#just mentioning it has given me big feelings

[sailorsoons]

Cherry Sours (l.c)

PAIRING: Mafia!Chan x f. reader

SUMMARY: Nothing in your life ever comes easy. Not family, not money, and certainly not jobs to pay the endless stack of bills. The only thing easy is the smiles you give Chan when he comes into your convenience store at the same time every Saturday to buy his cherry sours. And then one day you run into him where you're not supposed to, and everything changes.

WC: 27,990

AU: Mafiaverse, Cyberpunk, Strangers to Lovers

GENRE: Romance, hint of angst, smut

RATING: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.

WARNINGS: Due to the nature of this fic, warnings are under the cut. This is far tamer than either of this fic's predecessors.

A/N: This fic, though a part of a greater "collection" of fics, can be read as a standalone. I do highly recommend reading Baby and Vengeance, though. They provide much more color to the characters you meet in this. Welcome back Angel, Baby and Soonyoung! This fic also introduces Jeonghan :)

A/N 2: Thank you @daechwitatamic for beta reading this absolute monster and being my biggest cheerleader.

 MASTERLIST | ASK | THE SYNDICATES COLLECTION | ▷NOW PLAYING: OFFICIAL PLAYLIST

FULL WARNINGS: General violence associated with criminal behavior, depictions of murder, fight sequences, mentions of drug use/references to drugs, mentions of death, mentions of Syndicate War and its toll on the city, threats of physical violence, depiction of guns and knives, explicit language, some depictions of classism/reader struggling to make it by, Jeonghan is in his evil era, pls forgive him, some angst regarding reader's perception of the world/how she feels about her life, morally grey characters (but they're fun lmao), reader agrees to sort of be paid company for the night - nothing sexual happens but I don't shy away from the implication of escorting, Chan gets a bit possessive, a bit of a miscom trope, explicit sexual content including vaginal fingering, oral (m and f receiving), unprotected sex, light cum eating, use of 'good girl' a few times. I think this mostly covers the big things, please let me know if I missed anything.

SWEAT DRIPS DOWN KANG LI YANG'S FOREHEAD. Chan watches it sharply, tracking the bead as it travels from Kang’s salt-and-pepper hairline to his thick brow. Chan has to give it to the older man - he doesn’t reach to wipe the sweat. Instead, he tries to seem unaffected and relaxed, leaning back in his chair to view the cards in his hand. 

Chan already knows what the cards are. Even if he wasn’t one of the top gamblers in the room, Kang is a terrible gambler - funny, considering he owns the ornate casino they’re sitting in. It’s just the two of them at the table with a single dealer, a woman dressed in a tight-fitted, all black suit. There are tiny LED lights stitched into the fabric, glittering subtle to make it look like she’s swimming in the cosmos. 

The high rollers room is quiet, the heavy privacy curtains blocking out the noise from the main gambling floors. Only a few tables are open with dealers similarly dressed as the woman in front of him passing out cards. It gives the illusion that they’re surrounded by people who will mind their business, who will afford them privacy.

It’s supposed to put Chan at ease. It doesn’t. 

He might be at ease if Kang weren’t sweating through his custom suit. He might be at ease if he didn’t recognize that the people at the tables around them were Patrons of the Yong Syndicate. He might be at ease if Kang’s fingers weren’t trembling as he moved his cards around to his preferred order, trying everything in his power to do anything but look around the room for what Chan knows is an ambush. 

He’d have figured it out even if Jeonghan hadn’t given him a warning. The right hand man of Choi Seungcheol is full of secrets, and though Chan has no idea why he has so much knowledge of the Yong family, he’s thankful for Jeonghan nonetheless. 

Chan sighs. Kang notices, steel grey eyes flickering up to Chan. “Worried you’ll lose another hand, Lee?” 

Chan does not lose games of poker - not even a single hand. He lets people win, sure, but he does not lose unless it is a part of his game to win. Because that is what Chan is good at - winning. It’s why he’s one of the most trusted members of the Choi Syndicate, a powerful Chariot whose single job is to broker and secure alliances and business to keep the money and loyalty flowing into Choi Seungcheol’s pockets.

“Do you know why The Syndicates started calling brokers Chariots?” Chan asks. He flicks his finger upward and pushes glittering chips toward the middle to raise the bet. Kang shakes his head at Chan’s question and matches his bet. “In the old days, one of the cards in a tarot deck was the Chariot.” 

The dealer burns the cards on the table and deals out anew. Kang looks at his hand, a ringed finger tapping against the back of his cards. His sweat increases on his brow and his eye twitches in the corner as he risks a glance to Chan’s left. 

“I didn’t know that,” Kang says eventually. 

“The Chariot,” Chan explains as Kang places a bet, “is a card that represents triumph through determination and overcoming obstacles. It’s what I do for a living - I overcome obstacles and move the Choi Syndicate in a positive, forward direction.” 

“I see.”

“I believe that you think you do.”

Kang glances up as Chan slides chips onto the table. “Being a Chariot is more than being charming or letting the owner of a high-performing casino beat me at hands to earn his trust and make him feel confident.” This makes Kang frown, his shoulders tensing. “It means knowing when someone is bullshiting me, and you, Kang Le Yang, are bullshitting me.”

“Excuse-”

“Three weeks ago you were more than eager to set up this meeting.” Chan presses on as the dealer moves the cards again, impervious to the crackling tension at the table. Kang is rippling with tension now, clutching his cards harder. “You’ve been wanting to lick the boot of one of the Syndicates since you opened this place.” 

“Listen here, you-”

“The Tower of the Choi Syndicate was amenable to bringing on the Kang Family as a Patron serving under the banner of the mountain, so I agreed to meet with you, Kang Le Yang.” The dealer asks the men to reveal their hands, but Kang is staring at Chan, fury reddening his cheeks. “Imagine my surprise to find you less eager, and inviting me to your table with several men loyal to the Yong family in the room.” 

Kang Le Yang’s face drains of color. He drops a hand from his cards to signal someone, but Chan tuts, stopping him. Chan reveals his cards - a straight flush. He doesn’t need Kang to drop his hand to know he only has a straight. 

“You’ve been delaying talking about business for the last hour,” Chan observes, leaning back in his seat and leveling the older man with a heavy stare. “You’re sweating through your clothes despite the anti-perspirant modification your wife had you do three years ago, and you keep looking over my shoulder to the left, which leads me to believe you’re waiting for someone.”

“Get out of my establishment.” 

Chan cocks his head. “Why? I haven’t cashed out my poker chips yet. Anyway, it looks like your wife isn’t done with playing her game yet.”

Kang spins around in his chair. He’d sat himself with his back to the entrance of the high rollers room like any good guest establishing trust would. He had given Chan a seat with a good vantage point to set the tone for confidence and to feel like he was safe. 

Which meant Kang Le Yang had not watched his wife, Kang Daiyu, walk into the room and sit at a table of her own. She’s flanked by two of the personal guards belonging to the Kang family, but the player next to his wife gives Kang a glittering smile with all teeth when he looks at them. 

When Kang turns to look at Chan, he is shaking and pale. “Get that demon away from my wife.”

“Her name is Angel, actually. The bible is confusing, I know.” Chan leans forward and pulls his winnings toward him. Kang doesn’t move, vibrating in his seat. 

Most members of the Syndicate know the woman sitting next to Kang’s wife. Kang himself might not know her, not embroiled enough in Syndicate politics to recognize one of the Rooks of the Choi Syndicate, but he does. Which confirms Jeonghan’s contact was right - Kang Le Yang had been prepped and educated about the Choi family in a way that screams collusion with another Syndicate. 

Lucky for Chan, Angel’s presence keeps Kang in his seat for the time being. Seeing one of the renowned killers of the Choi Family next to his wife is enough insurance that Chan has a few moments to spare before leaving - it was why he had Angel tag along in the first place. 

“I’m going to take these poker chips, walk over to the teller and get my cash, and then I’m going to walk out of here and go home. Probably going to stop to find someone to take with me on the way because I need a good fuck after this bullshit.” 

Chan points at Kang, the ring on his finger catching the light. It's a gaudy thing, all hammered gold and lapis lazuli with a chariot etching on the front. “And you are going to sit here and not do a fucking thing about it. And you’re not going to signal any of those Yong fuckers to touch me, or Angel is going to carve your wife open and play doctor with her insides.” 

“You insolent-”

“Angel loves knives,” Chan interrupts. He looks at Kang seriously. Lets the casino owner see the weight of his words. “Her favorite is a pretty butterfly knife Yoon Jeonghan gave her, and that Yoon Minji taught her how to use. If that isn’t convincing, I urge you to call whoever you were waiting for to see who answers - the Yong contact you set me up with, or the Sentinel of the Choi Syndicate.” 

Angel’s main purpose was to turn Kang Daiyu inside out if needed, but she was also an additional set of eyes and ears for Chan. She’d signaled Chan with a single flick of her hair fifteen minutes ago confirming that Soonyoung had removed whoever Kang was waiting for to come through the back door. 

Everything about Chan’s demeanor seems unaffected, but he’s raging inside, heart pounding. He and Angel are the only two people from the Choi Syndicate in the room and they’re outnumbered five to one. Soonyoung is somewhere lurking outside the high-rollers room doing whatever it is the hired guns of the Syndicate do. 

It’s not Chan’s best gamble, but he is making one right now. He is betting that Angel and Soonyoung’s reputation will be enough to terrify the casino owner into submission. Chan can be scary in his own way - he’s lethal too. But this is where he thrives, leveraging the names of two well known butchers that answer the call of Choi Seungcheol, ready to spill blood. 

Kang might get to kill the three of them tonight, but not without irreparable damage. Damage he’s going to take anyway for letting them go, but not irreparable. He can survive a petty skirmish with the Yong family. He cannot survive a fight with two of the Choi Syndicates most lethal members and the long term fallout with Seungcheol. 

The gamble pays off. Kang sags in his seat, the exhaustion transforming him. His apprehension turns to defeat and he nods, forehead in hand as he dismisses Chan. Chan gives him a charming smile, standing up and collecting his poker chips as he goes. 

Despite his confidence that Kang won’t do anything stupid, Chan doesn’t let his guard down. He walks with even steps, fingers ready to reach for his weapon as he goes. The Patrons under the Yong’s dragon banner watch him go, confused. 

None of them raise a hand to him. He gets the sense that they want to, but they haven’t been given the signal. They’re low enough on the totem pole in terms of Syndicate rank to do nothing, watching as Chan stops by the table Angel is playing poker at. 

He bends down to kiss Kang Daiyu on the top of her hand politely, flashing her a smile. She flushes and fans herself as he says, “You never fail to look less than ephemeral, Lady Kang.” 

It’s not untrue. Kang Daiyu has all the cosmetic enhancements money can afford, putting her appearance at somewhere around her late thirties while her physical age is somewhere in her early sixties. He still finds it uncanny, but he ignores the nervous flip in his stomach the proximity of her brings when he catches a whiff of altered pheromones, made to attract. 

Daiyu smiles, her red lips sparkling. “Lee Chan, you tease.” 

Angel makes a face behind her as she stands. In rare form, Angel is wearing a dress. She looks nice, which is disorienting and deceiving. Chan is used to seeing her wearing nothing but black tactical clothes or nondescript black pants and long sleeves. He’d made the mistake of asking her why she always wore black once. Because it shows blood the least had been her chipper response. 

Chan winks at Kang’s wife because he can. “Until we meet again.”

She pouts. “You’re leaving so soon?” Her eyes dart to Angel and a flash of rage goes through them. “Ah, it’s always the youngest of the flock.”

Chan laughs. “I assure you, Lady Kang, nothing in the world could lure me into this one’s bed. I think I would find too many teeth and a very angry, very prickly boyfriend.” 

If Angel is offended by implying she has too many teeth or that Chan thinks Vernon is prickly, she doesn’t say so. She is placid calm, watching him with even eyes as Kang Daiyu wishes him farewell and he sweeps by. She falls into step with him, saying nothing as her gaze sweeps from right to left, on high alert. 

When they exit the high roller room, Chan is hit with a barrage of noise and visuals. The casino is space-dark and filled with intricate holographics casting blue and purple light around the shine and clamour of the slot machines. Above the casino floor, the ceiling seems not to exist. Instead, a whorl of stars and galaxies float above, giving the illusion that they’re looking straight up into the night sky somewhere undiscovered. 

Soonyoung pushes off a slot machine, tucking his phone in his pocket. He’s dressed in all black as usual, and his silver hair is styled back and tucked behind his ears - longer than usual, like his girlfriend likes it. He falls into step easily with Chan and Angel, hands in his pocket, dark eyes like stormy seas sweeping the room.

Together, they head toward the teller. Soonyoung makes a noise in the back of his throat when he sees Chan diverting toward the glittering booth, a woman dressed in a space suit behind the counter. 

“I’m collecting my chips,” Chan says seriously. “I won fifty thousand credits off that stupid fuck.” 

“I’ll give you fifty thousand credits to skip it and get out of here. There are only three of us.” 

Chan rolls his eyes, walking backward toward the counter. “It’s a gamble, but it’s not a bad one. Wait here.”

Soongyoung does not, in fact, wait where Chan tells him to. He follows in Chan’s footsteps up to the window, a dangerous shadow that makes Chan sigh. He knows it’s Soonyoung’s job to keep the Syndicate - and Chan by extension - safe. Soonyoung has only been the Sentinel of  the Choi family for a few months, inheriting the position of militia leader when Seungcheol stepped in to lead the family business after his father’s passing. 

Life has not been easy for any of them lately, least of all Soonyoung. Chan glances at his friend sidelong while the teller counts his chips. Soonyoung looks tired, circles under his eyes and a little watery at the edges. But he’s nothing like the mess he was last year, nothing like the shadow of himself he’d been before his girlfriend had made it back to him. 

It makes Chan’s mouth twitch in a smile. He looks down at the counter, waiting for the teller. Seungcheol’s sister coming home and escaping the clutches of the Kim family had been the miracle that they all needed - and the start of the war that’s kept Chan busier than ever. 

Syndicate war isn’t common. It always devastates the city’s infrastructure, makes the general population panic, and has been known to wipe out entire family lines. That thought alone makes Chan glance over his shoulder at Angel. She’s standing in the middle of the casino, her gaze everywhere and nowhere at the same time. She looks like that a lot these days. Lost and found. Swimming and sinking. Here and there. Burning and fading. 

She’s the last of her family in more ways than one. She has no living relatives left that Chan is aware of, and though she’s not a Yoon by blood, she’s one of them by marriage and by Yoon Minji’s careful design. She’s one of two Yoon family members left in the city, the Wisdom of the Choi family and Seungcheol’s right hand man the other. 

The teller hands Chan his money and asks if he needs an escort. Soonyoung snorts and pushes off the wall, sticking a stim pop in his mouth as he goes. “I’ve got it,” he assures them, narrowed eyes. “Have a nice night.” 

Chan’s lips twitch again. He wishes the woman behind the counter a goodnight as well and follows Soonyoung, who charges toward the door. Angel is by his side in seconds, snapping from seemingly inattentive to alert. 

As they walk ahead of him, Chan relaxes just a little. He feels safer when they’re around, though he can take care of himself well enough. His mother had been a Sword for the Choi family, a hired gun and excellent fighter both with her hands and with a knife. She’d taught him how to defend himself from a young age, giving him the tools to be scrappier than most of the other Chariots in the Choi Syndicate. 

As a Chariot, it’s Chan’s responsibility to put himself in dangerous situations. He’s one of the few who has the audacity to go after deals and partnerships that put him deep in enemy territory - or walk through the doors like he did tonight to see if he can salvage a potential partnership anyway. 

It’s what makes him so successful. He’s willing to do whatever needs to be done to help the family - and if he likes the feeling of winning impossible wagers, well that’s his own business. 

Outside, the hiss of rain is hot on the pavement. Summer is bringing more and more rain to the city - not that it’s ever not raining - turning the world into a slick blur of watercolor. They’re in the Upper District of Hyperion, which means the storm drains actual work and the world doesn’t smell like piss and decay immediately when it rains. It doesn’t smell good, but it’s not as rotten as the gutters of the Lower District. 

A car pulls up in front of the lobby doors. The driver steps out and pops up a black umbrella, looking like a black beetle as they make their way toward Chan and the others. Chan recognizes the man as one of the Choi drivers and relaxes, complying when he escorts the three of them to the car, holding the umbrella over their heads.

Inside, the interior is warm and smells like amber. Soonyoung shoves him to the side with a curse and Chan growls, moving to sit by the other window - until Angel opens the door and narrows her eyes at him. Which is how Chan, the youngest of his friends, ends up smashed in the middle between them. 

He sighs and lets his head fall back against the headrest. “Can we go get fucked up?” 

Soonyoung shakes his head and tells Chan his girlfriend is waiting for him at home. Chan eyes Soonyoung, whose focus is on his phone, the holographs floating above the screen showing news articles. He notes that Soonyoung doesn’t call Seungcheol’s sister Baby anymore, like the rest of them. Soonyoung says her name, rolling off his tongue soft, like it belongs to him.

Chan supposes it does.

He turns to ask Angel and she already shakes her head. “I’m meeting up with Hansol to go hunting.” 

Chan doesn’t have to ask what Angel means by hunting. Ever since her stepmother’s murder the night the Kim Syndicate tried to take the Choi’s by surprise, Angel has been murdering members of the Kim family like clockwork. 

Like Soonyoung, Angel says Vernon’s given name like it’s something precious. It makes Chan feel unsettled. He’s never had what either of them do with their partners, a missionary-like devotion to the people they love that borders on unstable. 

The only thing Chan has ever been devoted to is his charm and his ability to talk people into a deal and into bed. He will be fucking damned if either of his friends who are in a relationship will rob him of that tonight, so he asks to be dropped a few blocks away from the casino at the corner of a strip of clubs under the Choi banner. 

Soonyoung rolls down the window before the car rolls away. “Be careful,” the Sentinel warns. His dark eyes flash. “Remember our territory isn’t safe either.” 

“God, you’re so serious these days.” 

“Syndicate war is serious.”

“You sound like Baby.”

Soongyoung’s mouth twitches at the mention of his partner’s nickname. “Yeah, well she’s smarter than both of us.” Soonyoung looks at his watch. “Try to be no longer than an hour, Chan. You’re charming, I’m sure you can find some pussy in that time frame?” 

“He’s also annoying,” Angel remarks from behind the window. 

Soonyoung snaps his fingers and points to Angel, who Chan cannot see. “Right she is. Maybe make it two.” 

“Thanks dad,” Chan growls. “I’ll come home when I want.” Soonyoung’s face darkens for a second, levelling Chan with a look that makes Chan happy. “But if you’re going to ruin your night worrying about me, I’ll make it two hours. Now leave.”

Soonyoung blows Chan a kiss and rolls up the dark window as the car’s tires hiss against the wet pavement. 

Watching the car go, Chan has the brief feeling he should have gone with them. He is exhausted, pulling long, stressful shifts and spending longer and longer in clubs, casinos and anywhere that will accept his invitation to get more people across the finish line and united under Seungcheol’s family. 

It’s not easy work. Times of unrest in the city don’t make people confident in doing business with the Syndicates until it looks like there’s going to be a winner. And right now, it’s hard to tell. The Choi family is doing a good job holding out against the pressures of the combined might of the Yong and Kim families, but two against one isn’t easy.

Stress knots in Chan’s shoulders. He rolls his neck, hissing when he feels the way the muscles coil. He’s fucking stressed. Everyone is. But the long nights weigh him down in a way that he’s not used to, and now he’s constantly walking across the edge of a knife.

Almost all of his meetings have been like the one with Kang. It’s not the first time someone has tried to maneuver him into a place where they can eliminate him, and it won’t be the last. He’s just glad that this time there was no bloodshed, unlike two weeks prior. 

Determined to find someone to take home and destress with, Chan starts walking up the street. The neon lights of a corner store capture his attention and his steps slow as he thinks about it. He hasn’t eaten all night and his energy is plummeting. He pats around his pockets and realizes he’s out of stimpops. Sighing, he pivots and walks toward the door.

A blast of air conditioning hits him in the face and the airlock on the door hisses. Inside the convenience store is a cacophony of neon advertisements and rows and rows of product: snacks, medical supplies, books, food, technology, tobacco products, hygiene products. 

Chan ignores it all in favor of going to the back wall, lit blue by the refrigerator lights. Multiple advertisements pop up on the screened fridges as he browses, each louder than the last. He winces, in a hurry to find the energy drink he wants so he can escape advertising hell.

Opening the fridge, he braves the cold as he snatches a cherry flavored energy drink that promises to wake him the fuck up with no added sugar or calories. He’s about to close the fridge when he thinks better of it and grabs a water as well. 

He trots to the front of the store, head ducked down as he goes. There’s no one else at the checkout counter as he drops his shit on top, knocking over the can. He reaches to right it, but a hand shoots out to do it for him. 

Chan startles, surprised at the human hand. Most convenient stores have little robots with singsong voices, but when he looks up at you, he freezes. You are certainly not a robot. Well - maybe you are. You look too pretty to be human, eyes glittering under the neon light above your head, casting you in a pink halo. You give him a shy smile, almost apologetic when you retract your hand back after fixing the can. 

“Find everything okay?” 

Chan just continues staring, items long forgotten.

Chan is so rarely thrown by a pretty face. He’s seen them all - natural and cosmetically enhanced, simple and exotic, friendly and not. He does a lot of business with a lot of people who make it their job to be pretty, whose entire purpose is to lure him in. 

He’s pretty good at cutting through pretty, but you cut right through him, down to the arsenic filled core of him. 

“Are you okay?” The question makes him blink a few times. Your mouth is downturned - still sweet and flush with sticky red like candy. “Sir?”

“Yes,” Chan answers finally. “Yes to both questions. Uh - found my shit and uh - sorry, that sounded rude. I found what I needed and I am okay. Yes.”

“This is my favorite flavor.” 

Chan glances down at the energy drink. “Same.”

“You know they make a candy that tastes exactly like this but sour?”

He realizes that the candy you’re referencing must be what the sticky residue on your mouth is. Suddenly he’s never wanted them more. “And where would I find them?”

Your smile lights up the room and he swears his heart beats faster like he’s just done a line of frostbyte. When you point, Chan notices a tiny tattoo on your wrist. It’s in the shape of a red heart. The corners of his mouth quirk upward. Cute. 

Following your direction, he walks back toward the candy aisle, hands perusing the shelf until he finds what he’s looking for. He picks up the box and shakes it as he approaches you, making you grin. Holy fuck he wants to keep making you grin. 

Once you’re finished ringing his items, he hovers his phone over the pay station. The machine chimes and you slide his bag over to him, red heart catching his eye again. 

“Enjoy your night,” you say.

“You too.” He steps toward the door and holds the bag up. “I’ll let you know if I like the cherry sours.”

“You will.” 

Night air hits Chan in the face, humid and sticky. Even if he hates the candy, he’ll certainly tell you otherwise. 

Instead of walking toward the club and cracking the energy drink, Chan calls one of the drivers for the Choi Syndicate to come get him. He passes the time by turning to look over his shoulder back into the interior of the store, but he can’t see you from where he stands. 

Cute. You were cute. In a way that he can’t quite pinpoint, but that sticks with him even when he slides into the air conditioned interior of the car. Your candied smile and little heart tattoo haunt him all the way home, nearly making him forget about the candy until he’s keying into his apartment. 

Tossing his shit on the counter, he reaches into the back and produces the little box. He gives it a shake, pleased at the rattle. Ripping the lid open with his teeth, he spits the spent cardboard on the counter and shakes out a few red, heart shaped candies. It immediately makes him think of your tattoo and he chuckles. 

Chan pops a few of the candies into his mouth and gives a thoughtful suck, humming pleasantly. They are sour, making his eyes water for just a second before they turn sweet. The taste of cherry is perfectly balanced and doesn’t taste like chemicals like most other candies. 

When he finally crawls into bed, Chan wonders if you taste as sweet as the cherry sours. 

-

Chan doesn’t do drugs. Well - sort of. He eats plenty of stimpops and every once and a while he has to resort to frostbyte as a last resort. His job requires him to operate at a level of awareness for hours longer than normal, and even though he takes the supplements and does all the wellness shit in the world to keep him operating, sometimes an illegal stimulant is the best way to get it done. 

It isn’t that he thinks drugs are bad - he just knows he has an addictive personality. Which is why Chan has been able to make a career out of high stakes and gambling, turning everything he does into a game. He is pretty good at not straying too far - it would cost him his life if he did - but he still gets a high from a closed deal, feels a rush of something strong when he wins. 

He can’t not work. It’s what makes him one of the best Chariots in the Syndicate, and Seungcheol’s favorite. The others take too much time off, or are too patient, too okay with losing. Chan is addicted to the risk and reward of navigating backdoor deals and under-the-table transactions. 

The inability to quit is why he doesn’t do drugs. Chan knows that once he starts, he won’t stop. 

Which is exactly how he winds up at the same corner store every Sunday at 3:40 AM sharp. He doesn’t bother telling himself it’s because the store is on the way home and because it’s the only one that carries the new cherry sours he likes (he wouldn’t know where else to look for them, he hasn’t tried). Chan knows it’s because that’s the only time your schedule doesn’t conflict with his. 

At least, that seems to be the case. He doesn’t have your schedule exactly - he has resisted doing that to feel less crazy. But Chan’s entire job is to be observant, and over a few weeks of trial and error, he knows for a fact the only time he is guaranteed to run into you is the late night hours of Sunday shifts. 

You’re a breath of fresh air every time he sees you. He has no idea how you manage to be so sweet while working arguably the worst shift at a convenience store that seems chronically empty, but he likes it. You’re a tiny pocket of kindness in his overwhelmingly cruel world. 

Tonight, Chan’s hands are shaking from post-adrenaline rush. He takes a few deep breaths outside the store. The air is heavy with the promise of rain, the smell of petrichor lingering. Better than the scent of blood that had filled his nose forty minutes ago. Chan hates the smell of blood. 

Steeling himself, Chan enters the store. The bright lights make him squint, the flashing holograms and fluorescents above a little too much for his liking. You look up from the counter and his heart trips over itself, doubling its speed when you smile and wave at him. Friendly. Familiar. 

Chan flashes you a smile in return, tilting his head in his own greeting before he ducks to the back where the freezers hold all of the drinks. He grabs his usual, taking his time as the advertisements beg him to pick their product. The cool air when the glass slides open is refreshing. 

He follows the same route he does every Saturday night, moving from the fridges to the candy aisle. He glances over the top of the shelves as he goes, watching you. You’ve jumped up on the back counter, swinging your legs as you hold a tablet in your hand, the words of what appear to be an online book projecting above the screen. 

You’re lost in your own world and he appreciates that. The first few times he’d come in here, you hadn’t let yourself be distracted. You’d stood and waited for him to grab his things and check out, every bit the customer service employee and attentive while someone was in your store. 

Now? You let Chan do what he wants. It’s a recent development over the last two weeks, one that he thoroughly enjoys. Last weekend you’d been listening to music, humming sweetly as you sat and kicked your feet back and forth while he walked around the aisles to collect his usual. 

Cherry sours in hand, Chan heads up to the counter. This part is bittersweet. He loves to chat with you, but he knows how short the shelf life of the conversation is, how quickly he has to say goodbye once he pays for the items. 

As usual, you hop down from the counter. You give him a smile that lights up the entire store and it’s all Chan can do to not drop everything on the counter for you to ring up.

“How’s your night?” You ask, eyes flicking up to drink him in.

Terrible is the honest answer. Chan had nearly died under an hour ago, and had to murder his way out of a bad deal. It wasn’t the first time. It wouldn’t be the last. 

Instead, he says, “Better now. What are you reading?” 

“Umm it’s some sort of ancient classic? It’s about two lovers who come from warring families.” 

