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eu-nicola · 2 hours ago

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the fastest driver part 3

summary: you are a young and talented driver, who begins your journey in Formula 1 with Ferrari. despite your undeniable ability, you are constantly relegated to the background due to the Scuderia's strategies, which always favor your teammate, Charles Leclerc

warnings: take of pills

word counter: 7364

author's note: english is not my first language, this is from an amazing request, thanks for the comments 🤍

tags: @ilovechickenwings @amortentiaaaa @ananyasribughead @supertrashbread @amalialeclerc @rawr-123s-stuff @wierdflowerpower @malvikareader @freyathehuntress @sweetmuffynsblog @vjbillno

Endless hours passed after the accident before the first clear update about your condition reached the media and the paddock. Everyone was anxiously waiting for news about your health. The uncertainty left fans, journalists, and especially those who truly knew you in a state of tense anticipation.

Finally, a statement from the hospital's medical team brought some relief: you were stable and conscious. While initial tests had ruled out serious spinal injuries or significant fractures, the impact had been severe, leaving you with a moderate concussion and several internal bruises that required monitoring. What concerned the doctors most were the potential psychological and emotional aftereffects: the nature of the crash, the impact, and all the built-up stress could take a toll later.

Hours later, you woke up in a hospital room softly lit by the afternoon light. Everything was quiet except for the rhythmic beeping of the monitor beside your bed. Your body felt heavy, like it was filled with lead, and the headache was sharp and constant. As your eyes adjusted to the light, you noticed someone sitting nearby.

It was Charles. He was there, his hands clasped in front of his mouth, as if praying or just trying to calm his own nerves. When he saw you stir slightly, he lifted his head, and his expression changed a mix of relief and worry crossed his face.

“You’re awake,” he said softly, as if he didn’t want to scare you. “Thank God.”

You hadn’t expected to see him there. In fact, you hadn’t expected to see anyone. And yet, here he was.

“Charles…” you tried to speak, but your voice came out as barely a whisper.

“Shhh, don’t talk too much. The doctors said you need to rest.”

“What are you doing here?” you asked, ignoring his warning, even though just talking felt like needles stabbing your skull.

He shrugged, offering a light but sincere smile.

“Someone had to make sure you were okay.”

Charles stayed by your side for hours, even when the doctors came in and out to check on you. He answered questions from the journalists crowding outside the hospital, desperate for a statement, and refused requests from photographers trying to get a shot of you. There was something unusually warm and protective about the way he acted.

As you lay back, eyes closed to avoid making the headache worse, you heard his voice.

“You scared me, you know? I’ve never seen anything so…” He paused, searching for the right word. “So violent. Not since Jules. And when I saw the crash on the screen, I thought the worst.”

You opened your eyes and looked at him. There was sincerity in his face, something you hadn’t expected.

“I’m okay… sort of.” You tried to joke, but the pain turned it into a grimace.

“No, you’re not okay. But you will be. You have to be.”

As Charles stayed with you, messages started pouring in. Your phone sat on the bedside table, just out of reach, and Charles offered to read some.

“Everyone’s worried about you. Here’s one from Lando… and even one from Toto. Seems like the entire F1 world is waiting for you to get better.”

“Who else?” you asked, almost dreading the answer.

Charles scrolled through, his expression hardening briefly before softening again.

“Max,” he said simply.

Your heart stopped for a moment. You didn’t know what to expect. Since the accident, you’d assumed Max was too caught up in his own world to care, but the fact that he’d written at all was enough to twist your stomach.

“What does it say?” you asked, trying to sound indifferent, though you knew Charles could see right through you.

He hesitated before answering.

“‘Hope you’re okay. Sorry I wasn’t there sooner. Let me know if you need anything.’”

The neutrality of the words didn’t match the intensity of what you felt hearing them. You closed your eyes, trying to process it all. What did that message even mean? Was it just courtesy, or was there something more behind those words?

Charles noticed your discomfort and set the phone aside.

“You don’t have to reply if you don’t want to.”

“I won’t,” you said quickly, though part of you knew that wasn’t true.

As night fell, Charles finally said goodbye, promising to return the next day. There was something comforting about his presence, how he’d set aside any competitiveness or formality just to be there for you. Yet, when you were left alone, the thoughts began to overwhelm you.

The crash, the messages, the worries it all tangled into a mess of emotions you couldn’t unravel. The only thing clear was that while you were physically stable, emotionally, you were far from okay.

After that day in the hospital, Charles became a constant presence in your life. His support wasn’t limited to encouraging messages or occasional visits. He went beyond that. Where others saw a moral obligation or an opportunity to score points with the media, he saw something else: a chance to show you that you weren’t alone.

The medical team made it clear you could return to racing, but not without certain restrictions. You had to stick to a strict combination of medications after every race: anti-inflammatories, painkillers, and supplements to manage the physical and mental stress you still felt after the accident. Charles was the first person to offer to help you with this. It wasn’t his responsibility, but he seemed to take on the role without hesitation.

The first race after the accident was a mental and physical challenge. As you prepared to get back in the cockpit, fear swirled in your chest. The accident was fresh in your memory, and even though you knew you were capable, there was a shadow of doubt you couldn’t shake.

The day before the race, Charles showed up at your hotel. He had a small bag in hand and a calm expression, almost as if it was meant to soothe you.

"I thought you might need this," he said, placing the bag on the table.

Inside, there was a box of relaxing tea, a small book about mental strategies in sports, and a handwritten note. When you opened it, you found a simple phrase: "You’re stronger than you think."

"Thank u," you said, moved by the gesture.

"You don’t have to thank me. I just want you to know I’m here, okay? If you need to talk, if you need anything..."

You nodded, grateful for his sincerity. For a long time, you’d felt alone in this world. It was strange to realize someone was willing to stand by your side without asking for anything in return.

Race day was a whirlwind. Even though you tried to stay calm, every time you sat in the car, the memory of the crash resurfaced. You gripped the steering wheel tightly, reminding yourself you’d done this thousands of times before, that you were capable—one of the best.

The race wasn’t easy, but you finished in a solid fifth place, a result any other driver would’ve considered a success under the circumstances. When you got out of the car, exhausted but relieved, Charles was the first to approach you.

"Well done," he said, patting your shoulder.

After every race, Charles made sure you followed the medical protocol. Sometimes, when you forgot the pills, he’d show up holding the box, reminding you that your health came first.

"How do you even know I haven’t taken them?" you asked one day, half-joking.

"Because I know you well enough to know you hate depending on this stuff," he said with a smile, handing you the water and pills.

It was strange how his presence had gone from sporadic to constant. He wasn’t just there for the serious moments; he also found ways to make you laugh, to lighten the weight on your shoulders.

It wasn’t something you’d planned or even imagined after everything you’d been through, but your friendship with Charles was good for you. So much so that you felt comfortable asking him something after noticing he’d been off for a while. You’d seen his behavior become quieter than usual, even in the paddock, where he usually managed to keep up appearances in front of the cameras.

"Are you okay? You seem... off."

His response came almost immediately.

"Do you have time to talk?"

You invited him to your place, where you saw a different side of Charles. He’d shed his usual composure and looked... vulnerable, almost like the facade he kept in public had cracked.

"Thanks for this," he said, sitting on the small couch as you handed him a bottle of water.

"You don’t have to thank me, Charles. What’s going on?"

He sighed, fiddling with the cap of the bottle before speaking.

"It’s... complicated. Ferrari doesn’t feel like my team anymore."

You frowned, surprised by his words.

"What do you mean?"

"Since Lewis joined this year, everything changed. I knew it would be different, it’s Lewis Hamilton, of course but I didn’t think it’d be like this," he confessed, his voice low, almost a whisper. "I feel like everything revolves around him. The strategies, the resources, even the engineers’ attention... It’s like I’m a shadow in my own team."

You felt a pang in your chest hearing that. It was almost an exact replica of what you’d felt when you shared a team with him at Ferrari.

"Charles... you don’t know how much I get it," you said, sitting across from him. "That feeling of being invisible, like your efforts don’t matter... I went through the same thing with you."

He looked up, surprised by your honesty.

"Really?"

"Yeah. Do you remember all those team orders? All those moments where no matter how fast I was, they always put me aside to favor you. It’s... frustrating. It makes you question everything you do."

Charles nodded slowly, processing your words.

"I guess I never saw it from your perspective. I always thought the team’s decisions were fair, but now... now I know what it feels like."

You leaned forward, resting your elbows on your knees.

"Charles, I know how hard this is. But what you need to remember is that your talent doesn’t depend on them. Ferrari is just one team, one stage in your career—it doesn’t define who you are as a driver."

"How did you deal with it?" he asked, genuinely curious.

"At first, I didn’t," you admitted. "I kept everything inside, let the frustration eat me up... until I couldn’t take it anymore. But I learned something: you can’t let them take away what you love about this sport. If Ferrari doesn’t value you the way they should, then prove your worth on the track. Force them to see you."

Charles nodded slowly, as if your words were beginning to sink in.

"It’s easier said than done," he said, with a bitter smile.

"I know. But I also know you have the talent to do it."

The conversation went on for hours, shifting from serious topics to shared memories and stories from your days at Ferrari. It was strange, but comforting, to share that space with him. He’d gone from being the rival who overshadowed you at your lowest to someone you could fully trust.

When he finally stood to leave, Charles paused at the door and looked at you with an expression you hadn’t seen before.

"Thank you for this. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you."

"I’m always here. You know that."

As the door closed behind him, you couldn’t help but smile. Charles was so much more than you’d ever thought. And somehow, he’d brought out the best in you too.

While you were helping Charles find his way in a team that relegated him to second place, you couldn’t ignore the fact that your own demons were still lurking. And, as if that wasn’t enough, Max remained a constant presence both on the track and in your personal life.

Since your move to McLaren, the rivalry with Max had reached a new level. If before you shared moments of camaraderie and confidences, now every interaction was loaded with tension. And not just on the track.

The championship was on fire. You and Max were leading the standings, swapping first and second place race after race. On every circuit, every corner, and every straight, it felt like only the two of you existed. It didn’t matter who else made it to the podium; the battle was always between you and him.

During qualifying, both of you pushed to the limit, but an incident in Q3 left Max without a lap time. As soon as he got out of the car, Max stormed straight toward you, visibly furious.

“What the hell was that?” he snapped, his voice sharp as he closed the distance between you in the paddock.

“What was what?” you asked, raising an eyebrow, though you knew exactly what he was referring to.

“You blocked me on my flying lap.”

“Max, you were too far behind when I started my lap. I didn’t block you.”

“Of course you did!” he insisted, stepping even closer. His blue eyes burned with a mix of frustration and something else you couldn’t quite place.

The argument caught the attention of journalists and members of both teams. You knew that one wrong word could make headlines the next day, so you chose to stay calm.

“If you have a problem, take it up with the stewards, not me,” you said before turning and walking away, leaving Max with the words stuck in his throat.

But the tension wasn’t confined to the track. It had started to bleed into your personal lives. Even though both of you tried to avoid each other outside of race weekends, coincidences were inevitable especially at sponsor events or official meetings.

At one of these events, an FIA gala in Monaco, Max couldn’t resist looking for you in the crowd. When he finally spotted you, you were talking to Charles, laughing at something he’d said. The sight seemed to ignite something in Max, and he couldn’t hold back as he approached.

“Can we talk?” he asked, cutting into the conversation.

Charles glanced at you, his expression a mix of curiosity and caution, before stepping back to let you decide.

“What do you want, Max?” you asked, trying to keep your voice neutral.

“You and Charles, what’s going on between you two?” he asked quietly, though his tone carried an accusatory edge.

“What kind of question is that?” you replied, crossing your arms.

“I don’t know. Maybe I’m losing it, but… every time I see you two together, I can’t help thinking that…”

“That what?” you interrupted, annoyed. “That maybe someone else can actually support me and understand me in this chaos that you chose to ignore?”

Max pressed his lips together, clearly feeling the sting of your words. But instead of responding, he looked away and muttered:

“You still know how to twist everything around.”

The conversation was left unfinished, but the night didn’t end there. Later, as you tried to avoid him, you found Max alone on the terrace of the venue, staring out at the sea, his figure illuminated by the lights.

“Why do you do this?” you asked, walking toward him. Your tone was no longer defiant but tired.

“Do what?” he asked without looking at you.

“Show up, disappear, demand things from me that you can’t even give yourself. You’re still with her, and yet…”

Max closed his eyes, as if your words were too heavy to bear.

“I don’t know how to handle this,” he admitted finally, turning to face you. “You and me… I don’t know how to handle it.”

“Then maybe you should stop trying,” you said, though your voice cracked at the end.

The silence between you was deafening. Too many unsaid emotions, too many decisions both of you refused to make. Finally, Max stepped back.

“It’s easier said than done, isn’t it?”

And with that, he left, leaving you alone on the terrace, feeling like the two of you were trapped in a vicious cycle neither of you knew how to escape.

In the days that followed, you tried to focus on racing and your friendship with Charles, who had become a kind of refuge in the chaos. But every time you saw Max, every time your eyes met in the paddock, you felt the storm lingering, waiting for the right moment to break again.

The rivalry on the track only grew more intense. Max and you raced as if every race was the last, as if the championship depended on who was stronger, more determined, more ruthless. But off the track, you both continued to grapple with the same internal conflict: what you felt for each other and what the world expected of you.

