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d20-lesbian · 1 year ago

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AFTER AN OVERWHELMING WAVE OF SUPPORT AND ENCOURAGEMENT, I'VE DECIDED TO POST THE WILL WOOD ESSAY!!!! it's below the break !!!!

I would like to really quickly state though that this essay is my property, I put a lot of time and effort into this, so please don't claim it as your own !!!! thank you <33

I will be analysing Will Wood’s song ‘Suburbia Overture / Greetings from Marybell Township! / (Vampire) Culture / Love Me, Normally’. which, for simplicity, most fans refer to as simply ‘Suburbia Overture’. This song is the first on his first solo album entitled ‘The Normal Album’, which came out in July 2020.

This song, in the most general possible terms, is a criticism of modern suburban life, how it is advertised as “the perfect life”, and how this advertising is incredibly false unless you fit the picture perfect standard that these facets of society seem to require.

The song itself is split up into 3 distinct sections, "Greetings from The Marybell Township!", “(Vampire) Culture” and “Love Me, Normally”. I'll be tackling each section one at a time in order to properly break down what each means, what different analogies they use, how they all relate to each other and the intended end result of the song and the message it intends to convey.

Let's begin with 'Greetings from The Marybell Township!'.

This section of the song uses a lot of analogies that compare suburban life to a warzone, the first line of this section being “white picket fences, barbed wire and trenches”. This section also focuses heavily on the concept of the nuclear family, and it often literalises the term and uses analogies based around radiation and nuclear warfare. Such analogies can be found in lines such as “the snap crackle pop of the Geiger, camouflage billboards for lead lined Brookes Brothers”. Now there's a couple of terms that require definitions in this line. The first of course being “the Geiger”. A Geiger counter, which is what this lyric is referring to, is a tool used to measure levels of harmful radiation. This, paired with the concept of billboards advertising “lead-lined Brookes Brothers” when lead is a material used to deflect radiation, and the knowledge that ‘Brookes Brothers’ is an American vintage style clothing brand, this line really paints a picture of a seemingly post apocalyptic/post nuclear war but still consumerist and capitalistic suburban society. The last line in that verse is “buy now or die”, which ties back to the concept of safety equipment being advertised on billboards, while residents of this town have no choice but to buy the products. This all relates back to the hyperconsumerism that plagues our society, and runs particularly rampant in middle to upper middle class neighbourhoods. The very same neighbourhoods that are often referred to as “suburban”

In the second verse of this section there are a lot of hard hitting lyrics that to me really show that this perfect idealised life is far from perfect or even good, so we will work through them one by one because I feel that they all deserve proper analysis.

The first line that i want to point out from that verse is the line “takes a village to fake a whole culture” which is clearly a rip off of the phrase “it takes a village [to raise a child]” but it also references the fact that usually suburban towns are incredibly monotonous in both residents and architecture, and so it takes the collective effort of the entire population of the town to pretend that there is an actual culture to it.

The next few lines I'll speak on all come in quick succession of one another, essentially blending them into one line.

“Your ear to the playground, your eye on the ball, your head in the gutter, your brains on the wall.”

So let's break these down. This line is easily split into 4 distinct phrases, and all of these phrases have a few things in common, which I will point out later.

“Your ear to the playground” is a play on the phrase “ear to the ground” which essentially means that the person with their ‘ear to the ground’ is attempting to carefully gather intel about something. Someone having their ear to the playground simply reinforces the idea of this suburban “paradise” being. Not as paradise-y as one would hope, seeing as the people who use playgrounds most of all are children, so this line is demonstrating that the picture perfect life that this suburban town offers is actually corrupting children so young that they are still on the playground.

The next phrase is “your eye on the ball” isn't a play on anything and is in fact in itself a common phrase. To have your eye on the ball means to be entirely focused in and paying attention to something, and not allowing anything to divert your attention. Given the last line this line very well could be another reference to the corruption of the youth and the idea that their every day play has already been tainted with the hostilities of modern life usually reserved for adults.

Following this is another well known saying “your head in the gutter” which, as most know, someone whos head is ‘in the gutter’ is someone who will see some sort of innuendo or otherwise vulgar/inappropriate meaning in something that was intended to be entirely innocent, leading to others in the interaction telling the perpetrator to ‘get [their] mind out of the gutter’

And finally, in my opinion the most hard hitting phrase in this set, “your brains on the wall” which is clearly in reference to the notion of ending your own life with a shot to the head, which would lead to, well, brains being on the wall. These last 2 phrases come in stark contrast to the seemingly picture perfect life that suburban towns offer and advertise, the concepts of suicide and perversion are not concepts one expects to see or hear when imagining this idealised form of life.

There is one main similarity in each of the 4 phrases, that being that each phrase has some body part being on something else, your ear to the playground, your eye on the ball, your head in the gutter, your brains on the wall. This similarity almost offers a body horror aspect to the song, which when paired with the concept that this is written about a seemingly post nuclear apocalyptic town presents an interesting idea of possible mutation, but i'll be the first to admit that may be a little far fetched. However that's not the only similarity that these 4 phrases share, another is the fact that they are all directly, or only slightly modified versions of already well known phrases, a similarity that is found in many lines over this entire song, through all 3 sections.

I want to analyse a few more lines before we move on to the second section of the song.

This next line comes directly after the previously analysed line, and it goes “home is where the heart is, you ain't homeless, but you’re heartless”

Sticking with the theme of using already existing and commonly used phrases, “home is where the heart is'' is once again a phrase that you could likely find as a cross stitch hung up on the wall of any of the homogenous houses you could likely find in this idealised suburbia. But what Wood is saying in this line is that home is where the heart is, and that while people in this town may not be homeless, they are certainly heartless, meaning that they in fact don't have homes. They have houses. Rows upon rows of houses that all look the exact same in the horrifying monotony that is suburban living.

Following this line is the lyric “it's the safest on the market, but you still gotta watch where you park it”. These lines seem to be in reference to buying a car. The car being the "safest on the market" is likely in reference to the fact that it may have a lot of safety features. But this is immediately negated by the fact that you “still gotta watch where you park it” meaning that the safety features could be a reason that the car gets stolen, rendering all the safety that those features offered useless because in the end it made the car and the owner less safe.

In the third verse of this section, you immediately hear the line “so give me your half-life crisis” which partially is a play on the term ‘mid life crisis’ wherein which one realises that they may have wasted their life up till that point and they're already halfway through, but the use of the term “half-life” instead of ‘mid-life’ is very intentional, as the term “half-life” can also be used to refer to the half-life of an isotope, which is the amount of time that isotope takes to lose half of its radiation, which ties back into the theme of radiation that we see mentioned a lot in this section.

Later in the same verse is the line “if it's true that a snowflake only matters in a blizzard”, which is interesting in a few ways, first, it brings up the idea of a singular individual means nothing on their own and that they only matter when they’re part of something larger or a larger group, but i also think that the use of the terms “snowflake” and “blizzard” instead of something like ‘raindrop’ and ‘storm’ is very intentional in the fact that snowflakes are known for being individual, none are alike, every single one is different. So saying that a snowflake doesn't matter unless it's in a blizzard is yet another hit at individuality, essentially implying that in this town individuality means nothing and is essentially rendered useless.

The final line in this verse is “everybody's all up in my-” repeated thrice, and on the third time the sentence is finished to say “everybody’s all up in my business” and before the word “business” can be finished its overlapped with the beginning of the chorus, the first word of which is a very loud “SUBURBIAAAA!”. I believe this is reminiscent of the fact that in towns like this, everyone cares so much about what everyone else is doing, they’re all so interested in everyone else's business, and i think that sentiment being stated and cut off by the word “Suburbia” is essentially saying that ‘this is the norm, this is just Suburbia, this is how it works around here.’

After the final chorus of this section, in the final verse, you'll find the line “chameleon peacocks are talk of the town” which particularly interests me because if you know anything about chameleons or peacocks you’d find that they seem incredibly different as animals. Chameleons blend into their environment in order to stay safe, whereas peacocks are known for parading around bright colours to make themselves look better, but if you think about it the term “chameleon peacock” actually makes a lot of sense, a person who blends into their surroundings in order to make themselves look good. This sentiment seems to perfectly describe the homogeneity of the people that live in these perfect towns, they're all the same, they blend in with one another in order to make themselves look good, or perfect.

Another line heard shortly afterwards is the phrase “he cums radiation”, rather vulgar, I grant you, but it's important because it is yet another literalisation of the phrase ‘nuclear family’. It could also be a reference to the general toxicity of this societal norm.

The final line in this section of the song is “the dog bites the postman, as basement eyes dream of a night at the drive-in, with an AR-15”. Which is another use of juxtaposition, intended to cause a kind of whiplash in the listener and reinforce the idea that while in this place there is scenarios that would happen in a hollywood movie esque picture perfect neighbourhood, like the dog biting the postman, there's also horrors that lurk below the surface. (although clearly not TOO far below.)

Now let’s move on to the second part, ‘(Vampire) Culture’.

If you listen to the song, you’ll immediately be able to recognise where 'Greetings from The Marybell Township!' ends and ‘(Vampire) Culture’ begins, due to the insane juxtaposition between the two. Where 'Greetings from The Marybell Township!' is soft and sort of reminiscent of the 1950’s, ‘(Vampire) Culture’ is loud, jarring and grotesque, complemented with much raspier and strained sounding vocals compared to 'Greetings from The Marybell Township!' ’s soft and melodic ones. The tone for this section of the song is immediately set with much more graphic lyrics, the very first line of this section (after the opening scream) is “i dropped my eyeballs in the bonfire, we fucked on a bed of nails” which absolutely sets the scene for how different this section will be to the previous.

This song immediately jumps into using cannibalism as a metaphor, with the first line after the jump start opener being “I caught kuru from your sister, and I'm laughing in jail”. While this line is written to sound like the concept of catching an STD from an act of adultery, Kuru is actually a disease only found in human brain tissue, meaning that you can only contract this disease by eating a human brain, and what's one of the symptoms for this disease? Uncontrollable laughter.

