A Home (part 33)
Part 1 Part 32
Chishiya x reader x Niragi
Some stains don’t come out.
You don’t remember how long you walked. Time didn’t make much sense anymore. It stopped meaning anything when Niragi shot you.
Your hand trembled when it reached for the doorknob. Not from emotion—hell no—but from blood loss. Probably. The door creaked open. It still smelled like them. And you hated that you noticed. Hated that it felt safe, even now. Everything was just… like you left it.
You limped in, each step sticky with half-dried blood. Your knees were raw, dirt and ash embedded deep like the memory of them. Your feet? Might as well have walked through broken glass the whole way. You probably did. Who even knows anymore?
You shut the door behind you.
Liars. Manipulators. Lovers.
If they were dead, then good. If they were alive? Even better. Let them live with it.
You dragged your feet to the bedroom, ignoring the trails of blood and guilt you left behind. The bed was still made. Neat, too big for just one person. But you didn’t care.
You should’ve cleaned your shoulder. You didn’t.
You should’ve wrapped your knees. You didn’t.
You collapsed into the bed, half-dead, barely clothed, bleeding into the mattress.
You’d be over it.
Right?
But then, the tv turned on.
~
Niragi had sprawled out on the cold tile, cheek pressed to the floor, blood sticking to the ground, and waited for something. Anything.
But not this.
The little TV in the corner sputtered to life. He flinched like a kicked dog, half expecting gunfire, half hoping for it.
Instead, Mira. She went on about some next level.
What the fuck was there to win anymore? Everyone was dead or dying. Arisu? Probably crawling through corpses. Chishiya? If that bastard was still alive, Niragi would kill him just to finish what the Beach didn’t.
And you? Gone. You didn’t even die, for fuck’s sake. You just left. That stung more than the fuckmyass-degree burns blistering his back. More than the smoke in his lungs or the blood in his throat.
And maybe you were right.
He shot you. And even now, lying in a pool of his own regret and rot, he didn’t know why. Rage? Fear? Because he loved you too much and it made him sick?
That last one felt too real.
He didn’t know if he wanted to survive.
Not without you.
But he would.
Because survival meant something different now. It wasn’t about games or cards or crowns.
It was about getting to you.
Not to beg.
Not to apologize.
Because he still loved you.
And maybe, just maybe, he thought you still loved him too.
Even if it hurt like hell.
He forced himself to sit up. It hurt. He gritted his teeth and let it. Pain was good. Pain meant he was still alive. And if he was still alive, then he still had time. Time to do something awful. Something that only made sense in a brain like his—rotten, feral, and so fucking in love.
He was going to find you.
He didn’t care what it took. Who he had to kill. Who he had to burn down. He’d turn the whole damn city against him if that’s what it cost. He’d be the villain in everyone’s story just to be the ending in yours.
He’d make the whole fucking world hate him.
Everyone.
Just to reach you.
You were the only one who ever saw him. Really saw him. The part that wanted to be wanted. The part that touched your hair when you fell asleep on his chest.
So that was his answer.
He was going to earn it. Not redemption. Not forgiveness. Fuck that. He didn’t want to be forgiven—he wanted to be yours again.
He’d paint the games red. Make the face cards look like amateurs. Stack corpses like building blocks if that’s what it took to reach you. And when he did?
He’d make you look him in the eye.
Make you see him.
Burnt. Bruised. Still yours.
Still fucking in love.
And if you wanted to kill him then? Fine. But you’d do it knowing he crawled through hell just to see your face one more time.
Because Niragi never knew how to love right.
But he sure as hell knew how to fight.
~
Chishiya stayed low, back against the rusted side of a car, the metal cold even through his hoodie.
He didn’t see you.
When the first shots rang out, when the first player dropped like a puppet with the strings cut, he scanned the crowd like a reflex. Looking for you.
He told himself it was strategic.
That was a lie.
He never chased after you. Not like Niragi. Chishiya didn’t run after people.
Not even you.
But he was always selfish.
Always playing ten steps ahead. Always weighing people. Always keeping the board clean and everyone at arm’s length. And then you showed up. Loud. Messy. Real.
He should’ve left you alone.
He should’ve let Niragi have you on his own, but no. He had to see what would happen. He had to taste the danger. And in the end, he fucked it all up anyway. He knew it would hurt you. The lies. The manipulation.
And when he started to want you—really want you, in a way he wasn’t built for—he realized he couldn’t have you.
