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candyeager · 2 days ago

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𝐁𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍'𝐒 𝐍𝐔𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐎

— sanzu haruchiyo x fem!reader

PART THREE 18.9k words

short summary. in which your heartbreak over Mikey pulls you into the dangerous and irresistible orbit of Bonten's Number Two, Haruchiyo Sanzu. warnings. sanzu haruchiyo is his own warning, graphic violence, substance abuse, toxic/manipulative relationships, explicit sexual content, depression & self-destructive behaviour, strong language. tags. female reader insert, bonten au, tsundere!sanzu, ex-boyfriend!mikey, angst with a happy ending, slow burn, heavy pining/yearning.

masterlist

Haruchiyo Sanzu is a menace. A relentless, goddamn menace. You never thought your day would end like this: chest heaving, lungs burning, and the icy river clutching your limbs as you fight to outswim him.

The water is like knives against your skin, each stroke of your arms a battle against the current’s merciless pull. Your muscles scream for relief, but you push forward, desperation outweighing exhaustion. The river churns around you, a cold, chaotic force, but it’s nothing compared to the chaos pounding in your chest.

Behind you, Sanzu moves through the water like a shark, a deadly predator with no intention of letting you escape.

You don’t feel bad about what you did. No, not in the slightest. If anything, there’s a flicker of pride burning beneath your fear, a stubborn satisfaction at the thought of his precious katana now rotting at the bottom of a dumpster. That cursed blade—sleek and gleaming, a symbol of everything twisted about him—had haunted you for years. Its absence from his side feels like a small victory, even if it might cost you your life.

“You really think you can fucking outrun me?” Sanzu’s voice tears through the air, sharp and furious, even over the roar of the river.

The sound chills you more than the water ever could. But you don’t stop. You can’t. Every ounce of strength left in your body is channeled into moving forward, even as water splashes into your mouth, making you choke. Your legs are heavy, your strokes weaker with every second, and deep down, you know he’s gaining on you.

Then you feel it.

Fingers tangle in your hair, wrenching your head back with brutal force. Pain explodes across your scalp, and your scream is cut short by the river’s icy grip as you’re dragged under for a moment. You thrash and kick, limbs flailing uselessly, but his hold is unyielding. Sanzu pulls you closer with the ease of someone completely at home in the water, his grip like iron and his strokes deliberate.

“You’ve got some nerve, I’ll tell you that,” he growls, his breath hot against your ear despite the freezing water. “But not enough brains.”

“Stop it!” you gasp, twisting in his grasp, but it only makes him tighten his grip.

“Stop? Now you want to stop?” he echoes, mocking, each word laced with venom. “You started this. Don’t tell me you’re giving up already.”

His fingers release your hair, but before you can lunge forward, his arm snakes around your waist, pulling you tight against him. His chest presses against your back, solid and immovable, and you feel the steady beat of his heart, infuriatingly calm.

“Fuck this! Let me go!” you shout, desperation in your voice, but Sanzu only laughs, low and dark, the sound of his laughter reverberating through your body.

“Keep squirming,” he murmurs, his lips close to your ear. His breath is warm against your wet skin, a stark contrast to the icy water. “It’s cute how you think that’s going to help.”

The chill of the river feels distant now, overshadowed by the heat of his body pressed against yours. His chest rises and falls with controlled, steady breaths, while you struggle just to keep yours from hitching in fear.

Sanzu drags you through the water effortlessly, like you’re nothing more than a ragdoll. Even when your feet finally scrape against the muddy riverbank, it’s not relief you feel—only dread. He doesn’t release you. Instead, he hauls you out of the water with an ease that makes your stomach churn, his grip firm and unforgiving.

Before you can think to run, he’s on top of you, pressing you down against the earth, his knees digging into the dirt on either side of your body. The ground is cold, wet, but it’s nothing compared to the heat radiating from him. Water drips from his pink hair, his soaked clothes clinging to his lean, muscled frame.

“Oh, you thought you could escape me, did you?” he says, his tone dripping with mockery. “You underestimate me too much.”

Your chest heaves as you glare up at him, defiance flickering in your eyes despite the ache in your limbs and the bruising grip of his hand.

“I could’ve—” your voice is sharp, cutting through the pounding in your ears, “if you weren’t such a lunatic.”

Sanzu’s lips curve into a smirk, a dangerous spark flickering in his teal eyes. His fingers, damp and cold, brush against your jaw, forcing your face upward. You flinch at his touch, but he holds you still, his thumb grazing the pulse beating rapidly beneath your skin.

“Careful now,” he murmurs, his voice as smooth as silk yet laced with steel. “You’ve already pissed me off. Don’t make this worse for yourself, sweetheart.”

Your fists clench at your sides, nails digging into your palms to stave off the rising wave of panic. Every nerve in your body screams at you to shove him away, to fight, to do something. But his weight presses down on you, solid and immovable, pinning you in place.

Deep down, you know there’s no escaping Haruchiyo Sanzu today.

And judging by the wicked grin that spreads across his face, he knows it too.

“So what?” you snap, but the sharpness of your tone falters as his unrelenting gaze bears down on you. It’s like staring into a storm, unpredictable and cruel. “You gonna strangle me? Threaten to kill me again?”

“Threaten?” His smile widens. “What makes you think I won’t kill you for real this time?”

The threat hangs in the air like a blade poised to strike. Sanzu dips his head lower, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, the heat of his breath sending a shiver down your spine.

“I warned you, didn't I?” His voice is low, almost a whisper. “I can end anyone—anyone. You’re no different. A flick of my wrist, and you’re gone. Don’t ever forget that.”

You flinch at his words, your breath hitching as the reality of them settles over you. You’re painfully aware of how easy it would be for him to make good on his threat. This isn’t bravado—it’s the cold, unyielding truth. Sanzu doesn’t bluff.

“To think I actually showed you pity,” he mutters. “Gave you comfort, even, while you were bawling over Mikey.”

The mention of Mikey’s name hits like a sucker punch, dragging air from your lungs. Sanzu watches you, his eyes glittering with that familiar sadistic delight, as though your pain is just another game for him to toy with.

But even as your chest tightens, anger starts to simmer beneath the surface. You snort, the sound bitter and jagged, tearing its way free despite the tremor in your body. It’s involuntary, absurd, like every other moment with him.

“Comfort?” you echo, the word dripping with disbelief.

A flicker of confusion crosses Sanzu’s face, but it’s gone as quickly as it came, irritation hardening his features. His eyes narrow, sharpening like twin daggers, locking onto yours with unrelenting force.

“Yeah, comfort,” he snaps, his tone defensive, like the very suggestion that he’s in the wrong offends him. “What? Need me to spell it out for you?”

Your stomach churns, anger bubbling inside you. His twisted sense of comfort, the smugness in his tone—as if he’d done you some noble favor—it’s enough to make your blood boil. You lean forward without thinking, every ounce of rage clawing its way up your throat, refusing to let him have the upper hand.

“You call that comfort?” you spit, the accusation landing between you like a grenade.

Sanzu doesn’t flinch. His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t look away.

“You gave me drugs, Sanzu,” you continue, your voice rising with every word. “That’s your idea of comfort? Dulling me down? Making me numb? How the hell is that comfort?”

At that said, you see his teasing smirk vanish entirely, wiped away like a smear of paint, and what’s left is a man unhinged. Without warning, his hand shoots up, his fingers curling around your jaw with bruising force.

“Shut your mouth,” he hisses, leaning closer until his face is inches from yours. “You were a fucking mess. Sobbing. Falling apart. I did you a fucking favor. You hear me? I fixed you.”

Your heart pounds against your ribs, each beat echoing in your ears. The rushing sound of the river fades into the background, leaving nothing but his voice and the weight of his hand on your face.

But even as fear twists in your chest, rage burns hotter.

“You didn’t fix me,” you say, your voice trembling but fierce. “You ruined me.”

His eyes flash, a dangerous glint sparking in their depths. He doesn’t let go, his fingers digging into your skin as though he’s trying to imprint his version of the truth onto you.

“You were already broken,” he sneers. “I just made it easier for you to handle. Don’t act like you didn’t need it.”

You glare up at him, defiance flaring despite the way your pulse races beneath his hand. “I didn’t need you,” you snap, spitting the words like venom. “And I never will.”

His grip continues to tighten painfully, making you wince. For a moment, you think he might snap entirely from the way his dark, intense eyes bore into you, his expression a mask of barely suppressed violence. You can almost feel the heat radiating off him, a pure, unadulterated rage.

But then, from the shadows, a voice cut through the silence.

“Sanzu.”

The single word carries no urgency, no anger, but it’s laced with authority—calm, controlled, and utterly commanding.

Sanzu’s grip loosens just slightly, his head snapping toward the sound. His entire demeanor shifts in an instant, the manic edge in his eyes flickering and fading. You turn your head too, your breath catching as you catch sight of him stepping out of the darkness.

Mikey.

He stands a few feet away, his expression unreadable. His dark eyes flicker between you and Sanzu, assessing the situation in a glance, the faint frown on his face betraying a sliver of displeasure.

The sight of him hit you like a physical blow, your chest tightening painfully. How long has it been since you’d last seen him? Since the day you’d walked away? Time blurs in the aftermath, but now, with him standing there, it feels as though no time has passed at all.

Sanzu’s grip on your jaw loosens, but he doesn’t release you immediately. His fingers linger, teal eyes flicking back to yours, scanning your face as though searching for something. You can’t tell what—fear, defiance, or maybe something he doesn’t even understand himself.

“Late, as always,” Sanzu mutters, his tone casual, but the tightness in his jaw betrays his unease.

Mikey doesn’t waver, his voice steady as steel. “Let her go.”

Sanzu doesn’t move at first. His fingers remain curled around your jaw, the pressure a subtle reminder of his power over you. But then, slowly, he releases you, his hand falling away as he straightens.

You gasp for breath, your hand flying to your sore jaw as you scramble to sit up. Your limbs tremble, but you can’t bring yourself to meet Mikey’s eyes—not yet. The weight of his presence is overwhelming, suffocating.

“She’s lucky I didn’t kill her,” Sanzu mutters, shoving his hands into his pockets as he steps back.

Mikey’s eyes linger on you for a moment longer before shifting back to Sanzu. His expression remains impassive, but the silence between them is heavy, crackling with unspoken tension.

“Go,” Mikey says finally.

Sanzu raises an eyebrow, his lips curling into a faint sneer.

“As you wish, boss,” he says, his tone taunting, though he doesn’t linger. With a mocking salute, he turns and strides off into the shadows, leaving you alone with Mikey.

The silence that follows is deafening.

You stay on the ground, your breathing uneven as you try to steady yourself. The ache in your jaw is nothing compared to the storm raging inside you.

And for the first time in a long time, you realize you don’t know who scares you more: Haruchiyo Sanzu, the unhinged and dangerous man who just walked away, or Manjiro Sano, the boy you once loved who now looms over you like a stranger cloaked in darkness.

Haruchiyo Sanzu’s presence makes it impossible to focus. You’re back at the café where, just hours ago, you’d seen Mikey with his wife. Now, Mikey sits in front of you, his familiar gaze fixed on your face, while Sanzu lingers in the periphery, leaning casually against the wall. You can feel his teal eyes on you even when you’re not looking.

“You’re okay?” Mikey’s voice cuts through your train of thought, snapping your attention back to him. “You look pale.”

