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shintin · 1 year

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Gunpowder Dreams

Chapter 7 (Diablo)

↳ Vash the Stampede x Female Reader

They didn't know a wounded man would show no mercy when they took the best thing he ever had away from him. What did they say? Don't poke the dragon if you can't take the heat; if you do, expect the flames.

Genre: explicit smut, toxic relation, romance, angst (Mafia au).

Warnings/Tags: +18, NSFW, Alternative Universe/Modern Setting, no spoilers from manga and anime, dominate Vash the Stampede, sexual situations, dub-con, graphic violence, gore, angst, toxicity, gunplay, manhandling, cunnilingus + fellatio, creampie, fingering, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, hair pulling, too many smut scenes, emotional trauma, and etc.

Song Recommendation: Bill Withers - Ain't No Sunshine

Note: Beware, for this chapter delves into the realm of blood, gore, and dangerous behaviors.

Chapter Index - Next Chapter

Ninety-one days had passed since your arrival, each marking a change since reluctantly accepting Vash's offer of "friendship." Like within your confined existence, your cage had been expanded, granting you the limited freedom to venture beyond the walls of your room. Now, you could escape to the basement, where worn couches beckoned, accompanied by the flickering glow of an ancient CRT TV from a forgotten era. See? Fantastic! You were living in fairytales. Just like a fucking Disney princess. But a twisted one. Alas, the poisoned apple that would offer release remained out of reach, denied to you. No window to hell adorned this crypt-like domain, where your flowing locks could serve as a desperate escape route. Instead, you were left with the daunting task of perpetuating a charade, playing the role of a captive sleeping beauty trapped in the clutches of a formidable beast.

Too poetic, right? Fuck it!

And let's not forget about how you must be the most ungrateful bitch alive for complaining when your new bestie, Vash, occasionally graced you with his presence for a shared meal. Despite the gesture, conversations were superficial at best, revolving around banal topics like the weather or insipid inquiries about the quality of the food. Consequently, meals were typically consumed in silence unless Vash had a particular matter to discuss, leaving you with the role of a passive listener.

Because you had discovered that the majority of his sentences were intentionally crafted, and you made a firm commitment to yourself. You vowed not to allow him to deceive you anew with his clever words, determined to remain vigilant against his manipulative charm.

Charm, huh!

As the saying goes, you didn't provide him much in this fervently pursued friendship, yet he persisted regardless. Every time he visited, motherfucker arrived bearing gifts – be it a novel flavor of donuts, fresh garments, or a book intended to captivate your attention. You couldn't help but notice the intentional variety of genres in the books he presented. This left you with a sense that he was endeavoring to elicit a reaction from you in order to gain insight into your inner world.

But you would rather die than give him anything.

And then there were days like today's lunch, a departure from the norm; he appeared before you in a meticulously tailored black coat, exuding an air of opulence with its flawless texture and lustrous sheen. His ensemble was further enhanced by a black shirt and a crimson red vest adorned with regal patterns, resulting in a sleek and sophisticated appearance. However, despite this refined presentation, his silky black tie hung loosely around his neck, a visible symbol of his frustration. With a face etched with determination, he grappled with the delicate task of tying its knot, his fingers fumbling with the fabric as he attempted various techniques, all in vain. The scene was indeed amusing, as you found yourself engrossed in crafting origami ships out of folded napkins, observing his relentless struggle with a hint of lighthearted entertainment.

At times, he possessed a sweet, childlike quality. Although the thought of witnessing him inadvertently strangle himself brought some perverse entertainment, you learned from the guards that today marked the twins' birthday. Since when did monsters celebrate birthdays? With a resigned sigh, you let out a breath. Extending your hand, you retrieved the tie from him. Without uttering a word or offering commentary, he simply observed as you skillfully tied the knot on your knee before returning it to him. A seemingly perfect birthday gift, or so you hoped. Whatever! Fuck him!

Thank Gods he was silent today. He gazed at the tie momentarily, expressing gratitude before taking the plate full of origamis and bidding farewell with a smile, leaving the grand scene. Weird man!

After his footsteps had receded into silence, his subordinates diligently secured the door, taking utmost care as they locked it three times over.

It was probably before midnight when a sudden thump from above shattered the fragile tranquility of your restless sleep, wrenching you away from a state of hazy slumber that had enveloped your mind. As you blinked your eyes open, the closed door before you became the sole object of your attention, your gaze fixated on its faint outline while your mind struggled to process the startling sound.

Somehow, your heart raced ahead, the muscle beating rapidly within your chest, as a wave of unease caused the hairs on the back of your neck to stand on end. With caution, you gradually sat upright and slipped out from under the comforting embrace of the covers.

Adrenaline was coursing through your system now, instantly jolting you awake. A cloud of unease rolled in the pit of your stomach, casting a shadow over your senses. With trembling limbs, you rose from your bed, a sudden chill enveloping you and causing your skin to ripple with goosebumps. Shivering involuntarily, you mustered the courage to slowly open the door, cringing at the piercing creak that echoed through the air.

The sound could have been anything. It could have been the clatter of the guards accidentally shattering a foolishly placed vase, or shit, even a couple of ghosts roughhousing. After all, considering the grim history of the house, which had witnessed countless brutal demises, such possibilities were not entirely far-fetched. Nevertheless, an indescribable intuition gnawed at your gut, forewarning that an impending calamity loomed on the horizon.

Were they mere thieves, opportunists daring to exploit the near emptiness of the house to pilfer its trove of antiques? If that were the case, where were the supposedly vigilant guards?

No, that couldn't be.

It stretched the bounds of coincidence to believe that strangers would intentionally target the abode of a notorious mafia boss for a mere burglary.

Shaking like a leaf, you adamantly resisted the urge to succumb to fear and let it trap you in this wretched room. Summoning your resolve, you swiftly toggled the switch in the basement, causing the feeble illumination from the few functioning lights to flicker to life. The staircase materialized before you, partially shrouded in darkness, playing tricks on your mind as it conjured phantom figures lurking just beyond the reach of the light. With measured steps, you cautiously advanced towards the stairs, and to your surprise, you discovered that the metallic door stood unlocked—

And then, some was behind you.

You knew this because the frigid contact of the gun pressed against the back of your head was an undeniable reality coursing chilling sensation down your spine.

"Raise your hands, and don't do anything hasty, girl."

A sense of time dilation took hold as the world around you appeared to decelerate. You felt immobilized, unable to move a muscle. The voice that reached your ears was distinct and didn't belong to Vash or anyone you had encountered thus far, leaving you hesitant and unable even to blink. Every fiber of your being urged you to yield as your instincts clamored for compliance. After all, it was clearly not a propitious moment for acting like a dumb bitch.

"Hey, Neon!" the unfamiliar voice bellowed, causing you to flinch involuntarily at the sheer volume. "Take a look at what those fuck up twins are hiding in the basement."

As you pressed your lips tightly together, a whirlwind of apprehension and anxiety churned within you. Beads of sweat formed on your forehead, their salty sting teasing the corners of your eyes as you fixated on the man descending the staircase, his attire shimmering in the dim light. He approached you, his steps deliberate and measured, until he stood before you, his eyes alight with a disgusting gleam. And with perfect clarity, you watched him slowly shake his head at you. Warning you not to do what you were about to do. You stared at the hard lines of his face, fear steadily trickling through your body at an alarming rate.

He harshly cupped your chin in his hand, his touch threatening to break your jaw. His voice resonated with a twisted sense of captivation as he declared, "We came to take those brothers shine away," his words dripping with morbid fascination. "And behold, what a flashy gem they unknowingly concealed within this box. Such a shame! Beings like you ought to be showcased for all to revel in."

This couldn't be real. This couldn't be real. This couldn't be real.

Yes! Of course! Your stupid fucking brain must be a bit too imaginative tonight, but aside from that, this was hardcore real. If these intruders had managed to advance this far, it stood to reason that the guards had met their demise as well. So this was going to be your almighty end? No fucking thank you.

Much like Vash's previous visit, it felt like walking through a portal to hell when he walked into this club. It was stifling in here, the air so full of depravity and sickness that it was a physical weight on his shoulders. Jesus fucking Christ. He felt like he needed a goddamn gas mask to shield himself from the repulsive atmosphere surrounding him.

Their birthday party was immersed in an aura of chaos, defined by its dark theme. The pulsating bass of the music enveloped the surroundings as if originating from within his chest, which he had never immensely grown accustomed to the deafening volume of such venues. Fuckers! Shut the shit down!

Girls gracefully danced around the crowd of drunk revelers, blending sensuality and artistry, captivating the onlookers. The air was saturated with the scent of alcohol, intermingling with the thumping beats that reverberated throughout the place.

Seated in the expansive main area, the layout unfolded before him as an open concept. The ambiance was dimly lit, casting an aura of foreboding. Unlike those in the shady strip clubs downtown, the black marble floors gleamed as brilliantly as his recently polished shoes. The walls, painted a deep shade of blood red, remained devoid of creepy artwork, but plenty of creeps had occupied the booths and tables surrounding the stage.

His gaze fixated on a woman twirling around the pole, humping it to the beat while money was thrown on the stage. Shifting in his seat, he leisurely stretched his arms across the back of the couch, his legs casually spread apart. He might be dead inside, but his desires were pretty alive. The influence of alcohol was unmistakable, evident in his slight swaying and the dulled state of his senses due to the intoxicating haze. Nevertheless, amid the clamor of the party, a subtle irritation flickered across his countenance, adding a touch of annoyance to his features.

This side of the club was filled with couches and tables. Men had lounged on the couches with women draped over their laps and rubbing their tits in their faces. A full bar was where several men sat, drinking glasses of alcohol. Probably fifty-thousand-dollar Scotch that tasted like ass. Then again, they probably enjoyed that taste since they thought their farts smelled like flowers.

Women in revealing attire roamed the room, circulating among the crowd, serving drinks and feigning laughter at the patrons' feeble attempts at humor. Merely ten feet from where Vash was seated, a woman stood beside a man, extending her bare arm as the asshole callously extinguished his lit cigar on her skin. Smoke hissed and curled from the contact, yet she didn't move an inch. In fact, she didn't even flinch.

