Cupid

Mdni . Writer. 18+ requests only . 21

[cup1drul3z]

MEET THE AUTHOR

Cupid- 20

THE FOLLOW PAGE CONTAINS; CNC, AGE GAPS, DEAD DOVE, DOOMED YURI

REQUESTS ARE: OPEN

jayce x reader , sevika x reader , violet x reader , greyson x reader , ambessa x reader

MASTERLIST

MEN + MINORS + AGELESS BLOGS DNI!

[cup1drul3z]

Rewatching stranger things means mixing it with arcane and seeing all the characters as ST characters, for example JIM HOPPER IS VANDER REINCARNATED

[cup1drul3z]

Hehehehe foreshadowing :)

Arcane Yellowjackets AU

[cup1drul3z]

★ — Ill survive, i always do

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴏɴᴇ : ᴡᴇʟᴄᴏᴍᴇ ʙᴀᴄᴋ

ᴀʀᴄᴀɴᴇ ʏᴇʟʟᴏᴡᴊᴀᴄᴋᴇᴛꜱ ᴀᴜ | 10.8ᴋ ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ

TAGS : Guns mentioned, Cannibalism, Major charater death, CULT SHIT, blood mentioned, underage drinking mentioned, smut, gut renching angst, frightening and intense scenes, gore, profanity

A/N : i know it seems like there are plot holes but trust me everything is intentional and the storylines will conclude as the fic goes on

Summary : The anniversary stirs up old memories as Jinx drowns out a true-crime podcast and Sevika shuts down a reporter asking questions about the crash. Flashbacks show the night before the trip, the tense plane ride, and the chaos after the crash as the group scrambles to survive. Tensions flare, loyalties are tested, and the survivors are forced into brutal choices that still haunt them years later.

YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED

The voice drifted from the living room speaker, smooth and unbothered, like it wasn’t talking about a tragedy that ruined lives.

“Fifteen years ago today, Flight 516 vanished over the Rocky Mountains. The charter plane was carrying 12 students and 2 teachers from Stillwater High’s French class when it lost contact mid-flight. For nineteen months, the world watched. And waited.”

A pause. Then a different voice, a little more performative, like they were savoring the drama.

“When nine survivors finally emerged from the forest—starved, bruised, and covered in blood—it should’ve been the end of the nightmare. But really, it was just the beginning.”

Jinx rolled her eyes. She didn’t bother getting up—just reached for the remote, thumbed the volume down until the hosts were just another background hum behind the clink of glass.

She sat on the floor in front of her couch, legs folded under her, wine bottle between her knees like it might offer something real. The podcast droned on.

“What happened in those woods has never been fully explained. Now, fifteen years later, we’re taking a deeper look. In our limited series The Wild Nine, we’ll explore the crash, the secrets, and the scars that never quite healed…”

Jinx clicked it off.

Silence settled, heavy and waiting. She stared at nothing.

Then tipped her head back and chugged the last of the wine straight from the bottle, not even wincing at the bitter dregs.

The glass clattered against the hardwood as she set it down too hard. Her hand scrubbed over her face, smearing old eyeliner and leaving a black streak across her cheek.

“Fucking vultures,” she muttered to no one. “Still picking at the bones.”

Fifteen years later, and the world still didn’t have a clue.

Good.

Let them rot in curiosity. They didn’t deserve the truth.

2006 Stillwater, Oregon The night before the crash

The music pulsed through the floorboards of the lakeside cabin, some overplayed 2000s pop remix distorted through borrowed speakers and cheap subwoofers. The air was thick with cigarette smoke, lake mist, and the kind of anxious, sticky excitement only teenagers on the cusp of something big could conjure.

Tomorrow, they’d be flying to Montreal for the French exchange program—two weeks of croissants, dorms, and hopefully not too much homework. But tonight? Tonight was freedom.

Someone had dragged the living room furniture out onto the lawn. Christmas lights were strung sloppily between trees, sagging in the middle. There was a bonfire crackling down by the dock, and someone had definitely snuck in tequila despite every parent’s strict “no alcohol” policy. The grownups were long gone anyway. It was just them now. Fifteen kids, one night, and the feeling that nothing could touch them.

You stood in the kitchen, red solo cup in hand, trying to decide if the drink someone made you tasted more like battery acid or cough syrup. It wasn’t good. But you drank it anyway.