The truth hovers just below the surface. Of course, you’re not okay. How could you be? His concern, once something you found so grounding, now feels like salt in an open wound. It’s like he’s still trying to play the role of your savior when he was the one who let you fall.

“Never better,” you say sharply, the sarcasm laced so thick it almost chokes you.

It’s not a lie. Not entirely. Never better because you’ve finally been forced to stand on your own, but never worse because Mikey—because he’s Mikey—makes it impossible to forget what you lost.

Mikey sighs quietly, the sound so familiar yet so infuriating. It’s the same sigh he always gave when he thought you were being unreasonable, and it only stirs your anger further.

“I still care,” he starts but then stops, swallowing back the rest of the sentence. His jaw tightens, and he adjusts his words like he’s afraid of what he might say next, “I’ve always wanted the best for you, even now.”

You almost laugh, the bitterness rising in your throat. The best for me? If that were true, would you even be here, unraveling piece by piece? His words are like a knife, and he doesn’t even know he’s holding it.

“I heard you moved out of your old apartment,” he adds, as if that’s what matters right now.

Our old apartment, you correct silently, the words bitter on your tongue. The place where Mikey used to hold you through restless nights, where laughter once filled the air, and where you’d built your life together. But now, it’s just a place you couldn’t bear to stay in, a graveyard for everything you thought would last.

“If there’s anything I can do to help—”

“Like what?” you snap, your words cutting through his sentence. “You think I can’t survive without you?”

Mikey doesn’t answer right away, and the silence that follows only worsens the sting. His hesitation is maddening, but worse is the look that settles on his face—soft, almost pitying. It makes your blood boil.

You know you’re digging your own grave. You’ve relied on Mikey since you were sixteen, leaning on him for support in every way that mattered. It’s obvious you’ve survived this long because of him, but that doesn’t mean you can’t start now. That doesn’t mean you need him anymore.

Still, his silence gnaws at you, and when he finally speaks, his voice is calm, measured, like he’s walking on eggshells.

“I know you can,” he says gently. “You’re strong, capable, and I admire that. But if you ever need someone to lean on, I’m here for you. You can depend on me.”

His words should feel like a lifeline, but instead, they feel like chains. Because you know what he’s really saying. He’s offering help, but it’s the kind that comes with the knowledge that you’ll always be just a little weaker than him.

That you’ll always need him.

“Depend on you?” you repeat, your voice cold, biting. “That’s rich coming from someone who left. You're the one who fucked me up, Mikey!”

Your words hang in the air, sharp and unforgiving. Heads turn toward you, curious eyes flicking your way, but you don’t care. Let them stare. Let them hear every word—every ounce of pain he left behind. It’s either your voice rises, or your dam breaks. And you’d rather be seen as crazy than weak.

Especially in front of him.

Mikey’s face tightens, his hands curling into fists on the table, but he doesn’t interrupt. His silence only fuels your rage, pushing you closer to the edge.

“I don’t need your help,” you continue, your voice rising. “I don’t need you. I don’t need anyone! I’ve been fine these past months—”

Lies. All lies.

You haven’t been fine. You’ve been living in survival mode, barely holding yourself together. Nights spent staring at the ceiling, choking on the weight of your own heartbreak. The fragile pieces of your heart held together by sheer will.

“—And honestly, I’d rather trust a lunatic like Sanzu than you. At least he’d be honest about being a monster.”

As soon as the words leave your mouth, you know Sanzu’s eyes are on you, boring into the side of your head. You can feel the weight of his gaze even as you refuse to look his way. He’s going to kill you for that, for calling him a monster, but you’re too angry to care.

Across the table, Mikey lowers his gaze to his hands, his expression shadowed. He has the audacity to look ashamed—whether it’s of himself or of you, you don’t know. And you don’t care anymore.

The weight in your chest feels unbearable now, pressing down on you like it’s trying to crush the air from your lungs. You rise to your feet abruptly, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. Without a second glance at Mikey, or anyone else for that matter, you storm out of the café.

Sanzu is standing by the door, but you don’t even look at him as you pass by. You can still feel his gaze on you, following your every step.

Outside, the chill bites at your skin, but it’s nothing compared to the storm inside you. The world feels too bright, too loud, and too indifferent to your pain. The tears that blur your vision now are hot, a stark contrast to the cold air brushing against your cheeks. You wipe them away furiously, but they keep coming, spilling over like water from a broken dam.

And then you see her.

You freeze.

It’s her. Mikey’s wife.

The source of your pain, your heartbreak, your sleepless nights.

She’s standing across the street, radiant and serene, as if she belongs to another world entirely—a world without heartbreak, without sleepless nights, without you. The sight of her punches the air from your lungs. You can’t look away, even though every fiber of your being screams at you to turn around, to run.

Her beauty is effortless, the kind of beauty that doesn’t try but still outshines everything. She moves with the grace of someone who knows exactly where they belong, her confidence unshaken by the storm she’s left in her wake. You feel the cracks in your resolve widening with every step she takes, every smile she offers to her bodyguard as he opens the car door for her.

She steps into the sleek black car with the kind of ease that feels like mockery. It’s just another perfect day for her, another moment where her life glides forward without a hitch. And here you are, standing on the sidewalk with your heart shattered into pieces so small they might never come back together.

Your knees feel weak, your vision swimming as the tears threaten to consume you entirely. The world spins, a dizzying blur of faces and voices, and for a moment, you think you might collapse right here. Let the concrete catch you, let the city swallow you whole—anything to escape this unbearable weight.

Then all of a sudden, you hear that familiar deep, gravelly voice.

“Get in the car. I’m sending you home.”

You don’t need to turn around to know who it is. The voice, the aura—it’s unmistakably him. He's followed you out of the café, his presence as persistent as the evening’s chill.

You slowly turn, and there he is—Sanzu.

The car nearest to you beeps as he unlocks it, slipping his keys back into his pocket with a flick of his wrist. His movements are smooth, controlled, and yet there’s an underlying tension that makes the air between you feel heavy. He steps closer, his smirk sharp, but his eyes—those teal eyes—are watching you too closely, betraying something deeper beneath his casual façade.

“You’re a mess,” he says, his voice low, almost lazy. “But I guess that’s not exactly breaking news, is it?”

You glare at him, the tears still hot on your cheeks. “And why the hell do you care?”

Sanzu’s smirk twitches and almost falters, but he catches himself. He leans in slightly, close enough that you can see the faint scar near his lips, the faint gleam of sharpness in his eyes.

“Care? Oh, sweetheart, don’t flatter yourself,” he drawls, his tone dripping with condescension.

“I’m only here because Mikey asked. Said you were gonna embarrass yourself if I didn’t get you off the street. And, well…” He tilts his head, his grin widening just enough to make your blood boil some more. “He’s probably right.”

His words hit like a slap, and your hands curl into fists at your sides. “Go to hell, Sanzu,” you snap, turning to walk away. “I don’t need a babysitter, least of all you.”

But you don’t make it far before his voice cuts through the air again.

“You really think I’d let you walk around like that?” he says, the sharpness in his tone stopping you in your tracks.

You turn back to face him, and this time, his expression has shifted. The smirk is still there, but it’s quieter now, his eyes narrowing as they study you.

“You’ve got tear stains on your face, your hands are shaking, and you just screamed at Mikey loud enough to wake half the city,” he continues. “So tell me, princess, what’s your grand plan? Walk until you fucking collapse? Or maybe you’re hoping someone worse than me will pick you up?”

You swallow hard, his words cutting deeper than you want to admit. But you refuse to let him see how much they affect you.

“I’ll be fine,” you bite out, lifting your chin defiantly. “I don’t need anyone.”

Sanzu laughs, a sharp, humorless sound that sends a shiver down your spine. “Yeah, that’s cute. Real cute. But here’s the thing: I don’t give a damn what you think you need right now. You’re getting in the car.”

You shake your head, your anger rising again. “You don’t get to decide—”

His hand shoots out, grabbing your wrist—not hard, but firm enough to make you freeze. His gaze locks onto yours, and for the first time, the mask he wears cracks just slightly.

“Listen,” he says quietly, his voice losing its usual edge. “You’re not fine. And I’m not about to let you spiral because you’re too damn stubborn to admit it.”

The unexpected hint of concern catches you off guard. You stare at him, searching his face for any form of an explanation, but all you find is that same unreadable look he always gives you.

He lets go of your wrist, stepping back. “Do us both a favor,” he mutters, his tone sharp again. “Quit wasting my time and get in. Or do you want Mikey to think you’re this pathetic?”

The mention of Mikey’s name is enough to make your blood boil all over again, and you storm past Sanzu, sliding into the passenger seat with a huff. You slam the door shut, refusing to look at him as he rounds the car and slips into the driver’s seat.

The engine roars to life, and as the car pulls away from the curb, you can feel his gaze flicker toward you. He doesn’t say anything else, but the silence between you feels heavier than words.

You glance out the window, your chest still tight, your mind racing. You don’t know what’s more unsettling: the fact that Sanzu came for you, or the fact that, for all his mockery and death threats, a part of you believes he might actually care.

Haruchiyo Sanzu confuses you. He always has.

The memory of your first meeting lingers in your mind, a thorn that never dulls. His hair was its natural pale blonde back then, the soft strands a stark contrast to the sharpness of his features. Most of his face was hidden behind that ever-present black mask, as if he wanted to stay hidden even in plain sight. But his eyes—the way they raked over you, cold and unwelcoming—made it clear enough that you were an outsider.

“Can't believe Mikey’s letting some chick walk all over him like that,” he had said the first time he saw you, his tone as cutting as the edge of a blade. “She’s probably got him wrapped around her little finger, sucking all the edge right out of him. Pathetic.”

He didn’t bother lowering his voice, didn’t care that you were within earshot. To him, you weren’t someone worth sparing. You were an anomaly in Mikey’s meticulously crafted world—a fragile thing, bound to break and take Mikey down with you.

It hadn’t hurt back then, not the way it might now. At the time, Haruchiyo Sanzu had been nothing more than an arrogant, brooding boy—a shadow that clung too closely to Mikey. A boy with a fervent, almost fanatical loyalty that bordered on obsession.

Even then, though, there had been an unshakable truth about him: Sanzu would do anything for Mikey.

You hadn’t realized how much weight that truth carried until the day you were forced to rely on him. Mikey had been surrounded—dozens of enemies closing in, their shouts echoing in the air like a war drum. You’d known Mikey could handle himself. He always could. But something primal, something terrifying, had clawed its way into your chest, leaving you breathless and desperate.

And so, against your better judgment, you’d turned to Sanzu. You still remembered the way he had looked at you like you were dirt on his shoes, something insignificant and beneath him.

“Scram, you little brat!” he’d snapped, his tone laced with warning. “You’re out of your league here, so fucking get lost!”

But despite his words, he went. Without hesitation, without question. You’d stood frozen, watching as he moved—his katana gleaming like liquid silver, cutting through the chaos with terrifying precision. Blood sprayed, painting the air with crimson streaks, and the sound of steel meeting flesh rang in your ears.

Sanzu had been merciless. Efficient. Unstoppable.

Mikey was the same, you knew that. But Mikey never let you see that part of him. He was careful with you, always holding something back, as if he didn’t want to shatter the image of the boy you thought he was.

But Sanzu? He never cared about sparing you.

You’d always been an outsider in his eyes.

And yet, now, years later, after everything—after all the threats, the hatred, after your messy, heartbreaking breakup with Mikey—you find yourself sitting in Sanzu’s car, the hum of the engine the only sound between you.

