance.

Now you had a target. Joel Miller.

And you… would not speak to him. You would not forgive him.

Outside, Reuben and Nico were waiting. Their eyes immediately fell on your gun, on your blank expression.

Nico stepped closer. His brows were furrowed, but there was a trace of relief in his eyes. “Is it over?” he asked. “Marcus… is he dead?”

You didn’t answer.

Reuben exhaled deeply. “Y/N… What happened in there?”

Instead of replying, you reached into your pocket and pulled out the watch. Slowly, carefully. Your fingers brushed the metal for a moment. Then you handed it to Reuben.

“Joel Miller,” you said. “That’s the name of the man who actually killed my father. Marcus died during the riot here.”

Reuben’s face turned pale. His hand trembled as it hovered around the watch. “That name…” he said. “It sounds familiar. But…”

Nico stared at you in disbelief. “What are you saying? Flint gave the order, didn’t he? That bastard paid the price. Fate punished him for you. And you…”

You cut him off. “There’s no such thing as fate,” you said. Your gaze was fixed, like a dusty desert horizon. “Only choices. And I’ve made mine. This isn’t over.”

Nico couldn’t make sense of the silence that surrounded you. There was a mixed sense of victory on his face, but your expression was far beyond triumph. Reuben, however, understood everything. He slowly took the watch in his hand, felt its weight, then handed it back to you.

“This isn’t just his watch anymore, is it?” he said. “For you… it’s the key to a new war.”

You nodded. “I found it next to my father’s body. Cutter said Joel was the one who executed him. Even if it was under Flint’s orders, he pulled the trigger. And that doesn’t mean it’s over. It means this is just the beginning.”

Reuben slightly bowed his head. “Y/N... Revenge can be poison. You carry a fire in your heart for years. I trust your leadership, but… you’re not going to turn this into a blood feud, are you?”

...

On the road, the horses’ hooves kicked up dust as you rode toward Redhill. The sky was still gray, but there was something else on the horizon this time. What had happened in Marcus Flint’s town was still fresh in everyone’s mind, but the images in your head were older: your father’s face, dried blood, the watch placed in your hand, and Cutter’s final words.

You were riding in front, eyes locked on the horizon, your lips pressed together. But those behind you read the silence differently.

Caleb was the first to speak. His strong voice cut through the dry air. “Y/N. You didn’t just avenge your father today. You carried the weight of all Redhill. You fought for all of us.”

You slowed your horse, glanced back slightly, but didn’t reply.

Rory rode his horse beside Caleb’s. The young man’s eyes were shining. “When the town burned. When Flint’s men tied the children to trees and dragged the mothers away—we couldn’t do anything. But today... today, something finally changed. People will hear about this. Redhill is no longer alone.”

Voices started to rise behind you. You weren’t the only ones who stormed that town. A few more fighters from Redhill had come, all watching you.

An older woman, Mellie, spoke in a whisper, but her voice was clear: “Your father stood up for us. Now you carry on where he left off. But your road is long. If you’ve taken this bitter decision on your shoulders, don’t leave it unfinished.”

Reuben looked at you from over his shoulder as you pulled gently on the reins. Your horse stopped. From the mountainside, the distant lights of Redhill came into view. You slowly turned around, your face glowing in the red of the setting sun. Your eyes turned to your people, your companions.

“When my father died,” you said, your voice rough as gravel but steady, “all I had left was a watch. A clue. I followed it. I chased it. I killed Cutter. But behind that watch was another name. Joel Miller. And that name opened the door to another story, soaked into the soil of these lands.”

Your lips parted again, your gaze returned to the horizon. “This isn’t my path anymore. It’s the path Redhill walks now. And you... you’re putting it on my shoulders. Like a stone, heavy and sharp. But if this is truly your war too... then I’ll walk it to the end.”

Those looking at you bowed their heads. Rory placed a hand over his heart. Mellie nodded, wiping her tears away.

Reuben slowly approached, took your reins. “You won’t walk alone, girl. You won’t kill alone. This will be Redhill’s final farewell. And we’ll be the witnesses to that farewell.”

As the sun disappeared behind the mountain, Redhill’s lights drew near.

But in your eyes, a darker, more distant light was burning now:

The memory of Joel Miller. And the final day when you would face him.

[divaofmads]

Daughter of Water

Pairing: Oberyn Martell x Female Reader (OC)

Warnings: Sacred virginity nonsense, Smut, +18, loss of virginity, sex with a stranger, fingering, standing sex, sexuality leaning more toward body-worship, dirty talk, fluff, mockery of absurd beliefs, use of the title “sacred whore” (though not to degrade the woman — you’ll understand when you read it), manipulative and mischievous Oberyn, Rough, Language!

Y/N: Your Name S/T: Skin Tone H/C: Hair Color

Word Count: 8.5k

Gif by Pinterest

A/N: I'm not a professional when it comes to fanfiction. I just write as a hobby. I started writing thanks to the amazing people who do this perfectly. So if you're going to focus on my mistakes, please don't read it.

A/N 2 : I apologize for the mistakes I made in English that is not my native language and I am trying to improve my writing skills.

The dunes of Dorne shimmered even on starless nights, yet that evening felt dark and silent to Prince Oberyn Martell. The decision to exile him had begun with news from Highgarden. A covert assassination attempt against House Tyrell had failed, and subtle clues cast a shadow of suspicion upon Oberyn. The true perpetrator was never confirmed, but the delicate balance of power within the Seven Kingdoms was fragile enough to threaten Dorne's independence. Oberyn's courage and rebellious spirit made him an easy target for such intrigues. His brother, Doran Martell, saw no alternative but to send him into exile.

"The best thing you can do for Dorne," Doran said, "is to leave. This will be the salvation not just for you, but for our house."

As always, Oberyn responded with a smile.

"Exile me? Perhaps you're doing me a favor, brother. A fine excuse to explore the world beyond the Seven Kingdoms."

Upon leaving the warm sands of Dorne, Oberyn stepped into the complex and ruthless world of Essos. Exile offered him not just freedom but also the opportunity to discover the extent of his own boundaries. His first destination was Lys; known as the island of love and passion, this city was famed for its golden beaches, wealthy merchants, and renowned beauties. However, Lys's seductive façade quickly became monotonous for Oberyn. Dazzling women, gold-embroidered wine goblets, delicate incenses... These could not fill the void within a Martell's soul.

"Beauty becomes dull quickly," he muttered to himself, sipping wine on the terrace of a Lys inn. "The essence of pleasure lies in the unexplored."

After spending a few months in Lys, Oberyn set his course for Myr. Known for its fine craftsmanship, glassmaking, and ancient poison masters, Myr offered more than just hedonistic pursuits—it provided something to satiate his curiosity: the fine art of death.

While wandering through Myr's narrow, labyrinthine streets, Oberyn's eyes caught a shop he'd heard much about. Known as Tanith's "House of Spices and Elixirs," this establishment was a hub for poison dealers from across Essos. Upon entering, the air was thick with the scent of spices; dried herbs, snake skins, and finely ground mineral powders lined the shelves.

Tanith was an elderly woman; her eyes bore the faded memories of something once vibrant. Upon seeing Oberyn, she immediately recognized not just a customer but a student hungry for knowledge.

"Poison isn't wielded like a crude dagger, prince," Tanith said, retrieving a dark red powder from a shelf. "Poison requires patience and intellect. In the right hands, it's an art; in the wrong, a disgrace."

Under Tanith's guidance, Oberyn began to learn the secrets of poisons. He delved beyond the common toxins sold in Myr's markets, seeking rarer and more lethal concoctions. The impact of poison lay not just in the victim's physical agony but also in the psychological terror it induced.

Tanith taught Oberyn three fundamental principles:

1. The Power of Time: Some poisons acted instantly, while others consumed their victims slowly over weeks. Oberyn learned that a poison derived from the blood of the Lys snake left its victim debilitated for days, with death arriving only during sleep.

2. Deceptive Taste and Aroma: The deadliest poisons often appeared as innocent as a dessert. Oberyn tasted a poison from Old Volantis; when mixed with wine, it left a sweet, spicy flavor, yet a single sip ignited a burning sensation in the victim's veins.

3. Poison and Intrigue: Poison was not merely a physical weapon but a message. It was used not just to kill a king but to instill fear in a kingdom. Oberyn understood the importance of poisoning not just the victim but also those around them.

Under Tanith's supervision, Oberyn began crafting his own poisons. One of his most successful creations earned him the title "Red Sand" among the people of Myr. This sand-colored powder induced a sensation of sand coursing through the victim's veins, leading to death within hours. However, Oberyn used his poisons not solely for killing but also to slowly subdue his enemies and leave them in terror.

During his months with Tanith, Oberyn began to grasp the philosophy of poison. It was quieter than a sword, swifter than an arrow, and as powerful as a word. He researched the great poison masters of history; he listened to tales of a poison made from dragon blood used in the final years of Valyria. Compared to Myr, Westeros's tradition of poison seemed primitive.

One evening, he turned to Tanith and said,

"Poison is like a gift stolen from the gods. A swift death can make a king feel powerless; a slow one can strike terror into an entire people."

Tanith smiled and replied,

"But remember, prince. Poison consumes the one who wields it as well. If you go too deep, in the end, you may find nothing but yourself."

Oberyn, satisfied with the knowledge he had gained and the poisons he had crafted in Myr, still felt an emptiness within a longing for new places to discover and desires yet to be fulfilled. He had mastered the subtleties of poison, but now it was time for a different kind of adventure.

Leaving behind the warm, salt-scented air of Myr, Oberyn Martell burned with the yearning for his next journey. During his time in Myr, he had fed both his mind and his soul, yet the restless passion in a Martell's blood drove him to seek more. It was then, in a harbor tavern, that a tale sparked the beginning of his journey to Pentos.

The tavern, a wooden structure overlooking the port of Myr, was filled with the scents of wine and bursts of raucous laughter at dusk. Oberyn was drawn in by a drunken merchant’s tale. He spoke of the Prince of Pentos, who, as part of an age-old tradition, would be sacrificed to the gods after a season of poor harvests. A new prince would then be chosen in his place. But what caught Oberyn's interest most was the central figure of this ritual: Daughter of Water.

"Daughter of Water ," the merchant slurred, wine dripping from his lips, "is seen as a gift from the gods. She must be so pure, so beautiful, that when the new prince unites with her, fertility and peace return. The city waits for her for years, dedicates her to the gods. They say there's one now… her name is Y/N."

Oberyn listened to the words with a deep smile. He slowly lifted his wine glass and leaned toward the merchant. “Tell me, my friend. What is the story of this Y/N? And what kind of place is Pentos, that even the gods marvel at the beauty of its women?”

Pentos, a golden city overlooking the sea on the western shores of Essos, began to take shape in Oberyn’s imagination. Known for its brothels and harbor, Pentos was a hub where merchants, pirates, and nomadic warriors converged. But the city held far more than outsiders might suspect.

The narrow, stone-paved streets of Pentos were adorned with ancient mosaics, each telling a story from the city’s past. Golden-domed palaces stood as symbols of wealth, yet beneath this splendor lay a sharp game of fear and balance of power. Though it seemed as if Pentos was ruled by its lords, true power rested in the hands of merchants and wealthy families.

The people of Pentos fed their city with the gifts of the sea. Spices, exotic fabrics, fish, and precious stones from the East kept the port alive with motion. But behind this wealth were also the marks of poverty. Most of the houses were narrow, leaning on one another, barely letting sunlight pass through. The streets echoed with both the laughter of wine merchants and the silence of beggars crushed by hunger.

And in the middle of all this chaos, like an offering to the gods, the name of Daughter of Water, Y/N, was whispered among the people. Y/N was on the verge of becoming a legend.

What the merchant said had stirred Oberyn’s blood. The mere fact that Y/N had been chosen as Daughter of Water was enough to convince him to embark on this journey. But it was not just about a woman or a ritual. For Oberyn, Pentos was a new playing field. When the merchant said, “Pentos lives like prey caught in the talons of an eagle. It looks strong, but it always fears,” a sly smile spread across Oberyn’s face.

“Is it easy to get to Pentos?” Oberyn asked.

“Finding ships in the harbors isn't hard. But be careful—Pentos lords don't easily trust outsiders,” said the merchant.

Oberyn paid little mind to the man's warning. He was confident that with his wit and charm, he could get whatever he wanted in Pentos. At the port of Myr, he boarded a trade ship called the Silver Scorpion. The vessel was filled with exotic spices and rare fabrics, but for Oberyn, this journey was not about commerce—it was about discovering a woman and the dark secrets of a city.

As the Silver Scorpion glided over the waves, Oberyn pondered what lay ahead. The beauty of Lysandra, the ritual of the Water Maiden, the mysteries hidden beneath the golden domes of Pentos... This voyage promised to be one of his greatest adventures in Essos.

“Pentos,” he murmured to himself. “The gods truly know where to hide their gifts.”

As the Silver Scorpion approached the harbor, the grandeur and darkness of Pentos slowly entered Oberyn Martell’s view. The city’s golden domes and elegant seaside palaces suggested peace and order, but beneath that splendor was a chaos waiting to be uncovered.

The moment he disembarked, Oberyn scanned his surroundings. His eyes sought the order beneath the harbor’s chaos. Pentos seemed disorganized at first glance, but deep within its heart lay a hierarchy. Here, power was shaped in silence and shadows. Oberyn trusted his instincts—they would lead him to Daughter of Water, for a Martell never strays from his path.

He acted on the information given to him by the merchant he met in Myr. Daughter of Water was no ordinary girl. She was seen as a gift from the gods, venerated by the people. Such a being would not be hidden among the common folk; she would be kept in a special place, protected like a living icon.

Crossing the cobbled roads beyond the harbor, Oberyn made his way to the quieter and more noble part of the city. The northern quarter of Pentos was home to wealthy merchants and lords. Here, grand structures rose toward the sky, courtyards adorned with marble statues. But Oberyn knew Daughter of Water would be kept not just in wealth, but in sanctity.

As he traced her trail through the city’s bustle, a wine merchant whispered to him, “Daughter of Water? She’s in the Garden of the Gods. Beneath the golden arbors... but you can’t just walk in there.”

The Garden of the Gods was one of the oldest and most sacred parts of Pentos. Located on the city’s western slope, this area was a sanctuary dedicated to the old gods, filled with graceful statues and exotic flora. According to rumor, Daughter of Water resided there, under the watchful eyes of temple priests. The temple was open only to the chosen; within its walls, magic, tradition, and faith intertwined.

Before reaching the Garden of the Gods, Oberyn sought out more knowledge of Y/N from merchants and priests. Each described her divinity and beauty in their own way.

Y/N’s S/T skin was said to shine as purely and brightly as moonlight reflected on water. Her luminous complexion was viewed as a sacred sign by the people—as if the gods had touched her and crafted her with a purity unlike any other. Her H/C hair resembled the night sky: long, silky, and moving like waves in a gentle breeze. But what truly set Y/N apart wasn’t merely her physical beauty.

The priests said that the real reason people believed Y/N was sacred was because of the Blood Moon that appeared on the night of her birth. That night, Pentos fell into an eerie silence, and the city’s oldest priest declared that Y/N was “the rebirth of the gods.” Even more impressive was her voice, which seemed to enchant everyone who heard it. Her songs touched the hearts of those who listened, filling them with a kind of peace and awe. The people believed they heard the voices of the gods in her melodies.

Oberyn knew that entry to the garden was only possible for chosen individuals. But a Martell possessed the wit to turn obstacles into opportunity.

As Oberyn Martell moved through the narrow streets of Pentos, he gathered clues step by step to locate the Garden of the Gods. Every time he heard its name, he sensed a tremble of reverence in people’s voices. This place held not only beauty, but also mystery and power.

In the marketplace, he spotted one of the priests. The man was different from the others—his robe was cleaner, his walk more dignified. Most likely, he held a significant place in the temple’s inner hierarchy. Oberyn decided to follow him. He watched as the man began speaking to a merchant in a spice-scented alley. Observing from a distance, he noticed their interaction was based on mutual trust.

This insight offered Oberyn an opportunity. Even among the temple priests, some could succumb to worldly desires; for gold or prestige, no door was truly sealed. He needed only to wait for the right moment.

The next day, he witnessed a priest examining fresh flowers being taken into the Garden of the Gods. Oberyn seized the chance and approached, introducing himself as one of Pentos’s prominent merchants. He centered his conversation on the people's devotion to the gods and his "admiration" for the sanctity of the temples.

“Honored priest,” Oberyn began, with a subtle smile. “I’ve heard stories about the Garden of the Gods in Pentos. They say the gods left traces of themselves there. Tell me, what does such a sacred place look like?”

The priest responded with a cautious expression. “The garden is for the gods and their servants alone. Entry is not permitted for someone off the street.”

Oberyn’s lips curled slightly. “Someone off the street? Perhaps. But I didn’t come to Pentos as just another merchant. I’ve spent most of my life uncovering the mysteries of Essos. In Myr, Lys, Qohor... I’ve seen the signs of the gods. I believe in what you say, and I cannot help but admire what has been granted to you.”

The priest examined Oberyn’s confident tone. Still, he seemed ready to object. At that moment, Oberyn lowered his voice, speaking in a tone that balanced between a subtle threat and a tempting offer. “In this city, many speak of the sacrifices made by the temple priests, and of the sacred relics you guard in the Garden of the Gods. But sadly, some rumors suggest that this sanctity is no longer well protected. Such whispers could tarnish the priests’ reputation. However, a foreigner like me could see things in a very different light. I could help exalt the temple’s name, if we worked together.”

The priest evaluated Oberyn's words, sensing the subtle threat and flattery woven together. Turning him away carried risk; remaining silent, however, might make an enemy of a man as clever as Oberyn. In the end, they reached an agreement. The priest would lead Oberyn to the edge of the garden, but crossing the temple's boundaries would depend entirely on Oberyn’s own skill.

The massive stone gates of the Garden of the Gods were more magnificent than even the grandest structures of Pentos. The carvings above depicted ancient deities, each holding a different element of nature: fire, water, earth, and air. As Oberyn studied these representations, a phrase etched beneath the gate caught his eye: "Peace is found only in places blessed by the gods."

As the priest opened the gate, he turned to Oberyn. "Not everyone who comes here can feel its sanctity. But this place sees the soul. If you lose your way during this journey, it will be by your own choice."

When the gate opened, Oberyn felt the presence of another world. The Garden of the Gods was no ordinary garden. Towering marble columns reached toward the sky, and birds danced around them, transforming the temple grounds into a work of art. Water whispered from every corner, flowing through narrow channels that connected the courtyards.

Oberyn tried not to be swept away by the garden’s enchantment. "The blood of a Martell is sacred too," he reminded himself. Even amid such beauty, he remained focused on his mission. He could sense that Y/N was at the very heart of this garden. His eyes scanned every corner, every step calculated.

Oberyn Martell relied on his intelligence and sharp observational skills to move through the Garden of the Gods undetected. His desire to reach Y/N gave him a renewed sense of determination. As he watched the garden and its routines, he carefully noted the behavior of the priests, the patrol paths of the guards, and every small detail around him.

The first thing he noticed was the sacred order that governed the garden. The priests moved in a constant ritual rhythm, traveling to different sections of the garden at set times. The guards were vigilant, especially near the central pergola that lay at the garden’s core—an area under tight surveillance. Oberyn realized that a direct approach was impossible; he would need to find a flaw within the system’s structure.

Through his observations, Oberyn noticed that at specific times the priests gathered beneath a small pavilion in the garden’s corner. There, fruits and wines were offered as symbols of the garden’s sanctity, and the priests partook of these gifts while expressing their devotion. Yet Oberyn saw beyond the sacredness—he saw a glimpse of human nature: despite their faith, the priests consumed the fruits and wine with eager appetite, surrendering themselves to the moment’s comfort.

Oberyn recalled the months he had spent in Myr, learning the arts of poison. In the small leather pouch he carried, one vial contained an extract of a plant called Silent Shadow. The poison was not deadly; its effects were more subtle. It clouded the mind, dulled awareness, and slowed reflexes. For his goal, it was a perfect tool.

His next step was to mix the extract into the fruits and wine offered to the priests. But it had to be done without drawing attention. Oberyn purchased a few pomegranates and figs from a small fruit stall outside the garden. In a secluded corner behind the stand, he used a thin syringe to inject the poison into the fruits. He also treated a bottle of Pentoshi wine in the same way, preparing everything for his plan.

Oberyn discreetly placed the fruit and wine on a table near the pavilion, blending them in with the other offerings. When the priests gathered at the corner of the garden, they unknowingly included Oberyn’s contributions in their ritual. Soon after, he watched as they began to taste the sacred offerings, all while his plan took root.

The effects became evident quickly. The priests' movements grew looser, their speech slowed. Some chuckled softly; others gently swayed where they sat. Even the guards, having sampled a few bites, started to show signs of the same dazed state.

Oberyn knew this was his moment.

Oberyn, knowing this distraction would continue, decided to act. At this point, the most crucial part of his plan was to silently find the path to the center of the garden, to Y/N’s arbor.

The water channels running through the garden were another detail that hadn't escaped Oberyn’s notice. Passing under delicate stone arches, these channels connected every corner of the garden, extending silently toward the center. When Oberyn realized they were wide enough for a person to pass through, he decided to use them.

Taking advantage of the priests’ and guards’ scattered attention, he slipped into the most secluded part of the garden. There, a small arched tunnel marked the origin of the water. As he entered the tunnel, he stripped off his outer garments and began to move carefully, clinging to the damp stone walls. The humid, dark atmosphere tested both his mental and physical endurance. But Oberyn was used to such challenges; a Martell did not succumb to fear when opportunity presented itself.

As he moved forward with the sound of the water guiding him, he noticed a small stone staircase at the end of the channel. It led directly beneath Y/N’s arbor. Climbing the damp steps in silence, Oberyn advanced like a chess piece moved with careful intent. At the end of the tunnel, he spotted a sentry priest standing alert in the dim light. Now, intelligence and creativity had to serve as sharper weapons than any blade.

Looking around, Oberyn noticed thinly carved stone holes reaching up to the ceiling of the channel. These openings, combined with the sound of the water, created echoes that carried whispers across the garden.

A clever idea came to him to distract the priest. He picked up a small stone from near the entrance of the tunnel and placed it in the flow of the stream, waiting patiently. As the stone drifted with the current and clattered against others, it echoed, making it seem as though the sound had come from a distant part of the tunnel. But Oberyn wasn’t finished; to amplify the illusion, he gently blew air into one of the stone carvings, adding a whisper that blended with the rhythm of the water.

The priest suddenly stiffened. The rhythmic sound of the stream mixed with faint whispers must have seemed like a divine warning or sign. With unease, he turned his head and began to approach the shadowy entrance of the water channels. At that moment, Oberyn's cunning triumphed once again; while the priest waited for a sign from the gods, Oberyn glided up the stairs like a shadow.

The stairs led Oberyn to a chamber beneath the arbor. Here, on the surface of the stone walls, he saw carvings resembling ancient Valyrian symbols. Yet among them, Oberyn recognized the subtle outline of a mechanism. The stones shifted slightly when touched with care. With the patience honed under Dorne's blazing sun, he studied their arrangement. Moving with near-blind sensitivity in the dark, he found the correct alignment. As the final stone clicked into place, a soft mechanical sound whispered through the air and a stone door slowly opened.

A narrow passage led Oberyn just a few steps from Y/N’s arbor. Yet he could already feel her presence; the air itself seemed to hum with divine energy around her. It was as if her very breath filled the chamber.

But for Oberyn, the real challenge was how to approach her. It would take more than wit—it required a captivating strategy. This meeting with Y/N was less a hunt and more the final steps of a dance. He had reached the most sacred part of the garden, but as he neared Y/N, he prepared to don his mask: one of charm, danger, and cleverness.

When Oberyn Martell stepped into the sacred chamber of the arbor, his eyes lingered for a heartbeat. Y/N was far more than what the priests and the people of Pentos had described. The young woman seemed shaped by the very hands of the gods. Her S/T skin, so rare and pristine to someone who had grown under Dorne’s scorching sun, was like a canvas—pure and mesmerizing. The smoothness of her complexion reminded him of a mountain peak kissed by the first snow; cold, yet with an untouchable allure.

Her H/C hair, catching the flickering light of the torches in the room, resembled the night sky itself—each strand a shadow of starlight cloaked in darkness. It flowed down to her waist like a silken veil, framing her face in a way that made her seem like she belonged in a sacred portrait. But what struck him most were her eyes: deep, intense, caught between the golden flame of a dragon and the silvery gray of Valyria. Those eyes pierced through Oberyn’s gaze like an arrow.

Y/N left a divine impression not just with her beauty but with her very presence. Her movements were graceful—not in the way of a trained lady, but as though gifted by the gods themselves. The golden bracelets on her slender wrists, bestowed by the priests, chimed softly with each subtle motion. Yet Oberyn sensed those bracelets were shackles; Y/N was a bird in a cage, condemned to a fate she had never chosen.

A faint smile touched Oberyn’s lips—not one of victory, but of something deeper, a recognition. Y/N was not simply beautiful. She possessed a uniqueness unlike anything he had ever seen or experienced. This young woman could make him forget the flower gardens of Dorne, yet behind her beauty lay fragility and solitude.

"As beautiful as a goddess, and as fragile as a bird," Oberyn thought. "But a Martell fears neither gods nor cages." Y/N’s beauty stirred not only his admiration but also a hunger. He was not a man content with watching—he was a man of pursuit. But with Y/N, that pursuit felt elevated. This woman was more than a symbol offered to the gods—she was powerful enough to deceive the gods themselves.