So he let you go when the chance came. Let you hate him. And yeah, that shot from Niragi didn’t help. Chishiya told himself he would’ve stopped it if he’d been down there, but would he have? Really?
No.
Because some part of him knew it had to end that way. It was always going to.
He drew in a slow breath, tuning back into the world. The smell of gunpowder. The crunch of broken glass. The faint echo of Mira’s new nightmare echoing through the Borderlands.
The others were gone. Left him. Fine. Good.
Not like he needed anyone.
Not like he needed you.
…
That’s what he told himself.
But now, huddled behind a fucking car, watching the sky above him and realizing he hadn’t looked for a way out in days, just signs of you—your hair, your laugh, your blood—he finally let himself accept it.
Maybe you were better off. Maybe you were out there, healing, surviving, forgetting.
Maybe that was the right ending.
But Chishiya couldn’t find it in himself to want that.
Because even if he didn’t want to find you…
He wanted you to find him.
And maybe that was the most selfish part of him yet.
~
Everything hurt.
Your shoulder was stiff, the bullet wound unbearable. Your knees? Shredded. Your feet? Raw, throbbing. You barely remembered making it to the bed. You definitely didn’t remember falling asleep.
But what woke you up was unmistakable.
Gunshots.
Far off, not close enough—but close enough to twitch your body awake. You flinched, half-rolling over, shoulder lighting up in white-hot agony. A grunt tore out of you before you could swallow it back down.
Fucking hell.
Dragging yourself up felt like dragging someone else’s corpse. You swung your legs over the side of the bed, blinked hard against the dizzy haze creeping into your skull. Your body was fucked up. Covered in dirt, sweat, old blood, and just enough dried tears.
Your shoulder stuck to your side like glue. The fabric had fused with the wound.
You limped over to the window, dragging your half-dead body across your room floor.
What the fuck was that thing in the sky.
You didn’t need Mira’s smug little monologue to tell you what that meant. But you’d gotten it anyway. Hours ago, just before you passed out, your cute little tv lit up. You didn’t listen too closely. You were bleeding out and exhausted and pissed off at everything, especially yourself.
But now it clicked.
This was it. The next level.
And you looked like absolute shit.
You dragged yourself to the bathroom. Looked in the mirror. You were pale. Sunken-eyed. Your mouth was cracked. Blood lined your collarbone, dried into rust-colored streaks. Your shoulder, purple, black, oozing around the edges.
“Well. This is sexy.” you muttered, voice like gravel.
You grabbed what little you had—some disinfectant, a rag, a bandage that looked older than this whole thing—and started cleaning yourself up. Gritted your teeth when the alcohol hit the wound. Screamed a little. Didn’t stop. You tied the last strip of gauze around your shoulder with a hiss. Not good as new—fuck, not even close—but enough. Enough to move. Enough to breathe. Enough to pretend that the raw meat beneath your skin wasn’t screaming with every twitch.
Why did you love them, came the question.
Not do you—did. Past tense. Because you were trying to let that part of yourself rot like everything else in this fucking place.
You were trying.
But that question wouldn’t die.
Why?
Why them?
You weren’t stupid. You weren’t naive. You saw them clearly from the beginning. You weren’t some moth to their flame, fluttering helplessly into their chaos. No, you walked into it. You knew Niragi was horrible. You knew Chishiya was even worse.
You were kind. That was the thing. You were soft. Sweet. Someone people tried to protect because they saw you as good. Even in this world, even in this nightmare, you were the kind of person who gave strangers water and held broken hands and didn’t laugh when someone cried.
You loved everyone who wasn’t bad.
So why did you love them?
You didn’t have one answer. You had a fucking galaxy of them. Maybe it was because Niragi, for all his fire and violence and madness, looked at you like you were unreal. Like you were the one thing he couldn’t fuck up, even though he did, over and over, because he didn’t know how not to destroy the things he wanted to keep. And maybe it was because Chishiya, beneath all that silence, chose you in his own fucked up way. You were the only one he let see behind the curtain. He didn’t hand you a heart. He handed you a scalpel and said “Cut. See for yourself.” And you did. And you stayed.
You stayed.
Through the lies. Through the blood. Through the manipulation and the guilt and the fucking murder. You stayed. Because you believed they were more than the monsters they’d become. You believed they were broken boys playing gods in a broken world.
Maybe you were arrogant. Maybe you were delusional.
Maybe you just didn’t want to lose something real in a place where everything was fake.
They were real.
Their damage was real. Their fear. Their hunger. The way Niragi held you too tight when he did. The way Chishiya actually touched.