Behind you, someone bumped into the fridge with a loud clang.

“Watch it,” you muttered, turning—

—and immediately regretted it.

Sevika was leaning against the counter, watching you with that lazy, smug smirk she always wore like armor. One hand in her hoodie pocket, the other holding a bottle of beer she definitely wasn’t old enough to have bought. Her hair was darker back then, messily buzzed on one side, dyed purple and black on the other like she was trying way too hard to look unbothered.

She raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t know princesses partied.”

You rolled your eyes, already done. “Didn’t know roaches drank beer.”

“Ouch.” She took a long pull and didn’t break eye contact. “Still mad I smoked you in debate finals?”

“You didn’t smoke me. You just talk louder.”

“You cried.”

“I had allergies.”

Her grin widened. “Sure.”

You were already turning to leave when she caught your wrist—not hard, just enough to make you stop.

“You scared?” she asked, voice low. “About the plane tomorrow?”

You blinked. That wasn’t what you’d expected.

“No,” you lied.

She looked at you for a beat too long, like she could see right through it. Then she let go.

“Didn’t think so,” she said, backing off, but there was something quieter beneath her tone. “Would’ve made fun of you if you said yes.”

You watched her walk off, slipping back through the party like she hadn’t just cracked something open between you.

Outside, Jinx was dancing on the picnic table again, arms raised, a glowstick necklace bouncing against her collarbones. She screamed something unintelligible into the night and everyone cheered. Powdered donut sugar smeared the front of her hoodie. Next to her, Vi was trying to steady the speaker with one hand while yelling at someone to stop pushing.

Caitlyn sat by the fire with a book in her lap she hadn’t turned a page of in at least an hour. Her cheeks were pink from the heat, or maybe from something else. Ekko leaned against a log, carving something into the wood with a pocket knife. Viktor and Jayce were arguing nearby over the proper conjugation of a verb no one cared about.

There was shouting from the dock—someone had jumped in fully clothed. You thought it might’ve been Gert, judging by the scream.

And in the middle of it all, you stood frozen in the kitchen doorway, still feeling the ghost of Sevika’s hand on your wrist.

It was stupid. She was stupid. And if she sat near you on that plane, you were going to switch seats.

You told yourself that again as you took another sip of the shitty drink. You told yourself that as the night stretched on and people started pairing off, sneaking upstairs, or collapsing on couches. 

The mattress springs creaked beneath you, muffled by a half-hearted blanket someone had tossed over them earlier in the night. Upstairs in the loft, the lights were out, but the sounds from downstairs still drifted up—laughter, footsteps, doors opening and slamming shut, muffled music fighting through cheap walls.

Henry was already tugging at your jeans, impatient and clumsy in the dark. His breath smelled like cheap vodka and orange soda, and his hands were everywhere. Eager. Familiar.

You let him.

Because he was your boyfriend. Because that’s what you were supposed to do, wasn’t it? Last night before the trip. Some dramatic teenage send-off. A way to forget the heat still prickling in your chest from earlier—because Sevika had looked at you like she knew something. Like she’d taken some part of you without asking.

You kissed Henry harder than usual. Meaner. Teeth dragging his bottom lip. He didn’t question it.

Clothes hit the floor. He mumbled something about how hot you looked. How he was going to miss you. You barely heard it.

You turned your face away when he kissed your neck. Shut your eyes.

His hips rocked against you, too fast, too shallow, but you didn’t stop him. You stared up at the wooden beams above, mouth open, breath catching in little gasps that weren’t quite real.

You tried to keep your thoughts on Henry—on the feel of his hands, the weight of his body, the way he moaned when you scratched your nails down his back.

But your mind slipped. It always did when it was dark like this.

And suddenly you were thinking about her again.

Not the real Sevika—the loud, smug one who teased you every time she passed you in the hallway. No, this was something else. Something imagined. Fantasized. She was pressing you down, rougher than Henry, hotter, bigger. Her thigh between yours. Her mouth at your throat. That voice of hers low and teasing, all breath and smoke, whispering filth like it belonged there.

You squeezed your eyes shut.

No. No, that wasn’t real. That wasn’t you.

Henry groaned above you, close now, gripping your hips like he thought this was something special. Like he thought you were really here with him. His forehead rested against yours, and in a breathless whisper, he said it:

“I love you.”