“Ah.” His mouth twitches. “Romeo and Juliet.” 

“You’ve read it?”

He nods. “It’s one of the few books my mom owns.” 

“Your mom owns books? Like physical copies?” 

Chan winces. It’s easy to forget that something like a book is a simple possession to him and not the rest of the world. While most citizens of Hyperion only have access to the digital world, those with money and storied family history have access to things others don’t: physical art, tangible books and paintings, sculptures, gardens, decorations that are meant for looking and that don’t serve a purpose. 

“Ah,” he scratches the back of his neck as he pays for the items. “Yeah. She’s very fortunate.” 

You hum and he looks at you. There’s a look on your face he doesn’t understand. He stares until you look up at him and he shoots you a questioning look. 

“You said she is very fortunate,” you point out. “So either you don’t share in the wealth - which I doubt because you’re always dressed nice - or you’re calling it hers because you don’t want to make it awkward that you own physical books and I can’t.” 

Chan opens his mouth. Closes it. Your observation is dead on, leaving him at a loss of words for a moment, which is unfamiliar territory. But Chan is observant too, and he notices the way you say that you can’t own physical books. Not that you don’t. Because it isn’t a possibility for you, it’s not just something you haven’t been able to do yet. It’s something that you’ll never be able to do, a firm no.

“It’s the second one.” He opts for honesty here, in this space with you. He cheats almost everyone else, but he doesn’t want to cheat you. “I forget that it is incredibly privileged of me to just… have access to books.” 

“I think it’s easy to forget what is normal for you isn’t the same for everyone.” 

He doesn’t like where this conversation with you is going. He’s never talked to you this much at once, but it feels negative, feels like he’s putting distance between you instead of pulling you closer. So he switches to asking, “What do you think of it so far?” 

“Despite its age, it's quite relevant. Family wars wreak havoc on everyone.” 

He looks up at you sharply. “You’re referencing the Syndicate War?”

“Those are families, so I suppose they fall under the category.” 

Chan narrows his eyes a fraction. You don’t look at him straight on, but your words hold meaning enough, even if you’re not brave enough yet to look him in the eyes and tell him. He doesn’t mind, hiding a small smile as he gathers his items. 

“You’re not wrong,” he says evenly. You glance up at him. “About either thing.” 

“Anyway, sorry to bore you. It’s a good book.”

“No apologies necessary, you’re far from boring. Have a nice night?” 

You nod and step away from the register. He aches to stay, but he’s tired and the timer has burned out on this interaction. Chan turns to go, but stops when your voice calls him back from the register. “By the way?” He looks at you over his shoulder. “There is blood on your hands. I hope you’re alright?” 

Surprised, he looks down at his hands. You’re right - there are smudges of dried red, not yet flaking from the rest of his skin. He looks back up at you to see real concern in your eyes. You’re leaning over the counter, hands pressed flat to the top to peer around the stand of phone charges that would otherwise block your view. 

“Yeah,” he calls awkwardly, laughing a little. “Yeah, I’m alright.”

You chew the corner of your mouth. “Alright. Have a good night, Chan.”

“You too.”

Chan steps out into the humid air of the city, immediately cloyed by the sticky fingers of promised rain and heavy clouds. Instead of looking up to the swollen sky, he glances over his shoulder to look back through the door. He can’t see you, but he knows you're there, sitting and reading your story. 

Fuck. Chan sighs. Like Romeo, he suddenly feels that his consequences too, are somewhere hanging in the stars. 

-

Exhaustion burns your eyes. You press the heels of your palms into them, willing the burn to stop. When you remove your hands, they’re still stinging and likely red. Sighing, you slide off the counter and pull open the drawer behind the register. It’s creeping past three in the morning, and these late, never-ending shifts are starting to weigh down you.

They don’t weigh as much as the debt inherited from your father, though, so you squeeze some drops in your eyes, crack an energy drink and tell yourself that you at least have something to look forward to tonight.

Sundays are the only bright part of your nights. Maybe your life. It feels too heavy to admit that, though, so you pretend that seeing Chan for five to ten minutes once a week isn’t the only thing you look forward to for days at a time, even if it’s true. 

You wish you had those fancy stimpops you sometimes see him chewing on when he wanders into the store. He always throws the paper stick out in the trash before he comes to the register, as though he’s too afraid to let on that he likes them. 

In school, they told you stim was the gateway drug. Now, knee-deep in twelve-hour shifts split between two dead-end jobs, you know better. The real gateway to hard drug use is just surviving. Just waking up and existing in a world that grinds down anyone who dares to breathe too loudly. You don’t blame people for needing an escape - you need an escape.

Chan is that very escape. 

You’ve never touched stim. Not because you don’t want to, but because the Taps in your neighborhood terrify you and the reward isn’t worth the risk. You can’t drown yourself in virtual reality clubs or AI lounges, either. Those require time and money, neither of which you have. 

So you settle on what you do have: seeing Chan once a week in the dark hours of the night. 

It’s not much, but it’s everything. Between dragging yourself through never-ending cashier shifts and folding sheets in the hotel’s laundry room until your hands are raw from the scrape of fabric, your world has shriveled to a pinpoint of focus to survive. You sleep. You eat. You work. 

You think about Sunday when Chan will stroll in, grab his usual energy drink and box of cherry sours, and for a few minutes, you’ll remember what it feels like to want something just because it makes you feel alive. 

And when he leaves, the moment will last for a single, ephemeral minute and then die, the embers of a fire gone cold.

A patron enters the store with a gust of rain and the melodic chime above the door. You don’t bother looking up, knowing it isn’t Chan. He arrives at a very specific time every night. No earlier, no later. You like that about Chan. It makes him feel reliable.

No one else is reliable. 

You know little about Chan. What you do know is that he does something questionable, sometimes coming in with flecks of blood on his hand or on his neck where he thinks he’s scrubbed himself clean. You know that he comes from money - you’re not sure how many generations - with access to paper books, a luxury you can barely fathom. You know that he’s charming, and after the first few times he’d come in, he’d gone from shy to coy. 

He’s also kind. At least, you think so. He always asks how your night is, lingering at the end of your conversation, as though he’s just as hesitant to go as you are to let him. It’s a little fantasy you play in your head after he leaves, taking his energy drink and cherry sours with him: who will break first.

Of course, you don’t think Chan is playing a game. You’d never assume that anyone with the access to the lifestyle he has would be interested in more than mindless flirting on their way home. 

A man comes up to the register and buys a handful of food items. You scan them wordlessly, bagging them and handing them over the counter. He’s just as wordless, snatching them from your hands and turning on his heel to exit the store. He’s dressed nicely, evidence of tailoring and an old fashioned watch on his wrist. 

That is Chan’s kind of crowd. People who move through the world blind to those beneath them, living in a bubble so self-contained they don’t even realize anyone unlike them exists. 

This time when the door opens, you shoot a grin toward the door. Chan is already smiling when he sees you, lifting his hand in a small wave. He points to the back of the store, as though to tell you he’ll be with you in a moment after he grabs his things. You nod - because that’s what you always do. Because you’re just eager to see him, heart hammering as he vanishes down an aisle. 

Advertisements yell at him as he goes. You swear you hear him tell one of them to shut up and the first genuine smile you’ve had all week breaks across your face. Heart skipping, you jump up on the counter behind the register, trying to appear calm. Watching. Waiting. 

Chan will only be here for fifteen minutes, but you love all fifteen of them. 

When he appears, it feels like your blood sings. You smile at him, sliding from the counter as he approaches. He’s dressed down today, not in his usual button up and blazer, but rather black slacks with a grey shirt tucked in, a leather jacket pulled over his arms. Beads of water cling to the leather from the rain, and his dark hair is damp and hangs in his eyes.

His hair has gotten longer over the last few weeks. You like it long, wondering if it’s as soft as it looks. You imagine it is, watching him as he brushes his hair from his forehead with the delicate tips of his fingers, looking up at you with a small smile. 

“How are you?” He asks, voice warm. 

“Good. Not working tonight?”

He looks down at his outfit. “Could you tell?”

“Mhmm.” You slowly ring up the energy drink first. “You’re usually dressed very fancy when you’re working.”

“I’m not always, I promise. That’s just for meetings.” 

“So you are working, but no meetings?”

He winks and your heart sputters to a stop. You nearly knock over the box of cherry sours in your attempt to pick it up and ring it in. “Believe it or not, I’m just starting work.”

“At three in the morning?”

“Graveyard shift.”

“Well then I hope you have a good day.” 

Chan pays, holding his phone up to the reader. You study him, drinking in each familiar part of his face, committing it to memory so you can think of him fondly until the next time you see him. His expressive eyes are downcast as he types something on his phone, the blue glow of the holoscreen bathing him in ethereal light. You admire the soft curve of his cupid’s bow, the angular cut of his jaw. 

He’s beautiful in a world where beauty feels manufactured. You like the small scar on his face, untouched by lasers, left exactly as it is. You like the dark circles under his eyes, quiet evidence that nothing’s been smoothed or erased. You like the way his face shifts effortlessly from commanding to kind. Most of all, you like that it’s real. He’s entirely, unapologetically human.

When he looks up at you, you think you could fall into the dark depths of his eyes and never stop falling. Would do it, if it meant you could stay with him. 

“I have something for you.” 

His words break the spell. You blink, equal parts dazed and surprised. “Oh?”

“And I don’t want you to freak out when I give it to you.”

“Well I wasn’t going to, but now I think I might.”

He groans, still playful. He opens the lapel of his jacket, revealing a red, silk interior paneling. It makes the jacket that much nicer, an elegant touch to what otherwise looks nondescript. When his hand comes back out of his jacket, he’s holding a thin book. 

Your heart catches as you stare at it. He holds it out to you but you pull your hands away like you’re afraid to be bitten. It’s a beautiful thing, thin and sleek with a red leather cover and gold filigree pressed across the front. Pressing your palms to your middle to keep them from shaking, you look at the cover where it says Romeo and Juliet back up to Chan, who is waiting.

“I can’t accept that,” you whisper, voice hoarse. “That is- Chan.”

“I promise that you can. I know it’s… look it’s not the only copy in my library. And I don’t say that as in ‘this means nothing to me because I have multiple.’ I mean that I can spare one, and I would like you to have it.”

In your little corner of the world, a paper book is a rarity. Only a certain level of the upper echelon have something so permanent. Everything that has always been available to you is digital screens and hollow imitations of art. 

Chan’s gift - a real piece of art - hits you harder than you expect. It’s more than a gift. It’s proof that once upon a time, humans created something genuine, that humans were more than what they are now. 

And Chan wants to just give it to you. 

Gently, Chan leans over the counter and presses the book into your hand. You tentatively take it, pinching the tome between your fingers. He lets go, giving it to you without ceremony. There’s no bow, no note, just the weight of it in your hand.

You glance up at him. He says nothing, watching while he chews the corner of his lip. You turn it over in your hands and run your finger on the embossed title, feeling the groove of the letters. The gold glitters in the neon light of the store, flashing colors as it catches the lights.

Tears pool in your waterline, ridiculous and sudden and silly. He’s giving you this because he can, and crying feels like too much of an emotion in front of him, so you suck in a sharp breath and look up at him, giving him a smile. 

“This is too much. I don’t know how to express my thanks.”

He shrugs. “None needed. I just want to know that you enjoy the physical version. It feels realer that way.”

It does, you want to say. You can’t find the words, throat constricting as Chan looks at his phone and sighs regretfully. 

“I have to go.” You look at the clock. He is a minute over fifteen, one minute longer than he usually spares you. “Tell me how you like it in this version. Forgive me for all the handwriting in the margins and all of the bent pages - this specific volume has been very loved by me and I took a lot of notes when in school.”

Chan’s admission makes your heart beat harder, your fondness grow softer. He has no idea what this means to you, no idea how it’s already become your most treasured item, and it probably means little to him - almost nothing. 

“Have a good night,” he murmurs, giving you a final smile before he gathers his items and heads out the store, leaving you  teetering between bursting into tears and falling ridiculously in love. 

-

Perched in the neon-drenched skyline of Hyperion, The Spire overlooks most of the city, boasting that it’s the tallest building in all of Hyperion. That’s true - for now. There are plenty of real estate and building architects interested in beating the luxury hotel’s claim to fame, but for now The Spire remains top of the list and top of the city, with its penthouse rented out to people you could never dream of knowing.

The building spirals upward like a helix, pulsing in the night like an aura as LED bands thrum from bottom to top. When you stand at street level and look up, the top of the building vanishing into the clouds, turning them blue and pink and purple as the LEDs flash.

You’re rarely at street level, though. Unlike the occupants who get to rent rooms and stay among the clouds, you exist in the bowels of the building, tucked deep below the guest levels in sublevel B6 of the Service Core. If the glittering building is the body, the Service Core is its nervous system, branching out like roots beneath the hotel. 

There’s no glamour in the Service Core. Steam hisses as you enter into the cavernous, industrial laundry room. Above, the white-blue fluorescent lights flicker and hum. Where the hotel itself has so much color, the Service Core does not. Gunmetal walls stained with years of detergent runoff from the machines and the laundry room above, exposed pipes hissing and twisted overheard like a mechanical spider web - it’s far from the glory above. 

The Service Core exists to serve a single purpose to the hotel - serve it. Kitchenstaff, waste management, laundry, engineering, housekeeping - it all exists on multiple sub-level floors. The Spire has a robust staff, churning people in and out to keep the thousands of guests above happy. 

Weary and heavy-footed, you trudge to the folding station. The table hums and flickers as you approach and stick your thumb on the top of it, clocking in. Next to the table is a stack of linens that need folding. There are hundreds of types of robots that could do this for you, but part of The Spire’s pillars is giving back to the community and ensuring there are jobs for real people who need real money.

Except they don’t pay a real living wage. 

Still, it’s a job. And a mindless one where you can zone out, grabbing a linen and placing it on the glowing grid of the folding table. The interactive surface recognizes the material easily and a folding guide pops up, showing you exactly which way to fold each part. You’ve been doing this long enough that you don’t need it, hands getting to work before adding it to the appropriate pile to be scanned and rated on quality of fold. 

The air smells like ozone, bleach and burnt polyester. It singes your nose as you fold, but eventually you get used to it, the smell vanishing the longer you pull, fold, repeat. Pull, fold, repeat. The ambient sound of whirring machines, dripping condensation and chatter between tables brackets the soft thunk as you flip sheets over, pressing your fingers along seems, feeling the hiss and burn of silk against your fingertips. 

Eventually, someone calls your name. You look up, eyes adjusting in the dim light as Cara clocks in to the table next to you. She’s dressed in the same drab, grey-blue uniform, her blinking name tag showing a little red heart. You’ve never added anything extra to yours, just your name. 

“Yay, I get to work with you!” Cara gushes, brushing an auburn strand of hair behind her heavily pierced ears. “It’s been so long since I saw you!”

“You haven’t been taking shifts,” you note, arching a brow. 

“Haven’t needed them until now. Ugh, I’ve been making really good money at that gig I told you about, but Bebito had some debts to pay off so…”

So naturally, Cara is picking up the slack for her piece of shit boyfriend again. You grimace but let her chatter on, filling you in on some sort of hotel staff drama dealing with names of people you don’t remember and faces you cannot recall. 

Cara is pretty. The kind of pretty that gets in trouble, catching the attention of all the wrong people. Cara likes that attention, though - thrives on it. It’s why she sticks around with her deadbeat boyfriend who does nothing but low-level work for some minor Syndicates in the city and blows away his money. But the danger appeals to Cara - and apparently, the mind blowing sex. 

It’s good to see her. When she goes weeks without a shift, you start to worry. You’re not friends, but she’s friendly. Kind. A flower in a world that rarely sees sun. It’s why she’s been plucked by another group of women in the Service Core to occasionally participate in the side gig she talks about. 

“So I know you always say no,” Cara broaches, glancing side-long at you. “But Tivi dropped out of this high-level event we’re supposed to be doing in two weeks and we really need another girl. I swear it's safe. You just have to be pretty and stand there and sometimes sit on a lap.”

Your stomach turns sour. Cara has asked you a million times before. She makes good money being an accessory to powerful people who want to put on a show, but it’s far more dangerous than she lets on. Plus, you’ve never been keen on letting someone touch you for money, even if it’s just a hand on a waist or a brush of fingers on an arm. 

Shamefully, a small part of you resists because you have Chan. You don’t need the attention of anyone else, patient like a planet eager to come back into its sun’s orbit again. The thought of someone else getting to smile at you and bat their eyelashes makes you squirm. 

“I’m good,” you assure Cara. “Thank you for offering, though.” 

Cara sighs, not disappointed, but a bit resigned. “Figured you say that. You ever change your mind though, you know where to call?”

“I do.” 

“Good.”

You offer her a tight smile and nod, pretending to focus on the sheet in your hands. It’s soft, lavender-scented, obviously from one of the higher suites. It’s the kind of luxury you can only touch with gloves on. You slide it into the folded stack. 

Cara’s offer lingers in your mind. You could do it. Just one night, one event. Stand there and look pretty. You’ve seen the other girls come into work with something new and pretty - sleek earrings, upgraded iris mods that glimmer behind their eyes like they’ve caught a glimpse of something you’re not invited to. 

But the thought of someone else's hand curling around your hip, their fingers tightening like they own you, even if you’re just rented, makes you stop. You think about Chan and your throat tightens a little. He doesn’t know about these offers, you think. You’re sure he wouldn’t even be able to understand them. His world is books and soft silk. Yours is steam and callused fingers.

At the end of your shift, you wave goodbye to Cara, touching her elbow gently, happy to see her. You tell her to be safe and you head out, stopping only to check the glitching screens by the door to check your upcoming schedule. 

You frown. Usually you’re scheduled for thirty hours a week, but it seems like you’ve only got ten upcoming. Ten doesn’t pay your rent. Ten doesn’t even come close. 

Chewing the inside of your cheek, you head to the office tucked in the corner of the room, nestled underneath a tangle of pipes. The glass window is full of fog from the humid room, and inside is just as cloying and thick with steam. 

“Ethel?” You ask gently, standing at the door. The B6 manager looks up over her foggy glasses. You jut your thumb backward toward the main floor. “I just checked the schedule and it looks like my hours are wrong.”

Ethel is a wiry woman with greying hair, gnarled fingers and swollen knuckles from decades of folding, and blotchy forearms from years of exposure to bleach. Now, she gets to sit in this small little room, the pipes clanging above her and the mold gathering in the corner giving her a wet cough. 

“No,” she sighs. “Not wrong. Just received word this morning that we're cutting back hours.” 

“What?” 

She shrugs. “Corporate hierarchy. Costs are heavy. Syndicate war. The owner is a Patron to the Yong family. They’re not doin’ so good with them Chois.”

Everything in Hyperion starts and ends with the Syndicates. It's always been that way. In this city, three families reign supreme: the Yong family, the Kim family and the Choi family. As of a few months ago, all hell had broken loose among the top three families. As you understand it, the Kim and Yong families had joined forces against the Choi family when their patriarch finally passed, and they’ve been going at it ever since.

You have nothing to do with the Syndicates, have stayed away from them your entire life. But the Syndicates have never stayed away from you, every decision their Tower’s make trickling down to affect you, an ant beneath their boot. 

This time, it seems the Yong family is going to step on you.

“I really need the hours…” You murmur, wringing your hands together. 

“You and everyone else. Schedule is final.” 

You leave The Spire the same way you came in - through the gutters. It’s not really a gutter, but the city drainage systems are so bad that it feels like it as you slosh through shin-deep rain runoff to get up to street level. 

Outside, it smells like rain and something vaguely coppery, like blood or rust or both. You tug your jacket tighter and start walking, the wet smack of your boots on the pavement your only companion as the distant glow of buildings hover over you. 

Your mind loops like a faulty video: cut hours, Syndicate war, Cara’s offer, Chan. Cut hours, Syndicate war, Cara’s offer, Chan. You’ve been careful, saving when you can and avoiding anything that is too dangerous or illegal, but being careful doesn’t pay your rent, especially in a city designed to make a criminal out of you. 

At a crosswalk, you pause. There’s a newscast screen playing at one of the main squares. It’s mostly devoid of people, save the few walking with umbrellas along the street, making them look like beetles. The bright blue of the screen makes you squint against the night, shielding your eyes as you watch the scrawling text feed at the bottom of the screen.

Choi family suspected in retaliation event in Pearl District. 14 confirmed dead. Yong family still denies involvement in the death of matriarch Yoon Minji. 

You look away, not bothering to look at the images of fire, blood and pictures of the fallen on the screen, not because you can’t stomach it, but because you don’t care. These people and their wars mean nothing to you so long as you can’t make a living under their thumb. 

By the time you reach your apartment, your legs ache and the weight in your chest from the week has settled into something low and pulsing. Cut hours. Syndicate war. Cara’s offer. Chan. 

You take the stairs. Every step up, you think about Ethel’s hands, bent, clawed, broken. You think about her arms, bleached with time. You think about her bent over her desk, crooked. Has she ever left B6 or the Service Core? Has she ever had dreams of being anything else? 

You think about Chan. You think about the book he gave you, sitting under your pillow and protected. 

Four days. In four days you’ll see Chan again. He’ll walk in from the rain and smile at you, asking you how your day is. You’ll tell him good, even though it’s not, and for the fifteen minutes that he leans against your counter, looking up at you with stars in his eyes, everything will be fine. 

-

Everything is not fine. 

The night had started out like normal - you’d gone from your last shift for the next few days at the laundry room to the convenience store, clocking in with heavy-lidded eyes and even heavier steps. But at least today was a Chan day, so it made it more bearable. Made it easier to pretend that for the next week, you weren’t going to be desperate for money. 

It was a slow night, only two people coming in before three in the morning approached. Each minute the clock counted down, your heart picked up speed. You’d been looking forward to this for days, thinking of everything that you wanted to tell Chan about the little notes he took in his copy of Romeo and Juliet, thinking about gushing over the way each of the pages in the book he gifted you felt like heaven, the words typed so perfectly on paper, each one meticulously placed and - 

When the door opens, you’re already smiling. Chan walks in, shaking off the rain. You start to lift your hand to wave when a woman steps in after him, elbowing him out of the way and barking at him to let her in before she drowns outside. 

Your smile vanishes. It feels like someone has kicked you in the stomach, punching through to your very core. You can barely breathe as you watch Chan turn to her, shooting back a quip that has her rolling her eyes. Their affection and intimacy is immediately palpable, familiarity written in every shove as the girl walks by him and vanishes into the aisle. 

He rolls his eyes and gives you a smile. You try to return it. You’re not sure if you do. He disappears down the aisle behind the girl and they restart their bickering, voices rising and falling in a steady cadence as they browse around the store. 

Turning around, you press your palms to your cheeks. They feel hot-flash warm, your heart thundering in your chest, breaths coming in short, rapid bursts. Chan is with a girl. Chan has a girl. There’s a girl with Chan. A girl has Chan. 

Every thought sputters like a broken engine, coming to life and cutting out, starting and stopping. When one thought begins, another one crashes into it, shattering it before you can fully get a grip on any of them and make them tangible. 

A feminine voice makes you spin around, breathless. The girl is standing in front of you, bent down to look at the types of gum in front of the counter. She looks vaguely familiar, though you can’t put your thumb on it. She is gorgeous, the type of gorgeous that rips the wind out of your sails, that leaves you stranded in dead water. 

Of course she’s pretty. Why wouldn’t she be? You’d always known what type of cloth Chan was cut from - it was the same type that you folded for the gods who stayed at the top of The Spire, the type you could only handle with gloves. 

“Why are there so many flavors?” She mutters, scrunching her brow. 

“Orange creamsicle is good,” you blurt, not really knowing where it comes from.

The girl flinches and looks up, eyes going round. “Holy shit,” she laughs. “There is an entire person there. I didn’t even see you. I thought most of these places had robots.” 

“Well I’m human. Last time I checked, anyway.”

“Huh. What do you know? Good on this store.”

Of course she hadn’t seen you. You’re nothing but a ghost to these people. They don’t know the difference when you’re there or not, whether you live or die. 

Except Chan. 

The girl stands, groaning as she stretches. She tosses the orange creamsicle gum on the table, alongside energy drinks and a candy bar with a tiger on it. Chan appears behind her, his usual gathered in his arms. He adds his items to the collection and glances at her. 

“Are you not paying?” He asks, deadpan. 

“You said we had to make a pit stop. You’ll be funding this one.”

“You’re such an ass,” he mutters, pulling his phone out. “All the money in the world and you always make me pay.”

“Right. I’ll remember that next time I get you a car for Christmas, Chan.”

He flushes and looks up at you. He has the decency to look flustered and chagrined. “Ignore her. She has no manners.”

“Bullshit!” She slaps his arm. “I took like four years of etiquette classes.” She gestures to you. “By the way, I had no idea there was a person here. I thought these places had robots.”

“Baby,” he sighs, paying. The term of endearment is the nail in your coffin. It feels like the world falls out from underneath your feet and it’s all you can do to not to turn around and burst into tears, fantasy shattered. “You’re being rude. She has a name.” 

When Chan says your name, it doesn’t feel like a caress this time. It lands cold, impersonal. It doesn’t settle into your chest like it usually does. It slides right off. You're just… you. She’s baby.

She giggles as Chan shoulders past her to grab his things, but she doesn't even flinch. She grins at you, polite, cheerful, effortless, plucking her items off the counter like she owns the moment, like this is her story and you're just some passing name in the credits - you are just name passing in the credits. Then she skips off toward the door, the picture of ease, popping gum like punctuation. 

She sings your name to get your attention. You blink at her, surprised she remembers it. “Amazing recommendation. Thank you!” 

“Ignore her,” Chan says, voice soft, sheepish, cradling his items like they might shield him from how awkward this suddenly feels. “I know she’s hard to ignore. She’s a bit of a… presence.”

“Oh.”

It’s all you can think of. Chan wavers between where he stands and the girl at the door, who scrolls on her phone. “What did you think of the book?”

“What?”

He raises his brows. “The book I gave you.”

That catches the girl’s attention from the door. Her eyes dart between Chan and you, narrowing. Your hands shake, knowing the look when a shark smells blood in the water. “You gave her a book, Channie?”

If it’s possible, he goes several shades redder. She starts to walk toward the two of you again. Her gaze has gone from dismissive to calculating, eyes narrowed, pupils dilated like a cat that has discovered a new toy. 

Before she reaches you, Chan steps back. He doesn’t say goodbye. Just gives you a look—something you can’t read anymore, not after what you’ve just seen. You stare back at him, hollowed out and unsure.

We’ll talk about it next time,” he says, voice soft and too fast. “Sorry again about her.”

Then he’s gone.

Your shift drags out like something dying. Each hour longer than the last. Everything around you is gray, dulled, like someone pulled the saturation out of your world. The only thing that stays sharp is the image of Chan, but not with you.

By the time you lock up and step outside, the air has cooled. The streets are quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that makes you feel like you don’t belong in your own life. Your footsteps echo against the pavement, louder than they should. You cross your arms tighter around yourself.

She called him Channie. He’d called her baby.

It replays again and again in your head. That voice. The way his shoulders didn’t stiffen. The way he didn’t correct her. 

He gave you a book. But he let her call him that. He gave you something thoughtful. Quiet. Careful. And she still got to stand closer. Laugh louder. Be the one he left with in his orbit. 

You think about Cara’s offer. It comes to you unbidden, pressing against all other thoughts until it’s all you can think of. It’s good money, a way out of your shortened hours, and… Chan isn’t yours. The fantasy is ruined. Shattered. Burned down.

Beneath the surface of the city, the subway smells like rotten rainwater. You ignore it, careful not to slip down the wet stairs as you go. Bundles of sleeping bags are shoved in the corner, people inside of them. There’s someone offering needles from his coat and a girl dressing in a translucent, LED body suit purring at people as they walk by.