It feels wrong.

Haruchiyo Sanzu isn’t the type to care, to go out of his way to help someone. Especially not you. And yet, here you are, gripping the edge of your seat as he drives you home.

The streets blur past the window, streaks of gold and crimson from the setting sun spilling across the world outside. You catch his reflection in the glass—the sharp line of his jaw, the way his lips press into a faint scowl even when he’s relaxed.

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t glance at you. But his presence fills the car like a storm cloud, heavy and inescapable.

Your gaze drifts to his hands—one on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh. His long fingers tap a slow, absent rhythm, betraying a restless energy he won’t let show anywhere else. The tendons shift under his skin, his movements deceptively delicate for someone who wields death so easily.

The light hits his face just right as you glance at him. The gold of the sunset softens the hard lines of his features, catches in his pink hair, and makes it glow like a firelight. For a fleeting moment, he doesn’t look like the Haruchiyo Sanzu you know.

Not the lunatic you’ve always known. Not the monster who once strangled you while high, forcing your first pill down your throat under the pretense of “comfort.” Not the Haruchiyo Sanzu who swings his katana without a second thought, who laughs at the chaos he creates.

No, this version of him—silent, calm, almost serene—feels like someone else entirely.

The thought unsettles you.

You shake your head, trying to banish it. This is Sanzu, you remind yourself. The lunatic. The monster. The man you have every reason to hate.

But even as the words repeat in your mind, they sound weaker than they should.

The car rolls to a stop outside your apartment, and for a moment, neither of you moves. The silence stretches, heavy and taut, until it feels like the weight of unspoken words might crush you. But he doesn’t speak. He never does when it matters.

You step out of the car, the door closing with a soft click behind you. The evening air bites at your skin, but you barely feel it as you turn back to watch him. His face is unreadable, eyes fixed straight ahead, his fingers still tapping that absent rhythm on his thigh.

The car pulls away, his taillights vanishing into the distance, leaving you standing there, alone and more confused than ever.

Haruchiyo Sanzu confuses you.

And tonight, as the memory of his quiet presence lingers, you hate that he does.

Actually, scratch that.

Haruchiyo Sanzu is a damn petty bastard.

For a brief, fleeting moment, you’d thought the two of you might’ve reached some unspoken understanding. Sure, no words were exchanged, and yes, all he did was drive you home. But still, there had been a quiet truce in the air—a rare moment of something that almost resembled civility.

Clearly, you were wrong.

The realization hits you the second you step into your apartment.

Your breath catches in your throat, and for a moment, you’re frozen in place. The space you’ve spent months trying to make your own—your sanctuary—is unrecognizable. Empty.

Gone is the couch where you spent lazy afternoons staring at the ceiling, lost in thought. Gone are the shelves, once filled with books and little trinkets that held pieces of you. Your bed—your safe haven after long, grueling days—nothing but an empty outline on the floor now. Even the faint scent of lavender, your ever-present diffuser, has vanished, replaced by the sterile smell of nothingness.

Your footsteps echo as you take a cautious step forward, the sound bouncing off bare walls, mocking you. The knot in your stomach tightens, your mind scrambling for explanations that don’t exist. For a brief, desperate second, you think maybe there’s been some mistake.

But the truth—the infuriating, maddening truth—is instant and undeniable.

The only person who knows your new address is Haruchiyo Sanzu.

Your chest tightens as fury ignites in you, searing hot and fast. Of course it’s him. Who else would have the audacity? The lunacy?

You think back to last week, to the moment you thought, stupidly, that he might’ve been capable of a shred of decency. The way he’d driven you home without a single cruel jab. The way he’d let you leave his car without some biting remark to twist the knife. You’d wanted to believe there was some humanity lurking beneath the madness.

How naive.

This—this empty apartment, this gutted wreckage of your life—is his grand fucking statement.

He’d sent you home just so he could rip it all away again.

You clench your fists, nails digging into your palms as fury courses through you. It’s not hard to figure out why he did it. Beyond the fact that he’s a complete lunatic, this has revenge written all over it. He’s still pissed about you dumping his precious katana into the dumpster like the trash it was. This is payback. The emptiness surrounding you is proof of that.

How fucking petty.

Your gaze sweeps over the barren apartment, landing on the empty space where your coffee table used to be. Fury roils in your chest, spilling out in waves, hotter with every passing second. If you’d known it would come to this, you wouldn’t have stopped at tossing his katana.

No, you’d have gone for the jugular.

You’d have stolen his entire stash of pills, the ones he guards like a feral dog. The ones he pops like candy, always chasing some chemical peace he’ll never find. Or better yet—burned down his condominium entirely.

No. You’d evacuate everyone first, of course. You’re not a monster.

But Sanzu? You’d leave him there. Trapped. Let the fire consume everything he holds dear—his overpriced furniture, his meticulously curated wardrobe, his godforsaken colorful pills. You can almost picture it: flames licking at his skin, his screams swallowed by the roaring inferno.

The image is so vivid, so satisfying, it almost makes you smile. Almost.

You shake your head, trying to push the thought away. No. You’re not a murderer.

You’re not him.

But standing here in this gutted shell of your home, your hands trembling with barely restrained rage, it’s hard to hold onto that truth.

Sanzu has this way of dragging you down to his level, of twisting your emotions until the unthinkable feels reasonable. He pushes and prods and poisons until there’s nothing left but anger and the quiet hum of violence that he wears like a second skin.

And right now? Right now, you’ve never wanted to kill someone more in your entire life.

Sanzu.

That goddamn petty bastard.

“Haruchiyo Sanzu! Go to hell!”

Your scream tears through the bustling city noise, sharp and furious, loud enough to make heads turn. People stop mid-step, startled by the force of it, but you don’t care. You’re standing at the edge of the footbridge, your fists clenched so tightly that your nails dig into your palms. And there he is—the man himself—walking casually along the road below you like he hasn’t turned your entire life upside down.

Sanzu stops in his tracks, turning slightly to glance up at you. For a moment, his teal eyes widen in genuine shock, as if he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing.

Good. Let him be shocked. Let him know exactly what’s coming.

The fire inside you burns hotter as you storm down the bridge. It’s been raging ever since you stepped into your empty apartment and realized he was behind it. You hadn’t even stopped to think before running to his condominium.

For thirty minutes, you’d pounded on his door like a lunatic, your voice hoarse from shouting his name. Your rage was loud enough to bring out one of his neighbors, a sour-faced old man who only stepped outside to inform you, with no small amount of irritation, that Sanzu had left ten minutes ago.

You’d muttered a half-hearted apology to the neighbor before taking off again, your rage fueling every step. You’d searched the streets near his condo like a woman possessed, the thought of spending the night on a cold, hard floor making you see red.

If anyone’s sleeping uncomfortably tonight, it’ll be Sanzu. Preferably on his deathbed.

And now, after all that, you’ve found him. Walking casually toward his sleek black car. He looks calm. Relaxed. Like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Like he hasn’t just uprooted your life for the sake of some petty, calculated revenge.

Your shout stops him, but only for a second.

He blinks, his momentary surprise melting into something unreadable. Then, without a word, he turns away and keeps walking, as if nothing happened.

The audacity.

Your feet move before your brain catches up, propelling you forward with reckless speed. The world around you blurs—faces, voices, none of it registers. Passersby step aside, startled by the sheer force of your determination, their wide-eyed stares sliding off you like water off glass.

All you can focus on is Sanzu.

He’s climbing into the back seat of his sleek black car now, his movements deliberate, calm, unbothered. Pretending he doesn’t see you, pretending he didn’t just hear you scream his name moments ago.

He doesn’t even look at you as he settles in the back seat, his long fingers gripping the edge of the door. His lack of acknowledgment feels like a slap to the face, stoking the fire in your chest until it threatens to consume you.

Not today.

You slam your palm against the car door just as he begins to close it, the force of it rattling the frame. The sound echoes through the air, startling even you with its sharpness.

“What?” you demand, your chest heaving as you catch your breath. “Running away now?”

Sanzu looks up at you with maddening calm, his teal eyes catching the glow of the streetlights. For a split second, you think he might actually take you seriously. But then it happens—that smirk. That insufferable, smug curve of his lips that makes your anger spike higher. It’s the kind of smirk that tells you he’s been expecting this, that he’s been waiting for you to find him.

And worse? He’s enjoying it.

“Oh, no, sweetheart,” he says smoothly, leaning back against the seat with an air of infuriating nonchalance. “I never run away from a fight.”

The deliberate ease of his tone feels like gasoline on the fire. His teal eyes glint with amusement, and that smirk of his—God, that smirk—widens just enough to make your fists itch.

“But,” he continues smoothly, as if he has all the time in the world, “as much as I’d love to fight you right now and remind you of your place, I’ve got a meeting in ten.”

He taps his watch, feigning impatience. “So, unfortunately, I’m not exactly in the mood to entertain your whining.”

Whining.

The sheer arrogance in his tone makes your vision blur for a moment, your nails digging into your palms as you clench your fists. He’s doing this on purpose, you realize. Poking at your anger, stoking the flames, and loving every second of it.

“Don’t fucking test me, Sanzu!” you snap, your voice sharp with barely restrained fury. The effort it takes to keep yourself from grabbing him by the collar is monumental. “Give me back my things!”

Sanzu tilts his head slightly. “Your things? You’re gonna have to be more specific than that.”

You take a step closer, narrowing your eyes at him. “You know exactly what I’m talking about,” you growl. “My apartment. My furniture. Everything’s gone because you took it. All of it.”

“Oh, that.” His smirk deepens, and he shrugs like it’s the most inconsequential thing in the world. “Yeah, that stuff’s gone.”

“Gone?” Your voice rises, your frustration boiling over. “What the hell does that mean? Gone where?”

Sanzu chuckles, the sound low and cutting, like a blade slipping between your ribs. He leans forward slightly, resting his elbow on his knee as he looks at you with the arrogance of someone who knows exactly how much power they hold.

“That,” he says smoothly as if he’s savoring every moment of your frustration, “is for me to know and for you to find out.”

The smug satisfaction in his tone makes your skin prickle, and for a moment, the entire world narrows to just the two of you. The bustling city, the distant car horns, the faint hum of streetlights—all of it fades away under the weight of his words.

“You think this is funny?” you hiss, your voice trembling with barely restrained rage.

He leans back again, stretching out like a king on his throne, his smirk never faltering.

“Hilarious, actually,” he replies, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “The look on your face right now? Worth every second.”

You want to scream, to claw that smirk off his face, to make him understand just how far he’s pushed you. But deep down, you know that’s exactly what he wants. Sanzu thrives on chaos—on control. And right now, he has both in the palm of his hand.

So you force yourself to take a deep breath, though it does little to calm the storm raging inside you. Losing your temper won’t get you anywhere. The only way to deal with someone like Sanzu is to stay rational, no matter how impossible that feels.

With that thought, you grab the front of his shirt and yank him toward you, your fingers curling into the expensive fabric. You lean against the car door, bending slightly so you’re face-to-face with him.

For the first time, his smirk falters.

It’s subtle, but it’s there—a flicker of irritation in his eyes. He doesn’t like to be handled this way, that much is obvious. But you’re too angry to care.

“Fine,” you snap. “Since you’re incapable of being civilized, I’ll be civilized enough for both of us.”