This use of cannibalism as a metaphor is used again immediately after in the line “smell those screaming teenage sweetbreads on that 4th of July grill”, ‘sweetbread’ is the term used to refer to the pancreas and thymus gland of an animal, usually a lamb, but in this particular case it is in reference to the human teenagers that supposedly lived in The Marybell Township, or a least they did before they were dissected, cooked and served at a neighbourhood 4th of July barbeque hosted by the same people that were once referred to as their neighbours.

This line adds an interesting level of patriotism to the song and criticism of how America utilises patriotism and their love for their country as means to justify harming the youth, however a 4th of July neighbourhood barbeque is also commonly associated with white picket fence gated community America, which ties us back to the base criticism of that style of life and how it is seen as the “proper” and “perfect” way to live.

These cannibalistic sentiments are followed up with the line “smile and wave boys, kiss the cook, live laugh and love, please pass the pills.” which brings us back to the repeated use of commonly known sayings being taken directly or modified only slightly to remind the listener of the setting were in, that being a seemingly 1950’s era tight knit neighbourhood.

Phrases like “live laugh [and] love” or “kiss the cook” are both phrases that could easily be seen in a setting like this, especially “kiss the cook”, as this is a phrase commonly associated with aprons worn by grillmasters at neighbourhood barbeques, not unlike the cannibalistic 4th of July barbeque that this particular neighbourhood seems to be hosting.

These phrases being immediately followed up with a sentiment such as “please pass the pills” serves to entirely undermine the pleasantries that, until a moment ago, seemed to be plastered all over the faces of the people living in this fictional town that Wood has created. I think that final phrase brings the listener back to the realisation that not all is right here, quite the opposite in fact, and drags them from their momentary paradise.

Circling back very quickly to the phrase “smile and wave”. I felt the need to point out that this phrase has been used for centuries as a way to say “stop talking and act normal” which once again reinforces that these people are pretending to be something they’re not in order to fit in.

We enter the next verse with the repeated phrase “it's only culture”, after that line is repeated three times we hear “sulfur, smoke and soot”, which could either be a reference to how dirty and disgusting the ‘culture’ is, or it could be a different way of saying that this culture and the people participating are going to hell, as per the common phrase ‘fire and brimstone’ and the fact that sulfur is another way of saying brimstone, and smoke and soot are both byproducts of fire.

The last line of this verse and the first line of the chorus blend into each other, so I’ll speak on them both.

First, the last line of the verse. It goes “you cocked and sucked your lack of empathy, pulled the trigger with your foot to prove you've got-”

Putting aside the clear innuendo, this line refers to the idea of ending one's own life with a long shotgun. According to the media, by the time the gun is cocked and the barrel is in your mouth, you're not able to pull the trigger with your hands due to the length of the barrel. This line instead presents the solution of pulling the trigger with your foot to end your life.

So this person “cocked and sucked” the gun (cocked the gun and put the barrel in their mouth) before pulling the trigger with their foot to prove they’ve got-

And here's where the verse blends into the chorus.

Because the first line only consists of one word.

“Blood”.

The person who was shooting themselves with a shotgun only to prove that they bleed. Which is where the title of this section comes in. “(Vampire) Culture”. This section seeks to portray either the people in this culture or, the more likely option, the culture itself, as metaphorical vampires, who aim to destroy those around them. This knowledge makes the next line “didn't they want your blood, so why apologise for being blue and cold” make a lot more sense. After all, if these culture vampires have drained you of your blood, is it not their fault that you’re now “blue and cold”, as bodies tend to be if they lack blood flow. However, if you look at synonyms for the words “blue” and “cold”, you could also interpret this phrase as meaning “sad and apathetic”.

A sad and apathetic person doesn't seem to be the kind of person this ‘culture’ seeks to enlist however, and so one who is “blue and cold” is shunned as an outsider.

What Wood is getting at is that if this culture is the one who made you sad and apathetic, then you should not apologise to it for being so.

The next verse is short, and like the previous one, also blends into the chorus in the same way, by having the last line of the verse cut off right where the chorus would finish the sentence with the word “blood”. However in this verse, there's an interesting line. “It's only culture and it's more afraid of you than you are of it”, which is a sentiment usually used by adults to attempt to subdue a child's fear of something, usually insects. However it's interesting in the fact that it brings up the idea that this culture that has caused so much damage and harm is actually incredibly fragile, and would, in theory be very afraid of the concept of the individual, because if this ‘culture’ is only being held together by the silent agreeance that everyone will simply pretend, then the idea that there is people who refuse throws the whole idea into jeopardy.

This line is followed up however, by the line that blends it into the chorus. “Go on drink that-”, clearly intended to be finished by the first line of the chorus, making the full line, “go on drink that blood”.

This line is in reference to the phrase “drink the kool-aid” which essentially means to pledge your undying loyalty to something, a concept, a person, a god, etc. and it derives from an infamous mass cult suicide where over 900 people drank poisoned Kool-Aid and subsequently died for the cult. It is not a far cry to believe that this event and this phrase is what the line is referring to, as it's something that Wood has referenced in other songs, so it only makes sense to believe that this is what he means here.

After that chorus we move on to the bridge, which begins by listing 3 pairs of names, all famous or semi famous, and each pair being similar in one right but opposite in another, the line goes as follows; “were you Nabokov to a Sallinger, were you Jung to Freud or Dass to a Leary”, so let's break down these pairs one by one.

First “Nabokov to a Sallinger”, these names belong to Vladimir Nabokov and J.D. Sallinger, both authors who wrote famous books that both surround the theme of innocence, but in very different ways. Nabokov’s book “Lolita” is a story told from the perspective of a grown man about his sexual obsession and attraction to a little girl, and his desire to ruin her innocence, exploring the theme of innocence in a grotesque and frankly horrifying way, which is in stark contrast to Sallinger’s book “The Catcher in the Rye”, which explores the topic of innocence through the main characters desire to preserve their little sisters innocence, and in that desire displays hesitancy at the idea of sex themself. Both books explore the topic of innocence, however while one seeks to preserve it, the other seeks to destroy it, two sides of the same coin.

The next pairing is “Jung to Freud”, meaning Carl Gustav Jung and his mentor Sigmund Freud, who once again are similar in one right, but opposite in another. Jung and Freud both had theories on the nature of the human mind, but where Jungs was all about the concept of spirituality and how that ties into the collective unconscious, Freud's approach was much more focused on the individual unconscious and the concept of sexuality.

The final pairing is “Dass to a Leary”. both psychologists, both at the forefront of the ‘Harvard Psilocybin Project’ (before they both got dismissed from harvard entirely following controversies around the project) Richard Alpert and Timothy Leary were both psychologists and eventually authors who studied the effects of psychedelic drugs on the human mind, and while they were co workers they ended up with pretty conflicting views. Dr. Richard Alpert, who apparently ‘died’ and was ‘reborn’ as spiritual guide Ram Dass, centred his teachings heavily around the concept of living in the moment, (in fact his best selling book, written in 1971 was titled ‘Be Here Now’) and he believed that psychedelic drugs were not needed and that a permanent version of the same effects could be achieved through meditation. Whereas Dr. Timothy Leary advocated heavily for the use of psychedelics, believing that LSD specifically had great potential for therapeutic psychiatric use.

All of these pairings and examples utilise the concept of duality and speak on how every coin has two sides, which can easily be tied back to the idea that the picture perfect suburban life is just one side of the coin. This idea is then reinforced by the next line, “were you mother, daughter, subject and author?”, The use of the word ‘and’ here shows that it's possible to be two sides of the same coin at once, just like how this town, which is perfect on one side of the coin, is still terrible on the other side of the coin. The line is stating that it's possible to be both at once.

The very last line in this section is; “you don't make the rules, you just write them down and do it by the book you throw around”. This line combines a few relatively well known phrases. The first being of course ‘i don’t make the rules’, which can have two distinct meanings. The first is to express a kind of sympathy for someone being punished, and the second is to absolve yourself of the blame for that person being punished, a sort of ‘don't shoot the messenger’ situation.

The ‘rules’ that are likely being referred to here are the societal norms and expectations forced upon people who reside in these towns, the standard for ‘perfection’.

However, following this sentiment up with the phrase “you just write them down” is essentially saying that while it's not the fault of the people in these towns, they didn't create the norms, they still enforce them. They expect everything to be in line and perfect at all times, they follow these ‘rules’ to a T, and they shun and punish anyone who doesn't fit the standard and/or refuses to follow these ‘rules’, which is where the line “do it by the book you throw around” comes in, doing something ‘by the book’ means to follow rules strictly and to the letter, nothing out of line, and to throw the book at someone means to punish them as severely as possible, usually used in the legal sense to mean punishing someone for their crime as severely as the law will allow. So in all, the lyric “you don't make the rules, you just write them down and do it by the book you throw around” ends up meaning ‘you didn't create these norms but you still enforce them by following them to an absolute T and punishing anyone who doesn't.’

With that we enter the third and final section of the song, entitled ‘Love Me, Normally’, a title it shares with another song on the album, but of course this song is partially meant to serve as an overture for the whole album, meaning it shares some similar lyrics with lyrics from other songs on the album, so sharing a title isn't all that surprising.

The first lyric in this section is “do you know the difference between blazing trails and slash and burn?” which is another instance of duality in this song. Trailblazing or being a trailblazer means doing something no one has done before, paving the way for other people to follow in your footsteps, it comes from the literal act of creating a trail in the woods for people to follow, usually by creating notches in trees or setting small fires, hence ‘blazer’, as blaze is another word for a fire. However “slash and burn” is a method of deforestation that involves cutting down and burning a section of forest to create a field. Both examples include using fire to change something, but where one is seen as progress and positive, the other is negative, and seen as a means of destruction. Once again, two sides of the same coin, innovation and destruction.