You ignore them all, getting onto the subway, thankful when the doors suck shut behind you. The subway hums beneath your feet, a dull and constant shudder that rattles up your bones. You grip the cold metal pole beside you, staring at your own reflection in the window as the tunnel blurs past behind it.

Your reflection is washed out. Tired. Someone who works too long and too hard. Not someone like the girl Chan was with. Not someone who laughs like they haven’t a care in the world, not someone who argues over money despite it not being an object to them. 

The train isn’t crowded. A few scattered passengers, most of them asleep or hiding in a corner away from everyone else. There’s a man whispering to what you think might be a ferret in his coat, but you’re not sure. At least he has a companion, even if it’s some lanky critter. 

It feels like you’re not even on the train. You’re still stuck in that shop, watching Chan’s back as he walks away. Watching her walk toward him like she belonged there. Like you never did.

You close your eyes. You hadn’t realized how much of your hope had been pinned to the idea of him. To the what-if. The maybe. Maybe he saw you the way you saw him. Maybe he meant something when he gave you that book. Maybe you were different.

None of it was real. Like the idyllic fantasies in an alternate reality club. You suppose you’re no better than the people who get addicted to AI and alternate reality - you just didn’t need help to get there. 

The train jerks, lights flickering for a moment overhead. You open your eyes again. 

Cara’s offer, you think, not for the first time tonight. It drifts back to you like a ghost with impeccable timing. You look at your reflection again across the train. The lights smear across the  glass now, and for a split second, you see yourself not as you are, but as you could be. Full of color. 

Pulling out your phone, you text Cara and let her know that you’ll fill in for her friend. The train doors open with a hiss. You step out. You let the illusion of Chan shatter behind you without looking back. 

-

Chan doesn’t get nervous.

At most, he’ll admit to heightened awareness. He knows when the air shifts, when the room tenses, when the eyes start to watch just a little too closely. But it’s not nerves. It’s instinct. Nerves are for the untrained. Nerves make one sloppy, make your hand shake. Nerves mean you’re not ready. 

Chan is always ready. 

Tonight, there’s something gnawing under his skin. A feeling he can’t quite name, sharp and low like the ache before a storm. He tells himself it’s the stakes—the weight of the meeting, the caliber of the people in the room. But even that doesn’t fully explain the unease.

This isn’t a standard deal, where he’s greasing the wheels of some shell corporation or smoothing over a turf-sharing agreement with one of the mid-tier syndicates. Tonight’s meeting is internal business. Formal. 

He still doesn’t know why Jeonghan picked him.

Not that he would’ve said no. No one says no to Jeonghan these days. At least, not unless they have a death wish or a taste for public verbal shaming and potential Syndicate ruin. Chan had said yes immediately, without question, like a good soldier. But deep down, he’d said yes because it was Jeonghan.

Not the Wisdom of the Choi Syndicate. Not the youngest second-in-command in their history. Just Jeonghan.

The car is dead silent. Not even the soft hum of the radio. Just the city lights flickering past and Jeonghan sitting beside him, cold and unreadable. Not awkward, exactly. But heavy.

Oppressive. 

There’s something new carved into Jeonghan. Something mean and sharp and hungry. It hadn’t always been like that. Chan remembers when Jeonghan used to laugh more, when his anger was calculated rather than constant, but the death of Yoon Minji had carved a hole in him. Killed him. Left something more sinister in his place. 

Unlike most of Chan’s meetings, he is armed to the teeth. Layers of steel and weight hidden beneath his well-cut suit. Security is sure to check him at the door, but he still needs to try to get in what weapons he can. Tonight is not the kind of night that is safe. He doesn’t have Soonyoung waiting at the back door, and Angel isn’t sitting in the room with a gun pressed to someone’s wife’s stomach for insurance. 

Angel has given Chan some insurance, though. She had gifted him a butterfly knife not long ago. Slim, elegant. The hilt is carved obsidian, etched with a pattern that shimmered in the light like wings in flight. Beautiful and cruel, exactly like her. It’s tucked deep into his boot now, strapped in place with anti-metal-detection mesh. One of a handful of things he’d rather die than be caught without.

A meeting with a distant branch of the Yong family had not been on Chan’s agenda at the start of the week. Chan had originally been slated for a meeting down near The Salts, but Jeonghan had added him at the last second, insisting that someone as charming and sharp as Chan needed to be a part of the discussion.

Unlike most of Chan’s deals, tonight isn’t about business or territory or partnership. It’s about influence. About getting someone on the inside to let Jeonghan and his Chois in to eat the Yongs from the inside out. 

“Tell me again,” Chan says, voice quiet over the hum of the tires. “How’d you hear about Yuli having second thoughts about the current Yong leadership?”

Jeonghan doesn’t look at him. Just stares out the window, face cast in the blue glow of passing signs and headlights. His expression looks almost skeletal in the light, like the grief still hasn’t stopped hollowing him out.

Chan isn’t sure it has. 

“Inside source.”

“I can’t imagine he was just… venting to strangers about how much he hates his family,” Chan adds.

Jeonghan finally turns, slowly. His mouth pulls into a humorless smile. “Inside source.”

Chan raises a brow. “Meaning?”

Jeonghan slips his phone into the inner pocket of his suit jacket, buttoning it with a deliberateness that feels almost threatening. When he answers, his voice is clipped. Cool. “Meaning stop asking questions above your station, Chariot.”

Chan bites back the instinct to wince. The title hits harder than the words. Not his name. Not Chan. Chariot. Syndicate designation. A reminder. Jeonghan is in Wisdom mode tonight.

The rebuke stings, but not enough to push him off balance. Chan swallows it. Focuses on the cold glass of the window instead. Watches the city bleed by in streaks of neon and shadow. He knows Jeonghan well enough to recognize the warning for what it is. A boundary drawn in blood and old loyalty. Just because they grew up together doesn’t mean Jeonghan won’t cut him down where he stands if he oversteps.

Chan lets it go. He’s known Jeonghan for far too long to let something so small eat at him. They’d grown up in the same rooms together, bled in the same combat classes, laughed at all the same jokes. Out of the hundreds of hands that belong to Choi Seungcheol, Jeonghan has always been the one Chan trusted most, even now, when Jeonghan teeters on the sharp edge of the knife he’s using to carve a warpath. 

The car slows. They’re in a nondescript neighborhood on the far edge of town. It’s not wealthy, but it’s modest. Here, there are no flashing lights and neon holograms. There’s just buildings pressed together, cars lined up out front, like something out of a history book. 

For a split second, the thought of books makes Chan think of you. It is fleeting. Heart pounding. There and gone again because as much as Chan wants to dive headfirst into thoughts and dreams of you, he can’t. Not right now. 

The door is unmarked. Just black, steel-reinforced, and guarded by two men in identical suits, both broad-shouldered and blank-eyed. One of them steps forward as Chan and Jeonghan exit the car.

“Wisdom,” he says, voice even and polite. Manners is the name of the game here. “Weapons check, please.” 

Jeonghan says nothing. Just holds out his arms. The sensor beeps several times on him. Jeonghan divulges an array of knives and a single gun. Chan notices a butterfly knife with symbols carved into it in one of the dead languages: brother. 

His mouth twitches, knowing Angel’s work when he sees it. 

Chan follows suit, keeping his expression neutral as the second guard runs a scanner over his body. A soft beep when it hits the knife at his hip. Another at the shoulder holster.

He surrenders both, smiling with professional ease. “Sentimental, not stupid,” he murmurs as they take the weapons. 

The guard grunts and says nothing, stepping back and waving him through when he finds nothing else. They don’t find the butterfly knife in his boot. Good. 

They step inside a dark home. Chan glances around, but it looks like a normal home. There are stairs to his immediate right that lead to the second landing, and a door to the left that goes to what looks like a study. Straight ahead, the house opens up into a living area with doors to other parts of the home. 

It’s quiet inside. Chan feels tense as they are led through the house, not a single light on. He can barely make out the shapes of furniture, paintings on walls. They’re brought to a door at the far back of the house. Sound drifts up from the stairs revealed behind it when a guard opens the door, stepping down and into the dark.

Chan goes first, shooting Jeonghan a glance. The Wisdom’s face is unreadable. 

Downstairs, the decor changes immediately. Chan is relieved to see that the lights are on, bathing the room in gold glow. He feels like he’s stepped backward hundreds of years in time, the old-world luxury of something like a speakeasy clashing with modern era touches. The room is small, but pristine, with black marble floors, warm lighting, oil paintings that don’t match the building’s exterior, and soft jazz playing from speakers Chan can’t see. 

A woman waits for them just past the threshold, dressed in a carmine gown that clings to every curve in her body. There’s a slit up the side, showing a flash of tan thigh as she slinks over to them, a coy smile on her lips. She is stunning, reminding Chan something of a femme fatale. 

“Gentleman,” she greets, voice like smoke. “Welcome. Can I grab you refreshments while you mingle? The next game starts in fifteen minutes.”

In the center of the room sits a long green felt table, crowded with men in suits and women who aren’t wearing much at all. The air buzzes with laughter, the clinking of chips, the soft background jazz that does nothing to dull the tension.

Jeonghan barely spares her a glance as he cuts toward the table. “Boulevardier.”

Her eyes cut to Chan. They are cat green and almost uncanny. “Whiskey neat, please. Yamazaki, if you have it.” 

The woman bows her head, her gaze lingering a second too long before she drifts toward the bar in the back. Chan watches her go for a split second before he scans the room, drinking in all the details. 

Girls circulate with silver trays carrying glasses of scotch, whiskey, and champagne. Some settle in men’s laps, some whisper into their ears, all of them part of the illusion of wealth, comfort, control. Chan steps forward, eyes adjusting to the dim glow- 

He sees you and he nearly goes catatonic. 

You’re dressed like the other women, but somehow even more out of place. Not because you don’t belong, but because he doesn’t expect to see you here, couldn’t even have imagined it. Not in a thousand years would he have made this gamble. You were never even in his odds of being here. 

You’re standing near the far end of the room, your lips parted slightly in what looks to be mid-laughter in response to something the man talking to you has said. Chan’s chest tightens so sharp and sudden that he staggers, wondering if he’s having a heart attack. 

You are painfully beautiful, dressed in a sapphire gown that ripples like water when you walk. He barely has time to register how perfect the cut of it is, the way it hugs your waist, the way you turn and it undulates like a living thing, turning you into a goddess of the sea. Maybe in another life he would appreciate how beautiful you are, but right now, he can’t. 

This wasn’t supposed to happen, you weren’t supposed to be here - weren’t ever supposed to cross his path outside of that goddamn convenience store. He had prepared for tonight for days, planning everything perfectly, scripting each gamble and risk, calculating it to the fucking detail and it’s all for nothing, because you standing there in that fucking dress ruins it all. 

Chan’s thoughts scatter like dropped cards. Jeonghan has already started the evening without missing a beat, greeting someone sitting at the table with a handshake dripping with charm. Chan tries to follow suit. His body moves, just barely, but his mind doesn’t, still stuck on you. 

You laugh again and it feels like Chan has been stabbed. 

What are you doing here? And worse, what does it mean that you are? Is this some intricate play by the Yong family? Are you here because you’re in trouble? Both are equally likely and send Chan down a violent rabbit hole of thoughts, chasing all of the possibilities. He suddenly doesn’t know if you’re a threat or someone who needs saving, and it rattles him to the core.

Chan finally starts to collect himself, dragging his eyes away from you, trying to calm himself. It’s too late. You turn to look at him, a fleeting glance that turns to shock. Recognition blooms across your face and if Chan wasn’t in such panic, he might grin at how cute you look when you’re surprised. 

When you don’t smile at him, Chan cracks. He forces himself into a mask, but the damage is done. There’s already a hitch in his step, a breath he can’t seem to take. His hands twitch toward his chest as though he needs to search for a physical wound there, a gunshot he can’t see. 

Chan is thrown off. Confused. Out of balance. Exposed. 

The woman who took his drink order appears just as Chan siddles up next to Jeonghan. He can hardly hear what she says to him. Everything feels secondhand, the dissociation hitting him as he tries to shield himself from his own panic. 

He accepts the drink and knocks it back before shoving the glass back in her hand and ordering another. He’s not even sure he says anything, just staring at the men surrounding the poker table, unfeeling and unseeing. 

Jeonghan doesn’t look up at Chan right away. He’s mid-handshake with someone else, voice low and pleasant as he exchanges pleasantries. Every word from Jeonghan is barbed silk, and Chan should be at his side, watching and backing him up with easy charm, matching volley for volley. 

When Jeonghan finishes his greetings, he sits in a high-backed velvet chair. His sharp eyes find Chan and narrow before they dart at the open chair next to him. Chan nearlys trips over his own feet as he scrambles to sit down. 

Jeonghan watches him, his eyes sharpening like a blade sliding free of its sheath. “What,” Jeonghan growls lowly as he flashes someone’s wife a smile, “the fuck is wrong with you?”

Chan blinks. His heart’s been pounding for minutes, making him feel sick with adrenaline. “The girl from the convenience store is here.” 

Jeonghan’s expression doesn’t change, but his voice is flat when he asks, “Who?”

“Cherry Sours.” 

There’s a tick in Jeonghan’s jaw before he turns his head a fraction, gazing in your direction. It takes Jeonghan only a second to find you across the room where you’re struggling to keep up with the conversation the man at your side is having with you. 

When Jeonghan turns back to Chan, his eyes are flint. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Chan doesn’t answer. Can’t answer. Jeonghan leans closer, his voice sharper than any blade Chan has ever known. “Why the fuck is someone you know here? Is she with the Yong family? Do you think we’re being set up?”

“I- fuck - I don’t know,” Chan admits. “I don’t know why she’s here. She’s only ever worked at the convenience store. I’ve never- Jeonghan, I don’t know.” 

“Stop.” Chan shuts up. Jeonghan’s voice has the hard edge of the Wisdom of the Choi Syndicate right now. “You have ten seconds to get your head out of your ass. Or leave if you know you can’t do this. Now.” 

Chan doesn’t move. His eyes flicker to you. You’re not looking at him but he can feel your panic from where he sits, matching his own. Can Chan do this? He doesn’t know, but he can’t leave you here. Not in this pit of vipers. Jeonghan leans back slightly, drinking in Chan’s deliberation. 

“Decide,” he warns, voice like velvet. “If you fuck this up, I will remove you as Chariot myself, no matter the years between us, Lee Chan.” 

It hangs in the air between them. Chan nods and straightens his shoulders, falling into the casual and cocky Chariot he’s trained to be. Jeonghan turns back to the conversation, smiling like nothing ever happened as he asks someone about how their kid’s play went. 

Chan sits for a second longer, disengaged and heart rattling. But he doesn’t look at you again, taking in a deep breath as he tries to relax.

This time when the woman brings him his drink, Chan’s smile is lazy and flirty, winking at her as she walks away. 

The low murmur of conversation quiets as a man that Chan recognizes as Yuli stands up from across the table, his arms spread like a gracious host. He has a glass of something expensive in one hand, his suit cut to perfection and his smile even more so.

“Friends,” he says smoothly, voice carrying over the music, “thank you for making the journey tonight. I know how busy our lives have become, so I consider your presence here a personal courtesy.”

A few men chuckle, raising their glasses. Others merely nod, already watching Yuli like players waiting for the first move on a board. Chan watches with absolute focus, chin slightly lifted. Yuli’s eyes skim across the room, assessing. Weighing. When they alight on Jeonghan and Chan, they pause only for a moment before he keeps going. 

Jeonghan doesn’t move, but Chan knows that he saw the acknowledgement too, that Yuli knows the stakes and is interested in this dance. 

Yuli continues, “Let’s not waste time. The table is ready, the cards are warm, and luck will favor the bold.” 

Those who aren’t already standing around the table move to take seats. Chan shifts in his seat to make sure he clocks every single face at the table, going over their profiles in his head. He recognizes Yuli’s sister, Anita, her long hair piled high on her head. The table is mostly men, though there is a single other woman that Chan realizes is Yuli’s wife, younger than he expected, probably due to procedures. 

No one in the room or at the table is high up in the Yong Syndicate. Here are all the blue collar workers, the men and women who are cousins of cousins, or Yong by marriage. Not blood. Who are Yong by long-association, perhaps. Distant family, who, when push comes to shove, have enough claim to Yong name that with the right support, could challenge the Tower. 

As the final guests settle in, a few of the girls glide through with refilled drinks and practiced smiles, heels soft on the carpet. You’re among them. Chan doesn’t look. Not yet. Instead, he watches as Yuli retakes his seat and taps his finger on the felt, signaling the dealer to shuffle. 

The game starts, though Chan already knows he’s playing far more than poker. He folds into the game like he’s never missed a beat. His smile is relaxed now, easy. He leans back in his chair like he owns it, lets his sleeves roll up just enough to show off the ink curling over his forearms. The men around the table are watching each other, sizing each other up, but not Chan. Not yet. He plays the part of harmless well.

The women, though, they pay attention to him. They give him smiles and ask him questions, let him shoot flattery their way. They eat it up, even if they know it’s fake. Fake or real, it doesn’t matter to them. Any of it feels good, especially from someone they’re not used to hearing it from. 

Jeonghan, always sharper, plays the opposite role. Where Chan flirts, Jeonghan flatters. Where Chan jokes, Jeonghan probes. Together, they work the table like a duet, sowing discord, planting seeds.

“You can’t really be betting that much on that hand, can you?” Chan teases the man across from him. It’s some cousin of Yuli’s, with a watch too big for his wrist and a tendency to overplay. The man laughs, but it’s the uncomfortable kind. He folds. Again.

There’s a beat of laughter around the table and Yuli points a shaking finger at Chan like he’s a troublemaker, and then a new hand begins. Chan places his bet. Doesn’t look up. He doesn’t need to. He knows you’re still in the room. You’re lingering at the periphery, hovering like a ghost. You’re pretending not to watch him, and he’s pretending not to notice you. But both of you are failing. Badly. 

Worse is that someone else notices you too. The man three seats down from Chan is watching you, interested. He’s older and heavyset, with a gold chain resting over his chest. Finally, he leans over and starts chatting you up, loud enough to cut through the din of conversation.

“You new?” He asks you. Chan remembers this man - he’s one of the owners of a strip of clubs under Yong jurisdiction in the Pearl District where Baby has made it all but impossible to do business with anyone but the Choi family. “I’d remember a face like yours. What’s your name, sweetheart?”

Chan watches out of the corner of his eye, his stomach souring. You laugh and it’s pitched too high to be normal or polite. You don’t give him your name, but you tell him yes you’re new and you’re learning poker. The man reaches out toward you, as though to guide you over to his lap. 

It makes him break. 

He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t lean forward. He just lifts his eyes and says, “Hey.”

A few people on their side of the table still, looking up at Chan. The others are actively placing bets, chatter and music still going. You’re frozen in your spot, looking at Chan, mouth parted, breath quickening. 

Chan tilts his head, smile lazy but eyes sharp. “Why don’t you come sit with me, gorgeous? I’m terrible luck without a pretty girl by my side.”

You blink. Clearly thrown. “I’m… um.” 

The woman who greeted Chan at the door and who is clearly in charge of the provided women swoops in, a gentle hand placed on your shoulder as she lifts you up and guides you toward Chan. “She’d be happy to, Mr. Lee. Mr. Matsuo, why don’t you show me how to play?”

She is effortless in her chess game, this woman. She easily replaces you with herself, easing the annoyance of the other man while giving Chan what he wants. If he wasn’t so distracted, he would be impressed at the way she works a room, a weapon in her own right. 

You stand there a second too long, but then you move, slow steps across the plush carpet until you’re beside him. You perch on the edge of the seat, hands in your lap, eyes avoiding his. You look like you want to melt into the floor. 

“Better,” he says softly more to himself than anything else.

You hear him, though, asking tightly, “What are you doing?”

“Keeping you safe.”

“What are you doing here?” 

“I could ask you the same thing.” 

Jeonghan gives Chan a single, sharp look. He knows the Wisdom is thrumming with rage, but he ignores it. Jeonghan ignores him in return, starting a conversation with Yuli like he is supposed to. 

Instead of talking, you and Chan fall into steely silence. The cards hit the table in steady rhythm. Chips shift hands. Laughter spills out from somewhere on the other side of the felt table, sharp, hollow, and far away. You sit at Chan’s side, refusing to look at him directly. He doesn’t look at you either. 

Not even when his hand brushes against your knee when he folds a hand, tossing his cards on the table. Noe even when he folds again, flicking his wrist with the same careless confidence he always wears when he’s working, letting them think he’s bad at cards. 

Your eyes stay in your lap, eyes forward, throat tight. Chan fights the urge to reach up and brush his fingers across your back to tell you to relax. If he does, he’s not sure what would happen. It’s the one gamble he’s not ready to make. 

Chan feels Jeonghan’s pointed stare on occasion. He ignores him, more aware instead of tension vibrating between you. It’s like a live wire, tense, thin and vibrating, so distracting that Chan might actually be losing his hand on accident instead of on purpose. 

After three rounds end, Yuli stretches in his chair and calls for a cigarette break. Players rise, some lighting cigars, some leaning back to talk in low voices with their entourage. You start to rise, but Chan is quick like an adder, leaning in and growling, “Come with me.” 

You don’t exactly say yes, but you stumble to your feet when Chan jerks his chair from the table, jolting you from the arm. He immediately feels guilty about it, reaching out to steady you. Instead, you snatch your arm from him and march toward a far corner of the room, half-screened by shadows and heavy drapery. The music is quieter there when he follows you over, the air a bit thicker.

He stops as you turn, and now it’s just the two of you, inches apart. 

You look around. “Is this where you usually drag girls to whisper sweet nothings? Behind velvet curtains and poker chips?”

He exhales like he’s already tired of this. “What are you doing here?”

You blink. “Me? What are you doing here?

“I asked first.”

“Working. You?”

His eye twitches. “Working. You shouldn’t be here.”

“Is this what you do for a living? Syndicate bullshit and flirt with pretty girls and cheat on your girlfriend?”

That throws Chan for a loop. He stalls trying to catch up, not understanding at all. 

“Don’t play stupid,” you warn. “You’re not stupid. Then again, I guess I don’t really know you, do I?”

Chan opens his mouth, then closes it again. “I’m so confused right now. Yes, my work is Syndicate bullshit. You never asked so I never told you. Also - what girlfriend?”

You take a step back. “I saw her, you know. The girl. From the store. The one you walked in with.” Chan sucks in a sharp breath. You glare up at him. “She called you Channie. You called her baby.”

He fights the urge to press the heels of his palms into his eyes, unsure how he is having this conversation at this event. “She’s not my girlfriend,” he hisses, looking around to see if he’s drawn any attention yet. As always, Jeonghan is the only pair of eyes on him in the room. “She’s not even someone I like,” he rushes on. “Her name’s Baby. That’s just what people call her. She’s the Architect of the Choi Syndicate.” 

You stare. “Her name is Baby?”

Chan pinches the bridge of his nose. “That is what you’re focused on right now?” You stare at him and he nearly growls. “Yes, technically it just stuck when we were kids because she was the youngest - well I’m younger, but she was babied a lot - look, it doesn’t matter. I wasn’t calling her that because she’s mine, and if I did, there is an insane blondie who likes guns that would murder me for it.” 

You look away, jaw tight. “I thought…” you start to say something, then stop yourself. You shake your head, furious again. “Never mind.”

Chan’s heart is pounding. Everything he’s wanted to say since walking into this room is tangled up in his throat, clawing to get out. “Is that what bothered you? Thinking I was dating her?”

You flinch. He sees it. Sees the way your fingers twitch, the way your chin lifts like you’re bracing for a hit. “No.”

He laughs, then. The fight goes out of him because he sees the lie. Sees the vulnerability, the bitter edge of jealousy. It makes his heart flutter, realizing that you’d been mad at that. Before he can retort, someone calls for another round. You pivot on your heel, marching away and leaving him with his chest tight with everything left unsaid. 

Slowly, he follows you back to the table. 

When Chan slides into the seat for the next round, he’s still out of sorts. This time, it’s less panic about you being in the room and more about knowing you’d been jealous of Baby. It makes him spiral. What does you being jealous mean? He’d seen the hurt flicker across your face, so honest and raw and- 

He cannot think about it right now. He needs to focus on the task at hand, even though your jasmine perfume is making it hard to think and you’re sitting so close to him that he can feel your warmth. 

“The Tower has been levying heavy taxes on your businesses, right?” Jeonghan asks Yuli mildly. The question draws Chan’s focus to a needle point. Jeonghan shuffles his cards, not looking up. “A few weeks ago I saw the outcry from businesses. Steep taxes.” 

Yuli’s expression tightens. “The Tower has to make a lot of decisions.” It’s a generous answer. “It is… perhaps short-sighted, though.”

Chan tries to focus. He really does. But the man next to him - Daesik, some mid-tier Yong affiliate - leans in toward you. “You know,” he offers, “you could sit on my lap the next round. Chan seems to be losing hands left and right. Maybe you could bring me luck.” 

You shift uncomfortably, not responding. Chan tenses. Daesik notices, grinning. “Unless you’re taken? Are you two a thing? I thought you were hired company.” 

Again, you say nothing. You stare straight forward, lips pressed in a firm line.  Rage makes Chan’s hand shake, and he clenches his fists. “She isn’t available.”

Daesik looks at you. “That true?”

“Yes.”

“Could have fooled me. The way he’s been ignoring you all night, I figured you were up for grabs.”

“Well she’s not,” Chan clips. The words come out harsher than they should, but he’s already too gone to reel it in, composure cracking. “So fuck off.” 

The table goes silent. Chan already knows he’s misstepped. Chan never missteps, and yet it’s all he’s done tonight, one wrong foot placed after the other. 

Yuli leans back in his chair, his smile thinning. “That’s a rather pointed tone, Chan.I hired her for everyone’s entertainment. Daesik is a guest. Just like you. If he wants her attention and she’s on my clock, I expect her to oblige.”

Across the table, Jeonghan doesn’t speak, but Chan catches the flick of a finger against his glass, a silent warning: pull back. Now. 

Chan tries. “She shouldn’t be here,” he says, quieter now, aiming for diplomacy. “It was a miscommunication. She’s not… that kind of staff. Not really part of this.”

Yuli’s eyes flash. “You’re saying I made a mistake?” His voice is low, but cutting. “That I hire incompetents? That I’ve hired someone inexperienced for a party of this caliber?”

“No,” Chan answers quickly, though the tension in his voice betrays him. “That’s not what I meant.”

Yuli leans forward now, elbows on the table, smile gone entirely. “She’s here. At my table. Wearing what I assigned them to wear.” 

The air curdles. Chan feels the tension shift and his hand goes to your back, flattening his palm against your spine. You’re rigid, but he feels you lean into the touch, seeking safety. Your hands shake - he can see them - and he curses at himself for putting you in this position. 

Jeonghan sets his drink down pointedly, eyes fixed on Yuli with a patience that is menacing. His smile is slight, but Chan knows that smile. Knows the violence in it. It’s Jeonghan’s smile before it rains blood. 

“I think,” Jeonghan says softly, “we have overstayed our welcome. Come on, Chan.” 

Jeonghan stands with measured grace. Chan rises, tight-jawed and unable to look at you. As he turns from the table, he realizes you’re still sitting. He hesitates, waiting for you. 

“Let’s go,” he urges, quiet but firm. 

“No,” Yuli announces. “She’s not going with you. I have paid her to be here tonight. She’s here under contract, and you-” He gestures lazily between Jeonghan and Chan. “You’re both leaving.”

“She’s not staying.”

