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suguwu · 5 months ago

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WOULD THAT I: PROLOGUE

The Gojo boy doesn't have a soulmate.

When you're both children, you overhear him being referred to as inhuman, between his power and his lack of a mark. The next time you see him, you use a marker to write your name on his skin, too young to understand what it means.

You forget, but Gojo—

Gojo never does.

MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT.

masterlist

pairing: gn!reader x gojo

wc: 2.6k

notes: thank you to my beta, as always! especially for putting up with my bratty ass and reading this early so i could post it earlier. this has been a fun fic to get started and i hope you enjoy the prologue!

content warnings: none. see masterlist for series content warnings.

The Gojo boy doesn’t have a soulmate.

You don’t think you’re supposed to know; it’s only ever talked about in hushed voices. The clans all speak like that, sometimes, each word a butterfly’s wing as it flutters from their mouths.

The servants, however, are louder.

One of them has a voice like a lark, a sweet, trilling song. It carries. You learn to hear her coming, to recognize her shadow against the shoji. You know the edges of her by heart. Sometimes she spreads her arms out as she makes her way through the hallway; her kimono sleeves flare out behind her like wings.

“There’s something wrong with the Gojo heir,” she sings one afternoon, her fluting voice half-muffled by the shoji. “Those eyes of his—it’s like he can see right through you. And Fujioka says he doesn’t have a soulmark.”

Another servant hushes her. “Don’t gossip,” she chides.

“It’s true, though!”

“That doesn’t mean you should repeat it.”

She huffs, grumbling something too soft for you to hear anything aside from the melody of it. The other servant laughs quietly before chivvying her forward. You watch until their shadows disappear, leaving only the hallway light to filter golden through the shoji.

You return to your coloring book.

The Gojo boy doesn’t have a soulmate, but that doesn’t mean anything to you.

Not yet.

—

There’s a boy in the courtyard.

He’s hopping from stone to stone in the koi pond, his snow-white hair glittering under the morning sun. He moves like a dancer, each step sure and swift, never once slipping on the wet rock. When he gets to the biggest rock in the pond, he crouches down, his back to you, and drags his fingers over the surface of the water. The koi rise to meet him, firework scales flashing in the sun.

You watch him from the engawa, peeking out at him from behind one of the columns. You’ve never seen him before, and you’d remember him, with his starlight hair.

“Who’re you?” he asks, not turning around.

You stay quiet.

“I know you’re there,” he says. “You can’t hide from me.”

He glances over his shoulder and the world goes blue.

It’s the cold burn of a comet’s tail streaking through the velvet night. It’s oceantide, relentless and unyielding. It’s a slice of the sky brought down to earth, heaven devoured.

Then he blinks, and he’s just a boy again.

“Who’re you?” you ask, stepping to the edge of the engawa.

He lifts his chin. “I asked you first.”

You introduce yourself the way your mother taught you, bowing to him shallowly.

He scoffs. “You’re not even from the main clan.”

“Are you?”

“I’m not part of your stupid clan.”

“Oh.”

He stares at you, his crystalline eyes sharp-edged, all prismatic ice. “You don’t know who I am?”

“Nope.”

He rises to his full height, unfolding like an elegant crane. “I’m Gojo Satoru.”

You tilt your head. The servants’ humming gossip made the Gojo heir sound ethereal, a fallen star that had burned away into human form as it plummeted through the heavens. His eyes are otherworldly, and you can feel the power rippling out from his lean form, as unstoppable as the tides, but—

“You’re just a boy,” you say.

He scowls. “Am not.”

“Are too.”

“I’m Gojo Satoru,” he says again, deeper this time, an intonation, a promise, a curse. His eyes flash, St. Elmo’s fire, a lightning strike of blue. “I have the Limitless and the Six Eyes. I’m not just a boy.”

You would believe him, but the last bit sounded more sulky than anything else. You’re about to tell him so when someone calls your name. You glance over your shoulder, but there are no shadows against the shoji yet.

When you turn back around, there are wet patches shining on the stones in the koi pond, an imprint of the past, but nothing else.