This is followed up with the line “going against the grain and catching splinters”, which is a line i particularly like because while it is something that literally can happen, if you run your hand along wood in the opposite direction to the grain, you're more likely to get a splinter because you're essentially pushing your hand against the chips of wood, but it also is another metaphor for the dangers of not being the same. Going against the grain in this instance means daring to be different, not going the same way everyone else is going but instead the opposite of that, and in this example splinters are the consequences one would face for being different, especially in a setting like this perfect town, where everyone is the exact same as everyone else.

A little bit later you hear the line “well Lot he had his lot in life, Job his job and i guess you’ll too, and die”.

Lot and Job are both figures found in the Bible, whose names both share spelling with common English words, but are pronounced slightly differently.

Job, from the Book of Job, was a man that was tested by God, made to suffer to test his loyalty, his ‘job’ was to believe unendingly in God and see Him as always correct no matter what.

Lot, from the Book of Genesis, was a man who went through a lot, and the phrase ‘my lot in life’ is a phrase commonly used by people to write off/explain why they don't have it as good as others, they say it's simply their ‘lot in life’.

The end of this line “i guess you’ll too, and die” i believe refers to the fact that everyone will have their own job and their own lot in life, and then everyone in the end will die.

This theory is solidified by the fact that the next line is “The Lord looked down and said ‘hey, you're only mortal’” which is a play off of the phrase ‘you're only human’. Wood himself said that the phrase ‘you're only human’ has always felt weird to him, he says, “cause like, of course I am, aren’t we all? How is that fact supposed to help? I still feel bad. What does being human mean to you?”. He follows this up by saying that the idea of God saying "hey, you're only mortal" offers the same kind of sentiment, but in a “cosmically condescending” sort of way.

The following line reads “giveth and taketh away, till things come out a certain way, leave you wondering when they might go back to normal… leave you wondering why they can't have just been normal”.

This line presents a sort of hopelessness in the realisation that things are constantly changing, nothing is any more ‘normal’ than anything else, there's no such thing as ‘normal’, which is an overarching theme found throughout the album. Once again bringing back the fact that for all intents and purposes this song is an overture for the rest of the album.

To conclude, ‘Suburbia Overture’ is, in my opinion, one of the greatest criticisms of suburban, middle class, gated community, nuclear family life i've ever seen, it highlights the problems in that life and showcases how this kind of lifestyle in its incredibly rigid and restrictive standards is incredibly harmful to the very concept of individuality, because the expectations and unspoken rules set in communities like this and the widespread idea of forced normality seeks to crush any individuality before it even has a chance to blossom.

The use of metaphors and phrases that are well known and are likely to be seen in settings such as this gated community suburban town that Wood has created really paint a subconscious picture of what this community looks like, the use of duality, how every story has another side, and how nothing that is seemingly perfect from the outside is actually perfect on the inside.

Will Wood is an incredible lyricist and the fact that he was able to cram so much symbolism and such a powerful message into a song just over 6 minutes long is genuinely incredible.

Thank you for listening to my/reading my autistic hyper fixated rambling, i hope i didn't melt your brain too badly <3

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rubyuji · 4 months ago

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Where the Roses Bloom (Joshua Hong) ✞⋆⭒˚.⋆

"Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. 7 It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres." 1 Corinthians 13:4-7

Genre: Slowburn, Angst

AU: 1950s AU

Pairing: Friar!Joshua x Afab!Reader

Warnings: Working unconventional jobs (Reader is a dancer in the red light district because she's a run away), Seungcheol is an asshole

Synopsis: A wealthy runaway seeking freedom and a devout seminarian devoted to faith find an unexpected connection in Crimson Lane, where love becomes their greatest salvation and torment. Torn between their hearts and the lives they are destined to lead, they are forced to confront sacrifice, identity, and the cost of their choices.

Note: I've been obsessed with Hilda Furacão lately and am currently watching it because the story is so intriguing, so why not publish my own take on Hilda and Malthus' story you know? Also, I'm so glad I've found the time to publish a few more works in my busy schedule because I've missed writing. I hope you guys enjoy reading! Don't forget to like + reblog as always.

W.C: 7.2k

You are the beloved daughter of a wealthy, conservative family, a fragile porcelain doll meant to adorn the halls of high society. Every word you speak is measured, every gesture rehearsed, every smile carefully crafted to maintain the illusion of perfection your family has built around you.

You have always known your place in their world—a tool to be wielded in their quest for status and legacy.

But tonight, the cracks in that porcelain threaten to shatter completely.

“You bring shame to this family!” your father’s voice thunders through the drawing room, his face flushed with fury. He paces back and forth like a predator circling its prey, while your mother sits rigidly on the velvet settee, her lips pressed into a thin line.

“Do you even realize what you’ve done? Do you understand the humiliation you’ve caused us?”

Your fiancé stands off to the side, his arms crossed and a self-satisfied smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. He says nothing, content to let your parents do the dirty work of berating you.

You can still feel the sting of his earlier words, the way he dismissed your reluctance as childishness and called you ungrateful for even questioning the life planned for you.

“Humiliation?” you finally snap, your voice trembling but strong enough to cut through the oppressive atmosphere. “The only humiliation here is being forced into a marriage with a man who sees me as nothing more than property!”

“Watch your tone!” your father bellows, slamming his hand against the mahogany table. “You will marry him, and you will do so with dignity. That is your duty to this family.”

“And what about my duty to myself?” you demand, your voice breaking. “Don’t I deserve to choose my own life? To be something more than just a pawn in your plans?”

“Enough!” your mother interjects sharply, her icy gaze locking onto yours.

“You are selfish, ungrateful, and disgraceful. Do you think anyone else would have you after this display? Your childish rebellion ends now. Tomorrow, you will apologize to your fiancé and prepare for the engagement ceremony.”

The room falls silent, the air thick with unspoken threats and unrelenting pressure. You look at each of them—your father, red-faced and seething; your mother, cold and unyielding; and your fiancé, smug and victorious. It feels as though the walls are closing in, the weight of their expectations suffocating you.

“I’d rather die than live like this,” you whisper, the words tumbling out before you can stop them.

Your father stiffens, his face twisting with rage, but you don’t wait for him to respond. Instead, you turn on your heel and storm out of the room, the sound of your mother’s sharp voice calling after you fading into the background.

You run to your room, grabbing a small bag and stuffing it with essentials—money, jewelry, a coat.

The thought of staying here one more night, of bowing to their will and losing yourself completely, is unbearable. With shaking hands, you throw open the window and climb out, your heart pounding as you disappear into the cool night air.

The city is a blur as you wander, your breath visible in the chilly air. Tears sting your eyes, but you refuse to let them fall. You’ve made your choice. There’s no turning back now.

By the time you reach Crimson Lane, your feet ache, and your throat is raw from the cold.

The district looms before you like a forbidden dream—a world of sin, danger, and freedom. Smoke rises from narrow alleyways, mingling with the faint strains of music and the chatter of strangers.

You stumble, and a hand reaches out to steady you. A woman with painted lips and tired but kind eyes looks you over, taking in your disheveled appearance and the fine fabric of your coat.

“You’re not from here, are you?” she asks, her voice gentle but wary.

You shake your head, your voice faltering as you say, “I… I have nowhere else to go.”

She studies you for a moment, then gestures for you to follow her. “Come on, then. You’ll freeze out here.”

She leads you deeper into the district, where the streets glow with lantern light and the scent of spice and smoke fills the air.

The people here are rough around the edges, their laughter loud and unapologetic, but there’s a warmth to them—a sense of camaraderie that you’ve never felt in your old life.

The woman introduces herself as Lucia and takes you to La Rosa, a club that feels like the beating heart of Crimson Lane. The velvet curtains, the glittering chandeliers, the sound of laughter and music—it’s a world so far removed from the one you left behind that it feels almost dreamlike.

“You’ll be safe here,” Lucia says. “We take care of our own.”

For the first time in your life, you feel a flicker of hope. Here, you are not a disgrace or a disappointment. Here, you are free to be whoever you want to be.

Joshua steps hesitantly onto the cobblestone streets of Crimson Lane, his polished shoes carrying him into a world that seems to pulse with temptation and sin. The air is thick and heavy with the mingling scents of smoke, cheap liquor, and perfume.

Neon signs flicker above the doorways of clubs and gambling dens, casting the streets in a kaleidoscope of red and gold. Laughter and music spill out into the night, wild and unrestrained, unlike anything he’s ever known.

He grips the cross hanging from his neck, the smooth metal cool against his palm, as if to remind himself of who he is and why he’s here.

This place feels godless, a maze of excess and indulgence, yet it is precisely where he believes his mission lies. Beneath the vice, he is certain there is still humanity—still souls waiting to be saved.

Joshua’s purpose tonight is clear: to bring a young man, barely more than a boy, back to the fold. The boy has been seen frequenting La Rosa, a club infamous even in this district.

Its reputation precedes it—a place of opulence and decadence where rules are rewritten nightly. Joshua’s breath quickens as the club comes into view, its crimson façade glowing like an ember in the darkness.

The doorman eyes him with suspicion as he steps inside, but no one stops him. The moment he enters, the atmosphere changes. It’s warmer, almost stifling, and alive with sound.

The low hum of a saxophone weaves through the air, mingling with the hum of conversation and the clinking of glasses. The scent of wine and something floral—jasmine, maybe—lingers in the room, intoxicating and overwhelming.

He scans the room, searching for the boy, but his attention is drawn to the stage. The lights dim, and the murmur of the crowd fades as a figure steps into the spotlight.

And then he sees you.

You command the stage with an effortless grace, your every movement exuding confidence and allure. The dress you wear shimmers under the soft glow of the lights, its fabric hugging your figure in a way that makes the audience hold their breath.