Before Chan can get another word out, Yuli lifts a hand and the room fills with Yuli’s personal bodyguards, hands brushing over their jackets. Chan moves instinctively, only to feel Jeonghan’s palm grab the back of his neck, scruffing him.

“Careful,” Jeonghan growls. 

Chan’s hand is on your wrist. He feels you trembling under his touch, rooted between wanting to go with Chan and knowing that if you do, there will be violence. 

Yulie’s voice sharpens. “Remove your hand from her. Take her with you, and I’ll consider it theft.” 

“She isn’t your property.” 

“And yet,” Yuli says, rising to his feet with the theatrical air of a man who loves having the final word, “I have rented her. So is she yours? No. She stays. You go.”

Silence.

Chan’s fingers twitch. Sweat drips down the back of his neck. He can feel it beading in his hairline. Now, his heart beats as adrenaline surges through him. He’s ready for anything, eyes drifting around the room as he makes everyone a mark, ranking them in the order they need to fall.

He smells blood in the air and he’s ready for it, grip tightening on your wrist to pull you down and shield you before he acts. 

Jeonghan exhales once through his nose and steps forward, light and lethal. “Yuli,” he says, almost kindly. “I suggest you let the girl come with us.”

Yuli’s grin drops. “Or what?”

“You know what.”

Yuli narrows his eyes. “That a threat?”

“No. A reminder.” Jeonghan’s voice stays soft. “I know about Arkos. The safehouse. The twins.” Yuli freezes, his face leeching of all color. “I have all the information and the addresses, the schedules. Copied on two separate drives. One is in my personal safe, and the other is with my sister. Who do you think is faster? My sister who is already in Arkos on vacation, or you driving three hours from Hyperion?”

A hush ripples through the room. This is why Yoon Jeonghan is the Wisdom of the most powerful Syndicate in Hyperion. This is the man that Yoon Minji trained to perfection to take her place, wicked sharp and more lethal than any amount of brawn or weapon could make a human being.

Chan had no idea Angel was in Arkos. Doesn’t even know if Jeonghan is bluffing or being serious. That’s the thing with Jeonghan - you never know, so all of his threats are real. 

Yuli looks split between murderous and panicked, his chest heaving as he figures out what to do. He seems to weigh his options, trying to puzzle out if Jeonghan’s threat about Angel is accurate. 

Jeonghan cocks his head. It’s sharp and predatory. “You think I came without insurance?” 

Yuli doesn’t move for a moment. Then, his tongue runs over his teeth, followed by a sharp, bitter exhale. “Fine. Take the bitch.” 

Jeonghan doesn’t speak. He simply turns, his every step calm, deliberate. Measured. A man walking a highwire and pretending it’s solid ground. Chan mirrors him, shoulder squared, jaw locked. You stick close, nearly tucked beneath his arm.

No one dares stop you.

As soon as you hit the stairs, Chan feels your body press fully into his side. He slips a hand around your waist, grounding you. You're trembling faintly. His own hands aren’t much steadier. The scent of jasmine hits him hard, a knife under his ribs. The desire for you is so strong he closes his eyes for a half-second, breaths deep.

It’s not the time, so he shoves it down. 

Outside, it feels like surfacing from underwater. The night air bites, cold and honest. The car is idling, a driver opening the door while one of Soonyoung’s Swords stands with his hand in his jacket, ready to draw if he needs to.

Chan gets you into the car first, palm steady on your back as you climb in. He makes sure to block the doorway, shielding you in case anyone decides to shoot you all from behind afterall. You say nothing. Instead, you curl in slightly like you’re bracing for an aftershock. He slides in beside you, surprised when you reach for him, almost on autopilot. 

He lets you. The scent of jasmine hits him again when you lean into him, still shaking. 

Jeonghan slides in on the other side of Chan, shutting the door with a bang that feels louder than a gunshot. You flinch and he murmurs a soothing word, tucking you into his side. It’s the closest he’s ever been to you and he hates the circumstances, hates that somehow, he’s run out of luck afterall. 

The car pulls forward. Nobody speaks. The silence is brutal. 

Your fingers tremble in Chan’s lap. He tightens his grip around you, light enough to not hurt, firm enough to try and tell you that he’s got you. His other hand rests in his lap, still shaking, still wanting to draw blood. 

You shouldn’t have been there. He still can’t figure out why you were there in the first place. He should have walked out the second he saw you, should have left when Jeonghan told him to, cut his losses and not gambled- 

“Hello.” Jeonghan’s voice slices through the quiet like a knife on silk. Chan’s stomach knots as he glances where Jeonghan has leaned forward, his eyes alighting on you. “I’m Jeonghan. Can I call you Cherry? Chan calls you Cherry.”

You give him a tiny nod and he grins like the cat that ate the canary. “I would say it’s nice to meet you, but you and your stupid lapdog of a boyfriend have thoroughly fucked up my night.”

Chan’s jaw clenches so hard it aches. He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t defend. There’s no point. Because Jeonghan’s not wrong, and Chan is just trying to keep you breathing next to him long enough to fix whatever the hell he’s gotten all of you into. 

-

Wind makes the building creak and groan. You have long since gotten used to the moaning whispers of your apartment walls, just hoping that the old building doesn’t decide to give up and fall down on top of you. 

It’s entirely possible. A few months ago, a building just like yours, old and out of code and full of people had collapsed in on itself, killing hundreds, people missing for days. The pile of rubble and rust is still there, the dust hanging in the air like the ghost of the screams of those trapped inside. 

The city just… never did anything about it. The Choi Syndicate had attempted to buy the land with the intention of removing the rubble and recovering the bodies, but this strip of neighborhood belonged to the Kim family.

The Choi Syndicate. 

A flash of fear and fascination goes through you. Never in a million years would you have thought that Chan was a member of the Choi Syndicate - a high ranking one, no less. When he had stepped foot into the party a few nights ago, your entire world had shattered. You had seen him and frozen in place, confused, elated, then terrified all at once.

And he’d been with Yoon Jeonghan, the fucking Wisdom of the Choi Syndicate. 

You don’t know how you didn’t put it together before. Polished, charming Chan. Smooth-talking, flirty Chan. That night he had come into the store with the girl he called Baby should have been the night you put it all together. Now you know why you thought she looked familiar, her face plastered in news articles and all over screens while posing next to her brother, Choi Seungcheol, at events across the city.

Chan worked for - no, was friends with - some of the most dangerous and influential people in the city. Chan was dangerous and influential. And yet you had never known, both of you existing in your tiny bubble of cherry sours and a single, gifted paperback book.

Nausea makes your stomach roll uncomfortably. That night exists as a nightmare now, equal parts terror, intrigue and embarrassment. Fear at how close you had come to being caught in violence you’ve only seen on the news, intrigue at the way Chan had held you close and called you his, embarrassment that  you’d been there in the first place.

You haven’t talked about it. Didn’t talk about it on the drive home where you muttered directions to your apartment, Jeonghan muttering a comment about how Chan should move you somewhere that wasn’t a health risk. Didn’t talk about it despite Chan forcing you to exchange phone numbers to make sure you were safe. Didn’t talk about it because you answered none of his calls and none of his texts.

Didn’t know what to say. Still don’t. So the texts and calls go unanswered, despite the gnawing desire to pick up the phone and hear his voice again, to pretend that it’s him murmuring in your ear that it’s okay like he had that night, pressed against you and warm. Safe. 

But the world doesn’t pause just because your life has fallen apart. The world has never paused for you. So you peel yourself off the single chair in your apartment and get ready for your shift at the convenience store. 

The floor is cold beneath your feet. You flick on the bathroom light and wait for the flickering bulb to turn on. Sometimes it does, sometimes it doesn’t. It depends on the fluctuating power grid and the need for power in the Upper District and beyond. 

You dress quickly and in layers. It’s cold and rainy today, a tropical storm blowing in cold hair from the far coast and chasing away the sticky humidity temporarily. It’s a simple outfit: black pants, a work hoodie with a peeling logo on the chest, and a windbreaker that you found in the lost and found bin at work two winters ago. It’s missing a zipper, but it helps with the wind.

Your backpack is already half packed. You shove a bottle of water, a granola bar - because you’re not allowed to eat anything in the store on shift for free - and the keys to your apartment. The keys are a bit of a joke, considering anyone could kick your door down with a solid attempt. 

Out the door and into the hall, you lock the door behind you. Not that you have much to protect, outside of the single paperback book that burns in the back of your mind, hidden under your pillow. 

The hallway is dim, lit by a single buzzing ceiling fixture that casts long, flickering shadows down the hall. Mrs. Han from 23B is arguing with her dog again, her voice echoing from the apartment next to you. You start the trek down the stairs - all twenty three flights. The elevator had long since fallen down the shaft, killing the people inside of it before you ever moved in. 

Twenty three lights is a lot. But it gives you time to zone out and focus only on the movement of your legs, only the burn in your thighs and the quickness of your breath as you wind down and down and down. 

Finally when you reach the bottom, you’re sweating. You adjust your backpack, strap digging into your shoulder, and push the door to enter the main lobby. The door groans when you push it and slams behind you, vibrating in the metal frame.

Outside the world is wind and mist. It still smells like smog, familiar and acrid. Your breath mists as you make your way to the subway. It’s a few blocks away, the path caved through cracked pavement, hissing cats, Taps in alleyways pushing paraphernalia and explosions of neon from screens and advertisements for pleasure clubs and alternate reality lounges. 

When you pass a Tap, you faintly wonder whose banner they’re under. You remember Jeonghan saying that this was Kim territory, so you assume them. It makes you give them wide berth, suddenly wary of every member of a Syndicate in a way that you weren’t before. 

The subway station looms ahead, a smear of purple and blinking neon. You head down the stairs, feet tapping against the wet tile, and scan your card at the station gate. The turnstile sticks, like always, and like always, you lift a leg to kick at it until it gives. 

A man is arguing with a holographic advertisement as you pass. The hologram doesn’t see him - doesn’t know he’s there. How could it? Still, the man yells something unintelligible at it, his frame crooked and leaning heavily to the side like a reed under too much water weight. 

The train arrives with a gust of wet, sour air. You step inside and grab a pole, swaying when the car lurches forward. Ads scroll past the digital screens overhead, pushing plastic surgery, new modifications, biotech pills. It’s interrupted by a headline about a Kim family member being arrested and immediately released the same night.

Nothing new. Everything new. You wonder what that means for Chan. Does something like that affect him? Did he have something to do with it? You have all of these new questions, but you’re unsure if you want any of the answers. 

You ride in silence, watching the city shapeshift as you cross districts. Graffiti fades into clean walls, grime into polished chrome. The Upper District arrives like a clinical slap to the senses: clean lines, glowing storefronts, security drones. 

It’s drier here when you exit the station near the convenience store. You blend into the night, invisible to the partygoers heading to clubs a single district over and the suits exiting from buildings after insane hours at work. 

The store comes into view, its bright signage a familiar beacon. You let out a breath, thankful that you can return to the routine and try to forget about Chan, maybe. This is a place you know. Here, you understand the shape of things, what they’re made of. 

Inside, you’re greeted by the soft hum of refrigerated cases and the scent of cleaner. It’s almost comforting. Almost. You clock in at the back, scanning your finger on a screen similar to the one you use at the laundromat. You pull on your store-issued apron, fingers tying it around your back before you pass Eren with a nod as he heads out, wordless and tired. 

At least working the graveyard shift means quiet hours. No one should bother you, allowing you to do stock or to scan items in inventory. It also means all the time in the world to think, which is exactly what you do as you attempt to lose yourself in stocking shelves and fridges. 

No matter how hard you try, your thoughts go back to him. 

To Chan.

Chan, with his easy grin and soft eyes, who liked to buy cherry sours. Chan who offered pieces of himself in small, delicate conversations and light teases. 

Chan, who was a high-ranked member of the Choi Syndicate. Who walked into that party like a blade wrapped in silk. Who had growled a warning at those men and who clung to you so hard you could still feel the imprint of his hand now. 

You see the memory in your mind’s eye: Jeonghan’s gaze, sharp as glass, the casual way the men talked about you like you were a piece of furniture in the room, Cara’s panic as she watched Chan take you. The way Chan stood too still, too tense, like he had been preparing to start a war if they took you away from him. 

It’s embarrassing to realize how much you hadn’t known about him. And how could you, really? You’ve only talked to him for fifteen minutes at a time over the last few weeks, needing inference and his idle conversation to give you clues about himself.

Still, you had trusted him. Trusted that despite the fact he was clearly not like you, that he was at least similar in soul. It was a dramatic kind of trust, but a quiet one. One that said you see me and I trust you to keep seeing me.

You’re restocking instant noodles when the door chimes and you hear the rush of wind. You glance up, half-expecting some salaryman or a sleepy student, but your heart lurches violently when you see him. He’s standing just inside the door, dressed down in a hoodie, but there’s no mistaking him. He looks tired. His eyes scan the store until they land on you, and his shoulders drop just slightly, like he was holding his breath.

You straighten up too fast. The cup noodles clatter onto the shelf. “You should not be here.”

“I wanted to talk.” 

“I don’t.”

“Yeah, I noticed.” He holds up his phone, annoyance twisting his face. “You haven’t answered me in days.”

You scoff. “Did you really expect me to? After—what, that? After finding out you’re not just some guy who likes sour candy and books, but someone who gets invited to parties by Jeonghan?”

“I didn’t lie to you,” he says quietly.

“No,” you agree. “You just let me believe you were harmless.”

His face screws up. “Whatever version of me you conjured up isn’t my fault. I never implied I was harmless. I never implied anything.” 

It stings because it’s true. You feel bitter about it, knowing how right he is. You shove the cup of noodles on the shelf and walk toward the counter, needing to put something between you, needing a shield. 

“Well, you can’t just show up here.” 

“Please just let me-”

“I’m not ready to talk to you.” The silence that follows is loaded. He watches you, eyes round. Hurt. “Please.”

He looks like he wants to say something else, but the words don’t come. He gives you a last look, eyes unreadable, and then turns to leave. The bell jingles gently in his wake. The silence that follows is heavy with tension.

You press a hand to your chest, trying to steady the sharp rhythm of your heart. You feel strung out and hollow, as if he’s somehow taken all the air with him when he left. Sinking behind the counter, you try to steady your shaking hands.  You hate that you’re still shaking. Hate that part of you had wanted him to protest more, but begrudgingly appreciate he respected your request. 

For a while, you sit there. You watch a moth flutter around a neon sign, oddly grounding. It’s quiet and for the first time in a few days, you don’t have any thoughts. No worries, no sounds, just the blue light and a single moth, fluttering as it chases something. 

You peel yourself off the floor and go back to stacking ramen cups and wiping down the counters. The rhythm of work helps. It always has. Your hands remember what to do even when your brain is fogged and aching.

When the door opens this time, you don’t hear it, too caught up in the wet slosh of the mop in a bucket, eyes staring but unseeing as you press the mop into the tile door. When you come around the corner, you pull up short at the three men standing in the doorway.

Your blood runs cold.

Had more time passed, you might not recognize the man from the party a few nights ago. His name doesn’t stick - David, Donnick, Daesik. The man who had nearly started a fight with Chan over you, his hands in the pocket of a sleek jacket, like he’s attending a business meeting. There’s a tilt to his smile that makes you tighten your grip on the mop, skin crawling.

“You’re easy to find.” His eyes slide over the shelves before they make their way back to you. “But I realize that people like you don’t know how to disappear. You’re really not of this world, are you?”

Your throat tightens. “Can I help you?”

He raises an eyebrow, like the question amuses him. “You’re certainly going to.” 

Terror makes you take a step back. You pull the mop in front of you, a shield or weapon you’re not sure. Your heart kickstarts, pounding so fast you swear you can feel it in your toes. 

“I didn’t do anything to you,” you murmur, quiet. 

He shrugs. “I’m insulted. I deserve an apology.”

“Fine. I’m sorry.” 

Your phone is sitting on the shelf right next to you. You make the mistake of looking at it. He notices and you both act at the same time. He lunges for you and you leap for the phone, both of you crashing into the display. You scream as you both go down with the shelf, a tangle of limbs and chips. 

It hurts, but you hit dial anyway. Daesik rolls on top of you, pinning you down by the forearms. You’re still holding the phone, unsure if it’s connected. You can’t hear anything over your own screaming and thrashing, lifting your hips and kicking your legs as you try to throw him off of you. 

Daesik leans down, a smile twisting his face. You seize the opportunity and throw your head forward, your forehead connecting with his nose. 

Pain explodes. Your ears ring. Your vision sputters. All you can see is red, head spinning as you fall backward, dazed from the hit. Someone is yelling and you feel a boot on your hand where it holds the phone. Something loud slices the air - your screaming, you realize. 

And then something crashes, glass exploding inward. Daesik is off of you and for a moment, the world is nothing but glass glittering like rain as the window shatters inward. You hold an arm up, feeling the bite of shards cut into your arm where it’s exposed. 

A car is idling in the front of the store. You’re less surprised at the car and more surprised to see Chan sliding over the hood, planting his foot into the chest of a man with enough force to send him flying into the drink fridge, the glass door cracking under the impact. The man crumples and remains motionless. 

Another figure steps through the wreckage behind him, someone you don’t recognize. She’s grinning, eyes manic. Her eyes gleam with something sharp and hungry, and the moment she moves, you understand why. She doesn’t fight like a person. She flows, quick and precise, slipping past a punch and lashing out with one arm. 

Red erupts from the man's throat. You gasp. You hadn’t realized she was holding a knife. Hadn’t realized she was already cutting him again. Again. Again. Fast, brutal slashes that seem almost too fluid to be real. With each flick of her wrist, more blood arcs through the air. The man crumples, clutching at his neck, choking on his own breath as he drops to his knees.

Daesik tries to scramble up, but he’s too slow. Chan slams into him like a freight train, taking him back down into the carnage of shelving and snacks. You roll away from the chaos, gasping in pain. Vomit climbs up your throat, head throbbing as you try to gain your bearings. 

You sit upright and the room swims. Through the blur, you see Chan pin Daesik to the ground, one knee crushing into his chest. His hand is steady. The blade he holds is pressed flush to Daesik’s throat. His face is unrecognizable, fury distorting every line of it, a rage that is burning, holy, inhuman. 

“I told you once,” Chan seethes, spittal flying. “Not. Yours. Say hello to all the other Kims and Yongs we’ve sent to the fucking afterlife.”

He drags the blade across Daesik’s throat. You turn away before you see it. You don’t need to. You hear it. Smell the iron and salt of it. 

The store is a disaster of glass, blood, and chaos strewn across the floor. None of it feels real. Not yet. You sit curled up in the wreckage, your arms wrapped around your ribs, body aching in more places than you can count. Your breath comes in short, ragged bursts. You try to focus on anything that isn’t the iron tang in the air or the sticky warmth drying on your skin.

Footsteps approach, crunching through the destruction. Someone crouches in front of you and then you hear Chan’s soft, “Hey.” You look up at him, eyes scanning his face. There’s blood splattered across his tan skin. You don’t think it’s his own. “I’ve got you.” 

Chan licks his lips and reaches for you and then hesitates, hovering just shy of touching you. “Can I? Are you hurt anywhere I can’t see?”

You nod. “I think I cracked a rib. My head hurts really bad.”

Chan’s eyes flit to your forehead and his mouth twitches. “Did you break his nose?”

“I think so.”

“Good girl.” 

A shadow moves past behind him. Light, purposeful steps. “Gnarly. Is she coherent?” 

Chan glances over his shoulder, exhaling. “Yeah. Angel, easy.”

Angel crouches beside him, resting her chin on one hand like she’s studying you. She has the same blood smeared across her sleeves, same wild glint in her eyes. She smiles. Not mocking. Not cruel. Just… weirdly friendly.

“Good job breaking his nose. Pretty decent for your first time.” 

The woman - Angel - offers you a hand. Her nails are painted and glossy, the juxtaposition against the dried blood on her wrist making you oggle at her. 

“Don’t worry,” she winks. “I only use the knife on people who deserve it. Cherry, right? That’s what Jeonghan called you.”

Cherry. Jeonghan had called you that a few nights ago, implied that Chan had been calling you the cherry sours girl. 

You nod slowly. 

“Cute. Jeonghan liked you, so you must not suck.” 

For some reason, the thought of Yoon Jeonghan signing off on you is not at all comforting. 

Chan sighs. “Angel, please.”

“What?” she grins. “I’m being reassuring.”

You look at her hand. Then back to Chan. Then slowly, cautiously, let her help you to your feet. Pain radiates down your side and you wince, hissing through your teeth. Chan’s arm is under you instantly, steadying you.

“I’ve got you,” he says again, softer this time. “I promise.”

Angel steps back with a hum, eyes flicking around the store. “Jihoon is going to fucking kill us. Do you think Kero will come burn the place down?” 

Chan glares at her. “We’re not burning it down.”

“Oh, so now arson is too far?” She gives him an innocent look. “Where was that energy ten minutes ago when I drove a fucking car through the window?” 

“Yeah, what the fuck was that? That’s my car, Angel.”

“Tell Baby to buy you another one! She loves giving people shit on Christmas.” 

You let out a small, choked laugh before you can stop it. A ridiculous sound. But you’re suddenly grateful for her madness, because it’s easier to focus on that than the blood drying on the floor. 

“Come on,” Chan murmurs, guiding you toward the back door. “Let’s get you out of here.”

“Where are we going?” you manage.

“Somewhere safe.”

Angel trails behind you, humming as she steps over a body. “I’ll drive.” Chan shoots her a look. “Right, no car. So are we walking, or?”

-

You do in fact, take a car. You have to walk a few hurried blocks first, getting away from the scene of the crime as sirens scream in the distance. Angel makes a quick call and a sleek, black car pulls up to the curb for the three of you. 

You barely remember getting into the car, or Angel tossing a bloodied blade into the glove compartment like it’s a pack of gum. You don’t remember the way the city lights slid across the windows or how Chan never let go of your hand, not once. Only when the car begins winding through tree-lined roads and passing silent iron gates do you begin to come back into your body.

“Holy shit,” you mutter, looking out the window. “What is this place?”

An entire jungle exists here, snatches of drives leading up to secluded houses. It’s beautiful in a way that feels haunting, old trees, stone paths. You’ve never seen so much green in your life, breath fogging the window as you pass through the tropical paradise, tires hissing on gravel. 

“Go to my house, please,” Chan tells the driver.

The car turns down a near-invisible path in the trees. You watch as the world vanishes into a world of palmetto and palms. Chan’s thumb strokes back and forth on your hand, but he says nothing, frame vibrating with tense silence. 

Chan helps you out of the car, his hand gentle at your back. Angel remains in the passenger seat, grinning as the car pulls away back down the path before it vanishes. 

His house is nothing like you imagined. Not glass and steel or sharp, cold edges. No guards posted out front. No high walls. Just… nature. Dense tropical trees surround the house on every side, vines thick with dew, leaves rustling overhead in the cool air. 

The house itself is low and sprawling, dark wood and warm stone, glowing from the inside with soft amber light. Plants hang in pots by the porch. There’s a hammock slung between two posts. Wind chimes stir gently in the breeze.

You stare. 

“What? Chan asks, a little shy.

“This is beautiful.”

“Oh, uh. Family home. A lot of us um - live on property. Angel and Vernon are just up the road and Baby and Soonyoung are in the main house.” 

Inside, the house is warm. It looks lived in and cozy. There are books everywhere, some open, some dog-eared, some stacked haphazardly beside a record player. A large worn couch faces a fireplace filled with glowing coals. A low table holds three mismatched mugs, one with tea still in it. There’s a blanket thrown across the back of a chair and a pile of laundry peeking out of a hallway basket. On the wall hangs a corkboard with photos pinned to it. 

A home. One where generations have lived. Chan is pressed into these walls, his entire family’s history all here. 

You swallow hard as he leads you to the couch. It smells like cedar, citrus, and something distinctly Chan. He helps you sit with a soft grunt. Your ribs pang and you curl your arms around them. He murmurs that he’ll be right back before vanishing down the hall, returning just as quickly with a med kit and a bottle of water.

“Let me see,” he says gently, kneeling in front of you.

You hesitate, then pull your shirt up just enough to reveal the bruises blooming across your ribs. His fingers brush your side with clinical precision, but you still feel the tension vibrating under his skin. His eyes are laser-focused, intense and dark. He doesn’t press hard, but his fingers map the edge of the damage. 

“I don’t think anything is broken,” he murmurs, looking up at you with pinched brows. “Angel will bring Dr. Ymir to confirm, though.” He gestures to your head, where you realize it’s cut. “May I?

You nod and he cleans it, his touch careful. He works in silence, tension thrumming between the two of you all the while. 

When Chan finally speaks, it’s pained. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want this to happen and it did and… that’s on me.”

You look at him. Really look at him. His jaw is clenched. His hair is still mussed from the fight. There’s a smear of blood, some on the collar of his shirt. And yet his eyes are full of something unbearably human. 

“I didn’t know,” you whisper. “Who you were. What you were part of. I just thought… you liked cherry sours and paperback novels.”

He huffs a faint breath. “I do. I also happen to kill people who try to hurt the ones I care about. It’s not mutually exclusive. Does it… change anything?”

What is there to change? You almost ask, but don’t. You think about his question. Then ask one of your own, “Is it always like this?”

Chan tilts his head. “Like what?” 

“People showing up. Trying to hurt you. People like Angel cutting throats and then offering to make tea.”

He snorts. “I can’t lie and say it’s not. It’s worse than usual right now. The family is at war and well…” He chews his lip. “I am so fucking sorry I brought you into this. Had I just… left you alone at the party…” 

After a beat, you reach for his hand and squeeze. “I’m glad you didn’t.” He looks up at you. “Leave me alone at the party, I mean. Thank you.” 

“It was selfish of me. The thought of someone else touching you…” He sighs again and stands up. You wish he would finish his train of thought - want to beg him to finish. “You’re safe now, but you should probably rest. Dr. Ymir will come around to make sure your ribs aren’t broken and to check if you have a concussion. We can figure out what to do then, alright?”

You nod. Let him take you to one of three rooms - this one is clearly his. It smells like him and there are more books scattered around the room, his sheets rumbled. It’s full of earth tones and soft orange light. It’s so different from the cutting edge modern that you’re used to, feeling like you’re stepping back through time to something soft. Homey. 

Chan helps you lay down and brushes his fingers across your forehead gently, like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it. “Rest. I’ll wake you when the doctor is here.” 

-

You lose track of time in the days that follow. The world outside Chan’s house might as well not exist. The estate is so wrapped in dense greenery and quiet security that it starts to feel like a dream you haven't quite woken from. 

Dr. Ymir arrives a few hours after the incident. She’s tall, sharp-eyed, and whip-smart, her touch clinical but not unkind as she checks your ribs, bruises, pupils, and reflexes. She doesn’t ask questions. She just hums quietly to herself, pokes you exactly where it hurts most, and tells Chan she’ll be back tomorrow. No broken ribs, no concussion, just a hard fucking head. 

“Don’t let her do anything strenuous,” she says as she packs up her kit. “No stress, no stairs, no sharp objects.”

“So no Angel. Got it.”

“She’s surrounded by you,” Dr. Ymir replies dryly. “Which is worse.” 

Chan scowls. You hide a smile, deciding that you like this family doctor very much.

That becomes the rhythm of your days: Ymir visits. You heal. Chan hovers. He won’t let you lift anything heavier than a fork. He follows you from the bedroom to the living room like you’re made of glass. He brings you snacks you didn’t ask for, fluffs the pillows behind you, and glares at them like it’s their fault you’re uncomfortable.

One night, you catch him asleep in the armchair beside the bed, his neck bent at an awful angle, arms crossed, a book half-open in his lap. You stare at him in the low light and wonder how long he's been sitting there watching over you. 