You blinked.

The words hit like a slap—not because they were new, but because you didn’t feel a damn thing.

You didn’t say it back.

You just stared at him, sweat-slicked and smiling, eyes closed in that stupid post-orgasm glow.

And all you could think about was how empty your chest felt.

How quiet it was inside you. Except for that one word still echoing under your ribs like it was clawing to be heard:

Sevika.

 2021 Stillwater, Oregon

The keys hit the counter with a dull clatter, followed by the thunk of steel-toe boots toeing off onto the mat by the door. Sevika let out a long, frayed sigh, dragging a calloused hand through her hair as she slumped onto the couch without even taking her jacket off.

It was always like this now. Long hours at the engineering firm. Blueprints. Measurements. Welding burns across her arms no one asked about and she never explained. She liked the work. Needed it. Because it kept her hands busy. Her mind dull.

But then she came home.

And every time she closed her eyes—

There you were.

In the lake again. Laughing with someone who wasn’t her. That little smirk when you got the last word. The fire in your eyes when you hated her. The softness in your mouth the one time—just once—she thought maybe you didn’t.

She groaned, scrubbing both hands down her face. This was stupid. Fifteen fucking years. She’d built a whole life since then. A quiet, empty life, maybe—but a life.

A knock broke the silence.

Three sharp raps against the door.

She didn’t move at first. Just sat there, tense, eyes on the door like maybe it would go away.

Then it came again.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Sevika hauled herself up with a grunt and crossed the room. She didn’t bother looking through the peephole. She cracked the door open just enough to speak, still backlit by the apartment’s yellow kitchen light.

The woman standing on the porch had a messenger bag slung over one shoulder, a press badge clipped to the lapel of her coat, and a notebook already in hand. She looked tired, but determined.

“Ms. Sevika?” she asked. “My name’s Alina Reddick, with the Stillwater Chronicle. I was hoping you had a moment to talk about Flight 516.”

Sevika didn’t even answer. Just started to close the door.

“Wait—please,” Alina said quickly, stepping forward just enough to keep the door from fully shutting. “It’s the fifteenth anniversary. We’re doing a longform feature—human interest, mostly. We’ve already spoken to Vi Warwick, Jayce Talis, Mel Medardra—”

“Good for them,” Sevika muttered, trying again to close it.

Alina kept talking.

“We’re focusing on the aftermath. Not the crash. Not the woods. Just… what came after. What it means to survive something like that and still try to live a normal life.”

Sevika hesitated.

Alina caught it. Pressed on, gentler now. “We’re not here to twist anything. I swear. I just want to understand. You’ve never given a statement. No interviews. People still wonder—”

“I don’t give a fuck what people wonder,” Sevika snapped, too tired to pretend.

The reporter didn’t flinch. She pulled a page from her notebook and handed it through the cracked door. “Here’s my info. I won’t bother you again if you say no. I just… I wanted to ask you one thing.”

Sevika didn’t take the paper. But she didn’t close the door either.

Alina swallowed. “Did you grow close to anyone you wouldn’t have talked to before the crash? Someone… unexpected?”

The words didn’t land like a question. More like a knife.

Sevika’s jaw locked. Her eyes, dark and rimmed with exhaustion, went cold.

She didn’t yell. Didn’t curse or throw anything.

She just reached out, took the slip of paper, and crumpled it in her fist.

Then, quietly:

“Get the fuck off my porch.”

The door clicked shut a second later.

And Alina, wise enough to know she’d struck a nerve, didn’t knock again.

2006 Stillwater, Oregon

"Where’s my meds?"

Jinx’s voice was hoarse from the night before, her hair a tangled pastel mess, rainbow beads from yesterday’s braids still stuck in the sheets. She kicked a pile of laundry off the bed, eyes wide and frantic.

Vi was already dressed—black tank top, hoodie halfway zipped, backpack slung over one shoulder. She leaned in the doorway with a look halfway between exhaustion and guilt.

“You put ‘em in your shoe. Again.”

“Oh. Right.” Jinx dug through a scuffed-up Converse, popped a pill from the foil, and dry-swallowed it with a swig of orange Gatorade. She didn’t speak after. Just sat there with her legs pulled to her chest, fingers tapping out some invisible beat against her knee.

Vi watched her. Quiet. Protective. Scared in ways she’d never say out loud.