The Gojo boy is gone.

—

Your mother is hovering.

She smooths down your yukata, chasing creases from the thin cotton with trembling hands. There hadn’t been time to change; she’d pulled you out of your lessons and hurried you down the hallways of the estate.

“Bow low when you meet him,” she tells you, though she hasn’t bothered to tell you who ‘he’ is. “Understand?”

You nod.

There’s a fine layer of sweat gleaming at your mother’s nape as she kneels before the shoji. She reaches out to open it; her kimono sleeve slips down, revealing the elegant curve of her wrist. You focus there instead of the opening shoji, the slow slide of it a hissing snake, coiled to bite.

The shoji clicks, a chime of teeth, its maw wide open. You take in a deep breath and step through, your gaze on the tatami mats. Someone shifts.

“Oh, it’s you.”

You glance up, directly into the gaze of Gojo Satoru. His eyes are as otherworldly as you remember, a crisp, clear blue framed in long lashes, like a snowy-edged mountain lake. He tilts his head as you gape, his hair gleaming bone-white in the sun streaming through the open shoji.

You blink. “What’re you doing here?” you ask, and next to you, your mother hisses in a low, sharp breath.

Gojo shrugs. “Dunno. The clan said I had to come and they caught me when I snuck out.”

The woman behind Gojo clears her throat. “Gojo-sama,” she says, her voice like the shivering leaves when the summer breeze stirs to life, “they’re a candidate for you to train with.”

He eyes you. “Why?” he asks. “They’re not very strong.”

“Hey!”

“You aren’t, though,” he says. “I can tell.”

You throw yourself at him.

His eyes widen, a devouring sea, and he grunts as you make impact. He’s sturdier than you thought; he’s slight, but it’s all lean muscle, even though he can’t be much older than you are. Your mother calls out your name, horrified, but Gojo is already recovering, grappling with you for control.

By the time the adults pull you apart, Gojo is nursing a rapidly-purpling mark high on his cheekbone. Your split lip aches; you tongue at it and wince. You can taste blood, sour and metallic. You glare at Gojo even as your mother bows deeply to the woman.

“My deepest apologies,” she says, tightening her grip on the sleeve of your yukata and forcing you to bow with her. “I don’t know what came over them.”

The woman clicks her tongue. “The child should be punished,” she says, and your mother stiffens. “I would suggest—”

“No.”

Everyone looks at Gojo. He thumbs at a rip in his kimono, grinning widely. It bares his teeth.

“I’ll train with them,” he says.

“Gojo-sama—”

“I said I’d train with them. Now can we go? I want a popsicle.”

The woman sighs. “Yes, Gojo-sama.”

Gojo sweeps by you and your mother. He pauses right next to you. “You’re weak,” he tells you, ignoring the way you bristle, “but at least you’re fun.”

He’s out the shoji before you can respond.

—

Summer settles over Kyoto, a wet lick of heat. Even the wind seems to feel it; it ripples honey-slow through the trees, barely strong enough to stir the air. Frogs move into the koi pond in the courtyard; they sing along with the cicadas’ sawing choir.

“Catch it!” Gojo shouts as your hands spear through the murky pond water. It gushes free from between your fingers as you come up empty-handed, the frog you were aiming for frantically disappearing further below the surface. “You’re so slow.”

“Am not!”

“Are too,” he counters, holding out his cupped hands. A plaintive ribbit sounds out from between them. “I already caught one. It was easy.”

“You’re annoying.”

He stares at you, his blue eyes icy. “You’re annoying.”

“You’re the one who came over.”

He rolls his eyes. “We train at your estate.”

“How come?”

“How come what?”

“How come we train here? Your estate is probably better.”

He shrugs, opening his hands enough to peer down at the frog. It glistens in the sunlight, the same deep green as the lush courtyard. It makes a break for freedom; he closes his hands again, his long fingers sewing the gap shut. “I like it better here.”

You wrinkle your nose. “Why?”

“I just do,” he says, voice flat.

You don’t ask again.

—

“Why are we here?”