On the fourth day, you surprise him in the kitchen. He nearly drops a glass when he sees you, rushing to make you sit down at a rustic wooden table. 

“Chan, I’m fine.”

“Sit down.” He helps you sit and brings you a cup of coffee. “Drink your coffee and let me helicopter in piece.” 

“At least you’re self aware,” you mutter into the mug, taking a sip. It’s sweet, flavored with cinnamon. 

Finally, he sits next to you with his own cup. He looks good, dressed in a wrinkled t-shirt and pajama pants. It’s such a stark contrast to the polished Chan that you’ve always known, but you like this version of him. It feels real, now, this thing between you. You don’t know what to name it - don’t think you can give it a name - but there’s something there, buzzing. 

You talk about books, about music, about everything except the night that got you here. You start to learn the layout of his home by touch and scent, by the warm corners where he likes to sit and the strange half-painted canvas hanging in the hallway, abandoned.

“Soonyoung,” he deadpans when he catches you looking at it. “Don’t ask.” 

On the fifth day, your morning coffee is interrupted by the sound of a car pulling up in the driveaway. Both of you lift your heads. Chan is already moving toward the door, fingers twitching like he’s looking for a weapon. Before he can get there, the door swings open and Angel is stepping inside, dressed in an all black rain slicker and grinning. 

“Hello, Household of Chan!” She moves to the kitchen, opening cupboards with practiced ease, clearly a frequent visitor despite how little she acknowledges it. “You look way better. How are you feeling?”

“Umm, better,” you offer, eyes darting to the door where Jeonghan enters like a shadow. He makes you shiver. Chan tries to shut the person behind Jeonghan out, but there’s a tussle at the door and a man with silver-blonde hair enters the room after shoving Chan out of the door. “Definitely better.”

“Hello, Cherry,” Jeonghan says, his tone light but there's an undercurrent of something else. It’s hard to tell what. “Long time no see.” 

“Hi.” 

The blond man tumbles into the room, still smacking at Chan. “Damn, no wonder you kept going to that goddamn convenience store. She is cute! Congrats.” 

You blink, unsure if you should be offended or flattered. He doesn’t give you time to think, slinging himself onto the chair next to you. “Name’s Soonyoung,” he announces, voice practically vibrating with enthusiasm. “Don’t let Chan’s little ‘I’m too cool for everyone’ act fool you. I’m the fun one.”

You can’t help but feel a slight chill run through you. You know who Kwon Soonyoung is. The Sentinel of the Choi Syndicate is a known entity in the city, a violent predator who has been the thorn in the sides of the Yong and Kim families for months now. 

“Soonyoung,” Chan says, voice low, “tone it down.”

Chan comes to stand behind you. You feel the heat of him on your back, a comfort that you lean into instinctually. Tentatively, he sets a hand on your shoulder, squeezing. Soonyoung’s stormy eyes lock on to the action and he grins, sharp. 

“Sure, Chan,” Soonyoung gives him a cheeky look. “Just making sure she knows what she’s dealing with. Don’t worry, I’m mostly harmless.”

“Mostly harmless?” you ask, knowing this is someone who’s not mostly harmless at all.

“Mostly. You’d be fine. Probably. My girlfriend said you’re normal.” He takes the mug of coffee that Angel offers. He notes your confusion and clarifies, “You met her at the convenience store. That creamsicle gum, by the way? Fucking excellent. Do you have any more?”

Ah. This man belongs to Baby. You cannot imagine how. She seemed refined, regal, like someone who comes from a long line of divinity. This man is brutal, rough around the edges, a storm of blood and steel. 

“Soonyoung,” Chan sighs, exasperated. 

It’s late morning by the time you all move to the living room and settle, the sun filtering lazily through the wide windows of Chan’s living room. The tropical trees outside cast dappled shadows across the floor, branches swaying gentle in the breeze. 

You’re curled up into one end of the long, sun-warmed couch, your knees tucked under you, a blanket draped over your shoulders. A mug of tea - made by Angel - rests in your hands, warm and comforting. 

You don’t say much. You don’t need to. The others do all of the talking for you. Not that they talk over you or around you - they talk at you plenty, keeping you in the loop and trying to catch you up to speed on their world. 

Across from you, they move with the ease of people who’ve known each other their whole lives. Soonyoung is sprawled across the rug like a lion in the sun, legs stretched out, gesturing wildly as he recounts something that makes Angel snort. She’s perched on the arm of the chair Jeonghan’s taken, leaning over to flick Soonyoung on the head when he gets too dramatic. It only makes him louder, more animated, like being the center of attention feeds something inside him.

Jeonghan, of course, is the calm in the chaos. Quietly smug, lazily amused, his eyes half-lidded as he listens. He’s more relaxed now, a layer of him melting. There is still something hard, there, an exterior you don’t understand. But you watch the way his affection shines through when he tilts his head and listens to Angel talk. At some point, you realized they’re adopted siblings. Once you notice, you cannot help but see the synchronicities in their movements and habits. 

And Chan - he’s warmer too. He sits next to you, legs pressed against yours in a way that is overwhelming and distracting. His arms are crossed loosely over his chest, a half-smile on his face. This is the Chan you know from the convenience store. 

You realize that your Chan is the same as their Chan. That this unpolished, open version that the people who he’s known his entire life is the same version of him that he gifted you. Even if it was only for fifteen minutes a week, between fluorescent lights and discount candy, he gave you this version of himself, freely, quietly, without expectation.

The thought drives you mad. Makes the room spin with possibilities. If that Chan was real, and if he looked at you then the way he’s looking now- 

He is looking at you now. His gaze has drifted, as if drawn to you by an unknown power. It catches and it holds, his eyes never leaving yours. Everything recedes to a distant hum, the chaos of laugher, the quiet brush of leaves against the window - it’s all eclipsed by the weight of Chan’s eyes on yours. 

His smile softens and you melt. 

Chan doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. His gaze dips briefly to your hands curled around your mug, then flicks back up to your face, almost shyly. It’s absurd, the way your heartbeat reacts. How quickly it speeds up. 

When he meets your eyes again, there’s a question there. He straightens a little, uncrossing his arms like he might reach for you, like he wants to press you even closer to him and- 

Jeonghan’s voice breaks the moment. “I have socialized enough.” 

When you turn to look at Jeonghan, his gaze is pinned on you, a lazy smile spreading across his face. He’s read the moment, sees whatever is brewing on your corner of the couch. Soonyoung complains, but Jeonghan’s kicks at him playfully as he stands. 

“Take me home, children.” 

Angel unpeels herself from the arm of the chair like a cat, eyes flashing as she winks at you. Perhaps she noticed, too. “Bye, Cherry.” 

Soonyoung gets to his feet and pouts. “Bye.” 

The door clicks shut with the soft finality of departure. Now, silence. Chan hasn’t moved. The air is thick with something unspoken, something that’s been humming between you for days - no, longer. For weeks. In stolen fifteen minute increments. 

He leans a little toward you, eyes half-lidded, dropping down to gaze at your mouth. He stares down at you like he’s memorizing you. Like he’s spent every spare moment these past few days trying to keep his hands to himself and is now dangerously close to giving in.

Your heart thuds.

“Chan,” you murmur, not really sure if you’re asking a question or making a statement. 

That’s all it takes. Your voice. His name. He moves. 

One moment there’s space between you, and the next his hands are cupping your face, and his mouth is crashing into yours like he’s breaking through the surface of water he’s been drowning beneath. It’s not tentative, not careful. It’s raw, heated, desperate. Like he’s been holding this back for far too long and the dam has finally, finally broken.

You gasp into him, the sound swallowed by his lips, by the way his fingers tighten like he’s scared you’ll pull away. But you don’t. You can’t. Your hands rise of their own accord, curling into the fabric of his shirt, grounding yourself in him, anchoring yourself to the moment.

He pulls back just enough to breathe, his forehead resting against yours, your breaths tangling. His eyes are wild, pupils blown wide.

“I can’t,” he pants, voice ragged. “I can’t do this if you don’t want this… whatever we exist in. You asked me if my life was always like this. I was honest: it is and it isn’t. You’ll never be entirely safe if you’re with me, but I will do anything to make it so.”

“I feel safe. Even at that stupid party. You made me feel safe.” 

“I’m serious,” he whispers. “I know we haven’t talked about it all or what happened or what comes next. But I can’t be half in, half out with you.”

You don’t respond right away. Your hand finds his, lacing your fingers together, grounding him. Grounding yourself. “I’m good right here.” 

He makes a sound, somewhere stuck between relief and desperation. His lips find yours again, softer this time, needy. 

Chan presses into you, pinning you against the arm of the couch. Your arms loop around his neck, pulling him in tighter. His mouth is hungry and warm, tongue brushing against yours as he drinks you in. It’s different now. Still tender, but deeper. Slower. Lingering. Like he’s learning the shape of your mouth, committing the taste of you to memory. His hands slide down, framing your waist like you’re fragile, like he’s still giving you the chance to stop him.

Instead, you curl your fingers into the collar of his shirt, pulling him down with you as you shift backward, sinking into the cushions. He follows, a soft groan escaping him when your hips press up, a whisper of friction that ignites something low and molten between you.

“Bedroom,” he rasps against your neck, kissing a path just under your jaw. “Not here. Not the couch.”

You nod, breathless, letting him pull you up to your feet. His hands are secure and careful, his mouth returning to yours even before you take a single step. The walk to his bedroom is a blue, a mess of heated kisses and tangled feet. By the time he nudges the door open and manages to get you onto his bed, you’re already trembling with need for him. 

He pauses once, hovering above you in the amber light of his room, his chest rising and falling as he pants. 

“You sure?” His voice is rough. 

You reach up, threading your fingers through his hair. “Come here.” 

His mouth is on yours again, hungry now, unrestrained. Clothes are pulled away in slow, dragging touches, and brushing over skin and leaving goosebumps in their wake, despite the warmth of his palms. Your eyes alight on the ink on his arms, fingers tracing delicately. There’s a mountain range covering the circumference of his forearm, all black ink and white highlights. 

“Pretty.”

“Steadfast is the mountain,” he answers. It sounds practiced. A mantra. 

He straightens, standing at the foot of the bed, lit only by the low lamp in the corner of the room. The shadows fall just right across his cheekbones, but it’s the smile on his face that steals your breath. That crooked, boyish grin you find so fucking charming.

Without a word, he reaches forward and grabs your ankle, pulling you toward him with one smooth tug. You yelp, half-laughing, but he just raises a brow, clearly pleased with himself as your legs dangle a little off the bed. His fingers curl around your ankle, and he brings it to rest on his shoulder, pressing a kiss there, light, deliberate. The heat of his mouth lingers longer than it should.

“So pretty,” he murmurs. 

His mouth starts moving again, this time lower. A trail of kisses down your calf, his lips brushing each inch with slow reverence, only interrupted by a sudden, playful nip to the meat of your leg. It makes your leg twitch. Makes your stomach flip.

You bit your lip, watching him with heavy-lidded eyes. His mouth leaves fire in its path, makes you tremble. It feels good, his breath skating across your skin, his touch reverant, like you’re something to be cherished. 

Chan sinks to his knees at the edge of the bed, settling between your legs like he belongs there. The carpet muffles the sound of him shifting forward as he slides your leg over his shoulder, resting your calf against his back. When you prop yourself up on your elbows to look at him, your breath catches. 

Gone is the playful boy from the convenience store. In his place is pure hunger. Adoration. Focus.

His palms slide along the curves of your things, slow and meticulous, like he’s memorizing the shape of you. His thumbs draw tiny circles near your knees, then move inward, kneading softly, coaxing you open. His hands feel too good, making your eyelids flutter. 

You can’t help the sigh that escapes you. “Feels good.” 

He hums in response but says nothing else. Instead, he dips his head down and kisses your thigh, then the other, then the space between, mouthing over your already damp underwear. You curse, head falling back heavily as Chan’s tongue laves over the fabric, soaking it with a mix of spit and your arousal. 

Hooking his fingers in the sides of your underwear, he pulls them slowly down. He tosses them somewhere behind him and presses your legs apart, hands firm, eyes dropping to take in the sight of you, wet, aching and already trembling for him. He groans under this breath. 

“Fuck.”

You bite your lip. Your heart’s hammering. The room pulses with tension.

And then he leans forward, and his tongue meets you, slow and deliberate. The first stroke is long, flat, dragging through your folds like he’s savoring you. You moan softly, your fingers fisting the sheets. He doesn’t stop, tongue exploring, teasing, avoiding your clit just enough to make you whimper.

“Chan,” you whimper, voice no louder than a whisper. 

“Good girl,” he mutters, giving your cunt a long lick. “Say my name just like that.”

You do. He groans, diving back in, tongue circling your clit now, the pressure just right. Every slow, slick stroke sends heat coiling in your stomach. You can’t think. Can’t breathe. All you can do is feel.

His warm hands ground you, one gripping your thigh, the other stroking slow, soothing patterns into your hip. It’s overwhelming. It’s perfect. You’re melting and coming undone in his hands, and he’s barely started. 

A breathy whine leaves your mouth when Chan starts to eat you out properly. You drop down to the bed, unable to keep yourself propped up. A hand shoots to his hair, tangling your fingers in the silky threads as you tug. He grunts in appreciation, his tongue rolling up and down your slick pussy. 

When he fastens his mouth on your cunt and gives a gentle suck, you nearly die. It feels so good, your thighs shaking around his thread. He hums, satisfied, tongue prodding your entrance teasingly before dragging up to circle your clit lazily. 

“Tastes so good,” he mutters, more to himself than you. He lets a glob of spit drip onto your clit, his tongue chasing it. “Fuck.” 

“Shit,” you squeak, feeling your orgasm loom closer. “I’m gonna- fuck.”

“Good.”

He buries his face in deeper, picking up pace. You drip into his mouth and he swallows it down, not shy about the way his mouth sucks at you, loud, wet, lewd. You’re shaking underneath him, barely able to breathe, his tongue sliding back and forth over your throbbing clit. 

Chan dips his head low, suctioning his mouth to you, sucking harshly from entrance to clit. It sends you slamming into your orgasm, thighs twitching around his head, body shaking, back spasming. He continues to mouth at you, tongue circling your entrance, catching every drop of you. 

When he’s done, he presses hot, open-mouthed kisses on your inner thighs, marking you with spit and cum. You don’t care, and you definitely don’t care when he hovers back over you, mouth shining in the orange light with your arousal. 

Lifting your head, you crash your mouth into his, tasting yourself on his tongue, tangy and heady. He groans, letting you consume him as the two of you shuffle up the bed. His skin hot against yours, stomach jumping underneath your touch as your nails scrape down his front to press firmly against his sweatpants. 

Chan lets out a needy moan. You grin, wicked and spurred by the sound. You squeeze him through the fabric, reducing him to a whining mess, his head dropping down to your shoulder as he pants, letting you give him the barest amount of friction. 

His hips twitch into your hand, little jerks of motion as your hand shocks his system. You love the way sounds for you, love how he sounds throaty, voice broken, mouth desperate where he plants kisses on your neck. 

“Let me taste you,” you murmur, pulling at the band of his sweatpants. “Please.” 

Chan peels off of you and shuffles up the bed. You blink at him, stars in your eyes, watching with swollen lips and your mouth parted as he knees next to you. He tucks his thumbs into the waistband of his sweats and peels them down, revealing his thick, heavy cock. It bobs, dark tip swollen and beading with precum.

Your mouth waters. You remain laying on the bed, batting your eyelashes at him as you reach for him. He’s hard in your hand, warm to the touch. He pants heavily as you stroke his velvety shaft, his head falling back a little, throat exposed, eyes fluttering shut.

Chan is beautiful like this, on his knees, hands fisted against his thigh as your hand pumps him leisurely. Your hand rounds the top of his cock, thumb brushing across the sensitive tip, smearing his precum down his shaft. Then you’re rolling on your side, guiding him toward your mouth and he shifts, shuffling to accommodate the space.

“Fuck,” he hisses, air slicing between his teeth.

Your lips close around Chan, the familiar weight of him settling on your tongue. You trace the underside of his shaft, slow and deliberate, feeling the warmth of his skin. His breath hitches, a quiet tremor running through him as you draw him in, your movements steady, unhurried.

You pull back, a thin thread of saliva glinting briefly before it snaps. Lying back, you meet his gaze and murmur, “Use my mouth.”

“You’re gonna kill me,” he heaves. 

Still, he complies. He shifts closer, one hand steadying himself as he looks down at you, eyes dark with want. You part your lips, tongue extended, an open invitation. He shakes his head, almost disbelieving, and brushes the tip of himself against your tongue.

You give him a single, wet lick and he’s cursing again, laughing at the way you make him fall apart. This time, he sinks into your mouth carefully. You’re mindful of your teeth, suctioning your cheeks as he slides

in. It’s a challenge for him, every inch making his cock twitch.

Still, he complies. He shifts closer, one hand steadying himself as he looks down at you, eyes dark with want. You part your lips, tongue extended, an open invitation. He shakes his head, almost disbelieving, and brushes the tip of himself against your tongue.

His free hand drifts downward, fingers grazing your thigh before slipping between your legs. He groans at the wet mess he finds there, fingers slipping against your clit. You hum around him, hips twitching as you spark with pleasure. The dual sensation, his slow thrusts in your mouth, his fingers working your cunt, sets your nerves alight, a soft moan vibrating against him as he presses deeper into both your mouth.

Chan drags his fingers down, pressing them to your entrance. You nod, mouth full of cock, desperate for his fingers. 

“Want my fingers?” You hum, looking up at him with a watery lash line. “Good fuckin’ girl.”

His fingers grow more deliberate, parting you with a gentle insistence, exploring your slick heat. He curls them just right, finding that spot that makes your hips buck involuntarily. Your muffled gasp around him only spurs him on, his touch steady but relentless. 

Each stroke is precise, his thumb brushing against your clit in tandem, building a rhythm that matches the slow rock of his hips. Your body tenses, thighs trembling as he pushes you closer to the edge, his fingers slick and unyielding, drawing out every shudder and pulse while you struggle to keep your focus on the weight of him in your mouth.

Chan pulls out of your mouth. You protest but he shuffles down the bed and hushes you with a kiss. “I’m not cumming in your mouth.” You pout and he laughs, fingers working your cunt. “Think you can take me?”

“Please.” 

He surprises you by laying next to you, reaching over and grabbing you and rolling you on him. Your knees settle on either side of his waist, your chest pressed against his. He grins down at you, hands skimming down your sides to your waist where he squeezes before continuing to your ass, dragging his nails across your skin.

“Don’t tease me,” you whine, rolling your pussy against his wet shaft.

“You don’t tease me!” 

“No fun.”

Reaching between you, Chan strokes himself, spreading slick down his shaft. You lift your hips just a little, letting him press his tip against your entrance before you sink down on him slowly. You moan in tandem, his cock stretching you to the fullest. Inch by inch, you take him, until he’s fully sheathed, your body flush against his, breaths ragged.

The fullness is overwhelming, Chan buried deep, your chest pressed to his. For a moment, you stay still, breaths intertwining, lips brushing but not quite kissing. It’s raw, close, the heat of him grounding you.

His hands find your thighs, gripping firmly as he begins to move you, lifting you along his length before pulling you back down. His hips rise to meet you, a steady rhythm that sends sparks through your core. You gasp, a shiver racing through you, and you match his pace, fingers curling into the hair at the base of his neck. Your knees dig into the mattress, giving you leverage to rock against him, each motion drawing a soft groan from his lips.

Chan’s thrusts deepen, deliberate, each one stoking the heat coiling low in your belly. You lean forward, lips grazing his jaw, his pulse thrumming beneath your touch. His grip tightens, one hand sliding to your hip, guiding you faster, harder.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, voice strained. “Just like that.”

His words send a jolt through you, your walls clenching around him, earning a low growl. You’re close too, the pressure building with every thrust, every brush of his cock against that perfect spot inside you.

A hand slips between you, fingers finding your clit, circling with just the right pressure. Your hips stutter, a whine escaping as the sensation pushes you to the edge. You gasp, digging your nails into the back of his neck. He doesn’t let up, his thrusts relentless, jostling you, fingers working you until your vision blurs. 

It hits you first, a wave crashing over you as you tighten around him, coming undone. Your moans are broken, hips jerking as you ride your high, thighs burning, trembling against him. The way you throb around him sends him over the edge. With a choked groan, he thrusts deep a final time, spilling inside you, heels digging into the mattress. 

You remain tangled limbs, you on his chest, both of you panting and slick with sweat. His arms wrap around you, loose but warm. As your heartbeats slow together, his hand begins to trace patterns up and down your spine. 

After a while, Chan shifts beneath you. He leans back, looking at you. You smile, resting your chin on his chest. You’re so close you can count each one of his silk eyelashes. 

“So… you’re staying, yeah?” His voice is small when he asks. Hesitant. “I don’t mean just until you’re feeling better. I mean that I want you here. With me. We can figure out what’s next. I just…” 

“I’ll stay,” you whisper. Then grin, quoting Romeo and Juliet when you murmur, “For parting is such sweet sorrow.”

That gets a grin out of him. “I have lots of books for you to read.”

“I’ve noticed. You have… more books than I thought possible.”

“They’re yours. Anything of mine belongs to you.” 

Your hand slides up his chest, resting over his beating heart. “I just need this.”

“You have that. You’ve had that since the first night I walked into that store and you recommended cherry sours.” He pauses. “You know that store is not remotely on my way home, right?”

“What?”

He grins. “I go out of my way every week to go there. Just to see you. It made me happy.”

Your heart thrums in time with his. “Me too.”

“Thank you,” he murmurs as you rest your face in his neck, snuggling closer. “For offering those cherry sours that night. For staying.”

You press a kiss to his collarbone, unable to articulate just how thankful you are for him, despite everything.

-

Angel stands in front of you, her arms crossed as she watches you with an intensity that makes you want to run. Her arms are corded muscle, winding with black ink. She has an image of an angel falling down her forearm, the feathers drifting upward toward a starry sky. Most members of the Syndicate are tattooed, Chan included. 

Your eyes drift over to him, drinking him in. He’s squaring off with Soonyoung a few mats over, sweating through his tank top, arms up. His tattoos flex as he throws a jab, glistening under the neon lights and sweat.

“Come on,” Angel instructs, tapping her foot impatiently. “Eyes here, not on your sweaty rat of a boyfriend.” 

You shift awkwardly. “I don’t know how I am ever going to be able to throw a punch like that. You make it look easy.”

“I’ve been hitting people since I was ten. I punched the Tower in the stomach when we were kids once.” Your eyes go round and she grins, all teeth. “Watch me.”

She changes her stance, twisting her arm as she slowly goes through the motion of an exaggerated jab. “Always follow through. You need to punch through something, not at it.”

You try to replicate the movement. The move is clumsy and Angel winces. “Try again.” 

Before you can try again, a loud thud echoes through the gym. You glance over to see Soonyoung in the background, pinning Chan down to the mat. Chan is stomach down - you have no idea how that happened - growling and trying to throw Soonyoung off of him.

Soonyoung is grinning, clearly enjoying every moment of it. “Nice try, Chariot.”

“A bit of advice.” Angel’s voice brings you back to the present. “Don’t be stupid like your boyfriend and challenge the Sentinel every morning. He gets his ass beat most days.” She gestures to your hands. “Try again. Hit me like you mean it.” 

Soonyoung helps Chan to his feet. Claps him on the back. There’s so much love in these walls, even when throwing punches and trading blows. You look at Angel and make a fist, retaking your stance.

Then you throw a punch like you mean it. 

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[seraphine-ann]

To Be Loved ↳ ❝ [CH.01 - New routine] ¡! ❞

ᯓ★synopsis here.

pairing: Congressman Bucky Barnes x Fem!OC

summary: Bucky has a hard time accepting that his daughter has to go to her first day of preschool.

warnings: slight mention of Bucky's past and the effect it still has on him i guess (?).

words: 3.3k

author's note: I know tumblr is more about character x reader but i enjoy more using my OCs, so i hope you enjoy Kiara as much as i do :') i was so excited writing this chapter, i reviewed it like crazy and also have my lovely bestfriend beta read for me. this fic is also going to be uploaded on AO3, i'm going to link it below! i hope you guys enjoy it.

It was still odd to him.

Being woken up in the early morning by rays of sunshine coming through the windows and in between the curtains, instead of abruptly opening his eyes in the middle of the night, cold drops of sweat running down his face as an ongoing loop of a memory of him from decades ago leaving “no witnesses” was heavily vivid on his mind.

To wake up and realize he’s being held in the arms of the person he loves the most, to feel the warmth of her body against his each morning, to hear her slow and calm breathing—It felt so distant, so strange, yet it always felt right.

Bucky wanted to be somebody’s safe place, and he’s been exactly that for the past eight years. To his wife, and to his daughter. Yet he could never shake the feeling of not being good enough for them, it was the only thing that kept him up at night most of the time.

Last night was no exception, which was a big problem that day, given the fact that he had an important meeting at Congress, and he barely had three hours of sleep.

He sighed through his nose, accommodating himself on his back, trying not to move much so that could wake up the woman that was comfortably cuddling up to his bare chest. Blue eyes focused on the digital clock over the nightstand to his right, 6AM turning on and off.

He didn’t need an alarm, the routine given to him in the military was still very much engraved in his head despite how many decades have past, so no matter how much he did or didn’t sleep, the bed would always spit him out before sunrise.

“A few minutes more…” Her raspy voice startled him, immediately making him look down to her lazily rubbing her face against his chest.

“You’re awake.” The man stated the obvious, and she granted him a little snore preceded by a soft chuckle.

“I am, though I wish I could just stay like this for a little longer.” Her arms wrapped tighter around him, plump lips kissed his chest before she could break the warm contact of their bodies. 

He plopped his head on the pillow, sighing again as his eyes followed her naked figure moving around the spacious bedroom looking for her silk robe to cover herself, aware that their little one could barge into the room at any moment.

“But I’m aware my dear husband has important places to be, and I,” She pointed to her chest, a big smile gracing her lips. “Have a little girl to get ready for preschool.”

Bucky closed his eyes and frowned as he held his fingers up to his temples, making a headachy expression once the word preschool came out of her mouth.

“Kiara, baby, can we please talk about that again?” He was pleading, and by the way she turned to look at him, drowsy green eyes and arms crossed over her chest, he knew she was not up to discuss anything.

She sat on the bed again, brushing the ruby red strands of hair that messed up her head before securing it with a big hair clip. The woman felt a pair of arms–one colder than the other, gently wrapped her waist, messy strands of his hair peek through the fine silk of her robe as he rubbed his face against her stomach.

“Please?”

He kissed her over the fabric, a smirk on his lips when he heard a soft sigh leaving her mouth and her hands made her way to his hair, stroking it with care.

“We won’t discuss it again, Buck,” She whispered before kissing his temples. “She should’ve started preschool last year, honey. We delayed it because you insisted the schools were not safe enough.”

“Well, I-”

“Every school in Brooklyn we looked into.”

She raised an eyebrow expecting a comeback, yet he said nothing, making a thin line with his lips and hiding his face on her thighs, hands caressing the soft melanated skin below his fingers.

Kiara knew it was difficult for Bucky, after all he’s been through, and after all that has happened in the world—in their country, what would he do if he couldn’t protect them? It was a fear he had really close to his chest, a fear that would often drift him to hours of dissociative and anxious thinking. 

The fact that their daughter has to be in a place that couldn’t guarantee her safety against any kind of threat made his mind go into a spiral.

If something ever happened to their daughter, or his wife, he would not have the guts to live with that.

“This is one of the best and safest schools in the state. It’s closer to your office than it is from mine, and we chose it that way to make you feel more at ease with the idea.” The woman held his face between her soft hands, thumbs caressing his growing beard. “She needs to socialize with kids her age, honey…”

“I know, I know.” Bucky let out a deep sigh, rubbing his nose bridge before clearing his throat. “It’s just that,” He clenched his jaw in an attempt to avoid his voice breaking. “I’m worried.”