You didn’t love them in spite of the awful parts.
You loved them because of it.
But that doesn’t mean they deserved you.
They didn’t deserve your laugh, your touch, your loyalty. They didn’t deserve the way you held their secrets, the way you never ran even when you should’ve.
They took from you. They made you kill. They made you bleed. They made you question yourself in ways you still haven’t recovered from.
And you still loved them.
But never again.
…
Maybe you meant that.
Maybe.
~
The street was dead.
Smoke in the distance. Bodies, some still warm, some missing pieces. Blood painted the cracked pavement in artless shapes.
Niragi walked right through it. Or dragged, really. His shoes scraped more than they stepped. His legs ached like hell, and his shirt was more off his body than on. The burns on his face itched, pulled, stung.
Nobody was around. Not right now.
Good.
Fuck them.
There was this funny little thing happening in the back of his throat—this weight, like words trying to claw out. He hadn’t talked in days. But now? Now, walking alone down a ruined street with shit hanging in the sky and the feeling of your touch still under his skin?
Now, he was thinking.
He was thinking about how no one—no one—had ever loved him like you did.
And he knew love. Sort of. But you? You fucking loved him.
Loved him.
Even when he got mean. Even when he pushed too far. Even after he killed men after men just because of you.
He liked who he was with you. Not the killer. Not the psycho. Just… Niragi. Loud, annoying. A brat. But yours.
And god, he was actually sorry.
For once in his piece-of-shit life, he felt sorry.
Not the kind of sorry you spit out because you got caught. Not the manipulative, fake kind. The real kind. The kind that sat in his chest. The kind that looked around this empty street and realized there was nothing left of him.
He was sorry for any motherfucker out there with a girlfriend who wasn’t you.
And he was sorrier for himself.
Because he had you. Had.
And he still raised the gun and pulled the trigger.
He stopped in the middle of the street. Looked up. That… thing was still floating above the city. Whatever next level Mira and her fucked up little cult dreamed up, it was already unfolding. The game was starting again.
But this time, Niragi didn’t care about the cards. Didn’t care about winning.
He had one goal.
You.
He was going to find you, even if you spat in his face. Even if you looked at him like a monster again. Even if you put a bullet right between his eyes. You who loved him like he was more than this. (He really wasn’t.) More than the violence. More than the body count.
No one had ever fucking done that. Not once. Not in his entire, fucked-up life.
They liked his power.
His chaos.
His bite.
But love?
That was new.
And it changed him.
Not into something soft, but it did. Though you took him as-is. Snarling. Laughing too loud when things exploded. And somehow, it worked. Because beneath all of that was a boy who had never been seen. Never been chosen. Until you. And he respected that. More than he respected anyone. More than he respected the games or the hierarchy or those pathetic bastards Mira and the rest of the face card freakshow. He didn’t care about strategy or survival or winning.
Dignity?
Ethics?
Morals?
He didn’t give a fuck about those. Never had. Never pretended to.
But for the first time in his life, he cared about something other than himself—and it wasn’t abstract. It wasn’t “love for humanity” or any of that bullshit. It was you. His girl. His angel.
He didn’t need to be good.
He just needed to be good to you.
And he’d failed.
He saw it now, in slow motion. The desperation. The panic that crept in when he realized he couldn’t control the way you saw him, couldn’t glue the cracks back together with threats and blood.
It was the first time in his life he believed that love wasn’t just some made-up word people used to control each other. It was real. And he fucked it up.
But it was real.
And if there was any chance to be near you again—see you, hear your voice—he’d take it. Even if you never looked at him the same way again.
Because he would never find anyone like you again.
~
Chishiya walked with his hands in his pockets. Quiet footsteps echoing off broken concrete and steel.
He could do a game.
Could pass the time.
Maybe he’d die.
He wouldn’t mind.
Really. He just didn’t see the point anymore. Never did. The logic was gone. The rhythm. The order.
Sunshine. That’s what you were. An entire sunbeam packed into a person, too bright, too real, too much.
And he liked it.
You used to tell him he was okay even when he proved you wrong ten times a day. He was nowhere okay as a person. Now you were gone. Out of his reach. Out of his life. Because he hadn’t told you he loved you when he had the chance. And yeah, he did. It was inconvenient. Messy. As if someone had pulled the floor out from under him and said “figure it out.” And he didn’t. He didn’t figure it out in time. He let you go.
He paused at a shattered bus stop. Slid onto the bench and stared at nothing.