Gojo blinks, his long white lashes sweeping over the sweet curve of his cheek. “Why are you whispering?”

Your cheeks heat. The Gojo estate is a sprawling, massive maw; you’ve felt devoured ever since you set foot in it. Even the golden light that slants through the shoji feels cold. There are ikebana arrangements lining the halls, the leggy, deep purple irises sculptural as they rise proudly from the vases, but it still feels like a mausoleum.

“We’ve just never trained here before,” you say, taking care to use your regular voice. “So why are we here now?”

He shrugs. “They insisted.”

“Who?”

He dismisses the question with a wave of his hand, his long pianist’s fingers cutting through the air. You roll your eyes, long used to his occasionally imperious ways. The two of you continue along the hallways, you trailing after him closely, as if caught in his gravity, an orbiting moon.

You almost run into him when he comes to a sudden halt. You peek around him—in the last few months, he’s gone through a growth spurt, one that your mother says will come when you’re his age, and he’s too tall to peer over his shoulder—and see a servant bowing low, her ebony hair glinting.

“Gojo-sama,” she says. “Please follow me. The elders are waiting.”

He sighs, a dramatic heave of his chest. “What do they want?”

“They didn’t specify.”

“Ugh.”

“Gojo-sama—”

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” he says. “Go tell those geezers I’ll be there soon.”

You wince right along with the servant. Gojo’s disdain for the elders is not new, but it still unnerves you every time, as if they will come along and smite you down.

“C’mon,” Gojo says to you. “Let’s get it over with.”

The servant clears her throat. “Only you, Gojo-sama.”

He glares, his blue eyes burning, a comet streaking through the sky. “No,” he says. “They’re coming.”

“They cannot.”

“I said they’re coming.”

“It’s okay,” you tell him, eyes wide. “Really.”

Gojo looks back at you. For a second, his mouth is a wound, tender and pink, but in the next breath, it’s gone, frozen under a layer of ice.

“Fine.”

You bite your lip, but he’s already walking away. You catch yourself before you reach for him. He disappears down the hallway, his hair glinting like exposed bone.

The servant turns to you. “This way,” she says, her voice perfectly neutral.

You follow her to an empty room; she slides the shoji shut behind herself as you settle onto the cushion at the chabudai. You gaze around the room. There’s not much to take in; it’s wealthy in a subdued way. You fidget with the hem of your sleeve and then get to your feet.

You slide open the shoji leading out to the engawa; it opens onto a huge, lush courtyard. The plush flowers are weighted down by their own blooms, their stems curving like a dancer’s back. A shishi-odoshi rings out with a hollow thud; a few songbirds scatter, their wings rustling like leaves as they soar towards the sky.

You step out onto the engawa. It’s still early enough that the sun slants onto the wood, warming it. You sit down and bask in it, tilting your face up for the sun’s sweet kiss. You lay back, your eyes fluttering shut.

A voice wakes you.

“He’s an insolent brat!” a man hisses. “He needs to be taken in hand!”

“He’s too powerful,” another man answers. His voice is calm, but you can sense the ripples in it, the thing lurking underneath. “We can only do what we’re already doing.”

You go still. They can only be talking about Gojo. Their footsteps echo; they’re drawing closer and closer.

“It’s not enough.”

“He’s still young. Maybe we can mold him.”

The first man snorts. “You don’t believe that.”

“No, I don’t.”

“There’s something wrong with that boy,” the first man says. “Those eyes—that power—and not even a hint of a mark. He’s barely human.”

Their footsteps are starting to fade; their voices become murmurs. But you still hear it when the second man says:

“I don’t think he’s human at all.”

Then they’re gone, fading from your world like malevolent spirits, dissipating on the wind. You unclench your fists and find that your nails have bitten into your skin, little half-moon curves cutting through the leylines of your palms.

Gojo shows up a mere minute later. He slides open the shoji with a bang; his eyes find you immediately.