Kiara tilted her head, clearly confused. What more was there to worry about? They had already discussed everything. Bucky knew that look on her face, and proceeded to break contact with her, sitting straight next on the bed, hands fidgeting with each other over his lap as he searched for the right words.

Now she was the one getting worried.

“The school is being notified that she is my daughter. That I am her dad.” He took a deep breath. She still wasn’t getting it. “I’m already aware that there have been… complaints, from some of the other parents.”

The way her face dropped was enough to make him think it was a bad idea to tell her. There was no one else on the planet more overprotective of him than her, so whenever she finds out about this kind of stuff being said, it truly makes her blood boil.

With the amount of backlash they have received over the years, someone would think that they had already gotten used to it. But no, and somehow it managed to get worse after their daughter was born. People warning Kiara, questioning if she made the right decision to be with “a man like that”, asking her if she wasn’t scared that some old habits of his might come back; talking nonsense as if they knew him. Even after he was pardoned, after the insane amount of assistance he has given to the government, and even after the incredible job he has been doing at Congress… People still saw the lethal man of his past.

A past that he had no control over.

A past she had no right to judge, considering hers was on the same path as his.

Bucky could see it in her eyes as they gradually began to turn to really dark green compared to how clear they normally were. She was pissed, and he knew that whatever was going through her mind at that moment was not a good idea in any way possible. Luckily, just before she opened her mouth, the creek sound of the bedroom door getting slowly opened was enough to shut her down before she even got a chance to consider setting the entire PTA on fire.

Tiny, lazy steps filled the sudden silence in the room as the sleepy five year old made her way to the king sized bed, standing on the right side of it as she tried to crawl up to the mattress. The man gave a quick glance to his wife, who in that moment had to take a deep breath and get up, walking towards the bathroom and closing the door half way.

She needed time to calm herself down, and Bucky felt bad that he even brought the topic to the point of causing this small disturbance within her.

“Daddy, up.”

Bucky met with a pair of drowsy, light blue eyes, just like his, and a smile was quickly drawn into his face. His metal arm reached her, effortlessly bringing her up and placing her on his lap with all the gentleness in the world as he left a kiss at the top of the messy brown hair.

“Morning, puddin’.” He rubbed her back as she found her way to his chest, resting her tiny being against him.

It was not a surprise to him that she was up so early in the morning. His daughter was just like him, an early bird since birth, her big and shiny ocean blue eyes with a hint of green wide open at five in the morning. He chuckled to himself, suddenly remembering all those sleepless nights they both had to stay awake for because their precious little one was doing everything except sleeping.

Bucky used to hold her just like that, her entire body curled up over his chest, one of his hands being capable of covering her entire body because of how small she was. Now, her hands and legs wrapped around his torso like an adorable koala, and her face often hiding in the crook of his neck.

For somebody who’s a hundred and nine years old, this time felt like life was going just a little bit too fast.

After a few minutes that felt like long hours of warm snuggles for the tired man, just when he believed he was going to get a bit more sleep, he sensed Kiara finally getting out of the bathroom, now wearing black leggings and a sleeveless top underneath a soft cardigan. Bucky was wide awake again once he sniffed the scent of her body wash, making him open his eyes just to find her trying to take their daughter from his arms.

“Wake up, Livie…” The woman whispered to the little girl as she snuggled up against her. Kiara was enamoured, leaving kisses all over her puffy face, listening to her low giggles. “Let’s get you ready, c’mon.”

Bucky watched them from the bed, the right corner of his mouth raising a bit as his gaze softened. Before his wife walked out of the room, she gave him a look that was more than loud and clear, which made him deeply exhale, leaving him with no choice other than to get up himself.

───── ⋆✩⋆

She took a glance at the moon-shaped clock on top of the white cabinet in front of her daughter’s bed, marking just a few minutes past seven. She sighed to herself, there was still no need to rush, the school opened at 8:30AM, so Kiara would be grateful if she actually managed to give everyone breakfast before they left.

Her hands finished adjusting the small uniform, a dark red overall dress over a white turtleneck with long sleeves. The weather channel that day said temperatures would keep dropping throughout the day, and the last thing she wanted was for her daughter to come home with a runny nose and a worrying fever.

“Have you decided which jacket to wear, honey?” The woman pointed to a deep blue and a hot pink puffer jacket spread over the carpeted floor.

Olivia brought her finger to her chin, pondering the options for at least three seconds before pointing at the deep blue one. Kiara smiled gently at her, giving a small nod as she stood up with both clothing pieces in her arms, leaving one for her daughter to hold and keeping the other in the closet.

Kiara was leaving everything organized in the bedroom, too immersed in her own thoughts while trying to figure out which way to style her daughter’s hair would be quicker—and which hairstyle wouldn't lead to a meltdown. She took the small bag where she kept all the hairstyling essentials, such as hair ties, a hairbrush and a few accessories her daughter loved to wear on a daily basis—mostly to fish for compliments from her daddy.

Once she turned around, expecting to find her exactly where she left her, there was no one. A soft sigh escaped her lips and a small smile surfaced on her face when she walked out of the room and went downstairs, knowing exactly where her daughter would  be.

While navigating the first floor of the house, her eyes immediately drifted to their family pictures scattered all over the place. On the walls, in shelves—everywhere you looked, there were photos of them. Their wedding on the beach, Olivia's newborn photos, old pictures of Bucky with Steve in the 40s, pictures where he was hanging out with Sam, them with the Wilsons, photos of their trip to Wakanda… a lot of pictures, memories that they often cherished and wished they could go back to.

Kiara couldn't help it, she always felt a bit of pity towards herself. Before Bucky, she had no family, no friends—she didn't even know her parents. At least he had Steve, and then he found Sam… And then, her. But she had no one, and going from having nothing to having everything was never not going to be overwhelming to think about.

“Where are your shoes, baby girl?” The clear concern on Bucky's voice came to her ears all over from the kitchen, snapping her out of her mind almost immediately. “You're gonna get your pretty socks all dirty.”

“But daddy, I wanted to show you the jacket I chose.” She whined, surrounding the kitchen island to where Bucky was—right in front of the stove, and she lifted the puffer jacket towards him, insisting. “Dad!”

“Livie, you can't be near the stove while it's on.” He reprimanded her with sweetness, looking down to where she was and holding her up to quickly leave her sitting down on the kitchen counter behind him. “Let me finish here and then I'm all yours, alright?”

She inflated her cheeks and frowned while hugging the jacket against her chest, her tiny feet hanging out and moving impatiently after Bucky kissed the top of her hair and went back to tend the stove before the pancakes could burn.

The woman finally entered the spacious kitchen, chuckling when she noticed the expression painted on her daughter's face, but all her attention quickly went to her husband. Bucky was half-way ready, he had his formal navy blue pants and belt on, yet she could see the exposed undershirt due to his white shirt being entirely open, letting her know he had just put it on before coming down.

She sighed, placing her hands on her hips while approaching him, tapping his arm.

“You should be getting yourself ready, mister.” She raised an eyebrow, now closing her arms. “I told you I would take care of breakfast. You're gonna be late.”

“I'm almost done here, I promise.” He whispered, almost sounding like he was begging. Kiara frowned slightly, and he exhaled when he noticed.

The look he gave to her was definitely a pleading one, but a form of pleading that let her know he really needed to continue with whatever he was doing at the moment, and finish it. She said nothing, just nodded with a soft smile, and left a gentle caress on his shoulder before walking away, focusing on her daughter again, trying to convince her to go with her to put her shoes on and to do her hair.

Bucky was grateful that Kiara knew him so well to know what he needed with just a simple glance. 

There was a lot going on that morning for him. Having to prepare himself mentally to deal with the people at the Congress, to endure the concerned and unsure approach of other members towards him, the gossiping, the looks of disapproval of his presence within people like them. He had to do that almost every week, and he was never getting used to it, of the reports and papers he had to read and sign, the speeches, the meetings, everything. The weight of this job never goes away, no matter how many years pass, yet it was bearable enough. 

But having to prepare for his daughter's first day at preschool, was something he still couldn't excel.

He would be lying if he said he wasn't a bit scared. He had his reasons. The fear of how other kids may treat her just because she's the daughter of a man with such a dark past. Only the Gods know what kind of things those kids are aware of, what their parents might have told them about him, about who he used to be, what he used to do. He was afraid his little girl might have a hard time because of him, because of his past and the unimaginable things he's done that she still doesn't know about.

What if they pick on her.

What if they leave her behind.

What if they tell her.

“Honey…” He was quickly brought back to his senses, feeling a gentle hand over his right arm.

The man blinked a couple of times, a long exhale leaving his mouth as he slowly realized he had entirely broken the handle of the pan with his left hand. He was about to start apologizing in small whispers, yet Kiara didn't let him, holding his face between her hands and feeling her heart aching once those blue eyes started to be filled with heavy tears.

“I'm sorry.” 

“No. You are not saying sorry for anything.” She quickly stated, more like an order, a warning. But he was too in his head.

He melted into her arms, his face hiding in the crook of her neck while his arms wrapped her entire body, holding her as close as he could. She had closed her eyes the moment he leaned down, her hands caressing his hair and down to his back, where she patted him and soothe him while rocking him side to side really slowly.

“She's going to have a great day.” Those words only made him tighten his grip around her, and she didn't complain. “She's excited. She picked her jacket the same color as your suit, because she wants to wear something to match with her daddy.”

Bucky lifted his head, and the clear look of disbelief on his face was enough to get a soft giggle out of her while she wiped the tears off his face.

“You are everything to her, Bucky. Nothing will change that.”

He took a deep breath, a really deep and shaky one.

Normally, he could barely show any sign of emotion other than his usual “grumpy” expression towards others, his piercing blue eyes letting you know how done he was with your sole presence. But with his family, it was a whole different story. Bucky felt he was allowed to show himself entirely, to let go of his deepest emotions however he needed to.

He felt seen—By his wife and even his daughter. And that's all he needed to feel grounded.

Kiara smiled fondly at him, tilting her head as a way of telling him to look behind him. Bucky sniffed and did as he was told, and the view of their daughter coming into the kitchen while poorly trying to adjust her new backpack over her shoulders came before his eyes.

“Daddy, please help…” She let out a soft grunt followed by a whine as she pulled from his pants, wanting to get his attention.

The man gave one last look to his wife, one that let her know he was going to try, that he was willing to accept this new routine, and be as supportive as he needed to be for his daughter. 

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[neros-left-pec]

BESTIEEE CAN WE GET SOME FLUFFY BF HEADCANONS FOR NEROOOOOO

NERO SPARDA FLUFFY BF HEADCANONS

🌷 warnings/tags: maybe OOC, fem!reader, quiet!reader, sassy!reader, fluffff, kissing, friendly bickering, swearing, non-sexual intimacy 🌷 author's note: BESTIE YES ive been thinking of what to write next and this seems fun hehe, will happily supply more nero content!!! these are in no particular order, just a big brain dump of fluff, i hope you enjoy! <33 i can imagine nero sparda being with two types of people: either someone super quiet and gentle, or loud and sassy (there's no inbetween). i cant decide which i want to write about so i'm gonna write about both LOL MASTERLIST

NERO WITH A QUIET!READER

you're his safe place. after a stressful day, all he wants to do is lay in your arms

he enjoys being with someone quiet and kind since everyone in his life treats him otherwise. he is always having to act tough, and he gets tired... just wants to be loved, fully and tenderly

he appreciates how carefully you treat him and how attentive to details you are

if he's having a bad day, you two will sit on the couch with one of his arms in your lap. you will trace little circles and shapes around it wordlessly and wait for him to relax. eventually he'll open up. your patience means the world to him

or sometimes he'll be SO pissed off when he's ranting, you get so worried. you decide the best course of action would be to plant a big ol kiss on his forehead. he stops in his tracks immediately, blinking wildly. His train of though gone, and it honestly brings him back to earth and out of his head

loves hyping you up when you go out and you get dressed up nice

its not an intense "hyping up" but just loves drowning you in compliments

"Oh wow, you look gorgeous today. Is that all for me?" He says it with a grin but his eyes are dead serious and full of love and admiration. UGH THE SWEETNESS MAKES ME SICKK!!!!!!!! LOVE HIMMMMM

if a hair is out of place, he'll use his left hand to tenderly tuck it back where it belongs. he doesn't seem to realize it makes you swoon EVERY TIME........my hearttt

touches you like you're made of glass. he is unfamiliar with intimacy. his hands are so used to being use to hurt (they're so rough and calloused) so he's afraid he might hurt you

loves it when you sit on his lap and having you close. tucks his nose into the crook of your shoulder and breathes deeply, doing his best to memorize your scent

this boy just needs a fucking hug honestly jesus christ he is touch starved to all hell

if you can't sleep, he'll run his hands through your hair and sing to you. he's not very good but it's gentle, and it's him, so of course you love it. knocks you out every time

sometimes, you'll talk to him when you think he's not awake. it's less pressure that way. you'll whisper sweet nothings that you're too shy to say out loud.

you always wonder if one day he'll say something about it. you’re sure he's heard you at least once. but no, he never does mention it

"Nero, I'm so proud of you." he holds you tighter, but never says a word. but just know it means the world to him, and your beautiful words have brought him to silent, heavy tears in the middle of those nights without you ever realizing.

in general, if you ever compliment him, he'll look away and his ears will turn red

however, whenever it's the other way around and he is complimenting you, he is ENTIRELY confident

but don't get confident confused with being a flirt, because i don't think he is. it's more that he is earnest. he wants you to believe what he says. most compliments are given with total eye contact and with the utmost sincerity. he doesn't shy away from telling you his honest feelings and is very up-front

whenever he's out on a mission, he'll always wonder what you're up to... are you bored? lonely? maybe even thinking about him, the same way he is about you now? it makes his heart squeeze in his chest

has a heart attack if you wear his shirt but doesn't say anything in fear of making you self-conscious, but you catch the way his cheeks burn whenever he looks at you

loves kissing your hand

you never raise your voice at him, and surprisingly, he never does to you, even when he's mad. he would rather leave wordlessly and calm down than direct that kind of aggression towards someone so undeserving of it

if you get nervous in large crowds, he'll rest his palm on the back of your head (under your hair, if it's long) and softly rub small circles your hair as you walk. His breath tickles your ear as he leans down...

"Hey, don't worry. I gotcha."

forever your protector <3

NERO WITH A SASSY!READER

my god though, he LOVES banter. he's very used to it, so banter is very familiar and comfortable to him. of course, he wouldn't want to be butting heads all the time, but having that back-and-forth would be fun for him!

if you're bickering with him sometimes he'll kiss you to shut you up

to tease him, you might compliment him in front of his friends/family

"Ohhh mYY gooDDD nEEroOO, yOUrEE sOOO sTroNggg!" LMFAO PLEASE TELL ME YALL HAVE SEEN THAT TIKTOK

he turns red every time and tells you to stfu LOL

since you're so teasing, he might get a bit bolder with his flirtations

you tell him one day you tell him you think he's so extra. like wtf why does his sword rev like that?? just doesn't seem productive at all. just get a normal sword bro

"Nah, don't lie, you love it. 'Specially when I slam my sword into the ground and rev it. Gets you every time." the look he gives you should be illegal and it makes you want to slap the grin off his face

"You wish, dumbass!"

gets pissed when you steal the last McDonalds fry when you guys order takeout

legit ALWAYS yelling about something to the point Dante routinely has to intervene and get you both to SHUT UP!!

"Jesus you two, get a room! My ears are bleeding"

when you're alone, you call him "handsome boy" to mess with him. but when you two are alone, this man gets SO MUCH cockier

"Oh yeah? I bet you think that. Say it again, but slower this time."

it'll take you so off guard sometimes that YOU'LL be the dumbass who is flustered

"C'mon, coward. Where did your lil' attitude go?"

you tend to lecture him because you know he's a bit reckless and you want to make sure he doesn't go off and get himself killed. drives him nuts

"Are you fucking kidding me, Nero? Make sure you go in prepared next time!"

"Last time I checked, I was the devil hunter, not you! So stop whinin' and kiss me already, you idiot."

name-calling is very normal for you two, but you both know you don't mean it.

however, this doesn't mean that you two don't share gentle moments

night time is probably his favorite time. you both are normally too exhausted by the day's events to bicker lol

he adores cuddling you. keeps his chin on your head, and you let him drape his body over you. makes you feel so safe.

whispers sweet words into your ear

"You're mine. You knew that already, though."

"I love you so much. Please don't leave me."

"I will protect you until my last, dying breath."

kisses you soooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo much when you both are going to bed

its the one time you're kinda silent, but it's only because you enjoy it so much. he understands that's why, and has no problem letting you bask in his love

gently nips ur earlobe and loves kissing the back of your neck

the romantic intimacy you both share at night is such a stark contrast to how you are during the day. it just comes so natural to the both of you, and you wouldn't have it any other way

reblogs are welcome and feedback is appreciated!! <3

[danganronpasurvivoraskblog]

THE HUNDRED LINE: LAST DEFENSE ACADEMY - Journal #5: Route 0 Days 57-66. [MASSIVE SPOILERS]

//As I mentioned before, due in part to me having more immediate obligations to get through, I ended up taking a break from this game. But when I did, I genuinely was so excited to get back to it that I started to go threw withdrawals.

//I'm not addicted YOU ARE!

//But in all seriousness, I wanted to try and cover as much ground as I possibly could. I was shooting to make go from Day 57, where I left off, to Day 70 at least.

//But man, this game is SO LONG. And these days in particular were jammed with SO MUCH STUFF.

//It's...hard to say how I feel about this arc of the story, but I can confidently say that it's probably the most emotionally damaging part.

//Which is actually ironic. One common theme of the Danganronpa games and their plots is they start of strong, tend to petter out during the middle, and then where it flops massively, it hits back with the most emotionally engaging, and typically the SADDEST part of the story.

//And even though Hundred Line is not split up by chapters, turns out it hit the same way. I complained a bunch about the previous stuff I experienced, but everything I found in this part was LEGENDARY.

//But I can't say any more than that, because again, spoilers.

DO NOT READ THE REST OF THIS POST IF YOU HAVE NOT PLAYED/SEEN THE HUNDRED LINE: LAST DEFENSE ACADEMY. I WILL BE TALKING ABOUT VERY SPECIFIC PLOT POINTS AND MAJOR SPOILERS FOR THE GAME.

//So let's get started:

DAY 57:

//One thing I will say out of the gate is that the actual plot progression over the course of these days is honestly kind of slow. It has a really slow, steady buildup, and then immediately, it all comes crashing down.

//The highlight of today's discussion, as I fully expected it would be, is Moko, as it's now been 8 days since she showed up at the school out of nowhere. Seeing as, by this point, she's the only one of the group not on the battlefield yet. I assumed that this arc would be centered around her, but there are other things to note as well.

//Specifically, the Invader Commander that we took prisoner after the last battle, is now in a cage in the courtyard, and Shouma is apparently taking care of her.

//Not gonna lie, Shouma's budding relationship with the enemy commander throughout this part, even if most of what we know is only given by word of mouth, is pretty engaging. Through this initial interaction, I started thinking that he might have had a crush on her.

//By the way, this Invader is CLEARLY an important character SOMEHOW, because she appears on the map and has her own icon, suggesting that she's someone we can talk to. As I said before, my current theory was that this Invader was going to end up being student number 16, since most of Kodaka's games have an evened out cast like that, and Hundred Line's lineup was only really one off.

//Ima and Kako show up a little later because they spent the night playing games and trying to ease into their new relationship dynamic. And credit where it is due, the way they interact now towards each other is MUCH better!

//I think the big issue is that the sister-complex nature of Ima, and the submissive sister nature of Kako made it really hard to relate and sympathize with them both. But now that Ima's worldview has changed and Kako is trying to be more independent, they now seem just like regular siblings, and I can definitely get behind that.

//I would KILL someone to have a Danganronpa/Danganronpa-style game that features siblings, and just HAVE THEM BE SIBLINGS. It's my firm belief, based on...very obvious past experience, that having siblings, especially if they're twins, in a killing game is just a really obvious plot point in the making, where one of them dies, they both die in the same trial, one impersonates the other, etc. There's so little you can do with that idea, which is why I'm never on board with it.

//This is definitely acceptable though. And as rushed as the story felt, I am happy that Ima is now treating Kako like a sister rather than his most cherished property.

//I spent Free Time as I often do; with trying to level up my social stats and physical stats, but during my break, I was given some advice on something.

//Someone told me that it was a really good idea to get everyone to learn Last Yell, and then try abusing that move as much as possible in the battles. Especially the one's that last for a while, i.e. more than one round.

//I haven't actually talked about it before, but to go into a bit more detail here, but up until now, I've mainly been using the voltage meter to use my super abilities and take out enemies in a large group. But on top of using the meter to use ultimate moves, you can also use them to give your character's a boost, like a boost in damage for instance, one of which is called Last Yell.

//The way Last Yell works is once it's activated, whenever an ally uses a skill while you're sitting at exactly 1 Action Point, there's a 50% chance that whoever has Last Yell active will trigger an effect called Support. Support enhances that skill, adding +2 damage and granting 2x Voltage instead of the usual amount.

//The really interesting, and frankly absurd part is that multiple instances of Last Yell can be triggered by a single skill, assuming that most of your characters around you have it activated. These effects stack additively. You can trigger up to 4 instances of Support, resulting in a potential +8 bonus damage and 5x Voltage gain from a single skill, assuming your luck holds.

//Which makes this ability not only INSANELY STRONG, but also VERY STACKABLE.

//The true hilarity begins when you strategically lower your AP to 1 and intentionally leave a few AP-boosting enemies alive. If you line things up right, a single skill can wipe out several of them at once, and each kill can independently trigger Last Yell, rapidly snowballing your Voltage. This Voltage can then be reinvested into activating MORE Last Yell Boosts, amplifying the effect even further.

//When it’s time to face the boss, you repeat the process: bring your AP back down to 1 and use the Voltage you’ve generated to trigger Act Again instead. With the right setup and a bit of RNG, this effectively converts 100 Voltage into multiple skill activations, each one hitting with +8 damage or more.

//And again, this lasts across the whole battle, so you don't need to reapply it to characters after each wave.

//Unfortunately, I didn't have much of a chance to actually TEST this power, because most of the fights I did in this part of the story only lasted around two rounds, and in the major boss one (spoilers) the first round only has you use two characters on the field, and the rest of your squad join in the second round. So there wasn't really any way I could use this in-game hack effectively. But it's definitely something to keep in mind for the future.

//So I grinded a bunch of BP, and got everyone in the squad to learn it.

//I DID consider maybe going on an exploration, because I want to upgrade my gear and potions and don't have enough levels or gear for it at the moment. However, I decided against it, because Nozomi is unavailable for the current period; being too focused on taking care of Moko, and can't come out with us.

//Nozomi kind of carries me during lengthy explorations, so I didn't want to risk going out there without her.

DAY 58:

//Day 58 was pretty uneventful overall. The only major development is that Moko seems to have come down with a fever, and things aren’t looking good for her. Her condition just keeps getting worse, adding to the growing sense of hopelessness surrounding her situation, and Nozomi is running herself ragged trying to help her.

//What stood out to me most during the day was my curiosity about how the invader commander might eventually tie into the main plot.

//Once again, I’ve been speculating that she could be the mysterious 16th character, though based on what’s currently happening, I’m still not entirely sure how that would work. There’s just not enough narrative groundwork laid for that twist, at least not yet.

//Again, nothing much happened today, I just spent the Free Time like I normally would, but the day wraps up with another flashback to Karua.

//In the scene, Karua is nursing a sick dog back to health, and Takumi ends up taking care of her when she herself inevitably falls ill from looking after it. Again, all of these Karua scenes tie back to her subtle connection to Nozomi in some way, and Nozomi herself is being shown to be losing sleep and health because she's too serious about taking care of Moko, just as Karua was this dog.

//It also retroactively explains her actions during the prologue, where she ran off after the stray dog that turns out to be Sirei. She just has a strong instinct to protect lost or sick animals, even at her own expense.

//By the way, I should mention something I’ve noticed but haven’t brought up until now: almost all of Takumi’s flashbacks involving Karua have Clair de Lune playing softly in the background.

//For you Danganronpa fans out there who somehow don't recognize it, that's Kaede's song from V3 that plays at the end of Chapter 1 when Shuichi is in her lab by himself, after she's died. It's a song that's pretty synonymous with Kaede and V3 as a whole, and in the music credits of the game, she's even listed as the song's composer.

//While that track is often associated with Danganronpa, it’s interesting that it only shows up once or twice in those games. Apparently, it's used far more heavily in The Evil Within, which makes sense when you realize that Masafumi Takada, the composer for both Danganronpa and The Hundred Line, also did the music for that game.

//I haven't played The Evil Within, so I don't really understand the deeper meaning of that song being in it, but there's not really much reason for it to be tied to Karua in all the scenes we see of her. So rather than being a deliberate thematic reference, I get the sense that Takada just really, REALLY likes that song, lol.

DAY 59:

//Shouma is clearly forging a deeper connection with the enemy commander. Despite the language barrier between them, he's managed to prove that meaningful communication is possible between our species. Apparently, he spoke to her, and, surprisingly, she not only understood him but seemed to genuinely enjoy the exchange. It’s a small but powerful gesture that suggests a potential bridge between our two worlds.

//However, this development doesn't sit well with the rest of the unit, and it’s easy to understand why.

//The more Shouma learns about the commander, the harder it becomes to uphold the narrative that the Invaders are fundamentally alien or inhuman. They're intelligent, capable of understanding language, and able to form emotional connections, just as any regular human being could. Considering they also use hemoanima to fight and transform, really, the only difference between us and them at this point in terms of nature is that we speak different languages.

//In particular, the likes of Kyoshika and Kurara don't like it, because as far as they're concerned, the Invaders are murderous monsters who must be annihilated. Likening them to fellow humans when protecting humanity is the reason we're here in the first place doesn't bode well for them.

//So when Shouma starts treating the enemy with empathy or even curiosity, it feels like a betrayal of purpose. After all, we’re supposed to be here to protect humanity, not question whether the so-called monsters we're fighting might actually be people too. As those differences fade, so too does the moral clarity of our mission.

//On a different note, I’ve noticed a shift in the game’s pacing. Earlier on, I remember complaining that there wasn’t enough free time to explore or build relationships, but now, I seem to have more downtime than I know what to do with.

//Wanting to make use of it, I went to the school library in the afternoon to boost my social stats and ended up reading yet another heavily censored book. But this one had an interesting detail that stood out.

//It confirmed something I’d been suspecting, and that I talked about in my previous posts for this game. Not all media was simply lost after the Tokyo Residential Complex was established. Some of it was DELIBERATELY destroyed. Specifically, anything containing records of human history before the Complex existed.

//That revelation adds an unsettling layer to the worldbuilding. It makes you wonder what exactly are they trying so hard to erase? What truths have been buried under layers of propaganda and silence?

//We obviously know it's related to World Death, but even that suggests there's more behind World Death's origins and what it actually is than we're let in on.

//With the strange behavior of the Invaders, Shouma’s growing bond with the commander, and the increasingly obvious signs of a rewritten history, I’m starting to question the entire narrative we’ve been given. The real question is...are we REALLY the heroes of this story?

//Again, mostly standard day, but I do want to quickly make a note that there was this line in the breakfast scene that suggested that not even Shouma's dog loved him, and was actually trying to run away from him. Which is actually super depressing, because Shouma's dog was supposed to be the only thing in the world that cared about him, and is the very reason he's out here fighting.

DAY 60:

//We've offically been here for two months, and all dumbass Sirei could do was show up in a suit, apparently not having prepared anything.