Upon closer observation, Vash discerned a blank expression on the woman's face, mirroring the detachment exhibited by the pole dancer gyrating provocatively on the stage. The pungent scent of singed flesh permeated the vicinity, lingering in the air. To Vash's dismay, one dickhead even waved his hand in front of his nose dramatically as if it was her fault it smelled.

Her arm fell limply to her side as she remained motionless, her gaze glazed and distant. Vash's attention was drawn to the entirety of her arm, which bore a multitude of burn scars—some old, others fresh—each at varying stages of healing and plenty of fresh burns from tonight.

Cigarettes and burn scars.

You.

Your scars.

The music pumping through the speakers was everywhere, though not to the extent of drowning out his thoughts. Anger erupted within him, intensifying as he questioned why his mind, in such an environment, was fixated on you. Pain in the ass!

Once again, his gaze fell upon the girl. For sure, she had been drugged. So, for a moment, out of anger, he thought of getting up and burning the man's hand with a lighter, but he was no goddamn hero. Even he, himself, was not significantly different from those around him.

"Mr. Saverem, how can I help you?" a blonde woman asked, leaning on him till her nipples were almost in his mouth if he hadn't pulled his head away. She wore a plain, loose black top and a mini skirt, with nondescript heels and her hair pulled back into a tight bun. Standing positioned between Vash's legs, she awaited his response.

The familiar vacant expression adorned her face, signaling that she, like the others, had fallen prey to the effects of being drugged. It became evident to Vash that they were all victims of this manipulation, a taste that Kni seemed to favor. He questioned himself, wondering why he had even entertained the notion of anything different in this grim situation.

"Where's Kni?"

"Who?" the girl asked, her confusion evident as she straightened her posture slightly.

Vash contemplated shifting his leg, but upon noticing the girl's lack of response, he raised an eyebrow inquisitively. In a swift reaction, she promptly retreated, creating some distance between them. "Where is your master, Knives?"

"Oh," she said, as if newly remembering. "Your brother is in the VIP—" Before she could finish her sentence, Vash was on his feet, navigating his way through the throng of grinding couples, drunk girls getting molested, and obnoxious douchebags drenched in excessive cologne with a mountain of gel in their hair. For fuck's sake, one even parted his button-up to proudly show off the gold chain hanging over his hairy, overly tanned chest.

From both sides, unsettling gazes from men and women fixated upon him as the sound of bass-heavy music filled the air, originating from somewhere ahead. Determinedly, he made his way toward the hallway. This section boasted opulent gold-tiled flooring, foreboding black walls, and an obscenely extravagant chandelier. Men in suits, whose names he wished to erase from memory, greeted him with disconcerting smiles, still riding the high from raping a poor girl or boy. To him, they all appeared indistinguishably repugnant.

As he arrived at the VIP section, Vash noticed that the bass had mellowed in intensity. Positioned on a crescent-shaped couch, Kni sat with his legs spread apart while a bartender enthusiastically bounced up and down on his lap while his head was kicked back with his eyes closed. The bartender's skirt was hitched up, her thong pulled aside, leaving her pussy exposed, eating up Kni's cock all the way down. This wasn't new for Vash. He had seen worse.

The presence of white powders streaked across the glass table made it evident that Vash's twin was high on cocaine. Meanwhile, Kni's devoted dog, Legato, sat on the opposite side of the room, probably for the first time receiving treatment from a girl and only because Kni probably had paid for it. Vash arched a brow, unimpressed with how low Legato's girl had to bounce. Little dick! Luckily, his partners never had that issue.

Letting out a sigh, he retreated into the shadows, and it took him five minutes to get out of this godforsaken place until he reached the table where the girl with cigarette burn scars was seated.

"Gentlemen, my apologies, but this one is off-limits for tonight," Vash snarled, his eyes ablaze with fury. With a single glance, she recoiled and shrank into herself while the other men chuckled mockingly.

"Excellent choice, birthday boy," Ruth, one of Kni's men, mumbled, casting a hungry gaze upon her, akin to a famished person with a plate full of food after weeks of deprivation. "She's got a delicious pussy."

"How coincidental! I had the very same thought," Vash retorted directly to the man, who chuckled heartily, relishing the idea of a woman being objectified. The old fuck!

Vash firmly seized the woman's arm, yanking her close to his body and forcefully pulling her away. Though she didn't resist with great strength, the instinct of self-preservation gradually emerged, battling against the haze of drugs within her system. Nevertheless, she had long accepted her fate.

Upon reaching a secluded room, he shifted his focus towards her. To his astonishment, she had already descended to her knees, her eyes fixed upon him with a blend of sorrow and surrender.

She possessed a captivating beauty, with lustrous brown hair, enchanting grass-green eyes, and freckles adorning her nose. There was a quality about her that bore a slight resemblance to you, and immediately, he felt a burning urge to storm back outside and crush his fist in Ruth's face just for touching her.

"Get up," Vash stated firmly. She rose to her feet with unsteady movements, resembling a baby giraffe taking its tentative first steps. "I'm going to get you out of here," he assured her, determination evident in his voice.

A crease formed on her forehead, and her expression turned into a frown. "Sir—" she started to say, her voice conveying a sense of unease or apprehension.

"How would you feel about getting a fresh start in life, yeah?"

Her eyes widened as if the idea of breaking free from her current situation began to dissipate the haze of drugs clouding her gaze. However, a sense of wariness replaced her initial glimmer of hope, eventually giving way to resignation. Tears welled up at the corners of her eyes as she looked down, seemingly gathering herself. "I understand what that entails. I-I apologize. I am here to fulfill your desires, sir. Please, grant me the opportunity to bring you pleasure—"

"I have no intention of causing you harm or taking your life," Vash interjected firmly, emphasizing each word.

"But-but you're Vash Saverem."

The weight of her words slapped him hard, realizing the understandable skepticism the girl held towards his intentions. He couldn't blame her; he wouldn't trust a fuck up like himself. "I'm going to help you, but I need you to listen to exactly what I say."

She shifted uneasily on her feet, glancing up at him with nervousness, her head nodding vigorously. Vash swiftly retrieved his phone and dialed Livio's number, waiting for him to answer. With only a few words exchanged, Vash explained the dire situation at hand. It took fifteen minutes of coordination before a car was arranged to pick her up. During that time, the girl shared details about her family. She spoke of his father battling cancer. She revealed that she resorted to this line of work to cover the mounting medical expenses. However, she confessed her uncertainty about the worthiness of it all if it meant risking her life and the abrupt cessation of the additional income.

Never again would she have to bear the burden of caring for her family or endure the torment of cigarette burns, Vash promised.

As she approached the door, ready to enter the car, Vash grasped her wrist. A nondescript black sedan stood just two feet away, its door already swung open, beckoning her inside.

"Hey," he spoke calmly, causing her to freeze in her tracks. "I need you to promise me something," he continued. "Never discuss this matter with anyone, alright? I have the memory of an elephant, especially with faces. Understood?"

She would never see the wrong end of Vash's gun, even if she did tell, but it would make his life much more complicated if she knew that.

"Okay," she responded softly. "You're a very good man, Mr. Saverem." A solitary tear escaped her eye, which she quickly wiped away before nodding. Her brightened eyes shone with hope, and doing this shit was all worth it when he had her look at him like that. He still didn't consider himself a hero, but it was his birthday night, and he was allowed to do whatever fuck he wanted. None of anybody's business.

Stepping out of his vintage black cherry Mercury Cougar, Vash stretched his neck, his muscles taut with pent-up tension. Scanning his surroundings, he suddenly snapped out of a daze and realized the absence of doormen in front of the gate. Upon further scrutiny, he also noticed the guards at the entrance were nowhere to be seen. This felt off. The night had an unsettling aura, akin to being trapped in a metallic chamber, just waiting for the bullet to ricochet and hit him somewhere vital.

Couldn't this fucking night just end?

Vash proceeded cautiously through the back entrance. His movement abruptly stopped when he glanced to his left and spotted a pair of men clad in flashy attire—the notorious Bad Lad Gang members. Exhaling a sigh of relief, a slight burden lifted from his shoulders, confirming they weren't mercenaries. This meant there was a higher likelihood of you still being alive. Shaking his head, he retrieved his gun and screwed the silencer piece with precision.

However, his momentary relief evaporated when he overheard the words that escaped their vulgar mouths.

"Why are we wasting time?" one of the men inquired impatiently.

"That bitch refused to come with us. Who the hell would choose to stay in captivity instead of taking a chance at escape?" one of the men sneered. "I mean, we may not be saints, but we're still better than those Saverems. The van is already prepared for departure."

Vash's posture snapped into rigid attention, his body becoming as stiff as if cement had been injected into his spinal cord. The realization hit him like a sudden jolt—you had chosen not to go. Good girl.

"What if they return?" the man attempted to appease the situation.

"We've got our guys infiltrated into their birthday party. Big brother is all drugged up, surrounded by his crew, and the other is busy with a hostess in the back. Even if they do come back, Neon said he'll use her as leverage to secure our freedom and more money," the man explained confidently.

"But we don't even know who she is! She hasn't uttered a single word. How can we be certain that she's worth anything?" another man interjected.

"She must hold some significance if Diablo has her locked up. Neon is doing his best to coax her into talking. I hope he finishes soon because, judging by the brutal scars on Diablo's body, I definitely wouldn't want to cross paths with the younger Saverem," the man remarked with a shudder.

The first man casually waved his hand, dismissing his friend's very valid concerns. "He ended up with those scars because he was weak," he remarked callously.

Vash's laughter erupted soundlessly, his head thrown back and shoulders convulsing with mirth as he absorbed the twisted assumption made by the man. His laughter resonated through the confined space, intertwining with the eerie sounds that permeated the desolate house. The heads of the four men snapped towards him, their faces drained of color as if their worst nightmares had come to life. Soon enough, they would realize that he occupied the very throne of terror, and their nightmares would kneel before him, for he was a far greater abomination than any monster they could fathom.

Entering the room, Vash's grin broadened as he observed their instinctive recoil. Swiftly, before they could even reach for their weapons, Vash eliminated three of them. Dead. Easy peasy!

"Diablo—" the man who had previously exuded confidence began, his voice filled with unease and surprise.