“C’mon,” he says, stepping out into the courtyard. His eyes are shadowed; his lips are pulled tight, an unstitched wound. He’s heard them, you realize. You’ve never seen him bothered by other people’s opinions; your chest aches, a pressed bruise. You open your mouth to say something, but you can’t find the words.

He grabs your hand as he passes by you, tugging you along behind him, ignoring your surprised yelp. “Let’s go before those stupid geezers find me again.”

“Where are we going?”

“Away from here.”

“But my shoes—”

He glances back at you and you drown in blue.

“Okay,” you say quietly. “Let’s go.”

He doesn’t answer; he just tugs you along. You stare at the back of his head for a moment, trying to make sense of the expression you’d seen flash across his face before he’d turned around again. You can’t understand it, but you know one thing.

He’s never looked more human to you.

—

The next time you see him, you’re prepared.

You uncap the marker with your teeth. You reach out for Gojo’s arm; he pulls away before you can grab hold, as quick as a darting fish.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Give me your arm.”

“Why?”

“You’ll see.”

He eyes you for a moment, but gives you his arm.

You push up his yukata sleeve to expose the tender underbelly of his wrist. You start to write, laboring over each stroke of the marker, keeping it as neat as you can. The silver ink covers the rivers of his blue-green veins as it sinks into his skin, a childish tattoo.

“There,” you say, finishing with a somewhat-shaky flourish. “Now you have a mark.”

Gojo stares at you, his cerulean gaze lit from within, the sea beneath the sun. He covers the katakana of your name with his free hand, careful not to smudge the still-drying characters. Under the shadow, they fade to gray, but they still glint and glimmer the same way real soulmarks do.

You hum, pleased with yourself, cap the marker, and toss it to the side so you can start training.

You don’t know it yet, but it’s your last session with him. He disappears into the dawn like a fading star, spirited off to Tokyo to continue his training. You’ve only spent six months with him. Still, it aches, a pressed bruise, but you’ve always known he would outgrow you; his power is a black hole, always devouring.

Life, ever unmoved, continues on.

The boy you knew fades from your memories, though you never forget him. It’s impossible, with the stories that come out of Tokyo, how he completes missions that no one his age should be able to handle.

Still, you forget things. The tilt of his mouth; the cadence of his voice. He becomes a shadow of himself, a shade with burning blue eyes.

You forget that you once wrote your name on the delicate inside of his wrist.

Gojo, though—

Gojo never does.

#jjk x reader #gojo x reader #gojo x you #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x you #bee writes jjk #fic: would that i

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ilium-ilia · 4 days ago

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Everything You Touch

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | previously known as "soft spot" | masterlist

Chapter One: glass half shattered

tw: verbal abuse, name calling, domestic violence

It’s seven in the morning and you’re already crying.

Dirty plates and bowls teeter upon one another in your sink, balanced so flippantly you fear your breathing might knock them down. You’re not sure how it’s filled up so quickly. Full to the brim, nearly overflowing. Dried food crusts on every prong of each fork and the rim of each glass—neglected, and not even rinsed before being placed in the sink to rot and fester. An old Halloween themed mug catches tiny drops of water that fall from the rusty faucet, and you find the sight oddly comforting. How relieving it is to know that you are not the only leaky thing within the pallid walls of this apartment.

“Really, babe? This is fucking ridiculous.”

Your hazy vision clears slightly when you blink, forcing more tears to roll down your cheeks in a never-ending tidal wave. Choking back a pule, you look at the man in front of you with an irritatingly quivering bottom lip. His eyes are dull—bored. There was a time when he once looked at you with adoration. Those irises used to be so vibrant when he caught sight of you, glistening like the prismatic refractions of stained glass windows. Now, heavy set brows furrow as he gestures to the sink flippantly, as if he has better things to do than be here with you.

“You can’t be crying over dirty dishes,” Eric says, his voice far from demulcent.

“I’m not crying over dirty dishes, I’m crying because they’re not done,” you correct.

“So then fucking clean them!” he huffs, exacerbated. He gestures at you with both hands, palms facing up and fingers curling inwards like the rotting legs of dead beetles. “I don’t understand why this is so hard for you. Jesus Christ, you’re crying like a goddamn kid over this and it’s pissing me off.”