//This is where the somewhat casual air of the story starts to take a bit of a turn, and we get more suggestions as to what's really going on here. It starts off with Moko not getting any better, so Nozomi prepares to go out and get ingredients so she can make some kind of medicine with the Gift-O'-Matic. Takumi doesn't want her going alone, so he heads out with her.

//This isn't my first rodeo doing this as part of the story. We basically have to move the characters around the board to three locations to progress. After touching down on the second one though, it suddenly starts raining.

//That rain becomes a thunderstorm after grabbing the third and final ingredient, and not wanting to be struck by lightning, Takumi and Nozomi duck into a nearby building to wait out the storm.

//This is a pretty crucial moment, because this is the first time that Takumi and Nozomi have been alone since they met. And not in a hostile way either.

//However, even though this is Takumi's chance to finally have a one-on-one conversation with her about her potential connection to his childhood friend, he reads the room, and decides not to bring it up directly.

//Nozomi is really out here acting like she's not the most integral member of the party, smh.

//Nozomi ends up talking a little about her routine back in the TRC, though not in much detail. But in the middle of this reflective moment, she accidentally drops a major revelation; one that completely shifts Takumi’s understanding of her place in the story.

//Without meaning to, she lets it slip that she WASN'T recruited into the war effort the same way the rest of us were. In fact, from what she says, it becomes clear that she was never meant to be at the Last Defense Academy at all.

//At least...that's what I'm getting.

//By this point, I had already started to suspect something was off about Nozomi compared to the rest of the group. Rather, I had expected as much since her debut in the trailer; purely from the fact that she had a different means of combat than everyone else.

//Everyone at the academy shares one critical trait: we all have a specific kind of special blood anomaly that enables us to wield Hemoanima...or at the very least, that's the feeling I'm getting from Shouma's flashbacks to the Kamukura hospital. It’s the cornerstone of our combat potential and the primary reason we were drafted into this war.

//But Nozomi stands out. She’s never demonstrated the same affinity for Hemoanima as the rest of us. Instead, she relies entirely on her custom artificial armor to fight. And now, with this accidental admission, the pieces begin to fall into place.

//My guess is the real reason she can’t use Hemoanima is because she doesn’t have the blood type, and she was never compatible in the first place. Unlike the rest of us, she wasn’t chosen; she herself chose this path. She VOLUNTEERED to fight in a war she wasn’t meant to be a part of.

//Realizing she’s said too much, Nozomi goes quiet. But instead of shutting down completely or deflecting with a lie, she simply asks Takumi to drop the subject...for now.

//I like Nozomi's reaction to this. She doesn't freak out about it, she just makes a calm request. It shows that she trusts him, not just to keep her secret, but to respect her boundaries. And considering how rocky they started off, this is a good thing.

//She’s not ready to talk about it, and yet she’s vulnerable enough in his presence to admit that.

//However, the situation however only gets more confusing after that.

//Nozomi quietly reveals that her mother was a researcher; a detail that immediately draws ANOTHER parallel to Karua, whose mother is also known to be involved in scientific work. We found this out during Karua's introduction in the prologue.

//But as Nozomi continues, the similarities begin to blur into something more unsettling. She offhandedly mentions that her own birth was one of her mother’s many experiments, implying she may have been created or modified as part of a larger scientific agenda. It’s this almost chilling admission that casts her entire existence in a more ambiguous, possibly artificial light.

//Adding to that mystery, Nozomi's mother is supposedly dead, while Karua’s mother is still alive...

//...as far as WE presume, at least. The truth is, we have never MET Karua's mother. She only talks about how she's never home, so the possibility that Karua's mother could be gone is also non-zero.

//There's a chance that Karua's mother did pass away, and Karua never really talked about it to the Sumino family.

//And then there’s the matter of their fathers. Both Nozomi and Karua lost their fathers in car accidents during childhood. That parallel feels too specific to be coincidence, yet the emotional texture around each story is distinct enough to prevent an easy conclusion.

//I just want to give this game credit for doing a really good job at handling the Nozomi/Karua mystery. Because no mystery in this game has fucked with my brain more than this one.

//These two seem to share a mirrored origin, as if they’re reflections of one another rather than entirely separate people. On the surface, they appear fundamentally different in personality, outlook, and role in the story, but they are strikingly aligned in appearance, backstory, connections to scientific institutions, and a sense of being shaped by forces beyond their control.

//The game is walking a fine line, skillfully feeding just enough symmetry to make you suspicious, while also presenting enough divergence to keep you uncertain.

//There have been so many possibilities and explanations brought up so far. Are they sisters? Clones? Variants from different timelines?

//None of those feel right, and yet, there's no clearly obvious way to explain it either, other than Karua and Nozomi just ARE the same person. But again, even THAT doesn't feel right with all that we know so far!

DAY 61:

//By the time Takumi and Nozomi return to the academy the next morning, having weathered the storm overnight, they're greeted at the entrance by Eito, who’s waiting with unexpected news.

//Though their original reason for venturing out was to gather ingredients to make medicine for Moko, it turns out that Moko has already made a full recovery in their absence. And sure enough, when we return to the cafeteria, there she is, waiting for us.

//(GOD she is so absurdly big...!)

//Upon reuniting, Moko properly introduces herself for the first time, and her presence INSTANTLY shifts the atmosphere. What follows is a heartwarming reunion between her and Nozomi.

//As for Moko herself...Yeah, I REALLY like her!

//It becomes clear pretty quickly that all the good feats Nozomi spouted about Moko before are true. She's loud, goofy, and delightfully over-the-top, she barrels into the scene with an energy that’s impossible to ignore. Her personality is larger than life, and in just this brief introduction, she manages to bring levity and laughter.

//There’s something incredibly endearing about how unfiltered and open she is, even when she's saying some kind of violent bullshit. She has a kind of “big sister” presence, but not in a solemn or protective way, more in the sense that she’s the type to ruffle your hair, tease you relentlessly, and then throw you over her shoulder affectionately.

//Even in this short exchange, it’s hard not to smile when she’s on screen.

//Although, we do get a very brief hint that something's not quite right with her when everyone asks if she's fit and fighting ready to combat the Invaders. More on that in a bit though.

DAY 62:

//Takumi begins today dwelling on his discussions with Nozomi, and isn't really giving much attention to her accidental confession. Instead, he's focusing more in the experimental side of things.

//Assuming Nozomi IS Karua, he suspects that the experiments that Nozomi underwent is the reason why she doesn't remember him. Which...you know, I'm willing to give credence on this line of thinking. Even if I am left guessing, that's still a better avenue than nothing.

//But even with that, there's so much lore to unpack here.

//For reasons that I can't quite explain, I keep going to check up on the captured commander every morning before I head to the restaurant, thinking that she might do something or say anything to me. I kind of wanted to see if anything had changed behind the scenes.

//On the first day when I went to check on her she looked sad, but since then, her expression is more passive and she hasn't been saying anything. She's not been smiling or anything, but I keep going back to look.

//Entering the cafeteria, Moko is standing in the middle of the room and recounting a story that's making everyone laugh their asses off over it.

//Moko tells a lot of stories at breakfast over the course of these few days. The best part about them is I can't tell if they're tall tales or not, because knowing who's writing this game, these events are perfectly plausible.

//What made me laugh was that whenever all the characters are in a room together, I have a tendency to talk to all the characters I'm not supposed to talk to, then talk to the important character to progress the story; just so I don't miss out on all the optional dialogue. And this time when I did it, I talked to Ima, who was basically saying that he's worried that Kako would be inspired by Moko, and hopes that she doesn't start thinking she wants to be like her, followed immediately by Kako saying she wants to be just like her. That gave me a tickle.

//We actually cut to business quickly after the story, and as it turns out, Moko, suspiciously, doesn't remember anything when she got captured by the invaders, suggesting that her memory had been wiped. So we're unfortunately not getting much out of her on THAT front for the moment.

//Not that I expected we would. We don't tend to have a lot of luck with this kind of thing.

//It took me a while to click honestly. I thought that the game was suggesting that Shouma was going to have a romantic tension with the Invader we captured, but right now it seems more like he's treating her like a pet.

//RESPECTFULLY of course, but he's not quite seeing her as an equal human being. Or rather, maybe he is seeing her as an equal, but only because he himself thinks he's on a dog's level.

DAY 63:

//NOOOOTHING FUUUUCKING HAAAAPPEEEENED!

//Basically we just rinse and repeated what happened the previous day. Wake up, hear Moko chatting about shit in the cafeteria, something doesn't seem right, Free Time.

//I do have a couple small highlights. For one, you can talk to Yugamu in the hallway before you go to breakfast.

//Takumi and Yugamu haven't had a single wholesome interaction yet. Takumi just DOES NOT LIKE THIS MAN, haha.

//Similarly, Darumi clearly doesn't like Moko at all. But obviously, that's because happy situations where people are alive and merry are her kryptonite basically.

//And once again, Nozomi herself seems to be noticing more keenly that something is up with Moko.

DAY 64:

//That kind of culminates into today, and the following day too.

//The moment you walk into the cafeteria, you sense there's something off about Moko. Unlike the last two days, she’s not at her usual post telling the morning story, and instead looking distant and aloof in the corner, in a way that's kind of eerie.

//I actually kind of started getting chills at this point. I should have realized at that time that they must have meant something.

//More directly, the news for today is that through his interactions, Shouma has somehow taught the Invader to speak like a human. Or at the very least, he managed to teach her how to say the word "Beautiful" in their language.

//I honestly do feel a little bit bad for Shouma in this part of the story, because he clearly cares about the Invader we captured. But everyone else is treating her like a feral animal with rabies, and honestly, that might be the safer bet. But still, she doesn’t seem violent. I just hope Shouma’s attachment doesn’t end up getting someone hurt, or cause a rift in the group.

//Later that evening, Nozomi shows up at Takumi’s door, and invites him to a quiet classroom to talk privately. She says she suspects Moko is hiding something, which...yeah, no kidding. Moko’s whole vibe has been really off lately, despite having a really corny introduction.

//After a short conversation, Nozomi agrees to confront her. It's risky, but we need answers before this situation spirals any further out of control.

DAY 65:

//This is where things go from "Oh God" to "OH SHIT!"

//Remember how I mentioned that this part of the story is the most emotional trainwreck we've seen so far? Well, here's why.

//Moko tells another story in the morning, and I swear, these tales get more outlandish as things go along.

//But more importantly, Takumi suspects that Nozomi called Moko to the same room she called him the previous day, and worrying for her, he goes to eavesdrop.

//Things...don't go well.

//Kudos to Nozomi, she at least goes out of her way to explain thoroughly to Moko what she noticed, and why she was concerned, on top of giving her very good reasoning for it. But Moko's response is to blow up on her, and she even accuses her of being a fake friend, getting close for no reason other than wanting whatever information she forgot about the Invaders.

//And it becomes very clear very quickly why Moko is suddenly acting so untowards...and it's NOT pretty.

//Takumi goes to check up on Nozomi afterwards to see if she's okay, and ends up coming clean about eavesdropping.

//Side note, Nozomi's room is actually super cute and cozy looking. Not-Not really much of a big deal, kinda just wanted to mention it because I like it.

//Anyway, a conversation ensues, and Takumi comforts Nozomi, sympathizing with her, and Nozomi resolves to apologize to Moko in the morning.

//Things seem like they're really tense after Moko and Nozomi's argument, but then somehow, things get even worse.

//And by the way...get used to hearing me say that. Because for these last few days to cover here, we just get bad news after bad news after bad news, and we keep getting the shit beaten out of us by the narrative.

//The boy wreathed in the Undying Flames appears again in Takumi’s room that night, and as we are already aware of by now, every time he shows up, disaster follows. First, it was Sirei’s death, then Hiruko vanished, etcetera.

//Takumi doesn’t waste a second. He bolts after the boy, convinced the ghost is headed toward the Defense Room (Not sure why because if the ghost was looming in the school he'd have multiple chances to get to the Defense Room, but...okay)

//But instead of catching up to him, he runs straight into Moko in the hallway. And this is where everything gets surreal.

//Moko's dialogue starts glitching with random capital letters in it. Her sprite begins to warp as well, and as Takumi follows her, her features become twisted and grotesque.

//When Takumi finally reaches the Defense Room, it’s not the boy waiting there, but Moko. And what he sees is nothing short of a nightmare. Moko is standing far too close to the barrier of Undying Flames. Takumi tries to pull her back, to stop her from breaching whatever lies behind the fire, but then she turns...

//OH FUCK MY ASS!!!??

//Yeah, not gonna lie, even with the buildup, this CG scared the SHIT out of me! It was WAY more horrifying than I thought it would end up being, and it's enough to make someone pull a Tsubasa and throw the hell up.

//When I first saw what was going on, I had the sickening thought that what happened is the Invaders turned Moko into one of them when they captured her. I haven't talked about it explicitly, but I had this theory before that the Invaders weren’t born, but were actually humans twisted into something else. If they captured Moko, maybe that’s what happened to her. And maybe all of her weird mannerisms the previous few days were just the result of her humanity slipping away.

//Just as things spiral completely out of control, not only does Nozomi appear, but the Undying Flames react, almost like they recognize her presence. They lash out at "Moko," hurling her out of the room and out of the school entirely.

//Takumi and Nozomi go to get her, but before that, Takumi insists they suit up. So with it being just the two of them, and with no alarms sounding, they jump into the battlefield.

//Before we fight, we get a few more cutscenes of Nozomi trying to get through to Moko. I get where she's coming from, like, she really wants to believe there’s still a piece of her friend left in that thing, but man, she’s really slow to accept that Moko is long gone.

//It’s rough to watch honestly. The story is putting Nozomi through the emotional wringer, and she barely gets a breath before it throws her into another devastating scene.

//The first round of the fight kicks off with just Nozomi and Takumi squaring off against the thing wearing Moko’s face, and a swarm of smaller, shadow-like creatures she summons.

//I'm gonna be completely honest, I wasn’t expecting her to hit that hard (despite, you know, the fact that Moko is a wrestler), so Takumi actually got taken out in the first round. Luckily, he did enough damage, and Nozomi finished Moko off pretty quickly.

/.Visually, this whole display is horrifically stunning. Not only is the enemy design grotesque, but the dialogue cuts deep. The horror elements are firing on all cylinders, and I think this is the closest I've ever been to finding one of Kodaka's games genuinely scary.

//Thankfully, backup arrives just in time. The rest of the gang shows up finally, where Yugamu puts his bizarre and encyclopedic knowledge of the human body to use, and explains the full scope of the situation.

//As it turns out, Moko wasn’t possessed, and she didn’t turn into anything. What we’ve been fighting isn’t Moko at all. It’s an Invader Commander wearing her skin, and it's been im impersonating her from the start.

//Looking back, this explains A LOT. It explains how and why Moko was able to get through the wall of fire without any hemoanima-based fire hydrant, and ALSO why when she showed up, the school alarm sounded. It's kinda freaky looking back and noticing all the oddities.

//Then Fake Moko turns up the nightmare factor, as she starts creating twisted shadow versions of the team; one for each of us. It’s a full-blown shadow clone battle, and honestly, it’s a fun mechanic.

//Darumi throws out a meta-comment pre-fight, "Clones make things easier for the devs," which cracks me up even as I’m clenching through the chaos.

//Honestly, this battle, at least for the first half, is TOUGH! More than I expected. The shadow clones have all our moves and abilities, and the only saving grace is that they don't have much health, meaning one good super move is taking them out easily. It's best to make sure you use the characters who can hit in a wide area with their attacks, like Gaku or Ima.

//But I make a point to let Nozomi land the final blow. She’s earned it.

//When the Invader finally collapses, it drops the mask. I'm impressed because this wasn't just mimicry. This thing had access to all of Moko’s memories, her voice, her habits, everything. It was a near-perfect copy. The only reason we even noticed something was wrong was because of the subtle breaks.

//Then comes the gut punch: the commander confirms it. The real Moko is dead. There’s no saving her. She’s gone. And with that, any hope of her returning to the team dies too.

//On top of that, the commander's initial plan was to go in under the guise of Moko being sick, and get to the Defense Room without anyone noticing. But because Nozomi never left its side, that was impossible. They tried to do it on the day Nozomi left with Takumi, which is why Moko conviniently woke up.

//So we're probably not even gonna be able to see what Moko can do until we do another playthrough, where we might get a chance to save her before she gets captured.

//This affects everyone pretty badly, because they'd all grown to really like Moko, only now finding out she was never the real deal. Just a copy that was out to get them all. The scene ends with Eito killing it when it went silent.

//Out of rage, detest, and spite against the Invaders for what they did to Moko, the others are ready to take it out on the Invader we’ve been keeping locked up, the one Shouma’s been trying to reach. Ultimately though, they’re simply heartbroken, betrayed, and just looking for somewhere to put that pain.

//But before it explodes into another tragedy, Eito steps in. Then Takumi. And, in what might be the most heartbreaking part of all, even Nozomi asks everyone to stop. Despite being ridden with Despair over finding out her best friend was killed by the enemy and impersonated, she rightfully points out that now's not really a good time. They should come to a conclusion in the morning.

DAY 66:

//No, far from it. Day 65 was an emotional beating in and of itself, but waking up literally the next morning, and things somehow go from ABSOLUTELY AWFUL to EVEN WORSE!

//We honestly shouldn't have even brought up the possibility of killing the Invader we captured, because lo and behold, that bitch ESCAPED from the cage!

//The timing is way too convenient. The lock on her holding cell has been clearly broken, not picked or bypassed, and considering she didn't have the means of getting out on her own because her abilities were deactivated, someone let her out. That much is obvious.

//Naturally, all eyes turn to Shouma. He had the motive and he had the access, since he was assigned to watch her. It adds up on the surface, but even the characters themselves point out that it still doesn’t sit right. Shouma doesn't have the emotional will to betray everyone, as much as he cared for the Invader and as much as he tried to defend her. Plus, he had the key to her cage, so why would he break the lock.

//Personally, I suspect Eito again. He's still my prime suspect for killing Sirei and making Hiruko vanish, as well as burning our food. So this could be the next phase of his plan.

//The problem is I really don't understand his angle this time, assuming that he IS the traitor.

//Then again, I never understand what his angle is. He’s clearly trying to weaken us from within for whatever reason, but this seems like a really unprompted tactic. Why release someone we were planning to execute anyway?

//Takumi, on the other hand, doubles down on blaming the Undying Flames Boy. He’s convinced the ghost is orchestrating all of this from the shadows.

//But Nozomi, ever the voice of reason despite everything, finally pushes back, finally pointing out that without the boy’s sudden appearance, Takumi never would have found Fake Moko in time. If anything, the boy SAVED us.

//I don't really get why Takumi is so insistent the Undying Flames boy is evil when he hasn't really done anything untowards yet. Takumi might just be that stupid, or at the very least, he's not spending much time thinking about it.

//And just as we’re all knee-deep in suspicion and tension, the situation gets even worse. Turns out, the escaped Invader didn’t leave alone.

//One thing that everyone noticed early that morning is that the Tsukumo Twins didn't show up to breakfast. We assumed they were late again, because they both slept in after the last big battle we did, but the situation is...far worse than we thought.

//Takumi goes to the Entrance Hall, and as he does, Kako suddenly comes back in, dressed in her Class Armor, and no sign of Ima. She passes out, and after she recovers, we find out that the Invader left the academy and took him hostage.

//Ima. The newest member of our team. The one who just started opening up, started fitting in. And now he’s gone.

//But...haha...SAY IT WITH ME EVERYONE! "IT! GETS! WORSE!"

//The fire extinguishers in the entrance hall and the emergency ones on the bus are BOTH BROKEN. So not only can we not get outside the Wall of Flames to chase after Ima and save him but we’re essentially TRAPPED IN THE SCHOOL! Surrounded by the Undying Flames, with no clear way out.

//This is bad for multiple reasons. The main one is that we obviously can't rescue Ima from whatever fate he's currently suffering, but also we get most of our resources from random shit we happen to scavange in the wild. Now we can't even do that.

// might be misremembering here, but I'm pretty sure Takumi blames the Undying Flames boy again.

I still don’t understand Takumi’s obsession with him. Every time he’s shown up, something helpful has happened, if not directly, then indirectly. He’s never spoken a word, never raised a hand against us. If anything, he seems like the only one trying to guide us. And yet, Takumi can’t let it go.

//The loss of Ima hits hard. We were just beginning to get to know him, to fold him into the rhythm of the group. And now, just like Hiruko, and just like Moko, he’s gone. Probably permanently. At this point, I’m scared to hope for anything different.

Conclusion:

//After my disappointments from the previous arc of the story, this one brought some amazing plot points, mysteries, and generally awesome times all around. Here's my takeaways:

The mystery of how Nozomi is connected to Karua, or whether they are the same person or not, is starting to become more and more layered, and as such, I gradually grow more and more interested in it.

I feel really bad for Nozomi in this part. She got emotionally damaged by what happened and I don't know how she's going to cope with it going forward.

Shouma's unexpected fondness and budding relationship with the Invader Commander, though it only lasted a few days, was unexpected, but not unwelcome. I enjoyed it.

The whole situation with Moko turning out to be an enemy commander in disguise was so sad, so TERRIFYING, and so BRILLIANT. Day 65 genuinely had my heart racing the whole time.

My hopes for Ima's survival after this are not high. Now that the Invaders have him, I think it's light's out for him. He's in my prayers though.

I am honestly a little disappointed that both Ima and Moko are gone. I only got to use Ima in two battles, and I didn't get to use Moko in ANY. I'm really hoping my theory about the timeline reset is right so I can use them both for real.

//Man, you don't know how good it feels to finally be back to playing this game again. Like I said, I was starting to go into withdrawals during my break. I'm enjoying it THAT much, even with all the despair and pain it's giving me.

//Can't wait to see what happens next~

-Mod

[tridentkickflipper123]

share ur bonus interesting night music video findings/rambles/analysis NOW!!!!!!!!!!!(please and also thank u:])

HIII JAGGY o/ honestly I could probably ramble about Night forever so... :} works out for me!

a lot of this are going to be things I've already mentioned on this blog, but they're pretty scrambled around so I might just make this a big post for all of it... consider this a 'nearly beat for beat Night analysis plus some other things and details' masterpost. not much of a lyrical analysis though because I'm not good at it lol. (also putting this all under the cut. thumbs up)

so, for starters... well, I'm not starting off with Night! nope! we're starting off with Spring and a Storm (now imagine a big arrow pointing towards me that says 'person that can't stop mentioning SaaS/StaaS at any given opportunity')

and the reason I'm bringing up Spring and a Storm first is due to the ending lines, which lead up to Night:

now, I'm aware that Spring and a Storm was the very first Tally Hall cover that Chonny made, and thus was made waaay before there was an overarching story planned for it. but ☝️ I do think CJ placing it right before Night in the final album (and assigning it to Soul, of all three... four? of them) is immensely relevant. in SaaS we get shown Soul's outright optimism/idealism despite his circumstances, and, while this is my own interpretation (which could very well be wrong!), I do think these lines are meant to be directed towards Heart and Mind specifically

and, this has never been confirmed since once again, this cover was made way before there was a story, but the final lines do sound an awful lot like Heart and Mind, don't they?

personally I think this is why CJ placed SaaS right before Night – it truly is the perfect lead-up to it. Heart and Mind singing the final lines almost feels like a call and response to Soul's beginning lines. they tried to sing once, about spring and a storm...

but we know how it goes.

[here's where I actually talk about Night lol]

now Night... it honestly may be my favorite CCCC MV out of all of them. I said so in that other post, but there's so much detail in every single scene. you can really tell that just about everything was planned out.

the MV itself starts off with Soul/potentially Whole arriving at the scene. it's interesting, actually – if we assume the silhouette is the same silhouette as the one that's in the latter half of Night, then that's definitely Whole, which would make sense as we properly see Heart, Mind and Soul arriving to the scene later. yet, all his lines are transcribed as Soul's, so... eh? I'll leave that in the air

I do interpret this beginning section as Soul guiding Heart into harmonizing with Mind. Heart's line, 'open the window, look out and see me' fades into Mind's voice, at this point, when he sings 'slow, I am coming a long way to be' the environment turns into a bright white.

I like both of these shots a lot. here we see that Mind and Heart are already feeling their respective pains (headache and heartache). but another detail is that Mind's holding up his left hand while Heart is holding up his right – which correspond to Soul's own nail color (black on the left, white on the right)

as Soul sings 'such as I am mother's only son', we see what seems to be an ultrasound scan overlaid on top of Soul / Whole. honestly, it's so hard to see that I'm still not 99% sure that's what it is even with the brightness turned up + more contrast, but I don't really know what else it could be. it's only present through this specific line too.

(this is such a typical 'blink and you miss it' CCCC detail that I can't help but love it. there's a few more like these scattered throughout some of the other MVs and each one makes me go like WHAT!!! HUH!!!)

now comes another detail that's honestly so hard to see in the video itself, but it feels really really important, and that is the fact that Heart does not have a blindfold on in this scene

(Ever is the light on.) [Is the light on ever meant to run?]

right after we see a door starting to open, in a bright environment. afterwards we see Heart puts on his blindfold

we go back to the shot with the door, except the environment is now dark. the door keeps opening, revealing Mind at the other side. worth mentioning that the only bright spot on the screen is right where Mind appears

[Cold, but I’m outside and waiting to see] (a glow in the snow, coming closer to me.)

this whole imagery with the door is important, due to both the incoming lines and another reason I'll bring up later, so remember this detail. after the chorus, we get a section with only Soul.

{Better when the light comes in the night-time, opening the door. Hoping to be right, it’s open every night, so what’cha waiting for?}

Soul is inviting Heart and Mind to harmonize, guiding them and giving them the space to connect with eachother. however. as we saw, they don't want to see eye to eye with eachother. or rather, they can't – not at this point of the cycle, at least. there's a tension there that's still unresolved, made evident by Heart's avoidance of Mind

and then comes the tines line:

I've explained in my other post what I think the line means, so I won't repeat it here. (also because I'm lazy lol). but I do think this shot itself is interesting. we see Soul alone throughout this entire verse, only going back to Heart and Mind during this line. and they're both clearly in pain; Mind with his constant headache and Heart with his chest pain. they're also not looking at eachother, with a clear split between them, Mind's environment being brighter and Heart's environment being darker. it's clear they're not on equal grounds here

here we get the second chorus again, but there's a clear difference. Heart and Soul start this line off singing together, but at the very end it's just Soul singing

{I want to see your) eyes, looking back and out through mine.}

here, Soul takes a pause right before the last word, there's a just barely audible sigh, and then sings 'mine,' alone. to me, this is the moment that Soul realizes that this isn't going to be possible, at least not in the state that things are in.

(Something is real.) {Maybe not.} {(Something is gone.)} (Something is here.) [Only thought.] {(What do you want?)}

I won't say much about these lyrics, as they're admittedly hard to parse for me as to what they mean exactly. (though it does feel like this is the point where Soul's given up on his initial task). I do think that it's notable how this is the only instance I can think of where Soul directly talks towards only Mind.

the continuing line is this:

{([Everything else will fade away.])}

as this line plays, we see Soul, Heart, Mind*, and we see Whole, and then… the video reverses, and keeps reversing up until the point where the door is closed again, Heart puts on the blindfold.

to me, what this means is that all of the progress made through the song, the attempt made by the three to see eachother's point of view, to harmonize, is now undone. they're now back at square one.

