Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

007n7 had once been a nightmare— not in the poetic sense, not as a legend whispered in fear, but as a living curse walking freely among the Robloxian world. People gave him every name they could think of: demon, calamity, a “thing” torn straight from the darkest pit of the universe. They claimed he had no heart, no humanity, only an empty abyss where something like a soul should have been. They swore that every step he took scorched the ground behind him, leaving ash, ruin, and a cold sting of terror clinging to the bones of anyone unfortunate enough to witness his shadow.

And the terrifying part was—

they hadn’t been wrong.

He once burned like an unhinged wildfire, devouring everything in sight simply to feed a twisted, senseless hunger inside himself. He destroyed, he screamed, he tore apart every fragile piece of order people tried so desperately to preserve. He had stood atop that digital world with a cruel, victorious grin, believing he was the embodiment of chaos itself. A single snap of his fingers could reduce a bustling virtual city into smoking rubble. And in the midst of all those panicked screams, all those figures running for their lives, he felt… joy. Pure, sickening satisfaction.

And yet now, no one would recognize the monster he used to be.

He is only a worn-out ghost, stumbling forward with shoulders bent beneath the crushing weight of guilt. Exhausted, trembling, lost—so broken that if someone were to say, “He used to be the strongest demon of all,” they would be laughed out of the room. That’s how pitiful he has become—a fallen creature shattered by the very life he once wielded like a weapon.

Worse still, he is not merely guilty.

He is a father.

A single father.

He had been one.

He still is one—no matter what the world says.

And his son… where is he now?

That question gnaws at him, biting deeper with every hour, every breath, every heartbeat.

His son has turned into a demon— not the kind people once accused 007n7 of being, but in the most literal, darkest, truest sense of the word. The boy kills as if murder were a twisted game, just as 007n7 once did. He laughs in the glow of flames, in the chorus of screams, in the chaos of panic. Every move he makes is a perfect echo of the father’s past self—only more vicious, more hollow, more unhinged.

And 007n7 knows, with a clarity that destroys him:

He created that demon.

No one needs to tell him. No one has to point a finger. The truth sits in his chest like a red‑hot iron brand. Each night he claws at his own skin until blood wells up, as though tearing himself open might lighten the unbearable heaviness crushing his heart. His chest feels ready to split apart under the pressure of everything he tries to hold in—regret, fear, and a love so warped it barely resembles anything gentle.

But what hurts him the most… is how the world looks at him.

Those cautious eyes—

as if one wrong breath from him might make everything explode.

Those fearful glances—

as though he were still the same monster, even though he’s long since collapsed into dust.

Those probing, curious stares—

cold drills trying to uncover: “Is he still dangerous? When will he snap again?”

Every stare slices through him, slipping past skin and bone, sinking into every fractured corner of his soul. They are sharp as razors, cold as steel, and if they could truly leave marks, his body would be nothing but a bleeding canvas carved with a hundred wounds that never close.

But the truth is even crueler than any blade.

The truth is:

He finds himself more disgusting than any of those eyes do.

And the only thing he wants—

the only thing he has prayed for through countless nights—

is to hold his son one more time. Even if the boy has become a demon. Even if darkness has swallowed him whole. Even if he doesn’t remember the man who once carried him. Just once—just once—he wants proof that the child still has even the faintest fragment of the father he once knew, the father he failed so terribly.

But wanting something is one thing.

Reality is something else entirely.

And reality is merciless.

So 007n7 keeps walking through the darkness he carved out for himself—running and searching and hoping and punishing himself all at once.

A demon trying to learn how to be human.

A father desperately trying to reclaim a child he shattered.

A soul slowly wearing down beneath the weight of sins no one on earth could ever forgive.

And through all of this…

He still lives.

Like a scar that refuses to heal.

Like a wound that keeps remembering.

It was just another ordinary day in a place where nothing ordinary could ever exist—a stretch of hell that never changed its color, never softened, never forgave. He clutched his bleeding arm tight against his ribs, dragging himself forward one ragged step at a time across the cracked, lifeless ground. The brittle grass beneath him crumbled into dust at the slightest touch, as if even the earth itself mocked his pain.

And behind him, chasing after him with the giddy energy of a child playing tag, was his son—the boy who had once been his flesh, his blood, the single fragile proof that he had ever held anything pure in his life. The boy ran with light footsteps, smiling that warped, innocent-but-not smile, his eyes bright like polished glass yet brimming with killing intent. Every movement the child made, every tilt of the head, every breath, radiated a horrifying truth he wished more than anything he could deny: the boy was killing people as if it were nothing more than a silly little game.

But no one believed him.

No one understood.

And he—despite knowing exactly what was happening—was powerless.

Absolutely powerless.

His foot caught on a jagged stone, and he fell forward, hitting the ground with a sickening thud. His forehead cracked against the scorched dirt, and blood streamed down instantly, dripping into the dry soil as if trying to revive something that had died long before he ever set foot here.

The crunch of sand, the soft patter of his own blood dripping, should have rung sharply in his ears, but he could hear nothing except the throbbing agony spreading through every inch of his body. He pushed himself upright with a trembling hand, the other arm hanging nearly useless, half-torn at the joint but still fighting to keep him grounded. The pain was blinding—pain he had felt a thousand times, in a thousand different lives, pain he should have grown numb to.

But somehow it never dulled.

It only deepened, louder and louder, until it became the only thing in his world.

Pain,

pain,

and nothing but pain.

Desperation clawed at him as fiercely as he clawed at the dirt beneath him.

He wanted to scream until his throat ripped open, to hurl every cursed thought at the sky—every shred of hatred, resentment, and grief that coiled inside him like a boiling storm.

Why? Why had the universe twisted his son—his tiny, ten‑year‑old son—into a bloodthirsty killer? Why had fate refused to give him even the slimmest chance to go back, to fix something, anything, to undo the horror he had created with his own hands? Why was he, of all people, denied even a single moment to make things right?

But the words never escaped him. They burned behind his teeth, but he swallowed them in silence.

Because he knew—he had always known—he didn’t deserve a second chance.

He never had.

His vision blurred, smearing the world into streaks of red and dust as tears mixed with blood. And then, in a moment suspended between terror and hope, the boy stopped. Just… stopped. His small shoulders tensed, his head tilted, and for a fraction of a heartbeat, a dim, fragile spark flickered in his eyes—something weak but achingly familiar.

And then the boy’s lips parted, releasing a single, breathy whisper: “…Dad…” Just one tiny word. Barely a sound. Yet it crashed through him like a bolt of lightning. His chest tightened until it hurt to breathe, until his heart twisted into something raw and trembling.

That one word—so soft, so fleeting—shattered him more completely than any wound ever had.

And then—

He woke up.

The ground beneath him wasn’t bleeding anymore. His arm wasn’t mangled. The landscape wasn’t hellfire and dust—it was the warm wooden cabin shared by the survivors, quietly lit by the soft glow of lanterns. No one asked if he was alright. No one turned to see the fear still clinging to him like a phantom hand around his throat. They didn’t notice how his fingers shook, or how he struggled to breathe past the suffocating emptiness lodged inside his chest.

He inhaled slowly, forced his legs to straighten, forced himself upright. But his heart felt hollow—so hollow that every step he took across the wooden floor felt heavy enough to crack the boards beneath him.

What was he supposed to do next? No one told him. No one ever did. But he knew where he would go—back to his tiny cabin tucked in the shadows, the only place where no one stared, no one questioned, no one asked him to pretend he wasn’t falling apart.

That was where he retreated, shoulders tense, footsteps quiet, slipping into solitude like a wounded animal slinking home to die. In that small space, he didn’t have to hide the ache that pulsed through his ribs. He didn’t have to pretend the nightmares didn’t follow him even into waking hours. He didn’t have to mask the grief of a father who had failed his only child in every way a person could fail.

In that quiet, he could only breathe—slowly, painfully—each breath a reminder that he was still here, still alive, still condemned to carry the weight of memories that refused to fade.

A soft click broke the silence—a tiny sound, thin as a pin dropping against wood, yet in the stillness of the cabin it roared through his mind like a thunderclap. A draft slipped through the crack beneath the door, brushing over his skin—skin already a patchwork of half-healed wounds—sending a cold shiver rippling down his spine. Slowly, he turned his head, dark, sleepless eyes drifting toward the source of the sound. Something had fallen onto the wooden table beside him.

A gun.

Not just any gun. The shape, the metallic gleam—he recognized it instantly.

Chance’s gun.

That stubborn survivor had fought beside him through countless rounds of slaughter, death, and resurrection.

And strangely, in Chance’s eyes, there had never been the disgust others reserved for him. Chance looked at him as if he were… intriguing. A strange sort of fascination, like watching a wounded creature that somehow still refused to die.

His body moved before his thoughts caught up. His legs carried him forward, light and silent, like a predator slinking toward something it wasn’t sure it should touch. His trembling hand reached out, closing around the weapon. The steel was cold against his fingers, but it was a familiar cold—the same chill he felt every time he pressed a barrel to his own head, praying for a “reset,” for a world where the pain would be a little kinder.

He held the gun up and studied it. It felt heavy. Not just in mass, but in meaning. In finality. It was more than a weapon; it was a doorway—to escape, to ruin, to a choice he wasn’t sure he feared or needed.

His gaze flicked toward Chance.

The man was lounging on the sofa, boots propped on the table, hands slicing the air as he told some ridiculous story to the other survivors. They laughed. He laughed. And the whole room seemed to orbit something easy, carefree, gentle—things that had never belonged to him. Not even once.

Chance didn’t notice his gun was gone. Or maybe he did, and just didn’t care. For someone who had died and lived more times than he could count, losing a weapon was hardly something worth worrying about. Or perhaps… perhaps he believed 007n7 wouldn’t do something stupid.

How terribly wrong he was.

He lowered his head and slipped the gun into his pocket. Every movement was meticulous to the point of sickness—quiet, precise, obsessive. Avoiding noise. Avoiding glances. Avoiding any curious eyes that might pierce through his skin and see the truth festering beneath.

One breath. One heartbeat. One decision.

No one saw him rise.

No one saw him slip toward the door.

No one noticed the way his steps grew faster, how his breath tightened in his chest as the cabin door clicked shut behind him.

He made his way back to his own cabin—a dark, cramped space where the light only seeped in through a thin crack in the wall, where the air carried the faint scent of dried blood and the panic of nights he didn’t dare remember. The door closed softly behind him, sealing him away, severing the last fragile thread that tied him to the world outside and its laughter.

And in that darkness.

He stood still. One hand resting on the gun in his pocket, tracing the cold, unforgiving metal.

The shadows swallowed him whole, and once again, 007n7 found himself returning to the only place he believed he deserved to be: buried under the weight of his own loneliness, drowning in guilt, locked inside the dim, forgotten corner no one else would ever choose to enter.

A place where there was nothing left but him and the dark.

He looked at it. It looked at him. Or maybe… that was only what he felt—just another trick of a mind warped and weathered by years of guilt, torment, and memories buried so deep they scraped at his bones.

The tiny spider-noob perched on his head—a strange little creature he had accidentally “picked up” from a battlefield that could only be described as hell—let out a faint chirp, a sound so soft it almost dissolved into the air… yet sharp enough to pierce straight through his heart.

The creature trembled. Its thin, fragile legs tugged lightly at his hair, as if it understood, as if it could somehow sense the thing he was about to do. Then it scrambled down to his forehead, nudging him with a tiny tap—barely a touch, barely a weight, barely anything at all. A tiny, desperate embrace. A useless, fragile attempt to pull him back from the brink.

But he… couldn’t think anymore. Didn’t have the strength to.

If he died, the little thing would die too. No one would be left behind. A thought at once cruel and tender—just like him.

And how utterly absurd it all was…

This hellish place brought everyone back. Everyone. No matter if you were sliced apart, burned alive, torn in half, or crushed into nothing—you always woke up again in that wooden cabin, as if the suffering had been nothing more than a nightmare. A supernatural loop no one could outrun.

But he still wanted to try. He knew it wouldn’t work. He knew he’d open his eyes again in that same suffocating cabin, forced to keep walking, keep breathing, keep living. But that didn’t stop him from wanting to try one more time—try in case this death was different, in case the loop finally cracked, in case… in case everything finally stopped.

He lifted the gun. His hands shook—not from fear, but from a body pushed far past its limits. The cold metal against his temple made him shiver, a chill that crawled down his spine. The spider-noob chirped again, pitifully weak, scrambling onto his hand, tugging and tugging, as if begging him not to do this.

He exhaled a long, tired breath.

His life, its life—both weighed nothing in the face of an endless cycle with no meaning.

He closed his eyes. His eyelids were as heavy as stone. His breaths came uneven, shallow, thin.

One heartbeat.

Two.

He pulled the trigger.

Bang.

The gunshot tore through the cabin like a scream splitting open the world.

His head snapped back. His body went limp, collapsing onto the splintered wooden floor. A pool of deep, heavy red spread beneath him, seeping into the cracks like a stain the world itself couldn’t erase. The spider-noob was thrown aside, sliding through the blood and letting out high, broken chirps—panicked, grieving, its tiny wings flickering helplessly.

Faintly—through the ringing in his skull—he heard footsteps pounding toward the cabin. Survivors. The sound must have startled them. Chance? Elliot? Two Time? Noob? He couldn’t tell. He didn’t care.

Because his vision had begun to blur—blurring not just from the blood he was losing too fast, but from the tears spilling uncontrollably down his face. The world dissolved into shapeless colors, emotionless and empty.

His body cooled. First the fingertips, then his arms, then his chest, then everything.

The cold didn’t hurt.

It soothed.

Strangely gentle.

A breeze slipped through the crack in the door, brushing against his skin like an invisible hand tracing his cheek. It slid across the blood. Across his slightly parted lips. Across his heavy, trembling eyelids.

Soft.

Tender.

Like someone was wrapping their arms around him from behind, whispering “go to sleep,” trying to lull him into the rest he had been craving for so, so long.

And he let himself sink into the darkness.

Quiet.

Weightless.

No more cries, no more judgmental eyes, no more tiny demons chasing him, no more endless cycles of life and death.

Only the wind—and an unseen embrace holding 007n7 as he drifted, drifted, drifted away…

“It” didn’t seem pleased to see 007n7 fall. Not even remotely. In that dark, dimensionless chamber filled only with flickering screens and endless streams of data flowing like veins under glass, “it” stood completely still—shapeless, faceless, nothing but a fluid silhouette that changed with its own shifting mood.

The cold blue glow of dozens of hidden cameras—those silent eyes planted inside the world it had personally engineered—flickered across its undefined surface. “It” saw everything. Every gesture. Every shiver. Every almost-thought revealed in the way these living puppets breathed and stumbled and suffered through the loop it had built for them.

And among all of them, 007n7 had always been the one “it” watched the closest.

When the gun touched his temple, when the sharp bang shattered the cabin’s stillness, when his body crumpled and the blood spread like a widening shadow across the wooden floor—something inside “it” recoiled.

Not pain, not exactly, but something dangerously adjacent.

A small, sharp pinch—foreign, unwelcome—thrumming through a being that was not supposed to feel anything at all.

“It” frowned—or rather, the hazy lines where a face might have been tightened into a warped curve of displeasure. “It” was angry.

Strangely, stupidly angry.

Angry that he dared to die in front of it.

Angry that he didn’t ask permission.

Angry that he didn’t even glance toward the camera, didn’t bother to look up at the simulated sky—where “it” had always watched him.

Ridiculous, really.

A shapeless entity with no heart, no breath, no pulse—pouting like a child denied a toy.

007n7 had always been its favorite puppet. From the days when he was a feared destroyer, all the way to the moment he became a broken single father clinging to the last strands of his humanity. “It” had studied every shift, every downfall, every night he clawed at his chest until he bled. All of it had fascinated “it.”

Somewhere along the line, fascination had twisted into something else.

Into something “it” was never meant to possess.

“It” liked him. No—“it” loved him.

Loved a Robloxian born from chaotic data.

Loved a desperate father stitched together by grief.

Loved a puppet who should have remained obedient, predictable, safely within its grasp.

Loved him… despite having no real form, no heart to beat, no sense of loneliness to fill—yet somehow feeling something hollow and aching when watching him tear his own life apart.

“Well… isn’t that something,” it murmured, its voice echoing from everywhere and nowhere at once. “You wanted to leave my world that badly?”

The tiny spider-noob trembling beside his corpse chirped weakly, and the sound softened “it” even further. “It” let out a sigh, a ripple of pale light sliding across its shifting surface like the shadow of a furrowed brow.

And then, out of nowhere, “it” laughed. A quiet, airy laugh—soft like wind brushing a string harp. Impossible to tell if the humor came from mockery, helplessness, or something dangerously tender.

“Very well,” it whispered.

“If you want so desperately to escape this place… then I’ll let you go.”

“It” turned toward the far end of the chamber, where a brilliant white fissure split the darkness open—a crack in the data itself, glowing like the open mouth of time.

“Then…”

“We’ll meet again elsewhere.”

A flick of its hand.

The room bent like rippling water.

Light gathered into a spiraling vortex.

“In your past,” it said quietly, its voice coated with a softness that even “it” didn’t recognize.

“In the moment where you first began turning into the one I… loved.”

And then, the world shifted colors.

Time snapped open like a wound.

Reality rewrote itself.

“It” had made a decision.

And its decisions—always, irrevocably—were law.

The wind stirred. Soft. Gentle. Almost shy. Like a ghost of a hand brushing through his hair—a sensation 007n7 had long forgotten, one he thought had been torn from him the day that hellish world tightened its loop around his throat. He flinched ever so slightly, confused because the surface beneath his back was no longer the icy wooden floor of the survival cabin, nor the sticky pool of blood soaking through his clothes. It was… soft. Warm. Cushioned. Almost like a mattress.

A sound rose in the quiet, clear and melodic—birdsong.

Birds?

There were no birds in hell.

His eyelids felt impossibly heavy, as if the weight of an entire world pressed against them, but he forced them open, just a sliver. Light flooded in. Not the sickly, flickering bulbs of the death loop. No. This was a warm, gentle gold that kissed his skin instead of slicing into it.

His ocean-blue eyes widened, blinking slowly, then suddenly froze in stunned disbelief. Light touched his cheek, warmed the bridge of his nose, tangled in his hair—seeping into all the dark, unused corners of his mind. Light.

Morning sunlight.

Real. Soft. Alive.

He couldn’t understand. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t believe.

KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.

Three knocks. Familiar. Repetitive. Something that had happened thousands of times before, though he couldn’t recall the last memory of it. The door pushed open, and standing in the doorway.

A silhouette.

A shape he thought he would never see again.

A robot—worn metal, a bit scratched, but sturdy, steady, reliable. The glowing eyes, soft and constant, carrying the soul of the cousin who once shielded him, scolded him gently, loved him in ways that stitched him together when the world failed him.

007e7.

“You overslept again.” He leaned casually against the doorframe, his voice glitchy from old metal wiring, but so achingly familiar that it pierced straight through 007n7’s chest. “Today’s your first day of college, remember?”

He smiled. A small smile. The kind 007n7 had forgotten how to see—how it felt, how it sounded, how it warmed.

Everything inside him snapped awake like a drowning man breaking through the surface. He shot upright, chestnut hair falling in messy waves around his face—too soft for the horror he had known, damp with cold sweat. His heart hammered like it wanted to tear out of his ribs. His breath hitched, sharp and trembling, scraping its way up his throat.

Images of hell struck him all at once.

Blood.

His son’s laughter.

A body wracked with pain.

Nights that wouldn’t end.

A gash on his arm.

That boy’s eyes.

The gunshot.

The cabin.

Iron in the air.

Everything shattering inside him like glass under a hammer.

“Hey… 007n7?”

His brother’s voice wavered—a rare crack in the polished machine tone. He had never heard 007e7 sound nervous before.

007n7 looked up. His eyes—wide, terrified, but behind all that, unmistakably filled with something else. Longing. Yearning. A bone-deep desperation shaped by memories his brother didn’t have yet. Memories from a life that should’ve been impossible.

His stare made 007e7 falter.

And then 007n7 broke.

Not the quiet kind of breaking. But the sudden, unstoppable kind—tears spilling like a dam bursting, rushing out too fast, too raw, carrying every ounce of loneliness, fear, grief, guilt he had swallowed for far too long.

“W–whoa— 007n7!” Panic flooded 007e7’s voice as he rushed forward, cold metal hands trembling as they landed on 007n7’s shoulders. “What’s wrong!? What happened!? Are you hurt!? Talk to me!”

But the words only made the tears fall harder.

He couldn’t believe he was here. This bed. This room. This sunlight. This brother.

This point in time.

He was back.

Back before everything fell apart.

His fingers grabbed 007e7’s hand, gripping so tightly the knuckles of his own hand turned white. Hot tears dripped onto the robot’s wrist, sliding down the grooves of metal—so real, so alive that even 007e7 paused, stunned.

“…It’s okay…” 007n7 choked, wiping his face with a shaking hand, trying—failing—to smile. A smile lopsided, fragile, trembling. “Just… a nightmare.”

A nightmare.

007e7 exhaled in relief, though worry still flickered in his glowing eyes—scanning, analyzing, searching for signs he couldn’t interpret.

A nightmare. Yes.

A nightmare long enough to feel like an entire lifetime.

Long enough that the morning sun felt like something meant for someone better than him.

A nightmare steeped in blood and screams and loss.

But now.

He was here.

Warm morning air drifted through the open window, brushing against his cheek like a blessing. Birds chirped outside as if welcoming him back. A new chance—one he didn’t dare to hope for, didn’t believe he deserved.

He bowed his head, shoulders trembling.

This time… I’ll make it right.

And somewhere deep in his chest—somewhere that had been crushed in the future he left behind—a small flame flickered back to life.

Hope.

The one thing that had been stolen from him.

Now burning again, faint but stubborn, refusing to die.

Chapter Text

Her white shirt was crisp, spotless—almost glowing in the gentle hush of early morning. The name tag pinned to her chest caught a sliver of sunlight and shimmered faintly, like something proud, something hopeful. Dark blue slacks hugged her frame just right, and the light-blue jacket tied casually around her waist swayed as she moved.

That was all 007n7 needed to step into her first day of college. She had lived a “first day” once before, but this time… this time it felt like a different life entirely. No blood. No screams. No looping nightmare. Just her, the morning light, and a promise of something soft—something almost too tender to trust.

She slid each book into her old black bag, her hands trembling with an excitement she barely recognized. It was as if a heart she had forgotten she possessed suddenly remembered how to beat.

007e7 stood next to her, his mechanical hands surprisingly gentle as he held out a burger-shaped hair clip—the exact kind he always wore. He wiggled his brows, eyes glinting with mischief. “Guarantee you’ll look perfect with it,” he said. She flushed at the compliment, lowering her gaze, feeling a warmth spread through her chest—comforting, safe, and silly enough to make her want to giggle.

When she walked downstairs to the kitchen, she paused at the doorway, blinking in disbelief. 007e7 was already seated at the dining table with a plate of steaming pancakes in front of him. Golden, soft, fluffy pancakes, dripping with melted butter. She frowned, confused. “You… eat pancakes? You’re a robot.”

He chuckled, voice crackly but steeped in warmth. “Don’t question it. I eat for fun. Watching you eat is the important part.”

Sunlight spilled across the kitchen, warm and syrup-sweet, mixing with the scent of honey and butter. Everything felt home-like, impossibly gentle. Her parents—it was a faint memory now—had apparently gone back to their hometown, leaving the house quiet, still, peaceful. No tension. No dread. No shadow looming behind her. Just 007n7 and 007e7 in this little pocket of morning tranquility.

She pulled out a chair, the wooden legs scraping the floor with a small squeak that made her smile. Sitting down, she stared at the pancakes in front of her—perfectly golden, soft in the center, the honey syrup cascading down in warm amber strands.

For the first time in a long, long while, 007n7 tasted something she had once dreamed of during nightmares she couldn’t escape. She closed her eyes, inhaling the scent like a prayer. Finally… I get to eat this again. The sweetness pressed against her chest, so gentle she almost cried. But she held it back, biting her lip to steady herself.

007e7 dabbed at his non-existent mouth with a napkin, watching her with quiet affection. “You packed everything?” he asked, his tone soft—not nagging, just concerned. She nodded, cheeks puffed with food. He snorted, amused, his gaze warm enough to melt steel. For a moment, it felt like he wanted to cradle the whole world just to make sure she didn’t trip.

Unable to resist, he reached out and pinched her cheek. “Ow—hey!” she yelped, face burning, laughing despite herself. He laughed too, eyes sparkling like a kid who had just discovered a new toy. “What? You’re way too cute. Look at you—syrup all over your mouth!”

She covered her face, half-laughing, half-embarrassed, her eyes glistening. The moment was simple, ordinary—but that ordinaryness was exactly what made it precious. Morning light. Pancakes. The soft hum of a house waking up. And someone she trusted sitting across from her. For 007n7, it was enough to make her heart float—light, almost weightless—free from the nightmares that used to swallow her whole.

“Thank you… for all of this,” she whispered, fingers tightening around the strap of her bag. The words trembled, fragile but sincere. “Really. Thank you.”

007e7 shook his head and took her hand, squeezing it gently. “No need to thank me. As long as you eat well and walk into your first day of college with a smile… that’s more than enough for me.”

And in that quiet kitchen, bathed in the first rays of dawn, 007n7 felt something she once believed she had lost forever—something she thought no longer belonged to someone like her: the chance to live. The chance to love. The chance to be held, protected, cherished. The chance to return to the person she once wished she could be.

A chance to begin again.

007n7 wiped her mouth slowly, savoring the lingering sweetness still sitting faintly on her tongue. She slung her old, worn black bag over her shoulder—a bag that had followed her through too many lifetimes, too many endings—and stepped toward the door. Every step felt too light, as though she were walking through a dream so fragile she feared a single heavy movement would shatter it like glass.

When she pulled the door open, sunlight poured across her face in a warm, gentle wave. It touched her cheeks, her lashes, her skin—like the world itself was welcoming her back, whispering that this time might be different. She turned her head, lifted her hand, and waved at 007e7 with that innocent smile he always said was “so cute it made him irrationally annoyed.”

“Bye, big bro! I’m leaving now! The opening ceremony’s about to start!” Her voice chimed through the morning air, bright enough that 007e7’s mechanical frame paused for half a second, as if startled by how alive she sounded.

“H—Hold on! 007n7!” he blurted, reaching out instinctively, fingers grasping at the air as though hoping to pull her back. She stopped mid-step and tilted her head, eyes wide, soft, and painfully unaware.

“Isn’t your boyfriend picking you up? The school’s really far, you know!”

Those words… carved through her memory like a blade drawn from ice.

Boyfriend?

…What boyfriend?

Her body froze. Her heart dropped so sharply she felt the shock in her knees. She scrambled through her memories—fast, frantic, messy—like her mind was terrified of its own answer.

Who…?

Who could he possibly mean…?

And then.

A deep, luxurious engine hum broke the quiet morning. The sound alone felt expensive—heavy, authoritative. A Rolls-Royce La Rose Noire Droptail rolled up to the front of the house, its lacquered red surface shining like wine… or blood… or every nightmare she was trying desperately to bury beneath her new beginning. A gust of wind slammed against her back, fierce and sudden, like even nature was trying to drag her away, shove her inside, hide her.

Then, just as suddenly, the wind softened. An eerie softness—calm before a storm.

The car door opened.

And he stepped out.

That silhouette—she would have recognized it even in another lifetime. Sunlit blond hair slicked back beneath a white-striped fedora. A shirt unbuttoned at the top two buttons, a loose tie hanging as if he didn’t care enough to tighten it. A tailored black vest framing the body of someone who had wealth, power, and—more dangerously—intent.

“M—Mafioso…!?” Her voice trembled, thin and small, enough that 007e7 whipped around in alarm.

He smirked, eyes warm-colored like honey but sharp like polished metal. “Hello, little sweetheart.” His breath carried the faint curl of cigarette smoke mixed with a dark, warm cologne—rich, intoxicating, unmistakably predatory. “I’m here to pick you up, just like I promised.”

A promise.

A promise she didn’t remember.

Or rather—one she must have made in this life… but never in the life she survived.

Yet her heart—her heart that had lived through a distant, twisted future—crumpled in on itself.

Mafioso—or rather, Don Sonnellino. The heir of a blood-soaked lineage. The man who, in that shadowed future—

…had wrapped fingers around her throat and claimed her as if she were an object.

…had pressed lips to hers with a mixture of threat and tenderness she still couldn’t decipher.

…had said, over and over, “You’re mine. There’s no turning back.”

But this world was the past.

And she… was reborn.

Which meant she knew exactly what awaited her if she let him close again.

007e7 narrowed his eyes, voice dropping into something cold enough to chill metal. “So it is this bastard. The one you told me about…?”

She couldn’t answer. Couldn’t breathe. Her fingers dug into the strap of her bag, knuckles turning ghostly white.

Mafioso walked toward her, his polished shoes tapping rhythmically against the walkway, every step echoing up her spine as though the sound itself carried chains. He reached out, brushing a thumb against the little burger hair clip 007e7 had placed in her hair just minutes before. “Cute,” he murmured, smile widening. “It suits you.”

She stepped back—only for him to step forward, closing the distance effortlessly.

His breath skimmed her ear, low and warm. “Come along, little one. You’re not going to make your boyfriend wait, are you?”

Even though every part of her heart screamed for her to run—though her whole body recoiled, urging her to step back—007n7 knew perfectly well that Mafioso, Don Sonnellino, would never let her escape. He would corner her, restrain her, swallow every bit of resistance she could muster.

The only way forward… was to step into that gleaming red Rolls‑Royce, polished to a shine so sharp it felt less like a car and more like a painting—one drenched in luxury and lined with the kind of danger that kills slowly.

He curved his lips into a smirk, the kind that smelled of money, power, and a mafia heir’s quiet satisfaction. He slipped into the car first, glancing sideways at her—just a flick of the eyes, but enough to say: “Good. Be obedient. That’s exactly what I want.”

She climbed in. Set her bag beside her. Her fingers clutched the strap until her knuckles drained of color. The cool air from the half‑open window brushed against her skin, but it couldn’t cool the trembling heat of fear trapped beneath her ribs.

Her heart hammered so violently she feared it would crack her chest open, yet her lips remained pressed together. She fixed her gaze outside, forcing herself to focus on the world beyond the glass. Rows of green trees, quiet houses, people strolling in the morning light—everything looked so normal, so serene, so unbearably distant from the storm thrashing inside her.

Mafioso’s gaze darkened when he noticed she wasn’t looking at him at all. He leaned over, slow and deliberate, and seized her chin between his fingers, pulling her face toward his as though claiming ownership.

“What’s this? Defying me already?” His low growl slipped into her ears like thunder rolling across a midnight sky, raising every hair on her arms. “Why won’t you look at me?”

Cold washed through her head. Her eyes widened, her body quivered uncontrollably. She shook her head fast—too fast—her voice breaking like thin glass. “I—I didn’t… I wasn’t… trying to…” The words barely formed more than a whisper, but it was enough. Enough for him to taste the fear climbing up her throat.

He stared at her for a long moment—his honey‑colored eyes glowing like molten amber in the afternoon light—before his grip finally loosened. He leaned back, exhaling a long breath as he lit another cigarette. Smoke curled in soft, deadly spirals, drifting across her face. The scent—rich tobacco laced with something uniquely his—made her cough, head tilting away as she tried to breathe anything else, anything that wasn’t him. But the air inside the car felt heavy, oppressive, as though every wisp of smoke carried his authority, his dominance, and the threat she dared not name.

The car rolled on. Streets stretched by in slow, aching quiet. She kept her eyes on the passing city—buildings, branches, traffic lights—all so ordinary, yet each one felt like a reminder of how disconnected she was from that normal world. Her chest tightened, emotion rising like a wave threatening to break. She wanted to cry. She wanted to scream. She wanted—desperately—to breathe as someone free.

But her mouth stayed shut. She squeezed her eyes closed, trying to picture another place, a different version of her life—a world where Mafioso didn’t exist, where she wasn’t trapped by a past she’d escaped and a future she feared returning to.

He continued smoking, the haze thickening around them, but his eyes never left her. Not once.

At last, he smirked again. “Don’t even think about running from me, sweetheart. I always know what’s going on in that pretty little head.”

Her entire body trembled. She stared out the window, swallowing hard, forcing each breath to be steady—even though every inhale reminded her of the truth:

She was nothing more than a puppet in his hands.

Seeing how terrified she was—her whole body trembling as if even the slightest sound might shatter her—Mafioso let out a quiet sigh. It wasn’t a sigh of sympathy, nor of impatience, but something strange in between, like he was weary of how obedient she was, yet privately amused by it. In his eyes lingered a glimmer that was impossible to mistake: a kind of predatory curiosity, the kind that never truly meant well.

Without another word, he tilted his head to signal his chauffeur. Just one subtle nod—and the heavy, velvet purr of the Rolls‑Royce began to soften. The car slowed, gliding smoothly off the main road and turning into a small, quiet street where a luxurious patisserie revealed itself behind glass windows glittering under the amber light of late afternoon.

The warm breath of butter, cream, and fresh pastries drifted out from beneath the door, sweet and gentle… painfully gentle, enough to make her chest tighten again.

She lifted her head, staring at the bakery, then at Mafioso’s silhouette as he stepped out of the car. He walked with the sort of confidence that felt practiced—tall frame wrapped in a fitted suit, one hand tucked loosely into his pocket, gaze sweeping the world around him with the precision of a man measuring, categorizing, and claiming everything in sight.

She, 007n7, didn’t dare move. She remained still in the back seat, shoulders curled inward, eyes wide and unblinking, heart thundering against her ribs like a trapped creature waiting for its master to return—except this creature knew better. This creature knew her “master” was anything but kind.

Fifteen minutes passed. The soft chime of the bakery door rang out as he reappeared, the sound oddly gentle for a man like him. Mafioso stepped back toward the car, carrying a small, ornate box—decorated with layers of pastel ribbons and delicate patterns so intricate it almost made her want to laugh out loud.

But she didn’t. Not this time. She was more awake now, more aware. She knew exactly what this was: an attempt to disarm her, to charm her into lowering her guard, to remind her—subtly, but deliberately—who was in control.

He slipped back into the car with practiced ease, as if it were perfectly natural for him to settle himself beside her like this. As if her fear, her stiffness, her flinching didn’t matter. He set the box gently in her hands—too gently. The kind of softness that wasn’t softness at all, but calculation disguised as affection. A half‑smile tugged at his lips, not fully sincere yet not fully fake, eyes gleaming with a sweetness so poisonous it made her stomach twist.

“Here,” he said, voice low and warm, as if he were indulging her—yet his tone carried a thread of silent laughter, like he was mocking her innocence while pretending to cherish it.

She stared at the little cake inside, her gaze drifting, trying desperately to keep her emotions from spilling over. She wanted to laugh at him, to throw the box back into his lap, to scream: “Stop pretending! I know exactly what you’re doing!” But instead, her lips pressed together before stretching into the sweetest smile she could manage—wide‑eyed, delicate, gentle, as if she truly appreciated the gesture.

“Thank you, Mafi! You’re so good to me~” she chirped, tone bright enough to mask the anger burning in her lungs.

Mafioso’s smirk deepened just slightly. He nodded once, slow and satisfied, as though achieving a small victory, though he didn’t speak again. He simply turned toward the window, watching the passing buildings and drifting leaves with that usual quiet coldness.

Yet she knew—in the stillness between his breaths, in the shift of his shoulders, in the way his fingers tapped once against his knee—that he was paying attention to every tiny movement she made.

The Rolls‑Royce glided back onto the main road and began its approach toward the university—the place she was expected to walk into, the place where the future would test her in ways she was no longer naïve enough to underestimate.

She held the box in both hands, fingers trembling slightly. Part of her wanted to throw it out the window, watch it splatter against the asphalt, watch the sweetness turn to ruin. Part of her wanted to take a bite—to prove she wasn’t controlled by fear, to remind herself she still had a say in her own body. But instead she sat there quietly, staring out the window at the fading gold of the evening sky, whispering to herself:

“Don’t let him fool you. You came back… and this time, you won’t be afraid.”

The university came into view through the tinted window of the car—so vast, so monumental, so impossibly grand that 007n7 could do nothing but stare, mouth parted, heart pounding with an intensity she couldn’t tame.

It wasn’t just a school. No. It looked more like three international shopping districts fused together, layer by layer, into a mighty empire of steel and glass. Towering buildings pierced the sky, their windows catching the sun in dazzling streaks of gold. Broad staircases stretched out like something carved for royalty, while endless hallways formed gleaming tunnels of light. The polished glass panels shimmered with reflections of the afternoon sun, making the entire campus glow like a separate world—one she had only ever glimpsed in paintings or in those fleeting daydreams she used to keep hidden in the corners of her mind.

She’d heard rumors, bits and pieces of conversation drifting in the air earlier: that somewhere inside this enormous place lay an immense garden where the trees were trimmed with meticulous care, flowers blooming in bright, joyous colors along every winding path. That the campus had not one but two extravagant swimming pools—one indoors, one outdoors—so luxurious that students often lounged there as if vacationing in a private resort. Each building blended modern architecture with classical touches: tall white columns, elegant domed roofs, meticulously sculpted statues lined in marble.

It all seemed too breathtaking, too overwhelming, and somehow too distant from anything she had ever known.

When the car door opened, a soft breeze swept across her face, lifting strands of her brown hair and making her blink rapidly. One hand clutched her worn‑out school bag, the other held tightly—in annoyance and fear—to the small pastry box Mafioso had forced into her grasp.

She stepped out. The moment her shoes touched the stone pavement, she heard the faint echo of her heels tapping against the marble-like ground. She froze. Her eyes drifted around, scanning the vast open space with a mixture of awe and dread. The scene before her was too polished, too modern, too overwhelmingly rich—it pressed down on her chest like a weight she wasn’t prepared for.

Her clothes suddenly felt wrong. Stiff. Cheap.

The faded jacket she wore looked painfully out of place in the sea of perfectly ironed coats, cinched waists, clean white sneakers, and designer handbags. Students walked past her in confident strides, their laughter light, effortless. Some didn’t glance her way at all; others gave her quick, dismissive side‑eyes—a kind of quiet judgment that stung even without words.

She felt, for a moment, like a lost child dropped into a lavish banquet where she didn’t belong. Their polished presence only magnified her own rough edges, and she swallowed hard, feeling that familiar ache of isolation crawl slowly up her spine.

Behind her, Mafioso stepped out of the car with the same casual dominance he always held. His posture radiated power—relaxed, yet controlled; refined, yet dangerous. His brown eyes gleamed with that inscrutable flicker she could never decode, somewhere between amusement and threat. His expression sat perfectly balanced between stern and playful, the kind of look that made her instincts scream to run, even as her legs locked in place.

He reached out, almost lazily, brushing his fingers through her hair—a soft gesture, but one that felt possessive enough to make her skin prickle. His lips curled into a grin, sharp and knowing.

“I’ll go in first,” he murmured, voice smooth like velvet wrapped around a blade. “Take a little look around the place if you want. But remember, sweetheart—don’t forget to head up to the principal’s office later. You need to get your class assignment.”

His tone was teasing but laced with authority, sweet but undeniably threatening. She forced a small, embarrassed smile, nodding as if she were perfectly calm. But her heart throbbed wildly beneath her ribs—equal parts frustration, equal parts fear, equal parts… curiosity she wished she didn’t feel.

As he walked away, his tall figure melting into the sea of students and the colossal gate, she finally managed to breathe—a long, shaky breath that collapsed from her lips like something she’d been holding for hours. For a fleeting moment, she felt invisible, overlooked, unobserved. And from that brief invisibility bloomed a flicker of anger.

She looked at the pastry box. At the stupid pastel ribbons. At the delicate prints meant to charm her.

Then she dropped it.

The box hit the ground, split open, and the cake smeared itself across the pavement—crushed under her heel with a satisfying crack. Sugar powder scattered like dust; bits of chocolate clung stubbornly to the stone. A soft tremor of rage began to simmer inside her chest, a quiet flame spreading steadily, warming her from the inside out. She curled her hands into fists and inhaled deeply, steadying herself.

With a final breath, she slung her bag over her shoulder, stepped over the ruined pastry, and marched forward into the luxurious, intimidating campus. Each step echoed across the marble floor—sharp, clear, steady. Each step felt like a reminder, a whisper.

She was entering a new world. One that could break her if she let it. One that could swallow her whole if she faltered even for a second.

But she had survived worse. She had walked through nightmares and crawled out with scars to prove it. She wasn’t just a girl under Mafioso’s control. She wasn’t just someone running from her past.

She was 007n7—weathered, hardened, shaped by darkness—and now she was stepping into this world with all her fear, her fury, and a resolve fiercer than ever before.

007n7 began wandering through every corner of the massive campus, moving slowly, almost reverently, as if she were trying to memorize every detail before it could slip away. Each step carried her deeper into a world that felt impossibly new.

She passed bright, gleaming laboratories packed with rows of scientific instruments—glass tubes filled with swirling colors, metal devices with blinking lights, stacks of labeled flasks lined up in perfect symmetry. The place smelled faintly of disinfectant and possibility.

In the library, towering bookshelves reached all the way to the ceiling, thousands upon thousands of thick volumes packed so tightly together that their combined weight seemed enough to tilt the world.

And beyond that, the basketball court stretched under the warm afternoon sun, its rubber-red flooring glowing softly as students shot hoops, shouted playful insults, and dissolved into laughter that felt too warm to be real.

Her heart beat rapidly—quick, excited, almost frantic. A strange sense of wonder welled up from her chest, expanding until it felt like her ribs couldn’t hold it. She breathed in deeply, trying to steady herself, yet everything she saw only amplified her curiosity.

What stunned her most wasn’t the architecture, nor the scale, nor the wealth—it was the people. The students who passed by her smiled without hesitation. They greeted one another warmly, waved to her casually as if she belonged there as much as anyone else. No judgment. No mocking stare. No side‑eye filled with disdain.

For the first time in so many years, she felt… welcomed.

And that realization—soft, delicate, terrifying—made her throat tighten. After a life spent crawling through hell, after years of loneliness so deep it felt like another organ inside her body, she was—if only for a moment—surrounded by life that didn’t reject her.

Then, just as she reached out to touch the edge of a tall bookshelf in awe, she bumped into someone who had been turning the corner at the same time. The collision sent both of them stumbling before gravity tugged them to the floor.

Her back hit the ground first, then her tailbone, and she let out a sharp, pained “Ow…” as she clutched her aching hips. Her brows knitted together, eyes half‑closed in discomfort.

Before she could recover, a hand appeared in front of her—warm, steady, confident in a way she wasn’t. She blinked in surprise, then placed her hand gently into his. The grip was firm but careful as it pulled her upright.

When she looked up to see who her rescuer was, her breath caught.

Chance.

The same Chance she’d once heard rumors about—the “gambling addict,” the unpredictable wild card, the person whispered about with a mix of admiration and concern.

Except in person, he looked… different. Softer. Sharper. Almost handsome.

His ash‑gray hair fell in lazy strands that framed part of his face, shadowing his eyes just enough to make him appear a little mysterious. He wore a fedora reminiscent of Mafioso’s, expensive headphones encircling his neck, and those familiar glasses that made her blink rapidly as if trying to determine whether she was hallucinating.

“Hey, buddy! You okay?” he asked, voice unexpectedly kind, warm enough to melt her nerves. She squeezed his hand lightly as she rose to her feet, feeling the odd comfort of that touch lingering even when she released him.

Chance gave her a swift once‑over—not judgmental, not mocking, simply curious. Then he winked, playful and bright, the kind of expression that lifted the heaviness in a room without permission.
“Oh! You must be new here, huh? Let me introduce myself!”

She could tell instantly that he was an extroverted type—one of those naturally social people who made conversations bloom out of thin air. Something about him was both comforting and intimidating, and the mixture made her stomach flutter.

She inhaled deeply to steady herself, then gave him a small, shy smile. “Um… I’m 007n7. And please… call me she today.”

Chance froze. Not dramatically, but with genuine surprise—eyes widening, mouth slightly parted.

“A she!?”

She felt panic surge up, heat climbing her neck. Her hands trembled ever so slightly as she waved them in front of her chest frantically.