There were multiple flying fucks on the sky. He could go. He could play. He could win. Or die. Whatever. Maybe he’d see you there. Or maybe not.
But why?
What the fuck for?
His life was fucking bad. Worse than bad. Horrible. He could admit it now, alone in this hollow place where the only thing that kept him company was the memory of you. Because that’s what it all came down to, didn’t it? You weren’t here. You weren’t beside him, filling the silence with warmth, with noise, with life. And without you, all the cleverness in the world meant shit. All the games he’d won, all the people he’d outsmarted, all the narrow escapes—they didn’t matter. They never really had.
You’d been the first thing that mattered. The only thing.
Now it was all just empty. No more apartment filled with your laughter. No more mugs shoved into his hand with that stubborn look on your face. No more gentle fingers brushing his hoodie. No more sweet voice at his ear.
He’d give anything to hear you scold him lightly again. To see you roll your eyes at anything, really. To feel your hand catch his sleeve.
But he’d traded all that, hadn’t he? For what? For pride? For control? For the fucking illusion?
He was an idiot. A coward. And now he was a lonely coward, sitting on a broken bench.
And it wasn’t just lonely.
It was desolate.
That was the word.
He hated this.
He hated this need.
Because that’s what it was. That sick, heavy thing in his chest that kept pulling his thoughts back to you.
He needed you.
He’d lost you.
And with you went everything.
The next game was calling. Maybe he’d go. Maybe he’d find you there. Maybe he wouldn’t. Either way, this was hell. This was the hell of knowing you’d touched heaven for a second, and then pushed it away.
Chishiya stood.
Fine.
~
Niragi’s shoes crunched over something soft. A hand. A face. He didn’t check. The bodies didn’t mean shit anymore. He was swaying a little now. Legs unsteady. Head light. His stomach felt like it was trying to eat itself. Hunger clawed at him, dull and constant, dragging his brain down into the mud. His body was fucked—burned, bleeding somewhere probably, sore like hell—but it was the hunger that was killing him.
Couldn’t think straight. Couldn’t focus.
Couldn’t even fantasize properly without his gut cramping and his mouth going dry.
But he tried.
He tried.
Tried to see your face again in his mind, that look you used to give him. That exasperated, “what the fuck am I gonna do with you” look. The way your fingers curled into his shirt when you hugged him.
God, he missed you.
He missed your voice. Your laugh. Your warmth.
And fuck, he’d had it. He’d had you.
And he blew it.
But his ego—oh, his ego was still alive and well. That arrogant little demon in his head that wouldn’t shut up. That kept whispering that he can get you back. He can fix this. He can be good. For you. He can make it right. You loved him once, you’ll love him again.
Yeah.
Yeah, he could do it.
Could clean himself up, could stop being such a freak, could be what you deserved. Be your boyfriend. He could kiss you again. Hold your face in his hands and not have blood on them this time. Could finally take you to bed like he’d dreamed about too many nights to count, could finally dick you down like he’d been planning for a while, could finally finally finally make this a thing.
His lips split in a grin that didn’t match the wild look in his eyes.
Yeah. He’d make it right.
But first, he needed food.
Because right now, all those sweet daydreams were getting swallowed by the gnawing in his belly. His legs were heavy. His vision kept swimming. His head felt like it was full of static.
Food.
Just something. Anything.
He glanced at the bodies sprawled on the sidewalk. His stomach twisted in revulsion, but the idea flashed through his head anyway—how far gone was he? How much longer before he started to really consider it?
Fuck.
No. Not yet. He wasn’t that far gone. He’d find something. A store. A vending machine. A rat. Anything.
And after? After he filled this hollow pit in his stomach, he’d fill the one in his chest.
He’d find you.
You always fed him.
Always.
Didn’t matter if you were pissed at him, didn’t matter if he fucked up, didn’t matter if he came home with blood on his hands—you still fed him.
God, the things he took for granted.
The way you always had something for him, no matter how empty your own pockets were. The way your hands worked fast, pushing food at him like saving him was more important than saving yourself.
Now his stomach clenched so tight he thought he might puke up nothing. Now his head spun so bad he stumbled, caught himself on the wall of some crumbling building, left a bloody smear where his hand slid down.
He closed his eyes.
And there you were again.
In his head, you were perfect. Glowing. Your hair messy from sleep, your mouth soft and kind even when you were mad. The way your eyes looked when you stared at him too long.
In his head, you were feeding him with your fingers, sliding bits of fruit between his lips, laughing when he licked the juice off your thumb.