Oberyn was captivated by not just her appearance, but the aura she emanated. The priests may have marked her as chosen by the divine, but in Oberyn’s eyes, Y/N held a power beyond their reach. The sorrow in her gaze ignited the fire in his Martell blood. His fury at her caged destiny, and his desire to truly know her, made him more resolute than ever.

"To only look upon her," Oberyn thought, "would be like gazing at stars and never daring to make a wish." Every movement she made, every breath she took, became less an image and more a melody in his mind. The fire of Dorne met the elegance of Y/N, and he knew this was merely the beginning.

Oberyn Martell would not accept that Lysandra belonged to the gods. In his eyes gleamed the resolve of a warrior and the passion of a lover. This bird would not remain caged—for Oberyn was a man who broke cages.

The Garden of the Gods in Pentos had lost none of its grandeur, even under the night’s shadow. Marble columns rose like phantoms in the moonlight, while the ancient trees overhead formed a canopy that veiled the sky. The soft trickle of water and the occasional chirp of birds gave the garden a sacred harmony with nature. The holiness of this place weighed upon the hearts of all who entered—but Oberyn Martell’s heart bore only one thought: Y/N.

“Y/N,” he said, stepping from the shadows with his usual confident, cunning smile. His attire—rich in black and red—was embroidered with golden suns of House Martell. He looked both noble and enigmatic, moving with the ease of a predator who cared little for the sacred. Y/N, under the moonlight, shone like a tale brought to life. But to Oberyn, this was no tale. This was the beginning of a mystery waiting to be unraveled.

“The Garden of the Gods... they say it’s a sacred place. But I’ve always been intrigued by how fragile sacred things can be. Just like you, shining here tonight.”

Y/N was sitting on the bench by the window; she quickly turned around and frowned at the stranger standing before her. There was more discomfort than fear in her eyes. "I don't know who you are, but you shouldn't be here. Only priests and the divinely chosen are allowed to walk in this garden."

Oberyn took a few steps toward her, and when the moonlight hit his face, that famous smile of his became more pronounced. "I did not claim my right from the priests, but from the night itself. I’m looking for something, Y/N. And I’ve found it."

Y/N's brows furrowed. "This isn't a place for games. Tell me who you are and leave."

Oberyn didn't seem affected by her authoritative tone. On the contrary, the smile on his face grew wider. "I am Oberyn Martell," he said, each word carrying the power of his name. "Prince of Dorne, son of the Snake, a wanderer who sings songs of love and death across the Seven Kingdoms. But tonight, I am only a man. And perhaps the Garden of the Gods has summoned me."

Y/N stared at Oberyn. "You came all this way just to find me? If achieving that makes you feel divine, I'm afraid you'll be disappointed. I'm not a miracle, nor the embodiment of a prophecy. I'm just... someone born in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Oberyn took a step to sit beside her, but Y/N stopped him with a motion of her hand. "Don’t come closer. I don't care who you are. I’m in no state of mind to talk to anyone on behalf of the gods."

"I'm not speaking on behalf of the gods," Oberyn said, his voice warm enough to slowly melt Y/N’s defenses. "I speak for myself. And when I look at you, I don’t see a prophecy or a miracle. I see a woman. A woman who has bewitched me."

Y/N turned her eyes away from Oberyn. "Bewitched? I suppose after growing up in a brothel, being seen as sacred is somehow less unbelievable."

Oberyn was quiet for a moment. "A brothel?" he asked, his voice curious rather than mocking.

Y/N paused for a second, then shrugged and continued speaking. "Yes. I was born in one of the famous brothels of Pentos. My mother worked there. The women did everything they could to protect me, but I grew up in the middle of that life. If you’re wondering how I remained a virgin, the answer is simple: I was scary enough."

Oberyn raised his eyebrows slightly. "You were scary?"

"Yes," Y/N said with a sharp smile. "From an early age, I didn’t let anyone come near me. I outsmarted them, protected myself with fear. Eventually, the priests came and told me I was the chosen of the gods. Funny, isn’t it? Someone who grew up in the back rooms of a brothel suddenly becomes Pentos’s sacred symbol."

As Oberyn listened to her words, the smile on his face faded into a more serious expression. "I can’t say your story surprises me," he said at last. "But I must admit, it makes you even more captivating. Because it's impossible to believe that a woman who defends herself so perfectly could ever be ordinary."

Y/N shot him a sharp look. "Don't flatter me. I've heard enough praise before you ever walked into this place. If you want something from me, just say it!"

Oberyn took a few more steps closer, locking eyes with her. “You wonder what I want from you? I want the truth. I want to know what guides you beyond this prophecy nonsense, what makes you feel like a pawn in the gods' game. But most of all, I want to understand you, Y/N. Because your story is more sacred than anything in this garden.”

Y/N remained silent for a moment. The sincerity in Oberyn’s voice had begun to chip away at her walls. Yet deep down, she still questioned how trustworthy this man truly was. “Your tales and my truths are very different, Oberyn Martell. I gave up believing in fairy tales a long time ago. But if it’s the truth you want, I might keep talking.”

Oberyn lowered his head slightly, wearing that famous smile again. “I’m not just a storyteller, Y/N. I’m a man who knows how to seek the truth, and live it. And tonight, here with you, I’m ready to uncover the truths that touch your soul.”

In his eyes, Y/N could see the dark shadows of her own fate. This man could be the most dangerous and the most captivating person to cross her path. But standing before him, she was determined to keep whatever she felt tonight a secret.

Oberyn stood in silence before her. Her sarcastic gaze, tired smile, and disbelief might have dissuaded another. But for Oberyn Martell, this was nothing short of a challenge. His intelligence and charm were often sharper and deadlier than any blade.

“The chosen one,” Oberyn said, adding a sly warmth to his voice. “You once said how foolish you thought that title was. But I’ve been wondering something. When you reject it, is it truly because of disbelief? Or is it rebellion against something that was forced upon you?”

Y/N turned to him, brows furrowed. “You’re trying to understand me, aren’t you? Others have tried before. Priests speaking in the name of gods, dragging my mother through the dirt while lifting me up… They all told the same lies. But my mother… she was different. She was the only one who taught me how the world really works.”

Oberyn took another careful step forward. “Your mother was a prostitute. But she did everything she could to protect you from her fate, didn’t she? A girl who grew up in a brothel and managed to remain a virgin… That alone is an incredible story. What protected you, Y/N? Your mother’s love? Or your own will?”

Y/N looked down in silence. The sharpness in her voice had faded, replaced by sorrow. “My mother trained me. Not just to protect my body, but my soul too. It had nothing to do with the gods. But that doesn’t make me sacred. It just… means I survived.”

Oberyn didn’t let the moment slip away. “Survival is already a miracle, Y/N. Especially in a place like that, with a past like yours. Staying a virgin doesn’t have to be a sign from the gods. But it is a power. A power only you know, and only you can control.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes. “Are you trying to persuade me? Because if you are, you’re talking to the wrong person.”

Oberyn leaned in, his face close to hers. “No, I’m talking to the right one. Because you’re someone who rejects titles and prophecies. That makes you stronger. The reason so many people cling to you like you’re divine isn’t just your beauty, it’s your resolve. Y/N, they want to make you sacred because you control your own fate. And now, we can write that fate together.”

When Y/N saw the sincerity in his eyes, she hesitated for a moment. His words were chipping away at her walls. “What do you want, Oberyn? What do you really want from me?”

Oberyn shrugged with a soft smile. “Just one night… just one moment. To be with you, and leave all this prophecy nonsense behind.”

Y/N, while weighing the meaning behind his words, remembered her mother’s advice. Oberyn’s charm and wit offered her a world she had never known. But within that world, she realized she could make her own choices. This man was offering her an option.

She looked at Oberyn in silence for a while. Then, with a slight nod, she spoke. “If that’s what you want, then I will be with you. But that doesn’t make me sacred. It makes me a woman. A woman who can make her own choices.”

Oberyn leaned in with a look that was a mix of triumph and tenderness, taking her hand. “What is sacredness anyway? Where there are choices and freedom, there is true power. And being with you will be a source of strength for me.”

Y/N smiled softly. This man had reached the vulnerable parts of her. But most importantly, he reminded her that she could choose something of her own free will. A gift from the gods? Perhaps. But in that moment, she chose to simply be a woman.

Y/N stood up to come level with Oberyn. The room was cloaked in semi-darkness. Her cheeks flushed at the thought of experiencing such an intimate moment with a man for the first time, but the shadows would conceal her. Yet her skin glowed like porcelain in the candlelight, making it impossible not to notice the change in her color. Oberyn gently cupped her chin between his fingers and lifted it, making her look into his eyes. Her eyelids carried a subtle weight. Her gaze became more alluring, more intimate than ever before. As Oberyn looked into her eyes, he felt both a kingdom to be conquered and a goddess to be worshipped. Then his eyes wandered to her lips, curving softly upward. He slid his thumb down to her lower lip. Its hue resembled a rose fed with fresh blood. Her lower lip was fuller, each word she spoke a silent invitation for a kiss. He could no longer resist. As their faces drew closer, their skin touched, and he kissed her lips—an innocent yet sinful kiss.

Oberyn Martell’s kiss carried layers of meaning, passionate yet always in control. Y/N’s body trembled involuntarily. This was the first true intimacy she had ever experienced. Her lips were soft and shy, while Oberyn’s were like a storm of experience overtaking them.

The kiss began gently. Y/N’s trembling breath made the warmth of Oberyn’s lips even more vivid. When Oberyn slipped his tongue lightly between her lips, Y/N’s entire body reacted as though washed in fire. For the first time, she discovered the depth of her own desire. When Oberyn’s tongue touched hers, she instinctively held onto his shoulder.

The kiss became more and more sensual. Oberyn’s experienced lips tore through Y/N’s shyness, urging her toward boldness. Their tongues began to dance, as though trying to taste each other more deeply; with each motion, the dance became bolder and more intricate. Y/N’s first hesitant touch of her tongue drove Oberyn wild. Her fresh and innocent responses only fueled the fire burning within him. As he deepened the kiss, his hands slowly moved upward. His palms caressed the sides of Y/N’s delicate neck, tilting her head back slightly to make her fully surrender. His thumb pressed gently on the spot where her pulse throbbed; this small gesture allowed him to feel how alive and sensitive her body was. The rhythm of her heartbeat pulsed beneath his fingers like a melodic song.

The moisture of the kiss blended with the warmth that spread from Y/N’s lips to Oberyn’s beard. Oberyn deepened the kiss as if he wanted to savor the taste of her lips a little longer. His free hand slowly moved down to her waist. Y/N’s slender figure, for Oberyn’s strong hands, was as precious as the gold and diamonds that adorned her body. His other hand gently touched the small of her back, fingers gliding beneath the fabric as they explored the curves of her body. His fingertips traced the bends of her spine, offering both reassurance and a subtle invitation to his fire. With every touch, he could feel Y/N’s faint shivers. Her deep breaths were a sign of how willingly she was surrendering to his passionate caress. While Oberyn honored her innocence, he was also relishing the pleasure of breaking it with her.

When Oberyn finally slowed the kiss and pulled away from her face, a soft breath escaped her lips. Y/N’s cheeks were flushed with desire; her lips slightly parted, marked by the trace of his bite. Oberyn studied her face and spoke with a mocking smile. "The taste of innocence is so sweet. But you will never be innocent again, Y/N. Not with me."

Then, Oberyn bent his knees slightly, one hand behind her back, the other under her thighs, and lifted her into his arms. His feet glided over the carpet embroidered with pomegranate motifs symbolizing fertility and sanctity. Though his movement was graceful, it held the decisiveness of a warrior lifting his sword. Y/N’s body felt light in his powerful embrace. When Oberyn's hand held her back, his fingertips discovered the smoothness of her skin—silky, warm, and fresh.

As he carried her toward the bed standing at the center of the room, the walls carved from black marble and inscribed with ancient symbols seemed to close in around them. The heavy velvet curtains darkened with each step, surrounding them like a lingering echo.

The bed was draped in deep blue silk covers, rippling like sea waves, adorned with shimmering white floral motifs. An ornate golden headboard stood tall like a symbol of sacredness. But for Oberyn, it was merely a vessel—not for the gods, but for surrendering to desire.

As he laid Y/N down, his movements were as delicate as a sculptor placing a masterpiece, yet as assertive as a conqueror celebrating victory. When her back met the softness of the bed, every fabric and texture on her skin suddenly felt foreign. Oberyn paused for a moment; leaning over her, his lips nearly touching hers, his breath stirred her skin. "The gods offered you as a sacred body," he whispered, his voice a reverberating tone in the darkness. "But here, in this bed, your sanctity will be undone. The gods misplaced you... They left you in my hands, not theirs."

His hands glided gently down her sides, as though drawing a boundary between her smooth skin and the bed's fabric. Oberyn read both her fears and desires. As his lips returned to hers, his hands moved over the curves of her breasts, the fullness of her hips, her skin burning like fire under his touch.

The dress Y/N wore hugged every curve with its thin and soft fabric, yet it drew a line Oberyn had yet to cross. His hands moved toward the elegant slope of her neck. As he gently slipped the fabric from her shoulders, his fingers made their first direct contact with her skin. There was a beauty that was both inviting and provocative, stoking the flame already burning low in his loins. "Being this flawless... is it merely a coincidence?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

He slowly slid the dress down to her wrists. The fabric stretched slightly over the fullness of her hips before falling freely again. The idea of a man seeing her bare body excited her; her nipples hardened, the fine hairs on her skin stood on end, her breathing grew erratic, and her chest rose and fell with intensity. How long could Oberyn withstand such an enticing sight? He climbed on top of her, supporting himself with one hand on the bed while the other cupped her breasts. Their round shape echoed nature’s symmetry. When he rolled the hardened tips between his fingers, a shiver erupted from her spine and surged toward her loins. Oberyn, alternately soft and firm in his caresses, bent to kiss her lips once more, ensuring her body met each touch with delicate sensitivity.

His fingers, feather-light, traced a path from her breasts to her stomach and down to her waist, brushing her body with teasing strokes that danced along the curves brought to life by the deep contrast of candlelight. Y/N trembled under Oberyn’s every touch, her body tightening in pleasure as she tasted such new and overwhelming sensations.

When Oberyn released her lips and moved down to her breasts, she gasped in surprise as if she had discovered something unknown. Her areolas were enveloped by his mouth, her nipples caught teasingly between his teeth while his tongue continued to provoke the untouched areas. Yet his hands never strayed from her sinuous figure.

In the midst of all this lustful passion, Y/N noticed something—an ache pooling low in her body, unlike anything she’d felt before. The tension gathered in her pelvis, and her most intimate part pulsed with heat. One leg rested on the bed like a column, while the other bent slightly inward, as if trying to contain the trembling arousal spreading through her. She felt embarrassed. Oberyn’s sensual touches had awakened every sensitive cell in her body, preparing her for a climax she couldn’t fully comprehend, while a warm, slick moisture began to seep between her thighs.

Oberyn finally released her breast from his hungry mouth, and without lifting his face from her skin, he trailed his nose, lips, and tongue between the swell of her breasts down to her navel. He licked each spot the candlelight revealed, and the trail of saliva he left behind cooled her delicate skin like a breeze across silk.

Kisses soon accompanied the strokes of his tongue. As he moved closer to her pelvis, the pleasure seemed to intensify; when a soft moan slipped through her teeth and filled the room, Oberyn lifted his head and smiled. "You're finally starting to let yourself go," he said, not with mockery but with the feral intensity of an impatient bull. "How about mimicking the sounds you heard in the brothel, Y/N? You may have kept your virginity, but surely you've been exposed to memories you didn't ask for."

Y/N froze for a moment. It was as if she had forgotten how to breathe. She saw the certainty in Oberyn’s eyes. She had grown up in a brothel and witnessed the orgasmic expressions on women's faces—grimaces that seemed to mix pain and desperation, as if they hurt but still begged for more. Her mother always said the women in that house were on a wicked path, that they sold their feelings for money, and ever since, a woman's moan had felt like something shameful to her. But now, she understood—resisting the overwhelming power of the pleasure she was experiencing would be absurd. As Oberyn continued to taste her body, a louder moan escaped her lips. The tension in her muscles had eased, and she could feel his touch much more deeply now. Her mind had surrendered completely to the spell of lust.

But it seemed even this wasn’t enough for the prince. He straightened up and gazed at Y/N’s sculpture-like, flawless face with desire. "Come on, gift me the sanctity of your moans," he said, "let me help you—lie on your stomach, and part your legs."

She hesitated at first. Her womanhood was like a vault where an artist hid their most precious works—a mysterious sanctuary. And now she was about to open that mystery to a man she barely knew. Her nervousness slowed her movements, but she did as he asked, supporting herself with her arms. She lay face down, pressing her elbows into the mattress while her head and breasts hovered above. She slowly dragged her feet across the sheets and opened her legs. When the cool air from the window brushed against her burning sex, she realized just how ready she was for this man.

Meanwhile, Oberyn began removing his clothes. The sharp sound of skin sliding against fabric, the gentle thud of garments hitting the floor filled Y/N’s ears and echoed in her mind like a melody announcing the carnal pleasure to come.

When Oberyn moved to position himself on the bed, his knees on the bed again, the bed trembled with his movements. And when he finally placed his body on top of Y/N’s, she felt his strength and weight down to her feet. When Y/N’s body, which would make the gods jealous, merged with Oberyn’s, the missing piece of the puzzle was complete, they were in such harmony.

On the ceiling was a fresco dedicated to the gods. The fresco depicted dragons piercing the sky and sea goddesses. The pale light filtered through the fresco, adding a mystical air to the room and illuminating Oberyn’s bronze skin and Y/N’s S/T. The light from the fresco surrounded their bodies in harmony like a sacred halo.

Oberyn’s hand moved along the edges of Y/N’s body, stopping at the edge of the bed and her body, his fingers began to push the edge. “Come on, Daughter of Water, help me,” he said, leaning into her ear, his warm breath mixing with his words. His lips were so close, the goosebumps of his breath brushing against her skin.

Oberyn slid his hand from her waist, wedging himself between her and the bed. He struggled toward her groin, his fingers finally meeting a warm slick, a soft moan escaping her lips.

Y/N felt trapped beneath Oberyn. His weight, his strength, and the way his arm wrapped around her waist and lowered his hand to her fresh pussy made her feel like a captive, a prisoner who had forgotten her freedom. Her movements were completely restricted, and she realized that she had to surrender herself only to his touch. But what she was trapped in was the orgasmic moment Oberyn would give her, and she could remain in a prison of lust forever.

As uncomfortable as Oberyn thought it was when his beard dug into her skin when he placed his head on her neck, even that discomfort gave her a reason to get wet when the prince’s fingers started moving. The sloshing sound of her wet pussy caught her ears. Oberyn was slowly caressing the girl's clitoris in a circular motion, moving his fingers to the left side with a certain tempo, and with the sudden change of direction, he could feel the girl's whole body shaking under him. Then he dipped his index and ring fingers into her outer lips, stretching her swollen flesh on both sides, and reached the entrance of her vagina with his middle finger, and while stimulating this area, he continued to stimulate it with frequent up and down movements, sliding the precum he had collected up to her clitoris and pressing it hard.

Oberyn had passed his other arm under Y/N's ribcage and placed his hand on the girl's neck. As the girl was exposed to the naughty movements surrounding her inner lips, her tensed muscles struggled to lift her off the bed and get some rest from this maddening pleasure, Oberyn wrapped his arms and legs tighter around her body. Y/N was moaning now, as he wanted. A deep moan coming from her chest, a combination of pain and pleasure.

"Does this feel good?" he asked, knowing that the girl was in no mood to speak. And as he had expected, no words came from her lips except a groan. A dark and threatening air swept through the room as Oberyn repeated his question. The fingers around her neck tightened slightly.

Y/N's mouth let out a series of painful, broken cries, then she answered, her voice trembling. "Yes, I've always wondered about that feeling," she admitted.

“Oh, good,” Oberyn said, his fingers softly against her throat. But Y/N had become so sensitive to the sudden stimulation from her entrance to her clitoris that she buried her head in the pillow. She was moaning much louder now. But he was forgetting something. Oberyn wanted Y/N’s moans to echo throughout the room. So he pulled his hand from her pussy, tangled his damp fingers in her hair, and lifted her head violently off the pillow until his ears brushed her lips. He breathed through his teeth. “You will not do this, Y/N! If necessary, the priests and guards will hear your moans and come here, but you will never lower your voice, do you understand me?”

Y/N was afraid. She was disturbed by this rough treatment, by the disregard for her will. But she also wanted, absurdly, to continue this fear and for Oberyn to be harsher with her. And she was too ashamed to tell him.

She did as he said. When Oberyn placed his hand between her vulva and the bed again, his voice grew louder with the intensity of his caresses. Oberyn was pleased with her. He laughed softly. "Well done, Y/N," he said, "as long as you listen to me, it is inevitable that you will lose yourself in the 'sacred' pleasures of sex." As the girl moaned and shook more, a hardness that belonged to Oberyn continued to swell in her ass. He wondered how hard it would get, and was equally surprised. Back in the brothel days, she had watched the son of a young, rich family fucking one of the girls in the house. When he had withdrawn his penis from the woman's vagina while he was secretly looking at them through the open door, he had seen that it was a small and slender organ. It did not look very hard, though. Now, as the hardness she felt behind her increased, she felt sorry for the boy. And she understood why he had come there.

Oberyn rose from Y/N, choosing to look down on her squirming body, and when he placed his strong hands on her waist, turning her like a wooden puppet, he spoke in a tone that showed his admiration. "To touch you is like defying the gods. But it is worth it; I am willing to burn with your fire."

Y/N tried to catch her breath and digest his words. The intensity of Oberyn's gaze startled her, but it also made her feel stronger than she had ever felt before.

The invisible attraction between them grew stronger with each second as the captivating scent of basil and sandalwood filled their lungs.

Oberyn would prepare Y/N for their new position. She was wet enough, eager enough... But she was still just a young. This time he didn't ask her. He placed his hands under her knees and made her stretch her legs. This way, Oberyn could easily slide between her legs, making sure her slit, which was burning with pleasure and completely covered in precum, was spread apart so he could insert his cock between them.

Y/N gasped as her prince's vein-throbbing cock pressed against her inner lips, and she punched the bed with sudden force. "Fuck," she screamed. Oberyn laughed with pleasure. "What would the priests and common people do if they knew that Daughter of Water they worship as a sacred virgin was screaming lust under a foreign man?" he asked breathlessly, his voice stinging and mocking. The girl's virgin pussy was so wet that the liquid leaking from her legs began to spread on the blue fabric of the bed.

Oberyn was forcing his way into her vagina, first grabbing his cock in his hand and flicking it against her clit, then stroking it all the way around her vagina a few times, then inserting a few millimeters of his tip into her vagina, but it never went in. This was driving Y/N crazy. "Fuck you, Martell!" she screamed, a phrase she had heard a whore say in the past. "I want you inside me now." As rude as it had sounded at first, she now realized how useful it was.

Oberyn was provoked by the girl's words. With sudden movements, he grabbed her by the arms, straightened her up, and hugged her as if he wanted to crush her. He pulled the hair covering her ears hard and growled through his teeth. "Do you want me to fuck you like your whore mother, Y/N? Turn the holy virgin into a holy whore?"

Y/N was aroused by these words. It was interesting that Oberyn treated her differently than other people. "Yes," she moaned, "I want you to fuck me like a whore."

The more the girl begged him, the more Oberyn became greedy. "You really need to be fucked hard by a strange man, don't you, Y/N, huh? Tell me!"

Y/N moaned breathlessly, "Oh, yes, I just want to be Prince Martell's bitch!"

Oberyn got off the bed without letting go of the girl's arm and stood on his feet. He turned the girl's back to him and placed his chin on her shoulder. One of his hands was pushing her back as he spoke. "Bend over, my holy whore," he commanded.

Y/N did as he said immediately and pressed her upper body against the bed. Oberyn placed his strong hand on the girl's back to find the position she needed and made her chest press a little more against the bed. Y/N's full ass was now clearly visible to Oberyn's eyes. Smooth as porcelain and as aesthetic as a statue. Just below, between her ass cheeks, her full pussy lips were glistening with precum reflected by the candlelight. So needy, so delicious and worthy of being spanked without tolerance...

Oberyn first placed his fingers on Y/N's right ass cheek. He caressed it gently. Then he repeated the same for her left as he now held her cheeks with both hands and stretched them to the sides. And suddenly he slid his penis into the girl's vagina. Y/N was startled and breathless when she suddenly felt his cock in her vagina. She wanted to get up, but Oberyn's hand was still on her back, keeping her steady.

Oberyn’s cock completely enveloped Y/N’s vagina. It was neither too tight for him. He threw his head back in pleasure as the rough, warm walls of her vagina encased Oberyn’s smooth manhood. “Oh, gods! I hope they’re watching us.”

It had been a long time since Oberyn had been inside such a tight vagina, and he was lost in longing for the pleasure it gave him. Each time he pushed his huge snake inside her, his swollen balls slapped against her clit, stimulating both her g-spot and her clitoral, nearly bringing her to tears.

“You like that, don’t you?” Oberyn asked between growls. “Tell me you want me, Y/N, tell me you want your prince’s big, hard, juicy cock in your horny cunt!”

Y/N was panting. With the intensity of the pleasure she experienced, tears started to flow from her eyes and she started to cry, her moans became louder and echoed in all the frescoes. "Oh, yes, I want my prince's cock inside me."