“No, no—well, not exactly a girl… I mean, I was born male, but I switch between ‘she’ and ‘he’ depending on the day. Today I… I want to be female. Just for now.”

Silence settled over them—but it wasn’t cold. Chance seemed to mull it over for a moment, taking in her words slowly, then nodded with visible understanding. His expression softened, and he gave her a grin that was almost conspiratorial.

“Got it. She it is! And no worries—happens to me all the time. People always think I’m a girl anyway.” He chuckled. “Oh, and I use he/they, by the way!”

Her shoulders relaxed. She let out a quiet breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “Ah… okay. That sounds good.”

And in that tiny, fragile moment—between shared names, shared pronouns, and a mutual acceptance that felt too gentle to be real—she felt something shift inside her. A warmth. A spark. The kind of feeling that whispered, You’re not alone—not this time.

Here, among strangers who smiled like the world wasn’t cruel, in a place she never thought she’d be allowed to exist, she felt a soft, tentative hope that someone—maybe Chance, maybe others—might be willing to see her the way she wanted to be seen.

And maybe, just maybe, this was the first step toward a life that wasn’t built entirely on fear.

Chapter Text

The moment they met, Chance already seemed utterly fascinated with her—so fascinated it almost startled her. The way he looked at her was unlike anything she had felt before: as if she were some unexpected discovery he’d been waiting his whole life to stumble upon, something he had suddenly taken a strange liking to, something he wanted to hold onto, to understand, to explore.

His hand kept drifting toward her hair, fingers brushing through her soft brown strands with a gentleness that felt almost unreal. Every time he touched her, the tips of his fingers trailed warmth over her scalp, making her flinch a little, yet somehow she was completely incapable of pulling away.

And she didn’t even notice when he slipped out of his bomber jacket—one smooth motion, a rustle of fabric—before he stepped behind her and draped it around her shoulders with this absurd, effortless naturalness, as if that had been the plan from the very beginning.

“Cold today,” he said casually, as though announcing the weather forecast, lips quirking into the faintest smirk.

Cold?

What cold?

The sun outside was practically setting fire to the entire basketball court, the heat radiating off the pavement in shimmering waves—and he called that cold? She stood there in stunned silence, staring at the oversized jacket hanging off her shoulders, swallowing the scent that wrapped around her: the grounding warmth of sandalwood, a hint of mint, something calm yet tangy that made her pulse skip embarrassingly.

She tugged the collar up, cheeks burning, mumbling under her breath, “…It’s hot… actually…”

“Hmm?” Chance tilted his head, genuinely puzzled. “Yeah, but you’re cold. I can tell.”

He said it with such certainty—so boldly, so confidently—that she could only gape at him.

God, what kind of extrovert was this man? How did someone get this confident without combusting on the spot!?

“Hey, new student,” Chance said as he clasped his hands behind his head and walked backward in front of her as if he were performing a circus trick in the middle of campus, “need me to show you to the principal’s office? I know the way! Actually, I know this place better than the vice principal.”

He winked at her like a showman about to pull a rabbit out of his hat.

She couldn’t help it—she let out a small laugh. She knew the way already, knew it from a different lifetime even, but having someone so eager, so bright, so ridiculous hovering around her… turning him down felt strangely cruel. So she smiled, soft and small, and gave him a nod.

And immediately, Chance lit up.

Like a child who had just been handed a red envelope stuffed with good luck money.

“GREAT! Come on, follow me!”

He spun around—almost a full 180 degrees—and walked beside her, but she noticed he slowed down half a step, adjusting himself to match her pace without ever mentioning it.

Then, without warning, he reached out and took her hand.

Just like that.

So natural. So easy. So thoughtless it nearly knocked the breath out of her.

His fingers were warm—unexpectedly warm—and soft, not rough or calloused like she had always imagined boys’ hands to be. He didn’t squeeze, didn’t hold her too tightly. It was a gentle pull, just enough to guide her forward, just enough for her to feel the strange, fluttering chaos that erupted in her chest like sparking wires.

“Ah—!” she gasped, instinctively trying to recoil.

Chance turned his head, the dark lenses of his glasses catching her reflection.

“What’s wrong? You’re not comfortable?”

There was no accusation in his voice—only a flicker of concern, and maybe something like hope.

She stood frozen for a moment, then shook her head quickly, voice small and shivering: “…No. Just… not used to it.”

Chance grinned, bright and warm like the peak of summer.

“Then get used to it.”

And he gently tightened his grip—not trapping, not insisting, just enough for her to know that he was staying right there with her, leading her through this unfamiliar, enormous place.

They walked toward Block A together, where the principal’s office sat on the third floor. Along the way, he pointed out every little thing with the animated enthusiasm of someone showing off his favorite playground:

“That’s the music room over there—if you sing, you’ll like it.

That court’s the second basketball court—main one’s behind the building.

Oh, and that purple-flower tree? Pretty, right? It blooms once a month!”

He talked nonstop, his hands waving in the air like he was explaining the secrets of the universe. And she… she found herself just quietly listening, mesmerized by the sight of this boy who had known her for less than an hour yet treated her as if—

—as if she were special.

As if she were someone worth paying attention to.

Worth guiding.

Worth wrapping in a jacket even when the sun was scorching the pavement.

Step by step, they moved together through the golden afternoon light, their hands still linked, their shadows nearly touching as they walked. It felt absurdly like the two of them were some newlywed couple being led toward the ceremony hall—awkward, unfamiliar, but soft and warm in a way that made her chest melt like marshmallows under the sun.

Standing before the heavy wooden door that led into the principal’s office, her chest felt tight, as if an invisible hand had reached in and squeezed her heart. Her pulse thudded wildly, hammering against her ribs like it wanted to escape.

The sensation was so painfully familiar—it felt almost identical to the day she first met the previous principal. His stern appearance back then had frightened her to the point her legs shook beneath her. Yet in the end, he had become one of the first people to welcome her gently into this terrifying yet strangely enchanting school.

But today… something was different. The door in front of her seemed larger than usual, darker, further away than it had any right to be.

And thank goodness Chance was still standing right behind her.

He nudged her shoulder lightly, his hand inexplicably warm despite the air-conditioning blasting cold air down the hallway. Leaning down to her eye level, he gave her the most exaggerated wink, a mischievous glint dancing behind his dark glasses.

“Go on in, little one. I’ll wait right here. Don’t worry, the principal’s nice… y’know, in that ‘looks-like-he-might-kill-someone-but-is-actually-nice’ kind of way.”

His teasing tone wove around a very real thread of sincerity. She couldn’t stop the small snort of laughter that escaped her, partly because he was ridiculous, partly because her nerves suddenly felt a little lighter—like he had peeled a layer of fear off her shoulders just by talking.

“Mm… thanks,” she whispered.

“Go on,” Chance said, ruffling her hair with one soft sweep of his palm, “If he scolds you, just come out here. I’ll comfort you.”

Her face went up in flames at that, but she forced herself to nod, inhaling deeply. Her fingers trembled as she raised her hand and tapped gently against the door—knock, knock, knock.

A voice echoed back—low, rough, slow enough to make the hairs on her neck rise.

“Come in.”

Her heart skipped violently.

That definitely wasn’t the old principal’s voice.

Gathering what courage she had left, she pushed the door open.

The air inside was much colder than the hallway. And the moment her eyes adjusted to the dimmer light, her entire body froze.

Gone were the familiar strands of salt-and-pepper hair.

Gone was the gentle figure, slightly hunched with age.

Gone were the warm, wise eyes that had seen through her on the day they first met.

Instead—

A completely different being sat in the grand leather chair.

It was a person draped in shadows, with jet-black hair that spilled just to their nape, sleek and smooth like liquid darkness. Half its face was hidden beneath a soft black cloth mask embroidered with blood-red patterns blooming like flowers. Under the overhead lights, the red threads shimmered strangely—as if they were moving on their own.

She instinctively stepped back.

In all her memories, in all her time at this school, she had never seen anyone—anything—like it.

The eye visible above the cloth narrowed, its gaze sharp yet eerily calm, as though it could read every breath she took, every shift of her heartbeat. Resting its chin on one gloved hand, it spoke in a voice that was so deep and gravelly that her skin prickled in waves.

“Well… hello. You must be 007n7?”

She straightened so fast her back almost cracked, bowing instinctively.

“Yes! Hello sir— I’m the new student, 007n7. Please take care of me!”

Silence followed.

One second.

Two.

Then its lips curved—slowly, deliberately—into a smile she couldn’t read.

“I see,” it murmured, its voice dragging like velvet over steel. “You’ve already made a friend here. Interesting. Very interesting. Not many people earn the attention of someone like Chance.”

It didn’t sound like the old principal at all.

Nothing about it was elderly or frail.

Its voice carried a warmth, a low resonance, tinged with a dangerous sort of allure—like someone fully aware of the power they held, someone who didn’t need to raise their voice to command a room.

She shivered.

“Ah… w-we only just met—”

“No need to explain.”

It cut in smoothly, flicking a hand as if dismissing something trivial that it already understood too well.

Shifting its posture, the figure leaned forward. Both hands braced against the desk, shoulders lowering, casting a long, ominous shadow across the floor. In that moment, she felt like a small animal cornered by a predator who had already chosen her.

Its eye never left her. Not once.

“Just call me Spectre,” it said, voice sliding through the air like a blade dipped in honey. “I’ve replaced the former principal. From today onward… things will be different here.”

She swallowed hard, bowing her head again. “Yes… I understand.”

Spectre tilted its head slightly, studying her from hair to wrist, gaze both assessing and quietly intrigued—like a scientist discovering a rare species.

A soft, amused exhale slipped from behind the embroidered cloth.

“Such an interesting little thing.”

From outside the door, she heard Chance’s voice calling gently: “Breathe, little one!! I’m right here!!”

And at that, Spectre laughed again—quiet, dark, knowing—like it had just heard something that guaranteed trouble for the both of them in the days to come.

“Chance, don’t start.”

Its voice rang out—rough, sharp, scraping like the edge of a blade tapping cold metal. It wasn’t loud, nor angry, yet the sound alone was enough to make the air in the room dip several degrees. Outside the door, Chance let out a drawn-out “awww…” that sounded both sulky and resigned, the kind of noise someone makes when they’ve been scolded so often they’ve grown used to it but still refuse to behave properly.

Spectre exhaled softly—half irritation, half weary acceptance—before turning its attention back to her. Or rather, she felt it looking at her. With half its face hidden behind that embroidered black cloth, reading its expression was utterly impossible; all she had to go on was the unnerving sensation of its gaze slicing straight through her.

It flipped its wrist and snapped open a thick folder—the one containing her personal information—and dropped it onto the desk with a sharp thud, sending a faint puff of paper dust drifting through the dim light.

As it flipped through the pages, its nails brushed against the paper with a rhythmic shhhh, shhhh, like it was reviewing the case file of a criminal rather than a new student.

“Ah…”

Its voice stretched low, almost amused, yet tinged with something that made her skin tighten.

“Your file says… you claim to excel in every subject. Is that true, 007n7?”

She startled upright and nodded far too quickly. “Yes, sir— I mean— yes. I… studied a lot beforehand.”

Her mind flashed back without warning: late nights forced to solve high-school calculus problems when she was barely ten; sudden “pop quizzes” she had no choice but to pass; thick brick-like textbooks she had to memorize cover to cover. Of course university classes didn’t scare her. They were almost relaxing in comparison.

Spectre didn’t react. No nod. No shake of its head. Just… silence.

A strange, heavy quiet fell over the room—so deep she could hear the hum of the air conditioner above.

Then, with one sharp movement, it closed the folder, the clap echoing like a strike of a judge’s gavel.

“Good.”

Its voice dropped lower, colder—ice wrapped around iron.

“But people who are too confident… often make me suspicious.”

She swallowed hard.

It tilted its head and leaned forward, resting one hand on the desk as its body angled toward her. That slight motion alone cast a long, predatory shadow stretching across the polished floor. For a moment, she felt like prey being assessed by something that hunted for sport.

“I’ll judge your brilliance myself,” it murmured.

Then it rose—so smoothly she didn’t even hear the chair shift. Setting her file aside, it adjusted the black cloth mask on its face with an absent-minded gesture, like someone straightening their own smile.

“Alright.”

It pointed toward a side door on the left wall. “You’ll go into the next room for a placement exam. A special one. Reserved for students whose files are… noteworthy.”

Her eyes widened. “A… special placement?”

“Yes.”

Its tone stayed cool, though she could sense a thread of amusement curling underneath.

“English. Mathematics. Natural sciences. Social sciences. All in one sitting.”

It paused—just long enough to watch her reaction.

“You did prepare, yes?”

She nodded so fast she almost gave herself whiplash.

“Y-yes! I’ve been preparing since—”

It waved a hand, silencing her effortlessly.

“No need to explain.”

But its voice softened slightly, as though it approved.

“Good. I’m pleased you’re not trembling.”

She nearly laughed—her hands were numb from shaking, but that wasn’t worth admitting.

Spectre tilted its head once again, the movement oddly graceful compared to the dangerous tone it carried, making its thoughts impossible to guess.

“You have thirty minutes,” it said at last, folding its arms.

“If you pass… you’ll be placed in the best class in the school.”

“And if… I don’t?” she whispered.

It laughed.

A small sound.

Short.

But cold enough to slide down her spine like the chilling breath of someone standing too close behind her in the dark.

“Then you’ll start from the beginning.”

Its voice was feather-light, almost gentle—yet the threat laced beneath it was unmistakable.

She bowed her head deeply.

“Yes… I understand.”

Spectre’s eyebrow lifted behind the embroidered cloth—at least that’s what she thought she saw.

“Go.”

It gestured toward the door.

She stepped back slowly. As she turned, she heard the soft rustle of paper behind her—Spectre had resumed reading her file, as though it still wasn’t entirely satisfied.

And just as she opened the door—

Chance was leaning against the wall, striking a dramatic model-like pose. The instant he saw her peeking out, he sprang upright.

“Little one!! Did he do anything?! Did he yell?! Did he scare you?! Did he bully you?!”

Inside the room, Spectre’s voice drifted out—quiet as a warning bell.

“Chance.”

He stiffened instantly, hands to his sides, posture snapping into that of an elementary student caught misbehaving.

She almost burst out laughing.

Then she took the final step out, and the door eased shut behind her—with Spectre’s faint, unreadable chuckle still lingering in the air like smoke.

In the dim, oppressive room of the principal’s office, where the steady hum of the air conditioner merged with the soft rustling of paper, The Spectre leaned back against its chair, one hand flipping through 007n7’s thick folder. Its fingers moved deliberately, each motion calculated, as if the tiniest inconsistency could spark a flare of irritation.

The yellow light from above cast shadows across the black fabric that concealed its face, accentuating the chilling, inscrutable sharpness of its presence. The corner of its mouth twitched into a thin, dangerous smile, so subtle it could almost be mistaken for a twitch, yet carrying an unmistakable threat beneath it.

Then—

A sharp “swish,” like a blade slicing through the air.

A burst of brilliant white light erupted in the center of the room, blinding and metallic, as if molten steel had been struck and flared into existence. Spectre’s brow immediately furrowed, reacting instinctively to the sudden intrusion.

The corner of the room seemed to stretch and tear, the air itself fracturing like fabric cut by an unseen hand, and from that void a figure slowly materialized, each movement deliberate, stepping through the fragile boundary between worlds. The white light spilled over every shadowed corner, forcing Spectre to squint behind its mask.

The Spawn.

Their hair was pure white, cascading in individual threads like liquid silver, flowing with a fluid grace that defied gravity. A white scarf covered their eyes, yet the light emanating from behind gave the illusion that they were seeing everything, piercing through layers of dust, secrets, and unseen truths.

Above their head, a luminous halo hovered, spinning slowly, radiating light sharp enough to make one’s eyes ache, scattering thin rays like delicate glitter onto the floor.

Their clothing was unlike anything human: a flowing white robe that brushed the ground, shoulders embroidered with abstract, almost alien patterns, and long silk ribbons that trailed around them, twisting and undulating as if dancing to the heartbeat of… the world itself, or perhaps the heartbeat of the universe.

Behind them, two sets of wings unfurled, alive with motion, each feather glowing faintly, swaying gently as if breathing alongside them. The entire darkened room suddenly felt suffused with divine radiance, as though a fragment of heaven had been dropped into this shadowed corner of reality.

Spectre clicked its tongue in annoyance. “The Spawn. Retract your aura immediately.” Its voice was low, calm, but threaded with genuine irritation—it was clearly all too accustomed to the excessive, overblown theatrics of this entity.

The Spawn tilted their head slightly, letting their white hair fall to one side, and folded their hands behind their back, standing with the innocent curiosity of a child watching someone speak.

“Hm? The Spawn does not like it when you speak to The Spawn that way.” Their voice was light, echoing, and carried a detachment, like sound reverberating through a thousand-year-empty stone temple.

Spectre raised a hand to its mask, visibly irritated. “Too bright. Can you stop acting like a god for once?”

The Spawn chuckled—a hollow, eerie sound, beautiful yet terrifying, like a flower blooming in freezing snow: devoid of life, yet mesmerizing in its perfection. They leaned closer, lowering their masked face near Spectre, so that the light from their halo brushed against the papers on the desk, turning them over with the faintest gust.

Their whisper echoed through the room, resonant as though speaking in the halls of some ancient cavern: “The Spawn wonders, who is this 007n7, that you dragged The Spawn from the past, pulled The Spawn down into the mortal plane alongside you?”

The room fell utterly silent.

Spectre’s fingers froze on the pen it had been idly spinning, lips brushing against its tip as a habitual gesture whenever contemplating something serious. Then it laughed—a slow, deliberate, thin, cryptic laugh, full of unspoken meaning.

“A person of importance.”

The Spawn’s hidden eyes flickered behind the scarf. The halo’s light shimmered slightly, as if stirred by some imperceptible wind, though there was none.

“Important… to you?”

Spectre didn’t answer immediately. It set the pen down, braced its hands, leaned back, and tilted its head as if considering a new game to play.

“Important to me… and to the future of this place.”

The Spawn took a small step back, folding its wings slightly inward.

“The Spawn has never seen you speak of anyone like that.”

“I’ve never met anyone like them,” Spectre replied, its tone lowering, sharpening, dangerous.

The Spawn was silent, the glow around them dimming ever so slightly—perhaps a concession to keep Spectre from lashing out. They asked softly, a whisper that seemed to float on the air: “So… what does The Spawn need to do?”

Spectre tapped a slow rhythm on the desk with its elbow. “Observe. And do not let them detect you.”

The Spawn let out a soft, amused trill, a sound like wind threading through chimes. “That little one is that interesting?”

Spectre’s reply was brief, firm, and threaded with something almost reverent. “More than that.”

The tension hung between them, electric, palpable, as 007n7, oblivious to the complex dance unfolding behind the curtain of light, prepared herself for whatever this strange, luminous, terrifying entity had set in motion.

007n7 continued down the endless corridor, each step echoing softly against the polished wooden floor, yet somehow it felt as though the entire vast hallway were holding its breath in time with her movements. The corridor seemed to stretch infinitely, lined with identical closed doors, fluorescent lights flickering intermittently above, their reflections scattering across the glossy floor like countless tiny stars lost in an endless void.

Where, exactly, was the examination room that The Spectre had mentioned? It had told her it was right next to the principal’s office, yet her eyes roamed back and forth, finding no sign, no clue, nothing that could guide her. She muttered softly to herself, her voice barely more than a whisper, trembling slightly: “Could I really be lost…? How ridiculous…”

Chance had already gone ahead, likely caught up with his own affairs. Before leaving, he had squeezed her hand gently, offering a mischievous yet warm smile: “Find the exam room quickly, 007n7. Good luck!”

And with that, he had stepped away, his figure fading into the light of the corridor, leaving her alone amidst the labyrinth of endless hallways. Her heart raced, a mix of anticipation and anxious tension. Despite having faced so many challenges before, this—her first steps into university, standing before an exam room—made her pulse pound as if it might leap straight out of her chest.

Clutching her bag tightly, she moved along the cool, gleaming floor. The doors lining the corridor all looked as if they had been produced from the same blueprint, each with numbers and symbols she could scarcely interpret. For someone like her, built from sequences of codes and logic, exhaustion was unfamiliar, yet the search was exhausting all the same. Each time she reached a door, she would pause, inhale deeply, sweeping her gaze over the hallway to see if any familiar face or signage appeared. But all that met her eyes were the cold walls and flickering lights, indifferent and silent.

Then—a hand reached out, brushing lightly against her shoulder. The subtle scraping of feet on the floor startled her, making her jump and spin around to see who had touched her. She froze, breath caught in her chest, heart hammering, as if the world itself had paused for that single heartbeat.

Before her stood an extraordinary figure. Snow-white hair cascaded down like a waterfall of light, and a finely wrapped blindfold concealed their eyes, yet the reflected light suggested that those eyes could still see everything, observing every subtle movement.

A pristine white suit adorned with intricate embroidery ran along the seams, perfectly aligned and smooth, immaculate to the point that she almost feared to touch it. Behind them, two sets of pure white wings swayed gently with their breathing, faintly shimmering, transforming the cold, stark corridor into something surreal, almost magical, like stepping into another realm entirely.

They smiled, eyes hidden behind the white cloth flickering with a gentle warmth. “Hello, you must be the new student. I am Spawn, your instructor, and the one overseeing your examination today. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

Their voice was soft, warm, yet steady, like a gentle summer breeze brushing over the skin, instilling a surprising sense of safety in 007n7. Strangely, The Spawn seemed somewhat “blind,” or at least their gaze was not scrutinizing in the way humans’ often were, which made her feel less pressure despite standing before a being so obviously otherworldly. Even so, her heart raced, hands trembling slightly from the surreal presence.

She drew a deep breath, straightened her back, and bowed politely. “Yes, hello, Instructor Spawn… I am 007n7. Could you please tell me where the examination room is?”

They tilted their head, the halo above scattering radiant light across the delicate lines of their blindfolded face, giving her the sense of standing before a divine entity. They extended a hand toward her, inviting her to take it. “Ah! Of course I know, you silly child!”

Their tone was both earnest and teasing, strangely friendly. “Come along quickly, the exam is about to begin. I still have other new students to oversee. We cannot afford to be late!”

A mixture of surprise and delight rose in her, and she took their hand. It was warm, steady, and reassuring, each fingertip radiating a calm certainty that cut through the whirlwind of emotions she felt: anticipation, anxiety, eagerness, and a thread of fear all entwined together.

They guided her down the long corridor, the soft white glow from their wings spilling over the ornate walls, casting shifting patches of light and shadow that made her feel as if each step bridged two worlds—one foot in reality, the other brushing against legend.

As they moved, their voice flowed, gentle and encouraging. “Do not worry. This exam is not difficult. I only wish to see you perform at your best. Do not be anxious, 007n7.”

She offered a tentative smile, her heartbeat still rapid but the fear easing slightly. The Spawn smiled back, their wings fluttering lightly as if to encourage her, guiding her toward the door at the end of the corridor—the examination room awaiting her.

Upon entering, everything felt different: warm yellow light, neatly arranged desks and chairs, a whiteboard already inscribed with prepared notes, and an atmosphere of silent order. Spawn stood nearby, lowering their head slightly as they observed her. “This is where you will be tested, 007n7. Remain calm. I will be here should you need me.”

007n7 drew in a deep breath, meeting the eyes concealed behind the white blindfold, and for the first time, she felt that strange combination of fear and trust, an unnameable sensation that nonetheless grounded her more firmly than ever before.

Chapter Text

007n7 walked slowly toward a desk near the window, where the morning light streamed through the towering panes, scattering flickering patches of gold across the surface. She lowered herself into the chair, feeling a strange mix of familiarity and strangeness, as if she were both at home and somewhere entirely unknown.

This was only her second exam, yet the environment felt completely different, the placement of her desk carefully adjusted by The Spectre to prevent any chance of cheating. Her heart still raced, a mingling of anticipation and unease thrumming in her chest.

The sunlight filtered through the glass, outlining faint golden lines across the sketchbook she had brought, and 007n7 began to pull out her pencil, letting her imagination flow freely onto the pages—from fluffy, drifting clouds to towering spires that scraped the sky, to bizarre shapes born solely from her mind. Every line, every shadow, every hint of light transported her into her own private world, a temporary refuge from the pressure of the looming exam.

They stood nearby, observing from a corner of the room, their arms resting lightly on a nearby empty desk, their two pairs of white wings quivering gently with each breath. If they could be said to “see” such things, they were noting her talent with a subtle tilt of the head, a gleam of restrained delight flashing from the hidden eyes beneath their blindfold.

The room itself was silent, filled only with the scratch of pencil against paper, the occasional rustle as pages were turned, and the soft creak of the door when a faint breeze passed. Apparently, even this diminutive little human had a simple pleasure akin to theirs: the joy of drawing, the thrill of being lost in one’s own imagined world.

Suddenly, the door creaked open, startling her. A stream of light poured into the corridor, stretching long beams across the floor and forcing her to blink. And then, she saw who had entered—and for a moment, her heart seemed to stop.

Elliot.

The last person she wanted to see right now.

The one she wanted to apologize to a hundred, a thousand times over, for the fires, the chaos she had caused in her reckless days.

The one she felt most guilty before.

He stepped into the room, his slightly tousled hair catching the light, eyes bright and confident, his smile radiating a self-assurance as if he had been prepared for this moment from the start.

007n7 felt his gaze sweep toward her, and instinctively she drew her eyes away, heart hammering violently, breath quickening, cold sweat forming lightly on her forehead. A mixture of fear and anticipation, regret and embarrassment, collided in her chest, leaving her paralyzed, unsure how to respond to his unwavering eyes.

They remained nearby, hands tapping lightly on the desk, wings subtly quivering in time with their quiet, deliberate breathing, watching her every movement, every twitch of expression. They understood immediately: this was a moment charged with tension yet tinged with fascination, a moment worth noting, worth remembering.

Without a word, they tilted slightly, moving the desks, arranging a seat near the window beside her, reserving it for Elliot—a subtle, precise, perfect arrangement.

Even though Elliot did not yet know who 007n7 was, they wanted her to experience the shock, the forced confrontation with the person she regretted, to see how her eyes betrayed both despair and nervous excitement.

Elliot approached, eyes sparkling, a light laugh escaping his lips. “Oh? Whose desk is this, I wonder? I suppose you must be the new student. Hello there!”

007n7 bowed slightly, voice trembling as she spoke. “Y-yes… I’m 007n7… It’s an honor to meet you… I… I hope… I can learn from you…”

The room fell silent again, filled only with the soft scratching of her pencil on paper, their quiet presence, and the radiant light spilling from The Spawn above.

They stood there, hands clasped behind their back, watching her with an expression that mingled curiosity and amusement, as though observing a small performance, a subtle mental game only they could comprehend.

Their pristine wings trembled softly, scattering glimmers of light across the floor, transforming the space into something magical, ethereal, yet palpably real.

She raised her eyes to meet Elliot’s, a gaze filled with lingering regret and uncertainty, while he smiled gently, understandingly, saying nothing further. In that moment, 007n7 felt a swirl of emotions almost too complex to name: her heart heavy yet fluttering, fear mingling with hope, all harmonized in the relentless beat of her pulse.

They stood there, silent and watchful, fully aware that this would become an indelible memory—not just for 007n7, but for Elliot as well, and even for themselves, who observed it all with quiet, unwavering attention.

The exam room door clicked shut behind the last of the students, their footsteps echoing softly across the polished wooden floor, mingling with the faint scent of ink and paper, and the pale, sterile glow of the fluorescent lights overhead.

The room steadily filled with students, yet everything remained curiously orderly; everyone was quiet, settling into their assigned seats, rifling through papers and organizing their stationery with careful, deliberate movements. 007n7 sat near the window, where the morning light slanted through the high panes, casting faint, wavering streaks across her desk.

She took a deep breath, trying to center herself, to focus on preparing for the first exam: English, set for exactly thirty minutes.

Elliot sat at the desk next to hers, his expression casual, but his eyes flicked toward her from time to time, just enough to keep her senses on edge. 007n7 forced herself not to notice him too much, slowing her breathing, relaxing her shoulders, though she could still feel a subtle electric tension every time his pen moved across the page.

Her heart thumped lightly, a mix of anxious anticipation and the fear of distraction. But then she reminded herself of her own abilities — English had always been a place of joy, a sanctuary. She had long been a self-taught writer, diving into websites and forums, practicing grammar, expanding her vocabulary, writing essays for the sheer pleasure of it, a quiet way to escape the chaos of the world around her.

Her pencil glided across the paper, letters and sentences flowing naturally, smoothly, like a gentle stream of water. In less than twenty minutes, 007n7 had completed her essay, lifting her head with a quiet sigh of relief.

Her eyes wandered to the view outside the window, where branches swayed lightly in the breeze, golden leaves drifting lazily to the ground, sunlight splintering across the floor in dancing, flickering patches. A rare, serene calm washed over her chest, as though she were experiencing, for the first time, a corner of the world free from threat or danger.

But The Spawn, standing at the teacher’s desk, did not remain idle for long.

They stepped down from the podium, their white wings fluttering gently with each measured breath, light spilling from them to illuminate the students’ desks, lending the room a quiet yet otherworldly atmosphere. Their presence alone commanded attention; every student instinctively straightened in their seats, careful with each movement.

Though they “saw” not in the ordinary way, every gesture, every glance of the students seemed to fall within their perception. A few students were reminded sharply, and some even escorted out for attempts at cheating. 007n7 observed silently, inwardly impressed: “Remarkable… it’s as if they can see everything, even without eyes.” A small, private smile curved on her lips, a mix of respect and quiet admiration for the strange power The Spawn wielded.

The room remained tense yet hushed, every passing minute a clear marker of the rhythm of life inside this unusual space. Amid the scratch of pencils and the rustle of paper, 007n7 maintained focus, completing her work while noting Elliot’s occasional glances, while simultaneously feeling The Spawn’s presence brushing over the room like a soft, commanding wind. It was a strange blend of pressure and fascination, a mixture of nervous anticipation, subtle excitement, and unnameable curiosity.

She set her pencil down slowly, noticing the wall clock — only ten minutes remained. Her heart still thumped in her chest, but now it was a lighter, steadier rhythm, no longer constricting her with tension. She closed her eyes briefly, inhaling deeply, letting the rare, fragile peace flow through her veins, along every nerve, a delicate calm in the midst of what should have been chaos.

The Spawn returned to the podium, moving with deliberate, unhurried grace. Light from their wings cascaded across the students’ faces, making her shiver slightly while also feeling an inexplicable sense of security. In that instant, 007n7 realized something profound: amidst a world of chaos and a past haunted by shadows, this was the first time she had ever felt that an examination space could be both rigorous and — almost gently — serene, a place where discipline and comfort somehow coexisted in perfect, improbable balance.

The English exam ended, and The Spawn gently announced a five-minute break before the next test, Mathematics, after a tense sixty minutes that had passed in quiet focus.

The room suddenly stirred with life; the rustle of papers, the creak of chairs, the soft whispers and low murmurs of students discussing the questions made the atmosphere at once electric and lively. Some students smiled confidently, eagerly recounting how they had answered the questions, while others frowned, sighing and complaining about the trickier problems.

007n7 remained seated, hands resting lightly on her satchel, eyes cast downward at the blank page in front of her, though her mind drifted elsewhere, catching fragments of conversations, bursts of laughter, and the quickened breaths of the room around her.

Then, without warning, a strange sensation brushed along her back, a light touch on her shoulder. 007n7 startled, spinning around—and there he was. Elliot, standing there with a smile that seemed to capture the brilliance of the morning sun filtering through leafy branches, eyes glowing amber like tiny stars scattered across the night sky.

Her heart skipped a beat, her breath caught in her chest, a swirl of shyness and anticipation tightening in her chest. She realized she was looking at someone who seemed to radiate light from within, someone whose mere smile could make her feel simultaneously flustered and comforted, anxious and strangely safe all at once.

“Hi, 007n7!” His voice rang bright and warm, like a gentle breeze brushing away the weight of a long, tense day. Elliot tilted his head slightly, curiosity and friendliness shining in his eyes, energy spilling off him like he wanted to explore every corner of the person before him.

007n7’s pulse quickened, a fluttering nervousness creeping in; she had never imagined she could feel such immediate closeness to someone she had only just met. She gave a small, tentative nod, still awkward, as if standing under a vast sky without knowing where to step.

Noticing her hesitancy, Elliot laughed—a clear, joyous sound that echoed lightly through the room, and 007n7 felt a warm energy spread through her chest. He tapped her shoulder lightly, maintaining that genuine, easy gaze. “I won’t bite! I’m Elliot, you know, right? We’re both first-years here. Let me get to know you a little!” His voice carried a quiet promise of safety, a lifeline tossed across an endless sea, and for the first time in a while, 007n7 felt a small measure of calm settle within her.

Her brow furrowed in awkwardness, her thoughts jumbled with fleeting questions: Do I even deserve to be friends with him? Does he think I’m strange? Her hand trembled slightly, but she slowly extended it, taking Elliot’s hand in hers—a small, silent greeting, an unspoken agreement between two people tentatively reaching toward friendship.

“Uh… yes… okay,” she murmured, voice husky, but her eyes met his with a flicker of trust. A peculiar warmth spread through her chest, easing the tension she had carried, lifting the weight of fear and lingering guilt from old memories. All that remained was this singular, peaceful moment—bathed in laughter, light, and the gentle presence of a new companion.

. . .

The math exam began, and the room fell into a strange, almost reverent silence. Only the soft rustle of paper and the faint scratch of pencils against sheets of paper could be heard.

007n7 sat at her desk, slightly hunched, her hands trembling a little as she held her pencil, yet the fear that had gripped her before had faded somewhat. The pressure was still there, heavy on her shoulders, but with Elliot sitting beside her, eyes full of reassurance and a smile as bright and warm as morning sunlight, a portion of her anxiety seemed to melt away, leaving a gentle, calming warmth behind.

Elliot leaned over, his curious amber eyes sparkling as he peeked playfully at her work. “You’re fast… how do you write so quickly?” he whispered, his voice low and warm, tinged with genuine interest.

007n7 felt her cheeks flush and ducked her head, forcing herself to concentrate on the exam, voice trembling slightly as she murmured, “I… I’ve practiced this type of problem before.” There was a subtle confidence in her tone, mingled with a faint shyness at being observed. Her heart raced, her breathing quickened, yet an invisible smile blossomed within her, easing the rhythm of her pulse ever so slightly.

The Spawn remained near the teacher’s desk, standing silently yet with an intense, ever-watchful presence. They didn’t need eyes like humans, but every motion, every gesture, every breath of both 007n7 and Elliot fell within their supernatural awareness.

Their long, pale fingers tapped rhythmically against the edge of the desk, producing a soft clicking sound that seemed to echo the beating of 007n7’s heart, emphasizing each moment of anxiety, anticipation, tension, and exhilaration that coursed through her.

Elliot bent closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “Hey… I can show you a little trick, but only for the tricky parts, okay? I promise, no cheating.”

007n7 sniffled softly, caught between embarrassment and a warm sense of trust. “Oh… no… I can manage on my own… but… if you want to help, then… okay.” A peculiar sensation spread through her body, as though the initial fear had softened, replaced by a rare, comforting assurance.

They began exchanging gentle, hushed advice, quick hints for the problems, occasionally their eyes meeting, making 007n7’s heart thrum even faster. Elliot would point with his ruler, hand her an eraser, or indicate a plus or minus sign with careful attention, his gaze imbued with pure consideration.

There was no pressure, only a gentle support that made 007n7 feel a delight she had never known, a simple, innocent joy that had no place in the nightmares of her past.

The Spawn moved silently around the room, observing with quiet precision. They noted that Elliot was not a source of stress; on the contrary, every gesture and motion he made helped 007n7 relax, her breathing steadying, her focus sharpening. For the first time, a rare smile tugged at the corners of The Spawn’s otherwise emotionless face—though they would never admit it—seeing her gradually ease into her own rhythm, no longer trembling or faltering.

Time passed so quickly that 007n7 barely noticed it, and then the final bell rang, a triumphant signal marking a small victory. She exhaled, lifting her eyes from the page, surveying the fruits of her effort. Elliot looked up as well, amber eyes glinting with delight. “You did really well, 007n7! I knew you could do it!”

007n7 nodded softly, a small, shy smile breaking across her lips. “Thanks… you did well too.”

The Spawn furrowed their brow, tilting their head as if evaluating, noting her progress, yet maintaining their aura of cold authority. They moved silently around the room, pausing briefly by 007n7 before continuing their watch. Every step carried an almost supernatural weight, making their presence palpable to all, yet 007n7 felt no fear. Elliot remained at her side, his warm gaze a steady anchor that seemed to dissolve all lingering tension.

As the final bell rang, signaling the end of the exam, the students gradually filed out of the room, gathering their books and papers, moving in a chaotic yet somehow disciplined procession, each of them heading toward the next rooms to prepare for the final two tests.

Only The Spawn remained behind, their towering, ethereal presence filling the empty space, but 007n7 had already walked away, shoulder brushing against Elliot’s, their laughter mingling as they chatted lightly while taking each step.

Every footfall, though soft and measured, seemed to prick The Spawn’s awareness, freezing them in place; its normally unreadable expression hidden beneath the mask of white ice revealed faint irritation, a subtle but undeniable disturbance rippling through their perfect composure.

Slowly, they returned to their original form, a vision of a flawless deity, radiant and pure, shining as though the very light of heaven had descended to mingle on this mortal plane. Two wings, impossibly white and elegant, curved in gentle arcs, vibrating slightly with the rhythm of their breath, sending shimmering waves of light that danced around their body.

Yet despite this halo of divine brilliance, their true feelings were not concealed: the pale, perfect hands, which had been solemnly clasped together, now fidgeted and scratched at each other in a tense, almost impatient rhythm, an unmistakable sign of envy and frustration. Each contact sent subtle ripples through the radiance surrounding them, a visual manifestation of the gnawing, uncontrollable irritation simmering just beneath the surface.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, The Spectre appeared, materializing silently in the dim, shadowed room. Its black-and-red form drifted with deliberate slowness, the faint glimmer of knowing eyes peeking mischievously from behind a smirk that seemed both mocking and curious.

“So,” it murmured, its voice low and warm, carrying a teasing, inquisitive undertone, “how was it? After spending time with her, what do you feel?”

The Spawn frowned, bowing its head slightly, lips moving in quiet mutterings—whether a prayer or a curse, no one could discern. A minute passed in tense silence before it spoke, voice deep, slightly hoarse but imbued with unmistakable authority: “The Spawn sees… she is innocent, pure… but… she is close to that blonde-haired one. The Spawn… is not pleased.”

The Spectre only let out a soft sigh, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at its lips, a hand resting lightly on The Spawn’s shoulder in a gesture meant to soothe. “It’s alright, I understand,” it said, voice warm, reassuring, carrying a subtle encouragement as if trying to temper the deity’s growing anger.

The Spawn scowled, jerking the hand away, eyes narrowing with a glare so intense it might have seared the very air. “Remove your filthy hand from The Spawn’s shoulder!” it muttered, or perhaps it simply glared, the command vibrating through the silence, an unspoken roar of jealousy, dissatisfaction, and mortally wounded pride—all etched into every tense movement, every rigid gesture of this divine being trapped in human emotions.

The Spectre chuckled softly, tilting its head at The Spawn with a glint of knowing mischief in its eyes. “Ha… still the same, huh? Never willing to yield.” A soft glow emanated from its form, casting dancing shadows across the walls, a subtle reminder that no matter the scope of one’s power, even a god cannot fully control the raw, simple currents of emotion.

The Spawn’s gaze remained fixed on 007n7 and Elliot as they walked farther away, yet in the depths of its being, a fragment of it was undeniably drawn to the warmth, the light, the unassuming joy that these two small, fragile humans carried with them. It inhaled deeply, attempting to regulate the tempest within, while its hands trembled slightly, betraying a rare, fragile softness beneath the facade of untouchable divinity.

The Spectre’s gaze lingered on The Spawn, a playful lilt in its tone, voice low and teasing: “Come now, don’t tense up so much. She’ll be fine… and you—learn a little restraint.” Words both teasing and comforting, they left The Spawn silent, watching the young pair with careful attention, yet the fire in its chest had softened, dulled by the subtle warmth of the human light.

And though its divine aura still shimmered with blinding brilliance in the dim room, there was a quiet, almost tender undercurrent now weaving through the being, a small concession to the uncontainable pull of simple, earthly emotion.

“Do you know where the next exam room is?” Elliot leaned slightly closer, his bright amber eyes glinting like twin crystals, warm and attentive, while his hand lightly held hers, conveying an unspoken sense of comfort and trust that made 007n7’s chest flutter in a way she couldn’t fully describe.

She furrowed her brows, digging through her memory of the school’s hallway layout, then answered, voice trembling slightly from a mix of nerves and shyness: “Uhm… I think it’s over there… Walk straight a bit, then turn left… it should be right there…”

“Wow! Your memory is amazing!” Elliot exclaimed, the light in his eyes suddenly blazing like headlights cutting straight through the fog of her nerves. 007n7 could only offer a small, self-conscious smile, waving a hand as if to say, It’s nothing… I just remembered a bit. Yet despite her words, her heart raced with an odd mixture of pride and embarrassment, a warmth spreading through every inhale and exhale, making her feel alive in a way that was almost dizzying.

Hand in hand, they walked down the long, gleaming hallways, where the overhead lights cast narrow streaks across the polished tile floor, turning each step into a rhythmic melody that somehow echoed the pulse of their own hearts.

The simple contact of their hands created a steady, comforting connection, a tether that made 007n7 feel simultaneously secure and acutely aware of every subtle movement, every heartbeat that thumped in time with Elliot’s presence beside her. The sound of their footsteps, soft yet precise, seemed to compose a private soundtrack for the moment—a little symphony meant only for them.

When they reached the door to the exam room, 007n7 drew a slow, deep breath, her hand tightening slightly in Elliot’s, and together they pushed the door open. But the instant her gaze fell into the room, her eyes widened as if they wanted to leap from their sockets.

Standing there was a teacher—but not any ordinary teacher. This figure looked as though he had stepped straight out of a living Halloween festival, a creature of spectacle and strangeness that made the room feel simultaneously thrilling and absurd.

His hair was black as midnight, reflecting the light so that each strand seemed to radiate a faint crimson aura. Two wolf-like ears jutted up from the crown of his head, weaving into his hair like something plucked from a dark fairy tale, a combination at once terrifying and comical. He wore an extravagant Venetian-style mask in a vivid, blood-red hue, its ornate curves glowing under the overhead lights, while his eyes behind it shone like flickering embers, staring directly at 007n7 with a strange mixture of challenge and seriousness.

The overall impression was uncanny: a creature that might have been a vampire in some bizarre, gothic story—menacing, but somehow faintly humorous at the same time.

007n7 furrowed her brows, both bewildered and struggling to suppress a laugh. This school was truly unlike anything she had ever seen before. The Spawn had already left her reeling with their divine, otherworldly presence, and now this—this teacher, a flamboyant, cosplay-like figure out of a carnival of oddities—pushed her sense of reality into delightful chaos.

She murmured quietly to herself, almost in disbelief, Oh my God… I’m going to die laughing. This school is insane… but also kind of amazing.

Elliot, catching the flicker of amusement on her face, couldn’t hold back his own chuckle. His amber eyes sparkled with delight, reflecting a similar mixture of astonishment and amusement, as if he, too, found the strangeness of the scene irresistible. “See that?” he whispered, just loud enough for her to hear while keeping his grin, “This teacher… looks exactly like a Halloween vampire from a comic book, right?”

It seemed as if Nosferatu had heard the small teasing remark Elliot had whispered, for suddenly the teacher emitted a strange, sharp hisssss eerily like the bats from old horror stories. The sound echoed through the room, making hearts jump and the skin crawl at once; it was terrifying, yet somehow… impossible not to react to.

But what truly froze everyone in place wasn’t just the sound—it was the posture.

Nosferatu was hanging upside down from the ceiling, legs curled like a colossal bat, his black cloak fluttering as if alive, catching the light in a way that made him appear as though he had just emerged from the depths of hell itself. The sight was so bizarre and striking that 007n7 felt her breath hitch involuntarily, caught between awe, fear, and the faintest thread of exhilaration.