You are radiant, magnetic, and utterly otherworldly. But what strikes Joshua most is your voice—a sultry, melodic sound that seems to reach deep into his chest and pull something loose.

His heart stirs in a way it never has before, and for a moment, the weight of his faith feels distant. He forgets his mission, forgets the boy, forgets where he is. All he can do is watch as you weave your spell, your voice filling every corner of the room.

And then, as if sensing his gaze, you look at him.

The moment your eyes meet his, time seems to slow. You’ve seen countless faces in your time at La Rosa, most of them predictable—men with hungry eyes and insincere smiles, women with envy or admiration etched into their expressions. But he is different.

There’s something pure in the way he looks at you, something almost reverent. His gaze doesn’t linger on your body like the others; instead, it searches your face, as if he’s trying to understand you. It unnerves you, yet you can’t look away.

Joshua’s grip on his cross tightens, a silent prayer forming on his lips as his mind races.

Who are you? How can someone so captivating, so seemingly untouchable, exist in a place like this? He feels a pang of guilt for the way his heart beats faster, but there’s something deeper, something undeniable, that draws him to you.

The song ends, and the applause erupts, breaking the spell. You step back from the spotlight, but your gaze flickers toward him once more before you disappear into the wings. Joshua stands frozen, the world around him fading into a blur.

Later that night, as the crowd thins and the music softens, Joshua lingers near the edge of the stage. He tells himself it’s to wait for the boy, to fulfill the purpose that brought him here. But his eyes keep darting toward the backstage entrance, his mind replaying the moment your eyes met his.

When you finally approach, your footsteps soft against the polished floor, he feels a jolt of panic and something else—anticipation. You stop in front of him, your head tilted in curiosity.

Up close, you’re even more stunning, but there’s something in your expression that takes him by surprise. Beneath the confidence, there’s a flicker of vulnerability, a depth that the stage lights couldn’t fully reveal.

“You don’t look like the type to spend your nights in places like this,” you say, your voice softer now, laced with intrigue.

Joshua clears his throat, his fingers brushing against the cross again. “I’m… not,” he admits, his voice steady despite the storm in his chest. “I’m here for someone. A young man from my parish.”

“Ah,” you reply with a wry smile. “A shepherd in the den of wolves.”

Your words are teasing, but your tone isn’t cruel. There’s a warmth in your gaze that disarms him, even as his instincts tell him to tread carefully. “I believe there’s good here,” he says, surprising even himself with the conviction in his voice. “Even in a place like this.”

Your smile falters, just for a moment, and Joshua catches the shadow that crosses your face. “Goodness,” you murmur, almost as if testing the word. “Not many would think so.”

He opens his mouth to respond, but you step closer, your presence enveloping him in a way that makes the world feel impossibly small.

“So, what’s your name, shepherd?” you ask, your eyes studying him with genuine curiosity.

“Joshua,” he answers, his voice barely above a whisper.

You repeat his name, letting it roll off your tongue as if savoring its simplicity. For a moment, you forget about the performance, the crowd, the life you’ve built in La Rosa. There is something about this man, something untainted and sincere, that draws you in despite yourself.

And as you stand there, the weight of your respective worlds pressing against you, neither of you realizes how deeply your lives are about to intertwine.

The first time you and Joshua meet outside of La Rosa, it’s in the quiet corner of a small café tucked away from the chaos of Crimson Lane.

You arrive first, your coat wrapped tightly around you to ward off the chill, though you know it does little to shield you from the prying eyes of those who recognize you.

When Joshua enters, his presence shifts the room. He isn’t dressed in his cassock but in simple, clean-cut clothes that make him seem less like a devout seminarian and more like a boy trying to blend into a world he doesn’t belong to.

Still, his earnest gaze gives him away, and the way he hesitates before sitting across from you tells you he’s nervous.

“You came,” you say softly, sipping your tea to mask the flicker of relief in your voice.

“I wasn’t sure if I should,” Joshua admits, his hands fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve. “But I thought… maybe you needed someone to talk to.”

The words catch you off guard. Most men come to you with expectations—of entertainment, of distraction, of something shallow and fleeting. But Joshua looks at you as if he genuinely wants to understand, to know the real you beneath the performance.

“I’m not used to people wanting to just ‘talk,’” you reply, your lips curling into a small smile.

He smiles, too, and for a moment, the tension between you eases. “I’m not like most people.”

Your meetings become a routine, a secret shared only between the two of you. Sometimes you meet in quiet cafés; other times, it’s in the park just as dawn begins to break, the city still cloaked in silence.

Joshua asks you questions no one has ever dared to ask. “Do you ever miss your old life?” he asks one morning, his voice gentle but probing.

You pause, your gaze fixed on the horizon where the sun spills golden light over the rooftops. “I miss parts of it,” you admit. “The security, maybe. The certainty. But not the suffocation.”

Joshua nods, his expression thoughtful. “And now? Do you feel free?”

You turn to him, meeting his earnest gaze. “Freedom isn’t as simple as leaving behind what holds you back. It’s… complicated.”

He doesn’t push further, but the way he looks at you lingers, as if he’s trying to piece together a puzzle that’s missing too many pieces.

The conversations shift over time, becoming deeper, more intimate. Joshua talks about his faith, his calling, and the doubts that sometimes creep in despite his unwavering belief in something greater.

“I’ve always wanted to help people,” he says one evening, the two of you seated on a bench under the soft glow of a street lamp. “To give them hope, to remind them that they’re not alone. But sometimes… I wonder if I’m enough.”

“You’re more than enough,” you say, the words slipping out before you can think better of them. He looks at you, startled, and you feel a rush of heat rise to your cheeks. “I mean… you’ve already helped me, haven’t you?”

Joshua’s expression softens, and for a moment, the distance between your worlds feels smaller.

The unspoken desires between you grow harder to ignore. There are moments when your fingers brush as you walk side by side, the warmth of his touch sending a shiver through you.

When he speaks, his voice low and full of conviction, you can’t help but imagine what it would be like to pull him closer, to feel the weight of his devotion turned entirely toward you.

For Joshua, the temptation is both exhilarating and terrifying. He tells himself that he is here to guide you, to help you see the light. But with every meeting, every shared smile, he feels the foundation of his faith tremble.

You are not the sinner he expected to find in Crimson Lane. You are complex, brave, and endlessly captivating.

In you, Joshua sees a reflection of his own humanity—the doubts he wrestles with, the longing for something more than the rigid path he has chosen. And in him, you see the purity and sincerity you thought the world had forgotten.

One night, after hours of quiet conversation and stolen glances, the silence stretches between you. The streets are unusually still, the usual hum of Crimson Lane reduced to faint murmurs and the occasional clatter of footsteps in the distance.

You’re seated on a weathered wooden bench beneath a streetlamp that flickers every so often, casting fleeting shadows across your faces. The glow illuminates Joshua’s profile, highlighting the soft curve of his jaw and the furrow in his brow that deepens when he’s lost in thought.

The air between you feels heavier tonight, charged with something unspoken, a tension that neither of you has dared to fully acknowledge.

You’re no stranger to silences, but this one feels different, as if the words trapped within it could change everything.

“Joshua,” you finally say, your voice barely audible against the stillness.

His name lingers on your tongue, familiar and strange all at once. It feels too intimate, like a secret you’re not sure you should share, yet you’ve never been able to call him anything else.

He turns to you, his eyes meeting yours with that quiet intensity that has always disarmed you. His gaze is steady, but there’s a vulnerability in it tonight, a crack in the armor of his resolve.

“Do you ever wish things were different?” you ask, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. Your voice trembles slightly, betraying the depth of your hesitation. “That you could… choose a life that wasn’t already decided for you?”

Joshua doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he looks away, his eyes following the faint outline of smoke curling from a nearby chimney. His fingers toy with the cross hanging around his neck, the movement absentminded yet telling.

“I think about it,” he says after a long pause, his voice thick with emotion. “Sometimes, when I’m alone, I wonder what it would be like to live without all the expectations. To… to make choices just for myself.”

His confession surprises you, and you feel a pang of something you can’t quite name—relief, perhaps, that even someone as steadfast as Joshua isn’t immune to doubt. “And what would you choose?” you ask, leaning closer without realizing it.

He hesitates, his gaze flickering back to you. For a moment, you see the walls he’s built around himself falter.

“I don’t know,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I think about you.”

The words hit you like a storm, sudden and all-consuming. Your breath catches, and for a moment, you forget how to speak. “Me?” you manage, your voice unsteady.

Joshua nods, his eyes searching yours for something—understanding, perhaps, or courage.

“I think about the way you talk about freedom, about wanting to find yourself. I’ve spent my whole life trying to give myself to something greater, to serve a purpose beyond myself. But when I’m with you… I don’t feel lost. I feel like I’m finally being seen.”

The honesty in his words is almost too much to bear. You feel your throat tighten, your chest aching with the weight of emotions you’ve tried to suppress.

“You see me, too,” you say, your voice trembling.

“Not the person I pretend to be at La Rosa, or the daughter my family wanted me to be. You see the parts of me I thought were long gone.”

The silence that follows is deafening, every breath, every heartbeat magnified. You want to reach for him, to close the small distance between you, but you’re paralyzed by the fear of what it might mean.

“Do you ever wonder if we were meant to meet?” you ask quietly, your words tentative, as if afraid to give them too much power.

Joshua’s lips curve into the faintest smile, a mixture of sorrow and something almost like hope. “All the time,” he says. “But I also wonder what it means. If this—if we—are a test or a gift.”

You don’t know how to respond. You don’t know how to tell him that the mere thought of him has become both your solace and your torment, that he’s made you question everything you thought you knew about yourself.

“I don’t have the answers,” you say softly, your gaze dropping to the ground. “But I know that being with you makes the world feel less heavy. And maybe that’s enough.”