A wild moan came out of her throat with each impact as he rooted it into her tight hole. And he continued to push rhythmically. "Feeling you from the inside is like a mortal tasting heaven."

Both of them were about to reach the peaks of pleasure. Y/N's tight vagina felt Oberyn's hardness and veined surface down to its smallest cell. Oberyn's penis, on the other hand, was wrapped in Y/N's warm and knotted walls, twitching like a pulse.

At this moment, Oberyn's attention was drawn to a mirror hanging on the wall opposite the bed.

Its frame was delicately shaped and decorated with mythological figures. Women's faces, looking up as if praying to the gods, were intertwined among sacred texts embroidered in gold. Its surface was like natural water, radiating a wavy light.

Oberyn grabbed Y/N's arms before he could pull her toward him. His head found its place in the curve of her shoulder, his lips caressing her cheek as he asked if the mirror was related to her sacredness nonsense. Y/N tried to regain her composure, her breath coming back to her. Then he answered. It was a mirror made solely to reflect Y/N's virginal and "sacred" body.

There was irony in Oberyn's eyes as he emerged from Y/N, examining her as if she were a being as fragile as glass. He gently wrapped his fingers around Y/N's arm and led her to the mirror, speaking in a voice that echoed off the cold stone floor of the room. "Is this it? Is this the holy light they believe in?

The mirror had made Y/N an icon in this world. To the priests, her silhouette on the mirror's shiny surface was a mark as pure as the touch of the gods. But now... this was a night when that holy glow would be tested.

He entwined his fingers in her hair and stroked her encouragingly. "A reflection, a vision shining on the surface of the glass..." then Oberyn touched her perfect curves as if introducing their naked bodies. "But you are the real thing, Y/N. Blood, living, human..." he pulled aside the hair covering her neck and kissed her passionately. Each kiss was wet and sincere.

Y/N turned her gaze away from the mirror. But Oberyn held her chin and turned her face back to the mirror. Now her reflection was not of the godlike light she was used to, but of the heat of excitement in her body.

"We will continue here," Oberyn said softly, almost a whisper. "You will see the girl reflected in the mirror free from her chains. Now...bend."

Y/N felt guilty despite everything. When she saw herself in the mirror, she felt in her heart that she had broken the trust of the people, the priests, and even her mother in her. While the words that had been flying in the air just now disappeared, the image reflected in the mirror hit her with all its concreteness. But she never gave in to the impositions of the people, she did not really want to play the role assigned to her. The reflection she saw had changed; she was no longer an innocent icon, but the silhouette of a woman who did not hide her feelings.

Oberyn ordered her in a harsher tone this time. And he grabbed her waist tightly and helped her bend forward with a rough intervention. Y/N spread her legs. Her clitoris and vagina were still pulsing, and the colorless fluid was leaking from her legs. And when Oberyn slid back inside her, she groaned, realizing that she was still as hard as iron. He fucked Y/N much faster now. He gripped her arms to support himself comfortably and control his movements, and pressed his fingertips tightly into her flesh. Her firm breasts, defeated by gravity, shook and quivered as Oberyn moved rapidly inside her. Her vaginal walls tightened and pierced her joints each time he entered, announcing his presence to her entire body, and when he left, he created a huge void.

Oberyn leaned toward her ear, his voice trembling with a snarl. "You want their imposed sanctity to be destroyed, don't you?" She was out of breath, her moans mixing with each other. "Look in this mirror," he said, his voice so firm that Y/N obeyed. "Your innocence, your beauty, the reflection they loved so much to worship. But tonight, the gods saw you differently." He pulled her arms tightly toward him, still thrusting; he pressed his lips to her ear. His growls were still wild and ambitious. "You are breaking free from being their temple and carving your own path." When Y/N looked into the mirror, the smooth, godlike silhouette that had symbolized her virginity was replaced by the traces of sin. Now, on the surface, a body moved by Oberyn's hands, a body shaking with passion, a lustful cry on her lips. This was the story not only of a body but also of the liberation of her soul. The moment came with a mocking smile that came from Y/N’s own voice. The words she managed to squeeze out between her moans were, “Perhaps the gods are not jealous of me, but of the pleasure I feel in sinning.”

Oberyn laughed softly at her words, then took her chin between his fingers, holding her face in the mirror. As if he were addressing the gods who ruled the room, he spoke into Y/N’s skin, almost a whisper but threatening. “Look and learn. This woman has rejected your lies, and now she lives here, with her own desires, her lust. That is true holiness. That is true power.”

With the spasms and twitches that betrayed the coming of a perfect orgasm, Oberyn pressed his lips to Y/N’s. They were kissing wildly. Wet and hard. Their tongues danced in harmony. He continued, his rasping voice not taking his lips away. “I will miss this night so much… I would take you to my palace.”

Y/N could not even answer for all the pleasure she was feeling. Oberyn continued to bite and kiss her ears, neck, and jawbone. They were now close to their orgasm, their moans echoing through the room.

"Y/N, are you ready?" he moaned. Y/N was in sync with Oberyn's pace. He spoke without taking his lips off hers. "Oh, Y/N, you're perfect for me." Oberyn let go of her arms and grabbed her waist to increase his pace. He sped up, faster and faster. The "snap" sound of their flesh slapping against each other drowned out his words.

Y/N closed her eyes tightly and breathed deeply. Her chest rose and fell. The pleasure made her head spin so much that when she stretched her arms out to the wall to keep her balance, her hands gripped the edge of the mirror tightly. "Oh, my prince!" The sacred mirror trembled along with Y/N's shaking body as Oberyn continued to fuck her at a steady pace. Her balance was completely off and she was leaning to the left, at an acute angle to the wall.

Oberyn finally came inside Y/N. He clenched his glutes so tightly in pleasure that her pits were clearly visible. Y/N came at that moment. As the electrifying electricity of her orgasm coursed through her body, she used her power disproportionately against the mirror, causing the already unbalanced sacred mirror to slide down the wall and fall to the floor as Oberyn wrapped his arms around her. The sacred mirror, now shattered into hundreds of pieces, now reflected Oberyn and Y/N's lust from every angle.

Both were out of breath. Y/N’s head was resting on the prince’s shoulder, her eyes closed and her legs shaking in exhaustion as she tried to control her breathing. If Oberyn hadn’t wrapped his strong arms around her, she would have collapsed to the ground. Her juices mixed with Oberyn’s cum and seeped from the sides of his massive penis, branching out from her legs and running down to her ankles.

Y/N’s eyes caught her reflection in the broken mirror on the floor. The impositions of virginity, sanctity, the gift of the gods had vanished one by one.

Her ears were still ringing when Oberyn released her. “No more sanctity,” Y/N said, her breath coming in short gasps, her voice carrying a dark pleasure and a hint of mockery. “The Water's Daughter of Pentos, destroyed by her own decisions.”

Oberyn took her face in his hands and kissed her passionately on the forehead. “Holiness is a chain only for the weak,” she said, her voice a whisper of defiance. “You are not a daughter of the gods, but of your desires and your freedom. If you have power in this world, it is your will to be your own.”

The reflection in the shards was a sign of chaos for Y/N’s people. The holy virgin was now tainted; a crisis of faith would erupt between the priests and the people who believed that her body would bring fertility. When the land lost its fertility, the priests would surely blame Y/N. But Y/N felt the lightness of freedom, not the weight of her sin, in the mirror.

“Oberyn,” she said, her eyes now on Oberyn’s. “These people sought to enslave me to their gods. But now I will show them that I am only mortal. I am neither holy nor cursed. I am only myself.”

Oberyn smiled, with the pride of a victorious general. "And so I chose you," he said, his fingers touching her cheeks. "These people wanted to use you for the gods, but you lit your own light. Now all will see that you belong only to yourself."

The mirror no longer symbolized holiness, but rebellion and freedom. Y/N's reflection reflected her own choice instead of the definitions that had once been imposed on her. The chaos of the people and priests would echo a revolution that had begun in front of the mirror.

The morning sun of Pentos rose above a continual chaos. The streets of the city were filled with talk of the fall of Daughter of Water and the lies of the priests. Whispers of Y/N’s loss of sanctity had spread to every corner of the city; the woman who had been seen as a symbol of fertility was now a sinner in the eyes of the people. The priests tried to erase the traces of this event that had shaken their faith, making promises to keep the people in check. But the roots of the chaos were too deep. The lands of Pentos would never be the same again.

Oberyn Martell stood on the deck of a ship that waited silently in the harbor, taking one last look at the city he had left behind. A wry smile was on his face, a combination of the destruction he had left behind and the freedom he had gained. Y/N had chosen her own path, and with Oberyn’s touch she had broken the chains imposed on her. Her virginity may have been sacred, but no one could offer that sacredness to the gods anymore.

This city was merely a stopover for Oberyn, the beginning of another adventure.

“Prince Oberyn,” the captain said, coming up behind him. “We are ready.”

Oberyn turned once more to Pentos. His eyes scanned the horizon of the city, his thoughts following the chaos he left behind. “Divinity,” he muttered to himself, “is a lie invented only by the weak. But chaos… that is the true gift.”

He walked across the deck to the prow of the ship. He leaned his hands on the side rails as the salty air rising from the sea filled his lungs. His heart beat with the excitement of a free man. The marks he had left on the city would not be forgotten for long, but Oberyn had no place in his life for the burden of the past. The seas and new horizons, pleasures to be discovered and vengeance to be taken, answered his call.

The skyline of Pentos grew smaller as the ship slowly left the harbor. Oberyn turned and looked to the horizon. The sun was drawing a golden path across the seas, heralding a new adventure. "The story of Pentos is over," he said to himself, "but mine is just beginning."

And so The Red Viper of Dorne set sail for new adventures, leaving a city full of chaos in his wake. The lands and peoples that awaited him were ready to bear the mark of Oberyn Martell.

[divaofmads]

Bound by Desire

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!reader (Y/N: Referred to as Jade.)

!!Warning!!: +18 only, MDNI, Angst, Jealousy, SMUT, Fluff, Violence, Erotic, Dirty Talk During Sex (Language), Standing Sex, Unprotected Sex, Fingering, Big Age Gap (Jade 22 / Joel 54), Fast and Secretive Sex, Rough and Dramatic Joel, Pregnancy Fantasy (Morning-after pill exists), Obsessive Joel, possesive Joel,

Word Count: 15k

A/N: I apologize for the mistakes I made in English that is not my native language and I am trying to improve my writing skills.

Divider by @saradika-graphics

The world was now unrecognizable. The streets, once filled with the echoes of laughter, had turned into abandoned nightmares. Cracked asphalt was overgrown with wild weeds, and the roads were littered with the rubble of collapsed buildings. Rusted cars lay piled up along the curbs, nothing more than heaps of metal. Some had shattered windows, and bloodstains still marked their steering wheels. The entire scene was a haunting reminder of how swift and merciless the apocalypse had been.

The sky was covered with thick gray clouds. The wind carried the scent of burnt wood and rotting flesh, howling through the empty streets. The silence was so deep it sent shivers down one’s spine; only the distant echo of an infected’s scream broke the eerie stillness. The world no longer belonged to humans.

Joel Miller walked a few steps behind Ellie in silence. Ellie had her hands tucked into her pockets and occasionally kicked at the stones on the ground. As always, Joel remained on high alert. His eyes scanned the surroundings carefully, and his ears stayed sharp for the faintest sound. Because Joel had one rule: Always be prepared.

Ellie turned around and spoke to Joel. “Hey, Joel, imagine eating pizza on one of these streets. I bet this town would’ve been boring even back then.”

Joel frowned at Ellie’s absurd remark. “Focus, Ellie. Useless chatter distracts us.”

Ellie rolled her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, Mister ‘Serious Man.’ But admit it, these streets are so dull they could bore the dead.”

Ignoring Ellie’s attempts at humor, Joel kept walking.

The town must have once been full of life. Storefronts lined the streets, their rusty shutters now tightly closed. Some shop signs had fallen, their lettering faded with time. Around the corner, an old playground stood. The swings’ chains were rusted, and the ground, once covered in sand, had turned into a muddy mess.

Joel and Ellie reached a three-story building in the middle of town. The front facade was heavily damaged, its windows shattered. But the door was still intact. After scanning the surroundings carefully, Joel decided to go inside. He opened the door quietly and gestured toward Ellie. “Stay quiet.”

Ellie covered her mouth with one hand and mimicked Joel in silence.

The inside of the building was just as abandoned and decayed as the town outside. Wooden floorboards were rotting in places but still held firm. Torn posters and peeling paint covered the walls. In one corner, an overturned table and scattered chairs suggested that this place had once been a hotel.

Joel began checking the building. He opened each door, scanning the rooms. The place was silent, but that didn’t always mean it was safe. On the first floor, he found an old kitchen. Searching the cabinets, he managed to find a few canned goods.

Ellie’s eyes lit up at the sight of the cans. “Ooo! Chicken soup? Joel, this is a feast!”

Joel smirked slightly at Ellie’s excitement. “A feast, huh? We’ll see how cheerful you are when one of those infected screams outside.”

Ellie scoffed. “Ah, always cheerful Joel. We really need to find you a joke book.”

When they reached the third floor, Joel’s attention was drawn to an old bedroom. It was at the very back of the building, with only a small window—making them harder to spot from the outside. He propped a chair against the door to secure it.

Ellie tested an old bed in the room, bouncing on it slightly. “Not the most comfortable, but at least we’re not sleeping on the floor.”

Joel nodded. “It’ll do for the night. Get some rest—we need to move at first light.”

Ellie was used to Joel’s authoritative tone, but she couldn’t resist a final jab. “Sure thing, Mister ‘Never Smiles.’ Just don’t wake me up with your grumpiness.”

Joel rolled his eyes at her remark and sat down in the corner, pulling out his gun to clean it. But his gaze kept drifting toward Ellie.

After losing his own daughter, he couldn’t remember the last time he had cared about someone this much. He knew Ellie was a spark of hope in this broken world, and keeping her safe was his top priority.

Outside, trash rustled slightly in the wind. The inside of the building was cold, but it was safe enough for now. Wrapped in a blanket, Ellie slowly drifted into sleep while Joel remained on watch. His eyes occasionally wandered into the distance, lost in memories of the past.

Joel was keeping watch, lost in deep thought, when a sudden scream from outside startled him. His grip on his gun tightened instinctively. Ellie peeked out from under her blanket and whispered, "Joel? What was that?"

Joel pressed a finger to his lips, signaling for silence. "Don't move. Stay here."

The silence above became even more unsettling as they heard the distant screams and footsteps approaching the building. Joel silently stood up and checked his weapon. Ellie's eyes widened with fear.

"Are you leaving? You're going to leave me here?"

"I need to see what's going on. I promise I'll be back. Lock the door, and if someone comes, don't make a sound."

Ellie bit her lip and nodded. Joel gripped his rifle tightly and slipped out of the room, moving cautiously down the hallway.

As he descended the stairs, he heard a muffled sound. Someone was crying.

Peering around the corner, he spotted a group of men trapping a woman against a wall. She was wearing a tattered, bloodstained sweater, her back pressed against the cold concrete. Her hands were raised defensively, like a wild animal forced into a corner. Her face glistened with sweat and fear.

"Stay away from me!" the woman shouted. "I'm warning you! If you come any closer..." Her voice trembled, but she tried to mask her fear with anger.

The men laughed cruelly. The one in front, a filthy man with broken teeth and a leather jacket, grinned like a predator.

"Oh, look at this little bird," he sneered. "Scared, aren't you? But fear just makes the game more fun, doesn't it, boys?"

The group responded with laughter.

The woman grabbed a rusty metal pipe nearby and swung it at the nearest man. He dodged, but the pipe struck his shoulder, making him curse in pain.

"You little bitch!" he spat.

"I told you!" she screamed. "Stay back! If you come any closer, I will kill you!"

Joel watched from the shadows, controlling his breathing, waiting for the right moment to act. But he knew the woman wouldn’t last long. The men were closing in, breaking her defenses bit by bit.

"Fighting back only makes things harder, sweetheart," another man taunted. "Now drop that pipe and be a good girl."

Tears welled in the woman’s eyes, but she held onto the pipe with all her strength.

Joel couldn't wait any longer. He took a deep breath and stepped out from the darkness, swiftly putting a silenced bullet through the head of one of the men.

As the body collapsed, the others spun around in shock. Joel wasted no time, charging at the second man and slamming the butt of his rifle into his face, knocking him to the ground. Then he turned to the woman. "Trust me. Now run!"

She hesitated for only a second before obeying, recognizing the determination in his eyes.

Joel now faced the remaining three men. They scrambled to pull their weapons. He ducked behind a nearby shelf as gunfire erupted, echoing through the building.

Upstairs, Ellie flinched at the sound of the shots, clutching her blanket tightly. She tried to stay quiet, just as Joel had told her, but she was trembling with fear.

Meanwhile, the woman hid in a dark corner as instructed, but one of the men spotted her. He lunged toward her. In desperation, she grabbed a brick from the floor and smashed it into his face before sprinting toward Joel.

Joel, momentarily surprised, quickly adjusted. "This way! Stay quiet!"

As they ran, she accidentally kicked a piece of metal, sending it clattering across the floor. The noise alerted one of the men, who turned to fire. Joel reacted instantly, taking him down with a single shot.

The last man charged at Joel. The woman seized the metal pipe again and swung hard, knocking the attacker to the ground.

Joel stood still for a moment, listening. When he was sure there were no more threats, he lowered his gun and turned to look at her.

She was panting, her face covered in sweat and dust. Joel, ever composed, calmly wiped his weapon.

Touching a wound on her shoulder, the woman finally spoke. "I don’t know who you are… but thank you."

"As long as you don’t try to kill me, we’re fine."

The woman raised an eyebrow at Joel’s harsh tone. "You can drop the tough guy act. You just saved my life."

Joel’s expression remained unreadable. "Saving your life doesn’t mean I trust you. What’s your name?"

After being hunted by raiders for days, the brief moment of relief made her legs give in, and she collapsed onto her knees. Her voice trembled as she answered, "Jade."

Joel watched as Jade sank to the ground, exhausted. Despite his usual cold demeanor, something inside him shifted. He crouched down, unzipped her backpack, and rummaged through it before pulling out a water bottle. As he handed it to her, his voice remained firm, almost interrogative. "Who were they? Why were they after you?"

Jade gulped down the water in one go, taking a few seconds to steady her breathing before looking at Joel. Fear still lingered in her eyes, but she was slowly regaining control. "I don’t know who they are. They’ve been following me for a while. They cornered me, set a trap. This… this kind of thing is normal in this world now."

Joel didn’t trust anyone in this new world. He needed to be sure she was telling the truth. "There has to be a reason. Either you did something to them, or you have something they want."

Jade scoffed and threw up her hands. "Oh, right, Joel. Because I’m probably carrying a bag full of gold, huh?… I was just trying to survive."

Joel narrowed his eyes, thinking. But before he could say anything, a small but firm voice interrupted from behind.

"Why are you being so hard on her?"

Joel turned quickly at the sound of Ellie’s voice. The young girl stood with her hands on her hips, glancing between him and Jade.

Jade couldn’t help but smile at the innocent but defiant stance Ellie took.

Joel sighed, "I told you to stay upstairs."

Ellie smirked, "And, like always, I didn’t listen."

As she hurried down the stairs, Joel let out a frustrated sigh. Jade watched them, shaking her head in mild amusement at their dynamic.

Ellie plopped down next to Jade and leaned in. "Hey, uh… what was your name again?"

"Jade," she said softly.

With her usual teasing tone, Ellie grinned. "I’m Ellie. Don’t you think Joel’s a little too grumpy?"

Jade smirked and gave Ellie a knowing wink. "I’d say he’s more than just grumpy. But thanks. Honestly, it’s kinda entertaining."

Ellie chuckled. "Oh, I bet. But seriously, he acts all tough, but deep down, he’s got a soft side."

Joel, overhearing, turned and frowned at her. "No one gave you permission to talk about me, Ellie."

Ellie shrugged. "Relax, big bad wolf. I’m just telling the truth."

Ignoring him, Ellie scooted closer to Jade, clearly curious. "So, you’ve been out here alone this whole time? How’d you manage that?"

Jade couldn't resist Ellie’s sincere and curious demeanor and answered, “I guess you could call it luck. Or maybe I just run really fast. But I’ve never seen someone like you around.”

“I’m a special kind,” Ellie replied. “Like… think of me as a superhero.”

Jade chuckled and nodded. “Yeah, I noticed. You do seem pretty special.”

Ellie suddenly became serious and turned to Joel. “We’re not leaving her here, right?”

Joel shook his head and replied firmly, “Ellie, you can’t trust anyone in this world. This is her choice.”

“No, Joel. It’s not her choice. We can’t abandon her.”

Jade was momentarily stunned by Ellie’s words and glanced at Joel. “Listen, it’s really fine. I won’t cause any trouble for you. I can take care of myself.”

Joel scoffed at her words. “Take care of yourself? A group of guys almost tore you apart a few minutes ago.”

Ellie was annoyed by Joel’s harsh tone. “Joel, enough! We all need each other to survive in this world. We’re not leaving Jade behind.”

Joel couldn’t respond to Ellie’s determination right away. He just sighed and shook his head. “Fine. But only for tonight. At first light, we’re leaving. And she’s going her own way.”

Ellie, feeling victorious, turned to Jade and winked. Jade, still hesitant but grateful, looked at Joel. “Thank you. Really.”

Joel said nothing as he began reloading his rifle. Jade realized that this man wasn’t one to show emotions, but she could see how much he cared about Ellie. That, at least, gave her a small reason to trust him.

As Joel slung his rifle over his shoulder and silently climbed the stairs, he kept an eye on the two girls following him. Ellie, still thrilled by their conversation, stuck close to Jade, eager to learn everything about her. Meanwhile, Joel felt the heavy weight of responsibility pressing down on his shoulders. Now, that weight included Jade.

The upper floor was darker and dimly lit. It was clear that this place had once been a hotel, with time leaving its marks on the walls and furniture. The peeling wooden panels, the half-torn carpet on the floor, and an overturned chair in the corner were all silent witnesses to abandonment.

Joel pointed to a larger room at the end of the hallway and turned to Ellie and Jade. “You two stay here. I’ll keep watch in the other room.”

Ellie frowned. “Seriously? Wouldn’t it be safer if we all stayed together?”

Joel’s response was firm. “Ellie. No more arguing.

Ellie rolled her eyes but finally gave up. Jade gave Joel a grateful look and nodded before following Ellie into the room.

Ellie fluffed up an old mattress in the corner of the room and then turned to Jade. The bed was old and filled with creaky springs, but in this world, it was a luxury. Jade sat down and gazed out the window, while Ellie plopped down beside her, her curiosity evident. “Alright, tell me. Who are you? How have you survived? And why do you seem so… I don’t know, positive?”

Jade smiled and shook her head. “I wouldn’t say I’m positive. I just… accepted that I don’t have another choice.”

Ellie furrowed her brows, unsatisfied with the answer. “But from what I’ve seen, you’re pretty tough. I mean… whatever happened to you, it made you stronger. So, what was it? Your family?”

Jade’s smile faded instantly. She turned toward Ellie, but her eyes seemed to be looking far away. “My family… I saw the cruel side of this world early on. My dad died trying to protect us. My mom… she couldn’t take it. I lost everything before I was truly alone.”

Ellie’s eyes welled up with tears, but she quickly pulled herself together. “I’ve lost people too. Everyone has, right? But you… how do you keep going?”

Jade gave a small smile and shrugged. “Maybe surviving isn’t just about being strong. Maybe it’s about learning to find something beautiful.”

Meanwhile, in the next room, Joel sat on a chair by the window, his rifle resting on his lap. The moonlight was the only thing illuminating the room. He tried not to listen to the girls’ conversation, but the thin walls made it impossible.

Hearing Jade’s soft yet sorrowful voice, Joel felt something stir inside him. Her words brought back memories of his own losses. Sarah… those days. The anger and regret that constantly simmered inside him threatened to resurface.

Jade’s words echoed in his mind: "Maybe surviving isn’t just about being strong. Maybe it’s about learning to find something beautiful."

Joel found himself caught in that thought. What was he still trying to find in life? What was that beautiful thing for him, if not Ellie?

Ellie suddenly changed the topic and turned to Jade with a sly grin. “By the way, don’t think I didn’t notice the way you look at Joel.”

Jade’s eyes widened in shock. “What? No. Absolutely not.”

Ellie shrugged, raising her eyebrows. “Living in the same space with him, I know Joel looks like a grumpy old rock. But… I think there’s something likable about him.”

Jade looked uncomfortable. “Ellie, you’re really imagining things. Joel is just…”

Ellie smirked. “Just what? Tough? Grumpy? Yeah, sure. But deep down, he’s got a heart. And I think you’ve noticed.”

At that moment, Joel, having heard enough, stood up and walked toward the door. He swung it open with determination, making both girls turn to him.

“Are you two going to shut up and sleep, or am I going to have to listen to this nonsense all night?”

Ellie couldn’t help but laugh at Joel’s grumpy reaction. Jade, embarrassed, avoided his gaze. “Oh, come on, Joel. Don’t be mad at us. We’re just having fun.”

Joel shot them a sarcastic look. “You’re giving me a headache. Now sleep.”

He slammed the door behind him, turning away, but a small, fleeting smile appeared on his lips. He quickly composed himself, shoving the feeling down as usual.

Ellie and Jade’s laughter still echoed in the room.