*one little detail about this part is that both Soul and Heart are looking downwards, while Mind is looking straight-ahead at the camera... which could mean nothing /ref

as the final chorus plays, there's a different, darker static filter over their shared screen. they're all singing together until the very end, where only Soul remains singing. the lyrics change too, from 'looking back and out through mine', to 'looking back and into mine'

... and then we fade into Ruler of Everything. *stock sfx of children cheering*

considering how both Spring and a Storm and Ruler of Everything were covered before there was a story planned, the fact that CJ chose Night to bridge them together works perfectly IMO. we go from 'some semblance of peace' to 'an attempt an harmony' to 'nevermind shit has hit the fan'

I could in theory talk about Light as well, but I don't have a whole lot to say about it compared to Night, as it doesn't have as many minute details that Night does (none that I've noticed, at least). I imagine it's due to the lyrics being far more straight forward to the CCCC lore, since Night is more of a 'faithful' cover compared to Light (which was very much intentional, IIRC)

so yeah. that's my Night analysis, kind of 👍 I didn't proof-read this post as much as I did the other so I may edit this post later if I notice a glaring issue later on or want to reword anything or something. little carbonation and I'll see you next time, later /ref

[riverstyxsarts]

Hi hi hiii :) super long rambling murderbot episode 1 + 2 episode thoughts under the cut ⬇️ it’s unlikely that anyone who follows me on here is into murderbot BUT! if you are please hit my line so we can discuss 🙏

I had surgery about a week ago and have had a really rough recovery from it (like. real bad.) so i have been SUPER looking forward to seeing the murderbot show and it definitely delivers!!!

First off I wanna say I loveeee sec units armor in the show. it’s definitely different than how it’s described in the books/art but i feel like that isn’t necessarily a bad thing. to me it makes perfect sense that MB would be absolutely COVERED in the companys logo and i think helps convey the specific kind of weird a sec unit is. like imagine if YOU 🫵 were a space communist scientist and you were forced to bring a robot with you on your mission that you dont want and it was absolutely covered in tesla and amazon logos? also it has guns. also its ALWAYS listening. and according to your beliefs it is the same as a human being. would be … creepy. also i think it helps hammer in the point of how MB is JUST considered a product its RIGHT THERE in your face every. single. time. you see its helmet.

the costuming in general is just really great :) i like how real everything feels and it just LOOKS GOOD like its made of real fabrics and not that cheep weird fabrics im seeing so much off in most tv shows and movies nowadays

The performance given by MBs actor is sooo good!!! i wasn’t convinced that fully convinced that the would be able to fully capture how autistic MB is. but I was wrong!!! and like. this is the most repented ive ever felt by a piece of media . this is of course largely how i felt about the book series already but the performance given really added to that. the way that MB speaks when it talks outloud is just!!! like i do a lot of the time!!!! especially when im uncomfortable or scared!!! the sort of awkward staggering sentences!!! the “weird” tone. I DO THAT!!! WE HAVE ALMOST THE SAME CADENCE !!! AND THE FACIAL EXPRESSIONS!!!!!!!! MB not being able to control its facial expressions is something thats mentioned a lot and very relatable but like!!! the actor is pulling the same faces as i do regularly!!!!-!-!-$718272 ITS JUST LIKE ME FR 😭😭😭😭❤️❤️❤️ as well as its body language!!!! oh my god!!!!! all the acting is sooo so good so far :)) everyone is doing such a good job yayy 😁😁😁

Things that a bit worried about: in the books several of the characters of multiple partners and its a casual normal thing but it seems like. they might be changing this a little for drama?

in the books dr mensah is mentioned to having multiple life partners as well as several kids while in the show they ONLY mention the kids which by itself is doesn’t matter but with everything else makes me go…hrm. first off the way the present pin-lee and arada (? i get the humans named mixed up a lot so apologies if i do that here) as specifically being MARRIED instead of life partners is an interesting choice? combined with their conversation about not having a “contract” with an unnamed ex-third who pin-lee calls crazy while they discuss asking ratthi followed immediately by pin-lee going “if shes happy…im happy…” when arada leaves??? ermmm??? and then actually having ratthi sign a contract before getting together??? its not really a big deal because MB hates romance so it only briefly talks about it a few times and tbh i do nawttt remember really any romance stuff i also have a tendency to skip those parts. so maybe im misrepresenting it but i thought a society were it was normal and extremely common for people to have multiple relationships really interesting!!

they added a scene were MB gets interrogated by gurathin which wasn’t in the book if i remember right and i REALLYYYY enjoyed that. MB saying “i dont know what its like not to be me so i cant say what its like” when asked what its like to be a sec unit oh my god. oh my god. banger. this robot is AUTISTIC! also i love how they added mensah having panic attacks! i absolutely adore her and i think showing her struggling with mental health issues but still being such a strong and great leader is really cool and a good addition .

i loved EVERY scene with sanctuary moon!!! its so funny and campy and i love the star trek references ehhehehe i love the crazy crazy hair on that one guy. over all its really solid!!! and im excited for more! i just REALLYYYY hope they dont add an unnecessary jealousy plotline

[crowleytakethewheel]

About Crowley's angelic identity

So here's my two cents to Crowley's identity/name theories. Now, I'm rather new to the fandom, so feel free to correct me if there's something already debunked in here. I also haven't read that many theories myself, so apologies if I'm just repeating things already said (I will reference some theories I have heard of too). Anyway, this is very long and rambly, so be warned!

Since we know Crowley was definitely a higher up angel, I'm leaning on that heavily, and will be talking about this in detail in the part about Lucifer, if you wish to jump to some theories I have so far not seen anywhere (not to say nobody else has thought of them or discussed about them, simply that I haven't seen anyone talking about them myself yet).

Now, starting with Raphael, who seems to be the most commonly theorized name. Now, I can see this being the case, but at the same time it does seem a bit too simple, which is why I would be rather surprised. Personally I prefer the idea that Raphael doesn't exist - technically. I've seen some ideas of him being Crowley's alter ego, but I don't really buy that either. What I believe is that he is Aziraphale, and the name "Raphael" comes from the fact that Aziraphale has a ridiculously difficult and long name that people would just simply misshear or missremember, and then write it to match the OTHER known angelic names like Gabriel and Michael. They remember something about raphel? Uhhh make it match the others, so Raphael. The parts about Raphael sometimes being shown with red hair and black wings are simply Crowley getting caught doing something good by humans, and then claiming to be Aziraphale so he wouldn't be found out. This would explain why Aziraphale is never mentioned by name in any texts, and perhaps also why he eventually decided to just call himself Mr. Fell. His name is hard. Bonus points for this would be that all of this kinda foreshadows the ending of s2 with him becoming the Supreme Archangel, so that is also nice even if it would just be a happy accident.

Next we have Astaroth. In short, we've already been shown a demon with this name (the one that brings Furfur the clicker in s2e4, image below). On top of that, Astaroth is a name of a demon, not an angel, so it would be a bit weird since Crowley's demon name is, well, Crowley.

Now, Lucifer. I believe it has been stated that Satan is Lucifer, so Crowley isn't, BUT that is not directly what I'm here to talk about. Instead I'm going to point to something else that might give us some Clues. See, Lucifer has been credited for at least some things that Crowley has done (snake in Eden, showing Jesus all the kingdoms of the world), in a way that has essentially erased Crowley's existence from the whole christian lore. He's not mentioned even once, unlike Aziraphale, who, even if my earlier theory about Raphael is wrong, has been mentioned in passing as the Angel of the Eastern Gate. But Crowley is suspiciously, completely missing, and his deeds have been given to Lucifer. Now, if you google Lucifer's rank, there seems to be a lot of arguments about it. Some say Seraphim, some Cherubim. This alone gives us some leeway into thinking that maybe, just maybe Lucifer WASN'T the previous Supreme Archangel, and while he was very high up, he wasn't the highest, and he just has been given the credit for being that to cover things up. Metatron states how casting one prince of heaven down to hell makes a good story, and surely it's a lot better story to have the said prince be the one leading the rebellion and becoming Satan, no? Crowley never meant to fall, Crowley by all accounts isn't actually evil or malicious, so why not just credit Lucifer for everything Crowley was, wipe Crowley's memory, and pretend he wasn't anyone too important? After all, we can't have someone like Crowley be a big influence on demons given he likes asking questions and skirting around the status quo. And what of the angels that would hear about the previous prince of heaven falling for asking too many sensible questions and not actually being evil? It's better for heaven to just tweak the reality a little bit and make sure everyone thinks the first prince was just evil and became Satan.

But what's the evidence for this? I'm going to start with this scene:

I made it start from the part where I am referring to the most. Gabriel says "However, I am the only First Order Archangel in the room, or, you know, the universe" AND THE CAMERA JUMPS TO CROWLEY. This is the only time during this scene that we get a closeup on Crowley alone; there's been some showing both Crowley and Muriel at the same time, but none that have been closeups like this, and none with just one of them. If this isn't a Clue, it's an odd choice, since Crowley isn't saying or doing anything here, he's not making a face or reacting or anything, he's just shown... for no reason. At all.

Then there's his memory loss, that while not completely obvious maybe partly because he's good at hiding it, it's still there. Not remembering Furfur is one thing if Furfur was a lower angel, that's understandable since Crowley was a higher up angel, because you will remember meeting a celebrity while the celebrity might not remember you. It's a bit odd still, given how hurt Furfur seemed, and how he described their time together; he made it sound like they used to be friends. But Crowley has no recollection of this. But, like I said, that could still be understandable. HOWEVER, Crowley not remembering Saraqael who he created a whole ass nebula with? AND who is very high up also, so not a random low level angel? On top of that, Saraqael looks very distinct, someone you would remember meeting, since nobody else has been shown to travel by a floating wheelchair. You will not just forget them, especially if you work closely with them. During this scene, Crowley also seems to deflect not remembering Saraqael by just making a joke about it "I meet a lot of people", which is a rather common thing to do when you feel insecure about something.

On the same note, Crowley also seems to understand it in a deeper level when Gabriel is describing his own memory loss with feeling like an empty house, since Crowley says "I know... looking at where the furniture isn't." You can take it as him just emphatizing with Gabriel, but to me it seems more like he actually gets it, and why he adds to Gabriel's metaphor like this. He recognizes the feeling, even if his situation isn't the same; he has some of his memories, but there's gaps, they didn't take everything, and maybe some things are also bleeding through like they do for Gabriel. For example, while you could say Crowley remembered Metatron at the end from the trial he saw in heaven, it's a bit weird Michael, Uriel, and Saraqael don't, which to me suggest Crowley has earlier, deeper memories about Metatron, some he might not actively remember, but enough to be able to maintain the image and recognize him. Something is there, since otherwise Muriel and Saraqael would have just as easily recognized Metatron as well, given they did watch the trial together just before. On top of that, Metatron very specifically asks Crowley if he recognizes him, which is a pretty whacky thing to do if Crowley were just some random demon, since not even the highest up angels can. Or Aziraphale, who has in fact directly spoken to him once. To me that question seems like a test to see if Crowley has started remembering too many things. Metatron also seems VERY familiar with who and what Crowley is, and not in the way that says "ew a demon", but in a personal, vendetta like manner.

I mean, just look at this absolute hatred. That's personal. As is his offer to Aziraphale after this. Metatron very clearly knows that Crowley would never take the offer to come back. Otherwise he wouldn't have offered it in the first place.

If Crowley was the first prince of heaven, it would also explain Aziraphale's reaction to him when they first met. Aziraphale was very much acting like an adoring fan from the start, clinging to Crowley's every word, and just being delighted that he was called upon to help. Crowley, however, didn't think that behaviour was weird in any way, meaning he was probably used to it already, and as such didn't feel the need to introduce himself either. I don't think he was just being rude by not telling his name to Aziraphale, since he did reply with "Nice meeting you", it's just that obviously Aziraphale already knew who he was. And that reaction from Aziraphale would work even if he, at the time, was a Cherubim like some theories say. Crowley would still be a massive celebrity.

If this is the case, someone has spent a lot of effort on it, since they would have to remove the memories of Crowley's original identity from the minds of every angel he has met, but then I'm sure Heaven has ways of doing so... as it's unlikely they would have let angels (and demons) to remember who Gabriel used to be either, had they managed to go through with the memory wipe on him. And Metatron seems just like the type of person to be petty enough to also alter the bible and other religious works to make sure Crowley isn't mentioned there either, and that specific mentions are instead credited to Satan. Maybe that is when he had "ingested things in his time" like he said to Aziraphale when giving him the coffee.

This all could still work if they decided to use the name Raphael, but personally I believe Seraphiel would work rather well thanks to the direct link to Metatron.

If you read all this, thank you! I'd love to hear your thoughts!

[themosscycle]

I mean… it’s a theory after all. So you don’t have to believe it, but it’s the most likely with what we know.

Please, notice how much emphasis I put with what we know now. Because that’s important.

Also, it’s important that all what I am about to reference comes from official sources and teasing and hints given by Toby Fox during the hiatus. I guess you know about all of that, the sweepstakes etc… But I will explain it from the basics, so it’s understandable how people tied that with Mike and Spamton.

Here I will make a small synthesis and timeline about how these theory came to be, if someone is interested and don’t want to read long documents or theories from other sources:

In chapter 2… Spamton talks about Mike and a guy that it’s a criminal. People initially think Mike is Tenna, and that Mike it’s the criminal he is referring to.

Then… someone asks Spamton about Mike in the sweepstakes (there was a role-play event where people asked questions and they answered them role playing as Spamton).

There, we realized that in that dialogue of chapter 2 Spamton was taking of two different people.

Tenna was the criminal.

Mike was the friend the Addisons said helped Spamton, and made him a big Shot, since that would be the most logical motive on why Spamton is defending Mike from the cathode crew so much.

Here, it appears that Spamton is hurt that Mike disappeared and stopped helping him. So… that he says this now kinda means that he needed Mike in the past. Therefore, making the assumption that Mike was the one he called more likely.

Here, Spamton goes black with garbage noise and tries to call Mike.

This is how the final call before Spamton disappeared ties with garbage noise. It seems Gaster intervened here. However, other people think that all these people is Gaster.

So. To wrap this up. We have several entities tied into this

-Mike, mentioned originally by Spamton in-game.

-“Friend” (the pink eye, yellow eye big smile creature that appears in Queen’s basements and a few of the rooms of the sweepstakes).

-Gaster.

There is still the possibility that the person that helped Spamton was Gaster.

But, what makes this less likely is that the person Spamton talks the most is Mike. Also, I feel that Gaster (if it appears directly at all) will be in the game until the very end. Personally I believe that the one that have made the secret bosses insane is Gaster and not Mike. Mike was the one that helped him be a big shot. But this is just me.

I believe this because, It seems that Mike and friend are the same character. What ties Mike with friend was that secret letter sent in the Valentines event. Where the person writing this said they were helping someone; and they said something about a coat and wash a face. That coat appeared briefly in one room of the sweepstakes.

In this link you can find the chair, washing and the eyes: https://deltarune.com/chair/

So… this connects two dots.

1. Spamton is helped and mentions Mike when we talk to him about friends.

2. Mike is the one tied to Spamton that apparently helped him put his products on TV, which might have put in trouble with that said cathode crew. This ties the Mike with the tv, and the Addisons mentioned Spamton announcing his products on TV.

3. The person of the letter said he helped someone (the only case of someone being helped is Spamton).

4. The coat, washing and all of that ties to the sweepstakes, with the room that referenced the face with the yellow and pink eye. This yellow and pink eye ties to friend.

5. Spamton glasses have this same pattern but opposite. This further tie Spamton to friend.

Friend also has been related to a cat (for this check the rest of the pages of the sweepstakes, with the cat petterz and the most recent sweepstakes pages that add a cat game related to friend).

Some people believe that Mike is trapped where Dess is (this part is crack theorizing) because the dialogue found from the code the voice that appears to be Dess also hears some scratches. This also relates Friend with a cat, and good luck.

The theme of good luck is present in Spamton because after having bad luck his luck changed with Friend/Mike. There is also a theme of probability teased in different ways in the sweepstakes ARG, with the different probabilities of the valentines letters and all of that, from the official email subscription.

However… here I agree that is obvious that Image friend is a Cheshire Cat, but the connection with Mike and Spamton is more lose. However, for me it’s enough to work.

If you want to know more, the full explanation of this is in @Wandydoodles twitter. He is the one that has looked for a lot more details and proof than I have given here. He is also like the main author of this idea. Probably you have already seen his posts but just in case.

As insane as this sounds, because I know it does. Mostly if you haven’t been on day with this official events and disscusions, there is actually a lot of proof extracted from the game itself, and official external sources of information. So I am actually very confident with this particular theory.

I know that usually the theories of this game are like… Jaru theories that make sense but feel like another completely different video game.

This case actually has a lot of proof from hints and clues provided from official sources and Toby Fox made this with the intention of the people that like to search for clues to find this.

Toby Fox knows that this community likes a lot theorizing and all of that; so he kept feeding us during this time.

wait when did we all decide that was mike. who is making these calls

[cryptic-forge]

I adore yur original dolls and the way you interpret fandom characters is so cool! Are you planning to make more fan dolls? The whole PMMM team would be awesome!

i probably won't be making more madoka characters. i like them all, but i don't think i want more dolls of them. not impossible, however; this ask has already given me some thoughts.

most characters i enjoy aren't interesting for me to dollify, but there are some i might make in the future. glinda and elphaba are another iconic queer witch pair i would love to make if i can figure out the designs.

one project i really want to do is the fool from realm of the elderlings. rote is simultaneously the book series that has altered my brain chemistry the most & the one that makes me want to fistfght the author in a parking lot because WHY IS IT WRITTEN LIKE THAT? MAKE BETTER CHOICES. i would love to make a tribute to the fool, and all the roles they played during the series. fitz would not be quite as interesting and intricate visually, but i don't think i could leave the fool alone. so my fanart dolls are either a) queer icons b) fitzchivalry farseer, icon to none but beloved nonetheless.

[venice-1987]

Soren deserves to have a little breakdown in season 7. As a treat.

[mad-hunts]

an idea for how another character could meet barton in an untraditional way: your muse met barton while he was in residency by expressing concern for him as they saw him at the grocery store... with only like five bottles of wine in his cart at the checkout 🫠 JSJSJ

[batsplat]

from the stuff i’ve heard marc’s former honda teammates (dani jorge and pol in their media careers but joan also i guess) say about him now that they’re racing is generally quite positive, both on a professional/riding level but also seemingly on a personal level? i’m wondering what you make of that given that, yeah, marc doesn’t seem like a very good teammate (unless you’re alex who i’ve left off this list). like MARC wants to separate on and off track stuff and it seems like all of these guys are willing too at least in retrospect, so he can’t have truly burned bridges with them. do you have any thoughts on that

(x, x) most riders are quite good at not burning bridges with each other! it's not like marc's competitors don't know that this stuff is kinda part of the game. I mean, all of marc's past teammates were also trying to assert themselves within the internal hierarchy... you can say that certain teammates engage in 'worse' behaviour than others, but, like, these people do understand they're supposed to be fighting each other! a baseline degree of nastiness is factored in and will be accepted to a greater or lesser extent by your rivals - especially when it comes to asserting yourself in intra-team power struggles. you might hate the other guy in the moment, but generally speaking once the active part of the rivalry is done with... you will probably get over it. marc's fellow riders are aware of how ultra-competitive marc is - and to a certain point they do respect it, not least because they're aware that this is part of the reason why marc has ended up with all those titles. it's like dani said, right, it's marc's strong suit. and in general, you do have to say that there's relatively few teammate pairings that devolve to the level of toxicity that it completely destroys the interpersonal relationship. you might need some level of preexisting animosity... most of the purely competitive sins can be healed with a little time

on the 'separating on-track and off-track' thing... well. this is kind of a question of how you define these things, you can say that marc generally speaking isn't going to massively hold grudges over isolated on-track incidents or whatever... but he doesn't just leave his fighting to the track, and personally I've also never felt he can entirely separate these things out in his mind. can you really say his professional and private relationships with other riders are completely detached from one another? mostly, he's opted to be pretty disengaged from his fellow riders as a collective, and obviously that's a good way to not take things too personally... it's all part of the game, isn't it? sometimes it's good to go with the straightforward approach: marc tells you he will make your life hell, he does indeed make your life hell, and then you both move on with your lives and can maybe actually have a pretty amiable relationship with him in years to come. he's not really defying your expectations at any point here, is he now? it's still a question for each of them as individuals as to whether they think that kind of behaviour is above board and acceptable or not... but everyone by now knows that marc plays these games, so it's not like they're going in blind

and it's not like other former teammates are constantly badmouthing each other. I mean... look, let's just cut to the chase here and bring in valentino as our reference point (as he is for the sport as a whole, which by the way does also help create a certain baseline of acceptability for marc's antics - maybe goated riders are just supposed to be dicks who knows). vale's premier class teammates were 1) nobody (2000-01), 2) tohru ukawa (2002), 3) nicky hayden (2003; 2011-12), 4) carlos checa (2004), 5) colin edwards (2005-2007), 6) jorge lorenzo (2008-10; 2013-16), 7) maverick vinales (2017-20), 8) franco morbidelli (2021), and 9) andrea dovizioso (2021). of these eight men (let's just exclude 'nobody' for now), do you know how many had serious complaints at any point about valentino as a teammate? that's right, it's one guy. one. some of valentino's other teammates, like hayden, checa and edwards, were even quite actively positive about their whole experience. this is the thing - you do need some specific circumstances for teammate rivalries to escalate from 'being kinda bitchy every other month' to 'actively fantasising about stabbing each other'. not accounting for natural interpersonal animosity, let's list some circumstantial factors that you need to get a bridge-burning-worthy level of feud:

you need a competitive bike. it is possible to beef about development direction when you're in the trenches (cf late 2010's yamaha, 2020's honda)... but generally speaking this is going to be quite low-level petty stuff, not actual war

you also need something that approaches competitiveness between teammates. if one teammate is unquestionably stronger than the other one, then it is very unlikely that you are going to get any open hostilities. the tension comes when the two sides are close enough to each other for the internal hierarchy to actually be a contentious issue (this is also basic self preservation... if you're the far weaker teammate then you do not want to make the situation troublesome, because then you will be the one to be fired)

following on from those first two things... well, it doesn't hurt to have a title fight in the mix. there are also other ways you can generate competitive stakes, like, for instance, if you and your teammate know that one of you will be out of a job soon. basically, it helps to have something to squabble over

it is maybe easy to forget how rare it is this century for teammates to be fighting directly for a title, let alone over the course of multiple seasons. only two 1-2's since the year 2000 and they're both for the factory yamaha's (though 2006, 2011-13 and 2017 did all prominently feature two factory hondas). which means that for valentino, the prerequisites were met just the once in his premier class career... and yes, the results were pretty memorable, but (topic! for! another! post!) it's worth pointing out that even that relationship was pretty much 'fine' whenever there was a sizeable disparity between the two of them performance-wise (2008 and 2013 are the most clear cut examples). I think the way I'd frame it with marc is that he has a bunch of mildly dubious strategies up his sleeve to assert himself within the team, which don't really deviate that far from what you'd expect from a rider of marc's calibre and only need to be escalated under specific circumstances. that doesn't mean he doesn't have the potential to be ruthless, but up until now it's mostly been a fairly 'acceptable' level of ruthlessness on the intra-team level... and not something that is likely to make other riders actually hate him

taking marc's teammates one by one... dani was the closest to meeting the bridge-burning prerequisites, though he was only a title rival in marc's rookie season. and marc did go further with him than he did with anyone else, and dani has made some pointed comments about marc's style as a teammate... but yes, he is fonder of marc these days. partly I'd just emphasise again that this is a fairly natural progression when you've stopped directly competing for long enough, and partly it's also just a question of individual personality - dani's not massively into holding grudges. then there's jorge, who... I mean, they might as well not have been teammates, given that jorge was either too slow or too injured to even be sharing any track space with marc. you have to put that one down primarily to circumstance, seeing as jorge's own track record on the teammate front isn't exactly spotless. marc and jorge beefing in 2019 would have been pretty dumb and also a massive waste of everyone's time in a year in which marc singlehandedly won the team's championship. even those two needed more to get things going

moving on to the dark years, pol and marc had an extremely stop-and-start partnership on a honda that was generally pretty uncompetitive... so the only stuff they could get ever so mildly irritable about were riveting incidents like 'marc saying pol wasn't the biggest championship threat' (neither of them were) or 'pol saying he'd copy marc's set up' (which proved entirely useless). not exactly title decider territory, is it now, and marc very much had pol covered as a challenger throughout their partnership. also, those two do have a longer history! they've known each other since they were kids and hold a pretty significant place in each other's careers. now that pol's more or less retired, it's natural there'll be quite a lot of sentimentality there - which will paper over any small cracks that appeared during those two years. and joan was a one year teammate at a time in which the bike was consistently close to offing them both. they only managed to start a sunday race together as teammates on thirteen occasions. it would take some serious effort to engineer a feud with that little opportunity, and, really, why on earth would you bother. maybe if honda had gone for rinsy rather than joan for the factory seat, it could've been a bit more prickly, but it's unlikely that it would have escalated beyond that

this is the thing, right, the only one of these partnerships that would have been worth burning bridges over was dani, and even there marc pretty much had him handled after the first season. in general, marc has been pretty clear on how he's not interested in making friends with the other side of the garage while the teammate relationship is ongoing... which is fine! there's some prominent-ish teammate pairings that are actually good friends, some teammate pairings where one of them is actively helping out and advising the other one, but some riders prefer to just keep their distance. it would have been a little silly of marc to start a feud with a teammate who is galaxies away from being a competitive threat, let alone a title rival, but generally it is possible to toe the line between 'attempting to suppress your internal rivals enough to stop them from becoming a problem for you' and 'taking radical enough action to make your internal rivals despise you'

especially in the post-dani era, marc never really had any need to push things too far... and, let's face it, how many of your teammate relationships end up with burnt bridges is also quite frankly a question of luck and circumstance. do you want to guess which top rider on paper has the worst track record this century with premier class teammate feuds, in terms of a) how many they've had, and b) how little public reconciliation there has been since the end of the rivalry?

yes, that's right, it's the first name that comes to mind when you're thinking of toxic and conflict-prone riders: andrea dovizioso. that old devil, constantly causing trouble. just couldn't stop undermining his poor, innocent teammates. can somebody please stop this ruthless bully before it's too late

I think you get the point. I would personally suggest that dovi is not in fact the worst teammate it is possible to have in a motogp top team. he just happened to find himself in a situation where he was teammates with two separate guys he did not click with at all, in situations that involved a pairing of riders who were (or had the potential to be) competitive with each other, as well as some proper stakes attached to the rivalry. in general, situational factors are going to determine this stuff more than anything else... and marc more often than not does have a reasonably good feel for picking his battles. he's flirted with the line, but he's mostly avoided crossing it. he hasn't had to

[elena-fishr]

.

[thethingything]

I need to call our dentist today because we're back to pretty much unmanageable levels of pain, but also our gums are swollen and that side of our face is hot to the touch and our mouth keeps tasting really bad so clearly there's something very wrong

[im-still-a-robot]

I just want to use charm person because it will 100% get us out of a Situation. The spell literally says friendly acquaintance. However, if you want me to seduce the character you literally named "Lucifer" understand that I am no coward.

[scienceismygirlfriend]

Reading asks:

2. Flops! Or 9. Compels me tho

2. flops! i consider this one a flop because i really wanted to like it BUT. i did not enjoy Things In Jars. it had a great premise, and i love a ghost sidekick as much as the next guy, but it just did not come together for me. and the most frustrating this is that the things i didn't enjoy about it don't seem to be the things that bothered anyone else who didn't like the book so i didn't even get the cathartic release of reading the two star reviews of the book!!

9. compels me tho: this is maybe a goofy answer but i read the first dinotopia children's novel (Windchaser) while on a road trip and it's pretty simple and predictable but DINOSAURS THOUGH. i don't know why i never read this as a child (i devoured A Land Apart from Time) but i know i would have been soooo annoying about it if i had. it's cute!