Joshua reaches out then, his hand hovering between you as if he’s fighting an internal battle. Finally, he lets it rest gently on yours, the touch warm and grounding. You look up at him, startled, but he doesn’t pull away.

“Maybe it is,” he whispers, his voice barely audible.

In that moment, the world around you seems to fade, the noise of Crimson Lane replaced by the quiet rhythm of your breathing. For the first time in what feels like forever, you allow yourself to believe in the possibility of something more.

The change in Joshua is subtle at first, almost imperceptible to those around him. He still attends his daily prayers and still preaches sermons that touch hearts and inspire hope, but there’s a new uncertainty in his eyes, a hesitance in his voice when he speaks of his calling. His mentor at the parish, Father Miguel, notices the shift and questions him one evening.

“You seem troubled, Joshua,” Father Miguel says gently, his gaze steady but not unkind. “Is there something you wish to confess?”

Joshua hesitates, the weight of his secret relationship with you pressing heavily on his chest. He shakes his head, offering a polite smile. “No, Father. I’m just… reflecting on my work here.”

Father Miguel doesn’t push, but his concern lingers. “Remember, doubt is part of faith. But so is discernment. Pray on it, Joshua, and trust that you’ll find your way.”

Joshua nods, but the advice feels hollow. He doesn’t need to pray to know what troubles him—it’s you.

For you, the change is more visceral. The armor you’ve worn for so long, the persona you’ve carefully crafted at La Rosa, begins to crack.

Joshua’s faith and kindness, so foreign in a world that has often shown you cruelty, force you to confront truths you’ve buried.

One night, after a particularly vulnerable conversation, you find yourself staring at your reflection in the mirror backstage at La Rosa. The vibrant makeup and glittering costumes no longer feel like a shield but a mask you’re desperate to shed.

You think of Joshua’s words, his belief that goodness exists even in the darkest places, and wonder if you could ever truly believe that about yourself.

Later, as you and Joshua sit on the steps of a quiet chapel he’s introduced you to, you let the words spill out. “I’ve spent so much of my life pretending,” you admit, your voice trembling.

“Pretending to be the perfect daughter, pretending to be strong, pretending that none of this bothers me. But with you…” You pause, struggling to find the words. “I feel like I don’t have to pretend anymore.”

Joshua reaches for your hand, his touch gentle but firm. “You don’t,” he says quietly. “You never did. You’re enough just as you are, Y/N.”

His words undo you, tears slipping down your cheeks as the weight you’ve carried for so long begins to lift.

But the fragile connection you’ve built with Joshua doesn’t go unnoticed. In a world as tightly knit as Crimson Lane, whispers spread faster than wildfire.

At La Rosa, the staff begins to exchange knowing looks, their smiles laced with curiosity and judgment. Madame Maria, always watchful, pulls you aside one evening after a particularly dazzling performance.

“You’ve been distracted lately,” she says, her voice light but with an undertone of steel. Her sharp eyes bore into you, assessing every flicker of emotion that crosses your face. “Is there something—or someone—you’d like to tell me about?”

Your heart races, but you force yourself to remain composed. “I don’t know what you mean,” you reply, carefully neutral.

Maria’s smile doesn’t waver, but there’s a knowing glint in her eyes. “Be careful, darling,” she says, her tone softening slightly. “You may think you’re invincible, but the world outside these walls has a way of tearing people like you apart. And men like him…” She trails off, shaking her head.

“Men like him don’t belong here.” The warning lingers in the air, unspoken yet clear: your relationship with Joshua is a risk, not just for you but for him as well.

Joshua also faces his share of scrutiny. His absences and distracted demeanor don’t go unnoticed by the parish elders, who begin to question his commitment.

One evening, as he prepares to leave for another secret meeting with you, Father Miguel intercepts him at the church doors.

“Joshua,” the older priest says, his tone firm but kind, “it’s clear that something is weighing on you. You’ve always been a man of conviction, but conviction without clarity can lead you astray. Is there something you need to confess?”

Joshua hesitates, his hand tightening around the strap of the bag slung over his shoulder. “I’m… just trying to help someone,” he says, the words feeling both true and insufficient.

Father Miguel’s expression hardens, though his voice remains gentle. “Sometimes, the greatest tests of faith come disguised as acts of kindness. Be sure you are not mistaking temptation for charity.”

Joshua looks away, guilt and longing warring within him.

“She’s not a temptation,” he says quietly. “She’s someone who’s lost, someone who deserves to be seen, to be valued. I can’t turn my back on her.”

Father Miguel sighs deeply, his disappointment palpable. “Then you must ask yourself, Joshua, if this is the path you truly wish to walk. Because once you choose, there may be no turning back.”

The scrutiny grows, and the walls around your relationship begin to close in. You find yourself plagued by doubts late at night, wondering if holding on to Joshua is selfish, if you are pulling him away from a life he was meant to live.

One evening, as you and Joshua sit together in the dimly lit chapel, the weight of everything finally becomes too much to bear.

“They’re watching us,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “People are talking, and I… I can’t let them ruin you, Joshua. You’ve worked so hard for this life.”

Joshua reaches for your hand, his grip firm and reassuring. “You’re not ruining me,” he says, his voice steady but thick with emotion.

“You’ve made me question things I was too afraid to question before. You’ve shown me that there’s more to faith than rules and expectations. There’s… love. Compassion. Humanity.”

“But what if I’m a mistake?” you ask, your voice breaking as tears threaten to spill. “What if loving me ruins everything you’ve built?”

Joshua’s gaze softens, his thumb brushing gently over your knuckles.

“You’re not a mistake,” he says, his voice quiet but full of conviction. “And if loving you is wrong, then maybe everything I’ve been taught about right and wrong isn’t as simple as I thought.”

His words hang in the air, a declaration that feels both like a promise and a challenge.

As the night stretches on, the line between what is right and what is necessary blurs, leaving the two of you caught in the fragile, intoxicating space in between.

The fragile world you and Joshua have built begins to teeter as the shadows of your past and the expectations of his present loom closer.

It begins with the sudden arrival of your former fiancé, Seungcheol—a man you thought you’d left behind forever. He finds you at La Rosa one evening, standing in the crowd with a smug, self-satisfied smirk that sends a shiver down your spine.

You’re performing when you see him, your practiced poise faltering ever so slightly as his face registers in the crowd. Panic coils in your chest, but you force yourself to finish the performance, smiling and bowing as though your world hasn’t just shifted on its axis.

Afterward, he waits for you in the dimly lit corridor outside your dressing room, leaning casually against the wall as though he belongs there.

“Y/N,” he says, his voice dripping with mockery. “Or should I say, Scarlet?”

You glare at him, your pulse racing as you step closer.

“What do you want, Seungcheol?” You hiss, his name slipping off your tongue like venom. He chuckles, his smirk widening.

“What I’ve always wanted. Control. You humiliated me, Y/N—running off like that, abandoning your family, your responsibilities, me. Do you have any idea what kind of scandal you caused?”

“I don’t care,” you snap, though your voice betrays the fear bubbling just beneath the surface. “You don’t own me, Seungcheol. You never did.”

His smile hardens, his tone growing cold. “Maybe not. But I do know things about you—things the world would love to hear. And I imagine your new… friend wouldn’t fare too well if they knew he was involved with someone like you.”

The threat hits its mark, your breath hitching as dread seeps into your bones.

“Leave him out of this,” you say, your voice firm despite the tremor in your hands.

Seungcheol shrugs, his eyes glinting with malice. “That’s up to you, darling. You come with me, quietly, and I’ll forget about this sordid little chapter of your life. Stay here, and I’ll make sure everyone knows exactly who you are—and what you’ve done.”

Meanwhile, Joshua faces his own challenges. His growing absences and distracted demeanor have not gone unnoticed by his superiors at the parish. Father Miguel, once quietly concerned, now takes a firmer approach.

“You’ve been neglecting your duties, Joshua,” he says one evening, his tone sharper than usual. “The parish is a sacred commitment, one that requires your full devotion. I’ve given you time to reflect, but it’s clear your heart is no longer here.”

Joshua stiffens, guilt flickering across his face. “That’s not true, Father. I’ve been serving the people, just… in a different way.”

Father Miguel narrows his eyes, his voice dropping into a warning tone. “Serving them? Or serving yourself? I’ve heard the rumors, Joshua. About her. Is it true?”

Joshua hesitates, the weight of his connection to you pressing heavily on his chest.

“It’s complicated,” he finally says.

“Faith is not complicated,” Father Miguel retorts sharply. “It is a path of sacrifice and conviction. If you continue down this road, you will not only jeopardize your future in the church but also your soul.”

The tension between your two worlds becomes unbearable as Seungcheol’s threats grow bolder and Joshua’s superiors demand he sever ties with Crimson Lane entirely.

One evening, you and Joshua meet in the chapel, the only place you both feel safe enough to speak freely. The dim light of the candles flickers across Joshua’s face as he sits beside you, his expression a mixture of anguish and determination.

“He’s threatening you, isn’t he?” Joshua asks, his voice tight with barely restrained anger.

You nod, your hands trembling as you grip the edge of the pew. “He wants me to go back with him, to leave this place—and you—behind. If I don’t, he’ll ruin both of us.”

Joshua’s jaw clenches, his fists curling in his lap. “You don’t have to go with him. I won’t let him hurt you.”

“But what about you?” you ask, your voice breaking. “Your superiors are already suspicious. If Seungcheol exposes the truth, they’ll force you to leave the parish. Everything you’ve worked for will be gone.”

Joshua turns to you, his eyes filled with an intensity that takes your breath away. “I don’t care about that,” he says firmly. “I care about you. I care about what’s right. If staying in the church means abandoning you, then maybe I’m not meant to stay.”

His words stun you into silence, your heart pounding as the gravity of his declaration sinks in. “Joshua,” you whisper, tears pooling in your eyes. “You can’t just give up everything for me. It’s not fair.”