"Do you want to know how old my scars are? Very old. They bear witness to battles against formidable adversaries. But let me enlighten you on who sprawled on the floor, their throats slit, and eye sockets hollowed out. It certainly wasn't me, you bastard," Vash retorted with a menacing edge.

The man attempted to dismiss Vash's story with a choked laugh. "Saverem, please, we weren't talking about you or your girl," he rasped out, his voice strained and broken.

His girl.

You? His girl? Huh!

"The worst mistake you could make is lying to me," Vash said, a flicker of anger seeping into his gaze as he advanced. Trespassing into his domain was one thing, but attempting to steal his precious asset was an entirely different offense. "Neon is your boss, right? Where is he?"

"Please—I have kids. Ple—"

Vash closed his eyes, exhaling a deep breath, and reopened them with a resolute gaze. " I'm not gonna repeat myself," he stated firmly, raising his gun to the man's forehead.

"B-B-Basement," the man stammered, his fear causing him to lose control. Vash couldn't help but find the man's demeanor pathetic, almost on the verge of peeing on his floor. What an ass!

"How many of you are inside?" Vash inquired, his hand delving into his pocket to count the bullets. Unsure it was disheartening to anticipate needing them even on his birthday or if he should find solace in having them for such an occasion, he embraced the latter. This was not a time for sadness. A sense of contentment washed over him, knowing his trusty, cold companions of metal bullets were beside him wherever he went.

"About twenty-five," the man replied. Not an insignificant number, but not particularly formidable either. With that, Vash wasted no time. He pulled the trigger, firing at the man, and without pausing to witness his collapse, he dashed through the doorway.

The crackling of parquet beneath his feet revealed his path leading towards the basement. The lifeless figure of the last person he had dispatched lay near the staircase, likely retaining some residual warmth. Vash shook his clenched fists, feeling the restlessness entwining his nerves into tight knots.

In the basement, Vash discovered a strategically positioned group of five armed men, three more on their six and four on their twelve. Cracking his neck, he savored the sensation of bones popping, finding solace in the release of tension and the subsequent relaxation of his shoulders. Fucking long night.

Taking down twelve men wouldn't pose a significant challenge for Vash as long as he executed his moves swiftly and stealthily. After cutting off the power, he knew disabling the guards surrounding the mansion would be easier. Finding a spot hidden in the shadows took two seconds, giving him the perfect shot angle. Their mistake was relying on their limited eyesight for intruders. His ability to hide in the shadows was what ultimately got them killed. They should have equipped themselves with night vision goggles. What fools! Maybe then he would have found a bit of entertainment in the encounter.

Slinking up to the door, he pressed his shoulder against the wall, ensuring his footsteps remained silent. With deftness, he turned the handle and smoothly slipped through the partially opened door, his body passing through the narrow gap. The metal door closed noiselessly behind him, bringing him one step closer to you.

The muffled screams of "NO" reached Vash's ears, the sound of your fights piercing his consciousness. White-hot rage blinded his vision; however, he knew better than to rush in recklessly or lose his fucking shit. No one could afford to succumb to their emotions in this situation; otherwise, you would never be rescued. It wasn't easy to maintain composure, though. These assholes had a way of bringing out the worst in him.

Keeping to the shadows, he made his way through the hallway; peering around the corner, he spotted you. The man who appeared to be the leader of this group of varmints had leaned in close to you, trapping your legs between his. The audacity! This was his spot!

Vash clenched his fists, the tension intensifying until his hands grew numb, and he drew his gun from its holster. He knew that once the first man fell, the remaining enemies would unleash a barrage of gunfire. That's why he needed to proceed with caution and quickness. While it was difficult to gauge how they would treat your safety, they might have valued their trump card's life above all else. However, some of these men were more concerned about self-preservation, which meant you could become an easy target for stray bullets.

As Vash had guessed, three men stood guard before him, blissfully unaware of his presence. Stupid fucks. He couldn't help but scoff at their ignorance. How could people be oblivious to the imminent danger lurking right under their noses? It baffled him to no end.

With precise movements, Vash dispatched all three men in quick succession. Their bodies collapsed to the ground while the remaining five men in the basement pit turned their heads in tandem, their faces morphing from surprise to alarm to anger in seconds. In a frantic scramble, they reached for their firearms. Meanwhile, Vash remained concealed behind the protective cover of the wall. Two men opened fire, forcing him to retreat and seek safer ground.

A bullet grazed the corner of the wall, narrowly missing Vash's face. Chunks of concrete scattered, stinging his eyes as the onslaught of bullets continued to zip around him. He grunted in response, reflexively massaging his eyelids to dispel the chaos and restore clarity to his vision.

Just as Vash readied himself for the next encounter, a man came charging around the corner, oblivious to his impending fate. Without hesitation, Vash swiftly killed him with a precisely aimed shot, leaving a neat hole between his brows. He was an ugly motherfucker, anyway. The world would do just fine without him. Before the lifeless body could crumple to the ground, Vash seized him by the collar of his shirt, pulling him closer. Despite the repugnant odor emanating from the rotting wound on the man's face, Vash used him as a shield, stepping out of the hallway and utilizing the dead man's body as a barrier against the bullets that continued to rain down upon him.

The lifeless body absorbed a few hits as Vash skillfully fired two single shots, taking down two more adversaries. With a calculated move, he stepped back into the hallway, pushing away the bloodied man, now riddled with bullets. The man's head made a sickening thud as it collided with the wooden floor. Vash had briefly used him as a shield for five seconds, but he knew he had been fortunate. It wasn't like the movies. Bullets could easily penetrate through bodies, making such tactics risky and unpredictable. Typically, Vash avoided using others as shields unless absolutely necessary, and even then, only for brief moments to gain a tactical advantage.

He reloaded his gun as a chorus of noises raised in the basement in the form of terrified screams and yells of panic from the men, ordering to "kill the puta."

With six men remaining, Vash could sense the panic crawling off them. The threat reverberated as one of them shouted, his voice echoing, "Come out with your hands raised and your gun on the floor, or I'll kill your bitch!"

Vash let out a heavy sigh, feeling the weight of the situation. Knowing they knew his weakness, he reluctantly complied with their demand. He dropped his gun onto the floor and emerged with his hands raised. The six men positioned themselves between him and you. The bitter knowledge that they were only doing so to ensure the bait wasn't damaged rather than giving a shit about hurting you burned hot in his chest. Despite the circumstances, he maintained a taunting smirk on his lips as he addressed them, "Come on, the fun was just starting." However, the lack of visibility prevented him from gauging your current state. The burning question lingered: Were you okay?

"Shut up!" the boss spat. He was a Latino man with an unconventional hairstyle adorned with tattoos that covered his entire body. He wore clothes that made him seem like he had raided a circus wardrobe. This must be Neon, the leader of the gang Vash had been hunting. It was a pleasure to meet you finally, dead man!

Neon's eyes were wide with fear, and based on the crack pipes scattering on the table behind him, Vash'd say most of them were high off their rockers. Not so good. Trigger-happy and fueled by their drug-induced state, they were unpredictable and prone to impulsive actions. And he got six of those happy fingers on triggers. "Who told you we are in your house?" Neon shouted, emphasizing his question with a wave of his gun.

Vash responded with a dry tone, "I felt your stench."

Neon raised his gun above his head and fired a shot, attempting to intimidate Vash. See? Trigger happy. However, Vash remained unfazed by the act, showing no signs of flinching or fear. Instead, he took the opportunity to carefully observe his surroundings. To his left, there was a table strewn with an assortment of items: guns, ashtrays, empty vodka bottles—his vodka bottles—and yet another crack pipe. Perfect.

"So, it seems you truly are the infamous arrogant Diablo," the man remarked, his finger caressing the trigger.

Vash maintained a composed demeanor as he inquired, "And you Neon?"

The man's eyebrows shot up in surprise, and Vash could discern the traces of paranoia seeping into his eyes. It became apparent that Neon might not be as cooperative or helpful as Vash had initially anticipated. He was buzzing too hard. Neon responded with suspicion, "How do you know that? You following me?"

A wide, toothy grin spread across Vash's face. "It's what I excel at, after all," he replied. "Word on the street is that you're the big shot around here, running the show and all that." Neon shifted uncomfortably, a hint of pride flickering across his expression. It was as if he believed he was contributing something meaningful to the world, oblivious that his actions were centered around stealing valuable possessions while dressed like a clown. "I was actually hoping you could help me out, man."

"Yeah?" Neon patronized, his tone dripping with disdain. "You believe I'm going to lend you a hand? You must be out of your mind, Diablo." He fired another shot, this time deliberately close to Vash. Too close for comfort. Enough to feel the bullet's heat, yet he didn't flinch, and his calmness seemed to infuriate Neon even further.

Vash sighed. With Neon's current state of mind, he had to kill his ass down from his high. A swift assessment of the situation told him he had a mere two seconds before the rest of the men would open fire, regardless of what he said. With that limited timeframe in mind, he suddenly reached behind his back, retrieving his second gun and taking down one of the men to his left. The suddenness of his action caught the others off guard, buying him a small window of opportunity. Taking advantage of that momentary distraction, Vash flipped the table, causing the glass to shatter from the ashtrays and a gun to fall off the table, discharging a round and filling the room with shocked screams from the remaining men.

Fuck. If that bullet had ricocheted and landed just an inch closer to you, he would have willingly allowed himself to be stabbed rather than risk your safety. However, no cries of pain followed, so he took a deep breath, relieved but no less pissed at himself.

In perfect synchronization, a barrage of bullets pierced the thick, wooden table, punctuating the air with a loud sound. Fortunately, most projectiles failed to penetrate fully, a stroke of luck in Vash's favor. Returning fire was far too risky in this situation. Even the slightest exposure of his pinky toe would invite a hail of bullets, and he refused to jeopardize your well-being further by blindly firing back. He would only take shots when he had absolute certainty of their accuracy. For now, all he could do was wait, biding his time until the assailants emptied their clips.

Vash heard the rustling of clothing and muttered curses as they scrambled to reload. It took even less time for him to shoot the remaining four. The bullets had torn through the men's brains in rapid succession, causing their lifeless bodies to collapse simultaneously. However, he deliberately chose to spare Neon for the time being. He intended to deal with him later, in his own way.