Closing your eyes, you force a deep breath into your lungs. You don’t feel much better when you open them again. “I’m just frustrated because I asked you to clean them last night so I’d have clean dishes for breakfast before work this morning.”

“Okay, so I forgot! You don’t have to crucify me for it,” Eric snaps. Groaning, he runs a hand through mussed hair which only further disrupts the strands.

“You forget every time and that’s why it hurts,” you cry, tone all but begging for him to understand. Your hand rests against the countertop as you attempt to stabilize yourself, lest you fall through the floor. “It was the same thing last week! It’s the same thing every damn time! You forget, and I have to do it. I always have to do it!”

“God forbid you have to pull your fucking weight around here, right?”

Your quarreling pauses for a split moment and the only sound that dares to sing is the faucet spewing its tears into the sink. Cordolium morphs into bitter shock as your lips part, your heart suddenly struck with an aching sorrow. The shock itself is almost enough to kill you, but the contempt in Eric’s eyes is the final blow.

“You did not just say that to me,” you mumble, dumbfounded.

“It’s true, isn’t it?” Eric challenges. “Look at you. Just woke up and you’ve already found something to bitch about. I have to do everything around here, don’t I? I work, I pay your bills. Hell, you wouldn’t be able to survive without me.”

Incisors chewing on the slick flesh inside your cheek, you tilt your head as you smear your tears off of your cheek. “Eric, you can’t even do the fucking dishes. Don’t pull that shit on me. The apartment is in my name. You moved in with me. All I’m asking for is a little fucking respect and-”

Your monologue is interrupted by sharp nails and the edge of the counter in your low back. Eric’s face is suddenly inches away from yours and you have no choice but to look at the virulent rage in his eyes as he holds your head still, unforgiving fingers digging into your jaw and hips pinning you to the counter. He snarls like a rabid dog and you can nearly taste the stale cigarette smoke on his breath. He pulls a squeak from your vocal chords as his forehead rests against yours. It’s difficult to tell if he’s going to kiss you or rip you to shreds, but he licks his lips all the same.

“You get respect when you give it, and all I’m hearing is an awful lot of bitching,” he seethes. “You’re really starting to piss me off, love. If you want to act like a child I’m gonna start treating you like one, you understand?”

It’s difficult to nod when he’s gripping your face like this, but you manage the movement. Humiliation burns the back of your neck as you let out a shuddering breath. Desperate fingers slowly wrap around his wrist, and you find your thumb rubbing over his wrist as if to soothe him.

“Let go of me,” you say, words balancing on the edge of an order and a plea.

Eric contemplates your words as if he doesn’t want to listen. There is an insurmountable amount of power that he holds in the palm of his hand—the soft flesh of your cheek and the brittle bone of your jaw. He could move his hand down to the soft flesh of your throat. All it would take is a little squeeze. Instead, he relents. Bony fingers slip away from your face as he steps back. He stares at you for so long you think he might change his mind; eventually he turns away and scoffs.

“You think you’re so fucking tough,” he grumbles before leaving you alone in the kitchen. “Can’t even do the fucking dishes.”

Eric rages through the house, heavy feet stomping on the floor until he reaches the bedroom where he slams the door shut. Trembling fingers rub at your face in an attempt to quell the ache but you can feel the blood begin to pool in your cheeks already. Your downstairs neighbors have turned the TV on again. It’s loud enough to drown out the sound of the argument you were forced into, but the damage is already done.

You don’t eat breakfast.

It’s difficult not to lament your lost meal, but as you trudge into work with a forced smile on your face, you remind yourself that it’s for the best. After all, Eric’s right; you really do need him. He might not help around with cleaning as much as you’d like him to, and he spends his weekends god knows where doing who knows what, but he shares the bills. Nothing more than a glorified roommate, he’s always petulant these days—snapping at you for any mere sight of conceived retraction from you.

A growl gnaws at your stomach, but the pain doesn’t hit. You lost your appetite the moment your boyfriend laid hands on you.