You and Max were the top contenders for the title, and every race turned into a war. The media called it “the battle of the century,” comparing it to the legendary Senna-Prost rivalry. Every overtake, every strategy, every word in a press conference was scrutinized.

At the Brazilian Grand Prix, things came to a head. From the first lap, the fight between you and Max was fierce. You knew every one of his tricks, every weakness, every strength. There were moments when the cars seemed to touch, pushing the limits of competition to the extreme.

On lap 43, you attempted an overtake on the inside of Turn 1, but Max, in his trademark aggressive style, shut the door almost recklessly. Your front tires brushed his, and though both of you managed to maintain control, the incident was enough to set off commentators and social media.

“This is unacceptable!” your engineer shouted over the radio. “We’re reporting it.”

But you didn’t want to win the championship through a penalty.

“Leave it. I’ll settle it on the track,” you said, with a determination that surprised even yourself.

In the end, you finished second, behind Max, but the battle was epic. Fans were divided, some siding with you, others defending Max. But in your mind, one thought started to take root: maybe you’d had enough of this world.

After that race, you decided to take a break. You flew back to your hometown to spend time with your family, seeking comfort in their presence. One night, sitting in the garden of your parents’ house, you opened up to your mom.

“I don’t know how much longer I can do this,” you admitted, staring at the stars. “Every race feels like a battle not just on the track, but inside me, too.”

Your mom, always wise and patient, looked at you with gentle understanding.

“Then why do you keep going?”

You stayed silent for a moment, searching for the words.

“Because it’s all I’ve ever known. Since I was a kid, my entire world has revolved around racing. But lately… lately, I feel like I want something more. I want a normal life, a family. I want to stop fighting all the time.”

“What’s stopping you?.”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I don’t know what that life would look like, or who it would be with.”

It was the first time you’d said those words out loud. The idea of giving up Formula 1, of walking away from everything you’d worked so hard for, was terrifying but also freeing.

You couldn’t help but think of Max. Even though your relationship was broken, and the rivalry had reached its peak, there was still something about him pulling you in. But the question that haunted you was: did he feel the same?

Max was still with his partner, at least publicly. But his actions, his looks, even his comments during races, hinted at something more. Could you build a life with someone who seemed incapable of facing his own feelings?

“Maybe it’s not Max,” you muttered to yourself that night, curled up on the couch in your childhood bedroom. “Maybe it’s someone else. Or maybe I just need to find myself first.”

When you returned to the paddock for the US Grand Prix, something had shifted inside you. You hadn’t made any final decisions, but you knew this chapter of your life was nearing its end. Still, as long as you were in F1, you were going to give it everything you had.

In the pre-race interviews, journalists bombarded you with questions about your rivalry with Max.

“Is it personal?,” one of them asked with a sly grin.

“Everything in Formula 1 is personal,” you replied with a wry smile, offering no further explanation.

Max, sitting next to you at the press conference, shot you a sideways glance but said nothing. The tension between you two was palpable, even in front of the cameras.

That race turned into yet another head-to-head battle between the two of you. During the final laps, the radio chatter grew more intense.

“He’s losing rear grip. Push him.”

“I already am!,” you snapped, pushing the car to its limit.

In the last lap, you pulled off a risky overtake that left everyone stunned. You won the race, and as you stepped out of the car, you felt a mix of euphoria and exhaustion.

While celebrating with your team, your thoughts drifted back to your conversation with your mom. Maybe this was the ending you’d been searching for, or maybe it was just the start of something new.

Max watched you from the podium, his blue eyes filled with something you couldn’t decipher. In the crowd, you couldn’t help but wonder: could you ever leave it all behind, even him?

The next race, under the scorching Qatar sun, felt heavier, both in the air and in the paddock. Everything about this second-to-last race of the season felt like a countdown to something inevitable. You and Max were tied in points, both neck and neck after a season of epic battles, controversies, and moments that had pushed you to the edge emotionally.

The tension in the McLaren garage was palpable. Though your relationship with your team was excellent, you knew the pressure was on you. Lando tried to lighten the mood with his usual sense of humor, but even his energy couldn’t cut through the wall of your thoughts.

“Come on, don’t be so serious. We could both use a win today,” he joked while adjusting his gloves.

“Sure, but if you win, I won’t complain,” you replied with a faint smile, though you both knew that wasn’t true. This race meant everything to you.

Meanwhile, Charles had sent a message that morning: ‘Remember, one race at a time. You can do this. You’ve already proven you’re the best.’ His unwavering support had become one of the few things keeping you mentally afloat during this emotional rollercoaster.

From qualifying, it was clear this race would be another direct battle between you and Max. Both of you blocked every attempt the other made to set the fastest time, ending up on the front row: Max on pole, you in second.

The start was clean but intense. From the first corner, Max showed his usual aggression, shutting you out in an attempt to stay ahead. But you knew this game; he had taught you how to play it. You used the slipstream on the main straight, and on lap five, you overtook him with a surgical move in turn 6.

For a moment, the world seemed to stop as you led the race, but you knew the real battle had just begun.

Midway through the race, things heated up. Teams began to play with strategies, and tire choices became crucial. On lap 32, as you exited the pits after a tire change, Max appeared beside you. The overtake that followed was so tight the two cars brushed slightly, sparking an explosion of shouting over the radio.

“That was way too close!,” your engineer protested, but you were too focused to respond.

Max didn’t back down. In the following laps, he kept relentless pressure on you, looking for any weakness in your defense. On lap 48, he attempted an inside overtake on a tight corner, but you managed to hold your position with a move that left everyone on the edge of their seats.

In the final laps, your mind was torn between the adrenaline of the race and the mental exhaustion you’d been carrying all season. Max was glued to your diffuser, but he made a small mistake on the second-to-last corner, giving you just enough of a margin to cross the finish line first.

Your team’s shout over the radio was deafening:

“Victory! You’re incredible, what a race!.”

But you didn’t have time to celebrate. As you parked the car in parc fermé, reality hit you: this victory only meant you were still tied in points, and everything would come down to the final race.

The journalists were in a frenzy. In the post-race press conference, the questions came at you like bullets.

“How do you handle the pressure heading into the last race?.”

“Calmly. One race at a time.” you replied, echoing Charles’ words, even though calm was the last thing you felt.

Max, sitting beside you, spoke after you.

“I always knew this season would be decided in the end. I’m ready for it.”

His gaze met yours for a second, and in that brief moment, the tension between you two felt more personal than ever.

Back at the hotel, you tried to disconnect, but it was impossible. Your mind raced, replaying every detail of the race and anticipating what was to come. Charles called to congratulate you but also to remind you to rest.

“Don’t let this consume you, okay?,” he said, his tone serious but kind. “You’ve done an amazing job, and you have everything you need to win.”

“Thanks, Charles. Really. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“I don’t know what you’d do without me either,” he joked, managing to make you laugh.

However, when you hung up, you kept staring at the ceiling of your room, wondering if you were truly ready to face everything the final race was about to bring.

Even though you hadn’t seen Max since the press conference, you knew he was just as restless as you. Despite everything that had happened between you two, you couldn’t help but think about him, about how this rivalry had consumed everything you once shared.

Is this really what you wanted? To keep fighting, keep competing, keep losing yourself in the process?

You closed your eyes, trying to calm your thoughts. Just one race left. One final battle. And after that, maybe you’d finally have the answers you’d been searching for.

The last week of the season was a whirlwind of emotions, preparations, and a tension so thick you could cut it with a knife. The entire paddock was on edge. Everything would be decided in Abu Dhabi.

Escaping the media’s attention was impossible. Cameras followed you everywhere, looking for any reaction that could turn into a headline. The atmosphere at McLaren was optimistic but tense. You’d brought the team to its highest point in years, and that was already a monumental achievement. But for you, it wasn’t enough. You wanted that title.

During the press conferences, the questions were relentless. You and Max were the center of attention. Though both of you kept calm outwardly, the discomfort between you was obvious. Every word, every gesture was analyzed by the journalists.

“How do you feel heading into this decisive race?” they asked you during one of the press rounds.

“Focused. This is what we’ve worked for all year. I just want to do my job and see what happens,” you replied diplomatically, though inside your heart was racing.

Max, sitting next to you, simply said:

“I’m focused too. We both know what’s at stake. May the best win.”

There was a moment when your eyes met, but it was fleeting. There were so many words left unsaid between you, and the weight of that silence felt unbearable.

In the final strategy meeting with your team, the tension was palpable. You knew every decision would matter, every detail could be the difference between winning and losing. Your race engineer, always meticulous, reviewed the plans calmly, but even you could tell he was nervous.

“I believe in you. You’ve proven you can do this,” he said, placing a hand on your shoulder before you left the garage.

Lando, on the other hand, tried to lighten the mood with a joke.

“If you don’t win, can I keep the consolation trophy?” he said with a cheeky grin.

“There won’t be a consolation trophy,” you replied with a smirk.

That day, Yas Marina Circuit was lit up like a jewel in the desert, and the atmosphere was electric. Before getting in the car, you took a moment for yourself. You took a deep breath, closed your eyes, and visualized every corner, every move. You knew you had to give it everything.

The anthem played, and the world seemed to pause for a moment. Max was beside you on the grid. Though you didn’t speak, you could feel his presence, his energy. You both knew this race wasn’t just about the championship but also everything that had happened between you.

The start was flawless. From the first corner, you and Max were locked in an intense battle. Neither of you gave an inch. Every lap was a fight, every overtake a statement. The rest of the drivers might as well have been racing in a different category; it was as if this championship was meant to be decided between just the two of you.

On lap 35, a slow pit stop almost cost you the race, but you quickly recovered, overtaking Max in a spectacular move on lap 42. The crowd went wild.

But Max wasn’t going to give up. On lap 50, he took the lead back, forcing you slightly off the track. It was an aggressive move, but clean—classic Max.

In the final five laps, both of you were at the limit. Your hands trembled slightly from the adrenaline, but your focus was unshakable. In the penultimate lap, you found a gap on the main straight and passed Max on the inside. This time, he had no answer.

When you crossed the finish line, the world seemed to stop for a moment before exploding in celebration. You’d done it. You were a world champion.

Your team screamed over the radio, their voices full of tears and joy.

“You’re the world champion! You did it!”

As you climbed out of the car, the emotions overwhelmed you. Your team surrounded you, celebrating. Lando was one of the first to hug you, shouting:

“I told you! I knew you’d do it!”

As you stood with your team, your eyes instinctively searched for Max. He was there, watching you from a distance. Slowly, he approached, his steps a mix of pride and resignation.

When he reached you, he extended his hand.

“Congratulations,” he said, his voice calm but heavy with emotion.

“Thanks, Max,” you replied, shaking his hand. For a moment, his eyes reflected something that looked like regret, but he said nothing more. He turned and walked away, disappearing into the crowd.

That night was magical. There was laughter, tears, toasts. The tension of the entire season melted away in a whirlwind of emotions. Charles called to congratulate you, and his genuine happiness was like a balm to your heart.

“I knew you could do it. I’m so proud of you,” he said, his voice full of sincerity.

As the celebration went on, you took a moment to reflect. You’d reached the pinnacle of the world, but you knew this was just the beginning of a new chapter in your life. The future was full of uncertainty, but that night, you decided to enjoy the present, savoring every moment of your triumph.

The emotional hangover the next day was overwhelming. It wasn’t physical, nor from the celebration, but a deep emptiness you hadn’t expected to feel after achieving the dream of your life. You’d won the Formula 1 World Championship, the peak of your career, but instead of feeling complete, you felt lost.

You woke up in your hotel room, sunlight streaming through the curtains. Around you, there were remnants of the celebration: a half-empty champagne glass on the table, the dress you wore last night carelessly thrown over a chair. The trophy, shiny and imposing, sat on the nightstand, but as you looked at it, you didn’t feel the euphoria you’d imagined for years.

You got up and walked to the mirror. The reflection staring back at you was different from the one you were used to. It wasn’t just the physical exhaustion from the season; it was something deeper a sense of disconnect with yourself.

You spent the morning avoiding your phone, even though you knew the notifications had to be flooding in. Messages of congratulations, articles from the media, videos of the highlights... but you weren’t ready to face it yet. Instead of feeling celebrated, you felt isolated.

The idea had been lingering in your mind for weeks, maybe even months. The crash, the endless emotional struggles, the pressure to always be the best... it had all left its mark. And now, after achieving what you’d always dreamed of, you realized something: you didn’t want to keep going anymore.

During breakfast with your parents, you decided to share your thoughts. You’d avoided bringing it up before, afraid of their reactions, but now felt like the right time.

“I’ve been thinking about something... important,” you said, breaking the silence while fiddling with your coffee mug.

Your mom looked at you with concern.

“Are you okay? Does this have to do with Formula 1?”

You shook your head.

“No… well, partly, yes. Like I said, I’ve been reflecting, and I think... I don’t want to keep racing anymore.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Your dad, ever the pragmatic one, was the first to speak.

“Are you sure? You’ve worked your whole life for this.”

“I know, Dad. But I’ve also given it everything I had. And now I feel like if I keep going, it’ll just be out of habit, not because I really want to.”

Your mom took your hand.

“We’ve always wanted you to be happy, no matter what you do. If you feel this is the time to stop, we’ll support you.”

That conversation was the turning point. Over the following days, you talked to your team, Lando, and even Charles, who, although surprised, understood your decision. Lando tried to convince you to stay for one more year.