The rest of the class, particularly the newer students, froze in sheer disbelief, their wide eyes darting from one to another as tiny, nervous murmurs escaped: “Oh… oh…” The trembling in their voices betrayed both fear and excitement.

007n7, meanwhile, sat quietly gripping her pencil, her knuckles whitening, heart hammering like it might burst from her chest. She tried to steady herself, a mixture of thrill and terror churning together, while Elliot fought a grin, hands clutching the edge of the desk as his amber eyes gleamed with a combination of amusement and nervous anticipation.

No one dared make another joke. Every student instinctively understood that this was no mere prank.

If Nosferatu were truly to lose his temper, who knew what might happen—he could plummet from the ceiling like an actual vampire, fangs flashing, ready to strike any careless soul. The silence that settled over the room was so complete that 007n7 could hear her own breathing, the rustle of papers from her classmates, even the cautious steps of someone moving back to their seat. Every tiny sound seemed amplified, stretched thin by the tension hanging in the air.

Once the students had regained their composure and settled into their seats, Nosferatu lingered a moment longer in his upside-down perch, arms crossed over his chest, long black hair cascading downward, eyes glowing a burning red with an almost supernatural gleam.

Then, with the grace and chill of a sudden wind, he dropped down onto his chair, the cloak swirling dramatically around him, making a soft swish that sent a shiver through every observer. Straightening his cloak, he cleared his throat, voice deep, cold, and commanding:

“Call me Nosferatu. I am a vampire-werewolf hybrid, indeed. Anyone who dares to cheat… I will descend… and bite straight into your neck… understood?”

The words rolled through the exam room, heavy and echoing, a curious mixture of menace and absurdity. Some students shivered, bowing their heads, hands clutching pencils in a terrified yet oddly thrilled compliance. Elliot, unable to resist, winked at 007n7, murmuring just loud enough for her to hear, “Did you hear that? He looks like he just stepped out of a horror comic, but… honestly, it’s kind of fun!”

007n7 let a quiet smile bloom inside her chest, her pulse still racing, her stomach fluttering with a delicious mix of apprehension and amusement.

She thought, Oh my god… this school really is the strangest place I’ve ever set foot in… but it’s so fascinating that I don’t even want to leave. The exam room door closed gently behind them, light catching her hair, her eyes sparkling with curiosity—and just a hint of that thrilling, mischievous fear that made the moment unforgettable.

Chapter Text

The exam officially began. The sharp click of the wall clock sliced through the silence, like a starting gun firing at the beginning of a race.

The entire room seemed to freeze—air thick, heavy, almost suffocating. 007n7 drew in a long breath. The faint smell of fresh paper mixed with the sterile tang of floor bleach curled into her lungs, making a tiny shiver run down her spine. But she lowered her head, let her fingers wrap around the pen, and—like a switch had been thrown inside her—she began to write.

Her hand moved in a steady, fluid blur across the crisp white page, graceful yet impossibly fast, as if she were trying to outrun time itself. The first sheet filled up in seconds. She flipped to the second. Then the third. Her handwriting stayed neat, unwavering, as though the pen had been trained for this pace her entire life.

Every question felt strangely familiar, like they had lived inside her mind for months, only waiting for this exact moment to spill out onto the page. She wanted to finish early, to escape this suffocating room, to find some quiet corner where she could finally lean back, close her eyes, and stop hearing her heartbeat pounding like war drums in her ears.

Elliot, seated beside her, was diligently working—at first.

Then he glanced over.

And froze.

“You’re… seriously writing that fast?” he whispered, voice smaller than a mosquito’s buzz, yet full of pure disbelief.

She didn’t reply. She only gave the slightest nod. Focus was all she could afford.

But it wasn’t just Elliot. Nosferatu—the proctor, the teacher, the creature who now had a legal name apparently—noticed her too. From the back of the room, his sharp red eyes glimmered behind his glasses, narrowing a fraction as he watched her wrist sweep across the pages.

A cold prickle traveled up her neck, making her spine straighten as rigid as a ruler. She still wrote on, even though it felt as if some predator in the dark had fixated on her pulse.

Nosferatu’s proctoring style was… a specialty, to say the least.

At first, he patrolled the aisle between desks with long, deliberate strides, his black cloak whispering across the tiles like a prelude to doom. Anyone even thinking of bending down to peek at hidden notes or sneaking a glance at a neighbor immediately stiffened and pulled their hands back.

But then, only a few minutes later, he casually slipped toward the door. “I’ll step outside for a moment,” Nosferatu said, tone so normal it was almost suspicious.

Thud. The door shut behind him.

The room held its breath collectively. A few seconds of perfect, terrifying silence.

Then—flick!—a tiny sound came from the upper corner of the ceiling.

A bat.

A small one, jet-black fur, glowing ember-red eyes… fluttering silently through the exam room.

Of course, it wasn’t a normal bat. Everybody knew that.

A boy at the back tried to slide a cheat sheet under his desk with the tip of his shoe.

The bat darted down instantly, sank its teeth into his neck in one lightning-fast nip.

“Ah—!” Before the boy could yelp fully, Nosferatu materialized behind him in a gust of icy air, blowing a freezing breath right into his face.

“Out. Now.”

His voice was so deep it made the floor vibrate.

The boy whimpered, grabbed his bag, and bolted without looking back.

Another student tried opening her phone in the shadow beneath her desk.

Another sharp bite.

Another chilling hiss.

Another victim dragged out of the exam room by the terrifying half-vampire, half-wolf professor.

007n7 watched all of it with a cold knot tightening in her spine.

Holy… I’m lucky I didn’t get bit.

But Nosferatu kept staring at her. Not because she was cheating—she definitely wasn’t—but because she was writing so fast he looked genuinely convinced she might be casting some arcane spell underneath the table.

She tried to ignore him. She really did.

But that red glare followed every flick of her wrist, every shift of her fingers, every line she wrote. It felt like if she wrote even a little faster, he might swoop down and inspect her pen for hidden sorcery.

Elliot nudged her elbow gently, whispering through the side of his mouth: “Uh… you’re going so fast he thinks you’re cheating, you know…”

Without lifting her eyes from the page, she breathed out: “You worry for me. I’m all out of worry.”

The exam room settled into an atmosphere half tense, half absurdly surreal.

The scratch of pens.

The rustle of turning papers.

The faint fluttering of leathery bat wings.

The relentless pounding of her heart, loud like a horror movie jump-scare waiting to happen.

Finally, when she pressed the last period onto the final page, she dropped her pen with a soft tap and leaned back. Everything was complete—clean, precise, flawless. Relief washed through her like warm water.

She glanced at Elliot. He was still stuck on question seven.

Nosferatu was hovering near the ceiling in his bat form, staring down at her with an expression that hovered somewhere between admiration… and suspicion.

At the very least, she told herself, she was in one piece. And her neck had no bite marks.

. . .

Her exam ended so neatly, so flawlessly, that even she felt a strange sense of disbelief. It was almost surreal—as though the moment she lifted her pen off the page, some invisible weight slid off her chest and thudded onto the floor. A lightness draped over her shoulders, subtle but comforting, like the first breath after surfacing from deep underwater.

She knew she had done well. Not just well—perfectly, immaculately, without even the tiniest mistake. Even the strictest grader wouldn’t be able to nitpick a single thing. She packed her papers, slid the sheets together with a practiced motion, tucked her pen into the small pocket of her bag, and zipped it closed.

Elliot was already waiting by the door, waving both hands as if she might somehow miss him. “007n7! Cafeteria time! I’m starving to death over here!”

She let out a small laugh and opened her mouth to answer, “Just give me a sec—”

But before she could push her chair back fully, a massive shadow fell across her desk.

Nosferatu.

He stood there—towering, unmoving, an obstruction so solid it felt like someone had dropped a blackout curtain over half the classroom. The air thickened, compressed by his very presence. She froze mid-motion and then slowly lifted her head… then higher… and higher before she finally reached his face.

He was absurdly tall. The kind of tall that made people wonder what exactly he ate and whether it was legal. One of Nosferatu’s hands covered half his mouth, and those crimson eyes narrowed, slicing across her like twin blades.

“007n7.”

His voice rumbled out, deep enough to make the wooden floorboards tremble underfoot.

“Yes?” she replied, tilting her head with the most harmless smile she could manage. He wasn’t giving off any hostile intent, but something about his aura still made her skin prickle. She assumed he was about to question her speed, maybe interrogate her over the possibility of cheating. She braced herself for it.

Instead.

Thud.

His hand landed on her shoulder. Firm. Heavy. And without warning, he shoved her right back into the chair.

“Ah—!”

She fell onto the seat with a sharp jolt, pain shooting through her lower back as the desk gave a startled crack under the impact.

“Sir—what are you—”

But she didn’t even finish the sentence before Nosferatu leaned down—fast—and wrapped his cold fingers around her ankle. In one swift, precise motion, he lifted the hem of her pant leg.

Quick. Efficient. Unnervingly clinical.

Exactly like a doctor who’s just spotted something wrong and reacts without hesitation.

“Wait—” She jerked a little, heart stuttering, not sure whether she should pull away or scream.

Then she saw what he saw.

Long, raw scratches ran down her calf and crept partially up her thigh—angry red lines, some still beading small traces of blood. A few deeper ones had dried, but they still stung sharply.

Last night she’d been too stressed to think straight and had clawed at her skin without noticing. And this morning, rushing to get dressed, she hadn’t checked at all.

The air stiffened.

Nosferatu leaned closer, and his crimson eyes darkened, a dangerous glint flaring inside them—like a predator jolted awake by the scent of fresh blood.

“What is this?” he murmured.

His voice no longer sounded like that of a strict proctor. It was low, tense—animalistic. A creature trying very, very hard not to let instinct take over.

Good thing the exam room was empty. Just the two of them.

She swallowed, forcing an awkward shrug. “Um… stress habit. I do that sometimes…” The last part of her sentence rose in a joking tone, as if she could laugh this away.

Nosferatu didn’t laugh.

Didn’t smirk.

Didn’t look convinced in the slightest.

He frowned as he shifted his gaze from her wounds to her eyes. It wasn’t anger she saw there—no, it was something heavier. Disapproval. As though the idea of her hurting herself was more unacceptable than any cheating scandal he’d ever caught.

She tried to pull her leg back, but Nosferatu held her in place—not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to warn her against resisting.

“Self-harm isn’t a joke,” he said, exhaling a breath that sounded almost like a low growl simmering beneath his voice.

Then, without another word, he reached into the deep pocket of his cloak.

A soft rustle.

And he pulled out… a compact personal first aid kit.

She blinked.

“You… carry that around?”

“So I can bandage students after biting them,” he said with a perfectly straight face.

“???”

Nosferatu tore open a packet of gauze with his teeth, a motion so practiced and fluid she suspected he had done it thousands of times. He cleaned away the blood with surprising gentleness, then wrapped the bandage around her thigh with delicate precision—as if he were terrified of hurting her more than she already was.

When he finished, he tightened it slightly and tested the tension with a careful touch.

“You shouldn’t walk around with the smell of blood on you. You know how dangerous that is when you’re surrounded by… us.” His tone carried irritation, but beneath it—undeniably—lingered concern.

Her chest softened. A warmth spread through her ribs despite herself. “…Yes, sir. I’m sorry.”

Nosferatu stood, brushing a bit of dust from his cloak. He gave a curt nod, accepting her apology. He took a few steps toward the door, cloak fluttering behind him—then stopped.

He didn’t turn around.

But his voice resonated across the empty room:

“If I smell blood on you again because of these ridiculous stress habits…”

A pause.

“…I’ll drag you to the staff office and bandage you in front of the principal.”

“Sir! Please don’t—”

“Then behave.”

He exited with a sweep of black fabric.

And she remained frozen in her chair, heart racing, face burning, backside throbbing from the earlier impact.

What a day.

When the examination room door finally clicked shut behind Nosferatu, the sound echoed down the hallway like the final full stop to a chaotic test session. The corridor—long, hollow, and drenched in a muted half-light—seemed to swallow every noise whole, leaving behind only a thin, wandering draft that slithered through the cracks of the old building.

He walked on.

Each step landed with a steady thud, thud, thud against the cold tiles, but nothing about his mind matched that rhythmic calmness.

He drew in a breath.

There it was,

that faint trace.

The smell of blood.

Barely noticeable, as fragile as a half‑remembered taste lingering on the tongue. Yet for someone like him—half vampire, half wolf—even a whisper of it was enough to jolt every sense awake, scraping raw at nerves he wished would stay numb.

“That little girl…”

His teeth ground together, his brows tightening beneath the shadow of the crimson mask. The harsh red reflected on his skin, sharpening the feral glint in his pale eyes until they looked almost furious.

Something restless churned in his chest—hot, twitching, alive.

Not hunger.

Not the predatory instinct embedded deep in his blood.

Something else.

Something he had not prepared for and absolutely did not welcome.

At first, 007n7 had been nothing more than an ordinary student—quiet to the point of disappearing, small in stature, always sitting slightly curled as though trying to hide from the world. The only unusual thing about her was the speed at which she completed her exam: fast enough to raise suspicion in any invigilator.

Still manageable. Still within boundaries.

Until he smelled the blood.

Not the scent of an accidental scrape.

Not something caused by clumsiness or misfortune.

But the blood of someone who had hurt herself.

That’s what drove him out of his mind.

His hand curled into a fist, knuckles cracking. His sharp nails scraped faintly against his palm, a sound dry and brittle, like the flutter of bat wings in a cavern.

Nosferatu hated this feeling.

Hated the uninvited concern that crawled under his skin.

Hated the fact that he hadn’t thrown 007n7 out of the classroom for self‑harm…

…but had instead crouched down and bandaged her.

A half‑vampire, half‑wolf tending to the wounds of a fragile human girl. Absurd. Ridiculous. Completely laughable.

He stopped near a window, the afternoon sunlight pooling through the glass in a warm honey shade. It cast a burning halo across his mask—like a streak of fire. Turning slightly, he let the light strike his face directly, reflecting in his pale red irises.

And the memory hit him all at once.

007n7 sitting motionless, small shoulders trembling ever so slightly.

Her thin leg—bruised, scraped, bleeding.

Her dark eyes lifting toward him—obedient, soft, painfully gentle.

And her voice, quiet and airy, as though trying to laugh off her own pain: “Um… it’s just my habit when I get stressed, sir…”

Nosferatu clenched his jaw so hard it hurt.

“Ridiculous,” he muttered. “And she still smiled.”

Had it been any other student, he would have bitten them as a warning and kicked them out to teach them not to play with their life.

But with 007n7… he couldn’t.

He wouldn’t.

He literally did not have the ability to.

Everything about her unsettled him in ways he couldn’t articulate—as though two instincts inside him were locked in a constant battle: one urging him to protect, the other forcing him to keep his distance.

“So damn troublesome.”

He leaned against the wall, resting one hand on the chilled stone surface. The wolf ears atop his head twitched, reacting involuntarily to the storm of emotions crawling beneath his composure.

He had almost calmed down.

Almost.

Until another face flickered through his thoughts.

Elliot.

That annoyingly bright kid, glowing like a floodlight, always hovering around 007n7. Smiling like an overexcited sunflower. Clingy. Overbearing. And bold enough to hold her hand on the way to the exam room.

And the way he looked at her...

Heat shot up Nosferatu’s throat. Not the thirst for blood. But irritation, sharp and burning.

“That blond brat…” His voice slipped into a low growl, rough and animalistic, like a wolf snarling through its teeth. “If he lets her get hurt even one more time, I’ll tear a hole straight through his neck.”

Not a joke.

Not a bluff.

A promise.

He realized he was losing control. Quickly, he turned his head away, half‑covering his mouth with his sleeve as if trying to smother the emotions spilling out of him.

A long silence followed.

Finally, in a voice roughened by frustration, Nosferatu muttered to the empty hallway: “007n7 really is a nuisance.”

His shadow stretched across the wall, warped by the fading evening light.

“…But I can’t look away from her.”

He exhaled sharply—as though trying to shove the tangled mess of feelings out of his chest. Then he tightened his cloak around himself and continued walking down the corridor.

His footsteps echoed, melding with the dim, red‑tinged glow of dusk.

Farther.

And farther.

But that faint trace of blood,

and the image of her dark, gentle eyes,

clung to him like a ghost, haunting the edges of his reason, refusing to loosen its grip.

The cafeteria that midday was bustling with life, sunlight streaming through the large windows and splashing across the polished wooden tables, painting long, dancing streaks on the floor that moved to the rhythm of the leaves outside. Elliot and 007n7 sat across from each other, two glasses of fizzy lemon tea before them, the sharp, refreshing scent of citrus mingling with the warm, fragrant aroma of sandwiches stacked high with fresh vegetables, tender meat, and melted cheese, steam still curling off them.

They laughed easily, voices blending with the hum of the crowd around them, chatting about everything from classes and exams to small tricks for writing faster, the kind of lighthearted conversation that made hours seem like minutes. Elliot’s laugh rang bright and clear, like a shaft of sunlight cutting through the afternoon air, and 007n7 couldn’t help but join in, cheeks puffed as she chewed on a bite of sandwich, looking for all the world like a tiny, eager hamster, thoroughly engrossed in her snack.

Then, suddenly, a familiar, energetic voice rang out from the entrance.

“Elliot!”

007n7 didn’t even have to turn her head fully to recognize it. Her eyes widened just slightly. Chance. He stood there, hands planted firmly on his hips, his chestnut hair slicked neatly to one side, and his gaze immediately found Elliot, holding it there.

Elliot practically leapt out of his seat, forgetting even the sandwich in his hand. “He… he’s here?” His voice shook with excitement, almost vibrating with the sheer thrill of the moment.

Before 007n7 could even think of saying a word, Elliot had bounded forward and wrapped Chance in a tight embrace, pressing him gently as if trying to pour all the pent-up joy of the morning into that single gesture. Chance responded with a half-reluctant, half-indulgent hug, his eyes narrowing slightly but the corner of his mouth lifting in that rare, fleeting smile.

The cafeteria seemed to hum and ripple with laughter and chatter around them, as if the entire room had been drawn into their moment.

007n7 remained seated, mouth still half full of sandwich, puffed cheeks lending her an absurdly cute look, a mixture of surprise and mild embarrassment twisting her expression as she watched the familiar, easy intimacy unfold. She felt slightly out of place, a faint sting of being an observer, yet at the same time, a gentle warmth spread through her chest, soft and calming.

Finally, Chance released Elliot and stepped closer to the table where 007n7 sat. He leaned down slightly, eyes scanning quickly from her face to the plate of food in front of her.

“Oh! The little one is here too?” His voice carried a teasing edge, yet underneath, there was warmth, a friendly lilt that made the words feel like a welcome.

Elliot’s head popped up, eyes sparkling, turning to 007n7 with a curious tilt. “You know 007n7 too?”

007n7 gave a small nod, carefully finishing the bite in her mouth. Her voice was quiet, a little tremulous but clear, like sunlight glinting through leaves: “Mm… we just met this morning. He helped me find the principal’s office…”

Chance’s lips curved subtly, a glimmer of surprise and delight lighting his gaze. He lowered his voice slightly, but still loud enough for Elliot to catch: “Oh, so you got into a little trouble with the classrooms too… Are you okay?”

007n7 nodded, taking a deep, steadying breath, feeling a sudden, almost absurd lightness in her chest as she watched Elliot and Chance converse so comfortably. Her gaze flitted between them, seeing Elliot’s bright, open smile, Chance’s face half-serious, half-amused, and she couldn’t help but smile herself. This time, it wasn’t puffed-cheek hamster antics, but a soft, genuine curve of lips, small and warm.

Elliot kept sneaking glances at 007n7, chuckling under his breath, occasionally nudging her lightly: “Eat up, okay? You must be starving after that exam this morning.”

Chance tilted his head toward her, that subtle, lopsided grin playing on his lips. Leaning slightly forward, he added, “And be careful not to let Elliot eat all your sandwiches.” His tone was teasing, but there was an undercurrent of gentle protectiveness, which only made Elliot flush and grin sheepishly.

For a moment, the cafeteria seemed to shrink, drawing tight around the three of them: laughter, glances, the mingling aromas of sandwiches and fizzy lemon tea, all blending into a bubble of warmth and vibrancy. 007n7 felt her heart beat faster—not from fear, not from anxiety, but from a sense of being seen, of being held within a circle of care and connection that was forming naturally, quietly, between people who had seemed strangers moments ago but were now, somehow, becoming close.

It was a little, ordinary, chaotic, sunlit moment, yet it carried a magic all its own, the kind that made a person feel that, for just this brief while, the world outside could wait, and being here, laughing and sharing space, was more than enough.

They began to eat, taking bites of the warm, fragrant sandwiches and sipping at the slightly fizzy lemon tea, the tart scent of citrus mingling with the rich aroma of freshly baked bread, creating a soft, comforting perfume that lingered around them. Elliot couldn’t stop talking about 007n7, eyes sparkling with excitement.

“You know, I think you’re really smart! Watching you take that exam this morning, I could tell you’d finish everything quickly and neatly,” he said, voice innocent and full of admiration, making 007n7’s lips twitch into a small, almost reluctant smile. She stayed quiet for the most part, nodding lightly, answering only a few short questions, letting the conversation flow around her.

Chance, on the other hand, rambled on endlessly about the gifts his mother had bought him yesterday: a few expensive toy cars, each gleaming like they had just come out of a luxury boutique, along with tiny, perfectly arranged accessories.

Elliot’s eyes narrowed in curiosity, trying to follow every detail, while 007n7 only smiled slightly, eyes flickering with a mix of amusement and surprise. She didn’t say much, only responding when asked, yet a warm, subtle feeling seeped into her chest—this was conversation without pressure, without demands, simply being accepted in her quiet, shy presence.

Then, cutting through the warm, cozy atmosphere like a sharp blade, a voice rang out from the doorway:

“007n7.”

A shiver ran down her spine instantly. Her body froze, her heart skipping wildly in her chest. 007n7 lowered her gaze, trying desperately to hide her emotions, letting her long hair fall over most of her face, only her wide, transparent eyes visible, shimmering with a flicker of panic she couldn’t suppress.

Her breaths came in quick, uneven bursts, chest rising and falling in nervous rhythm. Elliot, sitting beside her, leaned in, eyes full of concern: “007n7… are you okay? Who called you?”

Chance pivoted too, scanning the room for the source, his eyes sharp with curiosity and caution. But 007n7 didn’t need to look—just sensing it was enough.

Mafioso.

Her “boyfriend.”

The man she both loved and feared, standing there calmly, hands resting at his sides, gaze cold yet faintly amused, tracking her every slight movement. Just the way she lowered her head, gripping half her glass of lemon tea, told him everything he needed to know about her state of mind.

No matter how much Elliot might have wanted to step forward or Chance to speak, she didn’t turn, didn’t answer. Her hair draped down, shielding her face, her eyes wide and bright as sunlight caught the strands, reflecting like mirrors directly into his gaze.

He looked calm, unhurried, showing no signs of irritation, yet there was a trace of dark amusement in those blade-sharp eyes when he saw the delicate fear written across her face from a single sound, a single utterance from his lips.

Mafioso tilted slightly, a subtle coiling motion, as if to touch her, but stopped there, keeping just enough distance to make her shiver without actually disturbing her.

Elliot remained tense, biting his lip, glancing between 007n7 and the man before her, a mixture of fear and curiosity warring in his expression. Who was this person—her boyfriend, or something else entirely—that could make her tremble so? Chance, alert and protective, tensed slightly, hand gripping the edge of the table, ready to intervene if anything happened.

The entire cafeteria seemed to pause, the usual hum of chatter, laughter, and chewing fading into a peculiar silence. Only Mafioso’s presence remained, his cold gaze and the fleeting curve of his lips, the quiet coil of 007n7’s body, Elliot’s racing heartbeat, and Chance’s controlled, tense breathing.

Mafioso stood there, silent, yet every line of his face, every slight raise of an eyebrow, every subtle lean of his body spoke volumes: he knew she was afraid, and he… rather enjoyed it.

007n7 felt the pressure, but strangely, there was also something almost reassuring in it, as if being seen so fully, so intensely, didn’t carry immediate danger. She lowered herself further, pressing the glass of tea firmly into her hands, thinking: Just don’t do anything… just stand there… that’s enough…

His eyes followed her every movement, breaths measured and even, recording each minute reaction as if storing them somewhere deep. A faint smile, barely a flicker, passed over his lips, and the cafeteria seemed to freeze in time, caught between warmth and tension, the ordinary sunlit midday moment suddenly charged with an unspoken electricity that neither Elliot nor Chance could disrupt.

Mafioso didn’t move immediately. He just stood there for a moment, silent, and in the shadowed depths of his eyes, there flickered something almost imperceptible, a faint glimmer of twisted amusement—a tiny, subtle pleasure, like the thrill of watching a toy that knows fear. It was small, almost elegant in its cruelty, yet undeniable, and 007n7 felt it prick at her skin even before he took a step forward.

Then, deliberately, slowly, he began to approach the table.

The sound of his leather shoes striking the tile floor was crisp and sharp, each thud… thud… thud echoing in the room like a pulse, each strike hammering directly into her chest.

Elliot, sitting beside her, fell silent, his hand curling instinctively into a fist, muscles tensed. Chance tilted his head slightly, lips twitching in a half-smile, eyes sharp and watchful, and 007n7—she could feel it before she saw it—the presence closing in, the weight of him.

Mafioso stopped right next to her. Not a word, not a single motion that suggested urgency or haste. He just stopped, deliberate and contained, a predator pausing to study its prey. And then, without warning, his hand reached out. The fingers were long, impossibly pale and cold, yet strong, frighteningly strong, and in a swift, precise motion, he grabbed her wrist.

Her body jerked like she had been shocked.

“—!”

The glass of lemon tea nearly toppled from her hands, liquid sloshing against the rim. Her skin brushed against his, and the coldness of him pierced through her like ice, freezing her mid-motion, leaving her unable to do anything but freeze in terrified stillness.

“Look at me.” His voice was soft, almost velvety, but underneath it hid a hidden edge, a knife waiting.

007n7 had no choice but to obey. She lifted her head, wide eyes shimmering and trembling, lashes fluttering, lips parting but no sound escaping. She felt herself being pinned in his gaze, and it wasn’t just a look—it was an imprint, meant to carve her image into his mind and, somehow, let him imprint himself onto hers.

“007n7, my little darling.” He spoke her name, voice smooth as silk yet sharp as steel, a duality that made her chest constrict.

Elliot sprang to his feet immediately, panic flooding his expression: “Hey—! What are you doing to 007n7?! Let go of her!”

Chance mirrored him, spine straight, eyes slicing the air like blades. “Hey. This is a school. You can’t just—”

But Mafioso didn’t spare them even a glance. Not once.

He bent closer, leaning just enough that his breath, a mix of icy cold and faint peppermint tobacco, brushed her face. The sensation made her shiver uncontrollably, a tremor running down her spine, heart hammering.

“This morning…” His voice dropped, almost a whisper, so low that only she could hear, yet every word struck with the precision of a needle, “…you stepped on the cake I gave you, didn’t you?”

007n7 froze. Eyes widening, heart thudding violently, the world narrowing down to the impossibility of him knowing.

“I-I…” Her voice was barely audible, trembling, caught somewhere between throat and panic.

He saw it all. He knew.

Mafioso tilted his head slightly, lips curling into a thin, almost cruel line, sharp enough to cut.

“I watched from the rooftop.” He leaned in close enough that Elliot almost lunged forward, “…saw you step on it… every single time.”

Elliot’s yell cracked the air: “…What?!”

Chance’s brow furrowed. “…That’s… weird as hell.”

007n7 remained frozen, every nerve ending tingling, every inch of her body feeling both paralyzed and exposed. Her hands trembled in his grip, skin pressed against skin, the warmth of her blood pumping fiercely under his fingers.

He tightened his hold ever so slightly—not enough to hurt, but enough to remind her that he could. Then, lowering his head closer, whispering teasingly: “Wait for me at the school gate when you leave.”

It was like Pandora’s box opening in her chest, releasing a storm of panic, desire, and dread all at once. Her heart hammered so violently it felt like it might leap out, legs turning to jelly beneath her. Elliot’s protest erupted: “NO! 007n7 is going with us! I won’t let you—”

“Elliot.” Mafioso’s voice cut through like stone, cold and unyielding.

For the first time, he glanced at Elliot, and the look was enough to swallow all words before they could form. It was a predator’s gaze, freezing Elliot from inside out, sending shivers down his spine. Chance raised an eyebrow, trying to appear composed. “Yeah… okay. I understand the type. But forcing someone—”

Mafioso didn’t even turn. He ignored them entirely, all focus locked on 007n7.

He reached out, brushing a lock of hair from her face, a motion so impossibly gentle it contrasted violently with the weight of his presence, the pressure, the power he held over her entire being.

“I’ll wait for you.” His voice, low and soft, yet carrying enough force to shatter calm and instill both fear and longing, wrapped around her mind like a vise.

“Don’t make me come find you.”

Then he released her wrist. It felt like blood had finally returned to her hand after being trapped, frozen, under some invisible weight.

Mafioso turned, walking away with the same calm, measured grace, his towering silhouette melding into the flow of students, leaving behind the echoes of authority, dominance, and a quiet, unnerving intimacy.

Behind him: Elliot, trembling with a mixture of anger and fear; Chance, more serious than she had ever seen him; and 007n7… sitting there, dazed, pale, eyes wide, heart pounding, knowing all too well what he was capable of.

And the scariest truth… the terrifying, undeniable fact…

…she couldn’t run.

Chapter Text

It was time to leave.

The school gates were crowded, teeming with students, the hum of motorbikes, the chatter, the laughter—it should have been just noise, just background. But for 007n7, everything seemed compressed into a thick, suffocating fog, a haze that dulled all the world except the thudding of his own heart.

He stepped out, shoulders hunched as if trying to disappear completely from existence, wishing the ground would swallow him whole. The hoodie Elliot had lent him was far too big, hanging heavy, swallowing him up almost entirely. The hood covered his head, shadows masking his face, making him look like a clumsy little thief caught in the act.

He didn’t care. He didn’t care about appearances, didn’t care about anything but surviving, about just making it home without incident.

“Get moving, 118o8…” His phone was clutched tight in his hand, the screen glowing faintly, a lifeline. Please… please… His thoughts whispered to himself, silent prayers hanging in the fog of panic. His friend was on the way, just a few minutes out. That had to be enough.

He glanced around quickly. No Mafioso. No familiar black suit looming in the crowd. No cold, knife-like gaze slicing through the students milling about. Relief flooded him, shallow but undeniable. He stepped forward two more hesitant paces, chest tightening with the faint hope that maybe, just maybe, this would be his moment to slip past, to vanish into safety.

And then—

Snap.

A hand shot out from behind, diving straight into the hood of his hoodie, yanking hard.

His head jerked back violently, pain shooting up through his skull, spine snapping straight with the force.

“Ah—! Ouch! It hurts—!”

Mafioso’s fingers threaded into his hair, gripping tightly, painfully. The cold bite of his touch sent shivers crawling up 007n7’s scalp, freezing his body in place.

“You whore.” The word was a low growl, his breath cold against 007n7’s ear, sending a shiver down the spine like ice water flooding the veins. Danger. Pure, unadulterated danger.

Every muscle in 007n7’s body locked, his hands trembling as they clutched the man’s wrist, trying to wrench himself free, but he was weak, small, a fragile thing, a scrawny cat caught in the grasp of something far larger, far stronger.

“M-Mafioso… i-it hurts…” His voice was nothing more than a choked whisper, broken, scattered.

The man leaned closer, so close that the scent of expensive cologne mixed with the faint tang of gunpowder filled his nose, curling around him like a predator savoring its prey.

“You thought you could run huh?” Mafioso’s voice was low, soft, but it cut like steel. There was no need to raise it; the threat, the command, the power was already absolute.

He slammed 007n7 down onto the cement. No hesitation, no mercy, just the brutal, crushing force of it. His back hit first, then his face—the sound was wet, heavy, horrifying.

“—!”

Blood welled immediately from his nose, dripping in thick, hot rivulets onto the ground, mingling with dust and dirt, and the world blurred. The sky, the students, the gates—all faded into a gray smear. He coughed harshly, curling into himself instinctively as Mafioso loomed above, casting a shadow that felt like the end of the world, a living nightmare pressing down on him.

Then the kick came, straight to his stomach. Air whooshed violently out of his lungs, leaving him gasping, clutching his abdomen, curling tighter, trying desperately to breathe, to live, to make sense of the pain, the fear.

“You fucking idiot.” The voice was close again, and his shirt was grabbed, yanked upward so Mafioso could see his pale, bruised face, the fear written plainly there. “Do you really think you can run?”

Another kick.

Ribs screamed in protest; tears filled his eyes, blurring everything.

Was it fear, pain, humiliation? He couldn’t tell anymore.

And then—

A crisp, sudden CRACK!

Mafioso’s head jerked violently to the side. He staggered back three steps, hands braced on his knees for balance, a thin line of blood trickling from his nose down to his lips.

Someone was coming.

A roar shattered the chaos, loud enough to cut through the confusion and the murmuring crowd:

“YOU SON OF A BITCH!!!”

118o8.

She came like a firestorm, hair flying in wild tangles, eyes blazing red with rage. Before Mafioso could even process, she threw a punch, aiming straight for his jaw.

SMASH!

“TOUCH 007N7?!” Her voice was raw, hoarse with fury, every syllable carrying the weight of uncontainable anger.

Mafioso’s jaw clenched, he turned his head, licking the blood from his split lip. His eyes darkened, yet in that darkness danced a strange, unsettling amusement. “Oh?” He smirked, tilting his head. “You came to pick him up?”

118o8 didn’t respond. She launched another strike, a sideways kick, full force, the wind screaming past even those not trained in combat. He blocked, staggering back several steps, but she pressed relentlessly.

“Bastard!” Her shout cut through the air, punches and kicks raining down like hammers. “YOU DARE TOUCH MY 007N7?!”

007n7 lay sprawled on the cement, vision blurred with blood and tears, trying to lift his head but too dizzy, too weak. He could only watch. Watch as 118o8 and Mafioso collided, fire and darkness in a violent, burning dance, fists and legs flying, each strike radiating lethal intent.

Someone shouted. Students scattered, panicking, guards rushing forward.

But she didn’t stop.

“TOUCH 007N7…” She grabbed Mafioso by the collar, pulling him down to the level of her fists, “…AND I WILL TEAR YOUR FACE APART!!!”

Blood sprayed onto the concrete.

Mafioso laughed. Low, hoarse, chilling, and yet strangely exhilarated. “Interesting.”

007n7 lay there, trembling uncontrollably, caught between pain and terror, every nerve screaming, every heartbeat a drum of both suffering and survival.

“Oh? What’s happening here?”

A voice rang out from the far end of the corridor, crystal clear yet chilling, carrying through the space like a blade sliding over glass. It was delicate, almost weightless, like a breeze gliding across a windowpane, yet every note of it made the three of them shiver as though their bones had suddenly chilled.

Footsteps stopped. Breaths caught mid-air. The world seemed to freeze, constricted, squeezed into a single, tense moment.

The Spawn.

They were here.

Their figure appeared around the bend, neon lights flickering intermittently and reflecting off their eyes, stretching into two eerie trails of light that seemed to follow their every movement. Their coat swung with each step, radiating an oppressive presence so palpable that even Mafioso’s throat tightened involuntarily, and the hand that had been gripping 118o8’s collar slackened without him realizing it.

The Spawn halted in front of the chaotic scene: 118o8, fists still streaked with blood, chest rising and falling with anger and exertion; Mafioso, facing them, face darkened, lips twisted into an expression that suggested unease, irritation, or perhaps both; and then… 007n7—lying sprawled on the cold tile floor, pale and battered, blood trickling from the corner of his lips and the edges of his eyes.

They gasped—a soft, sharp sound, delicate yet cutting, like a razor through silk.

“Oh… my god…” Their eyes widened. “007n7! You… you’re hurt!”

They didn’t wait another second. Like a predator scenting the faintest trace of vulnerability, they moved, almost sliding across the floor to reach him, urgency etched into every motion, a careful speed that bordered on reckless.

They knelt beside his fragile body. “Look at me… 007n7, just look at me,” they said gently, voice steady despite the tension, coaxing him into focus.

His body felt impossibly light, fragile in a way that made them instinctively fear that even the slightest misstep might shatter him like delicate glass. They slid their arms under his frame, lifting him up with a care that was both fierce and tender, holding him like a child who had stumbled into danger.

His legs dangled limply, his head resting on their shoulder, every bruise and mark on his arms stark against the ripped fabric of his uniform, stark evidence of what he had endured.

They saw it all. Every cut, every mark, every shiver of fear. And their eyes—those eyes—shifted to a blazing red, a fury that felt as though it could ignite the air itself.

“Who did this to you?”

Their voice rumbled low, a growl that shook the space around them like a wild animal cornered and provoked. The tiles beneath their feet seemed to quiver with the intensity of their wrath.

007n7’s small hands clutched at their coat, shoulders trembling. He knew exactly who had brought him to this state.

Mafioso.

The man he had loved blindly, who had hurt him day after day, who had caused him to bleed not only from his body but from his heart.

He could whisper his name if he wanted, but… he didn’t.

He couldn’t.

His lips quivered, soundless. Tears streamed down hot and unrelenting, soaking the fabric of their uniform, and he nuzzled his face against their chest, seeking refuge, pressing into the rhythm of their furious heartbeat. Only here, in The Spawn’s arms, did he feel alive, did he feel safe, did he feel anything but raw, exposed terror.

“Don’t cry… I’m here now.” They whispered, large hands moving in soothing motions along his back, coaxing the tremors from his fragile body, letting him lean entirely on them without fear of being dropped or broken.

Finally, 118o8 seemed to regain herself, clarity cutting through the haze of rage. Her gaze snapped to Mafioso, now frozen in place, corner of his mouth lifting into a half-smile that was equal parts challenge and amusement.

Gritting her teeth, she rushed to The Spawn’s side. “Get him to the infirmary, now! Or these wounds will get infected!”

The Spawn turned briefly to meet her, "eyes" still burning with controlled anger, voice calm yet decisive: “Move. Cover the exit.”

118o8 shot forward, clearing the path, and The Spawn, holding 007n7 tightly, moved with a speed that bordered on running, steps urgent, precise, yet careful not to jostle him. They became a blur, a protective force barreling through the chaos, a living shield for the boy whose body had been battered and broken.

Behind them, Mafioso remained standing, silent, as though he could not comprehend why 007n7 had not even spoken, why he had not uttered the accusation that would make it all clear.

007n7’s chest rose and fell in weak, shallow breaths, each inhale shaky, each exhale a reminder that he was still alive, still clinging to the fragile thread of survival, cradled in the arms of someone who would not let him fall.

And though his body ached, though the blood and bruises screamed at him, a kernel of relief, sharp and bittersweet, settled somewhere deep inside him. They were here. They were real. They were everything standing between him and the storm he had lived under for far too long.

Hmm… Where am I?

A sudden burst of blinding light hit his eyes, making 007n7 squint instinctively, taking a deep, shaky breath to steady the rapid pounding of his heart. Everything around him was blurred, indistinct, a haze of pale shapes—soft white walls, the faint warm yellow of sunlight spilling through the window, and… softness.

His hand fumbled downward, brushing against something warm and yielding beneath him. It felt… like a bed. A soft, cloud-like bed draped in pristine white sheets that seemed both unfamiliar and strangely comforting at the same time, offering a quiet reassurance he hadn’t realized he’d been craving.

His body still throbbed with aches and dull pain from the blows he’d endured, every movement a reminder of how fragile he felt. Slowly, tentatively, he pushed himself up, blinking against the lingering dazzle, head spinning as though it might explode from the dizziness.

His hands trembled as they rose, touching his face lightly before settling again on the warm sheet covering him, letting the gentle heat seep into his skin. His mind felt strangely empty, almost blank, except for this faint, peculiar sense of relief, of being shielded, of finally being out of immediate danger.

Surely The Spawn had taken 118o8 and Mafioso to their room to deal with the aftermath, perhaps even called the principal of her school—he wasn’t entirely sure, but that thought offered a fragile thread of reassurance.

Suddenly, the door creaked open softly, a sound just distinct enough to make him flinch. Heart hammering, breaths short and uneven, 007n7 saw a figure step inside—a stranger, roughly his age, slender but quick and precise in their movements.

Their robe bore the enigmatic symbol of The Spawn, overlaid with a deep ocean-blue cloak that fluttered lightly with each step. Their black hair shimmered with hints of blue at the tips, blending seamlessly with the cloak’s shifting hues. Behind them, a pair of pale skeletal wings unfolded like ghostly appendages, and a long bony tail swayed with each movement, elegant yet unnerving, giving the impression of both majesty and gentle menace at once.

“Oh?” The voice was clear, light, carrying a note of gentle surprise, eyes dark and focused on him. In their hands, they cradled a steaming bowl of porridge, the delicate aroma warm and soothing, coaxing a slow, cautious inhale from 007n7.

The scent itself seemed to seep into him, coaxing some of the tension and pain from his body, grounding him, reminding him that he was still here, still breathing, still alive.

“You’re awake, huh? I’m Two Time, one of… the followers of Master The Spawn.” They bent slightly, carefully setting the steaming bowl before him, movements deliberate and gentle, cautious not to spill a drop or burn him.

007n7 frowned, a shiver running down his spine.

Two Time…? The zealot he had once heard rumors about… how could they look… harmless, even kind?

His body still trembled under the aftershocks of his injuries, every tiny movement a painful reminder of what he’d just endured.

Two Time’s expression softened, a faint, warm smile spreading across their face, eyes carrying concern and quiet reassurance. “I made this porridge for you. Eat it… get some strength back. It’s hot, so careful.” Their gaze met his, gentle yet firm, as if trying to pass on a bit of their calm, a touch of safety, something to anchor him in the storm of chaos he had just lived through.

007n7 felt it—warmth radiating from the bowl, from their hands, from the quiet attentiveness in their eyes—and with it, his trembling subsided just enough. He nodded slightly, his small hands wrapping around the steaming bowl, taking a long, shuddering breath.

Somehow, he found himself trusting Two Time, inexplicably, a strange but comforting trust forming in his chest. This stranger, somehow, felt like a safe haven amid the recent turmoil, a steady presence in a world that had only moments ago been full of pain and terror.

“Uh… th-thank you…” His voice was barely more than a whisper, quivering, cheeks flushing faintly. Two Time seated themselves beside his bed, placing the bowl gently on the small table within reach, still watching him with the same measured care.

“Don’t eat too fast, alright? Don’t burn yourself,” they added softly, voice light yet imbued with a reassuring certainty that somehow made the room feel warmer, calmer.

They sat in silence, watching 007n7 eat the porridge, eyes dark and unblinking, tracing every tiny motion—the way he lifted a spoonful to his lips, the careful, almost reverent way he set the bowl aside, as though afraid to spill even a single drop.

The quiet was heavy, oppressive, not the ordinary silence of a room emptied of sound, but a presence that made him acutely aware of every rapid thump of his heart, each pulse hammering in his chest, a tangible rhythm of vulnerability.

After what felt like an eternity, Two Time finally spoke, their voice low, edged with a subtle sharpness that made the words cut through the thick air of tension: “You’re quite favored by The Spawn.”

007n7’s brow furrowed slightly, a flicker of surprise crossing his features. He dabbed at his lips, set the bowl down with tentative care, and looked at them, eyes wide, a mixture of curiosity and cautious skepticism.

Only twice today had he seen The Spawn in person—how could Two Time say that he was… favored? His mind involuntarily flashed back to fleeting morning moments: The Spawn standing silently in the hall, their supernatural gaze sweeping over the classroom, the rare instant when they moved close to him, hesitant, yet… attentive.

“R-really…?” His voice was small, quivering, uncertain if he’d even understood the weight of their words correctly.

Two Time’s brow knitted, lips pressing into a thin line, eyes flickering with a hint of discomfort.

They straightened in their seat, hands resting lightly on their knees, studying him for a long moment in silence, before continuing, voice restrained, as if carefully controlling the surge of emotion behind it: “Since this morning, they’ve been… talking about you nonstop. About your looks, your personality, the way you speak… everything about you, really.”