In his head, you were crawling into his lap, holding his face between your hands, kissing him slow and deep and sweet.
And he wanted you here.
More than food.
More than air.
More than anything.
His ego screamed at him that he can still have it. He can have you. Fix himself. Get food. Clean up. Find you. Make it right. Be yours. But his body betrayed him—weak, staggering, burned raw. His skin felt too tight. His throat dry. His head a fog of hunger and heat and longing.
He imagined you pressing water to his lips.
Imagined you cradling his head in your lap, stroking his hair, whispering that it was okay. That he was safe. That you’d take care of him like you always did. He imagined your hands pulling at his clothes—not to hurt him, not to fight—but to touch. To feel. To remind him he was still human. Still wanted.
God, he’d give anything. Anything at all. His pride. His power. His fucking soul. Just to kiss you again. Just to feel your mouth on his. Just to hear you say his name.
All he wanted—all he wanted—was to be where you were.
To eat the food you’d hand him without thinking twice. To curl up against you, greedy for your warmth, your softness, your care. To press his face into your neck and breathe you in.
The hunger blurred into something else—something worse. A hunger of the soul, a starving for you so deep it made the empty in his stomach feel like nothing.
Niragi dragged himself up, swaying, vision tunneling.
Food first. He needed food. His body wouldn’t make it to you otherwise.
But his mind? His heart? His everything?
It was already with you.
~
The apartment was silent, except for the hum of the fridge that somehow hadn’t died yet. The same hum it always made, back when things weren’t so fucked. Back when you’d walk in and kick off your pretty shoes, back to the boys.
Now?
Just you.
And the hum.
You sat at the table. A can of god-knows-what empty in front of you. Didn’t even taste it. Just shoveled it down, desperate, shaking, your body screaming for anything, everything, more. It helped. A little. The world wasn’t spinning so hard anymore.
Your shoulder, though—christ. You peeled the bandage back earlier and had to look away. The skin was a mess. Torn, bruised, burned at the edges where Niragi’s bullet had kissed too close. Yes, the bullet wasn’t in you. Well, it was, but it left for sure. You cleaned it the best you could. Poured water over it until your knees nearly buckled from the sting. Wrapped it tight with strips from one of Niragi’s old shirts that still smelled like him even after all this time.
You hated that. Hated that his scent made your chest ache.
The bathroom mirror showed you a stranger tonight. Clean, yeah. Finally clean.
You limped back to the table, sank down again. Every breath hurt. Every movement sent a flare of pain through your shoulder. Your feet ached. Your knees were raw, scraped from when you fell after Niragi shot you.
You thought about going to bed. But what was the point? The apartment felt too big now. Too quiet.
Clean.
Fed.
Alone.
That’s what you were.
You still missed them. Even after everything. The lies. The manipulation. The blood on your hands, on theirs. The games they played with your head, with your heart.
You missed them like an addict.
You should’ve hated them. You told yourself you did. That you were done. That you left them to burn with the Beach, let their sins consume them.
But hate’s easy.
You weren’t built for easy.
You’d loved them.
Now there was nothing left. Just the silence, and this gaping hole inside where your boys used to be.
You pushed up from the table, body heavy, everything screaming at you to rest. But you didn’t go to bed. Not yet. You crossed to the window, pulled the curtain back, and stared out at the city. The thing in the sky loomed.
You could clean.
Yeah. Okay. Cleaning.
You shuffled to the closet where you kept your stuff—miracle of miracles, it was still there. The good cleaning products. The kind that actually worked. You pulled out the bucket, the sprays, the rags. Your hands knew what to do, muscle memory kicking in as if you hadn’t been gone so long, as if you weren’t a different person now.
The first swipe of a rag over the counter felt… peaceful. Like maybe if you wiped hard enough, you could erase what had happened here. Like maybe if you made the place shine again, you could convince yourself the past was just a bad dream.
The smell of bleach filled the air, sharp and clean, biting at your nose. It stung your eyes a little. You didn’t care. You worked methodically. Countertops. Tables. You scrubbed until your arms burned, until your shoulder protested so hard you had to pause, lean against the sink, breathe through the pain.
But the ache felt good.
Because out there, people were dying. Fighting. Running. Bleeding.
And here you were. Lost in your own little world of soap and bleach and rags.
It was fine.
It was alright.
You found yourself humming under your breath—a tune you didn’t even recognize, just something to fill the silence. And in between scrubbing, wiping, rinsing, you noticed how nice this apartment really was. How the light hit the floor just right when the blinds weren’t crooked. How the walls maybe didn’t need that pink. It was pretty like this too.