“Fair or not, it’s the truth,” he says, his voice unwavering. “You’ve made me see things differently, Y/N. Maybe this is the test I’m supposed to face—not of my faith, but of my humanity.”

The decision weighs heavily on both of you. Seungcheol’s presence looms like a storm cloud, and Joshua’s faith is tested as he grapples with the idea of leaving behind a life he once thought was his calling.

In the quiet moments you share, there’s a sense of both urgency and tenderness, as though every touch, every word, could be your last.

Together, you must decide: will you stand against the forces threatening to tear you apart, or will you sacrifice your love to protect each other from a world that refuses to understand?

The days that follow Seungcheol’s threat and Father Miguel’s ultimatum feel like an unending storm, pulling you and Joshua in opposite directions. The quiet haven you had built together becomes fraught with tension, every meeting tinged with the unspoken knowledge that your time is running out.

You find yourself haunted by Seungcheol’s words. Every glance from a stranger feels like suspicion, every shadow a threat. At La Rosa, the staff are growing more curious, their whispers louder.

Even Madame Maria, who has always been fiercely protective of her own, seems hesitant now, her sharp gaze following you with a caution that wasn’t there before.

“Whatever you’re planning, darling,” she says one night after a show, her tone uncharacteristically soft, “be sure it’s worth the cost. Men like your Joshua—they don’t survive in places like this. And if you’re not careful, neither will you.”

Her words cut deep, but it’s the truth you already know.

Joshua, too, is unraveling. His prayers feel hollow, his faith no longer the comforting constant it once was. The parish feels foreign, its walls oppressive. Father Miguel’s disappointment lingers like a shadow, his words echoing in Joshua’s mind.

“This is your moment of truth, Joshua,” he had said during their last conversation. “You must choose. Your faith or this… distraction. You cannot serve both God and your desires.”

But how could he explain that you weren’t a distraction? That what he felt for you was not temptation but something more profound—something that made him question the very foundations of his beliefs?

Still, doubt claws at him. He wonders if loving you is selfish, if he is abandoning his calling for something fleeting. Yet every time he sees you, every time your eyes meet his, he feels that his path might lie not in the church but in the simple, devastating truth of his feelings for you.

One evening, as the tension reaches its breaking point, you meet in the chapel again, both of you weighed down by the decisions looming ahead. The air between you crackles with unspoken words, the silence heavy and suffocating.

“Joshua,” you finally say, your voice trembling, “we can’t keep doing this.”

He turns to you sharply, his expression a mix of desperation and sorrow. “Don’t say that. Don’t give up on us.”

“It’s not about giving up,” you reply, your voice cracking. “It’s about doing what’s right. Seungcheol’s not going to stop. Your superiors are already suspicious. If we keep this up, it’ll destroy us both.”

“Let it,” he says fiercely, his hands curling into fists. “I don’t care about the church, about their rules. None of it matters if I can’t be with you.”

“But I care,” you whisper, tears streaming down your face. “I care about what this will do to you, Joshua. You have so much good in you—so much to give. You’re meant for something greater than this. Greater than me.”

“Stop it,” he pleads, his voice breaking. “Stop saying that. You’re the one who’s shown me what faith truly means. You’ve made me see the world differently, made me feel alive in a way I never thought possible. How can you say you’re not worth it?”

“Because I love you,” you cry, your voice raw and aching. “And because I love you, I can’t let you throw your life away for me.”

The words hang between you, a devastating truth neither of you can escape.

Joshua’s shoulders slump, his resolve crumbling as he looks at you, his eyes filled with a pain that mirrors your own. “So this is it?” he whispers. “After everything, we’re just… walking away?”

You nod, though it feels like your heart is being ripped from your chest. “We have to. For both our sakes.”

He takes a shuddering breath, stepping closer to you. For a moment, you think he might argue again, but instead, he reaches for your hand, holding it tightly as though trying to memorize the feel of your touch.

“I’ll never forget you,” he says quietly, his voice thick with emotion. “No matter where I go, no matter what I do… you’ll always be with me.”

You choke back a sob, squeezing his hand one last time before pulling away. “And I’ll always carry you in my heart, Joshua. But we can’t keep holding on to something that was never ours to begin with.”

The days that follow are excruciating. Joshua resigns from his post at the parish, choosing to leave Crimson Lane entirely. He doesn’t return to the church but instead travels to another city, seeking to rebuild his faith and his purpose in the quiet solitude of helping others.

You remain at La Rosa, but everything feels different now. The lights seem dimmer, the music hollow. The mask you wear grows heavier with each passing day.

Seungcheol eventually loses interest, his threats subsiding as he realizes you’ll never return to him. But his presence leaves a scar, a reminder of the life you escaped and the one you can never fully leave behind.

Years later, you hear the whispers of Joshua. He has become a quiet figure of inspiration, dedicating his life to working with the marginalized. His name is spoken with reverence in places far from Crimson Lane, but the man who loved you remains a ghost in your memory.

For him, you remain a lingering ache, a lesson in love and loss that shaped the man he has become. And though you’ll never see him again, you carry him with you—a reminder of the man who taught you to believe in something greater, even if that belief meant letting him go.

In the end, your paths diverge, but the love you shared leaves an indelible mark—a bittersweet testament to what could have been and what was sacrificed for the sake of survival.

Epilogue:

The grand ballroom is bathed in golden light, chandeliers casting their glow over a sea of elegantly dressed guests. The hum of polite conversation mingles with the soft strains of a string quartet, creating an atmosphere of sophistication and calm.

The gala, held to raise funds for a foundation supporting marginalized communities, is a testament to second chances—a theme that seems almost poetic as you step into the room.

You’ve come far since your days at La Rosa. The years have transformed you, though the fire in your spirit remains. Now a philanthropist in your own right, you’ve built a life dedicated to helping others reclaim their dignity, much like you once reclaimed your own.

Dressed in an understated yet elegant gown, you move through the crowd with quiet confidence, exchanging pleasantries and offering kind words.

But then, as you glance across the room, you see him.

Joshua.

He stands near the edge of the ballroom, deep in conversation with an elderly patron. Time has softened his youthful features, but his presence is as commanding as ever. His tailored suit fits him impeccably, and his familiar calmness radiates outward, drawing others in with his sincerity.

Your breath catches, memories rushing back in vivid detail—the warmth of his voice, the way his hand felt in yours, the bittersweet goodbye that had shattered you both. You had imagined this moment countless times but never truly believed it would come.

Joshua turns as though sensing your gaze, his eyes scanning the room until they land on you. For a moment, the noise and motion of the gala seem to fade, leaving only the two of you in a shared silence.

His eyes widen briefly, the hint of a smile tugging at his lips before his expression softens into something more unreadable—nostalgia, perhaps, or quiet wonder.

You hesitate, unsure whether to approach or retreat. But then, he takes a step forward, and the decision is made for you.

“Y/N,” he says when he reaches you, your name falling from his lips like a prayer.

“Joshua,” you reply, your voice steadier than you feel.

The world seems to slow as you take each other in, noting the changes time has wrought and marveling at the things that remain unchanged.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” he says, his tone warm but tinged with surprise.

You smile softly, glancing around the room. “I could say the same about you. But then again, it doesn’t surprise me. This… this is exactly where you’re meant to be.”

He chuckles lightly, the sound stirring something deep within you. “And you? What brought you here?”

You shrug, your smile turning wistful. “Purpose. A second chance. I’ve learned a lot about how much people can overcome when someone believes in them.”

He studies you for a moment, his gaze filled with something like admiration. “You’ve always had that strength. Even when you didn’t see it in yourself.”

You feel your chest tighten at his words, the tenderness in his voice tugging at old wounds and forgotten hopes. “And you?” you ask quietly. “Are you happy?”

He nods, his smile reaching his eyes. “I am. Life isn’t what I thought it would be, but… it’s good. I’ve found peace in helping others. It’s fulfilling in ways I never imagined.”

You nod, feeling a bittersweet mix of pride and sadness. “I’m glad. You deserve that, Joshua.”

For a moment, silence stretches between you, filled with unspoken words. There is so much you could say, so much you could ask, but you both know the answers won’t change the past—or the choices you made.

“I’ve thought about you,” he admits suddenly, his voice quiet. “Over the years. Wondered how you were, what you were doing. If you were happy.”

Your throat tightens, but you manage a small smile.

“I’ve thought about you too. More than I should, probably.”

His expression softens, and he takes a half-step closer, his voice dropping. “Do you regret it? Walking away?”

You take a deep breath, your eyes meeting his with a mix of honesty and pain. “I don’t regret loving you, Joshua. Not for a second. But I think we both know it couldn’t have ended any other way.”

He nods slowly, his gaze dropping to the floor for a moment before meeting yours again. “You were right,” he says. “About everything. But that doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt.”

As the evening progresses, you find yourselves pulled back into the current of the gala. But even as you move among the other guests, you’re acutely aware of his presence, as though some invisible thread still connects you.

At the end of the night, you see him again, standing near the exit. He catches your eye, and this time, his smile is lighter, more peaceful. You return it, a silent acknowledgment of what you once shared—and what you’ve both become.

As you leave the gala, you carry the moment with you, a reminder that some connections endure even when paths diverge. Though you’ll never be together, the love you shared has shaped you both, leaving behind a legacy of strength, purpose, and bittersweet beauty.

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ghouldtime · 9 months ago

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Tomorrow. (An "Alone. Truly Alone." Drabble)

Wrote this because I was getting stumped on Chapter three. Have a little tiny Ghoap moment ;3

I love him so much look at him!! What a guy!! (Also being able to actually see him in motion has helped me so much trying to figure out how to write him)

Mwah I wanna kiss his face

CW: Mentions of blood, death and dying. Nothing too graphic but it's still very much there! It's angsty too

💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀

Tomorrow.

Oh, how he loathed that one, single, simple wretched word uttered carelessly without as so much as a second thought by so many. How he hated tomorrow.