Your glare sharpens, and you tighten your grip on his shirt, tugging him closer. “That stupid katana—I’ll pay you back. Name a price, and then stop with this bullshit.”

The silence that follows is heavy, crackling like static between you. He doesn’t smirk, doesn’t quip. For once, he seems caught off guard—or maybe he’s just letting the moment stretch to keep you guessing. His teal eyes pierce into yours, unreadable, and for the briefest second, you wonder if you’ve finally managed to throw him off his game.

But that fleeting moment vanishes as quickly as it came. His hand moves—a blur—and clamps around your wrist.

“Sanzu—”

You barely manage to gasp his name before he yanks you forward with a sharp, practiced tug. The force of it throws you off balance, and you stumble, landing unceremoniously on his lap.

The sharp sound of the car door slamming shut beside you snaps like a gunshot in your ears, reverberating through the tense air. You freeze, your breath catching as the suffocating closeness of the car settles over you like a vice.

Panic surges in your chest, but Sanzu doesn’t give you a chance to react. He shifts slightly, leaning forward to address the driver—someone you hadn’t even noticed until now, silent and impassive behind the wheel.

“Drive,” Sanzu orders, his tone low and commanding.

The car lurches into motion, and you instinctively reach for the door handle, your heart racing. “What the hell—”

Your fingers barely graze the metal before Sanzu’s hand catches yours in an iron grip.

You whip your head toward him, fully intending to glare, to demand answers, to fight. But whatever words you had prepared dissolve the moment you meet his gaze.

He’s close. Too close.

Your face is mere inches from his, so close you can make out every detail: the pale green of his eyes flecked with grey, the sharp arch of his blond eyebrows, the faint scars at the corners of his mouth. His cologne envelops you—spicy, woodsy, intoxicating in a way that makes your pulse stutter.

Your hand, trembling with adrenaline, presses against his chest, and you curse inwardly as you feel the steady, unnervingly calm beat of his heart beneath your palm. He’s not rattled, not even a little. Meanwhile, your own heart feels like it’s trying to break free from your ribcage.

His body is solid, unyielding beneath the expensive fabric of his shirt. Every subtle shift of his frame feels deliberate and controlled, as if, even in this chaos, he’s still the one pulling the strings.

Sanzu tilts his head slightly, his lips curving into the faintest trace of a smirk. Not the full, insufferable grin you’re used to, but a softer, sharper smirk, and infinitely more dangerous.

“You said you’d pay me back,” he murmurs, his voice so low and velvety that it sends a shiver down your spine despite your best efforts.

“So why don’t you sit back like a good girl, and we’ll have that civilized conversation you wanted so badly.”

Your cheeks burn with a mix of anger and something else you refuse to name.

With a sharp exhale, you tear yourself away from his intense gaze, shoving off his lap and planting yourself on the seat beside him. The car’s leather feels cold against your palms as you adjust your clothes, every movement sharp and jerky, as if regaining control over your body could somehow rein in the storm inside you.

“Great,” you bite out, refusing to meet his eyes. “How much?”

Sanzu doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he stretches leisurely, his arms draping over the backrest, like he’s savoring the moment. His smirk widens, sharp and deliberate, and you know—know—he’s about to say something outrageous.

“¥100 billion.”

The words hit you like a slap.

You turn to him so quickly that your neck protests. “What?”

His grin widens. “You heard me,” he says smoothly, as if the absurdity of his statement is nothing out of the ordinary.

For a moment, all you can do is stare, disbelief crashing over you in waves. Your mouth falls open, but no words come out.

“Is that a joke?” you finally manage, shaking your head. “Because there's no fucking way—”

“Oh, yes. Fucking way,” Sanzu interrupts, his voice dripping with mockery, as if your protest is the funniest thing he’s heard all day.

He leans back further, his teal eyes gleaming as he continues, like a professor lecturing a particularly slow student. “That katana wasn’t just some random blade, you know. It was art. History forged in steel. Do you even have the slightest idea what you threw away?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer—of course he doesn’t. Sanzu loves the sound of his own voice too much.

“It was forged by master smiths. Wielded by legendary warriors. Passed down through generations. And you—”

His gaze sharpens as he lazily points a finger at you, his smirk turning razor-sharp.

“You tossed it into a fucking dumpster.”

Your teeth grind together as his words sink in, and your fists curl against the leather seat.

“Oh, and that’s not all,” he continues, his tone suddenly turning wistful as he places a hand over his chest, like he’s recounting a personal tragedy.

“The emotional distress I went through? Priceless. The cost of my time? Immense. The sentimental value?” He exhales theatrically, shaking his head. “Incalculable.”

You know he’s mocking you, but that doesn’t stop your stomach from twisting in frustration.

“That katana wasn’t just a weapon,” he finishes, his voice softening to a taunting murmur. “It was a part of me. A piece of my soul, if you will. So, yeah—¥100 billion. Generous, considering you ripped out a piece of me.”

“You’re insane!” you shout, your voice trembling as panic begins to creep into the edges of your anger.

You can feel the weight of the number crushing you, impossible to comprehend, let alone repay. It’s absurd, and you know he’s doing this on purpose.

Sanzu’s smirk deepens, his gaze steady and unrelenting. “Oh, sweetheart, I am insane.”

He leans forward slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “But don’t worry, I’m not that heartless.”

You narrow your eyes at him, suspicion flickering alongside your disbelief.

“I’ve taken the liberty of assessing your belongings,” he continues, gesturing vaguely with one hand like he’s discussing the weather. “To offset the cost of your little stunt, of course. Let’s say those furniture pieces are worth, oh, I’ll be generous again—¥10 million.”

You gape at him, your stomach sinking as he raises a finger, feigning thought.

“So, that leaves you with a cool ¥99,990,000,000 to pay back.”

The number hangs in the air, a death sentence delivered with the kind of smug satisfaction that makes your stomach churn.

You blink at him, your chest tightening as your mind races, trying and failing to find a way out of this nightmare. The number is still incomprehensible. Impossible.

“Better start saving, sweetheart,” Sanzu says, his grin stretching wider as he watches the horror bloom across your face

“Go to hell!” you snarl, the words tearing from your throat as your voice trembles with suppressed fury.

Sanzu doesn’t even flinch. Instead, his smile widens, a flash of teeth that feels more like a wolf baring its fangs.

He leans back casually, his sharp gaze flicking over you with infuriating nonchalance. It feels like he’s dissecting you, stripping you down to your most vulnerable parts just for fun.

“Considering your lame little job, I guess you’ll have no choice but to work your ass off for me for the rest of your life.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut.

You swallow hard, fighting against the rising tide of frustration and helplessness that threatens to pull you under. You feel the familiar sting in your eyes, the burning ache of tears you refuse to let fall. Not again.

Your fists tighten in your lap, nails digging into your palms as you bite down hard on your lip, grounding yourself in the sharp sting of pain. Anything to keep from breaking down in front of him.

But Sanzu notices—of course, he notices. He always does.

“Oh, don’t look so down now,” he says, his voice lilting with faux encouragement. “There are plenty of jobs that can make you quick money. I’m sure we can think of something.”

You turn to him sharply, hope flickering despite yourself. “Quick money?”

He glances at you, his smirk widening like a cat about to pounce on a cornered mouse. “Let’s see. We’ve got human trafficking, prostitution…”

Your glare is immediate, your hope snuffed out as quickly as it came. You clench your teeth, realizing with a sinking heart that he’s doing this on purpose—pouring salt into the wound, twisting the knife, reveling in your frustration.

“Fine,” you bite out, your voice dripping with sarcasm as you refuse to let him win. “I’ll work as a prostitute then—”

The smirk vanishes from his face instantly, replaced by a darker, sharper expression. His eyes narrow into slits, and his jaw tightens as a sudden wave of cold fury washes over his features.

“Don’t be fucking absurd,” he snaps. The words crack like a whip, laced with something you can’t quite name—possessiveness, maybe. “You wouldn’t last a day sucking off dicks.”

The abrupt shift in his demeanor leaves you momentarily stunned. He was the one who suggested it, yet now he looks furious, his glare sharp enough to pierce steel.

“What the hell am I supposed to do then?” you demand, your voice rising with frustration and desperation. “You know I don’t have that kind of money! I’ll never be able to pay you back!”

The silence between you is heavy, suffocating. Sanzu’s gaze flickers toward you, and for the briefest moment, his expression softens—barely, but enough to make your heart stutter.

“Then stay indebted to me,” he says finally, his voice low and deliberate, each word weighted with meaning.

Your breath catches at the quiet finality of his statement, but he isn’t done.

“Work with me,” he continues, leaning closer, his gaze piercing through you with unnerving precision. “Work for me. For the rest of your life.”

The words settle over you like a shroud, suffocating and inescapable. You search his face desperately, clinging to the hope that this is another one of his twisted jokes. But there’s no laughter in his eyes now, no trace of the smug expression you’ve come to expect. Instead, he is calm—too calm. Serious in a way that leaves no room for doubt.

Realization sinks its claws into you, cold and unrelenting.

This was never about the blade. It was about control. About binding you to him, inch by inch, until there’s nothing left of you to call your own. You feel like a mouse cornered by a cat, every escape route meticulously cut off.

Disbelief turns to anger, burning hot in your chest as the truth becomes clear.

“You must be out of your mind,” you say, your voice trembling with equal parts of fury and defiance, “if you think for a second that you can enslave me with a ridiculous debt.”

His eyes narrow slightly, the faintest flicker of irritation crossing his features, but he remains silent, watching you with that unsettling calm.

“You’re pathetic,” you continue, your voice rising, each word carefully chosen to cut. “Is this what you’ve been reduced to? Tricking people into staying by your side because you’re too useless to stand on your own?”

That gets a reaction. His jaw tightens, and his smirk falters, his composure cracking ever so slightly.

But you don’t stop.

“You think you’re all that, don’t you?” you continue, your tone laced with venom. “Always playing these stupid little games, acting like you’re untouchable. But here’s the truth, Sanzu—you’re nothing but a coward. You’re a joke. You hear me? A sad, pathetic joke.”

The words hit their mark.

The air in the car grows heavy, oppressive, as silence stretches taut between you. Sanzu doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, but you can feel the shift in him. His hands tremble faintly where they rest on his lap, curling into fists so tight his knuckles turn white. His breathing is measured, deliberate, like a man trying to hold himself together by sheer willpower.

But his eyes—his teal eyes burn with a fury so intense it makes your stomach churn.

“Stop the fucking car,” he says finally, his voice low and quiet, quieter than you’ve ever heard it.

The tone is lethal, more chilling than any yell or threat could ever be. It carries with it a promise of violence, sharp and certain, and you can feel the driver tense at the words.

The car slows, and your heart races, dread pooling in your stomach as you realize you’ve pushed him too far. But you don’t regret it. Not yet.

As the vehicle comes to a halt, the door on your side unlocks with a soft click. You glance out the window in confusion, your surroundings barren and unfamiliar. The road stretches endlessly into the dark, illuminated only by the pale glow of distant streetlights. Shadows dance across the pavement, eerie and unfamiliar.

“Get out.”

You whip your head toward him, confusion and disbelief flashing across your face.

“What?” you stammer, your voice trembling as the situation sinks in. “Here? In the middle of nowhere?”

He doesn’t look at you. He doesn’t need to. His teal eyes are fixed somewhere in the distance, his body unnaturally still except for the steady rise and fall of his chest. The controlled rhythm of his breathing is the only indication that he’s holding himself back. Barely.