You’d forgotten how much love you’d put into this place.
But some stains didn’t come out.
You scrubbed at the spot by the couch where the blood had soaked in once—maybe Niragi’s, back when Chishiya shot him. It didn’t matter. The rag came away red-brown, but the stain stayed.
It wasn’t about the stain.
It never was.
There were things that no amount of bleach could fix. No amount of scrubbing could undo.
You kept going anyway. You wiped down the windowsills, dusted the shelves. You found a cup left where Chishiya had set it down once, still faintly marked with his fingerprints. You cleaned it carefully.
Your body trembled now, exhaustion catching up. The hunger had dulled to a low hum after the food you managed to force down, but your shoulder screamed every time you moved.
Still, you kept going.
Because this was yours.
The apartment.
The memories.
The floor shone where you mopped. The counters sparkled. The air smelled sharp and sterile, and the city felt farther away.
You wiped your hands on your shorts, looked around, and for a second—just a second—you felt like you could breathe.
But the quiet settled again.
Heavy.
Lonely.
You stood in the middle of it all, clean on the outside, and you realized:
Some stains don’t come out.
Some scars don’t fade.
And no matter how much you scrub, you can’t bleach out the love you had for them.
Or the hate.
Or the grief.
Your knees gave out and you sank to the floor, back against the couch. The clean couch. The useless, empty couch. You tipped your head back, closed your eyes, and listened to the silence.
It wasn’t peaceful anymore.
It was just quiet.
And you were still alone.
You sat there on the floor a long time, back pressed to the couch, just… breathing. If you could call it that. More like existing. In and out, shallow and uneven.
Sleep.
God, you needed it.
Not just that shallow dozing you’d done before, curled up like a wounded animal, one eye half-open for the next gunshot. No. You needed real sleep. Deep. Heavy. The kind where maybe—just maybe—your body could stitch itself together again, cell by cell.
Your shoulder throbbed in a dull, pulsing rhythm. Your knees burned. Your feet ached. Your head felt like it was filled with sand. You were empty. Spent. Hollowed out. And what else could you do now? You looked around at the apartment—the clean counters, the wiped-down walls, the floors that shone under the dim light.
This is all you have now.
Time.
An empty apartment.
No games to play right this second. No lies. No boys.
Just you.
And the silence.
So you dragged yourself up onto the couch. Your body protested the whole way—muscles tight, joints screaming, shoulder a sharp reminder of the bullet that had kissed you. You gritted your teeth, settled into the cushions that felt too soft, too familiar. You stretched out, slow and careful, until you were lying flat. The ceiling stared down at you, and you stared right back.
How long will you sleep?
You didn’t know.
Didn’t care.
You had all the time in the world now.
You let your eyes slip closed.
The truth of it all was surreal. The fact that you were here, in this apartment, clean and fed and breathing, while outside you had no idea what could be happening.
You thought about Niragi. You thought about Chishiya. And you thought about yourself. About how fucking stupid it was, loving them. About how right it felt anyway.
You turned onto your side, arm tucked under your head, the bandaged shoulder carefully on the side what wasn’t touching anything. The fabric smelled like them. You tried not to think about it. You tried to focus on the weight of your own body sinking into the couch. The slow, steady rhythm of your breathing.
In. Out. In. Out.
It was surreal, yeah. All of it.
The quiet.
The empty apartment.
The clean floors.
The fact that you were still alive.
You wondered if they were.
You wondered if either of them missed you.
You wondered if you’d ever see them again.
But mostly? You just wanted to sleep. Your body needed it. Your mind needed it. You needed to shut down, switch off, stop thinking, stop feeling for just a little while.
So you let yourself go.
You didn’t know how long you’d sleep.
Didn’t care.
You had all the time in the world right now.
And you were so, so tired.
~
Niragi found a store. Some little corner place that’d been gutted by the first wave of panic, shelves stripped bare—but he was Niragi, wasn’t he? He knew how to scavenge, how to take. Dug through the wreckage, found a stash some poor bastard hid and never made it back for.
No, he didn’t have to eat anyone today.
Not yet.
But god—god, if it was you in front of him, soft and sweet and perfect—he’d devour you. He’d always wanted to. Every inch. Every sound you made. Every look you gave him that said I see you, and I love you anyway. He'd eat you up if he could. Every piece of you. Sweetheart, angel, perfect thing. God, he'd tear you apart if you let him. And you would let him, wouldn't you?
You always gave him what he wanted.