007n7 felt the gravity behind each word. It wasn’t anger, exactly, nor was it joy. It was something complex, almost impossible to define: a strange mix of jealousy, irritation, and concern, coiled tightly around his name. He remained silent, listening, heart hammering uncontrollably as he tried to make sense of the storm of feelings in the room.

They exhaled softly, voice colder now, sharper: “And now, you’ve even been held by them… even though you don’t belong to their order. Jealous… truly jealous, indeed.”

Without warning, Two Time’s hand shifted, revealing a small dagger balanced carefully on their knee. The blade caught the light, flickering with cold, silver gleams that reflected in their obsidian eyes, sending a shiver racing down 007n7’s spine.

He shrank instinctively, stomach twisting, heart pounding like it might leap right out of his chest. Silent prayers formed in his mind: Don’t… don’t hurt me… I’ll be good, I won’t… I won’t cause trouble…

Their gaze held him, dark and consuming, revealing glimpses of tangled emotion: jealousy, anger, a fierce desire to protect, laced with worry. The dagger hovered but did not move, a quiet reminder of their authority and the precarious balance of emotions that surrounded him.

007n7 bit his lip, swallowing down the fear that threatened to consume him. He dared not speak, dared not move, as if the world had shrunk to the expanse of those dark eyes, the glinting steel, and the uncertain, commanding energy radiating from Two Time.

He looked at the dagger, then back at them, silently vowing: I’ll behave, I’ll be careful… I won’t upset them again… The mixture of fear, curiosity, and unexpected tenderness swelled inside him, leaving his body trembling with a fragile intensity.

Two Time inhaled sharply, then set the dagger aside, leaning slightly, voice softening just enough to ease the tension without losing its edge: “Alright… eat some more. But remember, don’t make them angry again. Not just jealousy… but care, too. They care about you.”

007n7 exhaled slowly, relief flooding through him so completely it brought a lump to his throat. The sensation was dizzying—simultaneously shielded and threatened, understood and scolded, safe yet admonished. It was a swirl of feelings that made him unsure whether to laugh or cry. He lowered his gaze, picked up the bowl again, voice trembling as he murmured: “Y-yes… th-thank you…”

“007N7, MY BABY!”

The shout tore through the air like thunder, rattling the walls of the infirmary, making the very tiles beneath his feet seem to tremble. Before he could even process it, the door burst open, a splintered chunk of wood snapping free and striking the wall with a resounding crash.

Shards rained down onto the floor, dust swirling thick in the air, but she didn’t pause, didn’t hesitate for a single heartbeat. 118o8 stormed in, unbothered by any injury or fear, throwing herself onto him with a force so immediate, so overwhelming, that the rush of her breath pounded against his back, shaking him, pressing him into the mattress beneath.

007n7 floundered, hands awkwardly patting her back, attempting to convey—through trembling gestures and wide, panicked eyes—a plea for calm: “Easy… easy…” But she didn’t listen. Her sobs broke like violent waves, raw and desperate, blending with the sound of splintered wood into a chaotic symphony of panic and relief. It was the fear of loss, the terror of having something precious taken away, made manifest—and the treasure in this moment, unmistakably, was him.

Two Time lingered in the corner, their head tilted ever so slightly, watching with piercing, obsidian eyes, dark and unreadable, yet alight with curiosity. They observed every detail—the way 118o8 clutched him, the force of her embrace, the cadence of her breath, the ragged sound of her tears, and the tentative, uncertain attempts he made to soothe her. Their gaze dissected the scene like a surgeon, calculating, analyzing, as if measuring the intensity of emotion in every inch of space between them.

Finally, 118o8 released him, stepping back a pace, though her eyes never left him, still brimming with concern, still wet with tears hastily wiped away by trembling fingers. Her voice, shaky but earnest, found him: “Thank you for taking care of him for me… I, uh, I’m 118o8, 007n7’s best friend.”

Two Time inclined their head slightly, the faintest trace of a bow, voice calm and courteous, tinged with a subtle reverence: “Oh, a pleasure to meet you, madam.”

The gesture caught 118o8 off guard. She paused mid-step, lips curving into a small, tentative smile, the hardness of her expression softening just enough to betray a glimmer of warmth. She returned a nod, silently acknowledging the goodwill, before her gaze swung back to 007n7, eyes saturated with worry and tenderness.

Heat blossomed in his chest, though it mingled with a flush of embarrassment at being held so tightly, so urgently.

She drew in a long, measured breath, voice dropping to a serious whisper: “Let’s go home, sweetheart. Your parents are probably beside themselves out there, and your cousin’s waiting at the gate… you shouldn’t make them worry any longer.”

007n7 nodded faintly, still dizzy from the rush of emotions that had battered him, a tangle of relief, gratitude, and lingering fear. He forced a small smile, wiping the remnants of tears from his cheeks, eyes catching the light and glinting with an unspoken thankfulness.

His hands clutched the bandage around his arm, a silent reminder to himself that, even in a world fractured and chaotic, there were still people willing to protect him, to shield him from harm.

Two Time rose smoothly, setting the now-cooling bowl of porridge aside. Their skeletal wings flexed quietly behind them, folding in subtle arcs, eyes never straying from him, carrying the weight of vigilance.

They glanced at 118o8, then back at 007n7, as if to ensure that nothing would threaten him further, that he would remain safe under their watch. The infirmary seemed to exhale, the earlier chaos dissipating into a rare, fragile silence: no cries, no crashes, only the rhythm of breaths, heartbeats entwining like an invisible thread, a calm sanctuary after the storm.

As 007n7 rose, 118o8 remained by his side, arm draped gently over his shoulder, guiding him, steadying him with careful, tender gestures. Two Time followed close behind, eyes still fixed on him, expression a blend of possessive jealousy and protective concern, reminding him that he was no longer alone—not just for today, not just in this building, but in the fragile, intertwining network of people who cared, who were willing to fight and stand watch for him.

“Sweetheart… You should break up with that bastard…”

118o8’s voice trembled, not with anger, but with pain. She reached out, lifting 007n7’s chin gently, her fingers icy with hesitation, afraid that even the slightest touch might make him hurt more. “Look at what he’s done to you…”

The bruise on 007n7’s cheek, dark and angry beneath the soft yellow glow of the room, told a story that went far beyond a mere punch. It was carelessness, arrogance, the scars left by a love that had been pressed to the edge of obsession. It was the mark of someone who tried so hard, yet hurt him all the same.

118o8 sighed, her fingertip brushing lightly against the discoloration, her touch almost tender enough to erase the pain from his skin. She wanted to say more—wanted to shout, to insist: “You deserve to be loved. You deserve someone who will cherish you…”

But the words choked in her throat, dissolving into nothing more than a soft exhale.

And yet… 007n7 shook his head. A small, almost imperceptible shake, but it was enough to pierce her chest as though a thousand needles had struck at once.

“I still… love him so much…” he whispered, eyes fixed on the cold tile beneath him. “Maybe it’s… because I ruined his cake.”

The innocence of his words was absurd, almost laughable. Yet beneath it, it was raw, desperate, hopeless.

007n7—himself alone—knew the truth. That he had been reborn, that this was meant to be a second chance, an opportunity to step onto a different path, to avoid repeating the mistakes of his past life…

Yet his heart kept pulling him to the same person.

Mafioso.

A name that made his chest tighten with longing, even though he knew that same person had drawn blood from his heart.

Outside, rain fell, tapping softly against the window. 118o8 stood abruptly, pulling the curtain aside. Streetlights cast their glow across her face—eyes red-rimmed, glistening, yet brimming with a forced strength.

“007n7…” she murmured, turning back to 007n7, struggling to keep her composure, “…why him? Why does it have to hurt this much?”

007n7 remained silent, lost in thought. After a long pause, he finally murmured: “I don’t know… I just… can’t forget him.”

118o8 laughed, a dry, hollow sound that seemed to squeeze her chest painfully, as if her heart were being crushed in a vise.

“You can’t forget him, huh…” she whispered, pressing her palms to her face, a bitter smile tugging at her lips. “And what about me? I’ve been here, beside you, for so long… I’ve seen you cry, seen you hurt, seen you shiver every time he yelled at you. I understand you better than anyone… and yet, in the end, it’s still him your heart turns to.”

She stepped closer, until the warmth of her face was almost touching his shoulder, voice dropping to a hushed confession, like a secret carried off by the wind: “You should have seen me… 007n7.”

But he didn’t understand. He didn’t recognize it. Didn’t hear the sound of her heart breaking silently.

He only whispered, unconsciously, “I’m sorry…”

And those two words—so small, so simple—were crueler than any outright rejection.

118o8 managed a small, tender smile, though her eyes brimmed with unshed tears.

“No… don’t apologize. You haven’t done anything wrong… it’s just…” She lowered her gaze, curling her fingers into tight fists.

…the girl you should have loved… should have been me.

But 007n7… still didn’t understand. Still had no idea how precious he was to her, how much of herself she had poured into loving him, bleeding slowly into the void.

And 118o8? She could only stand there, quietly loving someone who would never turn back to look at her.

She should have been the one—the girl who belonged to him.

But fate, and 007n7’s heart, had chosen otherwise.

Chapter Text

The wooden chair groaned beneath the weight of the silence, releasing a long, splintering creak that echoed through the old principal’s office like the final breath of something abandoned for far too many years. The room—already damp, dim, and stale—seemed to choke on its own air as night settled fully outside the narrow window.

Darkness clung to the glass like tar, thick enough to seep through the cracks of the walls, pressing down on every brick, every book spine, every trembling breath trapped within the school’s aging bones. A fine drizzle tapped against the windowpane, slow and rhythmic, each drop landing like the heartbeat of something creeping closer through the night.

And there sat Mafioso, held back after hours as if he were a clueless animal tossed straight into the hunting grounds of a predator that had been starving for days.

He lounged in the chair as though he owned the place, legs stretched across the desk with a disrespect so casual it bordered on obscene. He treated the decrepit office as if it were a private lounge, his gaze dripping arrogance—half disdain, half self-satisfied amusement, as though this entire school existed solely to serve him.

Overhead, a dusty yellow lamp flickered weakly, its dying glow stroking Mafioso’s face and sharpening the smirk curling at the edge of his lips, a smirk that dared the world to despise him more.

The Spectre set its teacup down with a gentleness so controlled it became terrifying. The sound wasn’t loud, not even sharp, but it carried a chill—an unnatural, deliberate coldness that crawled beneath the skin like the brush of a blade’s flat edge.

It didn’t need a face to express fury; its silence alone was a warning more visceral than any shouted threat. The long strip of pitch-black cloth that covered its head shifted ever so slightly, as if a breath of unseen wind passed through it. No one had ever seen its true face. No one knew whether it even had eyes or a mouth beneath that void-like fabric. All they knew—what the whole school whispered about—was that the moment that cloth moved, even a fraction… someone was about to be torn apart.

The air thickened until it felt almost solid, like a heavy, invisible fog sinking into the very pores of the room. A coldness spread from The Spectre, sliding along the floor, crawling up the legs of the table, and coiling around Mafioso’s spine like frostbitten fingers.

It wasn’t winter’s cold.

It was a sensation like being watched by something sharp, something ancient, something hungry.

It was furious—furious enough that the wooden desk trembled faintly beneath its presence, furious enough that the droplets of tea clinging to the cup’s rim crystallized in an instant.

All because of one simple, unforgivable question: who gave a filthy creature like Mafioso permission to touch the puppet it cherished so obsessively it could hardly stand letting him out of sight? Who let a crude, reeking, half-feral brute smear his hands across the skin of the one person it allowed itself to care about?

It hadn’t even permitted The Spawn—its equal, its rival, its sometimes-ally—to touch the boy without asking first.

Even that thing, the one it despised with primordial hatred, the being that had once nearly stolen the boy from its grasp, had never been granted that privilege.

But Mafioso—a roach wearing a human face—had dared to do what beings far stronger and far older than him wouldn’t even consider. The teacup rattled as The Spectre tightened its gloved fist, the leather stretching with a sharp, brittle snap.

“Mafioso.” It spoke his name, just one word, but its voice sounded like an echo rising from the bottom of an endless well. Every syllable slammed against the walls and ricocheted straight into Mafioso’s ears with the weight of iron.

“You have made a grave mistake.” Its voice lowered, dragging across the floor like something crawling, slithering, reaching toward his feet. Mafioso flinched before he could stop himself.

He heard the grinding of its teeth—or whatever passed for teeth beneath that shroud—razor-sharp and shrill, slicing through the room like metal on metal. He recoiled, hands flying to his ears out of pure instinct, but he quickly caught himself and forced his posture back into something arrogant.

A snort.

A flick of his wrist.

A tap of his fingernail against the chair’s arm.

“So what?” he drawled, leaning back as if this were nothing more than an inconvenience. “I do what I want. And in case you forgot: my parents pour a fortune into this useless school. If you’ve got a problem with me, go ahead—kick me out. Watch the place crumble. I dare you.”

The Spectre didn’t respond. Didn’t twitch. Didn’t breathe. The room sank into a silence so absolute that the old clock on the wall became the loudest thing alive. Then...

A deafening CRACK split the air.

Its glove slammed onto the desk, hard enough to split the wood open with a jagged fissure, like an axe strike. The whole room shook. The teacup shot off the surface, spinning once in the air before shattering across the tiles. Mafioso leapt to his feet, eyes wide as the destruction settled around him.

Slowly, The Spectre leaned forward. The black cloth slid just a fraction, revealing the suggestion of a smile—one curved too far, too sharp, too wrong to belong to anything human. It was the smile of something that broke necks for fun.

“Oh… you’re confident.” Its voice scraped like a knife dragged across stone. “But tell me—who do you think you are?” It moved closer. Mafioso stumbled back, bumping into his chair. “Who told you that your filthy bloodline gives you the right to touch him?”

He opened his mouth to retort, but The Spectre slammed both hands onto the desk again, so violently the legs screeched against the floor. Mafioso flinched so hard his breath stuttered.

“I have money too,” it said softly—dangerously softly. “Idiot.” Then it tilted its head, each word dripping like slow poison. “But unlike your family… I also have something money can never buy. Power.” It leaned down. Its breath—cold like steel—pressed against his ear. “This school is my playground. And with one gesture… you could vanish. As though you never existed at all.”

Mafioso’s smirk shattered. For the first time, fear cracked through his bravado. The Spectre watched the change in his face with a tilt of its head, as if savoring the sight.

“But what truly drives me mad…” it whispered, its voice sweet as honey and venomous as a snakebite, “…is that something as low—as pathetic—as you dared to touch my puppet.”

It placed a hand on his shoulder. A light touch. Barely there. Yet Mafioso froze as though plunged into ice.

“If I see so much as a scratch on him again,” it murmured, the words brushing against his skin like the breath of the dark itself, “I’ll show you what it feels like to lose the hands you use to hurt others.”

Lightning cracked outside, flooding the room with a burst of white light—a sharp exclamation mark punctuating its promise. Mafioso swallowed hard, legs trembling beneath him, and then he bolted. He fled the room so fast the door slammed into the wall with a violent bang.

Silence settled once more.

Alone in the dim, The Spectre lifted a hand and gently traced the edge of the cloth covering its face, almost as if soothing itself. Then, in a voice so quiet the darkness itself had to strain to hear, it whispered:

“My little puppet… I won’t let anyone hurt you. Not ever.”

007n7 lay sprawled across his bed, in the room he’d called home his whole life—yet tonight, it felt unfamiliar in a way that made his throat tighten. The mattress that once cradled him now felt stiff beneath his spine, and the blanket brushing against his skin only amplified the ache pulsing beneath every fresh strip of bandage.

The sterile scent of disinfectant clashed with the damp smell of rain drifting in from the yard, weighing down the air until it felt like even the walls were quietly scolding him for letting himself be hurt this badly.

His family… they had cried, shouted, panicked, and broken apart all at once the moment they saw him stumbling through the doorway like a wounded ghost wrapped in white.

The house erupted into chaos the way storms take over the sky—sudden, violent, unstoppable. And even though 007e7 was the quiet one, the one who rarely showed anything beyond a steady calm, today he had shown a side of himself that 007n7 had never imagined he would ever have to see.

The metal of his brother’s body creaked and strained, not with the softness of a sigh but with the violent tension of a machine on the brink of snapping. Every joint clicked in a way that should’ve sounded mechanical, yet somehow carried the fury of a beast barely chained.

The silver glow in his eyes—usually cool and controlled—had burned into a harsh, dangerous red, an unmistakable sign that his emotional system was overloaded. 007n7 had never seen him angry before. Not like this. Not ever.

“That bastard… he did this to you?” 007e7’s voice scraped out like metal grinding against metal, sharp enough to slice through the room.

Just one sentence. One single sentence, yet enough for everyone present to understand that if 007n7 didn’t physically hold him back, 007e7 would storm out into the rain, tear down Mafioso’s entire house, and rip the man apart with his bare hands. He would do it. And 007n7 knew he would.

So he grabbed his brother’s arm with the tiny bit of strength he had left and forced out, “E7… please… don’t. I’m okay. I’m really okay.”

It was the first lie he told all day.

And the only lie that could’ve kept someone alive.

007e7 looked at him—really looked at him—and for a moment the furious tremor in his eyes flickered, replaced by something painfully close to desperation. Only when 007n7’s arms tightened around him did his shaking stop, did that burning red glow begin to dim. He froze, bowed his head, and for the very first time… 007e7 exhaled.

A metallic exhale.

Low. Heavy.

The kind of sound bells would make if they were forged just to toll at the end of a funeral.

His family gathered around the bed, faces carved with anger and fear and heartbreak all at once.

They told him he needed to leave Mafioso.

That he had to get away from that poison he still insisted on calling his first love.

They told him he deserved someone kinder, someone who wouldn’t treat him like a toy to be grabbed, squeezed, tossed, and thrown whenever the mood shifted.

Especially—especially—because they had finally realized he was never loved back.

Not truly.

Mafioso simply enjoyed controlling something as soft and devoted as him.

But they didn’t understand the thing 007n7 understood all too well:

His love for Mafioso had seeped into his bloodstream long before he knew what love even meant.

It was a devotion born when he was still a child, soft-hearted and pure, with a soul as clear as morning dew.

He had seen Mafioso once—just once—and something inside him, without his permission, without his comprehension, simply decided that this was the person he would love.

Before he even had the sense to know how catastrophic that decision would be.

Mafioso was his first sunset.

His first early-summer rain.

The first person who ever made him feel visible.

And because of that… Mafioso was also the only one capable of crushing him without remorse.

He told his family that he would think about it. That he would consider leaving. That he knew the relationship was toxic—so toxic even demons would avert their eyes.

But deep inside, from the very moment those words left his lips, he already knew: he was born to be controlled by Mafioso. No matter how many times he was reborn, no matter how many lives he cycled through, no matter how many times he tore open his own chest just to claw the feelings out—he would always love him.

Blindly. Foolishly. Completely. Like a machine programmed from the moment it first understood what affection was.

He knew he needed to cut it off.

He knew it was the right thing.

He knew Mafioso wasn’t good—had never been good—would never be good.

But every time he tried to sever the bond, memories surged back.

The rare, precious smiles.

The gentle hand on his head.

The moments Mafioso pulled him up when he fell.

The simple words he said to the younger version of 007n7—words so small yet so warm he held onto them like treasures.

Those little fragments, fragile and bright, softened him every time until he couldn’t breathe.

And then he couldn’t do it.

He couldn’t cut it.

Couldn’t let go.

He shut his eyes, breath trembling.

The blanket couldn’t warm the cold spreading through his chest.

He could feel himself sinking deeper, drowning slowly and willingly.

And the cruelest part was this:

he wasn’t fighting it.

He was letting himself sink.

Suddenly, the phone on the bedside shelf vibrated violently, its blue light stabbing into the dimming room, stretching the tension taut as a wire. 007n7 lay face down on his pillow, his body still sore in every corner, every movement sending little jolts of pain along the still-fresh bandages, yet the insistent buzzing made it impossible to ignore.

He let out a long, weary sigh and rolled onto his side, each motion pulling a ribbon of dull, aching pain down his back, and reached out for the phone.

The screen flared to life, and there it was—the familiar, heart-stopping message:

“Mafioso (My love💋) is calling…”

His throat constricted. Every beat of his heart felt as though someone were squeezing it in their fist—painful, anxious, trembling from both fear and longing. His finger hovered over the “accept” button, frozen in hesitation.

He knew… he knew all too well that a call at this hour could never mean anything good. And yet, the fragile, weak part of him still dared to hope—perhaps today he would be different, a little gentler, a little kinder, a little capable of loving him.

He swallowed hard, drew a shaky breath.

“…Pick up or not?” he asked himself for the tenth time in less than a minute.

And then his heart’s impatience overpowered reason. He pressed the button.

Before he could even say a word, the other end exploded with that familiar, growling voice:

“WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING, 007N7?!”

He jerked upright, startled. His ears rang, his chest constricted.

“I-I…” he stammered, unable to form an explanation when he himself didn’t even understand where he had gone wrong.

Mafioso didn’t give him a single breath to recover: “You think just coming home like that makes everything okay? Your brother barges into my place, causing a scene, demanding a ‘proper conversation.’ Everything… EVERYTHING… is because of you!”

His voice was rough, hoarse, as if each word had been scorched through with the fire of his anger.

“I—I didn’t… I didn’t tell them—” 007n7 stammered, trembling, desperate to explain.

“Doesn’t matter!” he snapped, each syllable cutting through the air like a blade. “You’re the reason I’m caught up in this mess. You shouldn’t have treated me like this.”

007n7’s eyes widened, pain twisting his face into a bitter, hollow laugh. “Treated… badly? Me? I… I’ve treated you badly?” His voice trembled, his chest full of shattered contradictions: pain—anger—love—longing—clinginess—release—all tangled, impossible to separate.

On the other end, Mafioso laughed low and dark, a sound that chilled the spine: "You’ve known me so long and you still don’t get it? Everything I do has a reason. I hold your hand too tightly, I keep you close, I make you listen… it’s all for your own good.”

“…For my own good?” 007n7 felt as if he’d been slapped across the face.

“Yes. Would you rather I let you wander around, stupid, exposed, let others touch you, hurt you, or worse?” His voice softened just slightly, but every word still carried the precision of control, the sharpness of an edge.

007n7 wanted to argue. Wanted to shout that he, Mafioso, was the one who hurt him most.

But his throat wouldn’t work. Memories tightened around his heart, squeezing it purple.

“Mafioso…” he whispered, barely audible, almost into the emptiness itself. “I… it hurts so much.”

There was a pause on the other end. But the thing he longed for—a single apology, a hint of concern—never came.

Instead, Mafioso spoke slowly, eerily gentle, almost frightening in its tenderness:

“I only did it for your own good.”

Beep.

The call ended. No goodbye. No lingering concern.

Only the harsh, unrelenting “tut… tut…” echoed in his ears, rattling his chest, driving straight into the deepest part of his constricted heart.

007n7 let the phone drop onto his chest, his hand shaking like a fevered leaf. The room was silent except for his broken, ragged breaths. His eyelids stung.

He closed his eyes, yet Mafioso’s image remained vivid: that half-smile, those dangerous eyes, the rough hands that knew precisely how to make him melt… and knew just as well how to make him gasp in pain until he couldn’t breathe.

His chest felt heavy, bound with invisible stones. He knew he should cut it off. He knew he should leave him. He knew everyone else was right.

But knowing was one thing. His heart… his heart had long been caught in Mafioso’s grip.

And the cruelest part—he still missed those hands.

. . .

Mafioso set the phone down on the table, but that did not mean his anger had subsided. On the contrary, his heart still pounded violently, as if it might tear his chest apart with each beat, each pulse a tangled mixture of hatred and an unfamiliar, almost painful discomfort.

He walked toward the window, stopping to draw a deep breath, his gaze fixed on the darkened world outside, where streaks of streetlight cut through the night like countless golden blades slicing into the dense shadows. The swaying silhouettes of the trees, the wind rustling through the branches, even the trembling leaves—all seemed to mock him, as though the world itself were pointing at him and whispering: “You are weak. You cannot protect what you desire.”

His hands clenched into fists, fingernails digging into his palms until they tingled with numbness. In his mind, the image of 007n7 lying on the bed burned bright: every bruise, every freshly wrapped bandage on that fragile little body, his wide, trembling eyes as they heard Mafioso’s voice, his thin frame still wounded yet wrapped in so few layers… it was like knives cutting into Mafioso’s chest.

He furrowed his brow, inhaling sharply, but the heavy sigh that escaped him carried the weight of anger, worry, helplessness, and a deep, aching longing that twisted his chest. “Goddamn brat,” he muttered, not as a curse, but as a whispered acknowledgment, part fury, part affection, the temptation of his own heart: “Why do you always make me… want to crush you and hold you at the same time?”

He paced the room, each step heavy on the wooden floorboards, the sound of his shoes like a drumbeat urging him to confront the feeling he hated most: missing him. Mafioso shrugged inwardly, convincing himself he was angry, that 007n7 had embarrassed him, that it was all the man’s fault… but the instant he recalled that small smile, the way those eyes looked up at him when pouting, or how 007n7 shivered at a slightly harsh word… it choked him, transforming his fury into a kind of bittersweet pain.

He bent forward, running his hands through his disheveled hair, closing his eyes, whispering to himself: “I… miss you.” The words echoed inside his head, both shameful and sweet, like a sharp blade mixed with a roaring fire in his chest, making him feel simultaneously paralyzed and aflame with a nameless sensation.

“That brat… I hate him…” he murmured, his voice hoarse, but the hatred was strange now—no longer pure, intertwined with a fierce, uncontrollable care. He thought he could look away, thought he could let the child live normally, yet just minutes after the call, everything was clear: Mafioso could not. He could not look away. He could not leave him.

Stopping by the window, his eyes glowed red beneath the shadowed room. The long, endless darkness outside reminded him of 007n7 in the hands of The Spawn, in the hands of someone else, and his heart felt squeezed as if by iron. Another surge of anger rose, hot and ready to explode, but Mafioso held it back. He knew—what he wanted, he had to seize with his own hands, not with words or fleeting temper.

He turned, a faint smile crossing his face—at once threatening and tender—as if speaking to the world: “Soon… I’ll see you again, brat.” The whisper carried weight enough to make the room tremble, both a warning and a promise.

Mafioso inhaled deeply, exhaled, his hands clenched, shoulders braced as if preparing for an endless battle… but this time, not in anger, but to protect… 007n7. The one he could not allow anyone to touch, not even himself, the one he could not bear to imagine hurting, afraid, or crying at someone else’s hands.

In that moment, Mafioso stood still, staring out the window, consumed by emotions he had never admitted: rage, longing, fear of loss, and a blind, irrational, yet overwhelming affection stronger than anything he had ever known.

He closed his eyes, swallowed hard, telling himself that no matter the time, no matter the hardships, no matter the storms of anger and contradiction in his chest, Mafioso would not allow anyone to harm him—007n7, the one he could love, the one he would protect at all costs.

. . .

“Yoooo… have you guys noticed anything… off about boss lately?” Consigliere whispered, his voice low, careful, but tinged with curiosity. His eyes flicked around at the others in the room. The guy in the white cap had always been sharp, noticing every gesture, every subtle expression of the boss, and recently, he was the first to spot the clear change.

He lowered his voice even further, glancing around as if afraid the boss might overhear, then shrugged. “I think… something’s not right with him.”

Soldier, wearing his glossy black Usaka cap from Russia, was fiddling with a crowbar in his hands. He glanced up, a subtle tilt of his eyes, before giving a slight nod, silently acknowledging Consigliere’s observation.

“Yeah… I’ve noticed too. Boss seems… different,” he admitted, his voice carrying a hint of worry. The way the boss hadn’t worn his usual arrogant smile today, the heaviness in his eyes, the occasional pauses by the window as if searching for something unseen—all of it felt off to Soldier, making him uneasy.

Contractee, Consigliere’s younger brother, leaned back in his chair, legs casually propped on the table, but his gaze remained fixed on the boss. He let out a small, mischievous chuckle, low and confident, almost teasing, but there was a certainty in his tone.

“It’s true. Boss’s mood has been really off these past few days… Wonder what’s causing it?” He tilted his head toward the boss, then looked at Consigliere, narrowing his eyes, silently asking for agreement.

Caporegime, thick dark glasses perched on his face, tilted his head, hand lazily resting on his chin. His eyes, hidden behind the lenses, seemed to pierce through every detail, analyzing every motion with calm scrutiny. His voice was deep, measured, carrying an almost judicial weight.

"Probably that lover of the boss got him riled up,” he said bluntly, showing no intent to hide his opinion. There was a certain challenge in his tone, a curiosity mixed with provocation, leaving the other three silent for a moment, wondering if he might be right.

Consigliere glanced at Soldier and Contractee, shrugged, and let out a quiet sigh. “Could be true, could be wrong… but these past few days, boss has been brooding, quiet, sometimes even short-tempered. If this keeps up, who knows what could happen.”

Soldier nodded, still fiddling with his crowbar, a trace of unease creeping into his chest. Contractee smirked slightly, a spark of mischief in his eyes, yet still observant. Caporegime gave a small nod, seemingly confirming the theory he had just voiced.

They remained huddled together in the dim corner of the room, the weak ceiling light casting patchy shadows across the floor like bruises spreading across pale skin. The atmosphere, already heavy from the tension of the past few days, felt as if it were thick enough to choke on.

Consigliere—white cap perfectly straight as always—furrowed his brows, tilting his head toward Soldier and Contractee with a long, weary sigh. “You guys ever wonder… what exactly 007n7 did that pissed boss off that much?” he murmured, voice deliberately soft, as though afraid the walls might carry their words to the wrong ears. “These days, it’s like… boss isn’t himself anymore.”

Soldier shrugged, still spinning the crowbar between his fingers, eyes glued to the room where Mafioso stood by the window like a statue carved out of frustration and smothered fury. “I dunno… maybe it’s one of those small things 007n7 tends to cause without meaning to,” he replied, thoughtful, but uncertain.

“Like that night he came home late… 007n7 must’ve done something that hit a nerve. Maybe brought up something boss can’t stand.” He let out a breath, glancing at Consigliere, who nodded but didn’t look satisfied. Soldier turned to Contractee. “What about you? Any theories?”

Contractee smiled that familiar, sly smile of his—gentle at the edges but edged like a blade in the middle. “Honestly? I’m pretty sure those ‘small things’ are just what it looks like on the surface.” His gaze sharpened, voice dipping lower, more certain.

“Boss isn’t the type to lose his mind over a little mischief. And 007n7? He’s tiny, adorable… soft. If something he did actually made boss snap, then trust me—there’s something bigger buried underneath it.” He drew out the words deliberately, as if peeling back layers for the group to see the raw center beneath.

Caporegime—thick, dark glasses perched on his face—leaned in, resting his chin on his hand, eyes cold and calculating even through the tinted lenses. “Exactly,” he murmured. “This isn’t about 007n7 messing around. The real issue is… boss’s parents. They want to control him. They don’t want him loving someone the way he does now—honestly, freely. They see 007n7 as nothing more than a leash. A tool to bind him. They don’t want boss choosing love; they want him following orders.”

Consigliere’s frown deepened. He let out a long breath, staring at Soldier as if connecting things he hadn’t allowed himself to say out loud before. “That… actually makes sense. Think about it. 007n7’s small, innocent, completely unaware. Boss loves him—really loves him. But his parents forbid it. They suffocate him emotionally. So everything—the anger, the fear of losing him, the way boss keeps snapping at nothing—of course it all boils over. It’s the only way someone like him would react.”

Soldier’s grip tightened on the crowbar, anxiety flickering in his eyes. “Yeah… I get it now. It’s not that boss cares less.” His voice softened, barely above a whisper. “He’s angry because he loves him too much. Because he’s terrified. Because every time 007n7 does something reckless or sweet or stupidly brave, boss doesn’t know if he should yell, hold him, or lock him somewhere safe. He’s trapped between protecting him and wanting to scream.”

Contractee let out a quiet laugh—not mocking, but knowing. “Put simply… boss is frustrated because he isn’t allowed to love freely. And 007n7—poor little guy—has no idea he’s the reason boss is losing his mind. That kid’s small, adorable, sure, but he’s also dangerously mesmerizing. Boss would burn down anyone who touches him. Hell, he’d hurt himself before letting someone else hurt 007n7.”

Caporegime nodded slowly, his gaze drifting toward the closed door behind which Mafioso stood. “Exactly. And the tragedy is… 007n7 has no idea. No clue that boss’s parents are suffocating him, setting rules, building fences around him. But even without knowing, the kid still takes up every inch of boss’s mind. These past few nights, boss hasn’t slept. He just paces around in that room—angry, anxious, remembering, longing, wanting to protect him but unable to reach out. Every single thought he has ties back to that kid.”

Consigliere sighed again, almost defeated, resting a hand on Soldier’s shoulder. “We’re the only ones who get it. Boss isn’t mad because 007n7 did something wrong. He’s mad because he’s trapped. Because he’s hurting. Because he’s trying to love someone when the people who raised him won’t even let him breathe.”

Soldier fell quiet. Contractee and Caporegime exchanged looks—an unspoken understanding passing between them. This wasn’t going to resolve itself easily. This wasn’t just some petty fight or misunderstanding. It was a slow, dangerous storm, and they all knew it.

That morning, the sunlight drifted lazily through the classroom windows, spilling across the old wooden desks in soft golden patches. Dust floated in the warm air, dancing like tiny glowing motes, and although everything looked exactly the same—students chatting, laughter echoing faintly—007n7 felt something different in his chest.

Maybe it was because of the stack of homemade pastries he’d spent all morning baking. Maybe it was the lingering warmth of the oven still caught in his fingertips. Or maybe it was simply the hope, the nervous quiet kind, that today people would like what he had made.

He’d woken early, music humming through the kitchen as he whisked, folded, and piped until he lost track of how much batter he’d used. By the time he realized he’d gone overboard, it was too late—his family couldn’t finish all the sweets, so he carefully packed the leftovers into boxes and brought them to school.

Even now, the faint scent of vanilla and strawberry clung to his hands, soft and sweet, almost comforting. It made him feel… oddly light. Almost proud.

“Enjoy, everyone!” he chirped, picking up a heart‑shaped cookie topped with a swirl of strawberry cream. He tapped it lightly against Elliot’s hand. Elliot—who always smiled like he was born from sunlight—opened his mouth in astonishment, then took a bite.

The reaction was immediate. His eyes sparkled, his shoulders shivered with delight.

“Damn, 007n7, you’re good. Like—really good! How are you this good?” he said through a mouthful of cookie, waving excitedly as if his hands could express what words couldn’t.

Across the table, Chance was already reaching for his fourth pastry. “Holy hell—this is perfect. PERFECT, you hear me? 007n7, you’re a dessert genius. A menace. A legend.”

His dramatic enthusiasm drew quiet laughter from nearby classmates, and 007n7 couldn’t help smiling. Seeing people enjoy something he made—especially something as simple as sweets—warmed him in ways he couldn’t quite explain.

He had even packed a few pastries specifically for Mafioso. As a peace offering.

Yesterday, he had dragged the guy into a messy fight—unintentionally, but still—and Mafioso had been furious all night. When 007n7 offered the pastry, the man stared at him for a long moment, eyes conflicted, brows pressed together… but he eventually took it without a word.

And that alone made 007n7’s heart flutter strangely.

He didn’t reject it. He didn’t reject me.

Even if Mafioso hid it behind steel and silence, acceptance was still acceptance.

But before he could relax, a sharp voice cut across the classroom.

“Hey.”

The single syllable slashed through chatter and laughter like a knife.

007n7 turned, breath hitching.

Someone stood in the doorway.

A figure in a deep purple hoodie, the fabric pulled low, the five‑pointed white star at the center of his chest gleaming under the morning light. A white mask hid most of his face, and long locs fell over his shoulders, giving him that unmistakable, dangerous, effortlessly cool aura that made people glance twice without meaning to.

007n7 narrowed his eyes slightly—part confusion, part caution.

It was him.

Noli.

In his previous life, 007n7 had known him well. Too well. They had caused chaos together, tormented each other for fun, invented the most unhinged pranks that only two people without common sense or fear could ever laugh at. He knew Noli’s walk, his posture, the playful bite in his gaze.

But now… this Noli didn’t even know him.

Still, the swagger was exactly the same.

“Yo,” Noli drawled, strolling in with his hands shoved deep into his hoodie pockets. “Sharing pastries with these losers, huh?”

His tone was teasing, almost rude, but dripping with that familiar mischief. He stopped in front of 007n7—close enough that their heights nearly aligned, mostly because Noli leaned down slightly. It would’ve been intimidating, if it didn’t look so unintentionally silly.

Caught off guard, 007n7 blinked. “Uh… is there… something wrong, sir?”

Noli’s mask tilted up just a little—enough to show the smirk underneath. His eyes gleamed with recognition he shouldn’t have, with a spark of trouble that made 007n7’s stomach twist.

“Wifey,” he said lazily, “gimme one.”

He said it like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Like he had always called him that.

Like he already owned the nickname.

Like they had never been strangers.

The entire classroom froze as if time itself had decided to hold its breath. Not a single whisper, not a shuffle of feet, only the steady ticking of the wall clock echoed through the air, a relentless reminder that this moment was far from ordinary. Every heartbeat seemed magnified, every breath taut with tension.

Elliot, mid‑chew, nearly choked, staring wide‑eyed at the scene unfolding before him.

Chance’s hand trembled so violently that the fifth pastry he held threatened to slip, the cream quivering on its surface, and yet he dared not move.

Mafioso, standing directly behind 007n7, gripped the box of pastries the young boy had given him, but his movements were frozen; his body was taut, every muscle coiled like a drawn bow, eyes blazing red, fixed unwaveringly on Noli. The very air seemed to tighten around him, charged with anger and an almost painful surge of possessiveness.

Noli, standing close to 007n7, carried the faint scent of mint, an intoxicating, almost magnetic aroma that made the classroom feel both heavy and oddly alluring. One hand plunged lazily into his hoodie pocket while the other hovered near the pastries, casual yet confident, his voice smooth, equal parts teasing and commanding.

“I said I want a piece of that cookie,” he murmured, “not silence, Wifey.”

The words “Wifey” hit like a small thunderclap, and the classroom collectively froze. Elliot’s laughter nearly faltered mid‑bite, a strangled, incredulous “W‑WHAT?!” spilling out of him. Chance gaped, hand shaking as he held onto the pastry, eyes wide as though they might leap out of his skull.

Even Contractee and Soldier at the back of the room looked up simultaneously, their expressions a mixture of shock and reluctant amusement. The classroom had transformed into a dramatic stage, and everyone present was an unwilling audience to this spectacle.

Behind 007n7, Mafioso stood statuesque, knuckles white around the pastry box, lips pressed into a thin line, breaths short and tight. Rage, jealousy, and discomfort twisted within him at hearing 007n7 being addressed as “Wifey” by someone else.

Meanwhile, 007n7’s hands shook slightly, yet he extended a pastry politely: “Uh… here?” A small, careful smile attempted to form on his face, but his cheeks burned red, heart hammering, fully aware that the entire class was watching each delicate movement.

Noli didn’t even bother to take the pastry gently. Instead, he leaned down and—without asking—bit directly into the corner of the cookie in 007n7’s hand. A streak of cream clung to the edge of his mask, his gaze calm, yet flickers of playful delight danced in his eyes.

007n7 yelped, yanking his hand back: “A—! What the heck!” But Noli merely chewed, shoulders lifting in a confident shrug. “Delicious. I knew it would smell this good. Just like before.”

007n7 froze entirely, eyes wide, heart hammering uncontrollably. “…Like before?” Elliot, still slack‑jawed, stammered out, “N‑Noli… you… knew… him?!” Noli shrugged casually, as if it were the most ordinary fact in the world. “Not now, but back then. Right, Wifey?”

In that instant, every gaze in the classroom snapped toward Mafioso. He chewed slowly, deliberate and cold, face blazing red, the pastry in his mouth squashed as though he wanted to crush not just the cookie, but the name itself—the two words that carried such power—uttered against the one he protected.

By the window, Caporegime adjusted the glass, eyes sharp yet tinged with amusement. “Yeah… that’s right. Boss has every reason to be angry.” Down the hall, Consigliere nodded silently, murmuring, “I told you… the so-called ex of Wifey is what set him off.” Soldier shook his head, worry etched across his face. “I bet he’s going to throw a desk today.” Contractee smirked, hand brushing his chin, his tone slow and deliberate: “No… this time, he’ll probably throw the principal too.”

Inside the classroom, Noli remained blissfully unaware of the social chaos he’d ignited. He tilted his head slightly, eyes half familiar, half mischievous, and focused on 007n7. “Meet me at the court later. Bake another batch. I want it warm.”

007n7’s reply was instinctive, half‑angry, half‑flustered: “Get out!” Noli chuckled, teasing, “Fine, Wifey.”

Mafioso, standing behind, clenched his hands tighter, eyes glowing crimson. A faint crack echoed through the room as the box of pastries in his grip crushed, cream splattering—a silent punctuation to the fury and irrational jealousy consuming him.

In that suspended moment, no one laughed, no one shouted; only tension thickened the air, a mixture of fear and curiosity, as everyone watched the delicate, dangerous interaction unfold—three people, three extremes, one classroom, each breath waiting for the storm to break.

Chapter Text

“Wife.”

Just one word.

One.

But somehow, that one word slammed the entire hallway—packed with nearly fifty students buzzing like a broken beehive—into absolute silence.

Every sound—shoes clacking, people gossiping about how they all misread the test prompt, chairs scraping, even the heavy breathing of kids who’d sprinted from the cafeteria—was suddenly strangled clean out of existence, as if someone yanked the plug on the whole world.

Sunlight poured through the long row of windows, casting a harsh golden glare across the tiled floor, making the moment feel even more blinding, more humiliating, and one hundred percent more like the universe was screaming “good luck surviving this.”

And then—like the reason behind 90% of the daily chaos at this school—Noli walked in.

His face was glowing like he’d just robbed a bakery and gotten away with it. That smug smile—the kind stitched permanently onto his face, the one that screamed yeah, I know I’m attractive and also a walking problem, what about it—shined with the confidence of someone who had never once paid for the consequences of his actions.

He didn’t walk through the hallway so much as he parted it. Students split away from him instinctively, like Moses parting the sea, except more irritating, more dramatic, and infinitely more punchable.

Each step he took radiated that signature “my presence raises the oxygen tax” aura that made people want to throw a slipper at him.

Not that anyone ever dared.

And judging from the look on his face—bright enough to rival the hallway LEDs—he had definitely just gone and picked a fight somewhere. Probably with Mafioso, the most explosive boyfriend-of-the-year candidate this school had ever seen.

Near the classroom door, curled into his usual quiet corner, sat 007n7. One knee up, math notebook balanced on it, writing in neat little lines like every number had to march properly in formation. One earbud in, volume low, building himself a tiny island of peace in a sea of school-wide chaos. Peace that was rarer than gold. And just as precious.

Shame that peace lasted, at best, about… thirty seconds.

Before he could even switch pen colors, a pair of gray-black Converse stopped right in front of him. A shadow fell across his notebook, blocking the sunlight.

And before he could say, “Excuse me, you’re in my light,” a cold hand—cold like the bastard dipped it in a bucket of ice just to be annoying—slid over his bangs.

Slowly.

Intentionally.

007n7 froze. His pen jerked violently, slashing a line across the page like the paper itself had been stabbed.

“…Wh—what…?” he stuttered, gripping his pen as if it could save him. He didn’t dare look up immediately; his instincts screamed that raising his head would summon drama like a curse.

And he was right.

When he finally looked up, Noli was already leaning down—way down—so far his shadow swallowed the entire notebook. One hand propped on the edge of the desk, the other buried in his pocket. He smiled the kind of smile that looked like he’d highlighted the word “confidence” all over his own damn face.

“Why’s my little wife so hardworking lately?” he drawled, stretching every word like he was testing how irritated he could make him.

007n7 didn’t even have time to react—before Noli committed the crime of the day.

He lowered himself further.

Propped his elbow on the desk.

And rested his chin…

Right.

On.

Top.

Of 007n7’s head.

No warning.

No permission.

Not even a hint of shame.