Neon's mouth unleashed a torrent of curses, his colorful tirade spewing as he desperately searched for another weapon. He was nothing more than a whiny bitch trapped in a man's body, devoid of true courage. His face flushed with rage, filled with murderous intent as he fixed a fierce glare upon Vash. Now that he thought again, he had no time for these stupid games. Ignoring the look on Neon's face, Vash shot the thief in the head. Thieves had no home in heaven, remember?

And then he looked for you—the spitfire who would turn to a mush when he was around you. Between death and destruction, you had worn a smile on your lips, your eyes glistening with tears, your hair disheveled. Yet, there was an undeniable radiance within you, a precious light that warmed his heart and justified the violence he had unleashed to protect you.

In that moment, he couldn't help but question whether he was your savior or if you, with your enchanting smile, were the true source of his salvation. You embodied a majestic blessing, and he found himself addicted to the sheer joy that radiated within him each time you smiled in his presence.

Vash's face changed seasons as he reached you: the once rigid line of his mouth warmed into a bright smile. His eyes sparkled as he beamed at you, seemingly unfazed by the presence of lifeless bodies strewn about the surroundings.

Vash studied your eyes intently, his piercing blue gaze locked onto yours as if trying to read you for clues. But, the intensity of his scrutiny was often overwhelming, causing you to break the connection prematurely. In doing so, you felt a sense of disconnection, as if a vital tether had been momentarily severed, leaving you with a somewhat unsettled feeling.

"Get down—"

He tackled you to the ground just as the sound of gunshots filled the basement. His strong arms enveloped and pulled you close to his chest, his body shielding yours from the imminent danger. The rapid thumping of your heart drowned out Vash's voice as he leaned close and spoke into your ear, his words barely audible.

In a hushed whisper, Vash asked, "Are you all right?" as he held you even closer, seeking reassurance of your well-being. You attempted to nod in response, conveying your condition despite the tense situation. "Stay down," he said, his voice filled with urgency. "Don't move." His words were firm.

You had no intentions of doing otherwise, though you chose not to voice it to him.

The gunshots rang out, and you instinctively covered your ears tightly, seeking temporary respite from the ear-splitting noise. Then, abruptly, silence descended, leaving a void that was broken only by the sight of Vash dropping his gun and collapsing to the floor. With wide eyes, you turned to face him, witnessing him struggling to remain seated, his strength visibly waning.

As you took in the sight before you, your breath caught in your throat. Vash's head hung low, his neck limp, and his disheveled coat revealing an undone button. His dark shirt and crimson vest were soaked in blood, painting a grim tableau.

He had been shot, but when? Now? No. No. No.

You were too poor to afford the luxury of succumbing to hysteria. Instead, your focus shifted to finding a solution to staunch Vash's bleeding, yet fear held you back from approaching him. Your eyes scanned the surroundings, convinced Vash had ensured no remaining intruders were lurking nearby.

With caution, you gingerly maneuvered between Vash's legs, mindful of avoiding a direct gaze at the blood staining his hands. You consciously suppressed your imagination, refusing to let it overpower you in this critical moment. Not here. Not now.

Gathering your resolve, you called out to him, your voice filled with concern and uncertainty, "Vash...?"

Your hand instinctively went to his neck, seeking his pulse, and at that moment, Vash's head snapped up with a sudden burst of energy. His eyes found you. His face, remarkably, appeared largely unscathed, save for the visible signs of weariness etched upon it.

"I'm not dead yet, love," he whispered, his weary smile gracing his face as if he were beholding you with fresh eyes, appreciating your presence anew. "I'm glad it didn't hit you."

Tears welled up in your eyes instantaneously, and his words flooded your thoughts, rendering your mind a whirlwind of confusion. Your mouth opened, but nothing emerged as your limbs felt immobilized, and your wide eyes remained fixated on him, reflecting a combo of fear, concern, and an overwhelming flood of emotions.

"You're worried for me?" Vash said, his voice hoarse.

"Shut up!"

His hand reached out to tenderly caress your cheek. No gloves. His hand was bloodied. You knew it. But you couldn't care less. It was the hand of your savior, and that fact outweighed any concerns about its current state. His thumb left faint blood trails on your face, and in response, your muscles finally began to relax from their tense state. With a resolute grip, you clasped his wrist firmly with both hands, causing him to flinch momentarily. Undeterred, you held on even tighter, seeking to provide a sense of stability and support.

You had grown an unexpected soft spot for him, maybe because he was vulnerable, or perhaps it was because he had taken a bullet while selflessly protecting you, a level of care that had been absent from your life for far too long. It was a stark reminder of his compassion, something no one else had done in ages. You swallowed down your deep-seated hatred, at least for the moment, and mustered the strength to ask, "Tell me, what should I do?"

"Love," Vash murmured, his gaze unwaveringly fixed upon yours, his lips slightly parted. Within his turquoise-colored eyes resided a haunting pain that seemed to hold him captive. His dark lashes unveiled a complex blend of sorrow and beauty as he blinked, a sight that struck you with unexpected intensity. The profound emotions he conveyed through a mere glance caught you off guard, revealing an extraordinary depth of agony entrenched within his heart.

Your throat tightened, and with a gulp, you released his hand, redirecting your focus to pressing both of your hands firmly against his torso. The warmth of his blood seeped through your fingers, staining your skin with a crimson hue in mere moments. The onslaught of rushing blood in your ears intensified, drowning out other sounds as waves of tension threatened to consume you from inside.

In a quiet voice, you found yourself whispering words to him that emerged from the depths of your being, words you didn't even know were there. Wave after wave of stress slammed into you, and fuck...everything blurred as fresh tears welled up in your eyes. It felt like your chest was splitting wide open, like your heart was spilling alongside his blood.

As you lifted your head, your gaze met him, and to your surprise, you discovered him wearing a genuine smile that had blossomed upon his lips. One so warm that it cracked the shell of coldness.

"Thank you, but pressing your hands on it is not gonna work," he said, placing his palms on the floor and endeavoring to push himself up into an upright position against the couch. "I need to see the wound. Can you help me unbutton my vest and shirt?"

As he inhaled deeply, his head snapped back, causing his neck tattoos to stretch tautly. Cold droplets of sweat trickled down from the tattoos, tracing a path along the collar of his shirt. He swallowed, and the movement of his Adam's apple was evident as it bobbed up and down. The sheer simplicity of this primal act sent a chill coursing through your veins, causing every hair on your body to stand on end. It stirred something deep within you, a sensation that hinted at something amiss within yourself.

Focus!

He had no tie, so carefully, you began to undo his buttons, your fingers trembling slightly as you navigated the task. It was then that you caught yourself instinctively closing your eyes, a reflex to shield yourself from the vulnerability of the moment. However, you quickly blinked them open when you felt something brush against your eyelashes, realizing it was a fleeting touch from his fingers. Holy shit! You were dripping, burning, and melting all at once.

"We can't proceed with your eyes closed," he said with a small smile the size of Jupiter. Intrigued, you cautiously peeked at his features, taking in the exquisite craftsmanship of every detail. Each element seemed meticulously designed, from his perfectly sculpted nose and chin to his finely-shaped ears and eyebrows. His eyelashes possessed a captivating allure that any girl would envy, framing his eyes with a wealth of color and depth, capable of inspiring countless works of art. Moreover, his golden hair resembled the ripe, undulating fields of wheat, a sight you longed to relish, while his eyes were a canvas with infinite possibilities, beckoning you to paint a million vibrant pictures.

Your eyes traced the contour of his jaw, allowing your gaze to travel along the graceful curve of his neck until it reached the apex of his collarbone. There, you committed to memory the sculpted landscape of his throat, with its captivating interplay of hills and valleys, accentuated by the presence of intricate tattoos. The sheer perfection of—

Scars.

His skin was shredded with scars.

Blood rushed to your head so quickly that you began to feel faint. You felt sick. Like you might actually, truly upturn the contents of your stomach right now. You wanted to panic; you wanted to shake someone; you wanted to know how to understand the emotions choking you because you couldn't even imagine, couldn't even imagine, couldn't even imagine what he must've endured to carry such suffering on his skin.

His entire torso was a map of pain.

Thick and thin and uneven and terrible. Scars like roads that led to nowhere. They were gashes and ragged slices you couldn't understand, marks of torture you never expected. They were the only imperfections on his entire body, imperfections hidden away and hiding secrets of their own.

Then, a realization washed over you, not for the first time, that you had no idea who Vash really was. You tried to tell him something. You tried to choke out. You tried to say so many times and failed. You tried to find his eyes only to realize he'd been watching you study him. The pieces of his face were pressed into lines of emotion so deep you wondered what you must look like to him. He touched two fingers to your chin, tilted your face up just enough, and his touch was like an electric wire in water.

"It's not a pleasant sight for a woman," he murmured in a low tone, and it felt as if the entire universe froze in its tracks, spinning in the opposite direction. Yet, your gaze remained fixated on him, on the expanse of his upper body. You were struck by the sheer perfection that unfolded before you, captivated by his flawless appearance from the front. Strong, lean frame, toned and muscular without being bulky. He was fair without being pale and skin tinted with enough sunlight to look effortlessly healthy. The body of a perfect man.

What a lie appearances could be.

What a terrible, terrible lie.

His gaze fixated on you, his eyes akin to blue flames, burning with an intensity that refused to be extinguished. You couldn't tear your eyes away from him and his chest's rapid rise and fall.

"Would you mind?" he asked, gesturing towards his wound, his tone attempting to convey a casual demeanor that thinly veiled the underlying apprehension in his eyes. "I'm bleeding a bit here," he added, acknowledging the criticality of tending to his injury.

"Do your scars hurt?" you blurted out suddenly.

He met your gaze with eyes widened in surprise, and in a quiet tone, he confessed, "Help me take these things off." Of course, he wouldn't answer you.

In a barely audible whisper, you mustered the courage to ask, "Will you tell me where they came from?" The weight of the question made it difficult for you to maintain eye contact as curiosity and trepidation swirled within you.

He was silent for so long. Then, his voice, like a gentle tug on a leash, called your name, instantly capturing your attention. You lifted your head, compelled by his words. "Help me take off my coat and vest. I feel like I'm suffocating," he requested, his pale face contorted with pain.