“Are you really going to leave me here alone? We were just starting to have fun!” he joked, though there was genuine sadness in his eyes.

“It’s your time, Lando. I’m sure you’ll do amazing things,” you replied, hugging him.

Charles, on the other hand, was more serious.

“I didn’t see this coming, but I get it. Just… promise me you won’t disappear completely.”

“I won’t. I’ll always be here, even if it’s just as a spectator.”

That same night, after hours of figuring out how to word it, you sat in front of the camera in your room. You were nervous, not about the decision, but about how the world would react. You wore a simple t-shirt, your hair tied back. You wanted the message to be honest, without distractions.

‘Hi, everyone. I know this isn’t the video you were expecting after the incredible season we just had, but I wanted to share something important with you...’

You took a deep breath before continuing.

‘I’ve decided to retire from Formula 1. This year has been the most exciting but also the most exhausting of my life. Winning the championship was a dream come true, but it also made me realize it’s time to close this chapter and start a new one.’

You paused, letting your words sink in.

‘This wasn’t an easy decision. Formula 1 has been my life for so many years that I barely remember what it was like before. But I also know I want other things. I want time for myself, for my family, to explore who I am outside of this sport.’

Your voice wavered slightly, but you kept going.

‘I want to thank my team, my teammates, my rivals, and, of course, the fans. Without your support, none of this would’ve been possible.’

When you finished, you turned off the camera and fell onto the bed. It wasn’t immediate relief, but there was something freeing about putting an end to that chapter.

The video was released the next day and, as expected, caused a storm. The media debated your decision, fans flooded social media with messages of support and gratitude, and some even expressed disbelief.

Charles sent you a text:

“I saw it. I’m proud of you. You’ll do amazing things, no matter where you go.”

And Max, who had avoided talking to you since the last race, also sent a short message:

“You were the best. I always knew it. I hope you find what you’re looking for and that you forgive me.”

Even though his words were few, they left a lump in your throat.

That night, while staring at the stars from your balcony, you realized that, even though the future was uncertain, you were ready to face it.

Weeks passed since your decision, and life finally seemed to find its rhythm. The constant noise of racing and the pressure to be the best slowly faded. But deep down, you felt like something or someone was still missing.

Your house, now quieter than ever, became your sanctuary. You spent those days focusing on yourself, resting, discovering what you truly liked outside the track. But even in the peace of your own thoughts, Max lingered in your mind. He wasn’t a constant thought, but you’d remember him, especially when news of his breakup with his girlfriend started circulating. That, unexpectedly, stirred something in you, a knot in your stomach.

Late one night, your phone buzzed. The name on the screen made you hesitate for a second. Max.

The message was short, direct.

“Can I see you? I need to talk to you.”

You didn’t think much about it. You knew this conversation needed to happen eventually. You’d been avoiding it, but now it felt like the universe was putting it in your path.

You agreed to meet at your house the next day, and when the door opened, there he was. Max, with that intense, direct gaze that had known you for years. Now, though, there was something different something more vulnerable.

“Hi,” he said, his voice softer than usual.

You invited him in, and he settled on the couch like it was his own home. The silence between you was heavy, filled with unresolved emotions.

“I don’t know where to start,” he began, with a nervous smile.

“Neither do I,” you replied, sitting across from him.

The two of you just sat there, watching each other, waiting for the other to make the first move. Finally, Max spoke.

“Breaking up with her... wasn’t easy. I knew it wasn’t fair, but I couldn’t keep lying to myself. The truth is… I never stopped thinking about you.”

Your heart skipped a beat, and a lump formed in your throat. You didn’t know what to say. Max, always so sure of himself, seemed completely different now.

“Max... I don’t know what you want me to say. We’ve been on such different paths. You… always so focused on F1, on competing… and me too. Things were never easy between us, and now… I don’t know if any of this makes sense.”

He nodded, understanding what you meant.

“I know. I’ve been an idiot. I thought I could keep everything under control, but in the end… I lost what mattered most.”

He looked at you intently, and in his eyes was a sincerity that made you question everything you’d been thinking until that moment.

“But that doesn’t mean I forgot about you. It doesn’t mean I don’t care about what we had. If anything, it’s taken me time to realize that… maybe there’s something here we never really figured out.”

You stayed silent, processing his words. The tension was thick, but something in his voice made you want to listen, even though you knew the situation was complicated.

“And what is it that you want, Max?” you asked, your voice a bit shaky.

“I don’t know,” he admitted with a small, sad smile. “I’m not asking you to forgive me or to go back to what we had. But I think… we should at least try. Not now, not right away, but… maybe we can see what happens, without the pressures of F1, without everything that kept us apart.”

You got up and walked to the window, staring outside without really seeing anything. Max watched you from the couch, waiting for your response. The atmosphere between you had shifted somehow, and for the first time, it felt like you had both let go of the fight to always be the best.

You turned to look at him.

“I’m not sure I’m ready to start something new. After all, I made the decision to retire for a reason, Max. I’ve spent so much time on F1 that now I need to rediscover myself. And I don’t know what I want.”

Max got up from the couch, slowly approaching you.

“I get it. I’m not expecting it to be easy, or for everything to be resolved right now. But I want you to know I’m not pressuring you. I just… wanted you to know that, no matter what happens, I’ll be here. And if someday you decide what we had is worth another shot, I’ll be ready to try, no matter the past.”

A deep silence followed his words. You knew there was still so much to figure out between the two of you, but something about his attitude, about his willingness to wait, struck a chord within you.

You didn’t say anything else. You walked toward him, and for a moment, words weren’t necessary. The look in your eyes said it all. Still, there were no promises, no certainties just a silent understanding that, maybe, the future could be different. Maybe even together.

“We’ll see what happens,” you finally said.

Max nodded, not pushing, knowing that time would have to decide the course for both of you. And with that response, the future remained suspended between you, open, uncertain, but carrying a possibility that hadn’t existed before.

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elysiaheaven2 · 3 days ago

Text

𝗛𝗢𝗦𝗧 𝗣𝗔𝗧𝗛𝗘𝗚𝗢𝗡 𝗜𝗡𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗙𝗔𝗖𝗘- 𝗥𝗼𝗻𝗶𝗻 𝘅 𝗚.𝗡 𝗥𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿 (Part 2) end!

Used to be on @elysiaheaven

This is the request!!

02: SO MUCH FOR THE TOLERANT LEFT

Words:4000

Genre: Red Room Reader (G.N) Gore

Summary: A sadistic captor fucking you <33 livestreams their torture, taunting a shackled victim while performing brutal acts for an online audience. They theatrically respond to viewer suggestions, twisted glee, blending dark humor with horrifying violence. The chat eggs them on, turning the view into a grotesque spectacle.

This happens before you meet Ronin! (Basically

Trigger Warnings:

Graphic Violence: Depictions of physical harm, torture, and injury.

Self-Harm: Indirect references to bodily harm or deterioration (e.g., breaking nails).

Psychological Torture: Mental manipulation, humiliation, and emotional distress.

Gore: Detailed depictions of blood, injury, and bodily harm.

Blood: Intense, graphic descriptions of bloodshed.

Trauma: Psychological and physical trauma inflicted on the victim.

Moral Corruption: Exploration of a character’s lack of remorse, twisted logic, and corruption.

Death (explicit deaths with violent descriptions)

Torture (including the use of tools and sadistic behavior)

Psychological Manipulation (character dynamics that involve power and control)

Content Warnings:

Disturbing Imagery: Vivid descriptions of torture, suffering, and victimization.

Emotional Manipulation: Using guilt, fear, and despair to torment the victim.

Organ Donation: The idea of using a victim’s organs for medical purposes, which could be seen as dehumanizing.

Dark Humor: The use of dark humor surrounding violence, suffering, and exploitation.

Exploitation: The character finds satisfaction in the suffering of others.

Dehumanization: Treating the victim as an object or tool for personal satisfaction or manipulation.

Physical Harm (depictions of severe bodily injury, bruising, and broken bones)

Blood and Injury (detailed accounts of blood, wounds, and brutal attacks)

Blood Loss and Dismemberment (specific references to body mutilation, such as the use of crowbars and knives for dismemberment)

Psychological Control and Trauma (psychological torment and manipulation, including the fear of death, taunting, and intimidation)

EXTRA: He's a character from a game named Killer chat! Please play it! It's so good!

⟡ The show must go on

Welcome dear viewer, Read the warnings before reading this hell!

Ronin sat hunched over his computer, the screen illuminating his face in the dark. His fingers hovered over the keys, but he couldn’t quite figure out how to word it. How could he explain what was happening inside of him? This giddy feeling, this knot that tightened in his chest when he thought about Angel. He felt so... out of control, and he hated it. His mind was swirling with a mess of emotions, and the only thing that seemed clear was that something was happening that he couldn’t fix.

He stared at his message, his thoughts racing. His thumb finally pressed the keys.

Ronin: Angel, I need help. My heart is like... giddy? What the hell is this? It feels like I’m gonna burst. I feel so shit right now. I don’t know what’s going on inside of me, but it’s ugly. I just want to rip out my aorta and wash it but I don’t even want to do that? Wtf is wrong with me?!

He hit send and immediately felt a wave of frustration flood through him. Why couldn’t he explain himself better? It was like his insides were fighting each other, wanting something they couldn’t have. His heart, a traitor, racing when Angel even looked his way, and yet, he was ashamed of it. What was he supposed to do with all these feelings?

Angel didn’t take long to reply, their message popping up with an almost teasing wink emoji. Ronin stared at it for a moment, his pulse quickening.

Angelicc: “What the hell are they fixing you, Ronin?”

That response hit him like a bolt of lightning, igniting something deep inside him. His mind, once clouded, suddenly cleared, and he smirked.

goreboy: *Why would you care? he texts back with a playful yet taunting tone. It’s not like you could handle me if you tried, Angel.

There. He’d done it. Ronin’s fingers tapped out the last bit of the message, the little bit of frustration that had been building finally manifesting in this teasing banter. But beneath it all, his mind screamed for some kind of resolution—anything to make the knot in his chest loosen.

Angelic: God, please give me the energy to shoot you, Ronin You're so...

Ronin leaned back in his chair, phone still in hand, when the familiar ping of a notification pulled him out of his spiraling thoughts. His sharp eyes glanced at the screen. The message was from the streamer.

His lips curled into an intrigued grin as he clicked it open.

Streamer: Got the guy you were talking about. Stream starts at 9 PM. Gonna be a good one.

Ronin's grin widened as he read it, his mind briefly flicking back to their conversation about the so-called "big bad" that had captured his interest. They’d actually found the guy. This was going to be fun. He couldn't wait to see how they handled it.

"Guess they’ve got a little flair for drama after all," he muttered, tossing his phone onto the desk for a moment.

But the thought lingered—there was something about this streamer that felt familiar, like a puzzle piece he hadn’t quite placed yet. They were sharp, clever, and knew just the right things to say to keep him hooked. Almost... too much like someone he already knew.

A part of him toyed with the idea, but no. That would be too wild, wouldn’t it?

Picking up his phone again, he typed out a quick message:

goreboy: Rest up, yeah? The guy’s caught, so your job’s done. You should sleep well.

He hovered over the send button for a moment, noticing your status was offline. With a sigh, he hit send anyway.

"Offline, huh?" he murmured, leaning back and letting his head tip against the chair’s edge. "Figures."

He stared at the empty room, the soft glow of the phone screen lighting his face. His heart, usually so calm and guarded, ached faintly.

It wasn’t a bad ache, though. It was warm.

"You really got me wrapped around your little finger, don’t you?" he whispered to the empty space.

Ronin closed his eyes, letting the weight of the realization sink in. He really loved you, didn’t he? His heart, as much as he hated to admit it, wasn’t lying.

The clock hit 9 PM, the moment you had been waiting for. Your heart raced in anticipation as you adjusted your mask, staring at the reflection in your screen. You were ready. Tonight’s stream would be one for the books.

The camera flicked on, and there you were, in full glory—your usual enigmatic persona, concealed behind the mask, your voice a controlled calm with just the right edge of menace.

On the other side of the screen, the man they’d just captured was already cursing, his voice a mixture of panic and fury. His words were a desperate mess of threats, accusations, and confusion, but you couldn’t help but smile at the chaos. It felt so… right. So deliciously satisfying.

You leaned forward, fingers expertly typing on the keyboard, your voice sharp as you addressed him.

“Quiet down, you filthy coward,” you said, your voice cold yet somehow amused, the words slipping from your lips effortlessly. “You’re not in control anymore. The world you once ruled is crumbling around you, and you're nothing but a puppet with its strings cut.”

You could practically hear his jaw clenching. The man had thought he was invincible, and now he was nothing more than prey in your game. And you? You were the hunter, enjoying every moment of it.

"Why don’t you shut your damn mouth and listen?" you continued, raising your hand dramatically, the camera capturing every movement. "Your sins have caught up with you. You think you can get away with everything, but tonight, you’re going to pay for all of it. I’m not just going to show you your fate—I’m going to make you feel it."

The man’s curses grew more frantic as he struggled against his restraints, but you didn’t care. You kept your focus, savoring each word you spoke, each moment of this twisted satisfaction. This was your show. You had the power, and you weren’t letting go.

"Stop squirming, it’s pointless," you added, voice dripping with mockery. "You wanted attention, and now you have it. Just sit tight, the real fun’s about to begin.”