Computers and cash machines whirl to life as you ready your teller’s station for the morning rush. Within no time everything begins to hum with electricity. You turn on the large television screen on your right where it displays exchange rates and helpful information, and before you settle behind your desk you ensure to straighten out the sign informing patrons of common financial scams and how to avoid them. Everything is up and running. As you log in, you remind yourself to be the blithe, helpful bank teller you always are.

“Rough morning?”

The quiet voice of your coworker—Cheryl—scares you out of your skin. Lips parted and heart thumping, you jump and look on your left to find her polite smile and neatly pressed blazer. Cheryl tosses her faux leather purse on the back counter before looking at you expectantly with a raised brow. In the worst of ways, she reminds you of your mother.

“I’m sorry?” you reply.

“You’re here extra early. Earlier than I am,” she explains with flapping hands before walking to her desk. “Usually you’re having a bad morning when you’re here before me. Eric isn’t giving you trouble again, is he?”

Sighing, you give her a gauche chuckle before turning your eyes back to your monitor. Clicking on your mouse, you pretend to do work while the cogs in your mind begin to turn. Your jaw still aches, but you don’t feel like spilling your guts on the floor before work begins. “Oh, not really. Just… had issues with the dishes this morning.”

Work drones on the way it always does—with a push and pull. It’s a dance that you know well. One that you could do with your eyes closed. A gentle trickle of customers waxes and wanes like the waves of the ocean as your queue begins to fill. It starts out soft before it becomes a flood that forces you to wade through waist-high water. Still, you are amicable. You show an equanimity that most people only dream of achieving as you handle deposits, withdrawals, and everything in between.

It’s an easy job. Mindless—for you, anyway. Each word you speak flows off your tongue like thick honey as you politely smile at grumbling customers and send them on their way. You’re treated like a brick wall. Nothing more than an object to be barked at until you magically dispense the service they desire. You don’t mind. It’s easier to act this way—like a performer. Completing tasks like a metallic android until—

—until he arrives.

His name is Simon Riley, and he stands in front of you like a cyclopean statue—unmoving and unbreakable. Surrounding customers eye him with wariness as they soak up his masked face and the drawn hood of his jumper. His bulk is so wide that he blocks out the line behind him like the moon eclipses the sun. It’s fitting, you realize. He is mysterious like the moon; dressed in black with eyes as stygian as the streets at night. A medical style fabric mask obscures his face, but you can still see the way his jaw dances beneath it as he slides his ID face down across the counter.

“Hey there,” you greet him with a smile. It feels like the first authentic simper you’ve given anyone all day today.

“Morning,” he hums.

“The usual?”

“Yeah.”

Simon is your inconsistent consistency. At least, you like to think of him as much. He arrives every Thursday around mid-morning to withdraw the same amount of cash—enough for what you assume he uses in the week. He refuses to use any sort of ATM, and he always chooses your lane. At least, he does while he’s here. Internal records logged on his account show he’s a military man; a soldier. He is volatile in where he is in the world, but so long as he’s in London, you can always count on him to end up in front of your desk somehow.

He watches you with quiet eyes as you ignore his ID and go straight to retrieving his cash. You’ve only seen that picture of him once when he first started banking, and ever since then you’ve refused to look at it again—as if you’re doing him a favor for not witnessing what he tries so hard to obscure. Each movement of your fingers is scrutinized as he slips a thumb into the pocket of his jeans. Simon always feels like such a stain in places like this—around people like you. The people with bright smiles; who wear clean clothes and attend the perfect nine to five. Each wall in the room glistens with power and wealth, something that he’s never really felt like he can come close to without it tarnishing.

If it wasn’t for you, he would have switched banks a long time ago.

“Here you go!” you say, your voice chipper as you hold out the envelope for him.

Large hands threaten to engulf yours as he reaches for the money, but his fingers never do so much as graze your skin. Simon doesn’t bother counting the cash before folding the envelope and shoving it into the pocket of his jumper. He’s been banking with you for quite some time, and you’ve never miscounted before; he trusts you with that much, at least.