The morning had begun with a cold, gray sky, as if the clouds had wrapped the world in a thick blanket. The wind slipped through the broken windows of the abandoned hotel room, strong enough to disturb the sleep of those inside. As always, Joel was the first to wake up. His rifle was still by his side, his shoulders slumped after a sleepless night, his eyes tired but alert. He stood up and looked out the window. The streets were still quiet, but silence never meant safety.

Ellie and Jade were still asleep in the other corner of the room. Ellie was curled up in a blanket, snoring softly. Jade’s face was peaceful, yet the slight crease between her brows hinted at a night filled with deep thoughts. Joel averted his gaze from them and moved quietly. But just as he did, Ellie mumbled sleepily, “Joel… where’s breakfast?”

Joel shrugged and answered coolly, “Breakfast? Maybe you could ask one of the infected wandering outside.”

Ellie rubbed her eyes and sat up as Jade began to stir awake as well.

Jade silently got out of bed and started gathering her bag. Ellie, noticing her movements, asked curiously, “Hey, where are you going?”

Jade gave her a small smile. “Like I promised, I’m going my own way. You two are already carrying enough.”

Ellie’s expression changed immediately. Her eyes widened, her brows furrowed. “No way! I’m not leaving you like this. Joel, say something!”

Joel let out a deep breath. He seemed caught between Ellie’s insistence and Jade’s determination. He turned to Ellie. “Ellie, she’s made her decision. She doesn’t want to be a burden.”

Jade slightly lowered her head at his words. She thought he didn’t like her, unlike herself. “Thank you, Joel. For understanding.”

But Ellie wasn’t having it. She took a step forward, grabbed Jade’s bag, and slammed it onto the floor. “No, listen to me. Leaving alone would be stupid! And I care about you. You’re a good person, Jade. We can stay together.”

Joel was about to respond harshly, but Jade spoke first. “Ellie, you know how this world works. I can make it on my own. But… I have another plan.”

Ellie and Joel both turned to her with curiosity. There was a brief moment of softness in Joel’s eyes. “What plan?”

Jade pulled out an old map and spread it out on the bed. A small area was marked. “This place is called Cedar Heaven. It used to be a farming town, but now, it’s a community working to rebuild. They grow their own food, they provide education… and they have strong defenses against the infected.”

Ellie’s face lit up with hope. “Are you serious? This place is real?”

Jade nodded slightly. “I’ve met a few people who made it there. They’re survivors who came together. I want to join them. But the road is dangerous.”

Joel took a moment to gather his thoughts before speaking in a calm but firm voice. “You can’t go alone. It’s too dangerous. The infected aren’t the only problem—there are hunter groups out there.”

Jade met his gaze. If he didn’t want her around, why was he offering now? “This is my choice.”

Joel looked at the map again. Cedar Heaven. The name sounded almost too good to be true, like a distant reflection of survival and hope. He placed the map back on the table, his voice breaking the silence with a tone of certainty. “Let’s make a deal.”

Jade was caught off guard by how sudden and direct he was. She raised her brows. “A deal?”

Joel nodded, his expression serious. “Take us to Cedar Haven. We need a safe place. And while we get there, you won’t be alone. We’ll go with you.”

Jade studied him carefully, weighing his words. Surprise, hesitation, and a hint of doubt flickered in her eyes. “You? But… I don’t have any real connection to this community. It’s just a name on a map. You don’t even know what’s waiting for you there.”

Joel’s voice was steady. “We don’t, but right now, it’s the best shot we’ve got. And I’d like to think you’re smart enough not to try going there alone.

Ellie jumped in, excitement in her voice. “This is a great idea! Jade, you don’t want to be alone, and we need a safe place. Joel’s brain actually works sometimes.”

Joel shot her a glare. “Ellie, be serious.”

Jade considered their offer. With Joel and Ellie, she’d be safer. But there was still one thing she wasn’t sure about. “And if I take you there… what if they don’t accept me? What if my presence causes problems?”

Joel’s voice didn’t waver. “Then we move on. But at least we’ll have tried. We won’t leave you behind. And in the meantime, we help each other.”

Jade’s hesitation lessened a little as Ellie gave her a warm look. “Come on, Jade. We make a great team. Besides, no one can be as grumpy and tough as Joel, so they’ll probably find you less of a problem.”

Joel rolled his eyes and chose not to respond to Ellie’s sarcastic remark. Jade was intrigued by Ellie’s energetic and charming attitude. She smiled slightly and replied, “Alright… I accept.”

Joel’s expression remained serious, but deep inside, he felt a sense of relief. Yet, he also knew he couldn’t distance himself from Jade. Maybe this journey was just an excuse for him, or perhaps, deep down, he felt that he needed to have Jade by his side. Jade, on the other hand, seemed to understand the complex emotions hidden behind Joel’s tough exterior. She silently nodded and moved to her corner to get ready.

Joel said, “Good. Let’s get packed. We don’t have much time.”

Ellie, filled with excitement, hugged Jade.

Ellie: “You’re awesome! Now you won’t be alone, and we’ll be safer. It’s a win-win situation!”

Jade was surprised by the warm welcome but accepted it with appreciation. She looked at Ellie with a faint smile. “I hope it’s as easy as you think.”

Ellie: “It will be! As long as Joel is here, we’re safe. He’s basically a human Terminator.”

Joel let out a deep sigh at Ellie’s comment.

Joel: “Ellie, stop chattering and get your bag ready. We need to leave now.”

But Joel knew that keeping Jade with them wasn’t just about survival. Even though he couldn’t name the feelings growing inside him, having Jade around gave him an unexpected sense of comfort.

The three of them started walking toward the outskirts of town. Abandoned cars, fallen power lines, and scattered metal debris reminded them once again of the hardships ahead. The scent of burnt wood and rust carried by the wind made the desolation of the place even more apparent.

Joel led the way, his rifle slung over his shoulder, his eyes constantly scanning the surroundings. His steps were quiet but determined. Ellie walked beside Jade, occasionally glancing at her as if she wanted to say something, but Joel’s silence seemed to have affected everyone. Jade, on the other hand, appeared fully focused on their task. Her eyes stayed on the road and the surroundings, inspecting the vehicles for anything useful.

Ellie was the first to break the silence. She turned to Jade with a slight smile. “Hey, Jade. Do you know anything about cars? I mean, do you know how to start one?”

Jade looked at Ellie, thinking for a moment before replying with a confident expression. “Yeah, I know a little. My dad used to be a mechanic. I used to help him sometimes when I was a kid. If the car is in working condition, it’s not that hard to get it running.”

Ellie’s face lit up. “Wow, that’s so cool! Joel usually gets the cars running, but… how should I put this? Sometimes, he relies on luck. One time, we actually set a car on fire while trying to—”

Joel suddenly stopped and turned to Ellie with a stern look. “Ellie. Be quiet.”

Ellie ignored Joel’s reaction, winked at Jade, and shrugged with a grin. Jade gave a small smile at Ellie’s playful attitude, but Joel’s serious demeanor made her keep her guard up.

A few minutes later, Joel suddenly raised his hand, signaling them to stop. The three of them immediately fell silent. Joel carefully observed a corner ahead. They were standing next to an abandoned parking lot filled with deserted cars, but some of them seemed to be moving. A faint growling sound echoed off the walls of the buildings.

Joel quickly turned back and spoke in a hushed voice.

Joel. “A group of infected. I don't know their exact numbers, but at least four or five. Stay quiet. Follow my lead.”

Ellie furrowed her brows and asked in a low voice, “What are we gonna do?”

Joel looked at Ellie first, then at Jade. “Jade, take Ellie and hide between the cars. I’ll go ahead and distract them. If things go south, take the back road and run.”

Jade hesitated, locking eyes with Joel. “What about you? Can you handle them all on your own?”

Joel answered with a cold expression. “This isn’t my first time. Just do as I say.”

A wave of unease and discomfort passed through Jade, but she didn’t argue with Joel’s determination. Grabbing Ellie by the arm, she pulled her towards the space between the cars.

Joel moved toward the parking lot with slow, steady steps. He readied his rifle and leaned against a car, scanning the area. The moving figures gradually became clearer. A group of infected had gathered around an old truck, growling and communicating with each other in guttural sounds. Joel took a deep breath and threw a rock at a car window, creating a sharp noise.

The infected immediately turned toward the sound. They hesitated at first but then slowly started moving in Joel’s direction. He held his breath, gripping his rifle tightly, aiming at the lead infected.

Meanwhile, Ellie and Jade crouched behind a car. Ellie tried to steady her breathing as she turned to Jade and whispered, “Can Joel really do this? Is he gonna fight them all alone?”

Jade frowned, watching Joel. Something stirred inside her. She admired his strength and experience, but the thought of leaving him to face this alone unsettled her.

She spoke in a protective tone, “Stay here. If anything goes wrong, signal me.”

Ignoring Joel’s orders, Jade quietly stepped out. Moving cautiously, she made her way toward him.

Joel had just taken down one of the infected when he spotted her and hissed, “What the hell are you doing? I told you to stay hidden!”

Jade shot back, “I’m helping you. Don’t be so damn arrogant!”

Joel glared at her for a moment, but when another infected lunged at him, he had to refocus. The two of them instinctively moved back to back, fighting together.

Joel was both surprised and impressed by Jade’s stance and courage. As he tried to suppress his thoughts, he found himself acknowledging that she was someone he could truly rely on. But with that trust came a storm of emotions he wasn’t ready to face.

Joel barked, “Jade, don’t turn your back! We take them down before they get close!”

Jade snapped, “Don’t give me orders, Miller! I’ve got my own plan!”

Joel’s eyes flicked to Jade’s stance. She moved with a calculated precision, not a trace of panic or fear. When an infected lunged at her throat, she sidestepped swiftly, driving her knife into its skull. Blood splattered over her hands, but she didn’t hesitate before shifting to her next target.

Joel stole a quick glance at Ellie. Her eyes were wide with fear, her hands trembling. His protective instincts overrode everything else.

Joel called out, “Ellie, stay there! Do not move!”

But just as he turned back, he was stunned. Jade was holding her own in a brutal fight. An infected had tried to tackle her, but she had thrown it off and finished it with a swift stab.

Joel muttered under his breath, half in admiration, “Damn… this woman’s a one-woman army…”

Jade noticed his stare but said nothing. Instead, she spotted an infected creeping toward Ellie.

Jade shouted, “Ellie, get down! Now!”

Ellie immediately dropped to the ground. Jade kicked over a nearby trash bin, crushing the infected beneath it, before swiftly finishing it off with her knife.

Joel watched as Jade’s protective nature became more evident than ever. She wasn’t just capable—she was willing to put herself on the line for Ellie.

Joel shot down a few more infected before yelling, “Jade, more are coming! We need to get out of here!”

Jade quickly scanned the area. Her eyes landed on an abandoned SUV. It looked old, but the door was slightly open, and it might still run.

Jade called out, “Miller, cover me! I’m gonna start that car!”

Joel frowned. “Without a key? How?”

Jade smirked. “Just watch me.”

She sprinted to the SUV, yanked the door open, and scanned the dashboard. No keys. She reached under the seat and found an old screwdriver. Memories of her father’s mechanic days rushed into her mind. She ripped off the cover under the steering wheel, exposing the wires.

Ellie, watching in shock, asked, “What are you doing?”

Jade, "I'm borrowing the car for a while."

Jade found the ignition wires and stripped them. Then, she rubbed them together, creating sparks. After a few attempts, the engine roared to life. But the growls of the infected grew closer.

As Joel fired his shotgun at the creatures, Jade started the engine and moved the vehicle. She turned it into a weapon, driving straight into the infected. Blood splattered onto the windows, revealing the impact’s brutality.

Joel took down the last few infected and sprinted toward the car. He jumped inside, breathless. Ellie, sitting in the back seat, stared at Jade in awe. "You're a mechanic, huh? You literally brought this thing back to life with magic!"

Jade, still breathless and exhilarated, replied, "You should thank my dad. He taught me everything."

Joel’s tone was harsh. "Don’t do that again. You don’t have to risk yourself just to protect Ellie."

Jade smirked. "Oh, were you worried? I do better when I take action on my own."

Joel didn’t respond. This was the moment he realized how strong Jade was—how she could be a real protector for Ellie. But deep inside, a strange spark of admiration for Jade had begun to ignite.

Jade gripped the steering wheel tightly, not even sparing a second to wipe the sweat from her forehead. Her eyes flickered between the cracked asphalt ahead and the growing horde of infected.

She thought to herself, Stay calm, Jade. This is easier than it looks. Just hit the gas and go. No problem, right?

Ellie leaned forward from the back seat, breathing heavily, her small hands clutching the edge of the seat. "Jade, come on! If we wait any longer, they’re gonna break through these windows!"

Joel shouted, "Drive! Now!"

Jade slammed her foot on the gas, but the vehicle lurched forward as it hit a toppled trash container. Her eyes locked onto the blood splattered across the windshield and the infected clinging to the glass. The creature clawed at the surface, and a deep terror stabbed through her chest.

Joel barked, "Don’t look at it! Focus on the road!"

Jade shook herself out of it. She floored the gas pedal, and the car lunged forward. The creature clinging to the windshield slammed into a metal pole and tumbled to the ground. But that didn’t stop the swarm of infected coming their way.

Joel’s voice filled the car. "Turn left! There’s a clearer path!"

Jade jerked the wheel, sending the car splashing through a massive puddle, mud spraying from the tires. Her hands were slick with sweat, and she felt like she was losing control of the steering. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw an infected charging toward them—and then slamming into the side of the car like a sledgehammer.

Ellie screamed, "Joel! They're getting in!"

Joel remained calm, reloading his shotgun as he leaned back in the seat. His voice was steady. "Speed up. I’ve got you."

Something in those words steadied Jade. Her eyes flashed with determination.

Without hesitation, she swerved and aimed the car straight at a group of infected standing in the road. Metal met flesh. The windshield was painted red. Jade’s hands gripped the wheel even tighter as Ellie’s terrified voice rang out.

Ellie whimpered, "So much blood… Can’t we slow down a little?"

Jade glanced at the rearview mirror, watching the infected disappear behind them.

"No. We can’t."

Joel frowned as he realized what Jade was doing. She wasn’t just using the vehicle as transportation—she was turning it into a weapon. She plowed through the infected, transforming the car into a machine of steel and blood.

When Jade reached an intersection, she slammed on the brakes, and the car jolted to a sudden stop. Then, she quickly spun the wheel and took another route. Joel glanced at her profile, noticing the determination burning in her eyes.

Finally, they had escaped the infected. The vehicle rolled into an abandoned parking lot and came to a halt. When Jade turned off the engine, her hands were shaking. She exhaled deeply and rested her head against the steering wheel. In the backseat, Ellie was still trying to steady her breathing.

Joel lowered his rifle and looked at Jade. He tried to maintain a stern and cold expression, but there was gratitude in his eyes.

"You risked your life to protect Ellie," he said. "Good job."

Jade lifted her head, smirking despite her exhaustion. "Save the praise, Miller. I was just doing my job."

A faint smile ghosted over Joel’s face. In that moment, the tension between them seemed to shift into an unspoken understanding.

Finally, Joel spoke again, his voice a mix of sarcasm and something more thoughtful. "I hate to admit it, but… watching you fight the infected was surprising. You’re pretty good. So why do you act like a scared little girl when it comes to hunters?"

Jade turned to him, locking eyes. She wiped the sweat from her forehead, a small smile forming on her lips—though there was something much deeper hidden beneath it. "Because the infected are predictable. They’re just hungry. They act on instinct. But people… people are worse. They choose to be cruel."

Joel remained silent for a moment. Her words stirred something inside him. He now understood why she fought so fiercely, why her eyes burned with such determination. But he said nothing more.

Ellie, however, couldn’t stand the silence any longer. "But you have to admit, you two made a hell of a team! I mean, Joel, you were like a damn action hero with that rifle. And Jade, you turned that car into a freaking infected-crushing machine! You guys were awesome."

Jade let out a small chuckle at Ellie’s enthusiasm. "It’s easy to be a team when you’re in the middle of chaos."

Ellie noticed the hint of sarcasm in Jade’s voice but ignored it. Instead, she turned to Joel, pushing further. "Come on, Joel, admit it. Jade was impressive! Did you see the way she handled the wheel? It was like something straight out of a movie!"

Joel furrowed his brows, immediately catching onto Ellie’s teasing. His voice hardened slightly. "Ellie, enough. You talk too much."

Ellie rolled her eyes. "Oh sure, because talking is what’s gonna get us killed, right?"

Joel decided to end the conversation there. He checked his rifle and then turned to Jade, his voice firm. "Let’s go. We can’t stay here any longer."

Jade gave a silent nod, loosening her grip on the steering wheel before pressing the gas. The car moved forward once more. The road ahead was littered with cracked asphalt, collapsed buildings, and abandoned vehicles.

A heavy silence filled the car, broken only by the low rumble of the engine and the distant howl of the wind.

Joel rested his right hand on the door handle, his eyes fixed on the window outside. But his mind was elsewhere—on Jade. The way she fought, her determination, and even the way she protected Ellie lingered in his thoughts. Deep inside, he felt a strange stirring—something he hadn't felt in a long time. I need to stop feeling this way, he thought.

Ellie couldn’t take the silence any longer and leaned forward from the backseat. “Hey, Jade. Do you know anything about music?”

Jade couldn’t ignore Ellie’s energy and smiled slightly. “Yeah, my dad used to sing while working in the repair shop. I learned a few songs from him.”

Ellie started humming a tune, then raised her voice a little.

"Ain’t no sunshine when she’s gone… It’s not warm when she’s away…"

Jade hesitated for a moment before joining in. Their voices, even in the shadow of war, brought a fleeting moment of peace.

As she sang, Jade stole a glance at Joel. He was still silent, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. But the hard expression on his face seemed to soften just a little. She had to admit it to herself—she was drawn to Joel Miller. There was something beneath that tough exterior—the way he loved Ellie, his unwavering determination in battle, and the way he tried to hide his interest in her. It only made her more curious.

When the song ended, Ellie turned to Joel with a teasing grin. “Hey, Joel, have you ever sung a song? Have you ever had fun? Or have you just been scowling since the day you were born?”

A faint smile flickered on Joel’s lips but disappeared just as quickly.

“You two like to talk. I like to listen.”

Jade smirked at his response. She knew she had to push her complicated feelings aside for now and focus on the road. But being with Joel and Ellie gave her a sense of belonging she hadn’t felt in a long time.

As they continued their journey through the ruins of the world, each lost in their own thoughts, one thing was certain—despite everything, a bond was forming between them.

The road stretched endlessly ahead, like the faded memories of an abandoned town. Jade was at the wheel, her eyes scanning the road for obstacles. Ellie lounged in the backseat, rummaging through her bag while secretly forming a plan in her mind. Joel sat in the passenger seat, arms crossed over his chest, watching the outside world with a weighty seriousness—as if he carried the whole world on his shoulders.

Ellie glanced at Jade and Joel. There was something in the silence between them. Tension? Maybe. Or was it an unspoken pull between them? Ellie grinned to herself. They might need a little push.

Suddenly, Ellie leaned forward and tapped Jade on the shoulder. “Hey, we need to stop!” she said with sudden urgency.

Jade glanced at her through the rearview mirror, her brows knitting together. “Why?” she asked, though she was already easing off the gas.

Ellie clutched her stomach dramatically. “Why do you think? My stomach hurts. Maybe it was that old can of food, or…” She trailed off and turned to Joel with a smirk. “Maybe it’s because you’re so damn gloomy, Joel.”

Joel narrowed his eyes, his mouth opening as if to respond, but then he caught Ellie’s teasing grin and sighed instead. Jade chuckled as she pulled the car over.

As Ellie hopped out, she called back over her shoulder, “Try not to kill each other while I’m gone, okay?” She winked at Joel, who just raised his brows and turned away.

Silence settled over the car. Jade rested her elbows on the steering wheel, hands clasped together. Joel shifted slightly in his seat, his gaze still fixed outside. Jade considered breaking the silence but hesitated at Joel’s usual stern expression.

Joel finally turned to her. “Ellie’s playing a game,” he said flatly. “You realize that, right? She can feel the tension and is trying to leave us alone on purpose.”

Jade chuckled. “Are you serious?” she asked, but when she saw his unchanged expression, she stifled a laugh.

Joel furrowed his brows. “She’s set her sights on you, you know. She’s trying to make you part of the family. But I…” He stopped, looking at her. Seeing the amusement in her eyes, he frowned.

“Why don’t you take me seriously?” he asked, his tone slightly sharper.

Jade shrugged. “Because Ellie’s right. You are gloomy.”

Joel looked like he was about to get even more annoyed, but then his eyes lingered on the slight curve of her lips, and he realized this conversation was heading somewhere dangerous.

“Fine,” he muttered, exhaling deeply. “Say whatever you want.”

Jade kept her hands on the steering wheel, focusing on the road ahead. The silence between them was thick, like a dense fog. Joel sat beside her, one hand resting on his knee while the other absentmindedly stroked his beard. His eyes drifted over the ruined buildings outside, but his mind was clearly elsewhere.

Time passed in that quiet tension. Finally, Jade gathered the courage to speak, her heart pounding like a drum in her chest. She kept her eyes on the road.

“Joel… you know, you’re really hard to understand.”

Joel turned his head toward her, his face unreadable, but he had definitely heard the uncertainty in her voice.

“What do you mean?” he asked, his tone slightly rough.

Jade took a deep breath. She lifted her hands off the steering wheel, staring at them in the empty space for a few seconds as she thought. Then, she turned her head slightly and looked at Joel. Her eyes held a mix of emotions—hope, fear, and disappointment all tangled together.

"Uh..." she started, her voice barely above a whisper. "It's just... being around you feels strange. You're tough, grumpy... but at the same time, you're a good person. I mean, seeing your dedication to Ellie... it's impressive."

Joel tensed his shoulders under the weight of her words. He pressed his lips together as if he wasn’t sure what to say.

Jade stayed quiet for a few seconds before adding, "Sometimes... when people find more than they expected, they don’t know what to do with it."

Joel understood exactly what she meant. But the feelings her words stirred in him kept him from responding. He knew Jade had feelings for him, but he also knew he couldn’t return them. Years of pain, loss, and guilt had built a wall around him, keeping him from forming emotional attachments.

"Jade..." he finally said, his voice slightly cracked. "We just made a deal, remember?"

Those words hit Jade like a dagger to the heart. She quickly turned her eyes back to the road, gripping the wheel tightly. She was angry at herself—why had she been so open? Trying to compose herself, she let out a sharp laugh.

"Right, just a deal," she said. "Don't flatter yourself, Miller."

A few minutes later, Ellie returned to the car, holding a handful of gathered plants. A wide grin stretched across her face.

"Alright, we're ready!" she said, hopping into the car.

Joel shook his head. "You picked plants? What are you planning to do, Ellie? Make a bouquet?"

Ellie spoke seriously. "Of course not. We're going to use this for antiseptic. Also, I figured you two had talked. Don’t disappoint me."

Jade laughed at Ellie’s comment. "I think you're right about Joel."

Joel rolled his eyes and let out a deep sigh. "Just drive. Let’s get going."

The road stretched ahead, and Joel remained silent. His eyes constantly scanned the surroundings for danger, but his mind was stuck on Jade’s words. The realization of her feelings stirred something inside him—something he wasn’t sure he could handle. A part of him wanted to embrace it, but another part knew he had to keep her at a distance. Everyone he had ever loved was gone. He couldn’t go through that pain again.

Meanwhile, Ellie kept chatting with Jade from the back seat, sharing childhood stories and cracking jokes about the old days.

"You know, Jade," Ellie said cheerfully, "you're not as grumpy as Joel. At least you smile every once in a while."

Jade laughed at Ellie’s comment, but her eyes drifted back to Joel. As she gazed at his stoic face, she realized how difficult it was to hide her own feelings. A voice inside her whispered, "You love him." But another voice warned, "This feeling will destroy you."

At one point, Ellie turned to Jade and asked about a song. "Come on, tell me. Do you know this one?"

Jade smiled. "Of course, I do," she said, and started singing along with Ellie.

As Joel listened to the two of them singing, he felt something inside him slowly start to unravel. But along with that unraveling came a sense of unease. Jade’s voice was cracking through his hardened shell.

Keeping his eyes on the road, he thought to himself, "What am I doing? I'm setting myself up for pain all over again."

Ellie then started another song:

"Country roads, take me home..."

Jade joined in. Her voice was softer compared to Ellie’s, but undeniably captivating. Joel kept staring out the window. Hearing Jade’s voice within the song, feeling the gentle tone of it, left him with a strange mix of peace and discomfort.

After a while, Joel took a deep, silent breath and shook his head slightly. "How much longer do I have to put up with Ellie’s little games?" he wondered. But deep down, he couldn’t deny the pull he felt toward Jade’s presence.

After a long and arduous journey, Joel, Ellie, and Jade finally arrived at the entrance of Cedar Heaven. The settlement was surrounded by massive concrete walls, protecting the remnants of civilization inside. From the outside, the contrast between the sanctuary and the chaotic world beyond was immediately apparent. Machine gun towers lined the walls, soldiers patrolled the perimeter, and a heavily fortified metal gate stood at the entrance, emphasizing Cedar Heaven’s determination to survive.

As they approached the gate, the sounds of life within reached their ears—children’s laughter, workers shouting, the rhythmic hum of generators. Yet, this peaceful ambiance was starkly contrasted by the stern expressions of the soldiers guarding the entrance.

A soldier raised his hand, commanding them to stop. "Halt! Don’t come any closer!" he ordered in a firm voice. Several others aimed their weapons at them. Ellie flinched slightly, but Joel immediately stepped forward to negotiate.