Tomorrow stood as an uncertain promise held aloft every evening as the sands of time trickled through their limitless hourglass, slowly emptying into the chalice that soon would turn as the earth once again shone a different face to the sun. Tomorrow wasn’t something anyone could truly count on when the tides could shift in an instance, changing everything you knew. Simon Riley knew that better than anyone.

Serving years slaving away in arid deserts and frozen tundras alike with nothing but the weighty gear on his back and a gun in his hand meant he knew better than any other that tomorrow was a measure of time, nothing more. No matter how many times tomorrow had been said, promised, spoken so truly imbued with intent already plotted on its horizon, it didn’t change fate. It didn’t change whether you were going to make it to then or not. The world didn’t care if you made it through or to tomorrow. It only made tomorrow happen.

How many tomorrows had passed since he had been trapped in this washed-out, colorless hell surrounded by walls damning him to eternal solitary confinement with no promise of escape was something he couldn’t answer. The sun had long since ceased warming him with its golden rays in the morning and the moon had made itself scarce, never showing when it hung in the twinkling night sky. A being damned to purgatory didn’t deserve such warmth or beauty. Every wall encasing him determined such a thing would be true as long as he lived in his unliving state. Cold and unfeeling, nothing he did could change the immovable fate that shackled him down and buried him alive in the cement cage.

That didn't stop him from etching the passage of everything he loosely guessed was a day into the walls. Keeping track of something, as minute as it may be, at least kept him saner than he would be with nothing else. Carving into the walls with the few tiny metallic medical tools that had been abandoned and left to rot, the same as him, stood as the only form of retribution against his prison that he could manage.

Each nick, dig, and mark struck against it stood in a silent testament to say that he lived despite death itself having clasped its frigid, clammy hands around his neck as it choked him out until his lifeforce faded. Every insignificantly significant tiny white line marring the concrete stood in testament that even if he was trapped, the bitter taste of defeat still remained foreign on his decaying tongues. His normal body may have long been forgotten and replaced with too many twisted limbs and cerberic heads, but he was still Simon; the very same Simon that would fight with all of his too many teeth and blackened nails until his true final breath.

Though his life had been forced from his mortal shell with the reaper's digging claws until it was pulled from his body, he still somehow lived. How fitting of an "end" for someone like Simon, someone who couldn't even catch a breath when the dark angel came calling his name, only to turn him back to the world as it took a part of him with it. True peace was never fitting for him, he supposed. When all of his life was spent dedicating to fighting, it's only expected he would go toe to toe with his own mortality too.

Yet this pathetic existence hardly classified as what he could call living. He breathed, yes, air filled his lungs but it served no function. Nor did the existence of his heart or any of his organs that were little more than placeholders these days. It was a blessing to be some form of alive and to still have his brain perfectly functioning, but being trapped in this shell stood as an eternal, tormenting curse. Punishment for escaping death one too many times, endlessly taunting it as he dodged all too many bullets, is often how it seemed.

Death would've been the preferable option than staying trapped in the decaying government facility alone and the body that held him prisoner to match.

How he wished he could be permanently buried in the dirt, his eyes closed in a true state of rest. The waking world was a poor imitation of what he hoped death's true embrace would feel like as it came calling his name once more and beckoned a single, crooked skeletal finger. Thin, yellowing sheets that covered the dusty hospital beds where he lay each night offered little comfort for the constant numbness surrounding him in a static void.

Every physical sensation that brushed against his poor-excuse for flesh drowned in the barrier of his unalive state before it could reach him. Heat, cold, pain, pleasure, hunger, thirst - none of those things mattered to a being who could no longer feel in such a corporeal sense.

The same couldn't be said for his feelings. Now that the pesky things such as normal human bodily needs abandoned his form, his heart and mind made up for their absence tenfold as they held him down and forced him to feel everything and anything in between in the murkiest depths of his soul. Like a twisting, red-hot blade they relentlessly engraved their grievances on chunks of his very essence, permanently scorching his soul as they scarred far deeper than any of the hundreds of weapons that had been turned against him ever could hope to.

Despite the stillness of his heart and the absence of what used to be a steady, rhythmic beat, his heart still burned as if it were thrown into the deepest depths of hell whenever he turned his gaze and locked eyes at the tiny picture on his nightstand of him and Soap together, blacked out in tactical gear. He should've thrown an arm around him and made their last picture together more memorable - but it was too late for that. Should've was already too late. He was too late.

The extra heads forced together by sinewy webbing never were much help when it came to focusing with his already clouded vision. Straining to look as he brought the picture closer to his faces, to truly see through all of his eyes, was minor inconvenience he could bare. For it meant that his eyes were graced with three sets, three times, the visage seared into his memory of the one who took on the world for him. The same one who fought for the world, his world, and so readily gave it up for him without a second of a hesitation. He deserved that at the very least - to be seen, recognized, admired. Johnny deserved that and the world itself.

Pouring pure alcohol into his veins and setting it alight would hurt less than the pang of primal agony that rippled through him, shredding his heart and spitting its venom into his soul, whenever he set the picture down and glanced at his left size where an arm - Johnny’s arm, lay fused to his own. Taught skin webbed between it and where his own original arm stood long before he became an abomination and a product of science going too far. The strong fingers that had cradled his hand so gently throughout some nights when the other thought he was asleep, the hand that strangled, shot, and killed for him - now usually clung to the tattoos that inked up his flesh as if afraid to let it go once more even in this harrowing state.

The single limb agonizingly sacrificed to him remained the only one didn’t have perfect control over. It never fully listened, much like the man it came from. No matter the orders he barked at the sergeant, he wasn't one to heed with his head alone. Sometimes that noble, brave heart of his that let him charge up the ranks so fast took the reigns before he could do anything about it.

Stand down, Johnny.

Get out of there, MacTavish.

Don't you dare, Johnny. It's not worth it. Not for me.

....

The longer he lived with the errant limb and dealt with the non-compliance, and the usual near constant grip on his forearm, in a twisted way, he didn’t want things to change. He didn't want it to listen. That wouldn't be Johnny's arm - that wouldn't be Johnny if it did. It wouldn't be the last solid reminder he had if it complied, even if it was connected to his consciousness now.

For now, it was something he could cling onto like a starving dog lapping up scraps of meat outside the back of a butcher shop. Deep down, he knew that he was feeding the delusions as he blindly clawed for anything he could cling onto as a reminder, but bringing himself to care enough to stop wasn't an option (as unhealthy as it might be). Living with the miniscule fantasy served as a balm to his gouged soul that bled out more and more as the seasons marched on and days tumbled forward into one another. It was enough for a man like him who would scavenge for anything his many hands could get ahold of, clinging to any threads as if they could carry him out of the abyss until they inevitably crumbled to dust under the crushing weight of him.

Some nights as he lay on the creaky hospital bed staring up at the same blank ceiling that matched the same gray that covered his senses in a blinding fog, he could almost pretend that Johnny was still here, still talking to him in the thick brogue that was so distinctly him, still smelling of the scotch he loved so much tinged with gunpowder from all the explosives he had set up.

If he closed all six of his milky eyes, the phantom sensation of Johnny's warm form beside him as he imagined him close once more nearly caused him to feel something along his sensationless form. Those deft fingers that worked along intricate wires of dangerous weapons never followed the same pattern twice as he traced his tattoos in the same routine he had many nights before as they lay near one another underneath a flimsy tarp deep in enemy territory, the uncertainty of their own mortal lives continuing for another sunrise strung along the stressful line of their work.

And sometimes if he truly shut off his brain, his mind could truly run wild as it conjured up the words he’d heard so many times before. The same point of contention uttered once more that Johnny always circled back to as he marveled the black lines marbling Simon's skin, “You really should let me color ‘em, LT.” He’d breathe, voice so quiet it could be lost on a breeze as he stared at them with the softest look he had seen on the sergeant’s face, a quiet contemplation written in the furrow of his brows.

If confronted, he knew it would be played off as a joke and nothing more. But the way the roughened pads of his fingers traced the whorls permanently etched into his skin spoke otherwise, echoing words and feelings that ran deep that neither dared to voice. Every moment he lay there alone in his new "life", regret sank its fangs into the vulnerable underbelly of his heart, the heavy feeling settling like molten lead in his stomach as he berated himself for not touching him back, even if it was a tentative hand smoothing a thumb over the back of his.

No matter how many nights and countless times Johnny fell into the routine of tracing his tattoos, Simon's dark gaze would fall right back over the other to trace the tired lines on the other's face and the stubble of his jaw with his eyes. His fingers always twitched restlessly as they lay folded on his chest, aching to feel something aside from the fabric underneath. Yet the ugly, grating voice of doubt pestered him until he hesitated, never letting him the courage to reach up and caress him, even for a second.

His turmoil was obvious to anyone who knew him like Johnny did. The tension in his body, the near constant movement of his fingers, the unblinking look in his eyes as he couldn't help but to stare. But Johnny was smart, significantly smarter than many gave him credit for. He knew better than to point it out with his voice alone but the small upward twitch of his lips spoke a thousand words as he shifted closer, closer.

“Add a little more color to your life. Things can’t always be black and white.” Johnny always insisted as he leaned further in, the weight of his body sinking in, nurturing the warmth blooming in his chest.

Breathing had never been harder as those blue eyes peered up at him through dark lashes. All air left his lungs in a flash, his heart halting as he stared into those eyes, helplessly held captive by those beautiful blues that would put the finest aquamarine gems to shame.

How he wished he listened.

What he wouldn't give to go back to that moment, if only for a fraction of a second, to get lost in those expressive pools of his newfound favorite color.

No amount of time nor disease would pry that memory from him as he lingered in the stagnant, abandoned base. The warmth he felt that night bloomed within his chest even now, even when hindered and reduced to nothing more than a faint fuzzy feeling tickling his chest.