Food. Shelter. Warmth.
Your lips. Your skin.
The thought made his head swim.
He leaned against the side of a building, panting, stomach full now but mind spinning, heart thrashing like a caged animal. His skin itched where the burns pulled tight. His clothes were shredded, bloodstained, hanging off him like rags.
He was a mess.
A fucking disaster.
He’d never been a good man. Never even tried. That was the truth. Anyone who thought otherwise was a fucking idiot. He liked hurting. He liked power. He liked watching people break and knowing he was the reason.
But with you? With you, maybe he could’ve been something else.
A good boyfriend.
A real one.
Yeah, sure. That’s rich.
But the fantasy wouldn’t leave him alone.
You cooking for him in that stupid little kitchen of yours, humming some song he didn’t know. You handing him a plate like it was nothing, like he deserved it. You letting him kiss you, slow and messy, after. Letting him show you that he could be good for you. That you made him better. That he didn’t want to burn the world down if it meant losing you again.
Yeah, right.
He limped down the street, past the wreckage, past the reminders of all the ways he’d fucked up.
He wasn’t a good man. Never would be.
But maybe, just maybe—he could be a good boyfriend.
For you.
If he could find you.
And god help anyone who tried to get between him and that chance.
Because Niragi was hungry. Starving. Not just for food. For you. For that feeling you gave him, like maybe he wasn’t worthless after all. Like maybe he could be more than a gun and a tongue and a grave waiting to happen.
His burns ached. His stomach churned. His head felt like it was splitting open.
But his heart? That traitorous fucking thing kept beating out your name.
And he’d follow it.
Wherever it took him.
So he kept walking. Or limping. Or dragging his sorry ass through all of this. His shoes left bloody smears on the cracked pavement, his burns pulled tight like the skin wanted to rip open and spill him out onto the ground, but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t.
He had to find you.
Not for any noble reason—nah, he wasn’t gonna lie to himself like that. He wasn’t the type to suddenly sprout a halo and start giving a shit about humanity. Fuck humanity. Let it rot. Let it choke on its own filth.
But you.
Were you okay?
Were you breathing?
Were you out there somewhere, scared and hurting, with no one to feed you, no one to hold you, no one to kill for you?
The thought made his chest tight.
He hadn’t worried this much since high school. And fuck, that was saying something. Back then it was different. The kind of worry that kept him awake all night, teeth clenched, fists balled up under his pillow, wondering if tomorrow would be the day someone finally kicked him hard enough to stop his heart. If tomorrow would be the day he got stomped so bad he wouldn’t get up again.
That sick dread, that knot of fear in his gut.
This was the same.
Same fucking feeling. Same suffocating, choking panic.
Only this time it wasn’t for him.
It was for you.
That was the difference.
He accepted it, though. He wasn’t gonna be a coward about it. He cared about you. Yeah. He did.
It was a good feeling.
Weird. But good.
When it wasn’t making him feel like his chest was caving in, anyway. When it wasn’t turning his brain into a box of fucked-up images. He imagined finding you, hurt, broken, and someone else had touched you. Tried to help you, maybe. Or maybe tried to take you from him. Maybe someone had seen what he saw in you—all that softness, all that sweetness—and decided they wanted a piece. Everyone did. Everyone loved you. They were better than him anyway, why wouldn’t you choose someone new, better over him?
The thought made him see red.
He’d kill anyone who tried.
And not quick, either. Slow. Messy. Pull an Akira on them. And if you cried, he’d hold you. If you screamed, he’d hush you. If you ran, he’d chase you.
He knew he was horrible. He’d always been horrible. That wasn’t news. That wasn’t something he was looking to change.
But he could be horrible for you.
Horrible in the way that meant you didn’t have to lift a finger. He’d do the dirty work. He’d burn down the world, if it meant you got to sleep safe.
He imagined your face. The way you looked at him when you thought he wasn’t paying attention. That look.
God, he could’ve kissed you forever for that.
His pace quickened, even though his body screamed at him to stop. He wasn’t gonna stop. Couldn’t.
What if you were gone? What if he was too late? What if someone else found you first? Someone who didn’t deserve you, who wouldn’t know how to touch you, who wouldn’t know how to look at you like you were the only thing worth a fuck in this world?
His stomach twisted. His burns throbbed. His head felt like it was splitting open.
But the feeling in his chest?
That stayed warm.
Because caring about you—really caring—it wasn’t all bad. Even when it hurt, it felt… right. Like he finally had a reason to keep dragging his body through this nightmare.