"We came a long way to get here," Joel said. "We’re just looking for a place to rest."

The soldier narrowed his eyes at him. "All of you? Drop your weapons and walk slowly toward the gate."

Joel scoffed at that. "Drop our weapons? In this fucked-up world, trusting someone is a death sentence. Give me one good reason to do that."

Ellie rolled her eyes at Joel’s rough tone. "Joel, if you keep talking like that, they’ll send us back before we even get in," she muttered.

Realizing that Joel’s approach was making things worse, Jade quickly intervened. She stepped forward with her hands open, speaking in a calm tone. "Look, we’re all exhausted. We’ve been traveling for a long time, and we really just need a place to rest. We’re not trying to bargain with you—we’re just trying to survive."

The soldier hesitated for a moment at Jade’s more peaceful approach. "We don’t know who you are. Cedar Heaven takes security seriously. How do we know you’re not infected?"

Jade understood their concern. She pulled out a map from her bag and showed the route they had taken. "We encountered infected along the way. If any of us were bitten, we wouldn’t have made it this far."

Joel interjected in his usual gruff tone. "Listen, if you're that paranoid, scan us. But hurry it up, because this kid..." He gestured at Ellie. "...is tired and hungry."

Ellie’s face flushed. "Hey, don’t call me ‘kid’ like that, Joel!"

The soldier glanced between Jade and Joel before speaking into his radio. "Three civilians at the checkpoint. We need a scan. Can we grant temporary access?"

A few minutes later, someone emerged from a small booth near the gate, holding an old medical scanner. The device emitted a high-frequency beep as it activated, designed to detect infection levels in the blood. Any anomaly would trigger an alarm.

Joel grumbled impatiently as they were scanned. "This is the dumbest damn procedure. If we were infected, do you think we’d still be standing here?"

Jade turned to him with a scolding look. "Joel, please. Just be patient."

Once the scan was complete, the device confirmed that they were clean. One of the soldiers turned to the gate and radioed for approval. A tense silence followed, making Joel’s patience wear even thinner.

Finally, the massive metal gate began to open, revealing the life inside Cedar Heaven. Green spaces, running generators, smiling people, and even a small market area came into view. Ellie’s eyes lit up. "Whoa… is this real? It looks like a dream!"

Joel, however, remained cautious. "Not a dream, Ellie. Nowhere is completely safe," he said gruffly.

Jade felt a mixture of relief and guilt as they stepped inside. She knew she needed to talk to Joel about his harsh attitude at the checkpoint, but she also understood that there was more to his behavior than just stubbornness.

As they entered, a settlement official greeted them and explained the basic rules. "All newcomers to Cedar Heaven must remain under observation for three days. During this time, you’ll be assigned temporary housing. Your needs will be met, but for the safety of the community, you must abide by our rules."

Joel didn’t seem too pleased with the official. Meanwhile, Ellie, still marveling at the settlement, laughed as she watched Joel and Jade’s constant bickering. All she could think was that this place might bring not only safety—but also a bit of entertainment.

Although Cedar Heaven seemed like a utopia compared to the outside world, strict discipline was enforced to maintain order. There was a quarantine area specifically for newcomers to prevent the community from being threatened by an infected individual. Joel, Ellie, and Jade were assigned to a barrack made of wooden planks and metal sheets—minimal but clean. Compared to the ruins of the outside world, this place offered a level of comfort that could almost be considered luxurious. Inside, there were two bunk beds, a small table, a few chairs, and an old but functioning gas stove placed in the corner.

Near the door, a few basic supplies provided by the community were neatly stacked: several bottles of water, canned food, hand sanitizer, and a few pieces of clean clothing. The clothes were donations from the community, chosen for practicality—durable pants, thick sweaters, and weather-appropriate boots. Upon seeing the clothes, Ellie mumbled under her breath,

"Fashion week is definitely canceled here..."

Joel responded with a smirk, "There’s no place for fashion in this world, Ellie. Does it work? Then you wear it."

Jade silently examined the clothes, choosing a pair of pants and a sweater. The ongoing tension between her and Joel was evident on her face. She averted her gaze, standing quietly in the corner, trying not to draw attention.

Meals in Cedar Heaven were served at specific times in a communal dining hall. When Joel, Ellie, and Jade entered for the first time, they couldn’t help but admire the organization and discipline within the hall. People sat at long tables, eating the distributed meals and engaging in quiet conversations. The food was simple but filling—bean soup, a few slices of bread, and canned vegetables.

Ellie took a sip of the soup and scrunched up her face. "What is this, Joel? Are we eating rubber?"

Joel lifted his spoon and took a big sip, then raised an eyebrow at her. "If you wanna survive, you eat it. Stop complaining."

Jade remained silent as she sipped her soup, not engaging much in the conversation. Noticing her quietness, Ellie nudged her lightly with her elbow.

"Hey, silent princess, don’t be so withdrawn. You better start talking to us, or you’ll be stuck listening to Joel’s boring stories."

Jade smiled but didn’t reply. Joel shot Ellie a sharp look. "My stories aren’t boring."

Ellie pursed her lips and grinned. "Of course, Joel. Of course..."

That night, Ellie had asked for permission to stay in the dining area and chat with new people. Joel hesitated but eventually let her go, knowing she needed to spend some time with others her age. This left only Joel and Jade in the barrack. As silence filled the room, Joel sat at the edge of the table, spinning his knife absentmindedly. Jade sat on the bed in the corner, flipping through the pages of an old book. Yet both of them were preoccupied with the weight of the silence.

Joel's mind kept drifting to Jade. He wanted to resolve the tension between them, but he didn’t know where to start. Finally, he took a deep breath and decided to speak.

"Jade..." he said, his voice initially soft but then growing firmer.

Jade lifted her head, surprised but wary. "Yes, Joel?"

Joel set his knife down on the table. "I know how I’ve treated you throughout this journey. I’ve been harsh. Unfair. But... this is who I am. And I can’t change that."

Jade frowned. "Joel, what are you trying to say?"

Joel remained silent for a moment before averting his gaze and continuing, "I’ve tried to ignore the way you feel about me. But you keep pushing whenever you get the chance. The problem is... what you feel isn’t right for either of us."

Jade’s expression wavered between shock and disappointment as she responded, "What’s not right, Joel? Not running from my feelings? Don’t worry, I’ll meet new people soon and leave you in peace."

Joel’s face tensed with a bitter smile. "You’re still too young, Jade. And me... I’m just a wreck trying to escape my past. My life exists only to keep Ellie safe. I have nothing to offer you."

Jade felt the weight of his words sink in, falling silent for a moment. But with tears welling in her eyes, she looked at him. "I can’t change how I feel about you, Joel. Even if a platonic love hurts more than anything..."

Joel lowered his head, his words catching in his throat. "These feelings... they make you weak. I can't protect you, Jade. In this world, love is a luxury. And there's no room for luxuries."

The silence between them spread through the room like a heavy fog. "The fact that I don’t love you breaks your heart, Jade. But I had to make it clear for your own good."

When Ellie returned to the cabin in her usual cheerful manner, she immediately sensed the heavy atmosphere inside. Her eyes darted between Joel and Jade. "What happened this time? You two look like you just tore each other apart."

Joel didn’t answer and lay down on his bed. Jade, meanwhile, kept her gaze fixed on the floor. Ellie, after waiting for a moment, shook her head and muttered to herself, "Ah, the world of adults is so weird."

Joel turned in his bed, closing his eyes, but he knew the weight inside him wouldn't let him sleep that night. Jade, too, tried to suppress her emotions, yet Joel's words echoed in her mind: "The fact that I don’t love you breaks your heart, Jade."

The leader of Cedar Heaven, Markus Hayes, was a charismatic and intelligent man in his late thirties. Thanks to him, the community had developed an organized structure and remained largely isolated from the outside world. His ability to influence people was his greatest strength, solidifying his leadership. The arrival of Joel, Ellie, and Jade had been reported to him, and once their quarantine was completed, he invited them to his office.

The office was on the upper floor of Cedar Heaven’s main building, a spacious room filled with neatly arranged files and maps on a large wooden desk. The walls were decorated with old-world maps, community plans, and various documents concerning the survivors. Markus sat behind the desk, carefully reviewing reports.

When a knock came at the door, he took a deep breath and leaned back in his chair. "Come in," he said, his voice calm yet authoritative.

Joel, Ellie, and Jade entered. Markus' sharp green eyes first scanned Joel, then Ellie. But when he looked at Jade, he hesitated for a brief moment. There was something about her posture, her quiet determination, and her beauty that caught his attention.

Markus stood up and walked towards them. "Welcome," he said. His voice was soft yet carried the weight of leadership. "I’m Markus Hayes, leader of Cedar Heaven. If you managed to make it here, you must be quite capable."

Joel shook Markus' hand with a short, firm grip. "Joel Miller."

Ellie stepped forward with a grin. "Ellie. And yes, we’re capable. But really, this girl," she gestured toward Jade, "she’s the one who got us here."

Markus turned to Jade and extended his hand. "Is that so? Then I must congratulate you… Miss?"

Jade hesitated before shaking his hand. "Jade. I just wanted to help."

Markus' smile widened. "Wanting to help is a rare thing in this world. I hope you find a good place here, Jade."

Joel immediately noticed Markus' interest in Jade. The subtle shift in his voice, the way his gaze lingered—it sparked something in Joel’s chest, an ember of jealousy. Clenching his jaw, he rolled his eyes. "We’re just here to rest. Then we’re moving on."

Markus shook his head slightly. "Ah, Joel… This place isn’t just a rest stop. People build their lives here. Maybe you should consider that."

Before ending the meeting, Markus explained the privileges the community could offer. "I’ll be granting you some additional assistance," he said. "After all, we can always use talented people from the outside."

Joel responded with a sarcastic expression. "And what exactly do these ‘benefits’ have to do with us?"

Markus smirked, turning to Jade. "I just like to reward capable individuals, Joel. Especially someone as intelligent and strong as Jade."

Jade averted her gaze, slightly flustered. Joel, on the other hand, took a deep breath, struggling to keep his patience in check. "Seems like we need some rest. Can we leave now?"

Markus, sensing Joel’s frustration, remained unfazed. "Of course. But Jade, if you’d like to learn more about our organization, you’re welcome to visit me later."

As Joel headed for the door, Ellie was clearly amused, trying hard not to laugh. "Ah, Markus is such a sweet guy, isn’t he, Jade?" she teased.

---

Back at the cabin, Joel was nearly seething. His hands clenched, his face dark with frustration as he paced to the corner of the room. Ellie, enjoying the scene, sat back while Jade remained silent.

Joel finally broke the silence. "What exactly is this 'special treatment' that man is giving you, Jade?"

Jade lifted her head, meeting his gaze. "What do you mean?" she asked, her tone firm.

Joel took a step closer. "He made his interest in you pretty damn clear. Did you like that?"

Jade narrowed her eyes. "Does it matter, Joel? Or did you come here just to interrogate me?"

Sensing where this was going, Ellie quickly intervened. "Okay, okay, calm down! Joel, Markus was just being nice. And Jade benefited from it. We all did. Now don’t tear each other apart over it, alright?"

Joel didn’t respond to Ellie. He just took a deep breath and leaned against the wall. Jade turned away, hurt. She couldn’t understand why her feelings were affecting Joel this much.

Without looking at Ellie, Joel muttered, "We just need some rest."

But Jade could sense the storm of emotions behind his words. Joel’s jealousy confused her, but she had no plan to unravel it. The coming days in this community would only add more tension.

---

The next morning, Joel, Ellie, and Jade gathered in front of the large wooden building serving as the community's headquarters. It was a repurposed old town hall, its windows reinforced, solar panels lining the roof, and barbed wire surrounding the perimeter. From inside, the sounds of controlled chaos echoed—orders being shouted, discussions taking place, engines rumbling.

Markus emerged, dressed in a pragmatic yet refined manner. Even his clothing exuded authority and charisma; a sturdy leather jacket, binoculars and a notebook in his side pockets, an antique revolver at his belt. His eyes landed directly on Jade, and a faint smile appeared on his face.

"It’s time to introduce you to the way things work here in Cedar Heaven," Markus announced. He gestured toward the entrance, leading the group inside.

Inside, a large board displayed a list of assigned tasks: food supply, defense, training, repairs, medical production, and scouting. Markus pointed to each category, explaining who would be assigned where.

"Ellie, you’ll be in the training program. You’re young, you’ll learn quickly. Also, you’ll be trained in archery. We need to expand our skill sets." Ellie scrunched her nose. Training sounded way too boring for her.

Joel spoke briefly and to the point. "Joel Miller, you'll be assigned to defense and external patrol duties." His words were cold and formal. The mission was dangerous; there was always a risk of encountering infected or hostile groups. Joel understood this and frowned.

When it was Jade's turn, Markus’ tone changed completely. "Jade, you've proven yourself impressive with your repair skills. You'll be working with the machines and vehicles here. Also..." he said, locking eyes with Jade, "...you could join our management team. We need someone as talented as you."

Joel's hand clenched into a fist involuntarily. His face gave nothing away, but his mind was a storm of anger, jealousy, and frustration. Markus’ blatant interest in Jade was driving him mad.

After assigning the tasks, Markus promised Jade a more comfortable life in Cedar Heaven. "If you agree to join the management team, we'll provide you with a private accommodation. And we can arrange better supplies for you as well."

Jade furrowed her brows unconsciously. Markus’ interest was obvious, but these privileges were tempting after the harsh years she had endured. Yet, she couldn’t ignore Joel's reaction. When she stole a glance at him, she noticed the tension in his jaw.

Ellie stood beside Joel, visibly annoyed by Markus' words. "This guy really sticks his nose into everything, huh?" she muttered.

Joel said nothing. His hands were clenched at his sides, and his eyes were fixed on Jade. In the midst of all this special attention, he noticed how she looked—her eyes cast downward, considering the privileges Markus had offered, yet seeming like she wanted to be anywhere but there. Joel knew how strong Jade was, yet seeing her looking vulnerable affected him in ways he didn't understand.

That night, when Joel retreated to his bed, his mind was filled with thoughts of Jade and Markus. The thoughts wouldn’t let him sleep. He kept replaying Jade’s reaction to Markus’ words over and over again. It was impossible to ignore Markus’ clear desire to keep Jade close.

Ellie’s words echoed in his mind: "What do you think about Jade and Markus?" Joel hated that he couldn’t answer that question. The idea of Jade being close to someone else was driving him insane.

Joel finally made a decision. Instead of denying his feelings for Jade, it was time to say something. But just as he was about to act, Ellie entered the room.

"Joel," she said, her voice tired but firm. "We can’t let Jade be pressured into this. Markus seems decent, but we need to protect her. Don’t forget that."

Joel pondered the meaning behind Ellie’s words. Protect Jade... But was this just about keeping her physically safe, or was there something deeper—something about his inability to control his own emotions?

Mornings in Cedar Heaven were always busy and structured—patrol teams, farming work, and the distant echoes of gunfire from the training grounds filled the air. As Joel prepared for his first patrol, he headed to the defense equipment depot, which had been converted from an old garage. Around him, militia members of various backgrounds prepared in silent determination. The scent of metal and gunpowder reminded him of FEDRA outposts. He scanned the shelves, memorizing the locations of every weapon and bullet. This was how he survived—by being prepared.

The patrol leader showed Joel a simple route. On the map, Cedar Heaven’s perimeter was outlined with barbed wire, watchtower locations, and potential threat zones. "Joel, you’ll be patrolling the northeastern sector," the leader said. "We spotted a few infected there last week, but it should be clear for now. Stay sharp."

Joel acknowledged the instructions with a small nod. He pulled on a thick vest and grabbed a shotgun. As he inspected the weapon, his hands instinctively checked the trigger mechanism, a habit from years of experience. He was as stoic as ever on the outside, but his mind was elsewhere. Jade.

He had only seen her briefly that morning. She had gone to the vehicle repair area to start her assigned tasks. Even that short glimpse of her had stirred a wave of jealousy inside him. Markus’ obvious attraction to her made Joel’s blood boil. But Jade wasn’t just someone who didn’t belong with Markus. She was someone who represented a light in Joel’s life. And Joel couldn’t allow that.

As he patrolled the perimeter, his eyes scanned the surroundings, but his mind was fixated on Jade. Every shadow among the trees, every whisper of the wind carried echoes of her voice. He cursed himself. Survival in this world left no room for emotions. But no matter how hard he tried to suppress it, Jade’s presence haunted him like a ghost.

Jade had been working in Cedar Heaven’s repair area since early morning. Thanks to what she had learned during quarantine, most of the vehicles here were operational, though the lack of spare parts slowed things down. After listening to Markus’ instructions, she had picked up a wrench and got to work.

She relied on the knowledge her father had taught her about fixing vehicles. As she lifted the hood and examined the engine, her hands worked out of muscle memory. With dirty fingers, she checked the battery connections and spotted a leak in the radiator. She felt a quiet sense of pride—she could tell Markus was watching her with admiration. But that admiration made her uncomfortable. Because there was another pair of eyes she wanted to see. Joel’s eyes.

She convinced herself that Joel didn’t care about her. She reminded herself of this every single day. His cold and distant demeanor had slowly drained her courage. Who was she fooling? She had once believed that Joel was someone she could trust. But in the end, Joel only cared about his own survival and Ellie. She had learned not to trust people, and Joel was no exception. So she decided to keep her distance. But that decision didn’t stop her from secretly watching him whenever she could. She knew his patrol schedule, knew when he came and went.

As Jade wiped the grease from her hands, her eyes drifted toward Joel, who was walking in the distance with his shotgun slung over his shoulder. He looked strong and determined, and she couldn’t help but admire him. But admiration was mixed with sadness. Because Joel’s distance sent her a clear message: "Stay away from me. Don’t trust me. I’ll only hurt you."

Joel patrolled the perimeter, locked in an internal battle. On one hand, he told himself he shouldn’t think about Jade. She would be better off with someone like Markus, a leader who could offer her stability. But on the other hand, the thought of Jade smiling next to Markus ignited a rage inside him. He struggled to understand why his feelings were so intense. Jade wasn’t supposed to mean anything to him. But it wasn’t that simple.

His eyes drifted to where Jade was working. Her hands were covered in grease, her face illuminated by the sunlight. Every movement she made revealed her skill and strength. Joel thought of his past—Sarah, Ellie, and now Jade. The world had always taken away the people he loved. Maybe that was why thinking about Jade hurt so much. Because if he let himself get close, he would lose her too.

They were so close, yet so far from each other.

Cedar Heaven was running as usual, but for Markus, seeing Jade had become one of the moments he looked forward to the most in his day. On the outside, she appeared tough and distant, but Markus saw the fragility, intelligence, and strength within her. He admired Jade’s diligence and skill. Instead of hiding his admiration, he started making up excuses to call her frequently.

That morning, Jade was busy inspecting a vehicle in the repair workshop. Her hands were greasy as she worked under the hood when one of Markus’ assistants arrived. "The leader wants to see you," said the young woman. Jade frowned—Markus’ summons had been becoming more frequent lately, and it unsettled her. Nevertheless, she nodded politely and grabbed a cloth to clean her hands.

Jade knocked on the door, and Markus invited her in. As always, he looked cheerful and friendly.

"Jade, you arrived just on time," Markus said, setting aside the papers in his hand. "I need to ask you something."

Jade patiently listened to Markus, but she soon realized that his real intention wasn’t to consult her—it was simply to spend time with her. Their conversation shifted from Cedar Heaven’s tasks to Jade’s past.

"Your father was a mechanic, wasn’t he? It shows," Markus said, complimenting her as he offered her a cup of coffee. Jade declined, but the warmth in Markus' gaze made her even more uncomfortable.

Markus kept finding excuses to get close to her, touching her hair, brushing her cheek, or standing so close that there was almost no space left between them. His meaningful stares made it clear that he wanted her to feel the attraction between them.

"You are one of the most talented people here, Jade," Markus said, his eyes locked on her face. "It's a privilege to work with someone like you."

Jade responded with a forced smile. She could have stopped Markus from behaving this way, but she didn’t. Whenever Joel disappointed her or made her feel inadequate, she used Markus’ attention as a defense against the anger she felt toward Joel. But she was making a mistake. Even though she remained cautious around Markus, he interpreted her tolerance differently, taking it as encouragement.

When Markus suddenly grabbed her waist and pulled her close, Jade was caught off guard. She thanked him for the conversation but quickly made up an excuse to leave the office. She felt as if her chest was tightening. Markus’ intentions were now clear, but she didn’t have the courage to confront him about it.

By the time Joel returned to Cedar Heaven from his patrol, he was exhausted, but his mind was consumed with thoughts of Jade. After handing in his weapon at the depot, he searched for Ellie. He found her sitting in the cafeteria, stirring a hot bowl of soup that Jade had brought her.

"Ellie," Joel said, his voice carrying a tired but firm tone. "How are you?"

Ellie put her spoon down and smirked. "I'm fine. But judging by that look on your face, I’d say you’re not."

Joel ignored her teasing. He sat down and stared at Ellie’s bowl. "Where's Jade?" he asked.

Ellie rolled her eyes. "Last I saw, she was in Markus' office. He calls for her a lot. Something’s going on."

Joel's brows knitted together. "What do you mean?"

Ellie shrugged. "Can’t you see it? The guy is obviously into her. Rumors spread fast."

Joel's face grew more tense as he processed Ellie’s words. Under the table, his fists clenched, and he gritted his teeth. His jealousy burned, mixing with his growing anger. The mere thought of Jade spending time with Markus was enough to drive him crazy. But he couldn't let it show.

He stood up and walked outside, letting the cold air hit his face as his mind spiraled. Markus’ interest in Jade was obvious. But what bothered him even more was that he didn’t know how Jade felt about it. Maybe she felt safer around Markus. Maybe she was responding to his flirtatious gestures, smiling that sweet smile of hers—the one that haunted Joel’s thoughts.

Joel knew his dark past made him unworthy of someone like Jade. But that didn’t stop the jealousy from eating him alive.

Ellie’s words echoed in his mind. Jade being in Markus’ office, Markus finding excuses to touch her... These thoughts fueled Joel’s anger. He felt humiliated, but the worst part was the fear of losing her.

As Cedar Heaven’s daily routine continued, Jade noticeably distanced herself from both Joel and Ellie. At first, it seemed temporary, but over time, it became a habit. Whenever Ellie saw Jade in the cafeteria, she would wave excitedly and try to strike up a conversation. But Jade always found an excuse to leave.

"I'll talk to you later, Ellie. I have a meeting to get to," she said once, motioning to the files in her hands.

Ellie didn’t understand why Jade was acting this way, but she had a feeling it had something to do with Joel. Joel, on the other hand, pretended not to notice. But each day, he became more withdrawn, sitting alone in a corner, watching everything from a distance.

Markus and Jade’s connection had become an open secret in Cedar Heaven. People whispered about how often Jade was summoned to his office and how Markus made efforts to spend time with her.

"I think Markus wants to keep Jade close," one woman whispered in the cafeteria.

"Close? I think it’s more than that," another responded with a smirk.

Hearing these rumors only made Joel’s anger grow. Everyone was talking about Jade and Markus, speculating about their relationship and questioning Markus' intentions. But what Joel couldn’t understand was why Jade tolerated it. These thoughts gnawed at him, filling him with a mix of rage and jealousy.

One day, in the storage area, Joel spotted Jade walking side by side with Markus. They appeared to be discussing something on a map, but Markus' smile and Jade’s relaxed demeanor were enough to make Joel’s blood boil. The weight in his chest grew heavier, and he found himself leaning against the wall, struggling to steady his breathing.

Ellie could see the change in Joel. He was quieter, angrier than before. During meals, he often drifted off, lost in thought, and during patrols, he was harsher than necessary. Eventually, Ellie decided to confront him.

"How long are you going to keep this up?" she asked, catching Joel at a rare moment alone.

Joel frowned, as if he didn't understand. "What are you talking about, Ellie?"

Ellie crossed her arms and gave him a challenging look. "I'm talking about Jade. You love her. We both know it. But what are you doing? Just standing back and letting Markus spend time with her."

Joel's face hardened. "Ellie, this is none of your business."

"Yeah? Well, you're not doing anything about it!" Ellie snapped. "Age gap, past, whatever… You're using those as excuses. But the truth is, Joel, you're just scared to tell her how you feel."

Joel felt anger rise within him, but deep down, he knew Ellie was right. The feelings he had for Jade sat in his chest like a heavy weight.

After Ellie’s words, Joel remained silent for a long time. Even when the stars appeared in the night sky, his thoughts were still on Jade. Every moment she spent with Markus was torture for him. But it was a torture he had created himself.

***

Cedar Heaven was on the brink of unexpected chaos. Midnight had passed, and most of the settlement's residents were asleep. But the first scream shattered the silence, changing everything. One of the patrol guards shouted that a group of infected had broken through the inner defense line. Within moments, sirens echoed through the settlement, filling the air with fear. People scrambled behind barricades, clutching the few weapons they had.

Joel was awake the moment he heard the alarm. Years of survival instincts kept him alert. He checked on Ellie—she had already jumped out of bed, eyes wide with shock and fear.

"Joel, what's happening?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly.

Joel slung his backpack over his shoulder, his voice short and firm. "Infected. We need to make sure we’re safe before heading out. Stay close."

Ellie saw the seriousness in his expression and simply nodded. But Joel's mind was on someone else too—Jade. Was she safe? Did she have a weapon? Had Markus already found her?

But he had chosen to stay away from her. His own decision. And now, he regretted it.