As if 007n7’s head was a memory-foam pillow he’d ordered online.

007n7’s entire body short-circuited.

Heat flooded up his neck like someone threw him into an oven.

Cheeks red. Ears red. Neck red. If someone stuck a thermometer under his tongue, it’d probably read 39°C.

“For god’s sake—Noli! What are you doing?!” he hissed, trying to keep his voice down so the hall monitor wouldn’t think they were filming a terrible romance drama right in the hallway.

Noli didn’t just refuse to move—he leaned his weight in even more and inhaled.

Inhaled.

Right above his head.

“Hmm…” he mused in a tone disturbingly serious, as if reviewing a product. “Soft. Warm. Studying too hard, head’s overheated.”

“Get. OFF.”

“No.”

“OFF!!”

“Nope.”

He was laughing. Chin still glued to 007n7’s head like it belonged there, lounging like a lazy cat.

“Do my math homework,” Noli said, voice lilting, playful. “C’mon.”

007n7 exhaled hard. “No! Do it yourself! I have my OWN assignments!”

“Don’t wanna.”

“What does that have to do with ME?!”

His answer was instant.

“Because you’re my wife.”

If 007n7 could have flipped the table, flipped Noli, and flipped the entire school with pure shame alone, he would have. Around them, students started gathering like they were watching animals about to fight at the zoo.

“Dude… he’s bullying Seven again,” someone whispered.

“You wanna say that to his face?”

“Nope.”

“Then shut up.”

But every muttered sound got swallowed whole when a wave of cold, murderous pressure seeped down the hallway like a shadow.

A silhouette appeared at the far end.

Tall.

Sharp.

Radiating mafia-boss energy, but tripled.

Arms crossed.

Expression carefully held together by sheer restraint.

Mafioso.

He stared at Noli resting his chin on 007n7 like he was witnessing a deadly enemy lay a hand on something sacred. He didn’t speak, but the silence around him dropped the hallway temperature to negative three degrees.

Meanwhile, 007n7 was still squirming like a kitten being held by the scruff. “Noli!! Move. NOW.”

Noli stayed relaxed—ridiculously so.

“Nope. I like it here. Besides…”

He leaned down further, sniffing—mocking.

“…you smell nice.”

“S-SMELL WHAT?!”

“Familiar.”

His voice dipped, teasing, mysterious.

“Like before.”

007n7 froze as if his wifi connection had cut mid-exam. “Before WHEN?!”

Noli winked. “Probably a past life. Y’know… husband and wife stuff.”

The last two words hit 007n7’s heart like a hammer.

And then,

Mafioso began walking toward them.

Not fast. Not rushed.

But every step made the tiles seem to crack.

Noli didn’t even have to turn. He smirked. “Aaand here comes the current husband.”

007n7 wished for death. Instant death. Quick, painless, embarrassment-ending death.

Mafioso reached them, his shadow engulfing both boys. His presence alone leaked danger.

Finally—finally—Noli lifted his chin from 007n7’s head. Not because he was scared. Because he wanted to.

He brushed 007n7’s hair back. Slow. Deliberate. Provocative.

“See you at the field after class,” he said, grinning like chaos incarnate. “I’ll need your head again. For math.”

“ABSOLUTELY NOT!!!” 007n7 snapped.

Noli laughed. “Sure, wife.”

And that was the moment...

Mafioso grabbed 007n7’s wrist and pulled him firmly against his chest. His voice dropped low. Icy. Deadly. “Don’t. Touch. Him. Again.”

Noli snorted, amused. “Your boyfriend’s jealous, wife.”

And 007n7?

He just wanted to faint to avoid dealing with ANY of this ever again.

The third–floor hallway might as well have exploded the moment Mafioso grabbed 007n7’s wrist and yanked him forward without a single word of warning. His hand was cold—so cold it made the boy flinch, a sharp metallic chill that carried a restrained darkness 007n7 couldn’t even begin to name.

But the grip... the grip was terrifyingly strong. Just one pull and he nearly stumbled, his steps unable to keep up with the relentless pace, while Mafioso’s shoes struck the tile floor in a steady, urgent rhythm, like war drums beating through the dark.

His face was carved in tension, shadowed like a storm-swelled sky, and his deep crimson eyes weren’t merely angry—they were burning with something heavier, fiercer, something that felt one breath away from erupting.

“Hey—HEY! Easy with his wrist!” Noli’s voice cut through the air from behind, sharp, obnoxious, and bright with amusement—like he was watching premiere-day drama he’d personally sponsored.

He strolled forward with hands in pockets, wearing that half-smirk, half-challenge expression that always made people unsure whether they wanted to punch him or argue with him.

Students split apart around them automatically, crowding both sides of the hallway as if drawn by magnetic chaos. Phones rose into the air. Camera shutters clicked so loudly that 007n7 felt like every second of his life was being sliced into pieces for public consumption.

“What’s happening? Those two again?”

“Record it, record it—this is gonna blow up!”

“Oh my god, prime-time drama, right here!”

The whispers spread fast—like dry leaves catching fire.

But Mafioso didn’t let go. He stopped right in the middle of the hallway, turned, and shot Noli a glare sharp enough to slice bone.

“Stay out of this.”

Noli laughed outright—as if he’d been waiting for that line all day.

“Why would I? You’re dragging him off like some bargain-bin kidnapper and expect me to stay quiet? What—jealous?”

A collective gasp erupted through the hallway. Phones rose higher. Anyone breathing moved slower, afraid to miss the shot that might go viral.

Mafioso’s grip tightened. Hard. It hurt—enough that 007n7 couldn’t stop the sharp inhale that slipped out of him. Noli caught it instantly. His eyes flicked down to that hand squeezing too tight, and he stepped forward, shoulder brushing Mafioso’s shoulder, gaze deliberate and slow.

“He’s hurting,” Noli said lightly, but the edge in his voice gleamed like a blade. “Or maybe you know that… and that’s kinda the point?”

The air thickened.

Heavy.

Suffocating.

007n7 felt like he had to fight for each breath, as if the hallway shrank around them, crushing every other sound into white noise. Nothing existed except the two silhouettes standing inches apart—two predators provoked, cornered, unwilling to back down.

Mafioso’s lips curled into a humorless smile, sharp and dangerous. “You want to test me, is that it?”

Noli lowered his head just enough to meet Mafioso’s stare directly, then flicked his gaze to the bruising grip again. “Test? No. I’m just saying you’re better at hurting people than you are at fighting.”

Gasps rippled through the crowd like sparks along a fuse.

Someone squeaked: “Oh my god—they’re actually gonna fight—”

Mafioso moved. His arm swung up—fast. Too fast.

007n7 panicked, words leaping out of him before thought could catch up.

“Don’t!”

Everything stopped.

For a single beat of silence—small, fragile, and unbearably long.

Mafioso froze mid-motion. Just… stopped. As if the sound of 007n7’s voice alone had slammed a hand on his spine. Every pair of eyes widened—Noli’s, the crowd’s, even 007n7’s.

Then Noli laughed. Loud, triumphant, wicked. “Wow. Look at that. One word from him and you fold instantly. That’s… sweet.”

Mafioso turned to 007n7. And in that moment, his expression was a mess—anger tangled with confusion, with the sting of something that looked almost like hurt buried too deep for words. Then he let go. Abruptly. Harsh enough that 007n7 nearly staggered backward.

The crowd erupted.

“Holy crap this is intense—”

“Why’d he listen to him??”

“Noli’s insane—he actually said that to Mafioso!”

“This is better than TV—”

But Mafioso and Noli didn’t hear them. They stood face to face, breath to breath, two storms colliding so violently that the hallway seemed to warp around them. The heat behind their eyes said one thing, unmistakable:

One more word.

Just one.

And the whole school would be ashes.

Two Time rested their chin against the cold metal railing, the chill seeping straight into their skin and dragging a long breath from their lips—as if that temperature, sharp and clean like winter glass, cleared their mind just a little more.

From the fourth-floor balcony, the entire courtyard stretched beneath them, sun-drenched and restless. Wind rushed upward in uneven bursts, carrying the faint chalk-dust scent of classrooms, the dry tang of heat trapped in concrete, the smell of fabric baked under noon sunlight—and underneath it all was the rising, unmistakable scent of chaos, swelling like a wave preparing to crash.

Their eyes lowered. Those dark, knife-edged irises glinted in the harsh daylight, reflecting a sliver of something cold enough to raise goosebumps. Their eyelashes quivered—long, narrow, trembling like the wings of a black butterfly folding shut after a single beat, watching its prey from above.

And then they saw it.

Right in the middle of the blazing courtyard, Noli and Mafioso stood locked in place like two beasts whose instincts had been yanked awake by force.

Students swarmed so tightly around them that the circle resembled some strange festival—phones held high, screens glowing pale blue on eager faces, turning the scene into something like a public livestream where chaos was the newest school sport. Voices crashed together—laughter, shouting, gasps—an entire wall of sound rolling outward.

But among all that noise, all that heat, all that motion.

Two Time only saw him.

The small, trembling silhouette of 007n7 standing between the two men, like a fragile stem caught between colliding storms. His eyes darted helplessly, his fingers twisted into the sleeve of his shirt as though it were the only thing keeping him from shaking apart.

A thin, amused sigh slipped from Two Time’s lips.

“Hah… you really are… nothing but trouble, aren’t you?”

Their tone was laced with a quiet scold, a flicker of fascination, and a darker undercurrent—something between the urge to protect him and the urge to toy with him until he cried out. Behind them, their skeletal wings twitched—those long, needle-slender bones that looked carved from shadow itself—scraping together with a faint, glassy creak.

They leaned a little closer to the railing, their gaze locked solely onto him. He looked so small down there, so breakable that even an accidental shove from one of the two enraged men would be enough to send him sprawling across the cracked concrete.

“Just look at you, my little flower…” Two Time murmured, their voice soft in a way that made the softness dangerous—like a honeyed blade. “So pretty that all the ugly insects can’t help swarming just to tear you apart.”

Down below, Mafioso—face flushed red with fury—shoved his shoulder into Noli, shouting so loudly it echoed up the walls. “Get away from him, Noli! Do you hear me?!”

Noli only laughed, wiping the smear of blood from the corner of his mouth with a flourish. He wobbled a little, but the sway in his stance made him look even more like a provocateur who enjoyed the sting of every blow. “Why should I? I didn’t even touch him,” he said lightly. His gaze flicked toward 007n7, and he smirked. “You’re the one gripping his hand like you’re trying to strangle him, Mafioso.”

A roar exploded from the crowd:

“FIGHT!”

“Oh my God, they’re actually doing it!”

“This is better than any drama!”

Bodies pressed closer, elbows jabbing, voices rising, cameras trembling in eager hands. The air thickened around the scene, pulsing with feverish excitement.

And he—007n7—stood frozen. Two Time saw the tremor in his eyes as clearly as if they were right beside him. He bit his lip, body tense to the point of snapping, wanting to move but unable to. Even from the fourth floor, Two Time could taste the turmoil rolling off him.

“Oh, sweetheart…” they whispered with an amused tilt of the head. “You’re shaking so much it just makes me want to… ruin you.”

Suddenly, Mafioso lunged. His hand shot out, fisting Noli’s collar, dragging him down with a snarl.

“You bastard! Who the hell do you think you are?!”

Noli only laughed harder, blocking the hit with practiced ease, his voice slipping out sharp as broken glass.

“Why not? The harder you hit me, the more worried he gets.”

His words poured oil straight onto the fire.

Mafioso screamed—an animalistic sound, not anger but pure instinct reacting to something precious being threatened. The crowd surged forward so violently that a few students nearly toppled.

That was when 007n7 stepped forward, as if pulled by invisible wires.

His lips parted—no sound came out.

He froze again.

Sunlight flickered across his face. His hands squeezed into fists around his sleeves, nails digging painfully into skin—and still he didn’t let go.

Two Time laughed quietly.

Not loudly.

But sharply.

Like bones colliding in the dark.

“My little one… you don’t belong in that fight.” Their eyes narrowed, darkening like stormwater. “And yet—you’re the very reason it’s happening. How lovely.”

They straightened. One hand pressed against the railing, their body tipping back slightly as if considering a drop into the chaos below. Their skeletal wings lifted, spreading just enough to cast a warped shadow behind them.

“I really might…” they murmured, “…go down there and see what you’ll do next.”

But then they paused. A smile slid across their face—slow, calculating, cold.

“No,” they whispered, licking a fang in idle thought. “Someone else will be far more interested. If The Spawn hears about this… they’ll want to meet you. Oh, they’ll want to meet you very badly.”

Their fingers drummed lightly against the railing, a hollow metallic ring echoing outward.

“Good,” Two Time said. “Because I want to see you again too.”

They turned away, wings stretching as though ready to leap—or swoop—but folding back at the last second. Sunlight poured through the gaps between bones, creating strange, slicing beams that ran across their skin like shifting cuts of light.

But before leaving, they looked back over their shoulder.

Their gaze sifted through the crowd in an instant—finding him.

Always him.

A stare that lingered, heavy and unmasked.

A stare full of dark amusement, hungry curiosity, and something far too dangerous to name.

“Wait for me…” they breathed, a whisper carried by no wind.

“I want to see who you’ll choose…

—or if you choose no one at all.”

Chance twirled the cocktail glass between his fingers, watching the amber liquid catch and scatter the purple neon lights of the tiny dorm bar. The ice clinked sharply against the rim—an impatient, almost mocking sound—like it was stirring up the trouble that already hung thick in the air.

He cast a sidelong glance at Elliot, who had collapsed onto the neighboring stool looking every bit the overworked student council president he was: hair mussed from hurrying across campus, school council jacket still on, tie crooked like he'd yanked at it in frustration, and the look of a man who had run straight from a crisis meeting to another crisis.

Then Chance dropped the question—simple, but enough to tilt the atmosphere in half: “Let me guess… Noli and Mafioso are fighting again, right?”

His voice was half-sigh, half-amusement, but there was something playful beneath it—something that suggested he wasn’t surprised at all, and maybe even a little entertained.

Elliot froze mid–bite of his oversized pizza slice, cheese stretching so dramatically it nearly hit the table. He chewed once, swallowed, then downed a long, gasping sip of cola until the can let out a defeated hiss as all the carbonation died. His voice came low, heavy, resigned:

“Yeah. They’re always fighting.” He wiped his mouth, exhaling sharply. “Those two… are actual menaces.”

Chance snorted, leaning on one elbow, finger tapping lightly against his glass. “What’s wrong, Mr. President? Jealous?”

Elliot’s brows shot down instantly. “Why would I be jealous?”

“Well,” Chance hummed, eyes glimmering with mischief, “dramatic fights and chaos are supposed to be your heart-stopper—because of him. But now it seems like those two idiots can get a reaction out of you too.” He tilted his head. “Didn’t you storm down the hallway this morning just to file an incident report because they kicked down the disciplinary office door?”

Elliot glared, and for a split second, his cheeks flushed like he'd been caught doing something embarrassing.

But Chance barreled on, absolutely delighted: “Honestly, without Elliot—the Great Stabilizer—this school would've collapsed into pure warfare. Hallway fights, destroying goalposts, climbing the rooftop to smoke, breaking storage lockers, chucking rocks at the cameras… No joke, the only thing missing is someone smuggling a grenade into class.”

“I’m not ‘stabilizing’ anything,” Elliot snapped. “I’m fulfilling my responsibility.”

“Sure. Responsibility,” Chance echoed innocently. “And that responsibility makes you oddly… bothered… when those two fought today, doesn’t it?”

Elliot looked away, jaw tightening, as if avoiding the accusation he knew was true. “I'm not bothered. I just think it’s… strange.”

Chance laughed—an unrestrained, sharp laugh. “Strange because this time, it involves him.”

Elliot froze.

Those words—involves him—hit him like a blunt force to the chest. The soda can caved in where he gripped it too hard.

“What… do you mean?” Elliot asked, voice small, trembling at the edges.

Chance swirled his drink again, completely calm. “The hallway guards said it. Those two dragged each other out into the courtyard and went feral because of him.”

Elliot shot to his feet. The chair screeched across the floor with a violent scrape that made half the bar jump.

“What—was he hurt? If those two snapped then—”

Chance held up a hand. “Knew it. Mention him once and you turn into a different person.”

But Elliot wasn’t listening anymore. His eyes darted around like he was already halfway out the door.

Chance sighed dramatically. “I saw the livestream. The courtyard was packed like vultures swarming a carcass. Those two were screaming each other’s faces off like they wanted blood.” He paused for effect. “And the reason? Easy. Him.”

Elliot crushed the soda can completely. “Those bastards… He was standing between them and they still—”

“Well,” Chance drawled, nudging Elliot’s leg under the table, “everyone wants to impress the person they like, right? And 007n7 is adorable—who wouldn’t want attention from him?”

Elliot’s ears turned bright red. Not the cute kind.

The jealous, panicked, furious kind.

“Chance.” His voice was low, dangerous. “Was he hurt?”

Chance shrugged. “Probably not. Just… scared.”

That single word slammed into Elliot harder than any punch.

Fear.

He hated the idea of him being afraid.

He pictured him—so small, so gentle-looking, always wide-eyed and easy to fluster—caught between two enraged guys. His hands would be trembling. His eyes would go soft and frightened. He’d try to speak but nothing would come out.

No.

Unacceptable.

Elliot’s heart hammered so violently he felt it in his throat. “I’m going to find him,” he said, tone final. “Right now.”

Chance watched him for a long second, then smirked like a man who’d just set off the first domino in a beautifully messy chain reaction. “Someone’s about to start a fight out of jealousy.”

“It’s not jealousy.”

Chance raised a brow.

Sure it isn’t.

Elliot swallowed, shoulders tense, and muttered—quiet, raw, almost embarrassed: “It’s… responsibility.”

Chance burst out laughing so hard he had to fix his hair. “Right. Definitely responsibility. Responsibility to protect the boy who makes you turn red every time someone says his name.”

Elliot didn’t argue anymore. He spun and walked off fast—too fast—his whole body strung tight like he might sprint at any moment.

Chance lifted his cocktail in a mock toast. “Go on then. Hurry. If you’re slow, those two idiots might carry him off.”

Elliot stumbled at the doorway, then broke into a full run. He disappeared down the hall, leaving behind the faint smell of cola and a fierce, unspoken determination to protect something he couldn’t bring himself to name.

Chance leaned back, kicked his feet up onto Elliot’s abandoned seat, and smiled—sharp, hungry for the unfolding chaos.

“…Oh, this,” he murmured, taking another lazy sip, golden eyes gleaming with anticipation, “this is getting good.”

“Are you hurt… 007n7…?”

The Spawn’s voice didn’t fall the way a human voice does. It brushed against him—no, barely ghosted across his skin—like a veil of golden dust drifting when the wind breathes.

Just one question, one thread of sound, was enough to raise a shiver under his skin: cold, warm, eerie, and somehow comforting all at once, a contradiction that settled deep in his bones.

Their hands lifted slowly, each motion carved with impossible precision, no wasted movement, no tremor out of place. Those hands—slender, cool to the touch, almost glowing as if light itself ran through their joints—glided over his shoulder, down the length of his arm, and paused near his cheek.

They didn’t hold him. They didn’t pull him closer. They hovered as if the slightest pressure would crack him open like fragile glass.

Even with their eyes hidden beneath those immaculate white bandages—layers of fabric so clean they caught the light like frost—The Spawn somehow looked at him. Not with sight, but with something deeper, something unearthly. Their invisible gaze swept over him with terrifying accuracy, as if they perceived the world with a sense far beyond what humans were given.

“It’s alright… you’re safe now,” they whispered, voice slow, deliberate.

But that slowness—gentle, steady—made his heart lurch painfully in his chest.

The Spawn, the one the entire academy rumored to be incapable of emotion, the one everyone swore had no heart beating in their ribs… was exhaling in relief because of him.

He looked at them—unmoving, unreadable, their bandaged eyes expressionless yet somehow filled with concern so quiet it trembled in the air between them. He felt that concern more vividly than if they had shouted it.

Strange.

Unsettling.

And it made his heartbeat stumble.

“Don’t wander off alone again,” The Spawn murmured. They didn’t admonish him. They didn’t command him. They stated it like a rule written into the fabric of the universe—a truth he wasn’t allowed to break. “I need to speak with The Spectre. There is… something that must be handled.”

Their voice dipped subtly on the word “something,” a heavy, dangerous weight settling in the space around them. A chill crawled up 007n7’s spine. Whoever The Spawn was about to confront… he pitied them without knowing why.

They turned to leave without hesitation, no fumbling, no searching for direction—walking with the flawless certainty of someone whose eyes had never been covered. Light clung to the edges of their bandages, outlining every movement like a blade slicing cleanly through the air.

And the moment The Spawn disappeared around the corner, the hallway seemed to drop several degrees.

He was left alone.

Or rather,

alone with Two Time.

Two Time hadn’t moved since the chaos began. They sat beside him, their hand wrapped around his—not to show off, not even to soothe him. They held his hand like they were afraid that if they let go, he would evaporate like mist.

“…Two Time?” he whispered, voice barely more than a tremble pulled from damp paper.

“Hm?” Their head snapped up instantly.

Their eyes lit up—truly lit up—as if someone had flicked on a neon sign inside their skull. That brightness shifted the air around them, electrifying it in the way streetlights transform a lonely alley at midnight.

In their head, a single thought exploded like fireworks:

Holy shit…

He said my name.

His voice—soft, clear, brushing like silk against skin—made Two Time’s chest tighten painfully. Not a painful pain. A sweetness, overwhelming and dizzying, that made them want to drop their head onto his lap and die there, perfectly content.

“What’s wrong, 007n7?” they asked.

Their smile softened—stripped of mischief, stripped of sarcasm, stripped of the sly grin they used to toy with everyone else. This smile didn’t belong to the world. It belonged only to him.

Looking at him—his tilted eyes, parted lips, the breath trembling at the edge of falling—Two Time felt themselves dissolving.

“…Why are you holding my hand like that?” he asked. The question was thin as thread, but it tugged Two Time’s heart so violently they almost forgot how to breathe.

They froze.

One second.

Two.

Then slowly—painfully gently—they lifted his hand.

Every motion was reverent. Tender. Like touching a rare creature that might vanish if handled too roughly. They held his hand as if the entire universe had shrunk and fit perfectly into their palms.

They lowered their head.

And pressed their lips to the back of his hand.

The kiss was slow.

And soft.

And warm.

And heavy—with every emotion they had never spoken aloud.

Their lips trembled. Maybe from nerves. Maybe because he was too close.

“Your skin is soft…” Two Time murmured, voice dropping to something deeper—warm, intimate, thick with feeling they couldn’t hide even if they tried. “Soft… warm… and it smells like…”

They hesitated, eyes squinting into a smile faintly delirious. “…like the favor The Spawn gives you.”

Their fingers tightened just slightly around his hand, as if losing this touch would be enough to break them.

“It’s the scent… of the chosen one.”

Then they leaned down again—slower this time, deeper—and the second kiss sank into his skin like molten honey. Their hands closed over his, holding, cherishing, desperate.

“And I like it…” Two Time breathed, lips brushing his skin one last time before finally pulling away on a trembling exhale.

They looked up at him with a small, painfully sincere smile—so real it could make someone’s chest ache.

“…so much.”

Chapter Text

“Why the long face?”

The voice came from a figure with silver-gray hair that gleamed like metal under lamplight. Builderman’s tone was lazy—so lazy it sounded like he’d just rolled out of a pile of unsigned paperwork and decided to bother someone for entertainment. He sauntered over, dropped himself into the chair beside the other figure, propped an elbow on the table, and regarded him with eyes as dark as spilled ink, missing absolutely nothing.

The other—Telamon—didn’t answer. Didn’t even twitch. He sat wrapped in a cascade of dark chocolate-brown silk streaked with warm gold, the fabric draping off his shoulders as if woven from sunset itself. Beneath the wide-brimmed hat shadowing half his face, his pale golden eyes glinted each time he spared a fleeting, chilly glance toward his unwanted visitor.

Builderman raised a brow.

“Don’t play dead, you breathing boulder. I’m asking you a proper question.”

Telamon flicked one of his massive wings—a single, lazy sweep. Those enormous ash-and-gold feathers stirred hard enough that half the papers on the table went flying like helpless butterflies caught in a storm.

“Telamon does not require your concern,” he said, voice flat and cold enough to frost stone. “Telamon will do as he pleases.”

Builderman narrowed his eyes in amusement.

“Oh look, the quills are out again.”

He leaned in, chin resting on his palm, a half-smirk curling his lips—half teasing, half digging, as if he were slowly prying open a secret only he had the right to discover.

“Let me guess… been staring down at the mortal realm all morning with that scowl like someone stole your divine allowance. Don’t tell me some charming little pest caught your attention. Your workload’s rotting away while you brood.”

His tone stretched lazily, deliberately provoking—anything less subtle would’ve earned him a one-way trip to the seventh level of the Abyss if spoken to anyone else.

But Builderman was an exception.

He teased for a living.

And Telamon was used to being teased by him.

“Telamon does not need to work,” Telamon replied curtly, lifting his chin with the disdain of a god answering a housecat’s attempt at discussing the cosmos.

Builderman burst into laughter.

“You say that once every week. And every week I’m the one cleaning up the disasters you ignore.”

He planted a finger on the nearest mountain of paperwork, shoved it aside with blatant disrespect, then casually stole Telamon’s pen as if it belonged to him.

“Let’s see… petition to cancel a typhoon, three hundred prayer requests, a pile of ridiculous thank-you letters from minor cults—oh? This one’s cute. Letters from kids down in the mortal world. Looks like they drew us as… cats?”

Telamon snatched the paper away so fast it was nearly a blur.

“You may not see that.”

Builderman laughed even harder.

“Oh? Telamon can get embarrassed?”

“Builderman,” Telamon growled. “Do not make Telamon drop you to the thousandth floor.”

“Terrifying,” Builderman replied with a drawl, tossing his leg casually onto Telamon’s table as if it were his living room couch. “Anyway. You’re not your usual ‘lazy but unbothered’ self today. You’ve been staring toward Earth since sunrise. What happened?”

Telamon said nothing.

And Builderman’s eyes narrowed—because he knew exactly what Telamon’s silence meant.

“There is someone getting under your skin, isn’t there?” he murmured, leaning in with predatory curiosity. “A human? A soul? One of the idiotic entities running around down there?”

Still no answer… but beneath Telamon’s silk sleeve, his fingers tightened, just slightly.

Builderman didn’t miss it.

He never missed anything.

A slow, pleased smile spread across his face—equal parts smug, understanding, and nosy.

“So I was right,” he said, voice honey-smooth. “You’re not upset about work—you never care about work. There’s only one kind of thing that could make you look like this.”

Telamon shot him a razor-edged glare.

“Builderman.”

“It’s—”

“Silence.”

“—someone who’s made Telamon’s mighty heart flutter.”

Telamon’s wings bristled instantly, feathers flaring like he was ready to smack someone off the heavens.

“Telamon does not flutter!”

Builderman reached out and brushed the edge of one wing with teasing gentleness, stroking it the way one might calm an offended bird of prey.

“Telamon,” he said, this time with a voice much lower, softer, real in a way that cut through his usual sarcasm, “we’ve been friends for millennia. You truly think I can’t tell? The way you keep watching the world below… like you’re afraid someone might disappear. Like for the first time, something down there matters more to you than every law up here.”

Telamon froze.

He turned his face away, hiding half of his expression under the shadow of his hat. But Builderman still caught the faint tremble on his jaw.

“Telamon…” Builderman lowered his voice even more, sincerity curling through each word. “Who is it?”

Silence stretched thin—taut as a bowstring about to snap.

Finally, Telamon murmured, voice low as wind whispering across ancient stone:

“Telamon does not know.”

Builderman blinked.

“You don’t know their name? Or you don’t know what you’re feeling?”

“…Both.”

Builderman let out a laugh—but it wasn’t mocking anymore. It was warm. Almost fond.

“Oh heavens… my Telamon. The giant bird of judgment has finally learned what it means to like someone.”

Telamon shot to his feet.

“Builderman!”

“Alright, alright.” He lifted both hands in surrender, grinning like a man who knew he deserved the impending wrath but found it worth it anyway. “I only want to say one thing.”

He met Telamon’s eyes—uncharacteristically earnest.

“Whoever made you stare at the mortal realm like that… I hope they realize they’ve managed to make one of the strongest beings up here fall for them.”

Telamon whipped around, wings puffing in a flustered flare, tugging his hat down to hide his face.

“Telamon… does not fall,” he grumbled—but the softness in his voice was as fragile as loose thread.

Builderman leaned back, arms crossed, smirk widening.

“Keep telling yourself that. I’ll be right here enjoying the show.”

A cold hand—metallic, furred, and scaled all at once—shot forward without warning. It clamped around Builderman’s jaw before he even had the chance to get another smug syllable out. Telamon’s talons, curved and sharp like a raptor’s, dug into his cheeks with a sickening little crack, just enough to make the skin sink beneath the pressure. Builderman’s eyes flew wide, then instantly scrunched up in pain.

“A—AOW—! Let go! Telamon—!” he yelped, voice warping as his face was squeezed into shapes no mortal face should attempt.

Telamon didn’t budge. Not even a twitch. His pitch–black eyes—those unreadable voids that never betrayed a single thought—simply lowered, regarding Builderman the way one might look at a mosquito that had landed too close to their food.

“You talk too much,” Telamon growled, each word dropping like cold slabs of stone onto marble. “Telamon told you not to interfere.”

Builderman tried to grin, but the grin folded into a pained grimace under the iron grip on his jaw. “I—I was just asking… ngh—! That hurts—!”

The temperature inside Telamon’s grand office dipped sharply, as if his irritation alone had leeched warmth out of the air. Scrolls, celestial maps, and floating diagrams drifted nervously around him, trembling ever so slightly—like items in a room that knew better than to touch an angry god.

Just outside the half-open door, two figures arrived at the same time, both peeking into the chaos like witnesses stumbling onto a crime scene.

One was blue—hair, eyes, face all matching the shade of someone who had already given up today.

The other was tall, broad-shouldered, wrapped in crimson and shadows, breathing with the slow patience of a boulder.

Clockwork pressed both palms to the glass panel of the office door and let out a breath so long and so tragic it fogged up half the window. “Not again…” he groaned, dragging his sea-blue hair backward as if pulling it might help pull the stress out too. “They’re supposed to be the lead admins. How do they still act like two cats locked in the same bathroom?”

Doombringer folded his arms, completely unsurprised, shaking his head with the resigned slowness of someone who had come pre-tired. “Clockwork, they hated each other long before they became admins. Don’t expect teamwork from them now.”

Clockwork’s eyes widened like he’d just had a terrible idea. “But you’re a lead admin too! You’re stronger than Builderman, and you’re almost—almost—up there with Telamon. Can’t you… I dunno… pick them both up and toss them into opposite corners?”

Doombringer chuckled—low, heavy, surprisingly warm. “Clockwork, they’re gods. We’re just upgraded Robloxians. If I jump between two irritated gods, what do you think happens?”

Clockwork blinked. “…Decapitation?”

“Exactly.”

Clockwork sighed again. And again. And quite possibly a third time within seconds. At this point, sighing was practically his full-time occupation.

“So… what now? We just let them claw each other to pieces and hope the office survives?”

Doombringer shrugged. “At least today Builderman’s only getting his jaw crushed. Last time, Telamon tore his admin coat in half. Remember that?”

Clockwork physically shuddered, arms hugging himself. “Oh, I remember… He screamed like someone insulted his entire bloodline.”

Inside the office, Builderman was still desperately prying at Telamon’s claws, making noises halfway between whining and wheezing.

“A—wait—wait—let me explain— ow— seriously, what’s wrong with you today—?!”

Telamon narrowed his eyes, unimpressed. “You spoke nonsense again.”

“Nonsense? No! I know you’ve been watching someone down there! You’ve been staring at the mortal realm so much the staff thought you quit your job!”

Telamon clicked his tongue—and squeezed harder. Builderman jerked involuntarily.

“Silence.”

“No—! Ow—! Stop—! I’m telling the truth—!”

Outside, Clockwork slowly turned his head toward Doombringer, voice hollow. “Should we… call medical…?”

Doombringer gave him a look. “For Builderman? Last time the doctor saw Telamon, he ran away first.”

Clockwork blinked. “…Right. Fair point.”

They both sighed in unison, as if this whole scene was a weekly ritual—tedious, predictable, unfixable.

“May I ask what’s going on here?”

A woman’s voice drifted down the hallway—soft, but sharp enough to slice straight through the tension hanging in the air like a blade. Clockwork and Doombringer snapped their heads around in perfect unison.

Standing at the doorway was a woman no one in the entire headquarters could ever mistake for someone else: Brighteyes. Her lilac hair was tied up in a high bun, just messy enough to suggest she had sprinted through a battlefield made of paperwork. The tinted glasses perched on her nose reflected the hallway lights like shards of stained glass. And her smile—gentle, polite, almost absurdly serene—was so out of place against the chaos erupting inside the office that it felt surreal.

Brighteyes. Senior Admin.

And also… Telamon’s “political fiancé”—a title that sounded elegant, even romantic, until one realized it was hollow as an empty contract.

They didn’t love each other.

They had never loved each other.

Every admin in the tower knew that as undeniable fact.

Some days, the two looked at each other like they were seconds away from gouging out the other’s eyes with a ballpoint pen.

Clockwork practically lit up at the sight of her. Like a man drowning suddenly spotting a driftwood plank.

“Bright! Oh thank god—perfect timing!” he blurted, half-running toward her and nearly tripping over the stack of documents she was carrying. “Could you please help us with the paperwork? Builderman and Telamon keep dumping everything on us, and they’re just—uh—”

His voice died the moment he glanced back into the office.

Builderman was still being held by the jaw, whining through a crushed-sounding voice.

Telamon’s grip was firm, his other hand tapping rhythmically against the desk as if counting the seconds until his patience ran dry.

Brighteyes blinked once. Then twice. Then she gave a smile so bright that if sunlight could take physical form, it would've danced around her like a halo.

“Ah, sure! I can help,” she said, her voice warm and breezy—like morning light, like the calm before a storm—despite the fact she was walking straight into what looked like the prelude of a godly fistfight. “I’ll do what I can.”

Doombringer rubbed his chin, muttering just loud enough for Clockwork to hear, “She’s incredibly calm. If it were me, I’d have thrown the paperwork and bolted.”

Clockwork nodded furiously. “Bright is the only person who can look Telamon in the eye when he’s furious and still smile like that…”

Brighteyes stepped forward before they could say more, her heels clicking tick tick tick against the marble floor. Each step she took toward the office made Clockwork and Doombringer straighten their backs like she was approaching the den of a wild beast.

The office door swung open.

Light from the hallway spilled inside, making Telamon shift his gaze sharply, while Builderman—still held by the face—looked like he had just spotted a guardian angel descending from the heavens.

“Brighteyes!” Builderman wheezed, his voice mangled by the grip distorting his mouth. “Tell—tell him to let me go!”

Brighteyes smiled as sweetly as a flower blooming in spring. “Telamon? You’re squeezing someone’s face.”

Telamon turned toward her, his midnight-black eyes as unreadable as an abyss. One could never tell whether he was angry, startled, or simply irritated that she had appeared.

“What are you here for?” he asked, voice low and cold. His grip did not loosen.

“I’m here for your signature,” Brighteyes replied, still gentle, still unshaken. “And it seems like you’re… handling a coworker rather roughly.”

“HANDLING!?” Builderman screeched. “HANDLING!? HE’S TRYING TO ERASE MY FACE!!”

Telamon narrowed his eyes at him. “Loud.”

Brighteyes laughed softly—light, melodious—and the two admins outside nearly jumped out of their skins.

Setting her stack of documents on Telamon’s desk, she lifted one hand, touching his wrist with a simple, effortless motion.

“Let him go for a moment,” she murmured. “I have something to discuss with you.”

Shockingly—Telamon obeyed.

Builderman nearly toppled off the chair, clutching his jaw as if it were about to fall off. “Th–Thank you, Bright… heavens—thought I’d die with my face twisted…!”

“You’re too noisy,” Brighteyes said pleasantly, smile unchanged.

Outside, Clockwork whispered with reverence, “She’s the only person who can cool him down like that.”

Doombringer nodded slowly. “It’s strange, though… they can’t stand each other, but when Brighteyes speaks, he listens.”

Clockwork tilted his head, eyes gleaming with curiosity.

“You think… maybe they actually have some feelings for each other?”

Doombringer folded his arms and sighed. “No. If Telamon ever fell in love, the universe would probably implode before that.”

Clockwork nodded. “Yeah… fair point.”

Inside the office, however, Brighteyes leaned in just slightly—her eyes sharp, cutting, and all-knowing—and asked in a quiet voice:

“You were watching the mortal realm again, weren’t you?”

Telamon froze.

And for the first time that chaotic morning…

he said absolutely nothing.

Brighteyes had always been that way—a finely tuned machine of intuition and perception, sharpened by experience, intelligence, and a touch of natural-born cunning. She didn’t just look with her eyes; she observed with every breath, every shift of posture, every microscopic twitch beneath someone’s skin. A single misplaced blink, a slightly uneven inhale—just that was enough for her to unravel an entire hidden story someone believed they had buried deep.

This was why people called her Bright-Eyes—eyes that gleamed, unwavering, capable of slicing through every mask others worked so hard to put on.

She leaned lightly against Telamon’s desk, tapping her nails against the polished wood in a slow, playful rhythm, and her voice rang out with a teasing clarity, chiming like bells that only mischief would forge.

“I noticed you’ve been paying attention to a certain little sweetheart lately.”

The black cat tail attached to her hip—no one knew if it was a prop or a living creature—gave a leisurely flick, as if anticipating the exact moment the room would erupt.

The reaction was faster than lightning.

SLAM!

Telamon’s hand crashed onto the table with enough force to rattle every sheet of paperwork. He shot upright, wings of burnished gold sweeping out behind him so abruptly that the tips brushed the wall, as though the room itself was too small to contain the flare of his fury.

His amber eyes flashed—a warning sharp as a blade being unsheathed.

“Telamon forbids you from touching what Telamon lays eyes on.”

Each word dropped like a growl from a cornered beast—territorial, ice-cold, and heavy with threat.

Brighteyes didn’t flinch.

Didn’t step back.

If anything, her eyes glowed brighter—like his anger was the exact entertainment she’d been craving all morning.

“Oh? Someone’s upset again?” she asked sweetly, tilting her head with a smile that carried elegance wrapped in mockery. “Calm down. I haven’t even finished speaking.”

Telamon’s fingers dug into the edge of the desk so hard the wood creaked under the strain.

Brighteyes crossed her arms, lowering her voice into something softer—yet so razor-sharp it could split a secret clean in half.

“I met that little sweetheart this morning. 007n7, right? The university kid. Involved in some toxic relationship with a Mafia brat.”

She sighed, as though she were talking about the weather rather than detonating a bomb in Telamon’s chest.

“Sweet kid, honestly. Easy to talk to. Gentle. Quite adorable too.”

Silence fell—heavy and suffocating.

Telamon didn’t move.

His talons scraped lightly across the wood as he clenched the desk tighter, trying to keep the explosion under control.

When he finally spoke, his voice trembled—not with fear, but with barely caged possessiveness.

“Telamon does not permit you to speak with him.”

Brighteyes uncrossed her arms and leaned forward, one hand bracing against the desk as she brought herself closer—close enough to feel the heat of his simmering anger. The colored glass of her lenses caught the light and threw sharp shards of color across his blazing amber eyes.

“Answer me this,” she whispered, voice dripping with delight.

“Why forbid it?”

Telamon went silent.

His eyes flickered like a flame hit by a sudden gust.

Brighteyes raised an eyebrow.

Then she smiled.

“And what then?” she mused, twisting her wrist lightly, her cat tail curling like a question mark behind her. “I still spoke to him anyway, didn’t I?”

A soft shff sounded—Telamon’s wings flaring wider, their shadow swallowing her and half the room in a dark, looming canopy.

“You…” he growled, voice heavy enough to crack stone.

But Brighteyes cut him off before he could erupt.

“Tell me, Telamon—are you angry because I talked to the kid…”

Her finger lifted, pressing lightly against his chest, right where his heartbeat thudded violently beneath the fabric.

“…or because you care about him so much it’s driving you insane?”

This time, the silence that followed was more dangerous than any roar he could’ve made.

That morning, the sky was so clear it looked like someone had wiped every cloud off with glass cleaner.

007n7 sat in his tiny room, holding a cup of hot cocoa, staring blankly as Elliot and Chance argued over a missing TV remote. Everything was painfully normal… until he casually decided to drop a bomb for fun.

“I met an admin this morning.”

He said it with the same tone people use when talking about buying bread.

No fear. No bragging. Just a plain announcement.

Elliot—who had been drinking water, a very large gulp—immediately choked on the concept of existence itself.

“KH—KHH—!!”

And then he sprayed the entire mouthful directly into Chance’s face like Chance was a houseplant that needed watering.

“HEY—!! That’s disgusting, Elliot!!!” Chance screamed, his expression scrunched like someone had splashed him with swamp water. “I JUST washed my face yesterday!!”

He jumped up and bolted toward the bathroom, cursing Elliot with the fury of a man who had nothing left to lose.

Elliot didn’t care.

Because he was too busy experiencing catastrophic shock.

He grabbed 007n7 by the shoulders, eyes popping out of his skull.

“YOU MET TELAMON?! TELAMON?! THAT ADMIN?!??!”

“No,” the boy said casually, taking another sip of cocoa just to make Elliot suffer more.

“Just Telamon’s fiancé.”

Elliot froze for exactly one second.

Then he screamed so loud the roof nearly committed suicide:

“BRIGHTEYES?!?!?!”

His voice boomed like thunder shaking the room.

From the bathroom, Chance poked his soapy head out: “EXCUSE ME?? BRIGHTEYES?? THAT SUPER-PRETTY RAINBOW-EYED FEMALE ADMIN!??”

Elliot spun toward him and roared: “YES!! THAT’S HER!! BRIGHTEYES!!!”

Chance’s eyes widened:

“You met one of the most dangerous admins, who also just happens to be Telamon’s fiancée?! How—how are you still ALIVE??”

“Why wouldn’t I be alive?” 007n7 shrugged.

“She even gave me cookies.”

“Co—COOKIES??” Elliot’s jaw dropped. “If Brighteyes gives you cookies, it means one of two things: either she likes you, or she wants to tag you for easier tracking later!!”

“Or both,” Chance whispered, trembling.

Elliot instantly turned back to the boy, eye twitching:

“Tell us EVERYTHING. NOW. Did she threaten you? Did she stare into your SOUL? Did she ask about Telamon?? Did she—”

“She said…” He touched a finger thoughtfully to his lips, recalling.

“…that I was cute.”

Both of them turned into wax statues on the spot.

Elliot inhaled sharply, like he’d just witnessed the literal end of days.

“Wh—what? SHE—Brighteyes—the woman who can make Builderman take a step back—told you you’re cute?? In a normal tone??”

“Mm-hm.” 007n7 nodded. “She also said she liked my hair.”

Chance collapsed into a chair:

“Oh god… We’re done. Telamon’s gonna lose his mind.”

Elliot clutched his head, pacing like a man awaiting apocalypse: “No no no… Telamon is a god-tier being, ridiculously possessive… If he finds out his fiancée called a mortal like you cute, he—he—”

Chance finished: “—he’ll kill that Mafia guy of yours first.”

Elliot shot him a finger gun:

“Exactly.”

Then the two of them turned toward 007n7 in perfect synchronization, expressions deadly serious—like wildlife documentary narrators discussing a doomed animal. “You need to tell us EVERYTHING that happened. Every word, every breath, every look Brighteyes gave you. DO NOT leave out a single detail. YOUR LIFE DEPENDS ON IT.”

“So… should I start from the part where she called me ‘little one,’ or the part where she said Telamon was watching the mortal world because of me?” the boy asked.

Both of them screamed:

“START WITH BOTH!!”

Chapter Text

“Wifey.”

That single word dripped into the night—sweet and slow, like honey melting on the tongue—making 007n7’s shoulders twitch just a little. Outside, the wind slipped through the trees, the leaves brushing against each other in whispers, as if an unseen crowd was murmuring in the dark.