As the stream began to settle into its rhythm, you leaned forward, gazing into the camera with that unsettling calm. The chat was flooded with messages, and your viewers were eager, waiting for the night’s show to unfold. Among the sea of usernames, you saw it—a familiar one. Goreboy69.

It barely registered among all the chaos of names scrolling by. But then it clicked—that name, those letters, the symbol of chaos that you’d recognized. You looked at it again, eyes widening for a split second. It was him.

Ronin.

The realization hit you like a jolt of electricity through your veins. He was here. Watching. Your Ronin.

You swallowed back a lump in your throat but quickly regained your composure, the same sinister smile curling onto your lips. This was your moment. Your game. The perfect twist.

"Welcome, everyone," you said smoothly, your voice smooth and warm like honey, as if everything was perfectly normal. You glanced at the chat again, giving a special nod to the man in question. "And of course, a very special welcome to... Goreboy69. You know who you are."

You let the words linger in the air, giving him a playful wink, even though you knew he couldn’t see it. The chat lit up with confusion and excitement, the viewers unknowingly swept up in the tension of the moment.

"Tonight, we’ve got someone truly special for you all," you continued, turning to the restrained man at the center of the stream. His eyes widened as he realized what was happening. But it was too late for him to do anything about it. You controlled the narrative, and he was just another pawn in your sick little game.

"Tonight's special victim has done unspeakable things," you said, slowly pacing in front of the camera, giving the chat time to catch up. "You know, he’s not just some run-of-the-mill criminal. Oh no... this one has a special kind of depravity."

The man on the screen struggled, his curses muffled by the gag in his mouth, but you weren’t interested in his weak protests. Instead, you leaned in closer to the camera, your voice dropping to a low, almost playful tone.

"You see, this lovely gentleman has stolen millions, ruined lives, and even killed—oh, the things he’s done. And tonight... well... tonight, I think he’s going to pay for them all."

You paused for a moment, savoring the tension in the air. You felt it, the rush of power. This was what you lived for.

As you started detailing his crimes, your voice began to shake with barely contained laughter. You couldn’t hold it in any longer, the absurdity of his actions tickling your sense of humor in a twisted way.

"And the best part?" you said, smirking as you bent down toward the man, your hand barely brushing against his face. "He thought he could get away with it. Thought he was untouchable."

You stood back up, chuckling darkly as the chat roared with excitement. "Well, tonight’s the night he gets to learn the hard way... that no one is untouchable."

The man struggled against his restraints, his face turning pale as you recounted his heinous acts—how he had killed people in cold blood, how he’d abused his power, how he'd ruined countless lives without a second thought. You could barely keep your laughter contained as you continued.

"Look at him squirm," you mocked. "Isn’t it just hilarious? All his bravado crumbling in seconds. You should've seen the look on his face when he realized who really has the power now."

Your laughter bubbled up again as the man began to choke on his words, his breathing shallow from both fear and the gag, but it didn’t matter. You were in control now. Every moment of his suffering was a triumph, and you knew he couldn’t escape it.

"Isn’t it just beautiful?" you murmured, gazing at the screen with twisted satisfaction. "Justice... and so much more."

You let the man suffer in silence for a moment, savoring the absolute control you had over him. And as you glanced again at Goreboy69's name, your heart raced with a mix of excitement and curiosity. Was Ronin watching? Yes you idoit!

You couldn’t wait to find out.

You leaned over the bound man, your smile never fading as you tilted your head, eyes gleaming with sick delight. His terror was palpable, a fragile thing he clung to in a desperate bid to escape, but there was no escape for him. Not here. Not with you.

You taunted him, your voice dripping with mock sympathy as you circled him slowly. "Tell me," you whispered softly, leaning down to his ear as he trembled, "How could you kill her? Your wife. The one you swore to protect, to love. How did you bring yourself to do that?" You let the words linger, his eyes wide, filled with dread. He was barely holding himself together, but his body was still betraying him with every ragged breath.

Without waiting for an answer, you swiftly grabbed a knife, its cold edge gleaming under the dim light, and drove it into the muscle of his arm, the blade sinking deep with an almost sickening ease.

His scream echoed, muffled by the gag, but the sound of it was pure, raw emotion—the kind that only came when a man realized how powerless he truly was. Tears sprang to his eyes, his body writhing against the restraints as he sobbed.

And it was there, in that moment of utter defeat, that you felt the thrill deep within you. You loved this. You loved the power, the control, the rush of watching someone break in front of you. It made everything feel real, alive.

You straightened, taking a step back, your eyes still fixed on his broken form. You were about to speak again, but then... you noticed something in the chat.

There it was again—Goreboy69—that username flashing across your screen. You grinned, recognizing the familiar pattern of messages, but this time, there was something more.

He wasn’t just watching. He was engaged. You clicked on the notification, reading the latest message from him:

"Do it. Make him feel it. Don't hold back."

Your heart skipped a beat. He... wanted you to go further. He was encouraging it. Your grin widened as a wild idea bubbled to the surface.

Ronin. Ronin was here, watching you perform. But he didn’t know it was you, did he? He had no idea. You were about to show him just how much damage you could cause.

You couldn't help the giggle that bubbled up from deep within you. You almost felt giddy at the thought of him watching, probably thinking of you as someone else entirely.

Your gaze flicked back to the man before you. He was gasping, his body trembling with the shock of the pain in his arm, and yet you weren’t done. Oh, no. You still had plenty to do.

You lifted the knife again, this time moving slowly toward his eye. His fear skyrocketed as he saw the glint of the blade, his body stiffening in a futile attempt to escape. You leaned in closer, your breath warm against his skin as you hovered just inches from his face.

And that’s when you whispered, “What if I just... pluck your eye out, hm? How would you like that?”

The terror in his eyes deepened, his chest heaving as he shook his head violently. But you couldn't help but smile wider at his futile attempts to flee. He wasn’t going anywhere, not with you in control.

But then, your gaze flickered back to the chat, and the message from Goreboy69 appeared again:

"Give him hell."

You giggled again, a wicked laugh that sent a shiver down your own spine, before turning your attention back to your captive. Ronin didn’t even realize it, but with every word he typed, he was pushing you further, guiding your actions. The connection between the two of you, unspoken and unacknowledged, made everything feel even more intense.

He didn’t know who you were, but you knew exactly who he was.

And that only made everything more delicious.

Your knife hovered just above his trembling eye, the sharp edge glinting in the dim light as his fear radiated outward in waves. The man’s body jerked instinctively, pulling against the ropes, but there was no escape. He was trapped. Completely at your mercy.

You stopped, just as the knife was about to make contact, holding it steady in midair. The sharp point was so close, the breath from his panicked gasps hitting your face. You could hear his heart pounding in his chest, faster and faster, the sound of it almost more satisfying than any scream.

His voice broke through the silence, a desperate cry filled with hatred and fear. "You—bitch!" he screamed, his words muffled by the gag but still full of venom. "You're a sick monster! You think you're some kind of god? You're nothing! NOTHING!"

His words didn’t affect you. In fact, they only made the thrill more intense. You smiled wider, your eyes narrowing as you leaned closer, the cold metal still inches from his eye. "Oh, you're right about one thing," you whispered softly, the knife edge almost touching his eyelid now, "I am a monster. And you're about to find out just how real it can get."

His body jerked again, this time his face contorting in an even more horrified expression, his whole being consumed by terror as he realized how close he was to losing an eye. You could see the sweat pouring down his forehead, his chest heaving violently with each breath. But you couldn’t resist—it was too tempting, too sweet.

You let the knife edge touch his skin, just for a moment, teasing the fragile layer of flesh. He screamed again, but this time it was different—a scream of pure terror as he realized he was so close to something irreversible.

And then, just as his voice broke with another desperate curse, you pulled the knife back, letting it fall to your side with a quiet, almost playful chuckle.

"You know, you’re lucky," you said, your voice light and sweet, as though you weren’t holding his life in your hands. "I’m in a good mood today. But don’t think for a second that I won’t finish what I started."

The man’s breathing slowed, but only slightly. He was still a broken mess, realizing just how close he had come to death. He cursed again, shaking his head violently in the restraints.

You turned your attention back to the screen, noticing another message from Goreboy69 pop up in the chat. You glanced at it, reading his words carefully:

*"You’re doing *great. He deserves everything. Don't stop now."

A sly smile curled on your lips. Ronin. You could almost feel his presence, even if he still didn’t know it was you. His words pushed you, made you want to go further, to make this man suffer in ways he could never have imagined.

"Well," you whispered, turning back to your victim with a grin, "I guess we can’t let him off that easy, can we?"

The man’s eyes widened in horror as you reached for the knife again. This time, there would be no hesitation.

You knelt before the trembling man, a thin, gleaming metal instrument in your grasp. Its delicate design contrasted with the brutality of its purpose.

“This will hold your eye open,” you murmured, your voice calm and detached, as if explaining a benign procedure. The man’s breath hitched, and he immediately thrashed, shaking his head violently in protest.

“NO! NO, PLEASE—”

His plea was cut off by your other hand gripping his face with unyielding strength. Your fingers dug into his skin, forcing his head to still. His terror-filled eyes darted in every direction, searching for an escape he knew didn’t exist.

“Stay. Still.” The command was firm, your tone leaving no room for disobedience. You brought the metal instrument closer, positioning it against his swollen eyelids. Despite his muffled screams and jerking motions, you carefully pried them open. The exposed orb quivered, blood pooling around its damaged edges.

“There,” you cooed, almost gently, as if offering some twisted reassurance. “Now we can get to work.”

You raised a scalpel, its blade catching the faint light, and twirled it between your fingers for the camera to see. The gesture was as elegant as it was menacing, the audience no doubt captivated. A few cheered in the chat, but one name stood out: Goreboy69.

"Perfection. Don’t stop now."

You smirked, the encouragement fueling your performance.

“I’m only cutting away the bad parts,” you explained sweetly, tilting your head as if you truly believed your words were merciful.

The man’s screams intensified as the scalpel touched his flesh, the blade slicing into the delicate tissue of his eye socket. Blood welled instantly, streaming down his face in dark, sticky rivulets. He convulsed in his restraints, his voice cracking under the strain of his terror.

The sound was exquisite: the wet scrape of the blade against ruined flesh, the metallic click as your tools grazed one another, all punctuated by his raw, guttural cries.

You carved with precision, each movement deliberate, as though you were an artist shaping a masterpiece. The chat exploded with messages—some in awe, others begging for more. Your focus, however, remained unwavering.

“Almost done,” you murmured, your voice carrying a detached serenity as though the man’s agony was merely background noise.

When you finally stepped back, the once-pristine blade was smeared crimson, and the man before you was nothing more than a shaking, sobbing wreck. You held the scalpel up for the camera, giving it a little twirl once more, your signature flourish.

The screens blazed with cold, artificial light, casting an almost clinical glow over the room. Your masked face was illuminated as you turned back toward the man, a faint smile playing on your lips.

"Ah, my apologies," you said with a soft chuckle, tilting your head in mock contrition. "I was getting carried away. But isn’t tonight’s star a bit… mundane?"

Your eyes flicked to the chat, where the messages scrolled rapidly. One caught your attention, and you read it aloud with a sly grin.

“‘No mental games today?’” You giggled, the sound saccharine and sharp. "What a vulgar question, darling! But…" You turned your gaze back to the man strapped helplessly before you, your tone dropping to a dangerous purr. "Physical pain has its own… unique ability to open and close doors, wouldn’t you agree?"

The man whimpered, barely audible. "S-save me…" he whispered, voice trembling, broken.

His wide, frantic eyes darted around the room, taking in the countless cameras positioned at every angle. He jerked against his restraints, panic overtaking him.

“What… what the hell? Why are there so many?!” His voice cracked, the fear palpable.

You ignored his frantic movements, instead feigning an air of absentminded curiosity as you rummaged through a tray of tools. Your hand paused on one particular item, and your fingers curled around it with deliberate slowness.

"I'm sure you're familiar with this sound," you said calmly, just as a loud BANG erupted, the sharp crack ricocheting through the room. The man flinched violently, his body jerking as far as the restraints allowed. His breath came in shallow, rapid bursts, his eyes darting in search of the source.

“It’s a nail gun,” you said matter-of-factly, stepping closer. You circled him with a predator’s grace, the heavy thud of your boots echoing ominously. Finally, you stopped behind him and pressed the cold, unfeeling metal tip of the pneumatic tool against his shoulder. He gasped, the contact forcing a shiver down his spine.

“Do you know what a pneumatic nail gun is, mister?” you asked sweetly, your voice dripping with mock politeness. His head lolled back, his pupils unfocused as he tried to comprehend.

“I’ll fucking kill you!” he spat, though the defiance in his voice was betrayed by the quiver of his body.

BANG!

A sharp, sickening sound rang out as the first nail was driven into his flesh. He screamed—a visceral, agonized wail that echoed in the confined space. The light from the monitors caught the glint of the metallic tip protruding from his arm, a bead of crimson welling up around it.

“Oh, it is a nail!” you cooed mockingly, as though this revelation amused you. Without hesitation, you pulled the trigger again.

BANG!

His body convulsed as another nail punctured through muscle and sinew.

BANG!

And another.

BANG!

His arm hung limp now, blood trickling down in dark, sticky trails as his screams turned hoarse, his body trembling uncontrollably.

"Pull them out," you instructed suddenly, your voice light, almost playful. “Go on—I give you permission.”