Getting Ellie to safety was Joel's first priority. They moved quickly toward the center of the settlement. Screams and explosions shattered the usual quiet of Cedar Heaven. Every corner held a new threat. Joel kept Ellie behind him, staying alert with every step.

"Stay here," he instructed, pointing to a reinforced barricade. "Don't move. Not until I get back, got it?"

Ellie, for once, didn’t argue. She just nodded. Joel gave her a firm look before turning away and heading into the chaos—searching for Jade.

Joel moved through the tangled streets, trying not to lose his way. Every panicked person rushing past him, every pile of debris, every collapsed barricade only added to his anxiety. How did they miss such a large attack? But there was no time for answers.

He turned a corner and stopped when he saw something on the ground—a torn, bloody, and dirtied shirt that looked like it belonged to Jade. His heart pounded. She was here. Maybe still nearby.

What if Markus had already found her? What if she was with him now? The thought gnawed at him.

Then, a low growl echoed in the distance. Joel focused on the sound. Further down the street, a group of infected moved slowly but menacingly. And behind them, something even worse—a bloater. Joel’s grip tightened around his rifle. If Jade was trapped somewhere near this mess, she didn’t have much of a chance.

He moved carefully through the shadows, avoiding the infected. As he rounded another corner, he saw her—Jade, fighting off a group of infected. She held her pistol steady, taking careful shots and landing each one with deadly precision. Joel hesitated for a moment. She was fearless. Determined.

But the numbers were against her, and her ammunition was running low. Just as an infected crept up behind her, Joel raised his rifle and fired a single shot, dropping the creature instantly.

Jade flinched at the unexpected help but quickly recovered.

"Joel?" she called out, her voice a mix of shock and frustration.

"I came for you," Joel said, his voice gruff but sincere.

Jade hesitated for a second, then raised her gun again. "Alright, hero. Then let's fight."

Side by side, in the pouring rain and the darkness, they took down the infected one by one. Even in their silence, there was so much left unsaid, but for now, all that mattered was survival.

Rain poured from the sky, turning the ground beneath them into slippery mud. Joel’s rifle was wet, but his focus remained sharp. Ahead, silhouettes moved in the darkness—more infected. The guttural growls and eerie clicking sounds crept closer.

Joel glanced at Jade. She was quiet, focused. Her pistol was ready, her stance steady. He had noticed her agility back when she first arrived at Cedar Heaven, during that chaotic car chase. But now, fighting side by side, seeing her resilience firsthand—it gave him an unexpected sense of reassurance.

"Three on our left," Jade whispered. Joel nodded.

"Take that side. I’ll cover your back," he replied firmly.

Jade moved swiftly, aiming at the targets on the left while Joel turned to the right. His first shot hit a runner dead center in the forehead, but more were coming.

A sharp clicking noise made Joel instinctively duck. A Clicker was charging straight for him. Its grotesque fungal growth twisted its face into an inhuman shape, its movements erratic and terrifying.

"Damn it," Joel muttered, raising his pistol and firing twice. The creature shrieked before collapsing.

Jade’s voice rang out. "Joel, behind you!"

Joel turned just in time to see a Stalker creeping up on him. But Jade was faster. She lunged, plunging her knife into the infected’s throat. It gurgled, then dropped to the ground.

"You could be a little more careful, old man," Jade said with a smirk.

Joel tried to mask his surprise. "You enjoying this?"

"A little," Jade admitted, though her tone was serious.

Joel pressed his back against a wall, quickly assessing the situation. More infected were on their way, following the sounds of gunfire. Clickers and Stalkers, plus a runner—fast but weaker.

Joel formulated a plan in his head. They were outnumbered. But they still had a fighting chance.

"There's a generator up ahead. If we make some noise, we can draw their attention there," Joel said.

"Then what?" Jade asked.

"We'll take them down one by one. I'll handle the heavy work, you take care of the fast ones."

Jade nodded. "Alright. But don’t slow me down."

Joel smirked slightly at her response. For a moment, he thought back to the first time they fought together. Until they reached Cedar Heaven, he had witnessed how fast and strategic Jade could be in the infected-filled streets. Now, being a team again gave Joel an unexpected surge of energy. Somehow, it made them stronger.

They moved according to their plan. Joel threw a few rocks at the generator to draw attention. The infected gathered around the engine, falling into their trap one by one. Joel swung his spiked baseball bat at a Runner, sending it crashing to the ground. Then, he quickly stabbed a Clicker approaching from behind.

Jade, using her speed and agility, drove her knife into another Runner's throat. Joel glanced at her for a moment, observing the precision and determination in her movements. As she moved on to her next target, he found himself unable to look away. Her fluid movements proved, once again, just how strong she had to be to survive.

When a Clicker lunged at Jade from behind, Joel intervened swiftly. He aimed his rifle at the creature's head and took it down with a single shot.

"Thanks," Jade said without turning around.

"We watch each other's backs, don’t we?" Joel replied.

Jade took down a Stalker and turned, locking eyes with him. In her gaze, Joel saw a deep resolve, but also pain. The days they had spent trying to stay away from each other now felt meaningless in the chaos of this fight. Seeing her courage and strength, Joel was reminded once more why he found her so compelling.

By the end of the battle, they were both out of breath. Joel slung his rifle over his shoulder and looked at Jade. Her face was covered in sweat and blood, but her eyes still burned with determination.

"You alright?" Joel asked, his voice slightly unsteady.

"I’m alive, so yeah," Jade replied with a small smile.

A brief silence fell between them. They stood there, staring at each other as the world around them quieted.

After a while, they made their way to one of the shelters. They were drenched from the rain. Announcements over the base's speakers confirmed that the southern wing was back under control. Whoever had caused this recklessness would be found and punished.

The dim light of the shelter blended with the cold stone walls, amplifying the silence that echoed within. Jade sat on a wooden chair in the corner, absentmindedly playing with the knife in her hands. Her fingers moved with practiced ease, using the small task to mask the storm inside her. Her gaze occasionally flicked to Joel, but she quickly looked away each time.

Joel sat at an old metal table across from her, cleaning his weapon. His movements were mechanical, but his mind was clearly elsewhere.

It was as if an invisible tension had wrapped around the room. They both felt it, yet neither dared to be the first to cut through it.

Joel sighed, rubbing the rifle’s barrel with a cloth. His hands moved on instinct, but his thoughts were focused on Jade. She acted like she wasn’t aware of it, but Joel felt her every movement.

"You're being reckless," he finally said, his voice softer but still uncertain. "If you keep working alone like this, one day I won’t be able to find you."

Jade took a deep breath and turned to him. *"The real danger isn’t the infected, Joel. The real danger is people." Her eyes glistened. "Do you even realize what people do to each other? Even Markus..." she trailed off.

Joel sensed something hidden in her words. "Markus? What did he do to you?" His voice hardened instantly.

Jade shook her head. "Nothing. It’s just... I don’t trust people. That’s why I work alone when I’m assigned a mission. And..." She hesitated, breaking eye contact. "That’s why I couldn’t trust you either."

Joel felt his anger falter. He slowly stepped closer, closing the distance between them. "You couldn’t trust me?" he murmured. "Jade... I was only trying to protect you."

Jade met his gaze again, her expression a mix of anger and sorrow. "You left me alone... You never really cared about me... Not even as a friend... I’m just trying to protect myself, that’s all."

Joel remained silent for a few moments. This was the most honest conversation they had ever had. He could see both fragility and strength in her face. Seeing her like this broke something inside him.

"Whenever you need me, I’ll be there, Jade... I left Ellie behind to come to you. If something happens to you... Losing you would be like losing everything."

Jade smiled, but to Joel, it still carried so much pain. Being this close to her, realizing just how deep their emotions ran, made everything even harder. Her fears and trust issues didn’t make her weak—they made her human.

"Don’t forget this, Joel. Sometimes we have to be close to each other. But that closeness should make us stronger, not amplify our fears," she said, her voice still trembling.

Joel nodded. They sat in silence for a while, the weight of unspoken words thick between them. Jade's eyes shimmered with unshed tears, yet she still found strength.

She quietly gathered her things. Joel, leaning against the wall, watched her.

"Where are you going?" he asked, his voice as stern as ever, but underneath it lay a hint of worry.

Jade avoided Joel’s gaze as she noticed the tone in his voice. “I need to check in with Markus. I haven’t returned in a while, he must be worried.”

The thought of that man constantly watching Jade, always finding a reason to be near her, drove Joel insane. Just the idea of Markus wondering whether she had returned to the shelter or not was enough to make his blood boil. And now, seeing Jade about to walk away, a volcano of jealousy and anger threatened to erupt inside him.

“He must be worried, huh?” Joel said sarcastically, pressing his lips into a tight line.

Jade turned to look at him. “Yes, he must be. We all have responsibilities here, Joel. Is that a problem?”

Joel took a few steps toward her. “A problem? You mean that guy following you around all the time? Saying he’s worried about you? You think that’s normal?” His voice was low, but there was an unmistakable edge of anger in it. “Why don’t you stay away from Markus? Don’t you see how he looks at you? Are you that blind?”

Jade let out a tired breath, her expression weary. “I’m not blind, Joel! I see everything. But you’ve been distant, pushing me away, and I didn’t know what else to do! You keep shutting me out, and Markus… at least he sees me.”

The words hit Joel like a dagger to the chest. “Sees you, huh? What does he see? How to manipulate you? How to get closer to you?” His anger was rising. “Do you really think his intentions are pure?”

Jade cut in sharply. “He can’t manipulate me, Joel. I know what he wants, and I know what he’s thinking. And honestly, you have no right to judge me.”

Joel ran a hand through his hair, trying to rein in his frustration. “I’m not judging you. I’m trying to protect you, Jade! But it’s like you’re purposely running toward him just to spite me. Why? Are you trying to punish me?”

Jade froze for a second, her gaze locking onto his. “That’s not true. I just… I couldn’t stand the thought of you not loving me. I wanted to forget you. Because I heard it from your own mouth, Joel. You don’t love me. Your anger pushed us to this point. And yes, maybe Markus was part of it, but it wasn’t just about him.”

Joel stood still, speechless. “You’re punishing yourself just to stop loving me? Jade, that man is dangerous. How can you not see that?”

Jade furrowed her brows, shaking her head. “Joel… I *am* afraid of Markus, okay? His attention makes me uncomfortable. But if I didn’t feel so alone, maybe I wouldn’t do things like this. You’ve always been a wall. I’ve tried to reach you, but you keep pushing me away.”

Joel’s anger wavered for a moment. He could see both rage and pain in her eyes. “You’re scared…” he repeated, his voice softer now, thoughtful. “Then stay away from him! Jade, if he ever hurts you, I’ll never forgive myself.”

Jade let out a deep breath, lowering her eyes. “I feel alone, Joel. You think you’re protecting me, but you’re breaking me, every single day. Every moment I think you don’t love me, *that* is what hurts. And the person hurting me the most… is you. Markus… at least he listens to me. At least I can pretend to find some kind of solace.”

Joel felt something shift inside him. His hands clenched into fists, but this time, his anger wasn’t directed at her—it was at himself. “Jade, I’d protect you from everything. If it comes down to it, we’ll leave this damn place. But Markus? I can’t stand him. I won’t stand him."

Jade felt the weight of his words, for the first time sensing his sincerity. But she also knew how conflicted he was. She lowered her head slightly, speaking in a quiet voice. “Joel, trust me. Nothing ever happened between Markus and me. And I don’t feel anything for him. But you have to stop leaving me like this.”

Joel stayed silent for a long moment. Finally, he exhaled, trying to steady himself. “I won’t leave you, Jade. I’ll protect you. But if Markus ever lays a hand on you… this place will burn.”

The tension in the shelter was thick, pressing in on them like an invisible force. And yet, deep down, they both knew that this confrontation had brought them closer.

“The lie you told… about not loving me. It *was* a lie, wasn’t it?” Jade’s voice was soft, but firm. “You’re jealous of Markus because you love me. Desperately.”

Joel looked at her, his emotions swirling in his eyes. “Yes… but that’s not the point, Jade. I don’t deserve you.”

A bitter smile formed on Jade’s lips. She could see how much he loved her, but she could also see how hard he was trying to push her away. “That’s not your decision to make, Joel.”

Joel tried to take a step back, but Jade had already closed the distance between them. Her fingertips brushed against his hand—such a simple touch, yet it paralyzed him. His hands suddenly felt heavier, his heartbeat louder, as if something was holding him in place.

“Don’t,” Joel murmured, his voice rough, but fragile.

Jade tilted her head slightly, searching his eyes. “Why, Joel? Do you *really* love me, or do you just see me as someone you need to protect?”

A low sound rumbled in Joel’s throat, but it wasn’t an answer—just hesitation. Jade took another step forward. Now, their breaths mingled in the space between them.

Jade slowly lifted her hands and gently cupped Joel’s face. The warmth of her touch both calmed him and set him on edge. He closed his eyes, feeling her fingertips trace his skin. And yet, all he could think was how wrong this was.

"Jade..." he whispered, his voice trembling.

Without hesitation, Jade slowly reached for Joel. When her lips touched his, time seemed to stop. That kiss stirred a storm inside Joel and, for a brief moment, made him forget all his burdens. But Joel pulled away.

"This isn't right," he said, his breath unsteady. "You're young, Jade. I... I don't want to drag you into this."

But Jade didn't step back. She placed her hands on Joel's shoulders and looked straight into his eyes. "Right or wrong, let me decide that. You always try to make choices for me, but Joel, I'm telling you what I want. I want you."

Joel's breath hitched. Seeing the determination in her eyes, he felt his walls begin to crumble. Yet, he still tried to resist. "Jade, if you knew my past, the things I've done... you'd understand why I'm afraid of hurting you."

Jade cut him off. "I've known enough people to recognize who would harm me, Joel. What hurts me is you running away from me."

Her words shook Joel more than he expected. Jade pressed her lips against his again, this time with more confidence, more passion. At first, Joel resisted, but in the end, he surrendered completely. His hands instinctively wrapped around her waist, pulling her closer.

That moment was like an explosion for both of them—a release of years of built-up emotions, fears, and longing. Despite all his doubts, Joel felt the reality of the moment. And Jade, in his arms, felt safe and whole.

When the kiss ended, both were breathless. Joel leaned his forehead against Jade’s. "What... what are we doing?" he whispered, his voice almost desperate.

Jade smiled softly. "We're doing the right thing, Joel."

As Joel tried to process her words, the turmoil inside him slowly settled into a quiet acceptance. The trust and love in Jade’s eyes brought him peace for the first time.

This time, her kiss was deeper, more intense. Joel resisted for a moment longer, but then he let everything go. His hands gripped her waist as he pulled her in. Their kiss was a collision of pent-up emotions—fear, pain, and desire merging into one.

Joel's breath trailed down to Jade’s neck as she clung to his shoulders. Time felt like it had stopped. The dim lights of the shelter cast soft shadows over their faces. As Joel let himself believe in this moment, he realized his walls had completely crumbled.

“No one can touch you but me,” Joel said, innocent as a child afraid of losing, “this is not something I can handle.”

Joel took off the girl’s wet jacket with a nasty movement and threw it in a corner. Her gray T-shirt was soaked from the pouring rain and stuck to her body. The cold hardened her nipples, exposing itself to Joel’s eyes through the cloth that hugged her body. Joel cupped her breasts through the cloth and began to caress the swelling lumps with his thumb. The movement that had echoed in Jade’s groin and sent butterflies flying through her belly now made her feel even more passionate as she reached for his lips. Her moist tongue met his between his lips, soothing the old wolf’s wounds. A white sheet was spread over the marks etched into his soul.

While they continued kissing, Jade's hand didn't stop either. She pushed Joel's hands on her breasts, allowing him to free his arms, and just like he did, she started to take off Joel's jacket. Everything was happening very fast. She had to. The fear of being caught was added to the intensity of their suppressed feelings for each other. A group of guards could raid them in the shelter while looking for people who were dead or bitten and at risk of infection. Normally, this shouldn't have been a big problem. One of the guards would smile at such a sight, curse with a half-mocking, half-envious expression on his face, and wait for them to leave the shelter with the same expression. However, Jade was the apple of their leader's eye and had a character that would turn dark for the sake of their goals. If they were very lucky, they could sacrifice them to the infected group.

But their repressed sexual feelings were very strong in turning the fear into fantasy in their minds. Joel Miller tangled his fingers in Jade's hair, pressing her closer to him, while his other hand went to his belt, trying to unbuckle it. Jade was luckier in this regard. Her fingers undid the button and pulled down his pants by holding them by the edges. Since the cut of the pants was designed to be wide, they slid on the smooth surface of the girl's thin legs and met the ground. She was much more comfortable now. She had cleaned herself of her clothes, which were a mixture of blood, rain and sweat, and wrapped her arms tightly around Joel's neck. She was moaning as if she were enjoying a pleasure she had forgotten the taste of.

Joel finally managed to get rid of his pants despite the girl's active nature. He pulled his lips away from hers and ended the passionate French kiss. He bent his knees slightly and got down to her level, reaching her upper thighs. He wrapped her legs around him and lifted her up. Now the girl was in his lap, her womanhood pressing against his manhood. Jade took Joel's face between her hands as they looked passionately into his eyes. Just as her lips were about to part to say the words, Joel didn't let her. "I was scared to death of losing you, Jade. But I'd rather die than see you with someone else," he said. This time their kiss was much harder and more uncontrolled. It was an expression of all the accumulated emotions, suppressed pleasures. Joel wasn't just kissing, he was telling stories about everything that had happened from the time they met until that night and the moments he couldn't explain inside; tongue strokes symbolized regret, small bites symbolized fear, lip movements symbolized loss... Everything fit into that kiss.

At a moment when the fire between the two seemed to disrupt the physical balance between them, Joel wrapped his arms tighter around Jade's body and Jade suddenly groaned when her back hit the wall; she lost her breath between the coldness of the wall and the man's warmth.

"You made me dependent on you, I am ready to be your prisoner," Joel said, his voice cracking and determined. If his daughter were alive, she would be older than Jade, but he wanted to be destroyed in the love of a young woman even younger than his daughter.

There was not the slightest hesitation in Jade's gaze in the face of these words; she was ready to leave herself to Joel with all the weight of that moment.

He waited for a moment, as if time had stopped. Then he brought his lips down on hers again like a hurricane. His hands were gripping her hips tightly, caressing them. He was protecting her by holding her between him and the wall.

Jade's hands first grabbed onto his shoulders with excitement, then slowly slid down to his neck. Their kisses softened for a moment, giving way to a deeper, more sensual passion. He bounced the girl in his arms and held her tighter, pressing his chest against hers more, as if he wanted to hide her from the world. While the girl's back was against the wall, Joel's lips slid down to her neck. The tension between them grew stronger with each breath they exchanged. The shiver Jade felt on her skin spread from her spine to her entire body. The girl whispered his name, her voice trembling like an oath. This made Joel more eager. His cock began to stir, and as he got erect, the pressure he was exerting on her womanhood increased. There was only a piece of cloth between his vagina and his penis. As their bodies continued their movements in sync, the tip of his cock brushed against her clit, Jade's eyebrows furrowed in pleasure as she pulled away from Joel's lips. She was breathing shallowly and moaning, her teeth clenched tightly.

Joel, meanwhile, had become a little more irritable as a manifestation of his fears. As their sexuality grew more sensitive, the dreams of Markus and Jade echoing in Joel's mind were the only source of passion in his aroused body.

When Jade suddenly turned her head to the right with the pleasure she was experiencing, Joel's lips slid to Jade's jawbone. He kissed her chin hard, rubbing it around it, and as his jealousy darkened his heart, he made Jade feel his teeth as if he wanted to hurt her and make her pay. When he finally stopped at her ear, he growled. "As long as the fucker stayed close to you, I wanted to kill him! To shot between his eyebrows without mercy... Like before." As if his jealousy was feeding his strength, he moved his hand to the girl's panties. In the meantime, Jade, whose leg was free, wrapped her legs tighter around the man's waist and hooked her feet together. As Joel pulled the tight panties aside harshly, the sound of the fabric tearing filled his ears. When Joel met her vulva with his fingers, he was surprised by how wet she was. How could he better express that Jade was so ready for him, that he was deprived of his skin? His fingertips were sliding easily on her wet inner lips. So wet and sticky. He stroked at about the same pace, speeding up the movement of his fingertips as he reached her clitoris, creating a vibrator effect. The hundreds of capillaries inside her clitoris were doubling their sensitivity as she felt Joel's breath on her ear and neck. Her breath was trembling with pleasure, her moans continuing to harden Joel's cock, stimulating the entrance to her vagina under the fabric.

Joel asked, almost in a whisper. "Like you said," he said, imitating her nickname for him, "do you like it when the old wolf touches your pussy like that, Jade, huh?" The warmth released from between his lips tickled her skin as he moaned into her ear. "Smooth and puffy."

While caressing with one hand, he continued to apply pressure to her vagina from under his boxers and stimulate the entrance of her vagina as if he was going to enter. "If I see you smile at him one more time, I won't be able to control myself after tonight," he clenched his teeth and his voice trembled with ambition, "I swear to you Jade. Because there is no one who can love you as much as I do, no one else can understand you, no one else can see you the way I do." Finally, he tightly clasped his middle and index fingers together and slid inside her entrance. Jade's moans echoed loudly off the walls as he moved his fingers rapidly inside her. She was holding Joel's muscular arms so tightly that her nails nearly dug into his flesh and made it bleed. "FUCK... JOEL!"

Joel pretended not to notice her and continued, "No one can satisfy you like this old wolf can, do you understand?"

Jade's breathing pattern was completely disrupted, and she was trying to answer Joel with moans squeezed between her trembling breathing. "Yes Joel, I belong only to you. My soul and body...only you...you can touch me."

Joel buried his head in her neck and breathed in the wonderful scent of her skin, now stripped of the odor of sweat. And when he lifted his head again, there was a note of triumph in his voice and expression. "Oh, there's my sweet girl. There's my baby girl."

Joel Miller’s cock was no different than Jade’s vagina. The colorless, sticky precum that leaked from the tip had seeped through the fabric of his gray boxers, darkening the light gray tone. The veins on his penis had grown larger and larger, swollen enough that it was visibly twitching under the skin. The cum pooling in his balls was too much to fit through the fabric. His tip was flushed with the tingle of the moment it met her vagina. Joel could not bear it any longer. He asked breathlessly, “Can you feel my cock, Jade, huh? Can you feel how hungry it is for you, how it yearns to enter your burning cunt, oh Jade?”

"Yes, Joel, I want him inside me so bad."

Joel put his lips to her ear and whispered. It was as if he was trying to drive her crazy. "Do you want daddy inside you, huh? Do you want me to fuck you like no one else, not even that son of a bitch Markus, could?"

"Yes Joel," she moaned as Joel prodded her with his fingers inside her.

"No, forget Joel! Say daddy, say it! Do you want me to fuck you so hard?"

"Fuck... Oh, yes daddy, I want you to fuck me. I beg you daddy... I want your old cock inside me."

Joel growled as he pulled his boxers down to his balls with a greedy tone. "I'm gonna show you what that old cock will do to you now, my little whore," Joel said. "No one else turns you on like me."

Finally Joel took his penis in his hand, held it tightly, and inserted the tip into Jade's vagina and pushed it in quickly. Its squeaky voice mixed with her moans and trembling breaths. Jade's body shook, Joel tightened his leg and hip muscles. But they soon got used to it. Joel moved in and out of the girl's warm vagina comfortably. He felt how his big cock was wrapped between the rough vaginal walls while inside the girl's hole. Jade had never encountered a penis with such a perfect anatomy before. He was applying equal pressure to the sensitive points of her vagina, allowing her to experience equal depths of pleasure. Her pupils rolled in their sockets, her moans quickened. As Joel increased his speed, Jade's hands were released from Joel's arms and hung down and to the sides. Her feet were swinging at least a foot off the ground, parallel to Joel's hard movements. Jade had completely surrendered herself to the strong arms of pleasure.

Joel tilted his head back and squeezed his eyes shut, feeling the pleasure he was getting from Jade's vagina. "Oh, yes! You're such an insatiable, greedy whore, Jade," Joel moaned.

As Joel continued to thrust his penis into Jade, a muffled, runny sound was coming out of her insides, which were bathed in both of their pre-cum. As his speed increased, the man placed his hands under the girl's hips and caressed her tightly, bouncing her on his lap a few times to correct their position that was about to deteriorate. Although this movement caused Jade to lose her balance due to the proximity to the wall, she immediately raised her arms and hugged her older man tightly. The hard blows were driving Jade crazy and her screams were coming out. Fearless, brave, it didn't matter that her voice was spilling out into the streets. The idea of being caught by Markus' men while Joel Miller was fucking her only cared enough to increase her lust. She trusted this man so much, she was so sure of what he could do, this confidence gave her courage.

Joel looked desperate now, his voice trembling with a raspy voice. “You’re not just my lover, you’re my disease, Jade,” he said. “I’m obsessively in love with you.” He kept thrusting. It was as if every word he said was a spur to his hormones that filled the room. He pulled the girl’s hair hard. Her anatomy became apparent under the tightening skin of her neck. The green and blue tones of the veins wrapping around the blood flowing under the skin, her throat, her collarbone… And Joel began to bite mercilessly into her neck. The teeth marks were left on the skin. The girl’s mixed moans of pain and pleasure gave Joel a sexual power. Without taking his lips off her neck, he spoke again. “If anyone else sees you the way I see you, I will destroy those eyes, Jade. Because those eyes should never even dream of having you!”