You didn't push further. With a nod of understanding, you delicately held him, careful not to hurt him further. He didn't say a word about the pain, trying so hard to hide that he was having trouble breathing. He was wincing against the torture of it all but didn't whisper a complaint.

You drew him closer, bringing his head to rest against yours, his deep breaths brushing against your shoulder. You seized the fabric's edge without hesitation, ready to gently remove it from his arms. However, the minuscule motion seemed to inflict unbearable pain, prompting him to bury his face in the curve of your neck. There, he stifled another groan, his lips pressing firmly against your skin, seeking solace in his discomfort.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so—"

Feeling his hand tugging on your t-shirt, his grip tight and desperate, he implored in a calm voice near your ear, "Just take them off." You attempted to comply with his request, carefully removing the garments, mindful of the pain it may cause him. In response, his hands transformed into a firm embrace around your waist, his lips shifted to lightly press against your cheek, and his body pressed intimately against yours. Your senses became acutely aware of his touch.

He was touching you, touching you, touching you.

"Love—"

As his body pressed nearer, a wave of awareness swept through you, consuming your senses until nothing else mattered except the ethereal dandelions blowing wishes within your lungs. Suddenly, your eyes flew open, capturing a fleeting moment as he briefly licked his bottom lip. His tongue grazed your neck, and in that instant, something in your brain burst to life.

You gasped. You gasped. You gasped.

"I—"

"Love, please," his voice trembled with anxiety. "Just—" he pleaded, his lips pressed tightly against your skin. For a fleeting moment, he closed his eyes, and droplets of sweat trickled down from his hairline, falling onto your shoulder blade. His fingers slowly traversed the sides of your body, their movement betraying his inner struggle to remain composed. And he held you. It felt unlike any embrace you had experienced before. It was as if you were a fragile glass urn containing his entire existence—precious, vital, and an inseparable part of him.

With a swift motion, you removed both his coat and vest, expecting some dramatic reaction. But he didn't scream. He didn't die. He didn't faint, but you did cry, you did choke, you did shake, shudder, splinter into teardrops. He leaned back against the couch, and you couldn't help but notice the pallor that had washed over his face. It was a sight that broke something deep within your heart. Seeing him in this vulnerable state pierced your defenses despite your lingering hatred towards him. You would have preferred to witness him succumb instantly, with that infuriating smirk on his face, rather than seeing those big, blue eyes staring at you like a lost fallen angel.

"Some of them are remnants of our childhood games," he uttered, his voice strained as he cleared his parched throat. The revelation left you frozen in a state of horror. "The scars, I mean," he clarified. Your mind raced, struggling to process the implications of his words. Vash averted his gaze, his eyes devoid of any discernible emotion, his face locked into a neutral expression. The silence hung heavy in the air, pregnant with unspoken questions.

"Knives whipped you?" you managed to rasp, your voice hoarse and filled with shock. The words tumbled out without permission.

"Cut."

"Oh my God," you gasped, instinctively covering your mouth in disbelief. Your gaze shifted towards the wall as you fought to regain your composure. Blinking rapidly, you wrestled with the pain and rage within you, struggling to contain the emotions threatening to consume you.

"I'm so sorry," you choked out.

You had to suppress the words that threatened to spill from your lips. His flawless countenance. His impeccable physique. His eyes were cold and exquisite, like frozen gemstones. Gods! His concealed exterior was as shattered as his hidden interior.

Overwhelmed by the intensity of your emotions, you found yourself speaking without reservation, assuring him, "Your scars are not repulsive. At least they weren't for me or… your Nick."

His gaze remained fixed upon you for a while, but then he shook his head, gathering his thoughts before speaking. "I'll apply pressure to my wound with this vest. Meanwhile, I need you to retrieve my coat," he instructed. "In the right pocket, you'll find my phone. Take it and make a call to Bradd. He's on speed dial #2. Remember, there's no cell reception in the basement. You have to go upstairs." He paused, swallowing hard, before resuming. "The car's switch is in my left pocket." He took a deep breath and continued, "Get out of here before anyone notices you leaving. Once you reach the main road, you'll be able to make your escape easily."

WHAT? WAS HE LETTING YOU GO? It wasn't like he could stop you now, but…

As if someone had suddenly poured icy water upon your head, you gazed at him, knowing he wouldn't meet your eyes, for he was not the type to bid farewells and wish you good luck. He was letting you go out of feeling guilty; likewise, you were not one to let such an opportunity slip away.

You mechanically nodded, and with a final glance devoid of words, you swiftly grabbed his coat and made a hasty retreat up the stairs, leaving behind a silent acknowledgment of your parting.

This was all you wanted. To be free. Right?

You followed through with your actions: You did call Bradd. You did retrieve the car switch. You did make your way to the front door. You did stand there. Your hand did reach out and grasp the doorknob. However, your feet remained rooted to the floor despite your intention to leave.

Because there was a man in the basement, wounded because of you. Because that man had been shot before. Because the body never gets used to pain. Because he knew, and yet, he willingly bore it for your sake. Because where did you want to go? To your father? To that man who didn't even bother with saving you? Where did you want to go when you had nowhere? Because you only realize the depth of your desire to stay when the doors are wide open.

Upon returning to the basement, you discovered him in a distressed state. His head tilted back, his hands clenched tightly, and his lips nearly devoid of color against the backdrop of darkness. It was evident that he struggled to maintain a firm grip on his wound, unable to apply enough pressure to stem the flow.

As the sound of your footsteps reached his ears, he lifted his head and directed his gaze towards the phone in your hand, followed by a glance at the car keys held in your other hand.

In a whisper stained with desperation and vulnerability, he asked, "Why did you come back?" His words hung in the air, hopes dying and flourishing in his eyes, his eyelashes like pearls forged from pain. It felt as though he was consuming your very essence, and you, in turn, became entangled, ensnared in his presence.

"Why..." you began, your voice catching on the first two attempts at inhalation. "Why are you looking at me like you've seen a ghost?"

"Because I might be hallucinating," he almost chuckled, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips, and it felt as if you could sprout a pair of wings and take flight. "You didn't want to leave?" he inquired, curious about your unexpected presence.

"What?" you blinked, suddenly sobered. "No! That's not what I meant. I just thought that no one should have to go through the experience of dying alone. And remember, you told me I would finally be free when you're gone. So why should I rush to leave?"

"Yeah, that promise," he sighed, his gaze drifting downward. "You're one of the worst liars I've ever encountered." Time seemed to stretch as you waited and waited and waited for him to continue. "You just made a call to save me," he stated, his voice tinged with amusement. His eyes traveled from your shoulder to your elbow, eventually landing on your wrist, fixated on the phone in your hand. In that suspended moment, disbelief held you captive, leaving you at a loss for words. "Why do you want to make everything challenging, love?"

"How can you be certain that I've called for help?" you questioned, your voice laced with genuine surprise as you tried to raise your eyebrow.

His gaze held you captive as if pinning you in place. The urgency in his eyes ignited a spark within your very bones. He bit his bottom lip, briefly averting his gaze before the words spilled forth. "Because I know you," he declared, and a flurry of hummingbirds seemed to flutter within your heart. His eyes carried a tenderness, and his smile had the power to unhinge your very joints. A bittersweet longing stirred within you as you wished he could be someone else, someone better, so you could taste his lips' sweetness.

No lips!

Don't think about his lips, idiot!

You forced yourself to fixate on his face, determined not to let your eyes dwell upon the devastation that marked his body. However, as countless seconds ticked by, you could not tear your gaze away from him.

"I can't believe you returned," he murmured, and deep down, you understood the reasons why you shouldn't have. It wasn't logical or practical. However, against all rationale, you disregarded those thoughts and chose to sit close to him.

"You know," you informed him, "Bradd mentioned that he thought you were still fucking that girl from the party. You were obviously having fun, so why did you come home? Didn't things work out for you two?" Despite your efforts to mask it, a trace of annoyance seeped into your tone.

Vash stared at you, a genuine smile gracing his face. "No need to be jealous," he reassured, his words piercing through you. "I'm here because I'd rather celebrate with my friend than be surrounded by strangers." You struggled to maintain composure, like keeping your organs from falling out, hoping the holes in your head weren't showing.

Idiot! Idiot! Idiot!

And bold because your hand instinctively reached out, gently brushing his hair away from his forehead. As you did, you noticed that his hair had grown slightly longer, a detail that had previously escaped your attention. The surprising softness of his blond locks, akin to melted chocolate, captivated you. It made you question why he bothered styling his hair in spikes when it looked so effortlessly appealing when left down. "Thank you for rescuing me," you expressed your gratitude, observing how he tensed his jaw and hesitated, opening and closing his lips.

Lowering your hand, you gently caressed his wrists, delicately tracing the tender skin with your fingertips, your touch grazing over the scars. This time, he didn't recoil; instead, he drew a fractured breath and closed his eyes. With a reassuring tone, you assured him, "You're going to be alright."

Like a wounded puppy, he made an effort to nod in acknowledgment.

Should you do something about his wound? Where was the first aid kit? He interjected as you contemplated retracting your touch, stopping you. "Don't," he said. "Your touch is the only thing keeping me from losing my sanity."

What? Why was he acting weird today? Was it because he was wounded?

You suppressed a shiver as a rush of warmth flooded your cheeks, coloring them with blush, and just for this moment, you dropped your bones and allowed him to hold you together. Luxurious was what this was.

Vash's cold, stained fingers enveloped yours, gripping them tightly, and the sheer delight that waved through you was so immense that it threatened to make you tremble. It felt as though your skin and bones had been yearning for his affection, and you didn't know how to pace yourself. You were like a starved child, attempting to satiate your hunger by devouring the richness of these moments, fearing that they would abruptly vanish, that you would wake up suddenly and realize you were a Cinderella who was still sweeping cinders for her stepmother. But then Vash's lips turned into a weary smile, and your worries put on a fancy dress and pretended to be something else for a while.

"How are you?" you inquired, your voice already betraying your unease, even though his grip on you was barely there. His laughter shook his body's shape, soft, rich, and indulgent. Yet, he remained silent in response to your question, and you knew he wouldn't. He was one of those who never talked about their pain.