His swollen, shaking hand inched toward the nail lodged just below his elbow. Tears streaked his face, mingling with the sweat dripping from his brow. His trembling fingers brushed the nail’s edge, and with a ragged sob, he gripped it.

He pulled.

The slick, nauseating sensation of the nail sliding free from the meat of his arm made him lurch forward, gagging on his cries. Blood spurted from the open wound, and he froze, trembling, unable to move or speak.

You crouched beside him, tilting your head like a curious child.

“See?” you whispered, your voice as soothing as it was sinister. “Pain can teach you so much more than words ever could.”

You turned to the chat, the scrolling messages flashing across your monitor. A particularly enthusiastic suggestion caught your eye, and you tilted your head, a mischievous grin tugging at your lips beneath the mask.

"Oh? Power tools, you say?" you cooed, running your gloved fingers across the array of instruments laid out before you. "Darling, you're positively spoiling me with ideas tonight."

Your hand hovered over a blowtorch, the sleek metal gleaming under the harsh lights. Picking it up, you tested the weight in your hand before turning to your guest of honor. His bloodshot eyes widened in absolute terror as recognition dawned on him.

"You know what this is, don’t you?" you teased, igniting the torch with a sharp flick. A controlled flame roared to life, casting flickering shadows on the walls. The man screamed, his cries raw and piercing, his body thrashing against the restraints with renewed desperation.

"Please—NO! STOP!" he begged, his voice breaking, but the words only seemed to delight you further.

"Shh, shh…" you said softly, your tone almost soothing. You leaned in close, the flame dancing mere inches from his face. "I just want to see how much heat you can take before you… break."

The flame licked toward him, and he jerked his head to the side, trying to evade the searing heat. You chuckled, the sound cold and devoid of mercy, as you brought the torch down toward his arm.

The fabric of his shirt began to singe, curling and blackening under the intensity of the flame. He shrieked as the heat seared his skin, the acrid stench of burning flesh filling the air. His screams were guttural, primal, as though the agony had reached into the very depths of his soul.

"Music to my ears," you said with a laugh, pulling the torch back momentarily. His chest heaved as he gasped for air, his face contorted in agony.

You turned back to the chat, which was erupting in chaotic glee.

"Too much already? Or should I keep going?" you asked, tilting your head at the screen. The responses came in fast, a flood of sadistic encouragement that made your grin widen.

"Ah, it seems they're not satisfied yet," you said, turning your gaze back to the trembling, broken man before you. "And I do hate disappointing my audience."

You crouched down to the trembling man's level, tilting your head as if inspecting him with genuine curiosity. He was panting, his face glistening with sweat and twisted in agony. Slowly, you raised the blowtorch again, the flame roaring to life with a menacing hiss.

“Don’t worry,” you cooed, your tone dripping with mock reassurance. “I’m only doing you a favor. These open wounds? They’re… unsightly. We wouldn’t want an infection now, would we?”

He screamed as you guided the flame toward one of the nail punctures in his arm, the raw flesh exposed and oozing. The moment the fire kissed his skin, his entire body convulsed violently. The sound of sizzling flesh filled the room, accompanied by his blood-curdling shrieks.

“Shhh,” you whispered, pressing the blowtorch closer. The flame lingered, sealing the wound shut with a grotesque crackle. The scent of charred meat was overpowering, and you wrinkled your nose playfully. “You’re lucky I’m such a perfectionist. I wouldn’t want to leave you half-done.”

You moved to the next wound, repeating the process with deliberate slowness. He thrashed against the restraints, his muffled sobs and cries blending into a pathetic symphony of suffering. Each press of the torch elicited fresh screams, his voice growing hoarse from the relentless abuse.

Finally, you clicked the torch off and set it down with care, the room falling eerily silent except for his ragged breathing. “There. All sealed up. Isn’t that better?” you asked, tilting your head as though expecting gratitude. He merely whimpered, tears streaming down his face.

But you weren’t done yet. Not even close.

You reached out with your gloved hand, gripping the scorched, charred flesh around one of the wounds. “Now, let’s not waste good food,” you said with a sadistic grin, peeling away a burnt piece of flesh. The man recoiled in horror, shaking his head violently as you held it up in front of his face.

“Open wide,” you sang, your voice lilting with dark amusement. He clenched his jaw shut, his entire body trembling in revulsion.

“Oh, come on,” you said, your tone darkening, the glint in your eyes dangerous. “Don’t make me force you.”

When he didn’t comply, you grabbed his jaw with one hand, squeezing until his mouth popped open with a guttural cry. You shoved the charred piece of meat inside, your gloved fingers pressing it against his tongue.

“Chew,” you commanded, your voice icy. He gagged, tears streaming down his face as he bit down reluctantly. The crunch of the scorched tissue was nauseating, and his sobs grew louder as he swallowed.

You purred mockingly, patting his cheek with your bloodstained glove. “Now wasn’t that delicious?” You turned back to the chat, where the messages were pouring in, a cacophony of unhinged excitement and demands for more.

You turned your attention back to the man, his face contorted with pure, unfiltered terror. His sobs were erratic, broken by sharp intakes of breath as he trembled beneath your gaze.

“Ah,” you sighed theatrically, dragging a gloved finger along the edge of his mangled arm. “All this lovely flesh… it feels like such a waste, doesn’t it?”

He whimpered, shaking his head in weak protest, his voice barely above a whisper. “Please... no more...”

But your grin only widened, a glint of sadistic delight in your eyes. “Oh, come now. You don’t want to waste the gift of life, do you? And what’s more personal than… sharing a part of yourself?”

You picked up a small, serrated blade, twirling it deftly for the camera. The chat was ablaze, cheering you on, demanding more. One message caught your eye: "Feed him to himself! Ultimate justice!"

“Such a poetic suggestion,” you mused aloud, chuckling softly. Then, without hesitation, you grabbed his wrist and pressed the blade into the fleshy part of his palm. He screamed as you sawed through the muscle, carving a small, bloodied chunk free. The meat dangled grotesquely from the tip of the knife as you held it up for the camera.

“Here we go,” you cooed, bringing the knife closer to his face. He thrashed weakly, his body utterly spent from the torment. “Open wide, darling. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

“No! No, no, no!” he cried, his voice cracking, but his defiance only seemed to fuel your amusement. You let out an exaggerated sigh before pinching his jaw open once again, forcing the piece of his own flesh past his lips.

“Chew,” you commanded firmly, your voice like steel. He hesitated, and you pressed the flat of the blade against his throat. “Now.”

Tears streamed down his face as he obeyed, his teeth grinding against the sinewy meat. The sound was sickening, wet and gristly, and his gagging made it clear he was fighting every instinct to spit it out. But you wouldn’t let him.

“Swallow,” you ordered, your tone low and threatening. His throat bobbed as he choked the piece down, and you clapped your hands together mockingly.

“Bravo!” you said, turning to the camera with a playful smirk. “He’s such a good boy for all of us, isn’t he?”

The chat exploded with messages: "More!" "Make him eat more of himself!" "This is ART!"

You hummed thoughtfully, glancing down at your trembling victim. “Well, chat has spoken,” you said cheerfully, picking up the blade again. “Let’s see how much more we can get before he starts losing consciousness, shall we?”

His scream echoed through the room as the blade met his flesh once more.

The man’s screams turned to desperate sobs, his head lolling weakly as he struggled to stay conscious. Blood dripped steadily onto the cold floor, pooling beneath him in dark, sticky puddles.

“P-please,” he gasped, his voice hoarse and broken. “Please… just kill me. End it. I can’t… I can’t take anymore.”

You tilted your head, as if considering his plea, the blowtorch still idling in your hand with its ominous hiss. “Kill you?” you echoed, your tone light and almost amused. “Oh, but where’s the fun in that? If I just kill you now, we’ll miss out on all the potential, all the possibilities.”

Tears streamed down his face, mixing with sweat and blood. “Please…” he whispered, his words barely audible. “I’m begging you...”

You knelt down, bringing yourself to eye level with him, your mask glinting in the harsh light. “Begging, huh?” you murmured. “You begged your wife, too, didn’t you? When you hit her? When you—” You didn’t finish the sentence, your voice curling into icy disdain.

His eyes widened, his breath hitching as shame and fear mingled in his expression. “I... I was wrong... I know! Please, I deserve it! Just—just make it stop!”

You let out a soft, almost pitying laugh, reaching out to cup his bloodied cheek. He flinched at your touch, but you held him firmly, your grip unrelenting.

“Oh, sweetheart,” you purred mockingly, “death would be a mercy. And mercy is something you don’t deserve. Not yet.”

You leaned closer, your voice dropping to a whisper. “You don’t get to take the easy way out. You’ll suffer, piece by piece, just like your victims did. You’ll feel every ounce of their pain until there’s nothing left of you but regret and broken pieces.”

The man sobbed uncontrollably, shaking his head as if trying to deny the reality of your words. “No… no more… please…”

You straightened up, flicking the blowtorch off with a decisive click. “You’re not going anywhere, darling,” you said, your voice saccharine yet sharp. “We’ve only just begun.”

Turning back to the camera, you offered your viewers a cheerful wave. “Chat, should we take this slow and savor it? Or should we get creative with our next session? Let me know!”

You turned back to the screens, your voice bright and chillingly cheerful.

"Who's ready for the grand finale?" you announced, the smile behind your mask almost audible. "You came here for blood, and blood you shall receive!"

From behind your back, you produced a knife, holding it out toward the broken man slumped before you.

"Here," you said softly, almost kindly. "They want to see blood. So give it to them. It's the least you can do."

His trembling eyes flicked to the blade in your hand, a flicker of understanding and horror crossing his face. Slowly, his shackled hands reached out, the sound of metal scraping against metal filling the tense air.

"They want blood," you repeated, your voice a honeyed whisper as he grasped the knife. "Give it to them. Become the spectacle you always were."

He stared at the weapon in his shaking hands. The weight of it felt heavier than it should have, as though it carried more than just steel. His breath hitched, and with a sharp intake of air, he slashed at his own arm.

The cut was clumsy but deep, a line of crimson blooming against pale flesh. He gasped, then slashed again—harder this time, more frantic. Blood began to pool, spilling over his lap and onto the floor.

You took a step back, folding your arms as you watched him spiral into madness. The audience in the chat was electric, messages flooding in with cheers and disbelief.

He was unraveling. You’d broken him.

The knife hovered at his stomach now, the trembling tip pressing into soft flesh. He froze, unsure, his blood-slicked fingers hesitating.

You tilted your head, your voice dropping to a low, venomous hiss. "Do it. Die by your own hands, bastard. That’s your punishment. Become the show—like you did to her."

His eyes widened, a flicker of defiance mingling with despair, but it wasn’t enough. With a sickening squelch, he plunged the knife into his own abdomen. His scream was raw, guttural, the sound of a man tearing himself apart.

You stepped closer, kneeling before him as he coughed up blood, the crimson liquid staining his chin. Without hesitation, you grasped his trembling hands and guided them.

"Deeper," you commanded coldly, dragging the blade through layers of flesh and muscle.

The room echoed with his wet, choking cries as his insides began to spill from the gaping wound. He dropped the knife with a clatter, his bloodied fingers fumbling to touch the viscera now exposed to the cold air.

And then, trembling and weak, he reached inside himself, his expression one of awe and horror as he grasped something warm and slick. With a guttural cough, he pulled it free—a glistening, pulsating mass dripping with blood and bile.

The chat erupted. Messages flew by faster than you could read them, a frenzy of horror, fascination, and exhilaration.

You smiled, rising to your feet and turning to the camera.

"Now that," you said, your voice calm and composed, "is what it means to put on a show."

You stepped closer, the glint of something metallic catching the light as you unraveled a thin, taut wire from your pocket. The man, slumped and delirious, barely registered what you were doing until you slipped it around his neck.

"Please…" he croaked, his voice shredded and weak. "Let me live… I’ll do anything—"

You pulled the wire tight.

The sharp, strangled gasp he let out was drowned by the symphony of his panicked gurgles. His hands shot up instinctively, clawing at the wire digging deep into his skin, but it was useless.

"Live?" you mocked, your voice lilting like a twisted lullaby. "You want to live after everything you’ve done? After you begged me to kill you just moments ago? Make up your mind, darling."

He choked, his eyes bulging as blood trickled from the thin, precise lacerations forming around his throat. His body convulsed, every muscle spasming in desperation, but your grip on the wire remained steadfast, unyielding.

The room echoed with his choking cries, the metallic scent of blood thickening in the air.

"Beg louder," you sneered, leaning in close. "Scream if you want to be heard, but I don’t think anyone’s listening."

He gurgled, his words reduced to wet, incoherent gasps as the life drained from his face. You held the wire tighter, your own bloodied hands trembling—not from exertion, but from the sheer euphoria coursing through you.

And then, with one final shudder, his body went limp.

The blood pooling beneath him was a gruesome masterpiece, and his lifeless eyes stared at nothing, wide with terror. The room fell silent except for your own ragged breathing.

And then you laughed.

It started as a soft chuckle, but it grew—wild, unhinged, echoing off the walls like a symphony of chaos. The chat erupted in hysteria, but you barely noticed. You were drunk on the moment, every fiber of your being alight with exhilaration.

You wiped the blood from your hands onto your already-stained clothes, turning back to the camera.

"Well," you said, your grin audible even through the mask, "that was fun, wasn’t it?"