“I said get lost,” he growls, the words low and guttural, like the rumble of a storm building on the horizon. “Before you make me do something I’ll regret.”

The threat isn’t loud, but it’s deafening all the same, hanging heavy in the air between you. A thin, frayed thread of control keeps his rage tethered, but you can see it unraveling, piece by piece.

For the first time, fear creeps into your resolve. You glance out the window again, the cold night air creeping in through the slight crack. The barren road offers no solace, no comfort—just endless darkness and isolation.

But you refuse to let him see your fear. Not like this.

“Fine,” you say, your voice laced with defiance even as it trembles slightly. “I’ll get lost.”

You reach for the purple suit jacket he’d carelessly tossed onto the seat between you earlier, the luxurious fabric soft beneath your fingertips. “If you’re dumping me out here in the middle of nowhere, I’m taking this.”

You grip the jacket tightly, your knuckles turning white. The sharp, familiar scent of his cologne clings to it, invasive and suffocating as you clutch it to your chest.

“It’s the least you can do, right? Since you’re so generous.”

His jaw twitches at your words, a faint movement that betrays the storm brewing beneath his stoic exterior.

“You think that’s going to bother me?” he says, his voice flat, but the edge is unmistakable. His eyes finally meet yours, pinning you in place like a predator sizing up prey. “Take it. Keep it. Hell, burn it for all I care. It won’t make a difference.”

His words hit like a slap, dismissive and cutting, but it’s the look in his eyes that burns. You’ve seen him cruel before, smug and taunting, but this is different. This is detachment, a wall slamming down between the two of you as if he’s willing himself not to feel anything at all.

The silence stretches, taut and suffocating, a battlefield with no clear victor. You push the door open, the icy night air rushing in to bite at your skin. You step out, the gravel crunching beneath your heels as you clutch the jacket tighter.

The door slams shut behind you, the sound echoing in the empty stretch of road. You turn, half-expecting him to say something—anything.

But Sanzu doesn’t even look at you.

His gaze remains fixed ahead, unyielding, and within seconds, the car lurches forward, speeding off into the darkness.

You stand there, frozen in place, the silence deafening as the taillights vanish into the night.

For a moment, all you feel is rage—raw and unfiltered, coursing through you like wildfire. Your grip tightens on the stupid jacket, the fabric crumpling in your fists. Then, with a scream of frustration, you hurl it to the ground.

The jacket lands in the dirt, and without thinking, you stomp on it with your heels, over and over, as if punishing it might somehow lessen the weight in your chest. Tears sting your eyes, but you blink them back, your breaths coming in ragged gasps as your fury runs its course.

Then, slowly, reality sets in.

Your chest heaves, the cold air biting against your skin as you glance down at the crumpled jacket beneath your feet. Its once-pristine fabric is now smeared with dirt, but it still carries the faint, lingering scent of Sanzu.

You crouch down, your fingers trembling as you pick it up.

You throw it over your shoulders, the warmth of the material doing little to comfort you. The anger in your chest simmers, but now, something else creeps in—something heavier.

Regret.

You’re furious at Sanzu, but a part of you is furious at yourself too.

You shouldn’t have said those things. You shouldn’t have let your words cut so deep, shouldn’t have hit him where you knew it would hurt the most.

It wasn’t your place to say those things.

But it was your anger—wild and uncontrollable, driving you to lash out in the only way you knew how. You wanted him to feel it too, to understand the sting of your own hurt. And for a fleeting moment, you’d seen it in his eyes: the crack in his armor, the way your words had struck him.

But instead of satisfaction, all you feel now is emptiness.

You wrap the jacket tighter around yourself, its weight heavy on your shoulders as you start walking down the deserted road, the cold night air biting at your skin.

Alone.

With nothing but his stupid jacket and the lingering ache of words you can’t take back.

Haruchiyo Sanzu feels like a distant, sour memory now—something that lingers at the edges of your mind, bitter and unwelcome, like a taste you can’t quite wash away.

Weeks have passed since he left you stranded in the middle of nowhere. You still remember the icy sting of that night, the wind gnawing at your skin as you trudged along desolate roads, his suit jacket wrapped tightly around you. Its scent—sharp, woody, and unmistakably his—had clung to you like a curse, as if mocking your every step. You’d made it to the bus stop just in time for the last ride home, your legs aching, your spirit raw and splintered.

But that was then.

Your days now have grown quieter. The chaos of Bonten, once an ever-present storm on the horizon, has retreated. No Sanzu. No Mikey. Just silence.

It’s a fragile kind of peace, tenuous and uneasy, like walking on a tightrope suspended over the void. The ache of it all—Sanzu’s threats, Mikey’s betrayal, the hollowing-out of your life—still lingers, but it’s beginning to heal. Slowly, piece by piece. You’ve started finding solace in small things: the warmth of sunlight spilling through your window, the steady rhythm of your breath at night.

Still, there’s no denying the shadow that lingers. The specter of Bonten hangs over your life like a storm cloud, distant but menacing. You’ve learned not to let yourself get too comfortable, knowing full well how easily your peace can be ripped away.

Your apartment reflects that unease. You’ve stopped trying to rebuild the life Sanzu tore apart. The furniture he took has gone unreplaced, leaving the space sparse and functional, like a temporary refuge rather than a home. A futon rests on the floor instead of a bedframe. Your fridge is nearly empty, your meals taken outside to avoid the suffocating stillness of your own walls.

You live like someone waiting to run. As if, at any moment, you might pack up the few belongings you have left and disappear without a trace.

Some days, you consider leaving Japan entirely.

But today, it’s not Sanzu or Mikey who disrupts your fragile peace. It’s her.

Mikey’s wife.

You see her before she sees you.

You’re in the convenience store near your apartment, standing in the narrow aisle of instant ramen. Your hand hovers over a cup of miso-flavored noodles when your gaze shifts—and lands on her.

At first, you think your eyes are deceiving you.

Her long, dark hair frames her face delicately, though there’s her expression is tired, worn at the edges. Her features are familiar, painfully so, but it’s the swell of her belly that catches your breath.

She’s pregnant.

A cold wave crashes over you, bringing with it all the pain and bitterness you’ve been trying so hard to forget. The heartbreak, the betrayal, the way Mikey had slipped through your fingers and into her world—it all rushes back with a vengeance, leaving you reeling.

What is she doing here? Why is she here?

You don’t stick around to find out. Gripping your bag tightly, you turn on your heel and walk away, hoping to slip out unnoticed. You tell yourself she doesn’t know you, that she won’t recognize you. That you can pretend this never happened.

But then she calls your name.

Your heart stops.

Her voice is soft, lilting, and utterly devoid of malice. But it hits you like a punch all the same. Slowly, reluctantly, you turn to see her walking toward you, her smile bright and warm. One hand rests lightly on her swollen belly, while the other lifts in a friendly wave.

“I’ve been wanting to meet you!” she says, her voice sweet and full of enthusiasm.

You blink, caught completely off guard. “W-what?”

She stops a few steps away, her eyes shining with a sincerity that twists the knife even deeper. “You’re Mikey’s friend, aren’t you?”

Friend?

The word rings hollow in your ears, absurd and suffocating. You blink at her, unable to mask your disbelief.

“Um, no,” you manage to say, though your voice sounds far weaker than you intended. “I’m not his friend. Not really…”

“Oh, I know.” Her voice is soft, breezy, as though she’s speaking about something mundane. “You both were in love back then, right? But don’t worry, I don’t take it to heart.”

Were in love?

The phrase hits you like ice water, cold and paralyzing. You feel the air shift around you, your stomach twisting uncomfortably. She looks so bright, so radiant—her presence glowing with an effortless kind of beauty that feels impossible to touch.

And then there’s you.

Rusted, dark, barely held together by fraying threads.

She’s standing there in a designer dress you recognize instantly, the kind you’d once dreamed of wearing when your life still had a semblance of stability. Everything about her exudes grace, her polished demeanor so far removed from the raw, vulnerable edges you’ve been living with.

And you? You’re standing in sweatpants and a tank top, fresh from the gym, your hair tied up messily, your skin still faintly damp. You feel the faint sting of sweat clinging to you, the sharp contrast between her pristine elegance and your disheveled state making your insecurities roar to life.

If you’d known you’d run into her, you would’ve worn something else—anything else. Something that could at least mask the deep, gnawing inadequacy rising like bile in your chest.

“So,” she continues, her voice light, unbothered, as if she hasn’t just turned your world upside down. “You live near here?”

“Yeah,” you reply hesitantly, shifting on your feet. “Kinda.”

“Ah, I see, I see.” She smiles warmly, like she’s genuinely happy to see you. “I live up the hills with Mikey. We just moved there. You should come if you have time.”

The bile in your throat sharpens. She says it so casually, so invitingly, like she’s unaware to the wound her words inflict. Doesn’t she know? Doesn’t she understand what’s happened between you and Mikey—that you’re not exactly on speaking terms?

Or is she playing dumb?

Your thoughts spiral downward, dark and tangled. Maybe she’s doing this on purpose, flaunting her position, rubbing it in your face. Maybe this is all part of her plan to remind you exactly where you stand—or don’t stand—in Mikey’s life.

You hate that your mind goes there, hate the negativity clawing at your insides. But how could it not? After everything you’ve been through—every betrayal, every heartbreak—how could you expect anything else?

“There’s a lot I’ve been wanting to tell you, you know.”

Her voice pulls you from the storm in your head, soft and almost hesitant, yet it strikes you like a thunderclap.

“I’ve been meaning to thank you,” she continues, her gaze steady and warm, as if her words hold some unspoken sincerity you can’t begin to understand.

“Thank me?” you echo, the wariness creeping into your voice.

“For letting him go,” she says simply, with no malice or spite, just a matter-of-fact honesty.

The bile rises higher, threatening to choke you, as she adds quickly, “I’m not trying to be rude.”

Her gaze softens, and for the first time, her smile falters. She glances down, one hand resting on her swollen belly, the gesture so natural yet so deliberate it feels like another blow to your already fragile composure.

“When I first found out I was pregnant, I was scared,” she admits quietly, her voice trembling just enough to catch your attention. “What if Mikey didn’t care about this child? What if… he couldn’t let go of you?”

Her words are gentle, but they cut deeper than any insult could.

“I didn’t have a responsible father growing up,” she continues, her gaze distant now, fixed somewhere beyond you.

“My family sold me to the Sano family when I was a teenager to pay off my father’s debt. Shin—Mikey’s brother—took me in. He promised I’d marry Mikey someday, but we weren’t exactly friends back then.”

“So when I found out I was pregnant, I thought… what if Mikey couldn’t love this child? What if he didn’t care? But then you left him, and I... I couldn't believe it. But it made things easier, you know?” She pauses, looking back at you with a faint, tentative smile.

“Mikey is going to be a great father to this child. So… thank you.”

You feel like the ground has crumbled beneath you.

Your mind is a whirlpool of emotions, dragging you down deeper and deeper as her words replay in your head. Thank you for letting him go. The phrase loops endlessly, echoing louder each time until it drowns out every other thought.

What are you supposed to feel? Regret? Jealousy? Bitterness? Relief? Gratitude?

Instead, all you feel is guilt.

It sits heavy in your chest, acidic and biting, as you force yourself to meet her gaze again. She’s glowing, radiant, full of life and hope. Her hand rests protectively over her belly, her smile soft and warm, as though she hasn’t just gutted you with her words.