The sky was a deep velvet black, scattered with only a few faint stars, like the last sparks left behind after the world had once burned.

007n7 rested his chin on the windowsill, dark eyes reflecting the night sky. He hadn’t even finished letting out a sigh when he heard a sound—soft, too soft—like something gliding through the air without feet, without weight, without permission. A familiar voice, teasing yet tinged with possession, breathed right behind his neck.

“Wifey.”

Noli emerged from the shadows as though the rules of the world simply did not apply to him. He didn’t walk, didn’t run, didn’t even use those wings that once made the sky itself shudder. He just glided, as if space rearranged itself to make room for him.

He lounged mid-air, as if lying on an invisible bed, legs crossed, hands behind his head. His white locs drifted and swayed with the wind, the moonlight sliding through each strand like he was some unbothered apparition with a smug streak.

“Escaped again, Noli?” 007n7 pushed the window open wider, tilting his head with the expression of someone who had seen this a thousand times. As if Noli sneaking into his room every night was as routine as brushing teeth.

“Hm?” Noli chuckled, that kind of giggle that made people question whether they should find him adorable or punchable. “When have I not escaped from that place?”

He spun once in the air—light, effortless—like a drifting leaf. His pale eyes slid toward 007n7 with the intent of someone who knew exactly what he was doing, and exactly who he was looking at.

“007n7.”

His voice was soft, velvet-soft.

“I know… you came back from death. I did too.”

007n7 didn’t react. He just lowered his gaze, stirring the hot cocoa in his cup. Steam curled up and blurred his eyes for a second.

“Yeah. And?” he asked, tone so casual it could’ve been about the weather. As if resurrection was something the neighbors did every other weekend.

Noli smiled—but it wasn’t a playful one. He propped his elbow against the air itself, watching 007n7 for far too long, as if counting every breath. “Not just us,” he murmured, voice dipping low with something strange and heavy. “I can feel others. Things that should have died long ago… circling back.”

007n7 raised an eyebrow.

“Who?”

“Not sure.” The corners of Noli’s lips curled into a fascinated grin. “But their scent—the smell of torn time, old grudges—yeah. I can smell it. And trust me, you’ll feel it too.”

The wind grew sharper, sliding cold across the skin. 007n7’s hair fluttered, revealing ears flushed pink from the night chill. Noli’s gaze shifted—darkening, unreadable.

“Is that so?” 007n7 still sounded bored, placing the cup on the windowsill with a soft tap. “Doesn’t concern me much.”

This time, Noli didn’t laugh. He lowered himself, his pale silhouette stretching across the room, swallowing a portion of the lamplight. He reached out—a hand long, sharp, divine yet monstrous—and touched 007n7’s chin.

Barely a touch, but cold enough to freeze bone. “You should be careful,” he said. No teasing. No jokes. “I don’t want you getting hurt.”

The look in his eyes.

That wasn’t the look of someone calling him “wifey” for fun.

Not the look of a mischievous creature who liked scaring people by turning into a giant spider.

It was the look of someone who wanted to lock 007n7 away, hide him, keep him—no matter what.

007n7’s breath hitched for a moment. “Why do you care that much?” he whispered. “It’s not like we’re… that close.”

Noli frowned—as if he’d just heard the most idiotic sentence in existence. “You think I need to be close to care about you?”

He laughed, but it was the dangerous kind—the kind that said he knew something 007n7 didn’t.

“007n7,” he whispered, leaning in so close his cold breath slid down 007n7’s neck. “You’re the only one I can see clearly across both lives. So clearly… I don’t even bother asking why.”

He withdrew his finger, but his eyes never left 007n7.

“So…” His voice dropped, low like a strangled growl.

“If someone else resurrected too…

If they dare approach you…”

He flicked a finger against the windowsill.

A razor-thin gust of wind sliced a falling leaf clean in half.

“…I’ll snap their neck before they can even say your name.”

“Cool.” 007n7 merely narrowed his eyes, letting out a single clipped word as if every warning Noli had just thrown at him had slipped right past. On the surface, he looked indifferent—untouched—but in truth, that sentence of Noli’s had sent a thin shiver crawling down his spine.

It felt like an invisible hand had peeled open the skin at the back of his neck, exposing secrets he’d tried so hard to bury under every breath.

“Go home. I’m going to sleep.”

He waved a hand dismissively, turning his back to the wide-open window, leaving the pale, cold moonlight behind him. From the garden came a faint noise—a rustle of leaves, the thin chirring of insects, and beneath that… something like the frantic cry of a cricket.

Strange. The garden was usually silent.

Noli’s expression froze for a split second. As if he had heard—or sensed—something no human could.

His floating white locs gave a tiny twitch, and in those abyssal god-eyes of his flickered a thin, unreadable gold.

Then slowly, very slowly, he smiled—an ambiguous curl of the lips that could’ve meant amusement, disdain, or curiosity.

“I know what you’re planning, 007n7.”

The words dropped heavy, like a stone hurled into a dried-up well. The air fractured—time thickened, shadows pressed closer, and the silence felt so taut it seemed one touch could split it open.

007n7 stopped.

Clearly.

No avoiding it.

So he figured it out, that damn god.

A slow breath.

Then he turned—not fully, just a glance over the shoulder. But that glance… sharp as a paper knife, thin and cutting enough to slice straight through the quiet.

“Then don’t open your mouth to anyone.”

His voice dipped—low, cold, and terribly calm. The kind of calm that made people instinctively step back. “Watch that filthy mouth of yours. Don’t meddle in my business.”

No shouting.

No anger.

Just a clean, quiet threat—far more frightening than any scream.

Noli tilted his head.

In the dark, he no longer looked like some mischievous creature who teased 007n7 for fun, but an ancient being who’d lived long enough to grow bored of existence… and yet found himself entertained again by this tiny, stubborn spark in front of him.

“You’re threatening me?” He laughed—a soft, clawed sound that traced down 007n7’s spine. “Oh… adorable.”

A short line, delicate and mocking.

And then he laughed again—dry, lazy, amused—like he was watching a kitten puff up at a wolf.

Then—no light, no sound—he simply vanished. Dissolved into nothingness as if he’d never been there at all, leaving only a thin trace of cold wind behind.

Left alone, 007n7 stood in the dim room, lips pressed tight, fists curling in the dark.

Noli was suspicious.

Bad.

Very bad.

But there was no turning back now.

“007n7…?”

A soft voice—gentle, light, brushing past his ear like wind sweeping through grass—rose up beside him. A warm hand followed, settling on his shoulder with delicate pressure, just enough to lift him out of the deep, heavy sleep he hadn’t even realized he’d slipped into.

His eyelashes fluttered—once, twice—before he blinked awake to the midday classroom light filtering across the desks. The hand on his shoulder remained there, steady, gentle, tinged with worry.

He stared for a moment, dazed, before the realization hit him and he blurted out: “…Did I fall asleep…?”

Well, yes. He absolutely did.

His mouth opened into a small, slow yawn, and—oh god—his hair. His hair looked like he had gone to war with three feral cats… and lost to all three.

When he raised a hand to touch it, it was a tangled storm—messy enough to qualify as a natural disaster. He sighed, long and defeated.

But of course, no one ever scolded him for it.

He was the small, brilliant kid who ranked top of his class, top of the entire school, competing in everything from city-level competitions to national Olympiads. Every teacher adored him. They treated him like a fragile crystal vase, like something precious. Even the strictest teachers melted the moment they looked at him.

And the teacher standing before him now—Miss Tarabyte, though everyone simply called her Miss Tara—was the perfect example of someone who could not stop caring about 007n7.

Her brown hair curled softly like low-hanging clouds, and the rainbow sheen of her glasses caught the sunlight every time she moved. She bent down slightly, concern pooling in her eyes—warm, sincere, the kind of gaze that silently said: “Why is my little one always so tired?”

Tara let out a faint, almost motherly sigh, clasped her hands together, and asked in a voice sweet as honey: “Did you stay up late studying again, 007n7?”

The class was still buzzing with chatter, but a few students peeked over, envy flickering in their eyes—because teachers always looked at him like he was some kind of treasure.

Hit square in the weak spot, 007n7’s ears flushed red as he mumbled: “I… I’m sorry, Miss. We have a Chemistry test today, so last night I… I studied a bit later than usual…”

Tara didn’t scold him. She never did. Instead, she giggled—a soft, tinkling laugh so sweet that his heart felt like it melted just a little each time he heard it.

“That’s alright, my little Seven.”

As she spoke, her hand lifted and landed on his head. One single pat. That was all it took to turn his already chaotic hair into a level-10 catastrophe. His soft brown strands clung to his forehead, some sticking straight up like static-charged wires.

Tara couldn’t help but laugh again—quiet, amused, utterly charmed.

“You have to take care of your health,” she continued, her voice dipping into that soothing, lullaby softness. “Don’t push yourself so hard. If you’re tired, just tell me. Don’t try to endure everything on your own.”

007n7 straightened himself in his seat, hands placed neatly on the desk, the faint imprint of his notebook still visible on his cheek. Then he bowed his head quickly:

“Yes, ma’am! Thank you!”

“Good. Such a sweet boy.”

Tara winked, then pushed her rainbow glasses up the bridge of her nose. “If you get sleepy again, I can request that you take a break next period, okay?”

“No need, ma’am! I’m fine!”

“Fine? Your eyes are as red as a sleep-deprived kitten.” Tara planted a hand on her hip, tilting her head as she examined him. Then she sighed again, the affectionate kind. “Next time, let me check your schedule. I’ll figure out which days you overwork yourself so I can force you to sleep earlier.”

“…Y-You’re actually gonna check my schedule?” he stammered.

“Of course. You’re my 007n7.” She smiled gently and lifted his chin just slightly, checking whether he was still drowsy.

And, as always, the way she said “my” made his cheeks burn with embarrassment and soothed something small and aching inside him at the same time.

“Tara!”

That deep, low voice rolled through the classroom doorway like a weighted gust of wind — quiet, but heavy enough to make every pen in the room freeze mid-stroke. It wasn’t loud, not at all, but there was something about it that made your spine straighten on instinct, like you were about to get called out by name.

007n7 turned his head immediately.

At the threshold stood a tall man, broad-shouldered and half-leaning against the doorframe as if he didn’t need to step inside to dominate the room — or maybe because he simply didn’t care to. His hair was a pale, tousled gray that fell in loose strands over his forehead, each breath he took making a few strands tremble as if alive. His eyes, a darker shade of steel, swept across the room once — just once — and that single glance was enough to shut every whisper beneath the desks.

Sorcus.

The firearms instructor.

The man everyone feared… and respected.

Not because he was strict — but because rumor had it he could hit dead center on a target a hundred meters away… with one hand.

But what the students loved gossiping about even more than his ridiculous aim was this one undeniable fact:

Sorcus was always with Tara.

Tara — all sunshine and soft smiles.

Sorcus — all stone and stormclouds.

She glowed; he glowered.

And somehow the combination worked so well that it kept spawning the same questions in every hallway:

“Are they… together?”

“They’re totally dating, right?”

“Okay but when’s the wedding?”

Tara looked up, the rainbow lenses of her glasses catching the noon light and scattering it like tiny prisms. “Sorcus? What is it?” she asked, tilt-headed and feather-soft.

He didn’t answer at first. Instead, he narrowed his eyes at the class again, as if scanning for potential eavesdroppers. Then he lifted two fingers — a sharp, soldier-like gesture, swift and commanding — and said only one thing:

“Outside. Now.”

Tara shot up from her chair like someone had pressed a spring under her. She turned to 007n7 in a rush, voice warm and breath-soft: “I’ll be back in a moment, okay? And don’t you fall asleep again.”

“Yesssss…” he mumbled like a kitten being woken up for the third time.

And off she went, practically trotting after Sorcus — bouncing curls, quick steps, little bursts of energy — while he strode forward like he was marching into a military briefing. Yet even with that urgency in his gait, he slowed down just enough for her to walk beside him, occasionally tilting his head to make sure she didn’t trip.

They grew smaller down the hallway, smaller still, and disappeared behind a corner.

A few seconds after the door shut, Elliot — sitting right next to 007n7 — rested his chin on his hand, put on his best philosopher face, and fired a question straight into his skull: “So they’re… in love, right?”

The entire row in front turned around at once. The air instantly shifted into peak drama-sniffing mode.

007n7 flushed, scratching at his cheek. “I—I don’t think so…”

Elliot narrowed his eyes, wearing the exact expression of a professional interrogator. “Oh? You sound awfully confident. Who told you that?”

“Tara… She said they’re just close friends…”

Elliot let out a short laugh — half fond, half teasing. “Close friends who run after each other like they’re in a rom-com, huh? Close friends who mysteriously disappear together every break? Close friends where he looks at her like she’s oxygen? Those kinds of friends?”

“Well… teachers can be close too…” 007n7 murmured. “Doesn’t mean they’re… you know…”

Elliot crossed his arms. “Sounds like you’re trying to comfort yourself, Seven.”

His ears turned red.

And then — right then — from the far end of the corridor, where the pair had vanished earlier… voices drifted back. Soft, but unmistakably clear. And very… incriminating.

“Tara, you were staring at that kid again today.”

Sorcus’s voice.

Low. Rough. And unmistakably jealous — the kind of jealousy someone tries to hide but absolutely, catastrophically fails to.

Tara’s laugh chimed back, bright and sweet. “I was just worried about him, Sor!”

“Worried to the point that you keep looking at him even when you’re talking to me?”

“Well… 007n7 is adorable!”

“I’m not adorable?”

“Different! 007n7’s adorable in the cute way. You’re adorable in the… cold face but secretly nice way~”

“I don’t have a cold face,” Sorcus muttered — and he sounded like he was blushing.

Tara burst into delighted laughter. Sorcus groaned — soft, defeated, marshmallow-level tenderness hiding under the tough exterior.

Elliot’s jaw dropped open like a fish.

“…Uh, Seven?” Elliot croaked.

“…Yeah?” 007n7 whispered.

Elliot put a hand on his shoulder, eyes full of pitying wisdom.

“Not dating, huh?”

“….”

“Seven,” Elliot concluded, voice gentle like delivering a painful truth to a child, “you are genuinely, unbelievably innocent.”

. . .

Sorcus grabbed Tara’s wrist and pulled her into one of the deepest corridors of the building — a place where the cold, white neon lights of the school never reached.

The further they walked, the darker it became, until even the tile patterns beneath their feet melted into formless shadows. Damp air breathed out from the gray walls, thickening the space around them. No student would ever wander here, and no camera had ever been installed.

A perfect dead zone — so silent that if you stood still long enough, you could hear your heartbeat echo inside your ribs.

Tara — Tarabyte — the teacher who seemed to glow like she’d stepped straight out of a Ghibli frame, bright, gentle, soft as a sunbeam every day… stepped into the darkness and shifted instantly.

Her smile vanished as if sliced off by a razor. Her expression tightened, stern and irritated. She lifted a hand to her face and dragged it down hard, as though wiping away a fatigue she wasn’t allowed to show in front of students.

“Ugh… Those kids seriously think we’re dating,” she snapped, her voice low but sharp enough to cut straight through the thick air. “This mission is a disaster. Like—actually terrible.”

Sorcus leaned one shoulder against the wall, removing the black cap covering half his face just to adjust it properly. In the dark, his hair blended into the shadows, leaving only his steel-black eyes visible — cold, assessing, nothing soft left in them.

Out in the bright hallway he still played the role of the laid-back coworker, but here… here he looked exactly like what he was: a veteran admin who could slice down a corrupted file without blinking.

“You say stuff like that and Telamon will shave your paycheck again,” he remarked, voice flat, heavy, almost bored — like stating gravity exists.

Tara hissed sharply, like a cat whose tail just got stepped on. “Let him. I’d rather lose the money than look at that grumpy fossil’s face one more time.”

She crossed her arms, leaning back against the wall, tapping one foot against the ground in pure frustration. Her expression scrunched up, thoughtful and annoyed at once.

“Sorcus… Why did that lunatic brown chicken even assign us to watch that kid 007n7? I mean, okay — fine — he’s good. Smart, polite, works hard, and ridiculously adorable. But how the hell did he end up on Telamon’s radar? That feels… extremely wrong.”

Sorcus lit a cigarette. The lighter clicked loudly in the empty corridor, and smoke curled up into the darkness in pale, wavering ribbons.

“No idea,” he said after a short drag, voice low, the tone of someone who’s seen far too many strange things to be surprised anymore. “Telamon acts like code written at 3 a.m. by someone running purely on spite and energy drinks. Unpredictable. Illogical. Does whatever he wants, explains nothing.”

Tara widened her eyes. “Too accurate.”

“But if his little brother — Shedletsky — took over as senior admin instead…” Sorcus shrugged. “Life would be so much easier.”

Tara propped a hand under her chin and stared at the dark ceiling, as if answers were hidden somewhere up there in invisible ink. “Mmh… but the kid works hard, seriously. He does everything right. Never complains. Always polite. He’s the model student. Even me — someone who hates grading with my whole soul — actually likes him.”

Sorcus exhaled a ring of smoke, eyebrow raised. “You like him because he’s cute.”

“Well— okay, yes,” Tara muttered, cheeks warming. “But that’s not the point. I mean… he’s just normal. Adorably normal. Not the type to cause trouble, or hide some gigantic secret, or be dangerous or mysterious or anything. Right?”

Sorcus exhaled a slow ribbon of pale, washed-out smoke, letting it coil upward as if it, too, was struggling to find an escape from the suffocating darkness of the hallway. The thin stream wavered, stretching out like a ghost searching for a crack in the airless, stagnant space—only to dissolve helplessly into the thick shadows that swallowed everything around them.

The smell of cigarette smoke mixed with the damp odor of moldy bricks and layers of forgotten dust, forming a sharp, acrid heaviness that clung to the lungs. Sorcus stood there, a tall silhouette almost swallowed whole by the dark, and the faint ember of his cigarette was the only proof that he was a living person and not just another shadow lurking in the corner.

“Hardworking, yeah,” Sorcus murmured, voice so low it felt as though it came from deep inside his ribs rather than his throat. “But don’t you see it? 007n7 is… perfect in a way that shouldn’t be possible. His scores look pre-written. His manners are spotless—too spotless. The way he speaks, polite but never excessive, never lacking a beat…”

He narrowed his eyes, letting out a small, unreadable chuckle. “Like someone molded him into a shape they wanted. Exactly the shape they wanted.”

Tara frowned, her brows knitting so tightly it cast a small tremor through her eyelashes—like she was fighting back a thought she didn’t want to accept. The faint hallway light flickered across her rainbow-tinted lenses, dulling the warm brown of her eyes behind them.

She curled her lips into a thin smile that wasn’t a smile at all, because beneath it churned unease. “You mean…” Her voice fell into a whisper, as if the walls themselves might be listening. “He’s… modified?”

Sorcus shrugged, but the way his fingers tightened around the cigarette betrayed him. “Who knows.” He leaned back against the cold concrete wall, the chill biting through his jacket. “But here’s the one thing I do know: Telamon doesn’t waste his time on ordinary kids. He doesn’t track someone just because they’re talented. For 007n7 to catch his eye…”

He cut a sideways glance at Tara, his eyes hardening. “That means something is extremely wrong. Or extremely dangerous.”

Tara folded her arms, pressing her back against the rough wall behind her. The corridor seemed to drain away every trace of warmth. She bit her lip, her voice shrinking into something small and shaky. “But what about him forcing us to pretend to be… you know… a couple?”

A flush rose across her face—not the soft red of embarrassment, but the sharp burn of irritation. “Just to get closer to the kid? That’s pushing it. The whole school’s buzzing about it. Everyone looks at us like they’re watching some over-dramatic, twelve-episode soap opera.”

“It’s the job.” Sorcus muttered, swallowing a frustrated breath. He bent down and tapped the ashes into the dented, soot-stained aluminum can they had abandoned here weeks ago—a silent witness to their entire assignment. “Trust me, I’m more fed up than you. I look like some washed-up teacher wandering around after getting dumped.”

Tara raised an eyebrow and nudged his leg with the tip of her shoe. “Well… honestly? You kind of do.”

Sorcus shot her a slow, incredulous glare. “Oh, for f—”

His insult choked at the last second when Tara burst into a short, stifled laugh. And although he exhaled a faint snort, it wasn’t amusement—just irritation reluctantly giving up.

Her smile faded gradually, replaced by a creeping seriousness. She turned her eyes toward the faint glow spilling from the classroom at the far end of the hall, where a small figure sat quietly, scribbling in a notebook.

“But hey…” she said, voice dropping again, this time heavier. “Don’t you think… 007n7 looks worse lately? Paler. Dark circles like he hasn’t slept for days. He’s always dazed, like he’s about to pass out. I don’t think he’s just studying.”

Sorcus didn’t respond.

Not for a long moment.

Then he straightened up, extinguished the cigarette, and slipped both hands into his coat pockets. At that angle, the low light revealed something rare on his face—a shadow of deep thought.

“I checked his daily activity log last night,” he finally said, voice lower than before, almost a growl. “There’s a missing segment. One hour and thirty minutes. Completely locked. Every night. All data hidden. Nothing shows up. Nothing tracks. Nothing leaves a trace.”

A chill rippled down Tara’s spine, stiffening her shoulders. “An hour and a half… missing? Every night?” She swallowed hard, her voice trembling. “That can’t be normal, right?”

“No.” Sorcus said instantly. “It’s not normal at all.”

Tara hugged her own arms, the cold suddenly sharper, biting through her sleeves. “This mission is… getting scarier by the day.”

“Yeah.” He answered quietly, his gaze fixed on the classroom where 007n7 sat, utterly unaware that someone had been dissecting every hour of his life. “And there’s one thing I’m sure of.”

Tara lifted her head. “…What thing?”

Sorcus stared ahead into the dark as if he were staring beyond the present moment, beyond the hallway, into some truth he wished he hadn’t realized. Then he spoke, slow and clear:

“007n7 isn’t just a gifted student.”

“…?”

“He’s something even Telamon doesn’t dare touch directly.”

Tara froze.

Silence wrapped around them like a tight, suffocating cloth.

A draft from the far hallway slid under the door, producing a faint howling sound—like a whisper trapped in someone’s throat. The distant lights flickered, uncertain whether the source was faulty wiring or something passing by them.

And inside that trembling darkness, both of them felt it at the same time: the eerie sensation of being watched by something unseen.

As though the very child they were assigned to “observe” was already observing them back.

Chapter Text

The tiny voice—soft as spun sugar, fragile as a trembling soap bubble—rose right beside her.

“Mama… or is it papa?”

Something tugged gently at the sleeve of her shirt. A small, dirt-smudged hand.

She looked down, and there he was: a red-haired little boy with a round, cherubic face tilted up to her, big brown eyes shimmering with the kind of tears that hadn’t fallen yet but were desperately asking to be comforted. His other hand was shoved halfway into his mouth, covered in warm drool that dripped down his chin in glossy strings.

She couldn’t help it—she laughed. Not mockingly, not out of habit, but that involuntary, helpless kind of laugh that only escapes when a child is too precious, too soft, too heartbreakingly adorable for irritation to survive.

She crouched down and used her sleeve to wipe the slobber from his tiny fingers. “Mom. It’s mommy. Or ma-ma, if you want.”

The boy’s whole face lit up like someone had flicked on a switch. “Ma… ma,” he chirped, the smile blooming wide, his fluffy red bangs bouncing with each breath.

That smile—so bright, so pure—softened her chest in an instant. It felt like gentle fingers pressing her heart, warm and painfully tender.

But then—

with a blink—

the world snapped.

Light vanished.

The ground shuddered violently beneath her feet.

The sky fractured, breaking apart into slabs of thick, murky darkness that bled downward like ink spilled underwater. The air itself split open, webbed with jagged black cracks. Houses, trees, birdsong—everything—collapsed and dissolved as if the illusion of reality had finally been peeled away.

She shot upright so abruptly her ribs screamed. Her heart slammed against her chest, wild, frantic, almost feral. “Wh—what…?” The breath caught hard in her throat.

The entire world was coming undone, crumbling layer by layer. The ground bucked beneath her like something monstrous stirred below the surface. The sound of it—shattering, wrenching, screaming—filled her ears like endless panes of glass being smashed and scattered.

Her instincts seized control. And the first thing she reached for

was him.

The red-haired child.

She scooped him into her arms with a desperation so fierce her hands shook. He was so small, so painfully light, fragile enough that one strong breeze could steal him away forever. He pressed his face against her chest like a terrified kitten, trembling all over. She held him tighter, almost crushing him to her, clinging as though the slightest slackening of her grip would cost her everything.

“Mama…” His voice quivered, so thin, so breakable it hurt to hear. “Mama won’t leave me… right?”

“No, no—never.” The answer burst from her before her mind caught up. “My sweet baby, mama’s right here. Mama won’t ever leave you.” Her voice shook violently. Her heart felt like it was tearing open, raw and bleeding.

He lifted his face.

And her entire body turned ice-cold.

Gone was the innocent sparkle in his eyes. Instead, hollow darkness stared back at her, voidlike, rimmed with a faint sheen of sickly red. From his temple, a bead of fresh blood swelled and rolled downward—warm enough she felt the heat through her clothes. It trailed down his cheek, down his chin, dripping onto her hands in steady, burning drops.

He smiled. But there was no joy in it now. It twisted wrong, strained and painful, as though even he didn’t want to bear it.

“Mama…” he whispered again.

“…I’m already dead.”

The words didn’t sound spoken. They felt carved—etched straight into her chest with a frozen blade. She froze. Her eyes widened until they ached. Her throat constricted as if invisible fingers were crushing it.

Shock.

Paralysis.

Dread exploding like thunder in her skull.

Her arms loosened instinctively, horrified, and the child slipped out of her grasp. He didn’t stumble, didn’t cry out—just landed softly on the cracked ground and looked up at her through the veil of blood covering his face.

“Mama left me…” he murmured, his voice warped with an underwater echo. “Mama left me in that empty place. All alone. Mama is cruel…”

“No—” The protest tore from her in a broken rasp. Her knees nearly buckled. Her ribs felt like they were being pried apart from the inside out. Every word he spoke was a claw sinking deep beneath her skin, shredding everything that made her human.

“I was cold,” he continued. “I was scared.”

“I called for mama.”

“But mama didn’t come back.”

“Mama let me die…”

She clutched her head, gasping, as if the very air had solidified and she was drowning in it. Tears streamed before she even realized she was crying—hot, stinging, relentless. She wanted to scream apologies. She wanted to grab him again, hold him close, say she hadn’t known, hadn’t meant to, hadn’t wanted to hurt him, hadn’t—

But no words came.

And then.

The world shattered.

All of it erupted into blinding white, so sharp it stabbed at her eyes.

She lurched—

—and awoke.

Her body jerked upright in bed. She sucked in air in ragged gulps. Sweat drenched her completely—soaked through her shirt, clinging to her spine, beading across her forehead. The room was dark except for a thin strip of hallway light slicing through the crack beneath the door, throwing distorted shadows of furniture across the walls.

The ticking of the clock—slow, steady, merciless—felt like hammer blows against her skull.

She sat there on her small, familiar bed.

She waited. First for her breath to even out. Then for the shaking in her hands to subside. Then for her mind to accept that she was back—really back.

It took a long time.

Too long.

The dream

or the memory

had returned.

And this time…

it felt more real than any night before.

Her hands trembled violently as they crawled up to her throat, as if some invisible grip—cold, merciless—had wrapped around her neck and was squeezing every last thread of breath out of her.

She couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t draw in even the thinnest sliver of air.

Her fingers clawed desperately at her own skin, trying to pry away the pressure that did not exist yet somehow felt strong enough to crush her windpipe. Her ten nails—long, sharp, still stained with dried traces of blood she hadn’t had the strength to wash off from the last time—dug straight into the fragile flesh.

The old scratches, barely healed, split open once more, blossoming into fresh streaks of red. Her skin burned, stinging with every pulse, but her body no longer knew how to tell pain apart. Everything hurt. Her throat. Her chest. Her heart.

Tears welled up and spilled down her pale cheeks—those soft blue eyes of hers, once bright and ocean-clear, now dull with exhaustion, glazed with panic. Each tear dropped heavily, soaking into the blanket draped loosely over her shaking body.

The blanket had grown used to this long ago; night after night, it absorbed every silent cry she failed to voice. It had become the witness she never asked for, the only thing allowed to see her break.

A dry cough tore out of her throat, sharp and brittle. She flinched as if she’d been shot. Immediately she slapped a hand over her mouth, pressing so tightly the knuckles whitened.

She was terrified—terrified that the sound might creep into the hallway, terrified her parents might wake, terrified her older brother might hear and come knocking.

She didn’t want anyone to worry. Didn’t want anyone to see her like this.

She had long since learned how to suffer quietly, how to bleed where no one could watch.

Maybe… if she moved out someday, things would be easier.

She could cry for as long as she wanted, scream if she needed, and no one would rush in, no one would ask what was wrong. Freedom sounded peaceful. But the thought lasted only a heartbeat before her chest tightened again—living alone meant being even lonelier. And right now, she didn't think she had any room left in her heart for more loneliness.

Slowly—so slowly she almost seemed lifeless—she lowered herself back onto the bed. She buried her face into the pillow, arms wrapping around it like she was trying to hold someone who wasn’t there. She squeezed it tighter, searching for warmth, for comfort, for anything that felt human.

But there was nothing. Only the muffled sound of her own broken sobs slipping into the cotton, swallowed instantly and carried away like they never existed. Her grief had learned to hide itself too well.

Outside the window, the night pressed in—thick, black, heavy as a velvet shroud draped over the world. It lingered inside her room like it had claimed the space, wrapping around her shoulders, curling in the corners, whispering reminders of everything she wanted to forget.

A faint line of moonlight slipped through the curtain and stretched across her trembling shoulder, cold but strangely gentle, as though the moon itself was trying to offer comfort where no one else could. She lay there, chest rising and falling in uneven rhythm, listening to her heartbeat slam painfully against her ribs, begging to burst out.

She missed her son.

God, she missed him so much it felt like something inside her was being carved out piece by piece.

The longing chewed through her every hour, every breath.

He had been her world—her reason to wake up, her reason to keep trying, her reason to stay alive.

But the thing she saw… in that hellish place… wasn’t her son. Not the boy she remembered.

The child she met there—if one could still call him a child—was wrong. His body stretched too thin, limbs too long, skin pale like ashes. His silhouette alone made her stomach tighten. His eyes sunken, gait uneven, fingers twisted into something no longer human. Every movement was jerky and unnatural, a marionette dragged by a cruel puppeteer.

He wasn’t the little boy who used to fall asleep on her chest, or the one who squealed with laughter whenever she kissed his cheek. He wasn’t the child who tugged her sleeve when thunder scared him, who whispered a soft “don’t leave me” before drifting off. Looking at him now—at that monstrous figure—her heart split in two.

Fear clawed at her.

Guilt drowned her.

What had he endured?

Who had warped him into that shape?

And the darkest question of all simmered beneath the rest—could she still love him like this?

The answer came instantly.

Yes.

Cruel, broken, twisted—no matter what he had become, he was still hers. Her son. Her baby. The child who once smiled so brightly her heart felt like it could burst. The child she would have died a thousand times for. Not even monstrosity could change that. Not even death. Her love had never dimmed—not once, not for a breath, not for a heartbeat.

She loved him desperately, painfully, fiercely. Loved him like someone drowning loves air.

Because he was her son. He was everything. The one reason she was still alive, still breathing, still fighting to stay. Without him, she was nothing but a ghost stitched together by habit.

So she held the pillow tighter, drowning in the memory of him, praying—begging—that just once, in a dream or a hallucination or a miracle, she could see him again the way he used to be.

Her sweet boy.

Her whole world.

. . .

She couldn’t sleep.

Not again.

Another night stretched out endlessly before her—thick, heavy, as if time itself had grown tired and was dragging its feet with her. Her eyelids felt impossibly heavy, but her mind throbbed and spun too violently for rest.

She pushed herself upright, palms sinking into the mattress, movements sluggish as though someone had reached inside her chest and wrung out all the strength she had left. Her face was pale, exhausted, the kind of pallor someone would have after being pulled suddenly from deep, cold water. Her hair was a tangled mess, strands falling across her cheeks as if trying to hide the swollen, red rims of her eyes.

The pillow beside her—the one she’d clutched all night—was soaked dark in a wide patch, tears staining it so deeply that the fabric looked bruised. Some spots had already dried in uneven shapes. She thought faintly, detached, This pillow is probably going to rot soon… because of me.

She reached for her phone. Three a.m. A meaningless number, yet it struck her like a slap. She had school in a few hours. She had to present herself—polished, perfect, untouchable. No one could see her like this. No one could ever know the shape of her nights, how they twisted into knots of quiet sobbing and swallowed screams.

She closed her eyes, brow tightening. “Why am I so weak…” she whispered, her voice hoarse, as if the words were falling into an empty room.

She had to be perfect.

The thought hammered at her skull like a curse carved into her bones.

She had to fix everything she’d ruined the first time. She wasn’t allowed to repeat mistakes. She wasn’t allowed to be a burden. She wasn’t allowed to disappoint anyone ever again. She couldn’t bear being ignored, being left behind, being treated like she didn’t exist—all because of foolish decisions and past failures.

She was terrified. Terrified of being pushed aside. Terrified of being unwanted. Terrified of being forgotten.

Her motivation? Whenever someone asked her, “What drives you?”, she only managed a small, crooked smile.

She had no motivation. Only fear. Fear of eyes. Fear of her parents’ exhausted gazes poorly hidden behind practiced smiles. Fear of 007e7’s gentle yet disappointed look whenever she stumbled. Fear of the pure hatred from people who needed no reason at all to despise her—her existence alone was enough.

She was weak.

Painfully weak.

She couldn’t handle being alone for long. Whenever she was, those dark thoughts wrapped around her throat and pulled her down. Fear, sadness, then tears—that was the cycle. And yet, paradoxically, she still pushed everyone away. Simply because she believed she didn’t deserve attention. Didn’t deserve care. Didn’t deserve love. She feared that getting close to anyone would only give them something else to worry about.

At least… if I stay away, they won’t have to be disappointed again, she told herself, the words tightening like a rope she was pulling around her own neck.

A shiver ran down her spine. She rubbed her face, trying to wake herself up, but the more she touched her skin, the more the raw heat around her eyes burned.

Finally, her hand drifted to the headboard, where a small pale-blue plastic container rested. Just looking at it made her heart drum once, hard and loud. Sleeping pills. Others might see them as dangerous, but to her, they were an escape—a temporary hatch she could slip through to get away from the suffocating vines of her thoughts.

She opened the lid. The soft click sounded unnaturally sharp in the dark, like metal striking metal. She tilted the bottle, spilling out three pills. Two landed in her palm. The third nearly rolled off the bed, and she snatched at it in alarm, as if dropping it would invite disaster into the room.

“Three… three should be enough to sleep…” she muttered, trying to reassure herself despite the tremor in her voice, though she couldn’t tell if she was shaking from fear or from the cold.

She popped the pills into her mouth and swallowed dry. Instantly, her throat seized up—parched, sandpaper raw. Each tablet scraped its way downward like a stone dragged across glass, forcing her into a series of harsh coughs. Her body folded over from the choking ache.

One hand flew up to cover her mouth while the other pressed against her chest, trying to force air in. “It’s okay… you’ll sleep soon… you’ll sleep soon…” She repeated the mantra again and again, as if saying it could anchor her to something solid.

Silence returned to the room. Only her uneven breathing remained, mixing with the ticking of the clock, each tick sounding disturbingly like a countdown to something she didn’t dare name.

And there she sat—in the dark, at three in the morning, in a body exhausted past its limits and a heart held together with cracked edges—hoping she could disappear for a few hours. Just long enough to put on her flawless mask again when daylight came. But deep down, she knew the truth. This wasn’t real sleep she was searching for.

It was escape.

And the night kept moving, but she didn’t.

“007n7? … You look terrible.”

Elliot froze the moment he stepped into the classroom. His eyes locked instantly onto the small figure slumped over a desk in the third row—the seat he secretly glanced at several times a day. She sat there, the same 007n7 who always raised her hand, always smiled, always seemed effortlessly put together… yet today she looked nothing like the version everyone praised. Every line of her face trembled with exhaustion, urgency, something frayed and fragile—like she hadn’t slept a single minute.

Elliot set his bag down and walked toward her. He reached out slowly, carefully, as though afraid a sudden movement might shatter her, and gently brushed aside the messy strands of hair hanging over half her face. Her hair was unkempt, dry at the ends; he frowned without meaning to.

“007n7… look at me,” he murmured, his voice soft in a way even he didn’t recognize.

She lifted her head. The way she did it—so slow, so weary—made something inside Elliot twist painfully. Under the harsh classroom lights, the dark rings under her eyes appeared even deeper, bruised like smudged strokes of midnight. Her eyes—usually bright, sharp, and full of the kind of warm energy Elliot secretly admired—were now dull pools of fog, heavy and unfocused.

“Mm… I’m fine, Elliot…” She tried to smile, and Elliot instantly saw through it.

It was a smile that lifted the corners of her lips but never touched her eyes—a smile that wanted to shine but only revealed its cracks, like a broken shard of glass trying to catch the sun.

“Don’t smile at me like that,” Elliot blurted before he could stop himself. “You look like you’re going to pass out.”

She blinked a few times, struggling to stay alert. “I just… didn’t sleep much. And, um… we have a test tomorrow. I studied a little late, that’s all.”

“A little late? 007n7, you look like you just lost a fistfight with your own circadian rhythm.” Elliot sighed, leaning closer, his worry plain and unhidden.

He knew her schedule. Everyone did. She was always volunteering—helping teachers, organizing events, managing clubs, representing the school in every competition imaginable. People looked at her and said: ‘Ah, 007n7? She’s perfect.’

But no one saw the cost of that perfection: a life packed so tightly she barely had space to breathe.

Elliot used to admire her—still did—but he had never felt this before: this overwhelming urge to pull her down into a chair, force her to rest, make her stop pretending she was invincible.

“Do you have a headache?” he asked quietly.

“…Yeah. But I’m okay,” she whispered, though her voice trembled.

Elliot stared for a moment longer. Then, without a second thought, he shrugged off his jacket. He draped it gently over her shoulders, making her flinch slightly.

“Elliot? You—”

“Shh. Let me take care of you for once.” He adjusted the jacket so it covered her narrow frame. “You’re sitting like someone who’s two seconds from collapsing onto the desk. Break time’s only thirty minutes, I know… but it’s enough to close your eyes for a while.”

“I’m not—”

“Sleep,” Elliot said softly, leaning closer until their eyes met. “You don’t need permission. You don’t need to act fine. You don’t need to hold everything together right now.”

007n7 hesitated. Her shoulders trembled; her lashes fluttered quickly, like she was battling something inside herself. Then she whispered, tiny and fragile:

“If I fall asleep… you won’t laugh at me, right?”

Elliot let out a small, helpless laugh. “Who would laugh at an angel who just ran out of battery?”

This time, her smile was different—smaller, softer, real. And as if her last bit of resistance had finally crumbled, she slowly lowered her head onto the desk, one hand clutching the edge of Elliot’s jacket like a child holding onto a lifeline. Her eyes drifted shut, trembling, then gradually settling into stillness.

Elliot stood beside her desk, crossed his arms, and leaned against the edge, watching her sleep with an expression so gentle that anyone who saw it would know immediately—and painfully—what he felt for her.

“You’re this exhausted,” he whispered, barely audible even to himself, “so who’s going to take care of you, 007n7…?”

And for the entire short break, Elliot did not move from her side. Not even once.

He stood guard over her as though she were something precious—more precious to him than anything else in the world.

A small, tired angel, sleeping beneath the warmth of his jacket.

“007n7… Has she, perchance, lingered into the late hours once again?”

Two Time’s voice drifted from the classroom doorway—round and velvety, as though every word had been polished before being permitted to leave their lips. They tilted their head at a strangely elegant yet unnatural angle, the exact posture they’d copied from their cult leader, a man who spoke in a tone half-ritual, half-poetry, and entirely medieval enough to make listeners doubt whether he slept in a cathedral. Naturally, Two Time believed this made them refined.

Elliot didn’t turn around. He only answered with a low “Mm.” A short sound, yet heavy with emotion. His palm rested gently on 007n7’s soft hair, stroking down with the careful tenderness of someone coaxing a half-feral kitten that had finally allowed itself to be touched.

007n7 had fallen asleep, head leaned to one side, breaths even but tired, shoulders trembling faintly beneath the jacket he’d draped over her. She looked so small that Elliot felt an absurd urge to wrap the entire world around her just to keep her safe.

Naturally, Two Time did not approve. Their obsidian eyes narrowed; their lips curved downward into a theatrically cold smile.

“Elliot,” they intoned, each syllable regal as if issuing a royal decree, “remove your unrefined hands from her tresses. She is far too exquisite for a being such as yourself to so much as brush against.”

Elliot cast them a single glance—half-lidded, effortless, the kind of look that said: If you’re jealous, just say so. You don’t need to quote Shakespeare about it.

He did not move his hand. In fact, he ruffled 007n7’s hair even more deliberately.

Two Time nearly choked.

“Unrefined…? Really?” Elliot snorted. “You make it sound like I’m trying to yank her hair out.”

“Her hair”—Two Time stressed her, as though 007n7 was some divine being in their holy scripture—“is not meant for the touch of the uncouth. Your hands are excessively crude.”

Elliot huffed a laugh. “So you are jealous.”

“Jealousy is an emotion beneath me,” Two Time declared stiffly—while their eyes flashed I’m absolutely jealous but I refuse to admit it. “I am merely stating facts.”

“Sure. Facts.” Elliot leaned down to adjust the jacket around 007n7 again—slowly, on purpose. “Fact is: you’re over there, I’m right here, and 007n7 is leaning on my arm.”

Two Time looked like they might explode. They marched into the room, heels tapping sharply on the floor like metal striking marble. “Elliot, step aside. Her slumber is sacred. Thou mustn’t disturb it with thine… presence.”

“Oh my god—can you not talk like a 15th-century priest in the middle of a classroom? People will think our school hired a cleric.” Elliot was genuinely annoyed now.

“Thou—” Two Time almost cursed before correcting themselves, “you lack appreciation for grace.”

“And you,” Elliot snapped back, “are missing your daily dose of calm-the-hell-down.”

He couldn’t help laughing when Two Time hissed like a cat whose tail had just been stepped on—while still trying to maintain that “cultured elegance.”

Without arguing further, Two Time circled to the other side of the desk, leaning down to look at 007n7 with the expression of someone who believed they were the most qualified caretaker here. They placed a hand lightly on the table near her head—not touching her, just close enough to imply territory.

“Her presence,” they whispered, almost reverent, “is a blessing I have been chosen to behold.”

“Do you hear yourself?” Elliot muttered. “You sound creepy.”

“I am expressing devotion.”

“You sound obsessed.”

Two Time ignored him. For the first time, their voice softened—stripped of theatrics, rituals, and pretension, sounding almost… human: “Did she stay up again? Working? Studying? Or… crying alone?”

Elliot paused. He glanced at 007n7—her sleeping face looked gentle, yet tense, like even her dreams weren’t restful. “…Yeah,” he murmured. “I think… she’s tired in the kind of way nobody notices.”

Silence settled over them. Only 007n7’s faint breaths filled the air. Elliot kept a hand on her shoulder; Two Time stood guard like a devoted acolyte. Somehow, between the openly hostile one and the secretly jealous one, a strange, fragile peace emerged.

Eventually, Two Time whispered:

“…Elliot.”

“Hm?”

“If she wakes… do not let her see that expression on your face. You look far too soft.”

Elliot snorted. “And you? You look like you’re about to cry.”

“Silence.”

“Hey, you two…” A teacher’s voice called from the hallway. “Why are you already causing a commotion when recess just started?”

Both Elliot and Two Time turned around—and in perfect sync, both pressed a finger to their lips to keep the teacher quiet. Then they glared at each other, offended to have matched by accident.

What neither of them said was this:

They cared about her. More than either dared to show.

And 007n7 slept on, small and peaceful—

a little secret the two of them were clumsily, stubbornly, and wholeheartedly protecting together.

Chapter Text

“Acting…?”