His thumb delicately brushed against your hand, causing you to inhale sharply, your gaze instinctively shifting towards him. His eyes were telling you too much, so much that you had to look away because you were doubting whether they were real or merely figments of your imagination. Your skin, now hypersensitive, awakened with a pulsating vitality, humming with emotions so profound that it was almost indecent. You should have concealed these sensations but proved too potent to suppress. And deep down, you suspected he was aware of the effect he had on you—the electrifying jolt that surged through your being when his fingers grazed your skin, the proximity of his lips to your face, the searing heat of his body pressed against yours, all demanding your eyes to shut, your limbs to quiver, and your body to yield to the immense pressure.

You also observed the impact it had on him, the realization that he possessed such power over you. This must be his favorite torture. Something you were afraid would kill you.

"Have you got any tattoos?" he inquired, a smile gracing his lips as he reclined against the couch, his shirt stained with blood.

Well, this was undoubtedly a conversation you never anticipated having with Vash. "No," you responded, a touch of unease in your voice. "Besides, you've already seen me naked." For the last time, you allowed yourself to savor the sensation of his touch before consciously withdrawing your hand. You had to stop trying to convince yourself that he could be a fundamentally good person. Vash Saverem had committed unforgivable acts that should not be dismissed. You shouldn't have smiled at him. You shouldn't have even talked to him. And then you wanted to scream because you didn't think your brain could handle the split personality you seemed to be developing lately.

He studied his empty hands, a smile gracing his lips as he spoke, "I never looked at your back."

"Great," you responded, pausing briefly before continuing, "What about your tattoos? You like this maze-like design?"

His smile expanded, stretching across his face like a sunrise breaking through the clouds. Dimples reappeared, adding a touch of innocence to his countenance. A gentle shake of his head accompanied his words as he playfully challenged, "Why should I not?"

"I don't get it," you uttered, tilting your head in perplexity. "Are you trying to remind yourself of being trapped within a labyrinth?"

He shrugged slowly, momentarily glancing towards the empty space across the basement, before he tightened his grip on the vest, applying pressure to his wound. Despite your desire to offer assistance, you refrained. "How does one truly escape a maze," he mused, "when every exit merely leads to another entrance?"

A heavy silence enveloped the space between you. You said nothing. He said nothing. You took a few measured breaths, gathering your thoughts before finally responding. "That reasoning shouldn't serve as an excuse to stop making an effort," you asserted, while you couldn't quite fathom why you felt so nervous saying it out loud.

"Then why didn't you do it yourself, love?"

"I … have no idea what you're talking about."

"Why didn't you escape from the hell you were trapped in?"

"Wha— That's not an equivalent comparison!" Your words stumbled out, interrupted by a momentary pause as you grappled with your thoughts. "I never had the opportunity. I lacked the strength. It wasn't as if I remained there out of adoration," you clarified, your face burning with embarrassment, as if on cue, perpetually ready to be haunted by the shadows of your past, by the person you once were and continued to be. But it was strange. While one part of you struggled to be candid, another part felt comfortable talking to Vash. Safe. Familiar. Because he already knew everything about you. For he already held the knowledge of your entirety. There was no revelation about your history that would startle him, no actions of yours that would leave him aghast. This blond-haired man carried your secrets within his heart. And this realization, perhaps more than anything else, shook your very core and granted you a semblance of solace.

"Father," you persisted, the words escaping your lips as if propelled by an unseen force, your gaze fixed upon the floor, unable to break free. "he didn't let mom divorce him," you revealed, your voice filled with a mixture of anguish and resentment. "And when she needed him the most..." you faltered, abruptly halting your words, realizing the depth of what you were about to disclose, a secret too raw to expose further.

Horrified as you realized just how much you wanted to confide in him. In Vash. The very same terrible, terrible Vash who killed people before your eyes, who had wielded you as a plaything. It pained you to acknowledge that, despite everything, you felt a strange sense of safety in his presence. The honesty that flowed freely from your lips in his company ignited a self-directed hatred. You despised that, out of everyone in your life, Vash was the one person before whom you could lay bare your soul without fear of judgment.

The weight of protecting others from the haunting narrative of your father's existence had always burdened you. The fear of frightening your friends or divulging too much, for it might lead them to reconsider their trust in you, their affection for you, consumed your thoughts. Yet, with Vash, there was no need for pretenses. There were no hidden corners to shield. You longed to witness his reaction, to gain insight into his thoughts now that you had bared a glimpse of your personal history. But you couldn't make yourself face him. So you were rooted in place.

Time, it seemed to stand still. Vash remained motionless, not uttering a single word, not shifting an inch. The absence of a response only deepened the weight of humiliation that settled upon your shoulders.

Seconds flew by, swarming the room all at once, and you wanted to swat them all away; you wanted to catch them and shove them into your pockets just long enough to stop time.

At long last, he broke the silence, punctuating the stillness. "I understand," he said, his voice a gentle interruption that stirred you from your thoughts. Startled, you lifted your gaze, meeting his eyes. His head was slightly inclined, his golden locks cascading onto his forehead in delicate layers. And as your eyes intertwined, you found yourself captivated by the depth of his gaze. His eyes, an expanse of piercing blue, held a multitude of unspoken understandings within them.

"You do?" you asked.

"You're surprised."

"Then why subject me to this?" you questioned, gesturing towards the confining walls of the basement. "If you truly understand, why treat me like him?"

He shifted uneasily, displaying a hint of discomfort for the first time. "I offered you an opportunity to break free," he began, his voice laced with sincerity. "Yet, you chose to come back. It's not up to me anymore," he continued, taking a deep breath to steady himself. "You place excessive expectations upon me."

"Why not?" you asked.

A chuckle escaped him, carrying hints of amusement and weariness. He sighed, his gaze turning towards you, a smile forming at the corner of his eye. "You possess an insatiable curiosity," he remarked, his words gently teasing.

"I can't help it," you confessed. " You just seem so different now. Everything you say catches me off guard."

"How so?"

"I can't quite put my finger on it," you pondered aloud. "You're just … so calm. A little less crazy."

He laughed one of those silent laughs that shook his chest without making a sound and then groaned from pain. Your instinctive reaction was to reach his wound, your hands poised in hesitation, but you refrained from making contact. He noticed your intention, maintaining his smile in response. "My existence has been nothing but strife and ruin," he shared. "But right now," he glanced around, his eyes fixed on the wall, "removed from it all and so close to the precipice of death," he mused, "it feels like a damn paradise. I no longer have to be consumed by incessant thoughts or carry out obligations or engage with anyone or be anywhere," he expressed, a genuine contentment emanating from his words. "It's almost a form of luxury, in a way. Perhaps I should get shot more often," he added, his words drifting into the realm of introspection. As you studied him, truly studied his countenance in a way you had never dared before, you realized the profound chasm that separated you from comprehending the intricacies of his life.

He told you once that he would make different choices if he could go back in time. As you sat there, an epiphany struck you with resounding clarity. You realized the depth of his conviction, for you were just beginning to grasp the reality of his violent and disciplined existence. The true nature of his past remained a mystery to you, an enigma waiting to be unraveled. Yet, in that very moment, an unexpected yearning rooted within you. A yearning to peel back the layers, delve into the depths of his experiences, and truly comprehend his life's uncharted territory.

You observed his careful movements, the careful façade he crafted to appear unconcerned, relaxed. However, you perceived the underlying calculation behind each shift, each adjustment of his body. There was intent behind his actions, a purpose that fueled his every gesture. He remained in a perpetual state of vigilance, attentive to his surroundings. His ears were always attuned, his hands instinctively reaching out to touch the floor and the wall as if seeking reassurance. His gaze fixated on the door, scrutinizing its details—the outline, hinges, and handle. You couldn't help but notice the subtle tension rippled through him when you touched his self-inflicted scars. It was apparent he was always alert, perpetually on edge, prepared for battle, for immediate response.

It made you wonder if he'd ever known peace. Safety. If he had ever been able to sleep through the night. Suppose he'd ever been able to go anywhere without constantly looking over his own shoulder.

His hands remained tightly clasped over his wound, shielding it from further harm. As you observed him, your gaze shifted to his right forearm, and there it was—a black tattoo etched into his skin. A circle with intersecting straight lines formed a distinct pattern. It struck you with a profound realization that it had eluded your attention for far too long. Suddenly, fragments of memory flooded your mind, recalling brief glimpses of the tattoo's corners in previous encounters.

He caught you looking at his hands, quickly clenched his left fist, and covered it with his right. "Wha—"

"It's just a tattoo," he said. "It's nothing."

"Why are you hiding it if it's nothing?" You were already so much more curious than you were a moment ago, too eager for any opportunity to crack him open and figure out what on earth went on inside his head. "You're not going to tell me?"

He shook his head.

"Why not?"

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and proceeded to roll his neck, releasing the tension out of the lowest part, the part that just touched his upper back. You couldn't help but watch, couldn't help but wonder what it would feel like to have someone massage the pain out of your body that way. His hands looked so strong.

As your train of thought wavered, on the verge of forgetting the previous conversation, he interjected with a revelation. "I've had this tattoo for nearly two years," he disclosed, his gaze briefly meeting yours before diverting away once more. "And I don't talk about it."

"Ever?"

"No."

"Oh." A bit of disappointment washed over you, and you instinctively bit down on your bottom lip.

He let out a sigh as he flexed and unflexed his fingers. His gaze fixated on his hands, palms facing downward, fingers splayed. With a hesitant motion, he slid his sleeve up, revealing his forearm, and slowly rotated his arm to offer you a glimpse of the tattoo, his facial expression betraying a subtle twitch of discomfort.

"Have you heard of the Eye of Michael?" he asked, his question serving as an unexpected segue into a different topic.

Misunderstanding the context of his question, you shook your head. "What's happened to his eye?"

Vash's intense gaze settled upon you for a full second, and then, unexpectedly, he erupted into strong, unrestrained gales of laughter—trying to rein it in and failing. You were suddenly uncomfortable and nervous in front of this strange man who laughed and had secret tattoos and scars and asked you about people's eyes.

"I wasn't trying to be funny," you told him.