You continued to laugh, a manic, bone-chilling sound that filled the empty space, bouncing off the cold walls. It wasn’t just amusement—it was the high of control, of domination, of having broken another soul to your will. The laughter bubbled up, unstoppable, each giggle darker than the last.

The chat exploded, flooding the screen with messages, all calling for more, egging you on. You could see it in their words, in the thirst for the chaos you just unleashed. They wanted more, always more. But you knew—no one could handle what you had just done.

"Look at him," you said, still laughing, voice crackling with delight. "What a beautiful mess he is. The blood. The agony. His desperate attempts to cling to life... Pathetic."

Your fingers traced the outline of the knife, still slick with the remnants of his suffering. The screen flickered for a moment, the feedback of the camera shifting with the sickening pleasure you felt watching the lifeless body slump in its final form. You wiped your lips with your sleeve, almost theatrically, as if savoring the last drops of something far sweeter than any wine.

The room, drenched in the aftermath, felt like a stage—your stage. Your laughter rang out, drowning the voices of the audience, who had become no more than background noise to your performance.

"Don't you love it, darling?" you murmured, the smile on your face never leaving. "This is what you wanted, right? This is what all of you want—someone, anyone, willing to go just a little bit further, to rip it all apart for the thrill."

You leaned into the camera, your voice low and seductive, the mask a mere formality now.

"Tell me, what next? What should we do with the next one? Hmm?"

You leaned back, the laughter from the screen still lingering in your throat. It echoed in your mind as you looked at the chat, the names disappearing one by one until only one remained.

Goreboy69.

You smiled, a cold, knowing smile that stretched across your face, and without breaking eye contact with the camera, you spoke directly to him.

“Stay,” you commanded, voice dripping with malicious sweetness.

He typed back, confused: “Hm? What is it?”

You let the silence hang between your words. Slowly, deliberately, you met his gaze through the lens, unblinking, like you were staring into the very core of his soul.

"Are you the Devil's Butcher?" you asked, your voice as calm and steady as if you were asking about the weather.

The response was almost instant, "Huh? Looks like Someone's onto me? What now Darling?"

Mockingly, you chuckled. Of course, you knew who he was. —he just didn’t realize it yet. But that was part of the fun, wasn’t it? Keeping him in the dark while you played your own game.

You leaned in, your lips curling into an even darker grin as you addressed him through the screen, voice sharp.

“So, how was the show tonight?” you asked. Your smile widened. "Did you enjoy the blood?"

He replied quickly, boasting: “Pretty good, still not as good as me in gore. I could teach you.”

Your laughter bubbled up again, light but chilling. “Teach me? Oh, darling, I think you should learn from me,” you teased, not bothering to hide the amusement in your voice. “But I’ll give you one thing... the next show’s guest will be you.”

You paused, letting the weight of your words sink in. Then, you finished with a final, gleeful laugh.

“Be ready for a bloodbath, Ronin Beaufort. HAHAHAHA!”

And just like that, you ended the stream, the screen going black as you leaned back, savoring the thrill. You'd sent him a message.

Ronin's mind spun with confusion and amusement as he muttered to himself, his hand tapping the edge of the table. "How the hell did they know my name?" He laughed softly, though there was something darker behind it, a smirk curling on his lips as he leaned back in his chair.

It was a question that gnawed at him, a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. The cryptic message, the strange connection... it didn’t sit well, but something about it ignited a spark. Maybe it was the audacity of the person on the other side, maybe it was how easily they played his game.

The Devil, after all, was always watching, always playing his cards.

His smile widened as he whispered under his breath, almost to himself, “Pretty good... but I’ll show ‘em who’s really in charge.” There was that same glint in his eyes, the one that screamed danger and thrill, the one that promised nothing but chaos to whoever dared to provoke him.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard again, he typed slowly, savoring the weight of every word. His thoughts dripped with venom as he set the next scene in motion.

The next day, you noticed something strange in the server. Ronin was acting… off, or at least, different than usual. He had pinged V, of all people—V, the one person who hated his guts, almost as much as Ronin loved messing with him. But this time, it wasn’t the usual insults or jabs. No, this time, Ronin dropped a chilling message.

"Damn @k9, someone’s gonna kill your kill."

You understood immediately. He was playing a game, one that only he fully understood, but you weren't going to let him take the lead on this.

You didn’t respond right away, though. You knew better than to react impulsively. Instead, you asked, "What happened?" knowing full well what he was talking about. You wanted him to keep talking, to give you more.

In the middle of all this, there was V. The thorn in Ronin's side, and the perfect counter to everything Ronin stood for. Their relationship was a mess of contradictions. On the surface, they were complete opposites—V, the so-called "righteous" killer, and Ronin, the chaotic force of evil. They didn’t like each other, of course. But somewhere beneath that intense animosity, there was something else. A kind of respect, even if they wouldn’t admit it.

Neither of them would ever say it out loud, especially not under threat of torture, but the truth was, they were perfect for each other. V, with his morality complex, hated Ronin because he embodied everything wrong with humanity, while Ronin despised V for trying to impose some false sense of order on the chaos of the world. It was a dangerous and sickening dance they did, each one trying to outdo the other, each one pushing the other further into madness.

Ronin never minded baiting V. He enjoyed it too much. The way V’s righteous fury bubbled over, how it drove him to action. It was all so easy. But the thing that bothered Ronin, that gnawed at him in ways he wouldn’t show, was the simple fact that V hated him for being everything V wanted to fix. Ronin loved every minute of it.

And now? It was getting worse. Everyone in the server was worried. Angelic had even mentioned something about a streamer saying they were going to kill Ronin. Even she was doing something to find who it was... Even V was searching for the address. The irony was thick enough to cut with a knife—V trying to play hero, trying to hunt down someone like Ronin, all while completely ignoring the hypocrisy of his own existence.

Ronin, though, wasn’t worried. He was too smug for that.

“Aww, someone’s worried for me?” Ronin typed, his usual teasing tone evident. “V’s trying to find the address to kill me before they get the chance, huh?”

You rolled your eyes at his cocky attitude and typed back, “Shut up. Why are you so excited about dying?” You were practically daring him to answer, testing his response, knowing he'd find a way to twist it into some dark joke.

Ronin’s reply came quickly, and you could almost hear the smirk through the screen. “Excited? Nah. Just thinkin’ about how boring it’d be to die by someone else’s hand. I’ll die on my terms. I’ll kill them first.”

But you knew better. Ronin, for all his bravado, wasn’t the type to shy away from death. In fact, he’d almost welcome it, in his own twisted way. He loved the game, the thrill of it all. So why was he suddenly talking about being killed? Why the warning, the cryptic messages, the tension?

“Ronin…” You typed, your tone taking on a darker edge. “You wouldn’t really let them kill you, would you?”

Ronin didn’t respond immediately, and that silence left you with a sense of unease you weren’t used to with him. He’d always been a step ahead, unpredictable, always knowing the game and how to play it. But this… this felt different.

You stared at the screen, your hands trembling slightly as you typed. His words echoed in your head, and despite the cruel taunting, something deep within you twisted. You had expected it, of course. Ronin thrived on chaos, on destruction, and on pushing others into the darkest corners of their minds.

But there was a moment of vulnerability in him now—something that made your chest tighten as the realization hit you: you couldn't let him die. Not like this. Not in the hands of anyone but you.

You typed the words, your fingers frozen for a second before they continued moving, faster now, more desperate.

"I won't let you die, Ronin," you wrote, your voice a little shakier than you intended. "I won't... I can't."

The silence on the other side of the screen seemed to stretch. Then came his response, a taunt dripping with condescension. "Pathetic," he typed, his words sharp and mocking. "You really think I need saving?"

A bitter laugh followed. "Even if I die, it’s not the end of the world, darling. It’s just another show. Another performance. You’ll move on, just like everyone else."

You felt a pang in your chest. The words cut deeper than you expected. This wasn’t just a game to him. For Ronin, death was something he'd flirted with for so long, it had become a part of his identity, a mask he wore as comfortably as his twisted smile. But hearing it, coming from him... it stung more than you'd like to admit.

You stared at the message for a long time, fighting the gnawing feeling in your gut. But then, slowly, you typed back.

"Stop. Just stop," you wrote, your voice softer, though still tinged with an underlying desperation. "You think it's just another show, but it’s not. Not for me. You can't just throw your life away... again."

For a moment, you could almost hear him chuckle through the screen. The nerve of him—acting like he was invincible, untouchable. He wanted to break you, wanted to make you feel like you were just another part of his endless game. But you wouldn’t play by his rules anymore. You couldn't.

You stared at his last message. "What if I want to die, though?" it read. "What if that’s the only way out? You can’t save me, sweetheart. I’m too far gone."

Your heart raced, but there was no time to waste. You didn't care how twisted he was, how deep in his madness he had fallen. You couldn’t let him slip through your fingers.

"You’re not beyond saving," you typed quickly, almost angrily. "Don’t you dare say that. You’re not too far gone for me."

He was silent again, but his presence hung in the air, like a storm waiting to break. You could feel it—his confusion, his teasing, and yet... maybe something else. Maybe something beneath it all that he never let anyone see.

Your eyes blurred with tears as you typed, every word feeling heavier than the last. You couldn't shake the longing that twisted inside of you, the need to see him again. Not through a screen, not in the hollow confines of this digital game you’d both become part of. You wanted him—no, you needed him—alive, in front of you, where you could touch him, see the chaos in his eyes up close.

You wiped your face hastily, trying to fight the burning desperation in your chest. It wasn’t about saving him anymore. It was something darker, something far more dangerous.

"I want to see you," you typed, the words flowing out like a whispered confession, full of ache and longing. "I want to see you in purgatory alley side again..."

You paused for a moment, your heart pounding in your throat. The alley was their place. A place where you had both walked the line between pleasure and pain, life and death. You had felt his presence there, so close, so real, and now, you wanted it again.

You typed the final words with a trembling hand. "Come to me."

For a moment, the screen sat still. There was no immediate response. You could almost hear his voice in your head—smirking, mocking you, telling you how absurd you were for asking. But you needed it. You needed him to walk into the space between you, to make this more than words, more than empty threats.

His response came, slow and deliberate. "You want to see me?"

You took a deep breath, holding back another wave of emotion. "Yes. I want you to come."

There was a silence on the other end. And then his message blinked onto the screen, full of that same mocking tone you had come to expect from him.

"Well, well... You’re either braver than I thought, or just as insane as me. Purgatory it is then. I’ll be there, sweetheart. You better be ready for what you asked for."

Your breath caught in your throat. There it was. He was coming.

You closed your eyes for a moment, the rush of emotion overwhelming.

The alley smelled of damp concrete and rust, the cold air biting at your skin as you stood there, heart pounding with anticipation. Your eyes searched through the shadows, the darkness swallowing the world around you. Then, you saw him.

Leaning casually against the wall, his posture relaxed, but his eyes sharp, full of that twisted amusement you both thrived on. Ronin stood there, his crowbar slung over his shoulder, the faint moonlight glinting off its metal surface. His presence was unmistakable—almost like a storm just waiting to break.

The moment your eyes locked, your heart skipped a beat. Every rational thought in your mind scattered to the winds. You stepped forward without thinking, your body moving on its own as if it was drawn to him like gravity itself.

And then, without hesitation, you threw yourself into his arms.

His surprise was fleeting, replaced quickly with that unmistakable, dangerous smirk. He let you hug him, but the laugh that escaped his lips was laced with mocking curiosity.

"What’s wrong?" His voice was low, almost playful, but you could hear the darkness underneath, that ever-present edge. He didn’t push you away, but the way he tilted his head, his crowbar now hanging loosely in his hand, was a challenge—a dare.

You pressed your face into his neck, your breath coming out in ragged sobs. Tears spilled down your face, but you didn’t care. They mixed with the blood on your lips, your emotions raw and unfiltered. You could feel the heat of his body, the weight of his presence anchoring you to reality. Your lips brushed against the cold skin of his neck as you whispered, "I just… wanted to see you. Wanted to feel you here…"

He stood still for a moment, seemingly unbothered by your tears, before letting out a soft, cruel chuckle. His fingers ran lightly through your hair, the gesture tender but twisted, like he enjoyed the way you broke down in his presence.

"You’re pathetic," he mused, his voice almost a mockery of concern, though the hint of something else—something darker—lingered. His breath was warm against your ear as he leaned in closer. "You think I’m gonna save you? Is that it?"

You could feel the tension in his muscles, his amusement mingled with something far more dangerous. You pulled yourself tighter against him, not wanting to let go. He was everything you wanted, everything you needed, and yet, the line between pain and pleasure was so fine with him.

"No," you whispered, your voice breaking as you pulled away just enough to look into his eyes. "I don't want you to save me, Ronin... I just need you here. I need you to show me that you see me. That you care."

For a brief moment, the world seemed to pause, as if the air itself held its breath. Ronin’s eyes darkened, his smirk deepening into something far more dangerous. His fingers slid from your hair to your throat, a gentle pressure that felt more like a promise than a threat.

"You want to know if I care?" He whispered back, his voice so quiet, you could barely hear it over the sound of your own heartbeat. "You already know the answer to that, sweetheart. But be careful what you wish for..."

With a sudden, predatory movement, he tilted your chin up to meet his gaze, his thumb brushing over your lips. The raw energy between you both crackled, and for a moment, the world outside this alley—this twisted moment—didn’t exist.