007n7 tilted her head, fingers tightening on the edge of the paper that trembled ever so slightly in the breeze from the clubroom’s dusty ceiling fan. The warm yellow lights above cast a soft, hazy glow across her eyes—thin like the sheen of a dream barely clinging to consciousness.

When she finally looked up at the man standing before her, her breath hitched. Amarah—the teacher, the leader of the group Two Time always insisted on calling a “cult,” the figure most students instinctively avoided as if sensing something ancient in him—was watching her with a stillness that felt almost surgical. As though he had already laid bare every thought drifting through her mind.

His hair, a deep oceanic blue, caught the light in waves—sometimes dark as midnight water, other times shimmering like distant tides. It was tied neatly into a low ponytail that brushed the back of his long coat. That coat, woven with faint silver embroidery tracing every hem, moved with an effortless grace each time he stepped, as if light itself pooled at his feet.

“Indeed,” he murmured, his voice low and unhurried, each syllable curling through the room like an incantation from an old, forgotten altar. “The academy requests your involvement in a brief theatrical performance.” He inclined his head ever so slightly, a smile unfolding on his lips—gentle or ominous, she could not tell. “Worry not, my dear. Such participation may grant you additional recognition when the year draws to its close…”

007n7 blinked. His voice—why did it sound uncannily like Two Time’s? That same ornate, ceremonial cadence; that strange blend of clergy, aristocracy, and guile. It didn’t take much imagination to figure out who Two Time had learned from.

“So you really want me to… act? As in, actually act?” she asked, cheeks warming. “I’ve never performed in front of a crowd before. And this… this is really a school play?”

“Of course.”

Amarah slipped his hands behind his back and circled her slowly, in the way a seasoned director might study a newly discovered star. “A presentation for the upcoming academic festival. Barely twenty minutes upon the stage. Simple. Refined. Well within your reach.” His gaze drifted down to the paper she held, then returned to her face—sharp, assessing. “And you… you possess something most students lack. A softness that draws attention. A quiet charm that compels it.”

“You mean… I actually fit the role?” 007n7 asked shyly, rubbing her cheek. “But… what role even is it?”

Amarah stopped. A thin, still smile touched his lips—calm in the way deep water is calm, hiding something cold beneath the surface.

“The lead.”

“What— what?!”

007n7 nearly dropped the script. “Me?! Lead?! Teacher— sir— you’re joking—”

“I seldom joke.”

With smooth, deliberate precision, he leaned forward and lifted a finger to lightly tap her forehead—as though marking her, claiming her as something only he understood. “You see, audiences adore tragedy. They cling to beauty touched by sorrow. And you, dear 007n7… wear that look with unsettling ease.”

“Tragedy…?” She stepped back, gripping the edge of the table as the air thinned. “You’re making it sound scary, sir…”

Just as her words faded, the door to the room creaked open. Two Time peeked inside, eyes immediately locking onto her with a rapt intensity. “Master Amarah,” they said, voice filled with reverence—and something like excitement. “Have you informed her of the role she is destined to undertake?”

Amarah offered a single nod.

Two Time stepped fully into the room, stopping beside her but maintaining a precise, almost ceremonious distance—like she was a rare flower they were permitted to admire but not yet touch.
“007n7,” they said, placing a hand over their heart, as though reciting a vow, “you shall be divine. The entire academy will witness your radiance.”

“H-Hey, Two Time, don’t overhype me… I’m not that good,” she stammered, giving a helpless, embarrassed smile.

“Do not belittle yourself,” Two Time replied softly, tilting their head with a kind of solemn devotion. “Your very presence hushes even the loudest souls. Such influence is both enviable… and extraordinary.”

Amarah let out a quiet chuckle—soft, airy, like wind brushing through an old window frame. “You see? Your most fervent admirer agrees.”

“W-Wait— hold on,” 007n7 sputtered, shaking her head. “The play— tragedy— main role— all that sounds scary. What’s the actual story? What do I even have to do?”

Amarah approached the table, placing a thick script before her with slow, deliberate care. “A tale of devotion,” he breathed, voice dropping into a murmur, “of choices that consume. Of a bond that hovers between love… and ruin.”

A chill slid down her spine.

Two Time turned to Amarah, eyes bright with something sharp, possessive. “Master… shall I accompany her during rehearsals? To… assist her?”

Amarah waved a hand dismissively. “You shall. Her safety is of utmost importance.”

“Safety— what safety?!” 007n7 flinched, bewildered. “It’s just a play! Why would I need—”

Amarah leaned closer, bracing his hands against the table. His face drew near enough that she could see the long shadow of his lashes. “My dear… sometimes, people do not hate a story. They hate the person chosen to embody it. Someone too radiant. Too adored. Too easy to envy.”

007n7’s eyes widened.

“You mean… someone would—”

“Jealousy,” Amarah whispered, “is inevitable.”

Two Time’s tone softened, but something uneasy flickered beneath the surface. “Fear not. Should any unworthy soul attempt to harm you… I will ensure their regret is absolute.”

“Two Time—! Don’t scare me like that!” 007n7 grabbed their sleeve, half-pleading, half-flustered.

Amarah chuckled again—quiet yet chilling, the sort of laugh that made the temperature of the room dip ever so slightly.

“Prepare yourself, 007n7. Rehearsals begin tomorrow.”

She looked down at the elaborate script, then up at the two figures before her—one serene, enigmatic, part-teacher, part-high priest; the other besotted to the point of danger.

And suddenly, she wasn’t sure if she had just been given an extraordinary opportunity…

or if she had just stepped, unknowingly, into a beautifully crafted trap.

It was a gloomy Friday afternoon, the kind of gray, heavy-skied weather that seemed almost designed to mock someone who wanted nothing more than to crawl back into bed and sleep straight into the next morning. Under any normal circumstances, 007n7 would’ve been curled beneath her blanket by now, hugging her plushie bear while drifting off into a peaceful, dream-drenched sleep that could have lasted until nightfall.

But no—life refused to let her off that easily. The school had sent a notice directly to her house, demanding that all main cast members be present for rehearsal in preparation for the Academic Festival happening in two weeks. Her parents, of course, agreed instantly, firing off the classic “It’s good to join school activities, sweetie, you should be more social!” And that was that. No escape.

So there she was, dragging her exhausted body toward school in the washed-out, yellowish light that still smelled faintly of leftover rain. She looked exactly like someone who had literally crawled out of bed five minutes ago… because she had.

She threw on nothing but her oversized pajama top—white, with a round, lazy cat printed on the front—plus some ridiculously short shorts and a thin, random jacket she grabbed on her way out. She didn’t even bother tying her shoelaces. Her eyes fought to stay open. Her hair was a battlefield. She sighed deeply as she pushed open the door to the drama room, fully embodying the energy of a half-conscious ghost.

But the moment she stepped inside, the sight before her jolted her wide awake: almost everyone was already there, gathered in clusters, whispering strategically like they were planning a military operation rather than a school play.

And of course—Two Time was the first to notice her.

They shot up from their seat like a spring-loaded jack-in-the-box, waving both hands like they were trying to signal a rescue helicopter, eyes gleaming bright like a pair of truck headlights. “Please, come here and rest, my esteemed angel!” Their voice was so passionate and overflowing with devotion that the entire room turned to stare at her.

“Uh… hi…” she mumbled, shyly raising a hand to greet the others before trudging toward them. She didn’t even have time to sit properly before Two Time’s arm slipped naturally—too naturally—around her waist, pulling her close as if she were a sacred relic gifted to them from heaven itself. Her cheeks immediately burned with heat, but she was too tired to push them away, so she simply sat there, resigned.

At the far end of the room, Mafioso—known by everyone as her “legally recognized boyfriend”—caught the scene in his peripheral vision and in that brief moment, his normally calm red eyes flashed dangerously bright.

His jaw tightened. His fists clenched so hard his knuckles went bone-white. He looked like he wanted nothing more than to flip the entire table, drag Two Time into a dark alley, and “discuss” the situation thoroughly. But for some reason—maybe because this was a school event, or maybe because she was present—he inhaled sharply and forced down the jealousy boiling inside his chest like steam in a pressurized tank.

Not far from them sat Noli, fiddling with a pen like it was a dagger, next to a girl that 007n7 recognized immediately.

She had pale pink, candy-floss curls, sparkling eyes, and tiny TV-shaped hair clips neatly lined across her bangs. She looked fresh, pretty, lively—completely different from the cold, emotionless robotic version of her that 007n7 had once encountered in that hellish place. Now she was whole again. Young, bright, untouched by ruin.

“Hi everyone! I’m Veeronica!” she chirped with a soft chuckle, her voice a little raspy, the faint metallic tremble unmistakable—robotic, yes, but strangely warm. “I’m the scriptwriter for our play this time, and… we’ll be having—”

“Five characters, if you count the narrator.” Noli cut in, earning himself a vicious pinch on the arm.

“OW—HEY! What was that for?!”

Veeronica shot him the deadliest side-eye imaginable before snatching her paper back. “As I was saying—this play is titled ‘My Sanctuary Is You.’ It’s a heavy tragedy, so the overall tone is… suffering, despair, and obsessive love. The story centers around a boy who believes the person he loves is his ‘savior.’ He builds a ‘temple’ for them within his heart, treating love like a personal religion. The plot explores blind devotion… and where that leads.”

The entire room fell silent. A subtle chill rolled through the air.

Veeronica cleared her throat. “There are two main characters, two supporting roles, and one narrator.”

Noli leaned closer, whispering loud enough for half the room to hear: “Wanna bet who the leads are?”

Veeronica looked down at the cast list. “The main characters will be Two Time and 007n7…”

The second those words left her lips, a thunderous bang echoed through the room as someone slammed the table so hard several students nearly fell out of their chairs.

“I object.” Mafioso growled, his voice low and stormy. “Absolutely not.”

The atmosphere froze solid.

Two Time, still holding her waist, tilted their head at him like a cat that had just been petted and saw no reason to move. “Is there a problem, Mafioso?”

Mafioso rose to his feet, voice dropping into a metallic rumble. “I’m her boyfriend. Why should she play the lead with you? Why you?”

“Because I’m the better fit,” Two Time replied smoothly, tightening their arm around her waist just a little, almost like they were staking a claim. “Sorry, but the connection between us is—”

“The only thing you’re connected to is a delusion,” Mafioso snapped, stepping forward as if ready to lunge. “Take your hand off her.”

“Mafioso… please don’t make it a big deal…” her voice trembled slightly, overwhelmed by the rising tension.

“No.” His eyes stayed locked on Two Time, unblinking. “I don’t accept this.”

“Um… maybe we should all… calm down a little?” Veeronica squeaked, lifting her papers as if they could shield her from the drama. “This is literally the first rehearsal…”

Noli leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, grinning like he had just discovered the best entertainment he’d ever seen. “Wow. First day and we already have a war. Incredible.”

No one paid him any attention.

Mafioso spoke again, voice rough with jealousy he was trying—and failing—to contain. “I won’t let her play the lead with someone else. Especially someone like you.”

Two Time smiled, soft and sly, half challenge and half secret. “Then… what exactly do you plan to do?”

The two locked eyes, tension crackling like electricity, as though either of them could leap forward and start a fight right there in the middle of the room.

“STOP. NOW.”

007n7’s voice wasn’t loud—far from it. But it cut through the tension in the rehearsal room like a blade dragged cleanly across silk. Both Mafioso and Two Time jerked in place. She rose from her seat in a single swift motion; even with dark circles under her eyes and her rumpled pajama shirt hanging lopsided on her shoulder, there was something in her posture that demanded obedience.

She placed both hands firmly on Mafioso’s shoulders and pushed him back down into his chair, the way one might calm a lion puffing its mane in a fit of territorial jealousy. He opened his mouth to argue—to insist, to justify—but the moment he met her gaze, cold as a midnight downpour, the fight simply… evaporated. His eyes dropped like a scolded child who knew he was in the wrong.

Then she turned sharply toward Two Time. She didn’t say a word. She didn’t have to. One glance—that razor-edged, “I will end you if you keep testing me” kind of glance—and Two Time immediately snapped their mouth shut. Their arm, still wrapped around her waist, slowly, reluctantly loosened and slipped away, obedient in a way that shocked the entire room. Even Noli let out a quiet snort of disbelief, half-amused, half-impressed.

Once the silence settled, 007n7 exhaled hard, sat back down, and brushed her fingers through her hair as if smoothing out the remnants of chaos. “Alright. Go on, Veeronica. Sorry for that… scene.”

Veeronica stared at her like she had just witnessed a celestial being swooping down to restore order to the mortal realm. Her eyes shimmered with admiration so blatant it was almost endearing. She nodded furiously—maybe too many times—clearly starstruck by the calm authority the smaller girl had just radiated.

Meanwhile, Noli rolled his eyes and leaned back in his chair, mumbling just loud enough for everyone to hear, “Seriously… we didn’t even get to the good part. What a waste.” He sounded like a kid who got the TV shut off seconds before the dramatic twist.

It took Veeronica a moment to gather her thoughts and clutch her script properly before she cleared her throat. “As I was saying earlier… Two Time and 007n7 will take the two main roles in the play.”

The room shifted—not quite noisy, but buzzing with an unspoken tension no one dared verbalize after what had just happened.

Veeronica began reading aloud, her voice gaining steadiness: “Two Time will play the male lead. He is someone with a beautiful yet hollow soul—emotionally porous, without an anchor. Because of that emptiness, he falls easily into worshipping others, twisting love into a warped form of religion.”

Two Time straightened up proudly, as if someone had just complimented their existence. “See? Sounds just right for me.”

Mafioso gave them a look sharp enough to cut glass. “Too right. Fits your habit of worshipping nonsense.”

“Thank you,” Two Time replied sweetly.

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“Mhm. Still taking it as one.”

007n7 dropped her head into her hand, exasperated but biting back a smile.

Veeronica continued reading: “And 007n7… will play the female lead. A girl who is carefree, independent, pure in a quiet way. Sometimes a little distant—not because she’s cold, but because she doesn’t pay much attention to people’s hidden intentions. Because of that innocence, she remains unaware that she has become a ‘saint’ in the male lead’s mind.”

Everyone looked at her.

She blinked, baffled. “Wait—why does that sound exactly like me?”

Two Time immediately leaned closer, eyes sparkling. “Because you are the embodiment of divine beauty—”

“Shut up.”

“…Yes, ma’am.”

Veeronica flipped to the next page and pointed at Noli: “Noli will be the narrator. His voice always sounds like he’s one breath away from murdering someone, so… I think it fits perfectly.”

“…Excuse me?” 007n7 turned to stare at him. Noli shrugged, completely unfazed. “My storytelling voice is amazing. You’ll love it.”

Veeronica pointed to herself next: “I’ll play the best friend of 007n7. A warm, bright girl who believes in goodness. She’s also the only one who notices the strange, obsessive way the main character watches her friend.”

“That role suits you,” 007n7 said softly, with a small smile.

Finally, Veeronica pointed at Mafioso: “And Mafioso will play the male lead’s best friend. He’s straightforward, a bit rough, and constantly trying to pull his friend back from distorted thoughts… and he’s also the only one brave enough to confront the so-called ‘altar of love’ the main character builds.”

Mafioso frowned deeply. “So you’re telling me I have to protect Two Time? In the script?”

Veeronica nodded.

Mafioso glanced at Two Time—slowly, painfully—and sighed like a man who had just accepted an unavoidable tragedy in life. “Fantastic. This play is really testing my patience.”

Two Time grinned. “Don’t worry. I’m adorable on stage.”

“I sincerely hope so. Because offstage you are not.”

The room burst into laughter—light, genuine, relieving the tension that had been choking everyone seconds earlier. Even 007n7 brought a hand to her lips to hide a small smile.

Yet beneath that laughter, she lowered her gaze to the script and breathed inwardly:

Please… let this rehearsal not turn into a battlefield.

. . .

The very first step, of course, was to look over the script. The whole group sat in a loose circle in the rehearsal room—just big enough that if three people tried running laps, they’d definitely crash into each other. The warm yellow light hanging from the ceiling cast a soft glow across their faces, making everyone look strangely serious.

But the truth couldn’t have been further from that façade. Not a single one of them had complained, protested, or thrown a dramatic fit like usual. Odd. Normally anything involving “academy-wide group activities” was enough to spark chaos, shouting, and three simultaneous arguments. Yet today… silence. Maybe it was the box of pastries 007n7 brought to “bribe” them with earlier.

“Okay, we’re all agreed,” Veeronica announced, nodding firmly. Her cable-like ponytail swayed behind her like the tail of a cat preparing to eavesdrop. “No objections, right? Then let’s start rehearsal!”

Noli, sitting cross-legged beside her, let out the kind of heavy sigh people made before taking on the role of their lifetime. He flipped through the script, the pages rustling dramatically—adding an entirely unnecessary but somehow fitting layer of fake gravitas to the moment.

007n7 rested her chin on her hand, twirling a pen idly as she wondered who exactly wrote this script that supposedly had a “deep” edge to it—rumored to be tragically poetic in a way that felt almost… try-hard.

“Alright,” Noli murmured, tugging his collar straight as if preparing for an audition that might change his fate. He stood, stepped back one pace, and then cleared his throat. That sharp, echoing sound bounced around the small room like a solemn bell signaling the beginning of a sacred ritual.

Immediately, 007n7 and Veeronica both straightened up instinctively, as though the stage lights had just snapped on above them.

“Dude, calm down,” 007n7 whispered, nudging him with her elbow.

“Shhh, the artist is about to ascend,” Veeronica whispered dramatically, eyes wide.

Noli closed his eyes for a single breath, centering himself. When he opened them again, they held a kind of fierce focus—as if an entire theater had manifested around him, invisible to everyone else.

Then he began reading.

“There are meetings in this world… not woven by fate, but born when a hollow heart accidentally chooses the perfect moment to sprout.”

His voice dipped low, sweeping through the room like a soft breeze slipping through a window that wasn’t there. Goosebumps pricked across 007n7’s skin—not from fear, but from the sudden realization of, Wait—since when does my friend sound this good?

“Two Time and 007n7—two mismatched souls. One unaware they are the light, and the other unaware they are destined to kneel in that light.”

At that line, Veeronica turned toward 007n7 with the most obnoxious “Heard that? Heard that, huh?” expression imaginable. 007n7 fought the primal urge to throw her slipper at her friend’s face to wipe that smirk away.

Noli continued, his voice softening so naturally it felt like the room itself paused to listen.

“And here… is where every tragedy begins—with nothing more than a smile.”

One second of silence. Two. Then—

“OH MY GOD THAT WAS BEAUTIFUL!!!” Veeronica exploded out of her seat, clapping wildly as if she’d just witnessed a live Oscar-winning performance. “Incredible! Perfect! I literally got chills!!!” she shouted, her cable-tail whipping back and forth like an electric fan on full blast.

Even 007n7 couldn’t hold back her grin. “Yeah… honestly, that was shockingly good. If Noli switched careers and became an actor, he’d be rolling in money.”

Noli, glowing from the praise, immediately bent in a ridiculously deep bow—so deep it looked like he was about to topple face-first onto the floor. Everyone burst out laughing.

“Thank you, esteemed audience, for your excessive generosity,” he declared in a mock-formal tone, hand pressed dramatically against his chest. “I am merely a humble vessel of emotion.”

“Liar!” Veeronica lifted her foot, ready to kick him playfully, but 007n7 quickly yanked her shirt. “Hey, don’t! If you break the speaker, who’s paying for it?”

“Oh… true. Fine, I’ll kick him later,” Veeronica muttered, hands on hips.

Noli waved her off frantically. “Actually, how about—don’t kick me at all? Ever?”

Veeronica nudged his shoulder lightly. “Uh… it’s your turn, Mr. Mafioso.” Her voice was soft—quiet enough not to startle anyone, yet sharp enough to cut through the thick focus he was pouring into the script in his hands.

Mafioso looked up, shot her a sideways glance, then shot another at the stack of papers as if that was the thing stealing his precious time. He rolled his eyes so aggressively that even 007n7 could see the irritation in the movement, and only then did he finally speak, blunt as a brick: “Hey. What are you writing? It looks like you’re about to draft a last will.”

Veeronica jumped up like she’d just been electrocuted. “Wait—WAIT, WAIT—STOP!” she screeched, clapping her hands together so loudly it sounded like she was summoning some deity of emotion to descend from the heavens. “Your voice is missing every single emotion it’s supposed to have!”

He frowned. “I am reading what’s written.”

“No! No, you’re reading like I’m holding a knife to your throat and forcing you to!” she shot back. Even the cable-tail trailing behind her was shaking with outrage.

“What’s the difference?” Mafioso planted a hand on his knee, every word sharpened and ready to stab.

“A LOT! This line is gentle complaining! GENTLE!” Her face flushed red, her eyes rounding like they were about to explode from the sheer frustration of dealing with his “emotional vacuum.”

“So gentle complaining means… smiling?” he muttered under his breath.

“No! But it also shouldn’t sound like you’re filing a police report!” she clapped again, each smack of her hands slicing through the air like a whip. “Again! Do it AGAIN!”

Mafioso exhaled a breath so long and exhausted that 007n7 wondered if he was trying to blow the dust off his own soul. He turned toward Noli, silently begging for help, but Noli immediately ducked his head and pretended to reread the script as if his life depended on avoiding eye contact. “Nope. I’m not involved,” he whispered under his breath.

“He’s a dead man walking… poor dude,” 007n7 thought, biting the inside of her cheek to stop herself from laughing out loud. She clutched her copy of the script to her chest like a talisman to keep Veeronica from dragging her into the crossfire.

Mafioso inhaled again—this time clearly to swallow down a very specific, growing anger—then tried once more. “Hey… what the he—”

“STOP! NO. STILL WRONG.” Veeronica waved her hands wildly as if shooing away smoke. “You need to lower your voice a little! Softer! Not flan-soft, but soft like… like someone who’s kinda worried about their best friend!”

“Worried… about what?” Mafioso raised a brow like she’d just spoken in an alien language.

“In the SCRIPT! In! The! Script!” she nearly screamed, her cable-tail thrashing.

He let out a dry, dangerous chuckle—the kind that only shows up when he is dangerously close to snapping. “Fine, fine. I’ll try again.”

He cleared his throat, fixed his posture, and read again—his voice a little gentler this time, though still layered with irritation and exhaustion: “Hey… what are you writing that looks like you’re preparing your will or something?”

Veeronica crossed her arms, nodding. “Yes! Better! Still stiff, but better!”

“Stiff where? If I get any softer I’ll turn into overcooked noodles,” he complained.

“Then BE a noodle! As long as you act properly!” she declared without shame.

007n7 swallowed. “I—I think it’s fine, honestly…”

“No!” Veeronica spun toward her instantly. “You hush! Your opinion will be accepted after he finishes performing!”

007n7 blinked, baffled. “I didn’t even say anything…”

Meanwhile, Noli had turned away, shoulders shaking because he was trying so hard not to laugh.

After several rounds of bickering, Mafioso finally gave up. He swept a hand through his bangs, sat up straight, and said, “Alright. Last time. I’ll read it seriously.”

The room fell silent. The kind of silence that sticks to your skin. Everyone held their breath.

He read, and this time his voice dropped into something unexpectedly deep—steady, honest, quiet but full, the kind of tone that could almost be mistaken for genuine concern: “Hey… what are you writing that looks like you’re preparing a will?”

“…YES.” Veeronica hissed in triumph, her voice a whispered celebration. “THAT’S IT. Emotion! Concern! Annoyed but not ‘I’m going to punch you in the face’ annoyed!”

“I am tempted to punch a couple people in here,” he replied flatly.

Noli immediately brought a finger to his lips. “Shhh. Continue. I need to mark the completed lines.”

Two Time held their script delicately, spoke in a voice low and soft, like the last echo after a door closes: “Just… writing a few things down. Feelings. Thoughts. They feel lighter when we put them into words.”

Everyone turned to Mafioso again. He read the next line like he was being forced to swallow bitter medicine: “Two Time, I’m telling you… you write too much and live too little. You’re always drowning yourself in vague ideas.”

This time, however… something real slipped out beneath the irritation. Something closer to worry. Something no one expected. And 007n7 felt a small pang—strange sympathy for a Mafioso who had been grumpy all day but still couldn’t hide accidental emotion even while complaining.

Two Time answered softly, “The real world… sometimes it’s too loud. We like to keep a few quiet places for ourselves.”

Veeronica nodded, beaming like a proud director who had just witnessed the perfect shot. “SEE? SEE? They’re such a good pair!”

Mafioso’s head whipped around so fast you could almost hear it. “WHAT pair?!”

“In the PLAY! In the play! Don’t explode!” she clarified immediately.

Noli raised a hand like a professor confirming a fact. “Yes. For the record, she meant in the play.”

007n7 tilted her head, lips pressed together, trying very hard not to burst into laughter—or maybe silently dreading the moment she’d inevitably be dragged into rehearsal next.

Veeronica practically shot upright the moment her name was called, her entire face lighting up as if someone had flipped on a stage spotlight just for her. She snatched the script from the table, held it up dramatically, and delivered her line with so much energy the air in the room felt electrically charged.

“Come oooon! This café is perfect for pictures! Trust me!” And of course, once she said it, she added an exaggerated wink that had absolutely nothing to do with the tragedy they were supposed to rehearse. It was pure Veeronica—sparkly, chaotic, persuasive beyond reason.

Then she turned to look at 007n7.

The girl sat stiff as a statue, clutching her script with both hands like she was holding onto a sacred talisman. She wet her lips, glanced down at her line, and swallowed. She could talk casually to everyone just fine, but reading lines out loud, with all their eyes on her, made her chest tighten in a way she hated admitting.

After a small breath, she finally read her cue. “Okay, okay… I just hope you won’t make me take another hundred pictures like last time.” Her voice was soft, almost too soft, and the tiny tremble near the end was impossible to miss—but that tremble made the line feel real, tender in a way that no training could fabricate.

“OOOOOOOOH MY SPAWN!!”

Two seconds. That was all the silence the room got before Two Time ignited like a rocket engine. They sprang from their seat, barreled toward her, and grabbed both her hands with ten freezing fingers—as if they had just discovered a hidden treasure buried under her skin.

“Oh my SPAWN!! Oh my SPAWN oh my SPAWN oh my SPAAAAWN!!” They shook her so hard she nearly toppled off her chair. “Your voice! That voice!! How can someone be this cute?! You were BORN for the stage! That line sounded like—like an angel accidentally tumbling out of heaven and landing right here!!”

007n7’s face went crimson instantly. Her ears burned hot like fresh coals. “L-Let go! Everyone’s staring at us!”

But Two Time wasn’t listening; they were too far gone, fully possessed by the holy spirit of Overreaction. Their hair even shook with the force of their excitement. “No!! I must hold onto this! I must preserve this pure, radiant energy! That one single line felt like—like listening to a whole symphony poured out of a jar of honey!!”

Thankfully—mercifully—Noli arrived like a weary but determined guardian. He reached in, smoothly peeling Two Time’s hands off her, wearing a strained smile of long-suffering patience. “Alright, enough, enough. Focus please, Two Time. This is not the moment to start worshipping someone.” His voice sounded like a man deeply familiar with chaos but still trying to maintain order.

Two Time froze.

For exactly two seconds.

Then they crossed their arms, tilted their chin, and declared with theatrical indignation, “Excuse me? I was PRAISING her glorious voice, thank you very much.” They clasped their hands in front of their chest, adopting the posture of a poet about to recite a love sonnet.

“A voice so sweet, so delicate, so utterly enchanting—like a vintage 1980s piano tune drifting across a dimly lit jazz lounge, the golden lights glimmering against a crystal glass—”

“Shut up. You’re giving me a headache.”

The sharp voice sliced the air clean in half. Everyone turned.

Mafioso was still slouched in his chair, one leg hooked casually over the other, tapping his fingers on the table with deep irritation. He didn’t even look up. He didn’t need to. The dismissive snort he let out said everything.

“Excuse me?” Two Time shot upright and jabbed a finger at him. “I am complimenting her! What’s your problem?!”

“My problem is your voice,” he replied coldly. “It’s loud. And it hurts.”

“I’m discussing art!”

“And I’m discussing reality.”

Noli immediately stepped between them, palms raised like a referee. “Alright, alright, stop it. We’re here to rehearse the play, not compete for who can argue louder.”

Veeronica laughed under her breath, hands on her hips, her waves of hair bouncing with every giggle. “If these two ever act together on stage, we’re gonna need fire insurance.”

Meanwhile, 007n7 sat in the crossfire of it all, breathing out slowly—equal parts embarrassed, overwhelmed, and amused. She rubbed her forehead and whispered just loud enough for herself, “Oh my god… it’s only one line and they’re acting like we’re premiering a blockbuster film…”

Two Time heard her instantly and spun toward her with eyes gleaming. “Because your line WAS adorable!!”

Mafioso tapped the table again. “Here we go.”

Noli massaged his temples. “I swear I’ll be mediating at least ten more fights today…”

Finally, Veeronica exhaled dramatically, lifting the script high like she was signaling the end of a grand battle. “Alright! Final verdict! 007n7 nailed her line. Absolutely nailed it. Now can we PLEASE move on to the next part?!”

Everyone nodded—some eagerly, some grudgingly.

Rehearsal carried on, loud and messy and full of bickering, but warm in the way only a group of terrible-but-loving amateur actors could ever manage.

Chapter Text

Step two had gone… relatively well. Everyone had memorized a decent chunk of their lines, although their levels of enthusiasm varied wildly.

Noli delivered his readings as if he were pouring his entire soul onto an ancient stage—his warm voice rising and falling with practiced precision, every syllable shaped like he’d been born for theater. 007n7, by contrast, learned fast—too fast, almost—but she grew visibly flustered when required to say anything remotely affectionate. Even so, the more she repeated the lines, the more naturally she slipped into character. Sometimes her eyes would brighten with a tenderness that wasn’t fully in the script; sometimes they would dim, heavy with something deeper. She was getting good—dangerously good.

Mafioso… well, Mafioso looked like he was paying off a karmic debt. He grimaced more than he memorized, spoke every line as if someone forced him to swallow bitter medicine, and radiated pure reluctance so strongly that the entire group could practically see it hanging around him like smoke.

Then came step three—the most important step: testing the action sequences. And that was when chaos officially checked in, sat down, and made itself comfortable.

Veeronica leaned on one hand, the other holding her script as she squinted at the page. “Hmm… I didn’t write too many physical actions. It’s mostly emotional beats so far. Maybe… we should just invent the gestures right here on the spot?”

Noli shot his hand up immediately. “Oh hell yeah! Improv makes it feel natural. Helps the emotion hit harder.”

Sitting beside him, 007n7 nodded. “That works. We can go scene by scene and add actions based on what feels right for the characters.”

But the most excited—by far—was Two Time. They shot up from their seat like someone had just told them they won the universe, big dark eyes sparkling with a suspicious amount of joy. Their head tilted slightly to the left, fluffy hair bouncing with the movement. “Can I ask something first?”

Veeronica raised a brow. “Ask what?”

“In this play… is there a scene where the characters hold hands?”

The whole room froze for a full second. 007n7 turned her head just a little, cheeks going pink. Noli looked to the ceiling like he was silently asking the gods for patience. Mafioso lifted an eyebrow so sharply it was practically a weapon. Veeronica blinked slowly, processing.

“Well… holding hands actually makes sense,” she admitted. “They’re the two main characters, after all. A moment of connection. If we place it in Act Two at sunset, it’d fit the tone—warm light, soft breeze, the feeling of… two souls accidentally brushing against each other.”

She nodded slightly, clearly pleased with the idea. 007n7 stayed very still, heartbeat skipping once, then twice.

But Two Time wasn’t done. Not even close.

They leaned in, voice soft as mist yet full of dangerous implications. “Then… could we also add, maybe… an affectionate moment?”

Everything went silent. The kind of silence that could kill an entire galaxy.

Veeronica blinked twice, the exact expression of someone asking themselves, “Did I just hallucinate that?”

007n7 choked on her own breath, nearly dropping her script.

Noli dropped his pen so fast it bounced.

And Mafioso—

BAM!!!

He slammed the table and shot to his feet, chair almost flipping backward. The sound echoed through the room so violently that the two stray cats outside bolted like they’d seen a ghost.

“No.

Absolutely.

Not.”

His voice was low and curt, each word crashing onto the table like a fist made of stone.

Two Time tilted their head another ten degrees, looking genuinely confused. “Why not? The characters are in love, aren’t they? An affectionate scene would be the—”

“The hell it would.” Mafioso snapped every syllable. “This play is for practice, not for you to use as an excuse to pull something.”

Startled, 007n7 reached out and lightly pressed her hand against his, urging him to calm down. “Hey, relax a little…”

“How am I supposed to relax?” Mafioso growled, turning to her—but his voice softened just enough to show his anger had a direction. His eyes, however, stayed sharp. “If they lay a single ‘affectionate’ finger on you, I swear I’ll knock them out.”

Two Time folded their arms, sighing like a martyr. “I’m talking about staging. Character-driven. It fits the plot—”

“Shut it.” Mafioso nearly barked. “Just hearing it makes me want to break something.”

Noli, seeing disaster on both sides, immediately stepped between them with both arms out like he was taming two wild animals. “Okay okay okay! Everyone breathe! Slow down!” He turned to Two Time. “Please stop adding ideas that might start an actual fistfight.” Then to Mafioso: “And you—stop abusing the poor table. It didn’t do anything to you.”

Veeronica finally burst out laughing at the absurdity, but she still lifted a hand sternly. “Alright, enough. No touching, no fighting. And the affectionate scene… I’ll think about it later. Focus on the basics first.”

Two Time huffed, muttering under their breath, “Can’t even get a crumb of romance…”

Mafioso crossed his arms and glared pointedly in the opposite direction, jaw stiff like he was physically restraining himself from swearing more.

And in the middle of all that chaos—between the quarrel, the tension, the sparks of jealousy fizzing like electricity—007n7 sat silently, letting out one long, exhausted sigh as she tilted her head back toward the ceiling.

“Why does rehearsing a play feel more like entering a battlefield…”

. . .

Scene One: Holding Hands

The moment Veeronica announced, “Alright, next is the hand-holding scene. You two, stand in the center,” the entire room fell into a hush so perfect it felt rehearsed. Even the ceiling lights seemed to soften out of courtesy, as if they, too, wanted to match the shy, hesitant, almost dreamy atmosphere gathering in the air.

007n7 moved to the center of the room, facing Two Time. The distance between them wasn’t large—barely a few steps—but somehow it felt like it stretched across an entire open field, every inch of it filled with the echo of her heartbeat pounding like someone was drumming right inside her chest.

Two Time raised their eyes to look at her. The expression they wore was softer than anything they showed on a normal day. Their hair, which always tended to fall into charming disarray, was uncharacteristically neat today—clearly not an accident.

They drew in a quiet breath, then slipped into character with an ease that almost felt dangerous.

“007n7…” Their voice was so gentle that even Noli, who had been watching with the calm attention of a mentor, shifted uncomfortably, casting a wary sideways glance. “There’s something about you… something that makes people want to stay.”

007n7 held her breath for a heartbeat. She had read this line a dozen times in the script; on paper, it was perfectly normal. But hearing it now—spoken aloud, spoken by them, spoken with that trembling undercurrent of feeling—made it suddenly far heavier than words should be.

Two Time took a step closer, never breaking eye contact. Their gaze seemed to reach into her and settle there, patient and searching.

“It’s not because you’re… pretty in the way everyone likes,” they continued, voice dipping lower, warmer, like they were confessing something they’d been holding in for far too long. “It’s more like… when I stand beside you… the world gets a little quieter.”

A small silence followed, delicate as a held breath. Even her own heartbeat seemed to slow. 007n7’s fingers curled together in front of her, trying to hold onto something tangible. But Two Time didn’t give her the chance to retreat.

They lifted their hand, slowly—deliberately slowly—so everyone in the room could see the slight tremble in their fingertips. A faint blush dusted their cheeks, soft pink blooming against their pale complexion.

They hesitated, just for effect, the exact hesitation of someone who wants to get close but fears getting too close.

And then they took her hand.

Their fingers were cool; hers were warm. The contrast jolted through her like a pulse of electricity. Skin against skin—barely touching, yet somehow too much.

Behind them, Mafioso muttered under his breath, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Noli narrowed his eyes like a teacher catching a student flirting during class.

Veeronica clapped her hands once, trying hard not to squeal, “Oh my god that’s adorable.”

Two Time tightened their hold on her hand, just slightly, then lifted her hand toward their face. The motion was smooth and tender, almost reverent, as if they were afraid a sudden movement might scare her.

007n7 felt heat surge up her neck, staining her ears bright red. Even so, she remembered her cue. Her voice came out softer than usual, with a note of trembling she definitely didn’t intend:

“When you say things like that… it makes me feel…”

She swallowed.

“… kind of shy.”

Two Time smiled—really smiled. It wasn’t acting; it wasn’t rehearsed. Their eyes curved as if they knew exactly what she was about to say. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable,” they whispered.

But instead of following the script—where they were supposed to let go of her hand—they lowered their head…

…and pressed a kiss onto the back of her hand.

A real kiss. Light as a breeze. Too gentle to be an accident.

The whole room exploded.

“HEY!!!” Veeronica shrieked, sprinting forward like a launched firework.

Noli nearly choked on his own breath.

007n7 stumbled, startled, but Two Time didn’t let go of her hand.

And Mafioso.

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t need to.

He simply grabbed the chair he’d been sitting on—

—AND HURLED IT STRAIGHT TOWARD TWO TIME.

The chair sliced through the air like an Olympic javelin. Thankfully, Veeronica leaped in the way at superhuman speed, nearly flipping herself backward as she intercepted it. “MAFIOSO!!!” she screamed. “ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL THEM?!”

“Not kill,” he growled, eyes blazing, finally dropping the mask of “just acting.”

“I want to teach them a lesson.”

Two Time, who had instinctively ducked, lifted their head with a thin, annoyingly calm smile, still not releasing 007n7’s hand. “Oh,” they said lightly, “I just thought the moment… fit the character’s emotional arc.”

“THE HELL IT DID!” Mafioso barked, lunging forward. “There is NO hand-kissing in the script! You don’t get to improvise that! You don’t get to touch her like that!”

007n7 panicked, sliding between the two of them, gripping Mafioso’s arm desperately. “Please! Chill! It’s just rehearsal!”

Mafioso looked at her instantly, tone dropping but no less intense: “Rehearsal doesn’t give them permission to go that far.”

Noli joined the chaos, though his expression darkened slightly: “Yeah… you could at least warn the director first…”

Veeronica rubbed her temples, collapsing against the wall: “Oh my god… it’s literally the first scene and you’re already trying to fight each other…”

Meanwhile, in the center of the storm, Two Time remained standing calmly, hand still entwined with 007n7’s, a knowing smile curling at the corner of their lips. They tilted their head, eyes locking onto Mafioso’s with a challenge hidden just beneath the surface. “Relax. I’m just acting.”

Then they shifted their gaze to 007n7, voice softening into something far more dangerous:

“…and maybe a little bit… not acting.”

007n7 reddened instantly, and for a moment, it looked like both sides were about to charge again.

The first scene ended only because Veeronica physically grabbed each of them by the collar and dragged them to opposite corners of the room like misbehaving pets.

Scene Two: Mafioso’s Warning to Two Time

The moment the first scene ended—with Two Time pressing that deliberately provocative kiss to 007n7’s knuckles—Mafioso lost every shred of patience he had been holding onto.

He didn’t even wait for the lights to change. In one sharp, explosive motion, he grabbed the hood of their cloak as if hauling in a criminal caught fleeing the scene. Two Time’s head snapped backward, their steps stuttered, and then, with almost comedic brutality, their entire body was yanked off balance and slammed flat onto the floor.

The impact landed with a resounding thud—the kind of sound that made everyone in the room collectively wince. Two Time curled up on the floor, clutching their backside, whining dramatically like a cat whose tail had just been stepped on.

Then they scrambled back toward 007n7 on hands and knees, their eyes shimmering with exaggerated misery, one hand reaching up pitifully as they whined, “It hurts so much… 007n7… look… I’m suffering for the sake of art…” Their voice dripped with shameless theatrics, each word an attempt to wring the smallest drop of sympathy from her.

She leaned down, flustered, tugging nervously at her sleeve. “Hey… come on, stop crying already. I told you… you didn’t have to go that far…”

Two Time looked up at her as though she had personally granted them divine salvation.

Meanwhile, behind them, Mafioso looked one breath away from lunging forward and strangling them on the spot.

Attempt One: A disastrous, spectacular failure.

During their second run-through, Mafioso barely lifted his hand to reach for the collar of Two Time’s cloak when they shot him a mischievous, knowing look—one that radiated pure provoke-me energy.

The moment his fingers brushed fabric, Two Time twisted aside in a swift, fluid motion, making it painfully clear that they had already predicted his grab. And then—faster than anyone could process—they stretched out one leg and hooked Mafioso’s ankle with calculated precision.

The chaos was instant.

He lost balance completely, stumbling forward, and fell face-first with an earth-shaking CRASH. The sound alone made the entire cast freeze.

Noli lunged forward in panic. “HEY! Your nose is bleeding!!”

Veeronica slapped a hand to her forehead. “Oh my god! Can I have one—just one—moment of peace? Are we rehearsing a script or training for hand-to-hand combat?!”

Within seconds, the two of them were being dragged to opposite corners of the stage. Someone shoved tissues at Mafioso while he sat there with a reddening nose, and Two Time crossed their arms with infuriating satisfaction, lips curled in triumph as if they had just won a long-awaited battle.

Attempt Two: A bloody mess. Also a failure.

After nearly ten rounds of faceplants, bruises, Veeronica yelling until her voice cracked, and Noli being forced into the role of reluctant field medic, attempt number ten finally—finally—seemed less explosive.

Mafioso eased up, no longer putting his full strength into the movement. He simply took hold of Two Time’s cloak and tugged lightly, just enough to tilt their body backward. And for once, Two Time actually cooperated, no longer plotting elaborate revenge kicks. But even so, their eyes sparkled with that smug “I still consider this my personal victory” glint.

The atmosphere grew more focused as they began reciting their lines.

Mafioso tightened his grip gently, lowering his voice—hoarse from all the yelling earlier:

“Two Time… I’m glad you’re happy.

But please… don’t let your emotions outrun reality.”

Veeronica nodded behind them, arms crossed, silently signaling, Good. Keep going.

Two Time lifted a brow, narrowing their eyes slightly. Their voice softened—but still carried that effortless blend of pride and playful provocation unique to them:

“I’m fine.

It’s just that… 007n7 makes me feel like I can breathe.”

She flushed. Noli mumbled something profane under his breath. Mafioso shot Two Time a glare sharp enough to cut glass.

He clenched his jaw but delivered his line flawlessly—clearly determined not to repeat the scene for the fiftieth time:

“Right. But you’re starting to see her in a way that’s… too ideal.

No one is as perfect as you make them out to be.”

Two Time shrugged lightly.

“I know.

I’m not asking 007n7 to be perfect.

I just… want to be near her.”

As they said it, they shifted their gaze toward her—eyes curving, smile soft, blending character with very real intention. It was the exact kind of expression that always made Mafioso snap. And true to form, Mafioso jabbed their shoulder harder than stage combat guidelines would ever allow.

“Well good,” he growled. “Because I’m just afraid you’ll end up worshipping her on your knees again.”

The two locked eyes. Sparks practically crackled between them. Two Time smirked; Mafioso gritted so hard the muscles in his jaw twitched.

From behind, Veeronica screeched:

“CUT!!! If either of you throws one more punch, I am canceling rehearsal for an entire week! I’m exhausted!!!”

Two Time immediately turned to 007n7, blinking sweetly as if the last thirty seconds hadn’t been chaos incarnate. “007n7, do you think I acted okay…?”

Mafioso snapped his head around so fast it nearly cracked. “DON’T ask her that in front of me!”

Noli pressed the cold compress back onto Mafioso’s just-stopped nosebleed and sighed from the depths of his soul. “God… this is only scene two… only scene two, everyone…”

Scene Three — the gentlest scene, yet the one so obviously not gentle for someone secretly in love.

The rehearsal room finally settled after the chaos of the previous two scenes. The soft, honey-warm ceiling light tilted across the small stage, stretching the shadows of 007n7 and Two Time until they blended at the edges, as if even their silhouettes were destined to meet before their bodies did.