Despite your discomfort, Vash's eyes retained a warm, smiling expression as he reassured you. "Don't worry," he began, his tone reassuring. "I didn't know much about it until Nick told me. Michael was one of God's Archangels, a defender of good against evil, protecting others. This tattoo represents my family. Anyone who bears this symbol is considered part of my kin, my blood and bone, and no one can touch them."

"What about Michael's evil twin? Even Lucifer can't touch your family?"

He probably caught the horrified look on your face. It's just a tattoo, love. No one can protect anyone from Lucifer. "

"Even you, the Diablo?" you questioned, frozen in place, wanting and not wanting to look away. Vash offered no immediate response. Every swallow was evident in his throat. You couldn't help but notice how his chest rose and fell with each exhale and inhale, and something in you compelled you to reach out, to touch his scars, to feel their texture beneath your fingertips. A blush crept across your hairline, betraying the intensity of your emotions, yet you found yourself unable to tear your gaze away from him.

You were so caught, so intrigued by the cut of his physique. Your attention was drawn to how his waist tapered into his hips, concealed beneath the fabric of his pants—a desire stirred within you, an intense longing to uncover the mysteries hidden beneath those barriers. To know him so thoroughly, so privately. You wanted to study the secrets tucked between his elbows and the whispers caught behind his knees. You wanted to follow the lines of his silhouette with your eyes and the tips of your fingers. You wanted to trace rivers and valleys along the uncharted territories of his body.

You found yourself taken aback by the intensity of your thoughts as they veered into a realm of desire and longing you hadn't anticipated. The desperate heat simmering in the pit of your stomach unsettled you, urging you to ignore its presence. Butterflies fluttered within your chest, their existence both enchanting and bewildering. An unspoken ache resonated deep within your core, a nameless yearning you were unwilling to name. Beautiful. He was so beautiful. You must be insane. Gods, where the fuck were you?

"I believe," he spoke, "that the bullet hasn't hit a vital organ. But with all the blood, I can't be sure."

"What?" Startled, you abruptly tore your gaze away from his lower half, desperately trying to keep your imagination from drawing in the details. Instead, you shifted your focus to his wound, making a conscious effort to acknowledge and address the actual situation at hand. As your eyes fell upon the injury, you managed to regain your composure, albeit momentarily. "Oh," you managed to utter, your voice betraying a touch of awkwardness. "Yes, I see it now." The fucking wound was located at the very bottom of his torso, very close to his v line. Yes. Very good. Yes. Sure. You thought you needed to lie down.

He discreetly covered his wound once more with his vest, and as you observed, you noticed that his pants button was left open, a casual and seemingly minor detail, but WHAT THE FUCK?

"I fucking hate suit pants," he grumbled, his annoyance evident. "I don't understand why we can't simply move around in comfortable, casual clothes," he remarked, questioning the necessity of formal garments.

"Who are you?" The question escaped your lips, fueled by confusion and disbelief. You didn't know this Vash. He seemed unfamiliar, a vivid departure from the Vash you had known. Was this asshole the same man who always wore tight clothes and now was talking about wearing comfortable ones? Did he have a concussion?

A self-assured smile graced his lips as he responded, "No one else needs to know."

"What do you mean?"

Confidently, he declared, "I know who I am. And that's all that matters to me."

After a brief silence, you frowned, your gaze shifting downwards towards the floor. A hint of wistfulness colored your words as you expressed, "It must be great to go through life with so much confidence."

"You exude confidence," he said. You're stubborn and resilient. So brave. So inhumanly beautiful. You could have everything." His words caught you off guard, drawing your attention back to him. Vash's gaze bore into you, his tone carrying a lot of admiration.

Don't blush. Don't blush. Don't blush. Don't blush. Don't blush.

A genuine laughter escaped you as you lifted your gaze, meeting his eyes directly. "Yeah. Yeah. I'm not interested in having everything. "

"That," he stated, shaking his head, "is something I will never understand." He attributed your perspective to fear, suggesting that your reluctance stemmed from a discomfort with the unknown. According to him, your concerns revolved around the possibility of causing harm to others, driven by the weight of perceived societal expectations and adherence to the rules you had been presented with. His gaze bore into you, filled with intensity. "I wish you wouldn't," he implored, his words carrying a sense of longing for you to break free from those constraints and embrace a different approach.

"I wish you'd stop expecting me to help you slaughter people."

He shrugged nonchalantly, his voice carrying a sense of matter-of-factness. "I never explicitly stated that it was a requirement for you," he responded. "However, it is an inherent part of this line of work, an inevitable occurrence along the way. In this business, killing is statistically implausible to evade."

"You're joking, right?"

"Definitely not."

"You can always avoid killing people, Vash. You avoid killing them by not doing this business."

A radiant grin adorned his face, seemingly unaffected by the previous conversation. His attention was elsewhere, captivated by a different sentiment. "I love it when you say my name," he said. "I don't even know why."

"Vash is your name," you pointed out. "I can call you Saverem."

His smile was wide, so vast. "God, I love that."

"Your name?"

"Especially when you say it."

"Vash? Or Saverem?"

His eyelids lowered, and he leaned back against the couch, revealing a pair of charming dimples. In that instant, the reality of the situation hit you like a jolt. Here you were, sitting together with Vash as if you had abundant time to spare. It was as if the outside world, with all its turmoil, ceased to exist within the confines of these walls. And yet, Vash's injured state served as a harsh reminder that he was bleeding before you, and the gravity of the situation weighed heavily on your mind.

You couldn't fathom how you kept allowing yourself to be distracted, and you promised to regain control over your thoughts and emotions. But just as you were about to speak, Vash interjected with a confession, "I'm sorry I ordered them to kidnap you."

Your mouth dropped shut, and your mind raced, resisting the weight of his confession. A torrent of questions raged within you, desperate for answers. "Why?" The floodgates of your emotions burst forth, urging you to understand the motives behind his unexpected revelations. Inwardly, you pleaded for your heart to quiet down, to cease its relentless clamor in the face of the unsettling truths that had been brought to light. "Why are you saying all of these?"

He spent far too long looking at you, leaving your question unanswered. He spoke with a heavy weight of remorse, barely above a whisper. "Every single day, I am sorry," he confessed, his words laden with a deep sense of sorrow. "I am sorry for believing that taking you captive would somehow serve as a solution. And then, for causing you pain when I believed I was acting in the right. I cannot apologize for who I am," he continued. "That part of me is already gone, already ruined. I gave up on myself a long time ago. But I am sorry for failing to understand you better. Everything I did was driven by a desire for revenge, to wield you as a weapon against that man. I pushed you too far, too hard, and did things to horrify and disgust you, and I did it all on purpose. Because that's how I was taught to steel myself against the terror in this world; that's how I was trained to fight back," he admitted, his gaze unwavering as he scrutinized you intently.

You tried so hard to recall all the justifications for harboring hatred towards him, desperately attempting to summon memories of the atrocious acts you had witnessed him commit. But you were tortured because you understood too much about what it was like to be tortured, to do things because you didn't know any better, to do things because you thought they were right, because you were never taught what was wrong. Because it was so hard to be kind to the world when all you'd ever felt was hatred. Because it was so hard to see goodness in the world when all you'd ever known was terror.

And you wanted to say something to him. Something profound and complete and memorable, but he already seemed to understand. Because he offered you a strange, unsteady smile that didn't reach his eyes but said so much

A sudden tightness gripped your heart, causing a jolt of panic to run through you. You'd almost begun to hyperventilate, and you realized, for the very first time, that the thought of Vash dead was anything but appealing to you. It filled you with horror, a sensation that struck your face, skull, and spine, knowing how much you cared about him. As well as the knowledge of his deep care for you.

You took a deep breath. Change the subject. Change the subject. Change the subject.

In a barely audible whisper, you found yourself uttering, "All those wounds are your brother's doing?" As you spoke, you observed a subtle draining of color from his face, mirroring the impact of your question. He looked away, tightly pressed his lips together, and instinctively placed his hands upon his wound. In a soft tone, you inquired, "Who hurt you like this?" You asked so quietly. Then you began to recognize the strange feeling you got just before you did something terrible. Like right now. Right now, you felt like you could kill someone for this.

"Love, please—"

"Where was your family during all of this?" you questioned, your voice a little sharper. "Why didn't your mother—"

"I'm a Mafia hitman, for fuck sake," Vash cuts you off, frustrated now. "IT IS NORMAL TO HAVE SCARS."

"No, it's not!"

He said nothing.

"These tattoos," you said to him, "are you hiding—"

"No," he said, though he said it quietly and cleared his throat. "I'm not ashamed of my scars!"

You blinked. "Then why are you—?"

"Why do you care?" he asks, looking away again. "Why are you suddenly so interested in my life?"

You didn't know, you wanted to tell him. You wanted to tell him you didn't know, but that was not true. For in that very moment, you felt it. You heard the symphony of the clicks, turns, and the echoing creaks of a million keys, unlocking a million doors in your mind. It was like you were finally allowing yourself to see what you thought and felt like you were discovering your long-hidden secrets for the very first time. And then you searched his eyes, surveyed his features for something you couldn't quite articulate. And you realized you didn't want to hate him anymore.

"I thought," you addressed him, "you wanted us to be friends." Your gaze fixated on the floor as you spoke. "If that's the case," you continued, "why can't you be honest? Why are you still trying to manipulate me? Why are you still trying to get me to fall for your tricks?"

"I have no idea," he responded, his gaze fixed upon you with a hint of uncertainty as if questioning the reality of your presence. "No idea what you're talking about."

"I don't even know how to communicate—"

"Why does it matter?" he questioned. "You seem to care so much about something that makes no difference in your life. It wouldn't," he said, "change your perception of me. You will still hate me. After all, that's what you said, isn't it? That you hate me?"

You drew your knees closer to your chest, directing your attention towards the stone beneath your feet. "I don't hate you."

Vash seemed to stop breathing.

"I don't know," you told him, "there are moments when I feel like I truly understand you. I genuinely do. However, just when I believe I have gained a true understanding of who you are, you manage to surprise me. And I never really know who you are or who you're going to be."