“Thanks.” It’s short, gruff—to the point. He gathers his ID off of the counter and stows that away next to his envelope before turning to leave. Several wary looks burn into the back of his skull, but he ignores them.

“Have a good one!” you call after him.

Have a good one. It’s the same farewell you always give him. Of course, there’s a factitious answer that burns the tip of his tongue every time you say it. Have a good what? But he knows better than to be a smart ass. Though really, the question is a valid one in his mind. Have a good what? Day? Afternoon? Life?

Would you still say that to him if you knew how far gone he is?

After that short interaction, Simon doesn’t see you again for a few weeks. He’s off doing what he does best—being a soldier. At times, it feels like it’s all he knows how to do. Run. Shoot. Kill. Stab. He’s long since made peace with his contriteness. The bodies stack up behind him like a pyre waiting to be lit and the stench of it doesn’t even bother him anymore. All he does is wash the blood from his uniform and repeat it all the next day if he even lives long enough to see it.

But he always does, even when he knows he shouldn’t. Which means he always returns back home to his small studio apartment. It’s not much, but it’s not on the ground floor, and it’s quaint enough for a man who’s never home to enjoy it anyway. The walls are tawny and forever ooze stale nicotine from every pore due to some asshole who couldn’t be arsed to open a window when they smoked. The wood floor is scratched to the point Simon’s certain someone was murdered here, which would explain the odd stain outside of the bathroom door. The only item worse for wear than he is, is the ugly nightstand sitting next to his bed that he bought off of some old man at a car boot sale for a fiver.

Some nights it feels too cramped. Like there’s not enough elbow room and the ceiling scrapes too close to his head for comfort. Sometimes it’s as if the walls are closing in around him like the tight confines of a coffin, and his mouth goes dry as if he’s choking on dirt. Everything—every detail, every crack in that damn apartment suffocates him as he lays in bed and stares at the water damaged ceiling above him.

His only solace is his training. Countless years spent wading through gore and limbless bodies has chipped at him just as much as it’s built him back up. Thick fingers curl into the sheets as he grounds himself—he tells himself he’s far away from his grave; far away from Mexico and those reprobates. By the time his heart stills, the alarm clock on his nightstand glares at him in unforgiving crimson light.

05:23

He has to go to the bank soon.

Simon manages to get two hours of sleep before the morning sun peeks through his window and rouses him. He wakes himself up with a frigid shower before washing the dishes and making breakfast for himself as he watches the morning news with dull eyes. There’s a segment on rising tensions between Russia and Urzikstan that makes him chuckle, and he finds himself savoring his tea, glad to not be in the field fighting off terrorists.

After breakfast, he sets off across London for a walk to the bank. He splits crowds like a razor before he broods for a bit on public transport. He sits at the back of his bus with his eyes scanning every person trudging their way to work. There’s not a single face on that vehicle that he has not committed to his temporary memory, or an exit that’s out of view. He likes it this way—being able to watch. Never leaving his back exposed.

He breathes easier when he gets off at his stop and his bank is within view. The structure glistens with freshly washed windows, and customers keep the doors swinging as they come and go like schools of fish.

When Simon enters the building, he’s able to immediately sense that something is off.

Shaking off his discomfort, he stands in line with his ID ready for viewing, but as he waits with his head tilted down he realizes what’s missing. There’s no sign of your usual winsome voice—the same one that’s so saccharine that it makes him feel queasy at the mere sound. Your voice is hoarse; raw and dry as if you’re spewing sand from your mouth with each word you speak.

Keeping his eyes trained at the exits, Simon passes it off as you having a cold until he’s the next person in line. Standing before you, he’s able to witness your appearance and he feels apoplectic bile begin to rise in his throat. It sears his tongue into submission, forcing him to keep quiet as he looks at your face.

Bright as always, you greet him with your standard the usual? but your words sound clogged in his ears. He doesn’t answer you. All Simon can look at is your smile, and how lopsided it is because of the deep cut that slices the corner of your mouth and the swelling that consumes your left cheek.

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