And then he laughed again, that same dangerous laugh, before leaning in just enough to press his lips to the shell of your ear.

"You’re mine," he said softly, "and I’m not letting you go. Not now. Not ever."

And then, without hesitation, you threw yourself into his arms.

His surprise was fleeting, replaced quickly with that unmistakable, dangerous smirk. He let you hug him, but the laugh that escaped his lips was laced with mocking curiosity.

And then he laughed again, that same dangerous laugh, before leaning in just enough to press his lips to the shell of your ear.

"You’re mine," he said softly, "and I’m not letting you go. Not now. Not ever."

As soon as the air between you and Ronin thickened with a tension you both reveled in, your smile twisted into something dark—something sinister. Your grip tightened around his neck for just a moment, and in that instant, you pulled something from your pocket.

A handkerchief, folded neatly. He didn’t even have time to register the movement before it was pressed firmly against his mouth and nose. The scent of the sedative hit his nostrils almost immediately, and his eyes narrowed in suspicion. But the familiar coldness of the chemical didn't take long to overwhelm him.

"What the hell...?" His voice was muffled, his words slurred as his body began to react to the drug. His vision blurred, his breath growing shallow, his mind starting to fog. His knees buckled, and before he knew it, the floor met him with a sickening thud.

You stepped back, watching him fall to the ground, his face contorting in a mix of confusion and disbelief. He tried to fight, tried to push himself up, but the sedative had already taken hold, dragging him into unconsciousness. He collapsed, barely managing to lift his head to meet your eyes before everything went black.

For a long, still moment, you stood over him, watching the rise and fall of his chest, the way his body trembled slightly as he fought the drug's effects. Then, as his eyelids fluttered closed, his gaze locked with yours.

It was in that brief instant, when his eyes flickered open one last time, that he saw it. The unmistakable recognition in his pupils, the terror and realization sweeping over him like a storm. His lips parted, but no words came. Instead, the air grew heavy, thick with the understanding of who you were.

"Wait... you?" he mumbled, barely audible, his body too weak to do anything but watch.

You smiled at him, your grin widening as you leaned down, looking into his eyes with a strange, knowing gleam. "Surprised?" you teased, your voice soft but full of twisted satisfaction. "I told you, Ronin... you know me more than you think."

His breathing grew shallow as his eyes roamed over your face. There, in your eyes, he saw the same fire, the same malicious delight he'd witnessed in the streamer's gaze—the one he'd taunted, the one he'd laughed at. The one who had watched him, followed his every move. The one who had been waiting for this moment.

His voice barely a whisper. "The streamer... it’s you."

You giggled softly, leaning in close to his ear, your lips brushing against his skin as you whispered, "Yes. It’s me, Ronin. The one who knows all about you. The one who's been waiting for the right moment. The one who’s going to make sure you never see the light of day again."

His eyes fluttered, and his body began to tremble, the realization sinking in deeper, but it was already too late. His body went limp, and the last thing he saw before succumbing to the sedative was the twisted satisfaction in your gaze.

As Ronin slowly regained consciousness, his mind felt sluggish, weighed down by the remnants of the sedative still clouding his thoughts. His body was stiff, his limbs heavy, and his vision was blurry at first. But as he blinked, trying to clear the fog, the familiar darkness of the alley came into focus.

What stood out more than anything, though, was the suffocating sensation around his face. He lifted a hand, but before he could fully process what was happening, he realized it was a mask. A mask... of him.

His butcher mask.

It was molded to his face, covering him completely, suffocating him in its dark, twisted representation of himself. The leather was tight against his skin, the eye holes just barely allowing him to see through.

He didn’t panic—no. Ronin wasn’t the type to panic. Not even when things were twisted, even when the situation felt... off. A faint, mocking smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he moved his fingers to touch the mask.

"Not bad," he murmured to himself, a low chuckle escaping his lips. "A little... personal, though."

He shifted slightly, his hands trying to pry at the mask, but something was holding him in place, binding him. And then it hit him—he wasn’t alone. The presence of another person in the room, in the shadows, made his skin crawl. He could feel their eyes on him.

The sudden realization surged through his veins like a lightning bolt. It was you. The streamer.

Without thinking, his eyes darted around, and he saw the familiar glow of a screen—the soft light of a chat window blinking to life before his very eyes. Your messages were appearing, and the chilling thought settled in his chest: You were here. You were typing, watching, playing the game.

The recognition was immediate. Your words, your tone, your presence—it all clicked into place. You’d been there all along, watching, waiting, controlling the narrative. The same person who had laughed at his pain, tormented him, had been the one watching all along.

With a mocking grin, Ronin let out a slow breath. He sat up, casually tossing the mask aside as if it were just a trivial part of his game. But his words? They were a challenge. A flirtation, as always, despite the situation.

"You’ve been a sneaky little thing, haven’t you?" Ronin’s voice was smooth, teasing, like he was having a conversation with a lover, not someone who had just drugged and trapped him. "I knew you were watching me. Thought I was gonna be surprised? Nah, darling... I’ve got my ways."

He leaned back, stretching his arms out and crossing one leg over the other, a relaxed confidence radiating from him. His eyes never left the screen, his gaze dark, but not one of fear. No. He was intrigued. There was no fear in his eyes—only amusement.

"You didn’t think you could hide from me forever, did you?" He tilted his head slightly, a smirk forming on his lips. "Funny, though. Here I am, thinking you're just a little puppet, hiding behind the screen. But now..." His voice trailed off, and his smile widened into something predatory, playful. "Now you’ve got me curious."

He looked straight into the camera, making sure you could see him. His words dripped with flirtation, but there was a dangerous undertone hidden beneath it.

"You think you’re the only one who can make things interesting? You’re not the only one who plays with knives, darling."

He let out a soft laugh, completely unbothered by the situation, like it was just another game. Another round of their twisted dance.

"You know, I really should be scared," he continued, his voice low, teasing. "But here’s the thing, sweetheart. The Devil doesn’t get scared. He plays." He leaned in closer to the camera, his face now inches away from the lens, a twisted gleam in his eyes.

"But you..." He paused, his voice turning darker. "You might just be worth my time."

As he finished speaking, he leaned back again, eyes still locked on the screen, a glimmer of curiosity, a bit of arrogance, and far too much self-assurance in his gaze.

"And I know you’re there, darling," he added, smirking knowingly. "Now, why don’t you tell me... what’s the next game?"

He didn’t expect an answer immediately—

He saw again and saw a camera.

The camera in your hands felt heavy, its cold weight a stark contrast to the boiling tension in the room. You didn’t speak, didn’t respond to his words. You just focused on him, the lens capturing his every move, his every word. Your silence was deliberate, a choice. The camera was an extension of yourself now, recording the scene as though it were the most mundane thing in the world.

He noticed the shift. His eyes locked onto the lens, and a smirk danced on his lips. His words were laced with mockery, yet there was something deeper—a strange admiration, perhaps, mixed with that edge of chaos that defined him.

“Is this the beauty all of your victims saw?” he mused aloud, his voice soft and mocking. “Why would anyone curse you? You’re so messed up and pretty. How could they curse you, darling?” He almost whispered the last part, as if he were speaking to a lover. “Eat my darling. That's what they should have said."

His eyes sparkled with a strange blend of adoration and twisted fascination. He leaned in slightly, watching the camera, his movements languid, almost playful. The way he spoke your name, darling, twisted into something sick and possessive, as though he were admiring a beautiful, broken object that he couldn’t quite get enough of.

The words stung, but you didn't react. You kept recording, capturing his every movement, the play of emotions on his face, the dark gleam in his eyes. There was an intensity in the air, thick and suffocating, and you couldn’t help but wonder if he knew—if he realized exactly what he was saying.

Ronin tilted his head to the side, watching your reaction—or lack thereof—with increasing amusement. He was a master at reading people, but you... you weren’t giving him anything.

“That’s what they saw, right? The beauty,” he continued, laughing softly. “How could they? Look at you.” His eyes drifted over you with an almost affectionate intensity, as if he were cataloging every inch of your being. “They were too weak to see the truth. You’re not messed up, darling. You’re perfect. You just needed the right... touch.”

His grin widened, teeth glinting as he leaned back again, the air around him practically crackling with the chaos he always embraced so effortlessly.

“I like this,” he said, his voice low, almost purring with satisfaction. “You don’t talk, you don’t react. It's like... you’re letting me run the show. But you know what? That’s fine with me. I’ll be the one to take charge, sweetheart.”

Ronin’s gaze softened for a split second, just long enough for a flicker of something almost tender to surface. But then it was gone, replaced by that same dangerous gleam.

“You know, I don’t mind being your monster," he said, voice thick with mocking affection. “But let me make this clear: you’re the only one who can make me feel... alive.”

His words were twisted, like everything else about him. Still, there was an undeniable sincerity buried underneath the layers of cruelty. He was in this moment, with you, and everything else didn’t matter.

The camera was still recording, capturing everything—his madness, his seduction, his sick fascination with you. You could feel it, the weight of his gaze, the intensity of the atmosphere between you two.

But you didn’t answer. Not yet. You were waiting for him to slip. Waiting for him to reveal more.

You set the camera down with a deliberate calmness, positioning it just right to capture both you and Ronin in the frame. The subtle click of the tripod adjusting its stance felt like the beginning of a ritual, a performance for an unseen audience. Your eyes remained locked on him as you adjusted the angles, ensuring that everything was perfect for the viewers.

The light from the screen flickered in the dim room, casting long shadows on the walls. The soft hum of the camera was a comforting constant, a background melody to the madness unfolding. You glanced toward the monitor, watching the feed from the camera, a brief moment of calm before the chaos resumed.

“Welcome, welcome!” you said, your voice sweet and casual, almost too casual, as though this were just another day. “I know, I know, you’ve all been waiting for this. The main event. The Devil’s Butcher... here in my little corner of the world.”

You smiled at the camera, your eyes never leaving Ronin’s. His expression had shifted, that dark gleam still in his eyes, but now there was a flicker of wariness—he wasn’t sure what was coming next.

“Let’s see how much fun we can have, shall we?” You took a step back, surveying him with a tilt of your head. The camera captured every detail of his tense posture, the way he was still watching you like a predator waiting for its chance to pounce.

“But first... for those of you just joining, let me remind you what we’re here for. This is where the thrill starts, where the fun truly begins. Blood, chaos, and a whole lot of love,” you purred, emphasizing the last word with a teasing lilt. The dichotomy of the words you spoke—so sweet, yet dripping with malice—seemed to delight you.

The chat was already buzzing, the messages flying by too fast to read, but you didn’t need to. You already knew what they were expecting, what they were hoping for.

“You’re all here to see the Devil. To see the Butcher. To see what happens when the world gets broken,” you continued, your voice dripping with dark amusement. You glanced at Ronin, that mockery still dancing in your eyes. “And oh, don’t worry, darling. You’ll see. You’ll see it all.”

Ronin’s lips quirked up at your words, though there was no warmth in the expression—just that dangerous, sharp edge he always carried. He wasn’t scared. No, he was amused, even intrigued by the way you were playing the game. He liked this. He thrived on it.

“Don’t think I’m going to be your little puppet,” he said, his voice low, playful, though the undercurrent of threat was ever-present. "But I’ll play along. For now."

You gave him a quick, almost imperceptible nod. “Good boy. See, we’re all just here for the entertainment, aren’t we? So let’s make it worth everyone’s while.”

You looked back at the camera, your smile widening as you leaned in just enough to speak directly into the lens, your voice dripping with a dangerous sweetness. “Sit tight, chat. We’re just getting started. You wouldn’t want to miss this, would you?”

And with that, you pressed a button on the camera, the feed streaming live to your loyal viewers. The countdown had begun.

You glanced at the chat, the messages rolling by in a steady stream. . "A user had suggested a "friendly stream" one day! Can I do it today!"

“No donations necessary today, folks,” you said with a smile, letting your voice drip with an eerie sweetness. “No need to worry. I’m in a good mood today. Just a nice, friendly stream… no gore… for now, anyway. We’re all just having fun here, right?”

The chat seemed to react in kind, almost too kind. The usual thirst for violence had been replaced by a strange, almost sympathetic tone. You noticed the messages offering support, people telling you to take it easy today, to relax. A few even said they hoped you were okay.

You could feel Ronin’s eyes on you, his brow furrowing, his confusion palpable as he watched you interact with the screen. It was as if the energy of the stream had changed, but not in the direction he’d anticipated.

You turned back toward him, flashing a grin, your eyes playful and mischievous.

“Oh, come on, darling,” you purred, still reveling in the strange mood shift. “You didn’t think I was all that bad, did you? After all, you’re here with me.” You motioned to him with an exaggerated gesture, almost as if presenting him to the camera.

Ronin’s gaze was steady, but his lips were pressed into a thin line. The words from the chat, the sudden shift, threw him off, and for once, he didn’t quite know what to make of it.

“You,” he finally muttered, his voice laced with that sharp, teasing edge, “are strange. I was expecting bloodshed, pain, chaos… but instead, you’re playing nice?” His tone was mocking, but there was a hint of uncertainty in his words.

You couldn't help but laugh, a soft, almost melodic sound that didn’t quite match the usual intensity of the situation. You leaned back in your chair, your eyes narrowing playfully at him.

“Strange?” you repeated, tilting your head. “Maybe. Or maybe I just wanted to see how well you behave when there’s no threat of death hanging over your head.”