You wonder if she can see it—the way your heart is breaking all over again, piece by piece.

Because as much as you hate to admit it, she’s right.

You feel like a villain in your own story, selfish and blind. If you hadn’t let go, if you’d kept clinging to Mikey, what would you have done to her? To this child? How much pain would you have caused, all for the sake of holding onto something you knew deep down was already gone?

The realization sits heavy in your chest, twisting your insides with guilt and self-loathing.

You force a polite smile, the corners of your mouth trembling as you nod numbly. She’s still talking, but her words fade into the background, drowned out by the roaring in your ears.

When the encounter finally ends, when she walks away with her glowing smile and radiant presence, you remain frozen in place, staring blankly at the rows of snacks and drinks in front of you.

The world around you feels dimmer now, the air heavier, as if everything has shifted just slightly out of focus.

You don’t even notice the tears slipping down your cheeks until you taste the salt on your lips.

Haruchiyo Sanzu always made it clear where you stood.

“You don’t belong here,” he’d sneer, his voice dripping with disdain, “not in Mikey’s world, and definitely not in Bonten.”

He was never wrong. You didn’t belong in their world. You were the outsider, the one thread that never quite wove into the fabric of their lives. You knew it, and he made sure you never forgot it. His words stung more than you’d admit—not because they were untrue, but because of the way he said them. Sharp. Dismissive. Like you weren’t worth the air you breathed in his presence.

But you stayed. Out of stubbornness. Out of loyalty to Mikey. Out of defiance. Maybe you wanted to prove Sanzu wrong, or maybe you just wanted to prove something to yourself.

Still, deep down, you hated that world.

The violence. The chaos. The constant, suffocating tension. You didn’t understand it, and you didn’t want to.

The thing about violence is how loud it is. How it drowns everything else out. It used to make you tremble, used to keep you up at night. Over time, you thought you’d grown numb to it. Spending years with Mikey and his friends, and later meeting the men of Bonten, you believed you’d built up a tolerance.

You were wrong.

Now, standing in the dim light of your apartment, you feel that old dread creeping up your spine, cold and suffocating. The sound of fists pounding on the door reverberates through the space, loud and relentless.

“Open up!” a voice slurs, rough and angry. It’s followed by another—harsher, louder—yelling something you can’t quite make out.

You press your back against the wall, clutching your phone in trembling hands. The door shudders under the force of the blows, the wood groaning as if it might splinter any second. Through the peephole, you catch flashes of them—three, maybe four men. Their faces are rough, unshaven, their clothes stained and worn. Not like Bonten’s polished soldiers. These men are desperate, frayed at the edges, their anger wild and unrestrained.

Your breath comes in short gasps, panic clouding your thoughts. Your first instinct is to call the police, to beg for help. Your thumb hovers over the screen, but you hesitate.

Don’t call the cops.

The rule rings in your head like a mantra, drilled into you after years of being with Mikey. Police attention meant danger, not safety. Danger for him. Danger for Bonten. Calling them now feels like a betrayal of everything you promised to leave behind.

But this isn’t Bonten. This isn’t their problem. This is you, alone in an apartment that feels smaller with every second, trapped with no escape.

Your mind flickers to Mikey. You can almost see him now—stoic, composed, walking through that door with the kind of calm that could silence a storm. Whenever things got bad, you called him, and he always came. No questions. No hesitation.

But that Mikey doesn’t exist for you anymore.

The memory of his wife slices through your thoughts like a blade. Her glowing face, her soft laugh, the way she spoke of him like he was hers—and hers alone. He isn’t yours to call. Not anymore.

The pounding grows louder, the door rattling violently on its hinges. A voice yells, “We know you’re in there! Open the damn door!”

Your legs buckle, and you slide down the wall, your knees drawn up to your chest. You grip your phone tightly, every instinct screaming at you to do something. But you don’t know what.

The fear is suffocating. It wraps around your throat like a noose, tighter with every second. You’ve spent so long trying to convince yourself you’re stronger now, that you could stand on your own two feet, that you’ve learned how to survive without anyone’s help.

But here you are, knees to your chest, tears streaming down your face, and the truth is like a knife twisting in your gut.

You can’t.

The pounding on the door grows louder, the wood splintering under the relentless force of fists. Angry voices bleed into one another, demanding, mocking, hungry. You flinch with every thud, the sound rattling through your bones. A muffled sob escapes you, and you clamp a hand over your mouth, biting back the noise.

This isn’t the first time you’ve felt this kind of fear, but it’s the first time you’ve been truly alone. The knowledge slices through you like ice, leaving you raw and exposed. There’s no Mikey to call, no Bonten soldiers to sweep in and erase the threat with brutal efficiency. There’s only you.

A shudder wracks your body, and your trembling hand brushes against the edge of the clothing rack beside you. The soft rustle of fabric draws your attention, and your eyes fall to the floor.

The purple suit jacket.

It lies crumpled and forgotten, a remnant of a night you’ve tried desperately to push from your memory. It doesn’t belong here, much like the man who owned it.

Your gaze lingers, and then you see it—a small white card slipping from the pocket. It flutters to the floor, landing face up, the bold logo of Bonten catching the dim light.

You don’t think. You don’t breathe. You just move, reaching for it with trembling fingers.

The card feels heavier than it should as you turn it over, your eyes scanning the crisp lettering.

Haruchiyo Sanzu.

Beneath his name is a series of numbers, printed in sharp black ink. A phone number.

Your heart stutters.

The voices outside grow louder, their words blending into a cacophony of threats and anger. The door creaks ominously under the next blow, and your grip tightens on the card.

This is insane. Calling him is insane. You haven’t spoken to him since that night. Since the night he left you stranded, drenched in rage and despair, clutching this very jacket like it was some kind of armor.

But the desperation burns hotter than the fear now, a frantic, clawing need for survival.

Your fingers fumble as you pick up your phone, the screen shaking in your grasp. The numbers blur as tears spill over your lashes, and it takes three tries before you can type them in correctly.

The first ring feels endless, each second dragging you deeper into doubt.

The second ring is faster, sharper, and the sound cuts through the fog of your panic.

For a moment, you think he won’t answer. You think this was a mistake, that you’re as alone as you feared—

But then his voice crackles through the line.

“Who is this?”

It’s sharper than you remember, edged with a steel-cold annoyance that sends a shiver down your spine. Your lips tremble, and you purse them tightly to hold back the sob threatening to escape. You don’t understand why hearing his voice makes you feel like crying even harder, but it does.

“Speak up,” Sanzu snaps, his tone edged with irritation.

“S-Sanzu,” you finally manage, barely able to get the words out. “It’s me.”

The silence that follows feels like an eternity, heavy and tense, like he’s holding back a storm on the other end of the line. You brace yourself for his anger, his mockery, but it doesn’t come. Instead, the pause stretches, his silence daring you to say more.

Before either of you can speak again, a loud bang on your door startles you, and you jump violently. Your sobs break free, audible now as you stare helplessly at the door. It rattles in its frame as another fist slams against it, followed by more shouting from the men outside.

Sanzu’s voice turns sharp on the other end of the line. “The hell’s going on there?”

You try to speak, to explain, but the words choke in your throat, tangled with fear. All you can do is breathe, ragged and uneven, as the chaos outside intensifies.

“Oi!” he barks, louder this time, his tone laced with urgency. “Answer me! Where are—”

Another deafening bang.

This one is so forceful it feels like the door might splinter. The phone slips from your grasp, tumbling to the floor with a hollow clatter. You scramble to pick it up, but the noise outside grows louder, drowning out his voice on the other end.

The pounding at the door is relentless now, each blow reverberating through the room like the ticking of a doomsday clock. Panic grips you in its iron claws, your movements clumsy and frantic as your survival instincts take over.

You abandon the phone.

Your body moves on its own, propelling you away from the front door and down the narrow hallway. Your breath comes in short, desperate gasps, your vision blurring with tears as you throw yourself into your bedroom.

The door slams behind you, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the suffocating silence of the room. Your hands shake as you fumble to turn the lock, your fingers slipping over the cold metal. When it finally clicks into place, you collapse against the door, your back pressed to the wood as if your weight alone could keep the intruders out.

It feels like the walls are closing in, the air too thin, too heavy. You clutch at your chest, trying to steady your breathing, but the panic has its claws in you now, dragging you deeper into its suffocating grip. You don’t know how long you stay rooted like that. Minutes passed. Maybe even hours, you’re not so sure anymore.

Then—suddenly—silence.

The world feels like it’s holding its breath, the oppressive silence louder than the chaos that preceded it. The pounding has stopped, the shouting gone, leaving behind a void so deafening it presses against your ears.

It’s almost worse than the noise.

Time stretches and warps, each second dragging by as your mind claws for clarity. Summoning strength you don’t think you have, you push yourself up on trembling legs. Every step feels heavy, your movements jerky and uncoordinated as if your body doesn’t quite belong to you anymore.

You unlock the door with a faint click.

The hallway beyond is eerily still, the dim light from your living room casting long, distorted shadows. You step out, and your breath catches in your throat.

The door to your apartment is wide open.

Your eyes widen as you take in the scene. Blood mars the pristine white of the door, streaked across the floor in grotesque smears.

Then you see him.

Sanzu stands there, framed by the dim glow of the streetlight outside, his silhouette sharp and unnerving. You notice the blood on his clothes, streaked across his shirt and jacket in violent, haphazard smears. It stains his hands, dripping from his fingertips onto the floor.

Your gaze shifts downward.

A body lies crumpled at his feet, its face obscured by shadow. The man’s arms are bent at unnatural angles, his chest motionless. The pool of blood spreading beneath him glints faintly in the light, viscous and dark.

Sanzu’s face is calm, almost eerily so, as he stares down at the lifeless figure. His expression is unreadable, his teal eyes cold and devoid of emotion. With a slow, deliberate movement, he wipes the blood from his cheek using the back of his hand, smearing it across his pale skin like war paint.

The gun in his other hand hangs loosely by his side, its barrel still gleaming faintly in the dim light. You can’t tell if it’s from blood or something else. Somehow, you just don’t care.

You should feel fear—any normal person would. The violent scene before you, the lifeless body, the blood painting your once-pristine apartment—it should terrify you.

But all you feel is relief.

It crashes over you in a tidal wave, drowning out every other thought or emotion. Relief that it’s him standing there. That he’s here. That the nightmare outside your door is over.

He came. For you.

The realization is enough to blur the edges of the world around you, your vision swimming with unshed tears. Your breathing hitches as you take a hesitant, shaky step forward. Then another.

The space between you feels unbearable, suffocating, as if every step is a battle against an invisible force pulling you back.

Before you even realize what you’re doing, you’re running.

“Hey—”

Sanzu’s voice breaks the silence, startled, but it barely registers.

You throw yourself at him with all the force you can muster, not caring about the blood, the chaos, or the consequences. His arms come up instinctively to catch you, but the sudden impact knocks him off balance. The two of you stumble, falling to the floor in a tangled heap.

The world around you fades to nothing.

Your arms wrap tightly around his neck, clinging to him as if letting go would mean being swallowed whole by the darkness again. You bury your face into the curve of his shoulder, breathing him in despite the metallic tang of blood that clings to him. Beneath it, faint but familiar, is his scent—spicy, woodsy, unmistakably him.

It grounds you. Anchors you.