Joel's penis was throbbing. It seemed like he couldn't take it anymore. His groin began to ache. Without letting the girl off his lap and without getting out of her, he quickly approached the metal table in the corner of the shelter. In the meantime, Jade was begging Joel with the right timing to make her cum. That was all she had in mind. When Joel laid her down hard, face down on the metal table, the cold surface of the metal made her shiver.

"Don't worry, horny girl. Daddy's going to pour his hot, sticky cum inside you in a minute," Joel said breathlessly, his voice slightly raspy. He picked up the pace. He thrust harder. His groin was slapping her ass, her tight hips shaking and shaking. His balls were slapping her clit, and Joel was driving himself wild with pleasure, pushing himself to use his power over her. He tangled his hands in Jade's hair and pressed her face into the hard surface of the table.

Meanwhile, Jade moaned nervously. "Are you going to cum inside me, Joel?"

Joel replied with a devilish grin, "Yes, sweet baby, daddy's gonna get you pregnant."

Jade was so caught up in the pleasure of the moment that she could only say, "No." She couldn't resist Joel, on the contrary, she was diving deeper into the well of lust. But Joel got more furious at her negative response and growled. "Yes, baby, I'm going to get you pregnant." FUCK!" She was so close now... Both of them. Joel put his hands on her shoulders, holding her tightly, and leaned down, putting his weight on her. "I wonder what his face will look like when I tell Markus that your pussy belongs only to me," he said in a tone where hatred and pleasure were friends. "FUCK... Oh, Jade, your beautiful pussy belongs only to your daddy." he was out of breath. He held it and suddenly released it as he inflated his chest with air, reaching the peaks of pleasure. The girl was no different. The floor of the table was shaking from her moans. Joel was almost ready to come. He started slapping the girl's ass cheeks. When he landed the first slap on her flesh, her muscles tensed. "You're a very special girl," he said then and slapped her other cheek again. Jade tensed her muscles again, but the pain and pleasure were buzzing in her ears.

Jade felt warm inside her. The sticky, warm fluid that wouldn’t fit inside her vagina and was struggling to come out with a squeaky sound. Her pupils had almost disappeared with pleasure. “Do you hear me,” Joel asked, leaning in close to her ear, “I’m pouring my cum into your womb, baby. Daddy’s gonna get you pregnant.” His moans mixed with hers as he came. He laced his fingers through hers and pinned her hands to the metal table, on either side of her head. Jade’s knuckles ached from the table floor. She came too. Right after Joel, but Joel couldn’t do anything except stamp his feet and bite his lower lip, his movements restricted, and he could do nothing but moan. He was too heavy, and she was crushing beneath him.

When Joel finally pulled out of her, the floor was soaked with her pleasure juices. The wetness on his penis glistened in the light coming from the window. The water running down Jade's legs made her feel cold because of the cold air circulating in the room. While she was resting on the table, Joel sat on the chair next to the table and watched Jade as she tried to control her breathing. He witnessed how she was making her perfect, young and firm body writhe with pleasure and was spiritually satisfied.

[divaofmads]

SHORT IN SIZE, BIG IN POWER!

"Mando’s Parenting Duty: Height Check!"

Drawing by @divaofmads

[divaofmads]

Cake for Dad, Bon Appetit For Grogu

It took a lot of effort from mom to make Din's birthday cake. But lo and behold, Grogu's sweet tooth kicked in again and the cake disappeared! Mom had to make a second cake, but will she be able to resist Grogu's sweet tooth this time?

Drawing by @divaofmads

[divaofmads]

The Mandalorian x OC

"Oh my God, yes. I'm married to Din Djarin. Is that a problem?"

Who knew that one day I would be lost among the galaxies with Din Djarin? He is the toughest, quietest, most crazy man in the galaxy, but guess what? I packed him up. Who broke that icy presence under that armor?

Inside me, I feel like a star who managed to stay by his side amidst adventures from all corners of the galaxy. But to be honest, when he said to me in a corner of the Razor Crest, "I'm ready to explore all the stars with you," I melted. I said, "Okay, that's over." After that? In the morning, I polish his armor, and in the evening, I feel like the luckiest woman in the galaxy. And yes, Din doesn't lose his sexiness even when he takes off his armor. I won't go into more detail because we'll make this post 18+.

You know what? Just having fun. But look at this drawing and tell me: Isn't this love story just a legend?

And yes, Din Djarin is married to me. Don't question this reality, just enjoy it.

- click on image for quality

Drawing by @divaofmads

[divaofmads]

The Point of No Return 🥀

These are the enchanting words that come to mind when I think about what Baldwin and Phantom have in common. I'm sure these would be that crossed Baldwin's mind about the woman he loved.

"That fate, which condemns me to wallow in blood,

Has also denied me the joys of the flesh,

This face, the infection which poisons our love."

Thanks to @imyselfam-strangeandunusal inspiring me to imagine King Baldwin as the Phantom.

Drawing by @divaofmads

[divaofmads]

Forever In My Heart | King Baldwin

Part I | Part II

Gif by @princess-of-thebes-1995 Dividers by @saradika-graphics pictures by Pinterest

Summary: Baldwin knew that his illness would not allow him to live long. Unfortunately, he did not have an heir to leave the throne to, and since he was of French origin, he demanded an heir from the French kingdom to take over the throne after he died. So King Louis VII sent his younger son and his wife to go to Jerusalem and make a deal with the King.

Warnings! : Toxic Relationship, (King Baldwin is 20, Prince Hugh is 25, Y/N is 19), No Y/N using (Princess Maria), Inspired by history. It is not real historical events exactly, There are chronological mistakes, I apologize for the mistakes I made in English that is not my native language and I am trying to improve my writing skills

A/N: No one's religious beliefs were disrespected. The story was written by researching the ideas of that period.

A/N 2 : You can imagine whoever you want to play the bad guy(Please comment who do you imagine).

" 5th June 1173

My lover who is more beautiful than anything. My lady with lips sweeter than honey, a complexion that would make the moon jealous, and eyes brighter than the sun. The angel who inspires me. You're in my dreams when I sleep, you're the first thing that comes to my mind when I wake up. I miss you so much that every day we are apart I pray to Jesus that my father will return from crusade as soon as possible and start making preparations for our wedding.

After that incident, after the doctors had a dilemma about whether I might be sick, I thought that your father the emperor wanted our engagement not to be official, using his relations with the Seljuk State as an excuse. Forgive me for such impertinent ideas, my love. I would never betray you and your family. However, the crusades that my father Amalric started against the Fatimids by joining forces with the French and Germans showed me that what prevents our marriage is fate. But I know. No matter how late it is, our lives will be united, you will be the most respected queen the Latin kingdom has ever seen. Christian and Muslim healers will soon produce a cure for my illness together. Don't think about me. I will be fine, knowing that you love me gives me strength, my queen. Always be happy, be healthy. Always remember me. Dream about our future during the days we are apart, because I do. May the God who reigns in the heavens and watches over the whole world protect you.

I think the reason you didn't reply to my previous two letters is because you were busy, but this time I'm eagerly waiting for you to reply to my letter, my love. My heart is with you forever."

Who could love a man whom even God has cursed?

1180 4th June

When the night covered the lands of Jerusalem like a blanket, Baldwin stood by the window and watched his kingdom. God had given this holy city to the Crusaders and had stood by them. The Latin kingdom acted as a protector against the increasingly powerful Muslim invaders. Although the failure of the 2nd Crusade had caused a lack of trust among the Crusader countries, he was the only great king who was able to unite the Holy Land after his father Amalric died. His people were pleased with him. Despite being a Crusader commander, he did not want anyone to be treated unfairly, regardless of religion or race. But why did the king not feel proud when his people loved him so much?

When he looked at his reflection in the golden goblet he held in his hand, the answer to the question was actually very clear. Despite everything, he was the cursed king. He was weak and incapable for Muslims. How could a king who was struggling for his own health deal with state issues? He was also a servant lower than a pig. He was created so ugly because they did not believe in the same god. Just as ugly and useless as a pig. Saladin should have been ashamed of himself for being defeated by a king who was a child and a leper in the battle of Montgisard. But no one had thought about it. His smart moves in the army and state administration, his choice of advisors and the poor-looking king proved his power. He was the only king who came into being on the bed to manage the war. His courage had inspired the painter.

It was normal for Muslims to spread such prejudiced and hostile gossip, of course. But it was the Christians whose ideas he had to fight against. They thought that God had cursed Baldwin when he was born. He was the one God did not like. He knew how dark his soul was when he created him. When he grew up, the devil would be his guide. He was a cruel, barbaric ruler whose mind worked for nothing but evil. Leprosy was his mark and badge for his past and future sins. He was branded so that the people would notice and stay away from this devil.

He had long forgotten his identity. The man he saw in the reflection in the goblet, with a rotting skin, was either a pig or a devil.

But he was not human in either world. When he could no longer hide this curse and his fiancée did not even deign to write him a farewell letter, he lost the last feeling that would remind him of his humanity. Love. No one loved a pig, they would detest it. No one would stray from God's path and fall in love with the devil. He would rather die. And what were the feelings? What were the longing and love he felt in his heart? Moreover, what was the sadness that was hidden behind these two feelings and spread throughout his body? These feelings grew stronger after he received the news that the crown prince of France and his wife, the Byzantine Princess Maria, would arrive in Jerusalem tomorrow. Could a pig long for? Could a barbarian be sad, or could the devil love?

Baldwin could no longer bear to see the truth reflected in the globe and threw it to the ground. So many years passed. Baldwin stood strong against the gossip about him. He only loved his kingdom and swore to protect it. He rewarded the oppressed and punished the oppressors so that people could live in peace and not have hostile feelings. However, the seeds of love that had been waiting to sprout in his heart for years blossomed with the news that he would see the woman he loved again, and the king felt hopeless.

As the medicinal drink spilled from the glass that fell to the ground spread on the stone floor, the bare parts of his maskless, bandaged face reappeared before him like a nightmare. As his breathing rhythm quickened, he heard a voice.

"When the Physicians were preparing the drink, I could tell from the smell that it tasted bad."

When Baldwin looked in the direction of the voice, he saw William coming from the darkness. The only source of light in the room was the moonlight.

"William," he said, trying to hide his emotions, "I didn't hear you come in."

William smiled warmly. "You wouldn't have heard of it if there was a rebellion, your majesty, and forgive my impudence, but the reason for this has to do with your guests tomorrow."

Baldwin turned toward the city. "I was sure I would never see her again. But now, in the castle of Kerak, Raybald of Châtillon is hosting them."

William looked at the king. "Indeed, you should have known this day would come. Your relations with the Kingdom of France are strong."

"Maybe I was just afraid that day would come."

"You're still in love with her."

"Every minute I thought I had forgotten her, my longing for her grew my love."

"Princess Maria was a good match for you. She was very intelligent, kind, and combative. A fine queen for the Latin kingdom," he said, and the melancholy gaze of Baldwin, which he did not want to show, gave him away, caused William to apologize. "I apologize if I went too far, your majesty. I just wanted to recall a pleasant memory."

A beautiful memory. It was true. Every moment Baldwin spent with the princess was special. He could talk and laugh for hours about any memory he recalled. Baldwin was not born into a loving family. When he ascended to the throne, his kingdom was on the verge of division. His illness pretended him weak against his enemies. But in all his misfortunes, Maria was his white rose, and no matter how pessimistic he felt a moment ago, he now smiled because of her.

A bitter smile, ""Do you think she can still wield a sword skillfully?"

He had the same bitter smile on his face. ""There is no doubt about that, your majesty. Perhaps once they are settled in the palace you can challenge her to a duel and see for yourself."

Although this idea sounded nice at first, the facts were obvious. He replied in a reproachful tone, as if rebelling against fate. "How can I do this when I can't use my limbs and can't see in one eye, William, tell me!" He looked harshly.

"These words do not seem to belong to you, my king. Weren't you the king who learned to use a sword with his left arm because his right arm betrayed him at every opportunity? You designed special stirrups for your numb legs. You led fights with that blind eye of yours. Now don't tell me you avoided a duel with a 19-year-old young woman."

"I don't want her to see me like this, Will. My body is decaying day by day. God's curse is growing stronger and my resistance to pain is diminishing." He looked at the view again. "I don't want her to remember me like this. She confessed that she was amazed by my beauty the night we fell in love. He turned back to William and pointed his finger at his face. Look at my current state, the boy she fell in love with is dead. The Leper King was the end of that beautiful boy."

Baldwin suddenly felt unwell and William held him as he collapsed to the ground, his legs shaking.

"Your Majesty, you need to rest now."

William called to the servants to take Baldwin to bed. The servants came to them in a hurry and, taking kings arm, carried him to the bed. One left to get water. Another was adjusting his pillows. Finally William warned them to leave the room and approached Baldwin.

"You have always been a good boy, Baldwin. You are the best king the Latin Kingdom has ever seen. No ruler after you will be able to hold these lands together."

"I would not want this. I hope that people will recognize my efforts and protect the lands from hostile armies."

Before leaving William Baldwin's room, he spoke one last time. "Prince Hugh will take more care of you both, your majesty. Be careful."

Maria had been nervous since they arrived at the castle of Kerak. Representing the Komnenos dynasty had been a heavy burden on her shoulders. About six years before she was born, dark times had passed over Manuel I and the Byzantine lands. Constantinople had been sacked, the city almost destroyed. Châtillon had been the emperor's worst nightmare until Manuel took revenge on her. He disturbed the people as if he owned the Byzantine Empire. Maria's nanny would tell her these dark memories before she went to sleep at night. Maria was a naughty child and would tell the story that Châtillon would come back one night and kidnap the naughty children. But Maria always trusted her father. Although he seemed like an emperor who was afraid of the Turks and had a weak political mind, Maria was smart enough to understand her father's strategic steps. That's why she never feared Châtillon. Her father may have suffered great losses during those times, but later he took his revenge on Châtillon in a satisfactory way.

Baldwin did not attend her and Prince Hugh wedding. He was too tired to go to France. Otherwise, his death would have come sooner, and Saladin's army would have occupied Jerusalem long ago. Therefore, Reynald of Châtillon attended the wedding as regent. Emperor Manuel saw this as an insult, and the ties between him and the Latin kingdom were almost broken. But Baldwin, the Latin king, knew his former father-in-law well. He had observed the emperor very well during his engagement to his daughter, and had skillfully kept the bond between them together.

Despite everything, Châtillon must have been unable to stomach the emperor's revenge, for he was taking a jab at the princess who had joined them at the dinner table. He was talking badly about her father. He was making fun of the Byzantine Emperor, implying that if the emperor did not come under Crusader countries protection, the Muslims would give up Jerusalem and occupy Constantinople, and they would be successful. Therefore, it was very lucky for the princess to marry the son of the King of France. Maria would of course say something in response to these words, but the crown prince of France thought that women were stupid and should not meddle in state affairs. What did women know except intrigue, sex, and having children? Whenever Maria spoke, her husband humiliated her in front of the lords of the other kingdoms. She did not want to experience the same thing again. She felt sad enough when she thought of Baldwin anyway. But both Maria's and the prince's minds were changed by Châtillon's audacity. He had brought up the subject of Baldwin and the princess's broken engagement. Maria felt uneasy. She knew that her husband had always kept his eyes on her, for it was a sensitive subject.

When Châtillon noticed the tension between the two, he explained how strong the bond between her and Baldwin was. He had read Maria’s letters impudently several times before the curse of leprosy had set in. He disclosed some of the love poems in these letters. Of course, he could not remember the exact words, but he sang similar sentences with a mocking grin. Hearing these things made the Prince angry. The gold goblet in his hand almost bent, but he tried not to show it. He looked at his beloved wife with a meaningful smile. Not wanting to appear weak, he intervened. “I thought your engagement was a political agreement, my lady. Would you care to give me more details? I would like to hear it.” He brought the glass to his lips, finished the wine in one gulp, and slammed it down on the table.

However, Maria knew that the prince intended to ask her this question. If she was not satisfied with the answer he would give, his revenge would be severe. Hugh had threatened her with his dynasty. The prince was madly in love with her and knew that his love was unrequited. He was jealous of her in front of everyone and everything.

She was trying not to give away her lie as she pushed the toasted almonds on the Blancmange that had just been served into the rice fish paste mixture with the tip of her fork. "We were both kids at the time. Our alliance against his half-brothers brought us closer. These are childish feelings." These words were lies. Every emotion she experienced was too mature.

Raynald lifted his globe to his mouth and drank the spiced wine, smearing it through his filthy beard before scraping the remains of the wine away with the palm of his hand. "Your mind was capable of writing love poems as a child."

Prince Hugh gritted his teeth. He should have cut off the head of the daring man in front of him with his sword, but he was too arrogant to show his jealousy to anyone. Instead, he chose to show his anger to his wife by stroking Maria's hair harshly. She had to be careful.

She looked bravely at Reynald. Looking into his eyes, she put the Blancmange in her mouth and began to speak, ignoring the rules as she chewed. "I am flattered that you find the love poems written by a little girl mature. Yes, Baldwin and I were mature, and I was smart enough to see that you were a pain in the neck when you were still a mercenary."

Raynald looked to the prince to put the princess in her place, but Hugh agreed with his wife, and for once, though he didn't show it, he was pleased with her headstrong nature.

Then he looked at the princess with greed. "It was obvious that the daughter of the Byzantine emperor would not suit the future king of France."

Maria stood up, her chair leg scraping the floor. "Then you should know to watch your step when talking to me."

Then she turned respectfully, in a way that glorified her husband. "Master of my heart, if you allow me, I would like to go to the chapel and pray."

The prince was unsure of what to say. He did not want to be angry with his wife, for she had put Raynald in his place, who had insidiously planted the sin of jealousy in his heart. He was also flattered by his wife in front of the other lords and barons at the table. He only gave his wife permission to go to the chapel.

She grabbed the hem of her dress so as not to fall. So she left the room and walked quickly down the corridor. Talking about her memories with Baldwin broke her heart. His look, his smile, his conversation, his intelligence... She had never known a man like him in the Empire or the Kingdom of France. Her mind was always on her old love. She had stolen her own life. She spent her youth in the bed of a man she did not love, thinking of Baldwin. Now she was in pain and wanted to be alone, alone with the Virgin Mary.

One of her maids would come to her. She called to her lady, said that her son were crying uncontrollably. Little Philip needed his mother. She ignored the maids calling her as she ran down the hall. But the baby wanted her mother and was crying non-stop. But a child from a man she did not love would not be good for her right now.

She just wanted to go to the chapel and pray before the Virgin Mary. She was on her knees, placed her elbows on the altar. "Hail Mary, Full of Grace, The Lord is with thee. Forgive me, I cannot guard my ideas from sin as I guard my chastity. Holy Mary, Mother of God. I am weak, the love that the devil has cultivated in my heart becomes sweeter to me every day that I do not see him. Please hear me, tear down the walls between us and inspire me to forget him. O Virgin, holy and merciful, obtain for all who offend thee the grace of repentance, and graciously accept this poor act of homage from me thy servant, obtaining likewise for me from thy Divine Son the pardon and remission of all my sins. Amen." She placed her palms crosswise on her chest. She was crying, convulsing with tears.

The prince and princess of France entered the holy lands with four horse guards in front and six behind to protect the gift chests. The royal coat of arms, the 'fleur-de-lys', was carved on wood on the body of the carriage, and the windows were covered with curtains in the color of the coat of arms's base color, the blue, thus completely cutting off communication between the people and the nobles.

But it was impossible not to notice such a long convoy. The children playing followed the horses and did not leave its vicinity, hoping to see who was behind the curtain. But the princess saw them. She had slightly parted the fabric and was enjoying the excited running of the children speaking in a language she did not know. Meanwhile, her husband, who was sitting next to her, distracted her by holding her hand. When the young princess turned her head to the prince, the smile on her face disappeared.

"Don't let children know you're looking at them, my lady. Then they'll have the brass face."

She looked at him smugly. "They are children. At least don't act arrogant towards children!"

Hugh gritted his teeth. He should have put her in her place, but their baby Philip’s nurse intervened to calm the anger between them. She smiled and called out to the princess as she sat across from her, put the baby to sleep in her arms.

"Your Majesty, in a few years your son will be running around the palace corridors just like them."

Maria smiled at the woman. "I hope he becomes a guardian of peace and justice." The word that crossed her mind was 'like Baldwin'. But she could not say it.

The nurse looked at the baby. "There is no doubt about it, my lady."

Prince Hugh was very angry with his wife. He could have given her a severe punishment, but his love was holding him back. Instead, he used his ambition for his son. He smiled arrogantly. "He will be a king in the Latin lands, a nightmare for Muslims! He will send the unbelievers to hell in this world. He will slaughter the unbelievers mercilessly. Otherwise, how can he be the commander of the Crusader armies?"

Maria hated herself for marrying such a cruel man. She could assure herself that the children's voices he heard outside had become screams of pain in his imagination. And look at the nobles who considered Baldwin a barbarian! What a disgrace! The princess was about to continue looking out the window in anger when she turned her head and caught the nurse's eye. The woman gave her no words. Her expression begged his majesty to be silent. For his well-being and peace. Maria smiled with tears in her eyes and did as he said, smiling slightly.

Meanwhile, William, who had received news that the royal carriage was approaching the palace, was giving orders for the final preparations. Sybilla had to make sure that the food and organization were perfect. The servants were arranging the prince and princess's favorite fruits and wines on the table in their rooms, and the gifts to be presented to the royal family were being counted in the great hall.

Baldwin lay on his back in his bed, surrounded by four physicians who were helping their assistants apply ointment to his wounds.

"Ah," sighed the king, "at last, my love. At last, I will be able to witness your beautiful smile again."

"Be a little faster!" But even that was tiring him. He was excited to greet them and wanted to stand up in defiance of God.

The physician warned the king, "Your Majesty, you must lie down for a day and wait for your skin to absorb the medicine. It will be more beneficial."

Baldwin gritted his teeth and spoke threateningly. “Are you disobeying my orders?”

The physicianstammered. He emphasized that he had been misunderstood. He apologized and ordered his assistants to hurry. After applying the herbal mixture to the king's wounds, they wrapped clean, white bandages crosswise, using two layers of cloth so that the skin would not be visible. Cotton fabrics in particular were imported from the Mediterranean. Otherwise, his completely covered skin would not be able to breathe and would become damp, and the amount of salt in his sweat would cause Baldwin to suffer in pain. In fact, the ointment was already hurting him enough.

One of his servants came to him with a silver cup in his hand and supported his back, allowing him to straighten up. Thus, he drank the healing water easily. As he was sliding the last sip from his lips to his mouth, William entered. He too might not have been in favor for king to welcome the royal family, but he knew that his life was short. Seeing the woman he loved should have been more important than the pain he would suffer. Who knows? Perhaps the last time they would meet would be Baldwin's funeral. Maria stood in front of her childhood love's coffin, crying heartily, and they would say goodbye to each other for the last time, and the only memory she had of him would be the metal mask.

"Your Majesty," he said with a wry smile on his face, "I have come to take you. News has come that they have almost arrived. Everything is ready in the outer courtyard. After the welcoming ceremony, you may proceed to the great hall."

Baldwin confirmed William and after the bandaging process was completed, he stood up. My God! For a moment, the King seemed to forget about the curse. He thought they were just like those two beautiful children from ten years ago. Two noble children who will live their love that has not been granted to anyone else. He hadn't even gotten help from anyone when he was sitting up in bed. Love must have been such a miraculous feeling. None of the physicians' ointments could give him the strength to stand up in minutes. The verses from the Bible that were read to cure his illness were of no use. Only his passionate longing for Maria gave him strength. It healed his melted bones and allowed his joints to bend freely. It allowed his joints to bend freely. Perhaps he would soon have the power to expand the borders of the Latin kingdom. But no! The truth had a bad habit of coming out at the wrong time. He was standing from William. He was only five steps away.

"Let's go." King said. At this moment, a servant called out to him, came to him with quick steps and held out the mask in his hand.

"Your majesty, mask!"

There's that Silver mask! The evil Witch who took him away from life. The King looked at the mask's artificial lips, hollow eyes, and metal eyebrows. He was the only person in the room who saw the mask's devilish grin. It was as if the mask was mocking him. He knew how much the woman he loved would pity him when she saw his sick body. And Baldwin's embarrassment must surely be the amusement of the mask. Once again the King was defeated. Although he had the arrogance of a king when he took the mask from the servant's hand, William knew the dramatic mood of the man he had known since childhood. So he supported the king with his words while his face was completely covered with a metal mask. When the servants grabbed his arm and tried to help him walk, he gestured with his hand for them not to come.

"The king looks quite healthy. No need."

William stepped back from the door and cleared the way for the king to exit.He clasped his hands in front of him and waited for Baldwin to come out. However, after their King left the room, William followed him to accompany, followed by the servants. It was noon. Light seeping through the corridor windows illuminated the gray stone walls. The designs and art of Arab architects were on display.

"My legs are shaking William. "This is not because of my illness," he said. He could keep Saladin and his armies away from his lands. He could win the battle. But for love, he was still young.

"I know, your majesty. Although not as excited as you, I'm excited to see the princess too."

Beautiful, attractive, innocent, seductive. Which word was more appropriate to say to the holy beloved? Which one would he choose to describe the relentless love inside him? Or were the other adjectives hidden behind these words what made his fall in love? Was it her stubborn and strong stance that made her seductive, was it her helpfulness and fairness that gave her the name of innocence, was it her white skin and wavy hair that reached down to her waist that made her attractive or was her beauty and grace necessary? There was no definite answer to these questions and even the answers that suddenly came to his mind were not enough to learn the reason for his feelings for her. The way he looked at her or the way she shyly looked away from him, he would now forbid each other. If their eyes met, it would be a sin. Then how would Maria have the courage to go to church again and ask for forgiveness?