Veeronica gave a sharp, playful whistle—her version of a director’s cue—and murmured, “Alright, you two. This scene is simple. Soft. Romantic. Make me believe you actually like each other.”

007n7 stepped forward first. Every movement she made was delicate, intentional, gentle in a way that felt almost unreal—like she was walking across the surface of a dream that might shatter if she pressed too hard. Her brown hair, slightly tousled, brushed her cheeks whenever she turned, catching the light like strands of thin silk. She stopped center-stage, then slowly turned back over her shoulder. The motion was so fluid, so effortless, that it was impossible not to stare.

Behind her, Two Time stood frozen, struck breathless.

Their eyes widened in pure disbelief—as though 007n7 had just changed form, stepped out of the ordinary world, and become something too luminous, too human and not human at all. There she was, her face faintly flushed under the warm lights, her gaze landing on theirs with soft warmth—warmth that pierced straight through the guard they’d sworn they always carried.

It was the kind of moment that didn’t just make a heart flutter.

It cracked it open.

007n7 lifted her hand toward them. Her hand was small, pale, a little shaky from first-time performance nerves… but beautiful enough to make Two Time’s throat tighten.

She smiled—just a small curve of her lips, faint and tender—and her voice drifted out like the quiet fall of rain on a warm evening:

“Two Time, are you coming? It’s getting dark already.”

The line itself was simple, almost plain. If anyone else had said it, it wouldn’t have been romantic at all. But coming from her, in this moment… it made Two Time feel like they had been dropped into the center of a whirlpool and told to breathe normally. They stood still for several seconds, stiff as if their entire body had turned to stone.

In their mind—too vivid, too fast—they saw themselves running to her, wrapping their arms around her waist, burying their face in the crook of her neck, admitting out loud that they adored her so much it bordered on madness.

But that was only imagination.

A fleeting hallucination of a heart beating far too fast.

They blinked hard, forcing the fantasy away. Then, with what little composure they managed to gather, Two Time reached out and touched the tips of their fingers to hers.

The contact was almost nothing

and yet it was enough to send a shiver through the room.

Both observers reacted immediately: Noli turned away to hide an exasperated groan, while Mafioso, standing offstage, squeezed his pen so hard it nearly snapped in half.

Her hand was soft. Warm.

And when she lightly tightened her fingers around theirs… Two Time swore their heart detonated inside their chest.

They let out a tiny laugh, breathless and glowing red across their cheeks like a peach left in the sun too long.

“I’m coming…!” they managed, voice trembling but still on cue.

007n7 didn’t comment on the tremble. Or maybe she noticed and simply chose not to. She just tugged their hand gently, guiding them downstage as though the rest of the world had melted away until there remained only the warmth of her palm against theirs.

When their two silhouettes slipped out of the light, still hand-in-hand, Veeronica froze. Then she leaned toward Noli and whispered, almost stunned:

“…Okay, that was actually gorgeous.”

Noli crossed his arms, nodding, though he kept his eyes pinned on them like a man watching a wolf edge a little too close to a fragile fawn.

As the stage light shifted to the narrator’s corner, Noli stepped out from the shadows draped in a long dark coat. The glow hit his face just right, making his eyes look deeper, wiser—like someone who had witnessed a hundred quiet love stories, all ending in the same soft ache.

His voice when he began to speak was calm, low, threaded with a tired understanding:

“Love, at the beginning, is always light as a breeze…

no one knows where it will drift,

or what it will turn into.

Two Time believes it is nothing more than admiration.

007n7 thinks everything between them is simply natural.

But since when…

has ‘natural’ ever made a heart race like this?”

He took a slow step, gazing toward the direction the pair had exited, and his voice fell into something sweet, nostalgic, almost mournful—like an old song humming in a quiet room:

“She does not know that every word, every small smile…

is carving a shape deep inside Two Time’s heart.

A figure.

A symbol.

A future shrine.

A place they kneel at

even if only in the privacy of their own chest.”

At the corner of the stage, Mafioso snorted loudly. “A shrine? Yeah right. Sounds like trouble waiting to happen.”

Veeronica smacked his arm without looking at him. “Shhh! Romance is talking. Respect it.”

The rehearsal ended with a half-hearted clap from Veeronica—more out of duty than enthusiasm. She set her notebook aside and pressed her fingertips to her temples, massaging away the exhaustion of having directed everyone for hours.

“That’s it for today! Seriously, enough. We’re done,” she sighed, her voice hovering somewhere between relief and disappointment, because everyone was clearly too drained to continue anyway.

The late afternoon sun filtered through the tall curtains in long, stretched beams of light, pulling time thin across the studio floor. The clock on the wall had already passed four-thirty. None of them had noticed how fast the hours vanished—only the heavy air remained, thick with sweat, tired breaths, and the kind of silence that grows when everyone is too worn out to even complain.

Two Time leaned against the wall, exhaling sharply before sticking a lazy hand out toward her. “You sure you can still walk? You look like a rice paper sheet left out in the sun—one poke and you’ll snap.”

“I’m fine,” she answered automatically, even though her entire body screamed otherwise. In her mind, she was already halfway home, steam rising from a hot bath, lavender-scented foam slipping down her skin, her muscles finally melting after a long day. She could almost see herself flopping onto the couch, whining to 007e7 for pancakes—he’d definitely sigh, pretend she was a bother, but still end up making a whole stack of golden, fluffy ones just for her. The sweetness of that fantasy made her steps feel lighter, almost floaty.

But before she even reached the door, a rough hand clamped around her wrist.

Mafioso.

He yanked her back so hard she stumbled, breath catching in her throat. Two Time and Veeronica both tensed, their expressions tightening immediately. Two Time opened their mouth to speak, but Mafioso shot them a single, razor-sharp glare—one cold enough to slice through courage. They shut up instantly.

“What—? Why are you—” she began, but he cut her off with a voice low enough to scrape bone.

“Come with me.”

Not a request.

A command.

He dragged her past the resting benches, past the backdrop curtains, into a dim corner of the main stage—a shadowy nook where the old wall panels hummed with the faint vibration of the air conditioner, like the quiet breathing of something lurking.

She shivered. Not from the cold.

From knowing exactly how furious he was.

“Mafioso… l-let me explain—”

His hand moved before she even finished.

The slap cracked across her face like a whip of lightning. Her vision tilted, a shockwave rushing through her skull. Heat flared across her cheek, sharp and stinging, her head snapping to the side. Her eyes burned instantly—not from fear, not just from pain, but from something more familiar, more devastating: the cruelty of the person she loved the most.

“Stupid bitch,” he spat, each word hard enough to bruise. “You’re always attracting shit you shouldn’t. Always dragging people into your mess. It’s disgusting.”

Her lips parted, but her throat seized up, only a broken sound escaping. He wasn’t finished—his eyes darkened, filled with the memory of earlier: Two Time laughing with her, touching her cheek, leaning in far too close as if they had some right to claim her in front of him.

“All that touching—so fun, huh? And the little almost-kiss too.”

He let out a laugh, harsh and metallic, like steel scraping concrete. “Pathetic.”

“They were just—”

“Let’s break up.”

The words slammed into her with the force of a falling ceiling. She had told herself, many times, that if he ever said those words, she would feel relieved. Liberated. At least no longer stuck loving someone who barely knew how to be gentle.

But she was wrong.

When he said it, her heart plummeted into a cold, endless void. Tears slipped down her already burning cheek. He turned away like she was nothing—like the conversation meant nothing.

But she couldn’t handle being left in that freezing darkness.

Her voice cracked out, fragile and trembling like wind slipping through a cracked window:

“I couldn't hate you just because you couldn't love me…”

His steps faltered.

Not much.

Just enough for her to notice.

She stared at his back—broad shoulders pulling tight, trembling almost imperceptibly. The sight made the ache in her chest twist even sharper.

“I know… I know I’ll never be the one for you,” she whispered, tears tracking down her skin, burning into the slap mark. “I know I’m not good enough to stand beside you. Everyone says I’m annoying. Too sensitive. Too weak…”

She laughed once, a sound dry and broken, something that felt like it cracked her ribs from the inside. “But still… some part of me—just a small part—still wants to be loved. Just a little. Just enough to breathe.”

Mafioso didn’t turn back, but his fist tightened, knuckles whitening. She saw it. The internal war he was losing silently.

From across the room, Two Time and Veeronica were watching from afar—worried, frozen, confused. Noli walked in just in time to see her standing there, trembling, and immediately shouted her name: “007n7?!”

Mafioso’s entire body went rigid—like turning around would trigger something in him he wasn’t ready to face.

“Please…” she whispered, touching her burning cheek with shaking fingers. “If you really want to leave me, I won’t hold on. I won’t beg. But don’t… don’t hate me. I can’t bear that…”

A cool draft from the AC brushed past, rustling her hair. In that tiny moment, he turned his head—just a little—not enough for her to see his whole expression, but enough to show the turmoil burning in his half-shadowed eyes.

And he murmured, voice so low it was barely a breath:

“…Don’t say things like that.”

Then silence.

A silence louder than any scream.

A silence that broke her heart more deeply than the slap ever could.

Chapter Text

Rapid, chaotic footsteps thundered across the wooden floor of the rehearsal hall, each pounding beat slamming straight into the chest, tearing through the suffocating air that had been pressing down on the dark corner moments before.

Veeronica was the first to appear. She was almost running, breath coming in sharp gasps, her chest rising and falling visibly. Her usually fluffy pink hair was a mess now, loose strands escaping their clips, the little TV-shaped hairpins wobbling wildly with every hurried step. The moment she saw 007n7 leaning against the icy wall, one hand cupping her cheek, her shoulders trembling, eyes red and glassy with tears that hadn’t fully dried yet, the dark red imprint of fingers stark against skin so pale it hurt to look at, Veeronica froze as if someone had struck her straight through the heart.

Her mouth fell open, her throat locked up, and then her voice broke, high and shattered. “Oh my god… you—what happened to you? Who… who did this?” She rushed closer, hands shaking as she reached out, but before she could touch her, Noli had already moved past her, long strides eating up the distance as he instinctively stepped in front of 007n7, shielding her with his body.

“Hey.” He called to her—just one word, but his voice had dropped completely, stripped of its usual laziness and teasing warmth. His gaze traced her face, the swelling already darkening into bruises, the tears clinging stubbornly to her lashes, and in that instant, something inside him cracked wide open.

Noli snapped his head toward Mafioso, who was still standing there, back straight but shoulders rigid, his expression tight like a string pulled too far, barely holding together. “What did you do to her?” His voice wasn’t loud, but it was cold and heavy, each word landing like steel slammed against the floor.

Mafioso curled his lip, disdain flashing across his face—but it never fully formed. Noli stepped forward. There was no hesitation, no warning. His fist swung, driven by compressed rage and fear, crashing straight into Mafioso’s face. The impact rang out sharp and brutal, loud enough to make Veeronica flinch and 007n7 gasp, eyes wide with shock. Mafioso stumbled back several steps, heels skidding against the wood, his lip split open, blood seeping out and trailing down his chin. “Are you fucking insane?!” he snarled, his voice hoarse with pain and fury.

“Insane?” Noli laughed, but there was nothing joyful in it—just a taut, twisted curve of pure anger. His eyes burned red, sharp and frighteningly deep. “Yeah. I am. Because if I weren’t, I would’ve stood there and watched you hit her.” He pointed toward 007n7, his voice trembling—not with fear, but with rage.

“She’s the one I care about. The one I’ve never raised my voice at, never dared to touch too hard. I’ve treated her like glass, like something precious. Who the hell do you think you are, raising your hand at her?”

“Care about her?” Mafioso scoffed, wiping the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes dripping with mockery and venom. “And what does that change? She’s my girlfriend. What happens between us is none of your business.”

“A girlfriend you hit like that?” Noli stepped closer again, both fists clenched so tight the veins stood out along his wrists. “If that’s what you call love, then I’d rather be the bastard who interferes than let her stay next to someone like you for even one more second.”

Veeronica rushed between them, arms outstretched as if trying to hold back a rising wave, her voice shaking, nearly pleading. “Stop it! Please! This is a rehearsal hall, not a boxing ring! Calm down—both of you!” But her words dissolved into the thick air, unheard.

“Calm down?” Mafioso growled, turning his glare from Veeronica back to Noli, his eyes practically spitting fire. “What would you know? She’s always like this—always letting people cling to her, looking at her like she’s some saint, something untouchable—”

“Silence.”

The voice wasn’t loud. It wasn’t sharp. It was eerily calm—and it cut straight through everything.

Two Time had remained at the edge of the light the entire time. They hadn’t rushed in, hadn’t tried to stop anyone, hadn’t added fuel to anyone’s anger. But now, they stepped forward. They positioned themself beside 007n7, blocking Mafioso’s line of sight to her. One hand lifted her chin gently, their thumb brushing the swollen mark on her cheek, slow and careful, as if she might shatter under the slightest pressure. The warmth of that touch was a stark contrast to the chill in their eyes.

“Doth it inflict discomfort?” they asked quietly, their voice lowered, stripped of its usual teasing edge.

007n7 pressed her lips together and shook her head ever so slightly, as if speaking would make everything spill over. But no matter how hard she tried to hold it in, the tears kept coming, sliding down and soaking into Two Time’s wrist. They saw it, and the corner of their mouth curved into a faint smile—not a happy one. It was dark, deep, and cold.

They turned their gaze to Mafioso. It wasn’t explosive or loud, but it sent a chill straight down the spine. “You hit her,” they said slowly, like stating an undeniable fact. “Do you grasp the gravity of this transgression?”

“What does that have to do with you?” Mafioso snapped. “This is my—”

“No.” Two Time cut him off, their voice flat, sharp as a thin blade. “The instant your hand defiled her visage, this ceased to be a matter of insular concern.”

Veeronica swallowed hard, her heart pounding. She had never seen Two Time like this—so calm it was terrifying, like a perfectly still surface hiding something bottomless beneath. Noli stood nearby in silence, his gaze still blazing, ready to explode again if Mafioso moved even half a step closer.

Two Time lowered their gaze to 007n7, their hand still resting against her cheek, their touch softening instinctively. “Remain here, in my company,” they said—not a question, not waiting for an answer. “You are no longer obliged to lend an ear to such... discourse.”

Mafioso let out a dry, cutting laugh. “Who do you think you are—”

“A person who would never deign to strike her,” Two Time replied instantly. “Who would never permit her tears to fall in solitary gloom.”

The air froze, as if the vast rehearsal hall had been drained of all sound. Veeronica slowly lowered her trembling hands. Noli took a deep breath, his voice low and final. “Mafioso, if you take one more step toward her, I won’t stop at one punch.”

Mafioso looked at each of them in turn, his expression wavering between rage, contempt, and something far harder to name. At last, his gaze landed on 007n7—standing behind Two Time’s protective frame, her face still wet with tears, but her eyes no longer filled with only fear.

He said nothing. Just scoffed quietly, turned around, and walked away. His footsteps were heavy, echoing across the empty wooden floor, each one driving nails into the silence left behind.

Only when he was completely gone did Veeronica finally let out a shaky breath. She hurried to 007n7, her voice trembling with worry. “Are you okay? Does it hurt badly? Should we go to the infirmary?” Noli placed a hand on her shoulder, firm but gentle, his voice softening noticeably. “Come home with me. I won’t feel right leaving you here.”

Two Time said nothing. They stayed where they were, their hand still against her cheek, their gaze dark and quiet, the faint smile gone entirely. In their eyes, something had collapsed soundlessly… and something else—heavier, sharper, far more dangerous—was being built brick by brick, deep within their heart.

Two Time was the first to speak. Not loudly, not sharply, and without any need to compete with the overlapping voices of concern filling the suffocating space.

Their voice dropped low, steady and firm, like a clean cut slicing straight through the chaos. “I shall escort her residence-ward.” Their hand tightened around hers just a little—not to force, but to anchor, to confirm that she was here, that she was not alone.

There was no question in that sentence. It was a decision already made, solid and unmoving, as if the path leading her away from this place had existed in their mind for a long time, simply waiting for the right moment to open.

Veeronica froze for exactly one beat, her gaze wavering as it shifted from Two Time to her, worry, hesitation, and a quiet helplessness mixing together as she realized she couldn’t keep her with mere words of caution.

Noli stood nearby, brows tightly drawn, anger still lingering in his eyes, but when he saw the way Two Time stood in front of her, the way their hand rested on her shoulder like a silent yet unyielding wall, he slowly let out a breath, his voice dropping significantly. “You… sure?” Two Time nodded, very slightly, almost unnoticeable, but their gaze didn’t waver for even a second. “I am.”

That single word carried enough weight to stop Noli from saying anything else. Veeronica pressed her lips together, then finally nodded too, stepping closer to her, her hand brushing quickly over her shoulder—half a pat, half a soothing stroke—as if afraid that if she hesitated even a moment longer, she might disappear.

“Text me when you get home, okay? Put some ointment on it. Don’t let the swelling get worse.” She nodded, her throat tightening, words caught somewhere in her chest, and all that came out in the end was a soft, fragile “Mm,” thin enough to almost dissolve into the air.

The parking lot behind the rehearsal hall was much quieter, devoid of voices, bathed only in the dying light of late afternoon that stretched into long streaks across the darkened concrete.

Two Time’s motorcycle stood in the corner, dark-colored, neat, and immaculate, motionless in a way that mirrored their presence—never loud, never flashy, yet impossible to ignore once noticed. They stepped ahead, took a helmet from the bike, and turned back to look at her a moment longer than necessary. That gaze wasn’t probing, nor was it pitying; it was rare, undivided attention. “Put this on.” Their voice softened noticeably as they handed the helmet to her.

She took it, hands trembling slightly, fumbling with the strap several times before managing to fasten it. Two Time waited without rushing her, simply watching in silence, their calm eyes memorizing every small movement, every tilt of her head, every uneven breath she hadn’t yet steadied.

When she sat on the back seat, her posture stiff with exhaustion and shyness, they mounted the bike and started the engine. The low, even hum broke gently through the stillness, a quiet reminder that time was still moving forward.

“Hold on to me,” they said, turning their head just enough to be sure she heard. She hesitated for half a second, then wrapped her arms around their waist, lightly, as if afraid that pressing any harder might shatter something fragile hanging between them.

In that instant, Two Time paused for the briefest moment—so small it was almost imperceptible—before easing the bike forward. The evening wind brushed past, cool with a trace of chill, slipping through her thin sleeves, carrying with it familiar city scents: dust, asphalt, the tired breath of a day nearing its end. The bike didn’t go fast, nor too slow, moving at a steady rhythm that made her feel safe. Two Time’s back was solid and warm, the only anchor keeping her from slipping into the tangled mess of thoughts thrashing inside her head.

Much later, when the streets began to glow with life, yellow lights spilling from shopfronts, streetlamps, and distant windows, Two Time spoke again. Their voice was low, blending into the wind and the engine’s hum. “Does it… hurt?”

She rested her forehead lightly against their back, feeling the steady rise and fall of their breathing, her voice small and hoarse. “A little… but I think I’ll be okay.” Two Time didn’t reply immediately. Their grip on the handlebars tightened just slightly, as if holding something back, before they spoke again, slowly.

“The notion of mere 'okay-ness' is wholly inadmissible when one dares to raise a hand in aggression against another.” The words were calm, unraised, but there was an unbendable line running through them. She fell silent, her arms tightening instinctively this time, holding on more firmly.

“I’m sorry…” she murmured, unsure whether she was apologizing for worrying everyone, or for staying too long in a relationship that had hurt her this deeply. Two Time let out a breath so soft it nearly vanished into the wind. “No expiation is warranted on your part; you are beholden to no one.”

The traffic light turned red, and the bike came to a stop. Two Time turned slightly—not looking directly at her, but close enough for her to see the sharp, steady outline of their face under the pale yellow light, composed and unshaken.

“You’re not a saint,” they said slowly, each word landing clearly. “You’re not something people should kneel to worship, or trample underfoot to vent their anger. You’re just you. And that’s enough.”

She bit her lip, eyes burning, her heart stuttering painfully. The wind had softened by now, but inside her chest something was stirring, aching and warm at the same time. She nodded, even though she knew they couldn’t see it.

The bike moved again. The road to her home gradually became familiar—low houses, light spilling from windows, a peace so ordinary it felt unreal, as though the dark corners of the world had never existed. When they stopped in front of the gate, Two Time cut the engine, removed their helmet, and turned to her. The distance between them was close enough that she could hear their breathing, deep and even.

“Go inside,” they said, then after a very brief hesitation, as if weighing every word carefully, “If… if you need someone to sit with you, just quietly, I can stay.”

She froze, her heart pounding as she looked up at them. Her eyes were tired, but far clearer and brighter than they had been back at the rehearsal hall. “Thank you…” she said, her voice trembling, then stepped off the bike, her hand lingering for just a moment longer against the hem of their jacket.

Two Time nodded, not pushing, simply standing there watching as she opened the gate and went inside. When the door closed behind her, they didn’t leave right away. Two Time remained on the bike for a while, hands resting on the handlebars, eyes fixed on the house ahead—a place where someone had been brought home safely, and where something within their heart, quiet and steadfast, was beginning to take root.

High above the clouds, in a place where light was no longer merely light but had become substance—bending and arching into colossal vaults layered atop one another like the ribcage of the sky—Telamon stood with his weight resting against the celestial railing.

His posture was relaxed, almost idle, yet his gaze was sharp and cold, fixed on the mortal world below as if he were rewatching an old play whose every breath he already knew by heart. From this height, humans were small as chess pieces, cities reduced to models set upon a table, but emotions did not shrink with distance.

He saw everything with painful clarity, without the need to narrow his eyes: he saw her bow her head, her slender shoulders curling inward as if trying to fold herself away from the world; he saw her trembling hand, fingers unconsciously clutching at the hem of her clothes like a final, fragile lifeline; he saw the red mark blooming on her cheek, swelling before it had even begun to fade, a crude and brutal stamp; he saw Two Time standing in front of her, their body forming a silent yet absolute boundary that no gaze dared cross; and he saw Mafioso turning his back and walking away, his steps heavy, anger still burning, yet something inside him already cracking—like a wall that seemed unbreakable until the exact fault line was struck.

A short, low laugh slipped from Telamon’s throat, devoid of amusement, the sound of someone who had endured restraint for far too long. “Ah,” he murmured, his voice sinking like thunderclouds before a storm, “so that’s how it is.”

The hand resting on the railing tightened slightly, and the light beneath his palm rippled outward in small circles, like water disturbed by a thrown stone. “Striking the one you claim to love,” he said slowly, each word smoothed and sharpened before being released, “and calling it protection, calling it control.” He tilted his head, the corner of his mouth lifting in bitter irony. “How ridiculous.”

Telamon did nothing grand. He summoned no thunder, tore no clouds apart, delivered no earth-shaking judgment. He merely turned his wrist, just a little, like brushing away an invisible speck of dust. From that moment on, a chain of “coincidences” began to descend upon Mafioso’s life, steady and persistent, like a relentless drizzle soaking into the ground.

The car he had spent the entire morning meticulously cleaning was splattered with mud from nowhere just as he drove out of the lot; an important contract he had thought securely in hand was returned over a single error—a date on a stamp, tiny, absurd, yet enough to stall everything; his phone slipped from his grasp at the worst possible moment, landing face-down, a fine crack splitting the screen like a mocking smile; an unseasonal rain poured down just as he forgot his jacket, cold water seeping through every layer of fabric; and worst of all, a dull headache settled in and refused to leave—not sharp enough to blame fate, not fierce enough to justify rage, but constant, nagging, like a whisper that would not be silenced.

Nothing was catastrophic. Nothing could be blamed outright on destiny. There was simply the sensation that everything today was quietly turning against him, piece by piece, enough to make his jaw clench as he wondered, over and over, what exactly he had done wrong.

“Oh?” a drawn-out, lazy voice sounded behind him, as though its owner were idly sucking on a piece of candy to pass the time. “Our cold-hearted lord is being… cold-hearted again.” Builderman appeared, arms crossed, posture infuriatingly casual. He glanced down at the mortal world, then turned back to Telamon with a grin that made no effort to hide its delight.

“Let me guess,” he continued, his tone thick with mockery, “this is about her again, isn’t it?”

Telamon didn’t bother turning around, merely curling his lip.

“Don’t play dumb.” Builderman laughed, the sound hollow and ringing, like metal striking metal. “I’m not playing. I know. If you didn’t care, you wouldn’t be standing here staring for this long.” He leaned over the railing, pointing downward as if indicating a form of entertainment.

“Just look at him. Our dear Mafioso looks utterly miserable. And he still dares to claim he doesn’t love her?” Telamon snapped around, the light in his eyes darkening as though swallowed by storm clouds. “Love?” he repeated, his voice so cold the air itself seemed to stiffen. “Love that raises a hand? Love that treats another person as property? Don’t soil that word.”

Builderman raised his hands in mock surrender, though the curve of his mouth remained teasing. “Easy there, I’m not defending him. I’m just saying he loves—in the worst way possible.” He tilted his head, eyes flicking over Telamon with mischievous scrutiny. “And you? No lectures, no warnings, just quietly sowing bad luck. Childish, don’t you think?”

A dry, humorless chuckle escaped Telamon. “At least I’m not standing here mocking it.”

“Oh, but I like mocking,” Builderman shot back immediately, stepping closer, deliberately bumping Telamon’s shoulder. “Especially when it gets under your skin. It’s rare.”

That was enough. Telamon shoved him hard. Builderman staggered back, then burst out laughing. “Hey—hey! You’re serious?” He barely finished the sentence before Telamon’s fist flew, the air tearing around it. Builderman dodged just in time, countering with a sharp shoulder check, the two of them colliding amid radiant light that shuddered like overstrained strings.

“Be quiet!” Telamon snarled. “Mind your own business!”

“Then you mind yours!” Builderman fired back, laughing even as he threw a kick that missed by inches. “Don’t use the mortal world as your stress relief!”

The two powerful beings clashed without rules, punching and kicking, arguing and laughing in the same breath, light exploding with every impact, making the sky tremble in short, frantic pulses, as if the heavens themselves were breathing hard. At last, they broke apart, facing each other, panting, hair disheveled, cloaks hanging askew, not a trace of dignity left between them.

Builderman bent over with his hands on his knees, still grinning. “See? Feel better already.”

Telamon snorted and turned back to the railing, his gaze dropping once more to the mortal world, where Mafioso scowled through a day of unbroken misfortune, completely unaware that every step he took lay within another’s sight. “This is only the beginning,” Telamon said, his voice low, unclear whether he was speaking to Builderman or to himself. “If he still doesn’t learn how to let go properly.” Builderman stepped up beside him, arms crossed, his tone quieter than before.

“Be careful,” he warned. “If you get too involved, you’ll end up just like us.”

Telamon did not reply. Below them, the mortal world continued to turn, slow and indifferent, while high above, two beings who were part gods and part children stood watching, each harboring their own thoughts, as threads of fate—thin as silk—began to draw taut, trembling, waiting for the next moment to either snap cleanly… or tighten until there was no escape at all.

Chapter Text

They returned to their private sanctuary when dusk had already settled in, the thick wooden door closing behind them with a sound so soft it almost dissolved into the stillness of the interior. The scent of old incense clung to the air, woven together with damp wood and cold stone, sinking into every breath they took, so familiar it felt like part of their bloodstream rather than a smell.

To the outside world, the cult they belonged to was branded a lie, a heresy, the ravings of lunatics who worshipped something that did not exist—“The Spawn,” a refuge for those rejected by the old order, a place where people believed humanity did not need an admin to be reborn, where death was not an ending but merely another door leading into a second life.

They had heard those accusations so many times that the urge to refute them had long since withered away. Their footsteps echoed softly against the cold stone floor as they walked, the bony tail behind them tapping lightly against the ground with a dry, hollow clatter, while pale, ivory-colored skeletal wings folded tightly against their back, every movement tugging at a familiar, lingering ache. It hurt—but it was a pain they accepted, the pain of a gift.

They remembered clearly the moment the Spawn had granted them this form, blood and bone mingling together, consciousness splintering and nearly dissolving, yet when they opened their eyes again, the first sensation was not terror but a pure, almost frightening joy—the joy of one who had been chosen.

At that thought, her image surfaced in their mind, faint and fragile, and their heart jolted painfully once. They knelt before the statue carved in the likeness of the Spawn, its sharp, inhuman features casting long shadows over their body. Hands clasped together, they bent low until their forehead touched the floor, whispering a prayer in a voice hoarse with exhaustion and restless thoughts. "Bestow upon me sufficient lucidity… ample fortitude… lest I inflict harm upon those entities I endeavor to safeguard."

“Oh! Two Time~!”

The voice rang out suddenly, drawn out and sickeningly sweet, tearing straight through the solemn atmosphere.

They did not lift their head. There was no need to look; they already knew who it was.

Amarah.

Their mentor.

The one who had guided them into The Spawn, who had placed faith and chains into their hands at the same time, and also the one they had never truly wanted to converse with. In their mind flashed her image again—her eyes, her small figure shielded by someone else’s body—and an unpleasant, sharp irritation rose in their throat.

They knew he was watching, judging, dissecting them with his gaze, and that awareness made their clasped hands tighten unconsciously. Seeing their silence, Amarah let out a quiet laugh, hollow and cold, as his footsteps echoed along the old wooden stairs, each step groaning as though complaining under his weight.

When he reached them, he stood behind them and suddenly yanked their hair hard, jerking their head back slightly, without the slightest hint of respect. “Lift your head,” he said mockingly, "or does the tenet of the Spawn instruct you to feign taciturnity before those of superior rank?" Their head was shaken back and forth, pain shooting from their scalp down into their neck, yet their face remained blank, eyes steady, as if this body had long grown accustomed to such treatment.

“So silent?” Amarah continued, leaning in closer, his breath brushing their ear, heavy with the sharp scent of herbs. “How disrespectful to someone above you.”

He released their hair, only to grip their chin instead, forcing them to look straight ahead. “What do you think the Spawn would think of you, Two Time?” He chuckled, eyes glinting with amusement when he noticed their body stiffen for the briefest moment.

They clenched their teeth, the hand pressed to the floor trembling, and finally spoke, their voice low and controlled, struggling not to fracture. “I was only praying.” Amarah arched an eyebrow and laughed louder.

“Praying?” He shook his head, feigning disappointment. “Or thinking about something that doesn’t belong here?” His gaze sharpened, drilling into them as if trying to strip every thought bare. “I’ve heard… you’ve been rather distracted lately. Is it because of some small human, perhaps?”

They lifted their head fully, eyes turning cold as they met his gaze directly for the first time that evening. “That has nothing to do with you.” Amarah let out a soft laugh, but this time there was no humor in it.

“Oh, daring to talk back now.” He tilted his head, lowering his voice. “Don’t forget who gave you what you have. And don’t forget—anything that weakens you… I can always take it away.” The space between them tightened like a cord stretched to its limit.

They said nothing more, only bowed their head again, but within them, her image became clearer than ever before, and with it came a dangerous thought, quietly taking root: there were some things that no doctrine, no god, would ever be strong enough to make them let go of again.

Amarah was not pleased, and this was not the kind of irritation that could be soothed by a sermon or dulled with a few hollow reminders about faith. It was a deep-set fury, thick and viscous like tar, clinging to his chest until every breath felt heavy, jagged, unpleasant to draw in.

Inside the vast sanctuary, where light spilled down from high slits in cold, pallid bands, each step Amarah took rang sharp and brittle, as though stone itself were being crushed beneath his heels. He despised this sensation, despised the idea that something—anything—could slip beyond his control.

In his eyes, Two Time had long been a perfect creation in the most warped sense of the word: foolish for trusting, obedient to the point of devotion, willing to offer up both body and soul without demanding anything in return but a vague promise of rebirth.

How many times had it been? How many times had they knelt in this very place, forehead pressed to the icy stone, skeletal wings trembling with a mingling of pain and fervor, lips repeating the same pleas—to live again, to cross into another life more radiant, more pure, more elevated than the ignorant mortals crawling outside these walls. Amarah had grown used to that sight, so used to it that it felt as natural as breathing, as if this were the proper order of the world: him holding the strings, and Two Time nothing more than a praying puppet.

Then 007n7 appeared, quietly but relentlessly, like a grain of sand slipping into a machine that had once run flawlessly. From the day she entered their life, the familiar pleas faded away. In their place came whispers that made his stomach churn: let her be safe, let her not be in pain, let no one harm her, and most contemptible of all—let her one day turn around and look at them.

Love.

The word alone was enough to make Amarah’s mouth twitch with disdain.

Love for someone who did not kneel, did not believe, did not understand anything about the holy Spawn?

Love for a fragile, inferior creature who could die and vanish without leaving the slightest trace in the universe?

In his mind, her image surfaced faintly yet offensively, like a smear on pristine glass he had painstakingly polished. Amarah clenched his fist until his nails bit into his skin, sharp pain blooming there, and then he laughed softly, a smooth, cold, calculating sound.

“It’s fine,” he told himself, his voice syrupy with false reassurance. “Everything can be turned into a tool.” If that feeling was the rope binding Two Time, then all he needed was to seize the right end of it. Removing her or keeping her as bait was merely a matter of timing. First, he had to hollow them out again, soften them, return them to the obedient state they once were—just one more round of erosion, a few more layers of doctrine, a few more reminders of who was holy, who bestowed grace, who truly owned this faith.

He snapped his fingers. The sound was small and sharp, cutting through the sanctuary’s stillness like a cold bell announcing disaster. Two Time flinched, their entire body locking up, a flicker of understanding flashing through their eyes, and that alone sent a shiver of pleasure up Amarah’s spine.

“Take them away,” he said calmly, as though ordering the removal of an object cluttering his view. From the shadows, four, then five figures emerged, postures rigid, faces blank like statues that had never been given a soul. No one spoke. Cold hands seized Two Time’s arms, shoulders, and skeletal wings, dragging them back with ruthless efficiency, leaving no space for resistance.

They struggled in desperation, fingernails scraping against the stone floor and leaving pale streaks behind, their bony tail lashing hard against the wall with dry, sickening cracks. “Let go!” they screamed, their voice splintering, panic stripping it of any dignity. “Amarah! Don’t—don’t do this! She has nothing to do with it! Listen to me!”

The pleas only made Amarah laugh louder, the sound echoing through the sanctuary, bouncing off the stone arches before falling back down like shards of glass. He folded his arms and watched, eyes bright with satisfaction as the faith he had molded began to tremble and fracture.

“You still don’t understand, do you?” he said slowly, each word dripping down onto Two Time like acid. “Everything you have belongs to me. And I will teach you to remember that, in the simplest way possible.”

The door to the dark chamber opened, swallowing Two Time’s body like the gaping mouth of something endlessly hungry. They were thrown inside, their form rolling across the cold stone floor as ragged breaths mingled with distorted cries, slamming into the walls and rebounding back, sounding like someone being stripped layer by layer of themselves. The door slammed shut, the heavy impact ringing out like a final period, severing every sound within.

Outside, Amarah brushed off his hands as though he had touched something filthy, straightened his sleeves with care, his face settling back into its familiar calm, as if everything that had just occurred were nothing more than a necessary rite. He believed in what he was doing—believed with blind, arrogant certainty. He had done this countless times before, and it had always worked.

In a few hours, Two Time would return—eyes empty, will worn thin, nothing left but a body that knew how to kneel, how to bow, how to pray only for what was permitted. And then he would take hold of the familiar string once more, guiding every step, every breath, just as he always had.

Only, somewhere very deep, very faint, a thought flickered and vanished like smoke: if that string had already been knotted around another name, if it had coiled itself around a silhouette that did not belong to him, then perhaps—no matter how hard he pulled—the first thing to snap would not be the one bound at the other end.

. . .

“Then,” Amarah spoke, his voice slow and smooth, polished to the point of cruelty, like a blade honed until it no longer bore a single nick, “have you learned what you exist for now?” He closed the thick-bound book with an unhurried motion that felt almost merciless, his fingertips gliding along the edge of the pages as if stroking something tame and obedient, before resting it on his thigh and leaning back into the cold stone chair.

In that sealed room, time had stretched beyond five hours—longer than any session before—long enough for light itself to grow weary, long enough for consciousness to be ground down, peeled layer by layer and pressed into a new shape. The air was dense with the smell of damp stone and half-burnt old incense; every breath weighed heavy, like swallowing ash.

Light fell from the high slit in the ceiling in broken patches, spilling over Two Time’s body as they knelt at the center of the floor like an offering laid bare. Their skeletal wings drooped low, heavy and motionless, pale gray-white joints stark under the sickly glow; their bony tail lay neatly behind them, aligned with almost unnatural precision, as though deviating even slightly would be an unforgivable sin.

Their eyes were open, yet reflected nothing but the lifeless light above, terrifyingly empty; at the corner of their lips lingered a thin, vacant smile—the smile of someone who had learned to accept whatever was placed into their hands. The scratches along their arms had dried into dark scabs, trembling faintly with each steady breath, the breathing of one long accustomed to pain, one who had come to see pain as reward, as proof of being chosen.

At Amarah’s question, Two Time let out a soft laugh, so light it nearly dissolved the moment it left their throat. They brought their hands together before their chest; bone brushed against bone with a faint, dry, ceremonial sound.

Their eyes drifted half-shut as they slowly lifted their head toward the high ceiling, where the symbols of the holy Spawn overlapped one another, repainted so many times that no one could tell where the first layer had ever been.

“To claim a second life,” they said evenly, their voice smooth and flowing like water over stone, utterly devoid of tremor, “by taking the life of the one I love, Master.” The words came out flawless—no stumble, no hesitation—like a verse recited hundreds, thousands of times until its original meaning had worn away. For the briefest instant, deep within their eyes, something stirred—a blurred image, a name not yet spoken aloud—but it was quickly crushed, smothered beneath the thick layers of faith Amarah had patiently built over the years.

“Good,” Amarah replied, satisfaction unmistakable in his tone. He nodded slowly, eyelids lowering as the corner of his mouth curved into a faint smile, sharp as a barbed hook. Rising from his chair, he began to circle Two Time, each step striking the stone floor in a steady, dry rhythm, like the final count of a ritual nearing completion.

“You remember at last,” he continued, his voice gentle to the point of falsehood, “what your mission is, and what price must be paid. Sacrifice is glory. Personal affection is nothing but an obstacle—and obstacles exist to be crushed.” He stopped behind Two Time and bent down, close enough for his cold breath to brush against the pale bone of their ear. “You will do it,” he whispered. “Won’t you?”

Two Time did not answer. They only bowed lower, until their forehead nearly touched the freezing stone floor, their shoulders trembling slightly, while the smile remained fixed upon their lips—stiff, obedient, like a mask fused to flesh, impossible to remove.

Amarah straightened and returned to his old chair, settling back into it with ease, picking up the book once more and flipping through a few pages as though he had just concluded an ordinary sermon. He skimmed the familiar lines, his mind flooded with a sense of absolute control.

A thought drifted through his head, thin and light as smoke: he wondered how she—007n7—would react when she next saw this version of Two Time, so compliant, so pure, no longer burdened by something as troublesome as love. Amarah let out a quiet, confident laugh, for within that cold sanctuary he was certain of his victory, convinced that the cord of faith had been tightened enough that no hand could ever pull them away from him again.

And yet, far beneath that obedient smile, in a place Amarah neither saw nor wished to see, a faint pulse still lingered—stubbornly clinging to a name, a blurred memory—like an ember buried deep under ash, not yet extinguished, silently waiting for a breath of wind.

“Master, I’m going back to my room.” Two Time finally spoke after a stretch of silence that felt endless, their voice hoarse, thin, and frayed, like a thread worn down so badly that one more careless pull might snap it clean in two. They braced one hand against the cold stone floor to push themselves upright, trembling fingertips skidding over the smooth surface smeared with dried blood, their whole body swaying as though whatever force had been keeping them standing had been drained away.

The wounds along their thighs and spine tore open as they moved, flesh pulling apart with a sharp, blinding sting; fresh blood seeped out and fell in heavy drops, each one striking the stone with a sound so soft yet so distinct it rang painfully in their head, spreading into dark stains beneath the pallid, flickering light overhead.

They couldn’t straighten their back; it bent at a shallow angle, shoulders sagging as if laden with guilt and un-dissolved admonitions, every step choking their breath in their throat, forcing them to swallow it down along with the metallic taste of blood.

Amarah remained seated, not bothering to glance at them even once. He merely lifted the coat draped over the arm of his chair and tossed it in their direction, the gesture careless, dismissive, like discarding something no longer worth keeping, then waved a hand with neat, merciless efficiency.

“Go,” he said, his voice flat and cold as stone. “Don’t let your blood stain the sanctuary.” Two Time shook as they caught the coat before it hit the floor; the smell of old fabric mixed with incense soaked in over years hit their senses at once, making their head spin. They hurriedly pulled it over themselves, hiding torn flesh and still-wet blood, then turned away and left the room in steps so light they were afraid they might dissolve into the air like a nameless shadow.

The path up to the fourth floor felt longer than ever, or perhaps it was simply that their strength was gone, so every meter stretched into a trial. The spiral staircase seemed endless, gray stone steps flowing into one another under a suffocating silence broken only by ragged breathing and the faint drag of shoes.

Each step brought a buckling knee, a wave of dizziness that forced them to stop, head bowed, cold sweat breaking out despite the numbing chill around them. They clung to the rough wooden railing to keep from falling; splinters bit into their palms, sharp with pain, blood seeping out and making their grip slick, but they didn’t dare let go.

A single thought rang terrifyingly clear in their mind: if they released their hold, they might tumble down the steps below, and this time, they weren’t sure they would have the strength to stand again. Once, in a moment of blurred vision, they thought they heard a soft voice calling from somewhere—familiar, gentle, calling their name with a warmth that made their chest ache—but when they blinked, there was only the long, cold corridor and the unfeeling stone walls.

The door to their private room closed with a pitiful little click, and only then did the mask finally fall from Two Time’s face. They slid down to the floor, sitting with their back against the door as though stepping away from it for even a second would make their entire body collapse.

Knees drawn tight to their chest, arms wrapped around themselves, they tried to keep the pieces inside from spilling apart. Tears came without permission, streaming down their face, soaking into the collar, the sleeves, the bloodstained front of their clothes; each drop was hot and bitter, and when one touched their lips, it tore a strangled sob from them, crushed hard between clenched teeth.

They cried soundlessly, too afraid to let it become noise, afraid the stone walls themselves would betray them and summon Amarah back with that glacial stare.

“007n7…,” they whispered, saying her name like a belated plea for rescue, their voice so broken it hurt to hear.

The image of 007n7 surfaced in their mind, hazy but vivid enough—the gentle smile, the warmth in her eyes—like an invisible hand pulling them back from the edge, only to let go just before they could grasp it.

They realized how far they had gone, so far that the path back had been buried beneath vows, endless prayers, and layers of wounds; every time they bowed before Spawn was another lock fastened on the door of their own freedom.

They wondered, if she were to see them like this—clothes soaked with blood, a body riddled with injuries, eyes hollow and a heart twisted by crushed faith—would she still open her arms, press her forehead to theirs, and whisper that everything would be all right, that they were still worthy of being loved?

The air in the room felt thick enough to drown in. Two Time’s chest was heavy, as though submerged in icy water, every breath an effort.

Suffocating, they thought—suffocating inside the very cult they had once called home, the place that had given them skeletal wings and a bony tail as marks of grace, only to quietly strip away every trace of softness, every fragment of freedom they once had.

And yet, in the deepest place within them, they still clung to that faith like a dying person grasping a drifting plank, convincing themselves that Spawn was still watching, that all this pain carried some sacred meaning. They clasped their hands before their chest, head bowed low, red-rimmed eyes staring into the dark void ahead, lips moving with prayers that fell apart as easily as their thoughts.

“Please let me be strong enough,” they murmured, so softly it was little more than breath, “strong enough not to hurt her. If I have to suffer more, I can endure it—just let her be safe.” The prayer dissolved into the darkness, unanswered, but Two Time stayed there for a long time, letting the tears run dry, letting the pain in their body settle into a familiar, throbbing ache, and letting the name 007n7 remain hidden in a heart torn between faith and despair—fragile, secret, and still unwilling to disappear.

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