The fear, the helplessness, the bone-deep panic that had consumed you moments ago—all of it begins to dissipate, replaced by a sense of warmth and security. You sob against his neck, your tears soaking into his skin, clinging to him as though he’s the only thing holding you together.

The way his body stiffens beneath you is unmistakable, his muscles rigid and tense, as though your touch burns. His arms hang awkwardly at his sides, frozen, like he’s never held someone like this before—or never wanted to.

But you don’t care.

Your world is too fragile, too broken, for that to matter now. You’re too overwhelmed by the fact that he came, that he’s here, standing in your wrecked apartment, blood on his hands and violence in his wake, because of you.

Despite the tension that always seemed to push you further apart. Despite the fights, the sharp words you’ve thrown at each other like knives. Despite the threats and the violence that define him, the very things that have always made you hate him.

He came.

When you thought no one else would.

You’d told yourself you could survive on your own, that you didn’t need anyone. You’d convinced yourself that being alone was easier, that it hurt less. But the truth is, the loneliness had been unbearable, suffocating. You’d felt like you were drowning in it, your chest caving in under the weight of your isolation.

And now, his presence makes it easier to breathe. The sting of everything—of the fear, the heartbreak, the loss—eases, just slightly. Just enough for you to feel something other than despair.

Sanzu doesn’t hug you back, doesn’t move to comfort you in any way. He doesn’t need to.

Because for the first time in what feels like forever, you feel comforted. Safe.

And for now, that alone is enough.

Haruchiyo Sanzu had promised you those men were still alive.

But as you replay the scene in your mind—their broken bodies crumpled on the floor after they dared to put up a fight with him—you can’t help but question how true that promise really was. The way they had groaned, barely conscious, with limbs bent at unnatural angles… it seemed more like Sanzu had spared them out of boredom rather than mercy.

“Those punks are from a rival gang, always stirring shit with Bonten,” Sanzu had said, his voice tinged with indifference, as if this was nothing more than routine. “They’re probably after you ‘cause of your history with Mikey.”

The words still sting, cutting deeper than you’d care to admit. Your connection to Mikey has always been both shield and curse, dragging you into a world you never wanted to belong to. But Sanzu didn’t dwell on it.

You’d braced yourself for the mockery, the sharp smirk, the inevitable I told you so. He’d always taken a perverse pleasure in throwing your choices back in your face, a constant reminder of your naivety.

But this time, the mockery never came.

Instead, he brought you here—to his condominium. No biting remarks, no sneering comments, just quiet efficiency as he led you through the sleek, sterile space with its minimalist decor and faint scent of antiseptic, like he’d tried to scrub something clean but couldn’t quite erase the stains of who he was.

Now, lying on his impossibly soft bed, you stare up at the ceiling. The faint sound of the shower hums in the background, steady and soothing, a sharp contrast to the chaos you’ve just escaped.

You shouldn’t feel safe here. You know this, deep down. Sanzu is the embodiment of destruction—chaos wrapped in sharp lines and sharper smiles. He’s everything you’ve spent years trying to avoid, a warning etched into flesh and bone. But here you are, wrapped in the cocoon of his world, and for once, you aren’t afraid.

You’ve been here before.

The memory sneaks up on you, vivid and intrusive. The night you came here to treat his wounds flashes through your mind. Mikey had been furious with Sanzu for hurting you while he was high, and the fallout had been brutal. You’d bandaged him, your hands trembling with a mix of sadness and pity as he winced under your touch. That same night, you’d drifted into a haze of his pills, craving escape, and woke up tangled in these sheets.

Back then, you hadn’t noticed the subtle scent that clung to the fabric, hadn’t let yourself linger on the details of him.

But now, as you curl into the comforter, pulling it closer to your face, it’s unmistakable. It’s a scent you’ve grown used to over the years—on his clothes, lingering in the air whenever he was near. You’ve never stopped to think about it before, but now, it feels oddly significant.

You bury your face in the soft material, inhaling deeply as a strange feeling stirs in you. You don’t know when it started, this unusual awareness of Sanzu, or why it feels so heavy now.

You squeeze your eyes shut, frustrated with yourself. Why are you even thinking about this? About him?

But no matter how hard you try to push it down, you can’t ignore the quiet realization blooming inside you: Haruchiyo Sanzu is starting to feel… different.

Your gaze wanders aimlessly around the room, searching for a distraction. It lands on a bottle of white pills sitting on the nightstand. They’re different from the ones you’ve seen him take before, or the ones he’d offered you.

You wonder what they’re for. Did he take one recently? Are they for sleeping? For calming his mind? Or are they something darker, something that’s keeping him tethered to the edge he so often seems to teeter on?

The curiosity gnaws at you until you can’t resist. You reach out, your fingers hovering just above the bottle—

“Don’t go poking around in other people’s stuff.”

His sudden voice startles you, and you insctinctively pull your hand away from the bottle. Your head snaps around, and there he is, standing in the doorway of the bathroom.

Steam billows faintly behind him, curling around his silhouette like a ghostly aura. He’s clad in a loosely tied bathrobe, the fabric hanging open enough to reveal his pale chest and the faint scars that mar the otherwise smooth skin. His damp pink hair clings to his forehead, water droplets trailing down his temple, tracing the sharp line of his jaw before disappearing into the hollow of his collarbone.

The sight of him, raw and unguarded like this, hits you harder than it should. He looks so effortlessly attractive, his usual sharp-edged chaos softened by the intimacy of the moment. You feel the heat rushing to your face, your stomach twisting in a way that has nothing to do with fear.

You force yourself to look away, to focus on anything else—the steam in the air, the quiet hum of the ceiling fan. But it’s no use. His presence fills the room, leaving no space for anything else.

“What’re they for?” you ask, your voice quieter than you’d intended.

Sanzu’s lips quirk up into a knowing smirk. “You really wanna know?”

The way he says it, low and teasing, sends a shiver up your spine. He strides toward you, his steps slow, calculated, like a predator closing in on its prey. Your instincts scream at you to run, to flee, but you remain frozen, your breath caught somewhere between anticipation and dread.

You nod, your throat dry, unable to look away as he closes the distance between you. You watch as he reaches for the bottle on the nightstand, his long fingers curl around it with practiced ease. He shakes it lightly, the sound of pills rattling against plastic breaking the tense silence.

Sanzu slides one pill into his palm, holding it delicately between his fingers. His gaze then flickers to yours, and there’s a challenge, a dare, a twisted sense of amusement in his eyes.

“Why not try it for yourself?” he says as the smirk on his lips widens, daring you to take the bait.

Your gaze fixes on the pill, a small and harmless-looking thing, yet charged with so much temptation.

You don’t stop to think.

As if in a daze, your hand reaches out toward it.

You’re not entirely sure why you’re doing this. Maybe it’s the strange comfort you’ve started to feel in Sanzu’s presence, the way he makes you forget how to think rationally. Or maybe it’s the recklessness he brings out in you, the way he makes you want to let go of the rigid control you’ve always tried to hold onto.

But just as your fingers are about to touch the pill, Sanzu pulls his hand back, holding it out of reach.

“Look at you, so eager,” he drawls. “Someone offers you a little something, and you're all over it.”

You glance up at him, startled by his words.

“Can't resist a little escape, can you?” he continues, his teal eyes gleaming with malicious glee. “Want to float away, forget about all your problems. But when shit goes down, you'll be the first to blame me, won’t you?”

The accusation hangs in the air like smoke, thick and suffocating.

His tone, laced with scorn, dredges up memories you’ve tried to bury—of the riverbank, when you snapped at him, accusing him of ruining you. You’d been furious at him then, seething at the way he had introduced you to the blissful oblivion of drugs, at the way he seemed to revel in watching you fall apart.

But now, that same temptation claws at you, an unbearable ache. The pill in his fingers feels like a lifeline, a reprieve from the pain and fear that have consumed you for weeks. You want it. You hate that you want it.

And Sanzu knows.

When you don’t answer, he steps closer. His hand rises, his fingers cool and deliberate as they tilt your chin upward, forcing your eyes to meet his.

“Say that you want it."

His eyes bore into yours, a teasing light dancing in their depths as though he’s savoring every second of your internal struggle. “Admit it. I won’t even blame you—after all, I’m the one who showed you how good it feels, aren’t I?”

The words are a taunt, a challenge, and yet there’s a flicker of something else beneath his teasing tone. An edge of bitterness? Of longing?

You can’t tell, and it only makes the weight of his gaze all the more unbearable.

After weeks of living like a hollow shell, aimless and haunted, the thought of surrendering to the haze again feels like relief. Sweet, blissful relief. And the man standing before you—dangerous, unpredictable, impossible Sanzu—is the only one offering it to you.

He saved you.

You can’t shake that truth. The same hand that gripped a gun mere hours ago, ensuring your safety with a ferocity that left no room for doubt, is the same hand holding your chin now. The same man who once inflicted pain is offering you solace, even if it’s in his own twisted, chaotic way.

Your mind screams that this is wrong, that Sanzu is wrong, but your body betrays you. You don’t want to fight anymore. You’re so tired of fighting.

The thought of letting go, of releasing the crushing weight you’ve been carrying, feels like salvation.

“Sanzu,” you whisper finally, his name tumbling from your lips in a voice that’s barely audible, deliberately weak.

The sound of it pulls a reaction from him—a flicker in his expression. His smirk falters, if only for a fraction of a second. It’s fleeting, almost imperceptible, but you catch it.

“I want it. Please.”

His smirk sharpens at your admission. Slowly, Sanzu raises the pill, holding it between his fingers like an offering—but instead of giving it to you, his teal eyes glint with a wicked promise that this moment won’t be as simple as you think. Without breaking eye contact, he raises the pill to his lips, sliding it between them in one fluid motion.

Your breath catches.

The small, simple gesture feels electrifying, almost obscene. You can’t look away—not from the pill nestled between his lips, not from the curve of his mouth as it closes around it. His lips, soft and pink against his otherwise sharp, dangerous edges, hold your gaze captive.

Before you know what you’re doing, you lean forward, closing the small distance between you until your lips meet his.

Sanzu stiffens, his body going rigid as your lips brush his.

Your tongue grazes his lips, catching the pill and pulling it away. It should end there. That’s all you meant to do. But your lips linger, longer than they should.

His lips are soft, impossibly soft, a jarring contrast to everything else about him—the sharp edges of his jaw, the cold steel in his eyes, the danger that clings to him like a second skin.

A part of you doesn’t want to pull away. That part wants to stay here, to push further, to find out if there’s anything else about him that could be soft, gentle, human.

But the logical part of your mind, faint as it is, reminds you of who this is. It reminds you to move, to inch back.

Or at least, you try to.

Before you can move far, Sanzu’s hands shoot up, gripping your shoulders with a force that borders on bruising. His touch isn’t gentle—it’s desperate, as though he’s clinging to you as much as he’s holding you in place.

Your eyes widen, surprise flashing through you. You open your mouth to speak, to ask him what he’s doing, but the words die in your throat when his lips crash into yours.

The kiss isn’t soft. His lips move against yours with a hunger that leaves you frozen for a moment, caught off guard by the sheer intensity of it. His hand slides to your jaw, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, leaving no room for hesitation.

The pill lies forgotten on your tongue, its bitterness seeping into your mouth. The taste should ruin the moment, but it doesn’t.

Instead, it sharpens everything.

His lips, his touch, the way his tongue slips into your mouth, claiming every inch of you—it’s overwhelming in the best possible way.