So yeah. His thoughts were rotten. His heart was rotten.
But it was yours.
Every sick, twisted, fucked-up part of him. Yours.
And when he found you?
He was gonna show you just how much that meant.
He tilted his head back, gaze dragging up to that thing in the sky. That flying fuck. A face card hanging from it.
Well. He could play.
But first—first his mind went right back to you. Like it always did. Your apartment. The only place in this whole city that felt real to him. That felt like something that might matter. The place where you probably curled up small right now, maybe trying to patch yourself up, maybe trying to sleep, maybe thinking about him (god, he hoped you were thinking about him).
That was his destination. His goal.
But it was across the city.
And yeah, the smart move would be to go straight there. No stops. No distractions.
He rolled his neck, felt the bones crack. His burns ached. His legs felt like lead. But he was in the mood to play.
Why shouldn’t he join a game?
What was the rush?
Your place wasn’t going anywhere.
You weren’t going anywhere.
You were his.
His girl. His reason. His everything.
And the truth of it was—he didn’t want to come crawling to your door like some dog. Didn’t want to show up half-dead and gasping for scraps of comfort. No. He wanted to come to you alive. Sharp. Dangerous. Hungry—but for the right reasons.
And maybe he wanted to feel that rush first.
That high that came with the game—the blood, the heat, the fight. The reminder that he was still here, still standing, still capable of tearing the world apart if it meant getting to you.
He loved that rush. Always had.
But this time? This time it came with something sweeter. Because the thought of you—the memory of you, the promise of you—was fire in his veins. Knowing he’d never leave you alone again, never let you out of his sight, never let the world so much as look at you wrong—that made his blood sing.
That made him feel invincible.
So yeah. A game. Why the fuck not?
Let them throw their worst at him. He’d play. He’d win. And every second would be a step closer to you. Every heartbeat in the game would be for you. Every kill, every grin, every bullet fired—all for you.
He felt that adrenaline start to hum in his veins. He didn’t even care what kind of game it was. Didn’t fucking matter. They could all try. They could all fall.
Because when it was over?
He’d still be standing.
And he’d be coming for you.
Never gonna leave you alone again.
That was the promise.
That was the rush.
He was fucking gone for you.
Hopeless.
Pathetic.
And he didn’t care.
Because at the end of it?
When it was all over?
You’d still be there.
And he’d still be there.
And you’d never be alone again.
Not if he had to kill for it.
Not if he had to crawl through fire for it.
Not if he had to rip his own fucking skin off for it.
He’d be at your side.
Always.
Because what kind of sick world lets him taste what it’s like to be loved—really loved—and then tries to rip it away?
No. Fuck that.
You weren’t getting away from him.
Not now.
Not ever.
You were his. His girl. His only. His reason. His heart, if he even had one left worth mentioning. And the idea of you out there somewhere, breathing without him beside you, living without him watching over you, maybe smiling at someone else—god. He’d kill over it. He’d kill over the idea of it.
And no, he wasn’t gonna be noble about it.
He wasn’t gonna set you free. Wasn’t gonna be the hero who said She deserves better and walked off into the smoke.
Fuck that.
You were his.
You loved him once.
And he’d make sure you never stopped.
Not because he was good. Not because he could change.
But because that’s what he wanted.
And Niragi always, always took what he wanted.
He’d play the game, sure.
Why not?
But every opponent he took down? That was practice. That was rehearsal for what he’d do to anyone who tried to stand between him and you.
You wouldn’t even get the chance to be alone again.
He’d be your shadow, your breath, your goddamn heartbeat. You wouldn’t take a step without him right there. Not out of kindness. Not out of duty.
Because he needed you.
The same way a starving man needs food. The same way the fire needs air.
When it was done? He’d be at your door. And this time, he wouldn’t let you shut it on him.
(AN: I’m actually embarrassed by the amount of wait I put y’all through, idk if y’all still like me lmao sorry)
❤︎︎ @lizntstoptalking @cherryheairt @fiction-fantasy-folks @monkey4lifer @psychicyouthfox @so-dramatic1 @mypsychoticlove @unhinged-sorcerer @rattymess @mocchii-writes @adanfore @scarlet703 @fluentgoddess @maxinehufflepuffprincess @onyxmango @bluerthanvelvet444 @risingofjupiter @enhasrii @potato-vagina @cherryyserenade @l5byrinth @soaplickerrr @sillyenemyarcade @miellette @sk1ndx0 @stopcallingmeimovedon @4ngeltrumpettt