Raising your gaze, you met his eyes directly. "Nevertheless," you continued, "what I do know is that I no longer hate you. I've made sincere efforts to do so, believe me. Given the terrible, unforgivable acts you've committed against innocent people, including myself, it would be expected. But as I've come to learn more about you and witnessed the depths of your humanity, it has become increasingly difficult to cling to that hatred. Sadly, you are flawed and undeniably human."

His hair possessed a captivating golden hue while his eyes shimmered with a vivid blue brilliance. His voice was tortured when he spoke. "Are you implying," he said, "that you can accept my offer?"

"I-I don't know," you stammered, petrified by the sheer terror surrounding this possibility. "I'm just saying that I don't know." Pausing briefly, you took a deep breath to gather your thoughts. "I don't know," you confessed. "I don't know how to hate you anymore. Even though I want to, it's something I genuinely want, and I know I should, but I find myself unable to."

He looked away and smiled. The kind of smile that made you forget how to do everything but blink and blink. Perplexed, you couldn't fathom why your eyes refused to divert their attention elsewhere. Your heart, meanwhile, seemed to be losing its mind.

Almost absentmindedly, he touched his wrist, seemingly unaware of his actions. His fingers traced along his arm, gliding back and forth, until he suddenly became cognizant of where your eyes had gone and stopped.

"You sure about what you're saying?" He touched his wrist again.

You nodded.

Upon hearing his word, "Love," a profound stillness encapsulated your being, causing your breath to hitch momentarily. "I would greatly appreciate that," he continued, his voice conveying sincerity. "To have us getting to know each other right from the beginning." Another smile graced his face, radiating warmth and genuine desire. "Yes, I would truly like that," he affirmed.

The workings of your mind eluded your understanding. Perhaps it stemmed from the realization that he was broken, and you were naive enough to think you could fix him. Maybe it was because you saw your own reflection within him. Both of you had experienced abandonment, neglect, mistreatment, and abuse for circumstances beyond your control. In Vash, you saw a kindred spirit, someone who, like you, had been denied a fair shot at life. You thought about how everyone already hated him, how hating him was an accepted fact.

Again, you reminded yourself that Vash was a terrible person with no room for debate, doubt, or inquiry. The consensus had been reached: he was a loathsome human being who derived pleasure from violence, held an insatiable thirst for power, and reveled in the torment of others. But you wanted to know. You needed to know. You had to know if it was really that simple. Because what if, one fateful day, you were to stumble? What if you were to slip through the cracks, and no one extended a helping hand to retrieve you? What would become of you then?

So you met his eyes and took a deep breath.

But in an unexpected turn of events, the metallic door swung open, revealing the entrance of Lucifer, with his gray patterned suit, cold green eyes, and pale blond hair.

Hell was empty, and all devils were here tonight.

No one was speaking.

Surprisingly, the basement wasn't a terrible place to spend the cursed birthday night, despite the unsettling odor emanating from the assholes' lifeless bodies. It was relatively peaceful, but the approaching footsteps of his twin sibling served as an irritating accompaniment to an already nerve-wracking day.

God damn you, Bradd, for telling Kni!

"So," Vasg's maniac twin finally addressed him, curiosity lacing their words, "you chose to leave our gathering and return here?"

"I'm certain," Vash responded sarcastically, "I have the freedom to act as I please." There was a brief pause before he continued, "Does this disturb you in any way?"

"Regrettably, that is not the case; I thought you would rather spend your time with those selected girls," Kni replied, and his gaze swept over you, carefully observing you up and down, examining your bloodied outfit, your hair, your pale yet perfect face. Though Kni remained silent, Vash sensed his disapproval and, ultimately, his disappointment towards you. "But you chose this doormat," he finished his sentence.

Abruptly, you turned away, though not without Vash catching a glimpse of your tightly clenched fists at your sides. He could feel the anger emanating from you, and it pained him deeply. The way Kni toyed with your emotions stirred a fierce resentment within Vash, igniting an intense desire to inflict harm upon his brother, even if just a bullet to the leg, but he had to keep it cool.

"Why have you come here, Kni?" Vash inquired, drawing a deep breath and exerting more pressure on his wound as if to ground himself in the midst of the escalating tension.

Kni responded with a casual shrug, displaying the perfect nonchalance. "My plans are flexible," he remarked. "I heard you got shot and was genuinely curious to witness it firsthand." His gaze briefly shifted towards his twin. "Do brothers truly require a specific reason to meet?" And for a moment, the briefest moment, Vash sensed genuine pain behind his words —a sensation of being overlooked. It caught him off guard, surprising him with its presence. But just as quickly as it emerged, it vanished into thin air.

"In any case," Kni remarked, "Bradd should have arrived by now. After all, you contacted him before contacting me, assuming he would care for you more than I do. Yet here you are, clearly in need of medical assistance, and instead, you have this little whore by your side."

As your eyes locked with Vash, your visibly sorrowful gaze conveyed the anguish that resonated deeply with him. He would never reassure you or alleviate your worries in front of Kni, and it wasn't important since he suddenly seized Vash's arm with a firm grip and forcefully pulled him forward.

"What are you doing, Vash?" Kni's voice turned into a fierce, urgent whisper. "You abandoned me, only to end up getting shot—for what? For her? For Gasback's daughter?" His words dripped with disdain. "How incredibly foolish of you. And mark my words, this will not end well." Kni's eyes bore a warning, and instantly, Vash felt it—the unlocking of a long-held secret buried deep within his heart. A terrible sense of unease settled in the pit of Vash's stomach, accompanied by a nauseating feeling and a feeling of dread. And at last, he comprehended what he had been trying to deny: Kni wouldn't hesitate. No, he wouldn't.

Vash tightly pressed his lips together, his anger simmering dangerously close to shattering his composure. Yet, he remained resolute, knowing he had to maintain a semblance of civility for your sake. Meanwhile, Kni's grip on his arm intensified, exerting even more pressure. Their eyes locked in a tense gaze. Only Vash's determination to protect you prevented him from exacting physical retaliation, as he understood that inflicting harm upon Kni would be sufficient grounds for Kni to seek your demise.

"What has become of you?" Kni hissed into Vash's ear, his words laced with disappointment. "I had more faith in you. But this..." Kni trailed off, shaking his head in a gesture of sadness. "This is genuinely heart-wrenching."

Vash's fingers tensed, aching to curl into fists, and he was on the verge of offering a retort when you, who had been observing the exchange from afar, interjected, saying, "Let go of him."

Your voice had an undeniable sense of poise, an undercurrent of barely contained anger that seized Kni's attention. Startled, he released his grip on Vash's arm and swiftly turned to face you. "Your brother requires assistance," you spoke calmly but with an edge of reproach, "and yet here you stand, delivering grandiose speeches?"

Kni stared at you. "Excuse me?"

You stepped forward, suddenly looking terrifying. There was a fire in your eyes—a murderous stillness in your movements.

Kni's eyebrows shot up in surprise, his forehead creasing with astonishment. He blinked, momentarily taken aback, and then a hint of annoyance laced his response. "Ah, I wasn't aware you had been granted permission to speak," he retorted.

"I wasn't aware that I required your permission," you calmly replied, asserting yourself. "Especially considering that this is undeniably his dwelling." Though your hands might have trembled, you had managed to maintain a firm grip, a testament to your resilience and composure—clever girl, but dumb as hell.

Kni's smile widened, and he laughed out loud. And for the first time since he'd arrived, he actually looked sincere. His eyes crinkled with delight. "Little bug, you have a long tongue, and I have sharp knives," he addressed you. Better to say threatened you. "Vash, you've been given too much freedom, and she behaves like a stray dog. Where's her leash? Because your dear Bradd is not here yet, and we have to find a doctor for you since you killed the one we had—which I'm not even questioning—now she looks at me like she gonna bite me if I try to save you from bleeding."

Vash saw that you looked at him then, a question in your eyes. He wanted to smile at you. He wanted to scoop and carry you away, take you somewhere quiet, and lose himself. He was amazed that the timid girl, a little mouse beneath him, would just stand this brave before Kni. Braver than he had ever been. His thoughts should have surprised him, but he blamed the bullet for everything because somehow you looked so fuckable with his blood on your clothes and skin, and he had no shame admitting this to himself. It turned out to be fortunate that he had bled to the point of unconsciousness because, otherwise, in his healthy state, he wouldn't have known how to express his gratitude by making you moan his name with his dick shoved deeply in your throat.

Fuck!

He tried to hold on to it as long as he could without making things evident to Kni, but he thought his heart was still in a puddle somewhere on the floor. He was so stunned that it took him a moment to realize that not only had he stared at you the whole time, but he had also begun to remember what it felt like.

Hope.

The sensation, it was like tasting a drop of honey, witnessing a field of geraniums in full bloom during springtime. It felt like the refreshing touch of rain, a whispered promise of something beautiful, a sky devoid of clouds, and the flawless punctuation mark that gracefully concludes a sentence.

You.

You were…

"I won't be long," Vash said in a firm, cold tone. "Go back to your room and lock the door behind you." He hated himself for acting like this because he could see that you were about to smile, and suddenly your face transformed again. No. He couldn't do this to you.

While still sitting behind Nai, he slowly lowered his hand and crossed his bloody middle finger on his forefinger. His peace sign. And he saw that you saw it because you nodded, and the corner of your lips moved upward. There was a rush of emotion in your eyes. You knew pain. You were in pain, and he was the reason, yet you tried to help. And knowing this made his heart feel so full that he could hardly breathe. It lasted only a few seconds, but somehow, time slowed down long enough for him to gather the many details of this moment and place it among his favorite memories.

You could have left him alone and run away, but you didn't. You likely knew that he would never find that missing piece of belief if you let go. If he slipped today, he would be lost forever, with no one to return him. You didn't fix everything or solve any of his problems. But what mattered most was that you stayed.

He was suddenly grateful for being shot because it made him know that there was still something within him that others could perceive, something worth protecting and saving.

The veiled tapestry of the future held its secrets, concealing what lay ahead. Within the realm of prospective deliverance, his shadows may not have cast a shroud too dense to dim the flicker of redemption's promise.

Note: Apologies for the delayed update. Life has been quite a bitch lately.

Taglist: @julk4e - @lune010 - @beanibon - @emptybrain01 - @changingchances @awkwardchick87

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