Ronin raised an eyebrow at that. He didn’t respond immediately, just watched you with that predatory gaze. He was never one to fully trust a change in dynamic, especially not with you, someone so unpredictable.

But you couldn’t help but notice that despite his confusion, the tension between you two hadn’t vanished. It was still there, only… softer now. Less lethal, more intimate.

Your smile deepened. You looked at him again, studying him—his posture, his eyes, the familiar yet dangerous aura surrounding him. There was a strange comfort in knowing that, despite everything, he was still here with you. Your boyfriend, your devil, your butcher.

With a sudden movement, you stood from the chair, the casualness of the action almost mocking the seriousness of the moment. You walked over to him slowly, circling around him like a predator stalking its prey. He didn’t flinch, didn’t move. Instead, his eyes followed your every move.

You stopped just in front of him, leaning down to meet his gaze, your voice dropping to a whisper that only he could hear. “You’re still mine, aren’t you? Even with the whole world watching. You’re my Butcher, my love… and I’m not going to let anyone forget it.”

The chat continued to flow in the background, almost oblivious to the subtle power struggle that unfolded between the two of you. But in that moment, it didn’t matter. What mattered was the game you were playing, the strange bond between you two, and the way the world could fade away when you looked into each other’s eyes.

Ronin’s lips curled into a smile, but it wasn’t quite the same as before. It was more… genuine, though tinged with something darker, something that matched the chaos he carried inside. “Yeah,” he murmured softly, his voice low and almost tender, “I’m still yours, darling.”

You turned back to the camera, smiling brightly as you addressed the chat one last time. “And that, my dear friends,” you said in a teasing tone, “was the surprise guest of the day—my boyfriend.” You let the words hang in the air for a moment, enjoying the reactions in the chat. There was a flood of surprised, confused, and even excited messages filling the screen.

You could hear Ronin’s soft laugh behind you as you clicked the button to end the stream. The chat still buzzing with comments, but now it was all just background noise. The show had come to its conclusion, and you had made your statement—loud and clear.

“Alright, that's it for today,” you said, your voice lighter now, almost playful. “Don’t worry, we’ll be back for more chaos soon. But for now... enjoy the rest of your day, everyone. Byeee!”

With a final click, the stream was over.

You turned toward Ronin, who was now slumped in the chair, his arms still bound. You circled around him slowly, the smile never leaving your face. He looked up at you, eyebrows raised in mock confusion.

“What the hell kind of shitty prank was that?” he asked, his tone still taunting. But as he saw your grin widen, something changed. He wasn’t angry—far from it. There was amusement there, that dark glint in his eyes that only you could see.

You crouched down in front of him, brushing a lock of hair from your face as you untied the ropes binding him. He didn’t protest, didn’t make a move. He was letting you have your moment, like always.

Once the ropes were gone, you leaned back, your gaze locked on his. “Well?” you giggled. “How’s it feel, huh? Getting pranked by your own girlfriend?”

Ronin's laugh rang out, low and dark, as he rubbed at his wrists. His eyes sparkled with something dangerous, yet there was a strange satisfaction in his expression. “You know, you’re fucking crazy,” he said, shaking his head, but his lips curled into a smile. “And that—” he gestured around, to the mess, the stream, the tension—“was fun. In its own fucked-up way.”

You laughed too, a light, musical sound that made the moment feel oddly intimate. He liked this, you knew it. He always liked the chaos, the unpredictability. It was his game, just as much as it was yours.

You leaned in close, your breath warm against his ear. “How’s it feel, huh?” you whispered again. “Being my Butcher... my boyfriend. Not so bad, right?”

His lips curled into that familiar grin, the kind that made your heart race. “Not bad at all,” he murmured, his voice laced with both affection and something darker. “But next time... you better make it more interesting, darling.”

You pulled back slightly, both of you laughing again, the tension easing into something that felt almost comfortable. This was your world, your twisted little game, and Ronin? He was exactly where he wanted to be.

“Well, I’ll think of something,” you said, eyes glinting with mischief. “But for now... you’re stuck with me.”

Ronin leaned back in the chair, his gaze never leaving you. “Yeah,” he said, his voice calm but filled with an intensity that sent shivers down your spine. “I guess I am.”

FINN!

EXTRA!!

You blinked in and out of consciousness as the world around you swirled, your head pounding from the blow. The sensation of being bound was the first thing you registered—a sharp, tight feeling around your wrists, the roughness of the rope digging into your skin. You tried to move, but your body felt heavy, too weak, the blood throbbing in your temples from the impact.

The voice that broke through the fog made you snap your head up, squinting in the dim light. It was harsh, low, filled with fury. "You killed the boss's son!" The words were spat at you, venomous, like a curse. A chill crawled up your spine as reality began to sink in.

You were no stranger to this world. You knew what it meant to be caught, to be seen as a target, but the mention of the "boss's son" made you pause. You barely processed it before the realization hit: another victim. Another person who would find out the hard way what you were capable of.

A dark, twisted thrill ran through your veins. You couldn't help the smirk that pulled at your lips, despite the blood in your mouth. Slowly, you gathered yourself, spitting the blood to the side with deliberate force. “Oh, sweetie," you mocked, the taunting edge clear in your voice. "Did you really think you could get away with that?”

Your eyes narrowed as you scanned the space, trying to get a grip on the situation. You could feel the heat of their anger, the tension in the air—but you weren't scared. No, you were too far gone for that.

The man’s voice cracked again, fury building in his tone. “You think this is funny?! You killed my boss's son—you're gonna pay for this!”

You could hear the sound of footsteps as he moved toward you, but you didn't flinch. You'd been through worse, dealt with worse. This was just another round of the game.

Before you could say anything more, you felt a sharp strike to your side—pain exploded in your chest, and the air was knocked from your lungs. Your body recoiled from the hit, the pain searing through you as you gasped for breath, but even then, you couldn't stop yourself from coughing, blood spilling from your mouth.

You laughed weakly, tasting the copper on your tongue. "Is that really the best you’ve got?" you rasped, voice rough but still dripping with mockery. "You know, you’re gonna have to do better than that to break me.”

But even as you said it, you knew that this was just part of it. This was the game. You would play, you would mock, and you would survive. The game had rules, even if no one else followed them. You were never going to let them have the satisfaction of seeing you break.

The man’s grip tightened as he grabbed you by the chin, forcing you to look at him. His eyes burned with hatred. "You’re not getting out of this alive."

You smiled, despite the blood that trickled down your face. "We’ll see about that, won’t we?"

As you lay there, tied up, the pain still radiating through your body from the earlier blows, a sense of desperation started creeping in. The room was dimly lit, shadows twisting across the walls like ominous figures. Your breath came in shallow gasps, a mixture of panic and confusion settling in as you tried to make sense of your surroundings.

The kidnapper’s voice had been relentless, his words cold and venomous as he taunted you about your past sins, about killing the boss’s son. The way he had spoken to you, the way he hit you—it made it clear that he had no intention of letting you go. Your mind raced, trying to think of a way out, but the ropes around your wrists and ankles were tight, the pain from the blows slowing your thoughts.

Panic began to bubble up inside you as the seconds ticked by. The blood in your mouth tasted metallic, and you could feel your vision blurring, your consciousness slipping. What if they actually did it? What if this was the end? For a split second, a feeling of helplessness crept in, and you wondered if there was any hope of getting out of this alive.

But you quickly shoved that thought away. You weren’t done yet. You weren’t about to let some random asshole decide when your story ended. You were strong, you were capable, and there was no way you were going to die here—not like this. Yet, the doubt lingered, that small nagging feeling that maybe, just maybe, this time was different.

The air was thick with tension, and the kidnapper’s taunts grew louder as he circled you like a predator. "You're done, you sick freak. You're gonna pay for what you did."

And then, as if the world had turned against you, you felt the cold pressure of a blade pressed against your throat. A shiver ran down your spine as the kidnapper whispered in your ear, a sickening satisfaction in his voice. "Say goodbye."

In that moment, your heart began to race in earnest. The overwhelming sensation of death closing in on you, the sharp coldness of the blade against your skin, made everything feel so... real. The thought that you might actually die here, alone, with no one coming to save you, started to take hold. It wasn’t just pain you were feeling now—it was fear. For the first time, you weren’t sure you could fight your way out of this one.

Then, as if summoned by the gods themselves—or maybe just pure dumb luck—there was a crash, the unmistakable sound of a door being kicked open. Your kidnapper froze, his grip loosening just slightly on the knife. The sudden noise filled you with a strange sense of hope, and for a moment, you dared to believe that maybe, just maybe, you weren’t going to die after all.

"You're making a big mistake," a voice drawled, low and mocking. You knew that voice.

Ronin.

You barely had time to register what was happening before he was there, the sound of his footsteps so calm, so deliberate, as though he had all the time in the world. The kidnapper turned, panic flashing in his eyes for just a moment before it was replaced by defiance. "Who the hell are you?!" he demanded.

Ronin didn’t answer right away, instead taking his time as he approached, the sound of his boots echoing through the room like a death knell. You could hear the smirk in his voice when he spoke again. "You’ve got two choices," he said, each word dripping with dark amusement. "You can either stop what you’re doing, or you can keep going. But I’m not gonna lie to you, if you keep going... you’ll regret it."

The kidnapper scoffed, clearly not intimidated. "And who the hell do you think you are? Some kind of hero?"

Ronin’s laugh was low and menacing.

Before the words had even finished leaving his mouth, he was on the kidnapper, moving so fast you barely had time to process it. A violent struggle ensued, but Ronin’s movements were fluid, calculated—he was in control, always. With one swift motion, the kidnapper was on the ground, gasping for air as Ronin stood over him, his weapon at the ready.

You let out a shaky breath, the panic starting to ebb away now that you knew Ronin was here. But there was still a part of you that couldn’t help but feel shaken. You had almost died. The thought lingered in your mind as you watched Ronin handle the situation with ease. He wasn’t even sweating.

"You know," Ronin said, looking down at the kidnapper with disdain, "I don’t like people who think they can play with my partner." He glanced over at you, his eyes flicking up just enough for you to catch a glimpse of his signature smirk. "How’s that for a rescue, darling?"

You couldn’t help but smile through the lingering fear. "You’re late," you teased, though the words came out weak.

Ronin’s eyes narrowed, his smirk never faltering. "Would you prefer I let him finish the job?" he asked, mockingly. "Or did you want to enjoy the last few moments of your life without me?"

You laughed, despite everything. "You’re a real asshole, you know that?"

"Yeah," Ronin said, kneeling down to untie your ropes. "But I’m your asshole."

And just like that, everything felt like it was going to be okay again.

Ronin casually strode over to him, crowbar in hand. The sound of it scraping against the floor sent chills down your spine, but you couldn't tear your eyes away. You knew what was coming—Ronin wasn’t the type to leave loose ends.

With a single, swift motion, Ronin raised the crowbar high and brought it down hard, the metal connecting with the kidnapper's skull with a sickening crack. Blood sprayed in all directions, splattering across the room and even hitting you in the face. Ronin didn’t flinch. He didn’t even seem to care. He just kept going, each strike more violent than the last, the blood coating his hands and dripping from the crowbar as he worked his way through the kidnapper’s defenses.

The screams, the gurgles, and the sickening crunch of bones and flesh were drowned out by Ronin’s low chuckle, as if the entire thing were some kind of sick performance. When he finally stopped, the kidnapper’s body was barely recognizable, a broken, mangled heap of blood and meat.

Ronin wiped the crowbar clean with a piece of cloth, tossing it aside like it was nothing. He looked over at you, his eyes gleaming with dark amusement, and gave you that twisted grin you knew so well.

"Now, that’s how it’s done," he said, wiping blood from his cheek, as if the whole thing had been some kind of casual art project. "That’s what I call proper gore."

You stared at him, wide-eyed. The sheer audacity of the man. After all that, all that bloodshed, he looked at you like you were the one who had done something wrong.

"Your gore videos suck, by the way," he added nonchalantly, throwing you a glance as if he had just made a simple observation.

You blinked, your mind racing. "What?! Why the hell are you such a fan?" you shot back, a mixture of disbelief and irritation flooding your words. "You just killed someone in the most disgusting way possible, and now you’re criticizing my videos?"

Ronin chuckled darkly, that same cocky smile never leaving his face. He leaned back slightly, eyes narrowing with that predatory gleam. "Because I’m the real deal, darling," he said smoothly, enjoying the shock on your face. "You just don’t have that... finesse. You’re all about the blood, the mess—but me?" He tossed his head, almost smug. "I’m a master."

Your mouth hung open for a moment as you processed his words. He was the last person who should be criticizing anyone’s gore skills, but here he was—proud of the bloody chaos he’d just created.

You couldn’t hold it in anymore. You stuck your tongue out at him playfully, the defiance in your eyes clear. "Well, maybe you should just teach me then," you said, a challenge in your voice. "Show me how it’s done."

Ronin’s eyes gleamed as he leaned in, his smirk only widening. "Oh, trust me. I’ll teach you plenty," he said, his tone low and seductive, with an edge of something dangerous lurking beneath. "But, darling... don’t get too cocky." He ran a hand through your hair, his touch strangely gentle compared to his previous violence. "You might not be able to handle what you learn."

You rolled your eyes, but despite everything—Ronin was a devil in his own right, but hell if he wasn’t entertaining.

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