You remember feeling his lips on yours before, when he forced the first pill down your throat. Back then, the kiss had meant nothing to you, just another cruel moment in a long string of chaos that defined your relationship with him.

But now?

Now it feels different.

Your hands, hesitant at first, clutch at the fabric of his bathrobe, shyly curling around it as his hands move through your hair. His fingers rake gently against your scalp, sending shivers down your spine.

How can someone like Sanzu, so violent and chaotic, feel this soft, this gentle?

And the kiss—it doesn’t just feel good.

It feels perfect. He feels perfect.

His hand slides to your back, firm and insistent, pulling your body closer until there’s no space left between you. You’re flush against him now, every inch of you pressed to his, but it still doesn’t seem to be enough for him.

He keeps pulling you closer, as though he needs more—as though he needs all of you, to consume you completely, to make you a part of him.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, you feel held.

Until suddenly, he pulls away.

The cold rushes in, sharp and unforgiving, knocking the breath from your lungs. You feel the loss acutely, the absence of his lips on yours, his warmth, his touch. It leaves you empty, aching, a hollow space where he’d just been.

Then you notice it—the pill is gone from your tongue.

Confusion flickers across your face as you look up at him, and your gaze catches on the pill now nestled between his teeth. Before you can process what’s happening, he tilts his head and spits the pill out. It hits the floor with a faint tap, rolling once before disappearing under the edge of the bed.

You blink, stunned, your thoughts scrambling to make sense of what you’ve just seen. Did he really just do that? Did he really just spit out the drug—his drug?

Sanzu’s drugs have always been his obsession, his crutch. You know how much they mean to him, how possessive he’s always been about them. And yet here he is, spitting it out like it’s nothing, like it doesn’t matter at all.

“What—” you start, your voice faltering as you struggle to piece together your thoughts. “Why did you—”

Your words are cut off as he suddenly shoves you backward. You lose your balance, falling unceremoniously onto the mattress. The world shifts around you, and when you blink, he’s already straddling your hips.

Your breath hitches as his weight presses you into the bed. The dim light plays tricks on his face, casting shadows that make him look darker, more menacing, and yet impossibly alluring. His teal eyes pierce through the gloom, burning with an intensity that sends your pulse racing, and you’re certain he can hear the way your heart pounds against your chest.

“Why’d you do that?” you demand despite the tremor in your voice. “I said I want it.”

Sanzu’s eyes sweep over you, slow and deliberate, as if he’s taking in the rise and fall of your chest, the way your body fits beneath his.

“We’ll do that later,” he murmurs. “All the drugs you want. But not now… I need you sober now.”

The rasp in his voice, the quiet command behind his words, leaves you momentarily speechless.

You blink up at him, confusion creasing your brow. Sober? Now? From the man who thrives on chaos and indulgence, the demand feels out of place. But before the words to question him can form, he’s on you again, his lips crashing into yours with a force that makes your thoughts scatter.

His tongue sweeps into your mouth, claiming you with the same hunger that leaves you trembling all over again.

This time, your hands move instinctively, wrapping around his neck and pulling him closer. Your lips grow swollen under the intensity of the kiss, but the need between you only builds.

His hands roam down your sides, exploring every curve of your body. When they finally brush against the bare skin of your stomach, a shiver runs through you. The warmth of his touch is stark against the cool air, making your body arch involuntarily.

You know what he’s doing.

He’s testing you. Teasing you. Giving you every chance to stop this, to pull away, to say no. But you don’t.

You can’t.

Instead, your back arches further into his touch, your body betraying you, seeking him out. His smirk curves against your lips, and you can feel the triumph in it, the silent acknowledgment that you’ve given him exactly what he wanted.

And then, like a blade cutting through the haze, the realization strikes.

This is why he wants you sober.

He wants you to feel everything—to be aware of every touch, every sensation. If you were high, you’d miss it—you’d drift into oblivion, the sensations dulled, the memory blurred. But not like this.

Sanzu wants you here. Present.

This isn’t just about him taking from you; it’s about you choosing to give.

The realization swells in your chest, unexpected and overwhelming.

Your fingers tighten around him instinctively, pulling him closer, as though the connection between you isn’t close enough. Your hands slide up into his damp hair, threading through the soft pink strands. The texture surprises you—softer than you expected, almost delicate against your fingertips.

His breath catches in his throat at the contact, and you feel it. The subtle tremor in his body, the slight hitch in his movements.

It sends a jolt of heat rushing through you.

You push further, emboldened by his reaction. Your other hand slips beneath the loose folds of his robe, brushing against the heated skin of his back. His muscles tense under your touch, but he doesn’t pull away.

Instead, he groans softly, the sound low and rough, vibrating against your lips.

It’s intoxicating.

The sound he makes, the way his breath stutters under your touch—it sends a sharp spike of desire straight through you, pooling low in your belly.

He likes it.

And God help you, it’s turning you on.

You feel the haze of desire wrapping around you, thick and heavy, pulling you deeper into him. Every touch, every kiss, every sound between you feels amplified, like the rest of the world has melted away, leaving just the two of you.

You want more.

Your hand trails lower along his back, exploring the warmth of his skin, the tension in his body, the way he seems to hold himself back just slightly, like he’s afraid to lose control.

But then, a sharp, piercing sound cuts through the moment. The shrill ring of a phone.

Reality crashes back into you like a tidal wave.

You freeze, your lips still against his, your hands still tangled in his hair and pressed against his back. For a moment, neither of you move, caught in the lingering heat of the kiss, as though the sound doesn’t belong to this moment, to this room.

You pull back just slightly, gasping for air, your chest heaving as your eyes meet his. The sight of him leaves you momentarily speechless. His teal eyes are dark, heavy-lidded, his pupils blown wide with desire. His cheeks are flushed, his lips red and swollen, glistening from your kiss.

He looks… undone.

You wonder in that instant if you’ve ever seen him like this before—if anyone has ever seen him like this before.

You bite your lip, hesitating, your heart hammering in your chest as a question rises to the surface of your mind. You don't know why you need to ask. Maybe it's the intensity of the moment, the vulnerability you see in his eyes. Or maybe it's your own vulnerability, the way you're letting yourself fall deeper into him than you ever thought you could.

"Sanzu," you whisper. "Do you have feelings for me?"

The question hangs in the air, fragile and trembling, threatening to break under the weight of what it means.

But Sanzu doesn’t move.

He doesn’t even flinch.

“Feelings, huh…” he murmurs at last, his voice quiet, as though he’s tasting the word for the first time.

His gaze dips lower, lingering on your lips. You watch as his tongue darts out, wetting his own lips, the movement slow, calculated, and maddeningly hypnotic.

“Even if I tell you my answer, would it change anything?”

Your eyes widen in confusion, your mind scrambling to make sense of what he means. You part your lips to respond, to ask, to demand clarity—but before the words can leave you, the sharp trill of the phone cuts through the air again.

The sound is jarring, slicing clean through the tension between you, leaving it to collapse into nothing.

Sanzu’s expression hardens, the vulnerability you thought you saw fading in an instant. He pulls away from you with a harsh sigh, his body shifting as if to distance himself. The absence of his warmth hits you immediately, a sharp ache settling in your chest. The space between you grows colder, as though he’s taken all the heat with him, leaving you with nothing.

Without meeting your gaze, he reaches for the phone on the nightstand, his fingers brushing against it almost angrily. You watch him, eyes scanning his face, desperate for any sign—anything—that might explain the shift, the sudden barrier now standing between you.

When his gaze flickers to the screen, you catch it—the briefest reaction. His eyes widen, just for a fraction of a second, but it’s enough.

Whatever he sees there, it rattles him.

He clears his throat, his voice sharper now as he answers the call.

"Yes?" His tone is clipped, professional, a far cry from the low, intimate murmur he'd just been using.

You sit up slowly, watching him closely.

The shift in his demeanor is jarring. Whatever softness you’d glimpsed in him just moments ago—the tenderness in his touch, the vulnerability in his kiss—vanishes as if it had never been there. In its place is the Sanzu you’re more familiar with, the one who wears his toughness like armor, his emotions locked tightly behind a smirk or a sharp edge.

Your mind drifts back to his words. Would it change anything?

What had he meant by that?

It was a simple question, wasn’t it? One he could have answered easily, yes or no. But the weight of his response—or lack thereof—lingers heavily in the air, making you doubt its simplicity.

Unless…

Unless it’s not as simple as you want it to be.

Sanzu’s teal eyes snap to yours suddenly, cutting through your spiraling thoughts, and you jump, startled by the intensity of them. Without a word, he holds the phone out to you, his movements deliberate, his expression unreadable.

“It’s Mikey. He wants a word with you.”

Your heart sinks.

Of course.

How could you forget who Sanzu is in your life?

He’s not just Sanzu, the man who saved you, the man whose touch made your heart race. He’s Haruchiyo Sanzu—Mikey’s loyal second-in-command, his soldier, his shadow.

And you?

You’re the ex-girlfriend, the woman who once held Mikey’s heart but shattered her own in the process.

You reach for the phone hesitantly, your movements slow and cautious, as if taking it will solidify something you don’t want to confront. Your fingers brush against Sanzu's as you grasp it—a fleeting touch that feels like an entire conversation.

For a moment, neither of you moves. You can feel the heat of his skin against yours, a whisper of the intimacy you just shared. But when you meet his gaze again, it’s like looking into a storm that’s already moved on, leaving only destruction in its wake.

You press the phone to your ear, swallowing the lump rising in your throat.

“…Hello?” you manage, your voice barely more than a whisper.

Your name comes through the line in that voice you once knew so well, and the sound of it knocks the air from your lungs.

Mikey.

It’s been so long since you last heard him say your name, and yet it feels like no time has passed at all. The sound of it sends a shiver down your spine, a reminder of all the things you’ve tried—and failed—to bury.

You don’t answer him right away. Your eyes remain locked on Sanzu as he climbs out of the bed.

His movements are slow, unhurried, but there’s tension in every step he takes. The way his shoulders set, the subtle clench of his jaw—it’s as if he’s forcing himself to move, to leave.

You feel the loss of his presence like a wound reopening. The further away he gets, the tighter your chest feels, until it’s almost unbearable.

You want to call out to him.

To tell him to stop. To stay.

But how can you?

Mikey’s voice is still in your ear, grounding you to a past you thought you’d left behind, pulling you back into a world that no longer feels like yours.

Sanzu reaches the door, his hand hovering over the handle for a fraction of a second. It’s subtle, almost imperceptible, but you see it—a hesitation. For the briefest second, you think he might turn around.

He doesn’t.

The door clicks softly as it closes behind him, and the sound feels deafening in the silence that follows.

You’re alone now.

Alone with Mikey on the other end of the line, his voice saying your name again, softer this time, as though coaxing you back into a conversation you’re not ready to have.

And yet, your heart continues to ache—not for the man on the phone, but for the one who just left.

< part three ends >

author's notes. heyy lovely sanzu kinnies <3 hope you're all doing well! first off, i want to apologize if this part feels a little rushed. i really wanted to get something out before my break ends, but i might end up rewriting the whole thing later lol :> thank you guys so so much for sticking around and showing love to BNT <3 ur support means the world to me!!! as always, i'd love to hear your thoughts, so please feel free to leave a comment or note! thanks again for reading, and stay awesome (〃´▽`〃) !!

p/s: what do you guys think is gonna happen next with sanzu and y/n? 👀

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