All this was going on in the king's mind. When the horse carriage carrying the royal family entered the courtyard. The prince and princess were presented. The King was sitting on his throne waiting for them. But what he was most worried about was how he would react when he saw Maria. And that moment has come. As she descended the wooden steps of the carriage, Baldwin’s eyes went there. The years had made her a mature woman and made her beautiful. The dark brown tone of her hair had lightened, and blondes were mixed in between. Her skin was smooth as in her childhood. The cherry cheeks that adorned her snow-white face had not left her. A storm had formed in his heart, his love had turned into a natural disaster. When she descended the creaking steps and her feet touched the ground, Maria looked up at the king. Her honey-colored eyes sparkled. She had seen the child behind the metal mask in Baldwin’s eyes.

But the maid who got out of the carriage was carrying something in her arms that revealed the sin of their love. One of the heirs to the crown. Prince Philip. Maria's son by Prince Hugh. This child would have been theirs if this disease had not taken him prisoner. William expected the king to make a welcoming speech. But Baldwin seemed rather absent-minded. “Your Majesty,” he warned his king, “you must pull yourself together. The princess is now a married woman with a heir."

William was right. He had to come to his senses quickly and fulfill his duties as a king. The Latin King stood up, holding on to the arms of the prepared throne, and greeted the Prince and the Princess. He said it was a great honor for them to be here. Because he was on very good terms with King Louis VII of France. That's why it was such a pleasure for him to welcome the future heir, the Prince, and his wife, Princess Maria. Of course, when he saw Princess Maria next to the Prince, these words he said were completely fake. Even though he knew that Maria and the king were old childhood friends, the Prince did not allow Maria to speak and spoke to the king himself. Because he knew she still love this king with the ugly rotting skin. The king could not look at Maria. Because if he did, everything would be understood. So he averted his eyes, but Maria looked at her old friend William and smiled. Old memories had gathered in her eyes and came out.

William spoke up. "Your Majesty, if you wish, we can place the gifts of the Kingdom of France in the great hall. This will provide a much more intimate setting for the gifts presented during the banquet."

"Good thinking, William," Baldwin said. "Let's do what's necessary."

After the prince and the king finished speaking, they went inside. The servants showed the nobles to their rooms so they could get ready for the feast while their belongings were being put away.

Baby Philip had a separate room. They went to their rooms with the nurse.

When they came to the room, the bathtub was ready. The bathtub was made of white marble, shaped by marbles extracted from the Anatolian Seljuk lands. It was filled with water containing jasmine essence and leaves. Arab servants surrounded the bathtub, one had a silver tray, a loofah and soap on it. The other had a loincloth in his hand.

Princess Maria knew that Muslims were very clean. This was the most important thing for Islam and they were very contemptuous of people who were not clean.

The servants took off Maria's clothes, covered her private parts with a loincloth, and holding her hand, they sat her in the tub.

A woman took a copper bowl and dipped it into the jasmine water in the bathtub and poured it on the princess's hair. The cold drops of water cooled the roots of her warm hair. The weather was so hot here that the coolness of the water was a relief to her. She leaned her head on the edge of the tub and positioned herself so the other woman could massage her shoulder.

Her muscles, which had been tense due to sadness and her husband's irritable character, began to relax. The woman's delicate fingers were moving around the girl's shoulders and neck. The drops of water that had begun to dry on her skin were keeping it cool in the hot air. She was half asleep, half awake, dreaming but barely aware of what was happening. She didn't even realize when the woman's delicate, thin fingers were replaced by thick, calloused ones. Baldwin was in her dreams. She was sitting in the arbor of the palace in Constantinople, in the gardens with their many varieties of flowers, with Baldwin's head on Maria's lap. His eyes were looking up, into the honey-colored eyes of his beloved wife. The sun was streaming through the wooden planks of the arbor and making the heavens in Baldwin's blue eyes shine. She stroked his light golden brown hair. His skin was soft and shiny, just like when he was a child, and his lips were thin and small.

"My beautiful lover." He said. But voice was not like him. "Are you thinking about me?" The girl's eyebrows furrowed. As if this was a rebellion against passing into the real world. She opened her eyes and sat up. When she looked up, she saw Hugh sitting on the edge of the tub, looking at his wife with longing. But the same was not true for the princess.

She was serious. "What are you doing?"

Hugh replied as she stood up, using the sides of the tub for support. "I thought my wife missed me." He stood up too and caressed her cheek with the back of his hand.

Maria lowered her eyes, raised one hand, and asked the maids to help her get out of the tub. But the prince was on edge against his wife's cold attitude. He watched with anger as he was left alone.

The servants were massaging Maria's body with various oils and combing her hair. Meanwhile, her assistant was choosing a beautiful outfit for the banquet. But Maria was nervous. She and Hugh had not touched each other for a long time. They had never brought each other to the perfect peak of orgasm. That letter from the Latin palace had changed something and the prince was aware of it. She knew that Hugh would use the maids to do this. Even though he knew that adultery was one of the greatest sins, the prince felt entitled to it. Perhaps he wanted to make the woman he loved jealous and take revenge. But he never achieved his goal. Because Maria could never love her husband enough to be protective or jealous of him.

As if it were a ritual, a rite, he would ask for sexual intercourse in the palace of the man she loved. He wanted to trouble her conscience.

While her dress and jewelry were being prepared for the feast, the servants dressed Maria in a white silk nightgown, the sleeves of which were wide and connected to the skirt like bat wings.

When the princess returned to bedroom, she did not see her husband. This was a relief to her.

"Where would you like me to put these clothes, my lady?" Maria was startled by the old woman's question. She answered with a faint smile on her face. "Put them where the emerald green surcoat is."

Then she went to her jewelry. They were in a carved wooden chest on the table. She put her fingers inside and began to rummage through the earrings, necklaces, and rings. The necklace she would wear to the banquet was very special. Among the betrothal gifts that Emperor Manuel had burned or distributed to the poor, the only gift Maria had saved was the beautiful necklace designed by Baldwin. The pearls hanging from the edges of the gold collar surrounding the red beryl, emerald, and alexandrite stones...

She called her maid over and told her that she would be wearing this necklace as an accessory to the dress they had chosen. The woman was fascinated as soon as she saw the necklace. "This is very beautiful, your majesty."

About ten minutes later, the prince called out to his wife, who was giving instructions to her maids to put away the clothes. "You must be happy to see your childhood sweetheart, my love." Maria was startled by her husband's voice as she smoothed down the pearl-embroidered dress in her hand. She ran her fingers over the soft texture of the shiny fabric and handed it to the maid. "The same topic again?" Then she looked at her husband. "That's in the past, you know. Ten years is a long time to forget."

Hugh grabbed his wife's arm tightly and turned her towards him. He clenched his teeth and swallowed. "For the mind, yes, but for your heart? Was ten years enough?"

Maria did not say a word, and that was an answer for Hugh. He squeezed his wife's arm tighter. The young woman groaned, feeling the pain in her arm deeply. She frowned under the pain and tried to pull away. "Leave me alone!"

The maids were disturbed by the tension between husband and wife and did not know what to do.

Hugh brought his face closer to hers. "If that's true, I swear..." he was cut off by a knock on the door.

Maria looked into her husband's eyes without the slightest trace of love.

She ordered. "Come in!"

The young servant girl ran to Princess Maria and bowed before her.

"Your Majesty, forgive me. Your son Philip, I believe, needs your help."

Prince Hugh was also angry. Were all those nannies interested in his heir? Just as he was about to attack the young girl, Maria grabbed his arm. "My prince, please! Have some patience!" She was worried. "Is everything okay? What's wrong?"

The girl was not very good at lying, she stammered. "He wouldn't stop crying. We thought he needed his mother. The mother's scent calms babies."

Hugh glanced at his wife contemptuously. "Your motherhood is as bad as your wifehood!”

Without saying anything, Maria left her husband and ordered the young girl to take her son.

The maid was escorting the princess to the room where Philip was staying. Maria noticed that she was quite excited. She had thought of scenarios such as her son being sick. She started asking the girl questions. Was her son sick? Maybe something bad happened to him and they were afraid of the prince and didn't tell her. The girl's nervous attitude made the princess even more nervous. "Stop, I order you!"

The girl stopped suddenly and looked like a child being scolded by her mother. Maria could see how frightened her face was in the candlelight. "What's the matter? You look very nervous."

The girl stuttered and pointed to the hallway behind Maria. “This way, my lady.” Maria swallowed and looked at the hallway the girl was pointing to. It looked much more ornate than the others. The work on its door was magnificent and decorated with gold leaf.

Maria frowned. "Philip isn't there, is he?"

The girl shook her head. “No, your majesty. Just come in. He’s waiting for you there.”

When the soldiers waiting at the door saw Maria, they immediately moved and opened the door. Maria knew very well who was waiting for her inside. She walked through the door with excited steps and went out to the balcony with the most beautiful view of Jerusalem. The two soldiers standing here welcomed their princess and escorted her to the door leading to their king's chamber.

The soldiers brought the princess to the door and left. Maria took a deep breath, knocked on the door and entered that was nervous. It was the first time she had done something in secret from her husband. She was sure he would punish her if he knew where she was. She could not leave the bedrooms. He would put guards at the bedroom doors.

She looked around. The objects were as if they were showing off in the light of evening with sun. This was not the room he had stayed in as a child. It was his father's room and its size was dazzling. It was a room worthy of a young king of the Holy Land. Maria looked at the bed across from her in admiration. Her childhood love was resting in this bed, leaving his scent on these sheets. She slowly approached the bed and picked up the burgundy-colored pillow. She wrapped her arms around it tightly, as if she were hugging Baldwin. She buried her head in the soft texture of the pillow and breathed in the scent. It smelled just as she remembered. It was so clean, smelled of soap and incense.

The princess remembered the dream she had the night of their engagement. It was a terrifying nightmare, to be exact. She had longed to speak to the bishop of Hagia Sophia. Even though the priest had interpreted her nightmare positively, Maria was always anxious. She was afraid of the end of their epic love. And one day, those things she feared separated them until death. When all these memories came to life before her eyes, a small smile appeared on her face. However, her eyes denied this smile and tears were streaming down her cheeks.

"Is that you William? I've been waiting for you." It was Baldwin's voice, and it came from afar. Maria, with the remorse of her sin, did not want to be caught by Baldwin, and her whole body trembled. When she turned her head to the silk tulle curtain that separated the room, she saw his silhouette and dropped the pillow in her lap to the floor.

Take the pillow or leave the room… While she was trying to choose the right way in this dilemma, Baldwin pulled the veil aside and entered.

“Maria, you…” Baldwin stood there in shock and could not finish his sentence.

There he was, Baldwin. The man whose happiness she had forgotten for years with his longing was standing right in front of her. Baldwin was no different. He felt much stronger now. He never expected to meet those meaningful eyes again. Alone. It was as if their cursed love had flared up again.

Baldwin did not want Maria to get into a difficult situation. As soon as he saw Maria approaching him, he spoke up. "It is not right for you to be here, my lady. Please do not do this to us."

Maria, on the other hand, was determined. She had been imprisoned by a man she did not love for years, and when she could no longer stand this torture, the man who was her ray of hope stood before her.

They were standing face to face when she replied, "I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be."

Her hands were on groin, her nails tearing at the flesh on the sides of her fingers.

Baldwin replied, his voice filled with reproach. "You gave up on me, Maria. I learned of our separation from the letter your father sent to the palace. You didn't care to send a farewell letter."

Maria was crying. She looked into the king's eyes. "This is not true. I swear."

"Tell me what is right," he said. "Of course you couldn't go against your family, I understand that. But what about your love? Your fear got in the way of your love, and I couldn't read your last letter that smelled of roses, is that right?"

"No. You don't know how strict my father is. I wrote you letters many times. I wanted to send them secretly, but my nanny betrayed me. That's why I always got caught. I gave up because a young girl died in pain because of the letters I wrote you. I wasn't afraid of my father, Baldwin. I didn't want innocent people to suffer because of me." The words barely escaped her lips as she sobbed.

The girl took Baldwin's right hand, wrapped in a white bandage, and caressed it. But the effects of leprosy were beginning to set in again, and his arm was numb. What a disappointment it was not to be able to feel the woman he loved while she held his hand! "Oh God, please," he whispered. He did not care how great a sin adultery was. He wanted to feel the touch of the woman he loved. He wanted to experience the sexual urges he felt for the only woman in his life, past and future, who would love him. Not now, his inner voice said. He did not want to die without being drunk with Maria's love.

Baldwin took his right arm and pulled it from Maria's hands. He held out his left hand. "Come on Maria, come with me. We have a lot to talk about," he said. Although the princess realized that Baldwin could not use his right arm, she did not show anything so as not to upset him. So they went behind the silk veil.

The evening view of Jerusalem was almost under their feet. They sat on the couch. Their eyes met suddenly. It was the first time Maria saw her friend, her love, with a mask on his face, and it was painful for her soul.

"God has given you the most beautiful design of all his creations, Maria. You took me back to my childhood."

Maria smiled. "You too, my dear. The innocent, well-intentioned child standing before me has not changed at all."

Baldwin took offense. "You needn't pity me. I have been the god-cursed king for too long."

Maria put her hand on Baldwin's silver mask. Since she couldn't touch his skin, she had to be content with this. "You're still that boy I fell in love with." She caressed the cold, hard, emotionless mask. "The eyes looking with courage and hope. That boy whose character and heart I admired, has now grown up and become the greatest king the Latin Kingdom will ever witness."

There was surprise in Baldwin's voice. "Do you really think so?" He knew what was being said about him outside the borders of the kingdom. Even Saladin did not take him seriously at first. Until he saw that the king was a formidable enemy, he didn't respected him. Still, his illness had become a symbol of bad luck in many kingdoms, especially Byzantium, and had caused political relations to be damaged. If an agreement was made with the Latin kingdom, the curse of God would be poured upon them.

"Even if you gave me all the jewels in the world, it wouldn't satisfy me as much as your love." Her lips trembled, the area around her eyes turned red.

She was trying to control herself not to cry. She brought her face closer to Baldwin and buried her head in his neck, witnessing his scent and warmth. "You are not only the king of the holy land, but also the king of my heart," she said.

Baldwin was ashamed. He had never been so loved and pampered by a woman. He could even see his mother at political meetings. It had been a long time since he felt like a man. He had forgotten that he was a man because in other kingdoms he was nothing. Muslims called him a pig because they did not believe in the same God. Andalusian Arab historians spoke of him as a disgusting creature. According to Christians, he was the child of the devil and God punished him with ugliness and pain as a price for the cruelty and misery he would bring to the world. Jews living in his kingdom cursed their kings because they were not under the rule of a glorious king and prayed for his death. However, even though all that was left of that beautiful child was a piece of rotten flesh, he was reminded that he was human by the woman he loved, without knowing what he had become.

"You are here with me now, Maria. We may never meet again, but it is a great chance that you are here with me now."

Maria tried to smile, but tears were flowing relentlessly down her cheeks and down her chin, dampening Baldwin's white bandage. "I beg you, don't talk like that! Make me forget about reality for one night. Let's be in a fairy tale. Kiss me and let us to live happily ever after."

"I promise, Maria. I'll only make you live your fairy tale tonight."

Maria wrapped her arms around Baldwin's still feeling hand and lifted it into the air. She brought her lips close and kissed it longingly, many times.

Baldwin kept his word and wanted to talk about the good times.

"After reading the letter from the French court, William and I discussed whether she could still use a sword."

Maria wiped her tears and smiled. "I haven't used a sword since I got married. Hugh says it's not for women."

"It is unfair, the land of France has lost its best knight."

Maria shrugged. "If you're not my opponent, I don't care."

Baldwin's voice was full of affection. "We can reminisce whenever you want."

Maria snuggled up to Baldwin. She leaned her head on his chest. "It's okay, I don't want you to get tired."

Baldwin's numb arm was finally beginning to get feel, and he lifted his arm with difficulty and effort, and as he gently stroked Maria's hair, she looked happily at him without lifting her head from his chest.

"Maria, my beautiful queen. While my illness cannot prevent me from fighting the Ayyubids and leading my army, shall I miss the chance to duel with you? I will definitely be ready for it tomorrow."

"I would be honored, my king," said Maria. If she had married Baldwin, she would have been queen, and in their correspondence Baldwin always referred to Maria as "my queen." The fact that he addressed her with the same title, just like in the old days, showed the greatness of the love in his heart.

At the end of this entertaining conversation, Baldwin grew quiet. There was an inexplicable sadness in his voice. "You said your father was strict. You said a girl died because of us, Maria. What have you been through?"

Maria lowered her eyes as she remembered. Her eyes were red and a few tears slid down her cheeks to her chin.

"Several times one of the young maids helped me to smuggle letters into my room. The niche in the wall where i had once kept my doll was filled with letters from you. But the day the nanny discovered our secret, father showed no mercy. "she sobbed . "The young girl was punished by the priest reading verses from the Bible, supposedly purifying herself from her sins. Hot irons, daggers and hot oil. The girl fainted many times due to this unbearable pain and her weak body could not stand it anymore. The girl died."

"I never thought the emperor would be so afraid of our love that he would slander God. No God would allow such a punishment to be given to a virgin girl."

"I couldn't write you back. Because I never got to your last letter. The last time I saw it was among the gifts from you were being burned, in the middle of courtyard." She was sobbing and repeated over and over, "Forgive me, forgive me, my love."

Baldwin's heart ached as if it had been thrown into fire, and it was because of sadness and despair that Maria has.

"If I had a chance, if this curse would leave me alone, I would make you the happiest woman in the world," he said, stroking her hair.

But Maria, angered by this statement, rose harshly from her king's lap, her hands resting on Baldwin's groin, gripping the fabric of his robe tightly. "Please stop cursing your illness! You shouldn't care what people think. And I don't believe the thing what they think God says in bible. God holds you up as an instance to all; the kingdom of heaven is strengthened in your hands."

Baldwin put his bandaged hand around the girl's neck and pulled back the hair that covered her beautiful neck. "How can you be so sure about God, Maria? Are the priests wrong?"

"Did you not show your power, despite the limitations of your illness, and become a king loved by your people and respected by your enemies? You keep a part of God within you. You are not that man hated by God, Baldwin. If you were, I cannot imagine the illness that Hugh would have suffered," she said, laughing wryly at the last sentence.

When Baldwin returned her smile, Maria could tell by the sound he made as he laughed. and Maria thought.

"I would like to see your smile, enslaved by the mask, one last time, my dear," she said. There was sadness on her face.

Baldwin was embarrassed. "You know it's impossible, Maria."

Maria frowned. There was a half-mocking look on her face. "Why is that impossible? Has the evil witch completely transformed your face into a silver mask?"

"No, of course not. But the man under the mask has already killed the beautiful boy you remember."

"Then how come I'm looking into that boy's eyes?"

Maria slid off the couch and sat on her knees on the floor, looking pleadingly at the man she loved. For Baldwin, this was the moment he had feared.

"I beg you, let me touch your skin one last time, my dear."

The healers did not yet know about leprosy. There was only suspicion in their conversations. Despite this, they made definite statements and the worst thing was that it was contagious. Moreover, the woman he loved wanted to touch him. If anything happened to her, she would never forgive herself. Even this idea was enough to terrify him and he quickly stood up. He was going towards the window to get away from her.

"No, Maria. Don't ask me to do this!" But his muscles had become one with his illness and betrayed him once again. Baldwin lost control of his body for a moment and stumbled. Maria cried out as he lost his balance. "My love!"

Baldwin was down on one knee, his left hand on the ground, supporting his arm.

He felt that the woman he loved had hold his arm to save her king. When he looked up, Maria looked at him with a feeling that was companions of love and fear.

"Oh Maria." He didn't want her to see him like this, but fate betrayed him once again.

Baldwin got up with Maria's help. There was almost no distance between them. They were looking into each other's eyes with love. Despite the illness, the fake marriage, the years that passed, their love had not diminished even for a day. They could see the storms in the sea of love in their eyes.

"Come on, let me touch you one last time, Baldwin."

"If it infected to you, then I'll die."

"Nothing will happen, I promise."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because I have what those incompetent healers lack."

"What was that?"

"Wouldn't some stupid servant have been infected by now?" Maria put her hand on the mask. "If they understood enough about the disease to be sure it was contagious, why couldn't they find a cure?"

Baldwin took Maria's hand and caressed it. "Okay then, I'll take off my mask. But if you care about me at all, don't ask to see my face."

Maria objected. “But…” But Baldwin was determined.

"I want you to always remember me as beautiful, Maria. Like that child whose beauty you admired and confessed to. Otherwise, I will spend the rest of my short life as an unhappy man."

Although Maria wanted to prove that she would love him in any way possible, Baldwin's request prevented her. Maybe not with words, but nodded, avoiding her eyes.

She closed her eyes and waited. But the king had another plan. When he left the dream queen and did not return for a while, Maria opened her eyes. Baldwin approached her with a piece of black cloth in his hand. He knew that Maria was a stubborn girl, so he had to make sure her eyes were closed. His hair, made of golden threads, had fallen out, leaving a purulent, bloody scalp in its place. His facial anatomy, which resembled a Greek statue, was now in a state of great destruction. His lips were falling apart, the bones in his nose were melting. He was not ready for Maria to see him like this, and he would never be ready. His concreteness should live as a memory, in Maria's dreams.

He lifted the cloth up and folded it into a strip to fit his eyes. It was much better this way. He could now let her touch him freely. He placed the piece of cloth over Maria's eyes, wrapped it around her head, and tied it at the back as ribbon. When her eyes closed, the pinkness of her sweet lips could be seen in all its glory. What wouldn't he give to kiss those lips? Her kiss reminded him of God's forgiving side. But all he had to do was get rid of the mask. He took it off, praying that everything would go well.

While Maria was waiting for Baldwin, the world was pitch black for her. It was like a blind man trying to witness life. Her ears were much more sensitive now. She could hear the friction of the silver mask sliding across his skin. She waited. She waited for the best moment for Baldwin.

"Are you ready?" he asked. Maria had been ready for him years ago.

Baldwin gently held the girl's wrists, as cautiously as if he were holding a glass rose branch. He could not control his breathing rhythm in excitement as he brought her delicate fingers close to his deformed face. And when her fingertips finally touched his rough skin, Maria sighed with joy. He needed to feel this warmth so much that he had finally managed to overcome the despair that had been following him for years.

“Baldwin,” she said, her voice catching in her breath. The happy expression on her face gave way to a sad plea. She took his face between her hands and caressed his cheeks with the thumbs. "I missed you so much. I had a hard time not rebelling against the fate that separated us. But God rewarded me with you for my wait."

"You are the only sin I do not regret, the only sin I will not beg God to forgive me, Maria," Baldwin said. Nontheless Maria's fingers seemed to be trying to explore the face of the man she loved. She saw nothing. If someone else had been standing in front of her instead of Baldwin, it would not have mattered. Still, she saw the anatomy of his face not with her eyes but with her touch. Baldwin's words fueled the impossible love she felt for him.

"You too, my love," she said, rising on her toes and pressing her lips against the calloused, chapped lips of the man she loved. A passionate act that proves that she doesn't care about his illness. Maria's lips were the heaven Baldwin had not experienced in this life. Baldwin's lips must have been dark sin for a married woman. But this sin was only the price of their desperate separation.

They said goodbye to each other for the last time, feeling their skin, before their love was lost in the sands of Jerusalem. Baldwin's virgin lips were alive with a woman's lust, and he didn't want this moment to end. God, I wish time would stop right now. If only the fairy tale these two poor lovers were living would never end.

Maria put one arm around the king's neck. With her other hand she felt around his body and found his hand and held it. She put his hand on her breasts. She squeezed his hand together to show him that she wanted him to caress it. Baldwin's hand was on the princess's breast while her hand was on his hand. Their kisses were much more passionate now. Their tongues were dancing on the wet skin. Their lips were in awe, as if they were reading a verse from the Bible. Baldwin slid his hand from his princess's breast and down to the curve of her waist. Her body shape had such an aesthetic. Her rounded lines were satisfactory. He almost lost himself in the complicated paths of love. But he suddenly remembered that he had to protect the honor and dignity of the woman he loved. He didn't want her to see her as an unchaste woman who was cheating on husband with another man. Baldwin turned away from her. “We must stop now, my lady,” he said. “This is not right for you.” He took his mask from the table where it had been placed and began to place it on his face.

"But we both want this. Or have you given up on loving me?"

He was so close to her as he untied her blindfold, he could feel her body heat. "Maybe my body will not live thirty years, but my soul will be exalted with love for you, my queen." He said. When she removed the tape completely, Maria was once again face to face with the mask that had ruined the life of the man she loved. But despite everything, she was grateful that she could look into his eyes. "Forever," he said and she looked into his beautiful eyes as he finished the sentence.

Maria's eyes got wet again. "My love is yours forever, my king," she replied.

Unfortunately, the end of this miraculous moment came early. William called out before entering. She was startled.

"Your Majesty, I have to take the princess away now."

Baldwin caressed the girl's cheek one last time. "My moon-skinned love, with eyes brighter than the sun. You gave me the most beautiful gift in the world. Thank you, I am grateful to you."

He had so much more to say, but whatever he didn't talk about turned into tears in his eyes after she left. He had to calm down before going to the banquet and pretend that this moment had never happened.

[divaofmads]

- Affaire De Coeur!

Drawing by @divaofmads