Not even the fusion of the two heads on the side of his could even hope to gnaw it away with their own plaguing whispers and intrusive thoughts that bit through his skull as they tried to worm their way into his brain like the parasites that they were. But he wouldn’t let them. Nothing could.

No, nothing could make him forget Johnny. Not even the end of his world as he knew it. Death may have taken him temporarily into his clutches, dangling him between the precipice of life, but that wasn't enough. Because his world didn't end when he died, no. That was insignificant. His world ended not when he rasped his last breath, endless rivers of crimson spilling onto the operating table. It ended when he used the last of his energy to tilt his head to take one last look at Johnny, knowing that he would never see him again.

...

Endless amounts of tomorrows could add up in the gouges of more tally marks and scores into the wall, covering every nano angstrom of the base and he still would loathe them with all the contempt his heart could well up until it sat in a venomous soaked vat of his festering rage.

He hated tomorrows because each mark was another reminder of the tomorrow that wasn't to come, the tomorrow swiped from underneath his feet by fate's cruel hand, the tomorrow he promised, the tomorrow that would never be - the tomorrow with Johnny.

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theparadoxunlocked · 3 months ago

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Various quotes from a few starkid musicals but link click

—

Xia Fei : “oh shoot I forgot Liu Xiao’s caramel frappe… eh fuck Liu Xiao”

—

Lu guang : “hello, HELLO?! Please GOD I just want a black coffee?!”

—

Vein: *points gun at him*

XF: “what-?”

Vein: “I’m authorising you to use my firearm”

—

Lg: “Wear a watch! Time is a precious thread in the fabric of the universe, it deserves its own tool of measurement”

—

Cheng Xioshi : “I’m dead”

#link click #shiguang dailiren #incorrect quoted #starkid #incorrect link click quotes #Xia Fei #vein #Liu Xiao #lu guang #cheng Xioshi #I’m finally posting these until I can come up with more

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im-not-a-l0ser · 6 months ago

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A Hatchetfield time loop where the looper's fit stays what they pick. So they wake up loop 2 in the pyjamas they went to bed in, not the ones they woke up with loop 1.

If you aren't catching on, if they wear a watch, the watch would continue to count time properly. And there are watches that have the date on them. This poor sap could tell how long they were in the loop without counting because it's on their watch.

#i mean you can do this outside hatchetfield but its not as funny #starkid #hatchetfield #wear a watch #time is a precious thread in the fabric of the universe #it deserves its own tool of measurement

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ciciyup · 2 months ago

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Control.

cw: brainwashing, slight yandere, manipulation, obsession, abuse of power, non-con, dark themes, moral ambiguity.

━━━━━━✧ 🦢 ✧━━━━━━

Darkness doesn't arrive suddenly; it seeps in, little by little, between the folds of a mind that once knew what light was. Shinso Hitoshi knew this. He knew that what he had done was beyond redemption, that he didn't even deserve his own forgiveness.

He had learned to smile. Not like the others, not with joy. But as a reflex, like a gesture learned over time to feign normality. Shinso Hitoshi knew how to behave, he knew how to look without seeming to look, he knew how to coexist without being noticed. And, above all, He knew when to keep quiet. He always had. At U.A., earned respect didn't entirely erase the echoes of old laughter. He had learned from a young age that not all quirks were welcome. His quirk, feared and misunderstood, put him in a different category than the rest. They regarded him with suspicion, distrusted his presence, and although he said he didn't care, a part of him did. It hurt him. It ached. The echo of those words continued to throb like a wound that never fully healed. “His quirk is dangerous.” “How do we know if he doesn’t control us when he wants to?” “He could be a villain with that power…” They said it quietly. Sometimes, they meant it more strongly than they said it. He knew it. He felt it.

But then you appeared. Powerful, charming, distant, disciplined. But not with him. With him, you were different from the start. You weren’t close at the sports festival. You hadn’t even met. But when he lost to Midoriya, when he found himself standing there, shoulders tense, pride shattered, it was you who approached him. There was no pity in your words, no false compassion. “Your quirk can be heroic if you are.” That day, you ignited something in him, something he couldn’t name. It wasn’t love, not at first. It was a spark. A need to be seen. To be recognized as something more than a dangerous tool. It was something subtler, deeper. A slow longing, cultivated with every gesture you made. Your calm voice. Your quiet strength. Your ability to see him as an equal. From then on, Shinso would watch you, not out of obsession back then, but out of admiration. They would cross paths in training, in the hallways, and even occasionally shared long silences sitting on the terrace, without needing to speak. You included him. You didn't need to tell him you were friends; he simply felt it. As the years passed, life at U.A. became more complex. Shinso managed to get into the hero class and gained everyone's respect... but the emptiness in his chest was never fully filled. You were still there, beautiful, distant, calm... with your measured way of speaking, your undeniable power, your unwavering presence. You were like a star to him: unattainable.

Then came Monoma. He didn't know when it started. You were always discreet to the bone, but Hitoshi was no fool. Not with you. He knew it long before they confirmed it with glances, absences, and details. They touched each other differently. They searched for each other in silence. Their fingers sometimes brushed against each other when they thought they were alone. He knew it from the way you changed. You became softer, more cheerful in Monoma's presence. The darkness Shinso had kept at bay began to grow. It wasn't anger at Monoma, not even resentment toward you. It was a storm in his chest, a need that bordered on desperation. He knew it. He knew he had no right to feel the way he felt. That he couldn't blame you. But the more he tried to shut down what he felt, the more that sick thought grew, that gnawing need: "Why wasn't it me?"

It was his last year at U.A. The sky was overcast. Gray, as if someone had covered the world with a wet blanket. The city was silent in the distance. The atmosphere was quieter than usual. You walked alone after leaving the practice room. Shinso saw you from afar, your calm steps, your hair stirred by a light breeze. He approached. He wasn't planning on doing it... or maybe he was. Maybe he'd been thinking about it for days. Maybe his mind had been breaking down in silence for too long.

—Hey —he greeted, with perfectly studied calm. As if he didn't just greet you like any other day. As if it were any other day.

—Hitoshi —you replied, nodding your head. You didn't see it coming. You trusted him. You considered him a close friend. Someone you could trust. And yet, it was everything he needed. You had no chance to sense it. No one did. No one would have imagined it. Not his friends. Not Aizawa. Not you.

—Follow me.

You were led effortlessly, in silence, to the secluded bathroom in one of the older blocks on campus. The one that almost no one used at that time of day. Where no one would see. Where no one would hear. You obeyed, without emotion, without judgment. Only the echo of an order in your mind, stuck like an invisible hook. Shinso closed the door behind him. You were still, without will, without awareness. Your gaze was empty.

—Kiss me.

You moved. You didn't hesitate. You didn't question. You clung to him, obedient. Your lips met his without desire, without passion, without meaning. But Shinso... Shinso felt every second like divine punishment. He kissed you as if it could fill the emptiness in his chest. As if he could erase Monoma's name from your lips. As if he could become that "someone" you had once chosen.

Shinso knew it was wrong; he knew it from the moment his quirk was used out of desire and not need. He simply didn't feel like himself. Not when your lips tasted like this. Not when their tongues intertwined like this. He took hold of the back of your neck, pulling you closer. He buried his face in your neck, kissed it. He breathed in your perfume, running his nose over your skin like a soft caress. He observed the small details on your neck, those intimate details that only a few would have the privilege of seeing. He touched and caressed your hips with a mixture of need and guilt. Shinso's hands trembled, not from fear, but from hunger. Hunger for something that would never belong to him. His heart pounded. But his mind… his mind screamed. He drew you even closer, if that were even possible. He kept touching you. With anxiety. With anger. With love. With admiration. With guilt. At one point, his head rested on your shoulder, and the silence fell; yet, Shinso didn't cry. He didn't reflect for a moment on what he'd done. He just stayed that way. He didn't quite destroy you, but he did steal something he shouldn't have.

And when he had had enough, when he felt on the verge of breaking, he let go of you with a mixture of bitter satisfaction and self-loathing. He looked up to meet your dull, cold, expressionless eyes. As if they could see right through him without you even seeing it in his actions. Ordering you to return to the starting point, you left the bathroom, and as he deactivated his quirk to free you, he looked at you silently, leaving only the echo of an empty conversation in your memory. You only blinked once. Your brow furrowed slightly, as if something didn't add up, and you continued to stare at him, with the same, detached look as always. You gave him a slight nod before walking away with firm steps, moving further and further away until your silhouette disappeared.

Shinso watched you walk away, feeling cold and hollow. A monster. He was the only one who had stayed there with the memory, with the crime. He didn't punish himself with words, he only felt. He felt his soul bend under the weight of his own betrayal. Because you trusted him. Because you were his friend. Because you were the only clean thing he thought he had, and he had soiled it. No one knew. Not even he wanted to fully acknowledge what he had done. Was there redemption? Could he make up for it by being a hero? Could he silence the echo in his head that reminded him that, in the end, he was exactly what everyone feared? A villain with the face of a hero. Perhaps his heroic actions made up for what he did, he told himself. Perhaps if he saved enough lives, if he became exemplary, he could redeem himself. Could a single sin bury all the good he had done? Could he bury such a dark truth under the guise of virtue?

He never spoke of it again. Not even to himself. But at night, when the world slept, his mind replayed the scene over and over again. Your name. Your eyes. Your body against his. And then silence. Because perhaps, that afternoon, in that gray cloud suspended between heaven and earth, he ceased to be the Hitoshi you thought you knew and became someone even he couldn't forgive. But he kept walking. Because only he knew what had happened, and he would never be able to confess it to anyone. What you didn't remember couldn't hurt you. But it did for him, and it slowly destroyed him. And sometimes, the guilt was so overwhelming that he wished someone would find out. To punish him. To tell him he didn't deserve to be a hero. Because Shinso didn't know if he was one anymore.

━━━━━━✧ 🦢 ✧━━━━━━

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