“You sure you wanna go?” she asked.

Jinx gave a lopsided smile. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

“You’re not listening to me,” Ekko snapped, slamming the car door behind him.

His mother stood on the porch, arms crossed tight, jaw set. “Because you’re not saying anything worth hearing, Ajani. Running off to France won’t fix your attitude.”

“I’m not running,” he shot back. “It’s a school trip. Not rehab.”

He didn’t wait for her to respond. He just adjusted the strap on his duffle bag and turned away, breath fogging in the cold morning air.

Behind him, she didn’t yell. But she didn’t go inside, either.

She just stood there.

Watching.

The table could have seated ten. Only one chair was filled.

Caitlyn cut into a slice of dry toast with surgical precision, the silverware barely making a sound against the china. A lone glass of grapefruit juice sat untouched beside her. The breakfast staff was already gone.

She looked over the schedule again. Airport pickup. Group check-in. Assigned buddy: Y/N L/N Of course. 

She chewed slowly, then stood. Straightened her pressed uniform skirt, folded the linen napkin, and tucked the itinerary into her leather travel folder.

Her parents were out of town.

Again.

She sat on the hood of her aunt’s rusted-out sedan, blunt between her lips, hoodie pulled over her head. Her duffle was already in the back seat, and she could hear her aunt yelling from inside the house about how “this trip better not be some damn excuse to get high across the border.”

Sevika ignored her.

She took another hit, exhaled slow, and watched the smoke curl up into the overcast sky. Her buzz wasn’t strong enough. It never was anymore.

From her pocket, she pulled out her plane ticket. Folded. Unfolded. Folded again.

She didn’t know why she was going. She just knew she had to get the hell out of Stillwater for a while.

Pink. Everything was pink. The walls. The bedding. The glittery suitcase that was already half-zipped and bulging with outfits you didn’t even like but packed because they made you look put-together.

You zipped up a little lip gloss, added it to your clear plastic bag of toiletries, then sat down on the edge of your vanity stool.

You stared at yourself.

Your hair was perfect. Your makeup was better than usual. You looked like the girl everyone said you were.

So why did you feel like screaming?

Your phone buzzed—Henry. “Pick you up in 10.”

The motel room smelled like smoke and cheap soap.

Jayce stood at the mirror, fixing his collar with shaking hands. Behind him, Viktor lit a cigarette in bed, the sheets bunched around his waist, his shirt still open.

“This is the last time,” Jayce said quietly.

Viktor blew out smoke, not looking at him. “You’ve said that before.”

Jayce turned. “We’re both teachers, Viktor. If anyone finds out—”

“They won’t.”

Silence stretched. Heavy. Familiar.

Jayce looked at him for a long moment. Then grabbed his bag and left without another word.

Viktor watched the door long after it closed.

You stared at the screen for a beat too long. Then grabbed your carry-on and made your way downstairs.

Maddie Harper had lost her boarding pass and was sobbing in the hallway while her dad calmly printed another one, pretending not to be annoyed.

Gert Lewis was taking a pregnancy test in the gas station bathroom before the drive to the airport. She wouldn’t check the result until later.

Lest Morales was sitting at her vanity, fixing her hair as her parents argued downstairs

Ran was half-asleep in the back of a pickup truck, headphones in, sketchbook open on her lap. She didn’t look up when her brother dropped her at the curb.

Elora sat on her rooftop with a tarot deck laid out in a messy half-circle, the final card flipped: The Tower. She smiled. “Yeah,” she whispered. “That tracks.”

The airport buzzed with early-morning chaos—rolling suitcases, overhead announcements, the smell of burnt coffee and floor polish clinging to the air. But over by Gate C12, tucked into a patchwork cluster of chairs, backpacks, and snacks, the students of Stillwater High had carved out their own little universe. Loud. Messy. Alive.

You were the center of it. As always.

Perched cross-legged on your pink carry-on, glossy lips pursed in a fake pout, you were in the middle of a dramatic retelling of how your suitcase “literally attacked” you on the escalator. Maddie and Elora were doubled over laughing. Gert was trying to film it on her Motorola Razr without snorting.

“And then,” you gasped between giggles, “I’m like halfway upside down and some business man—like full-on Wall Street—asks if I need help, and I’m just hanging there like: ‘Do I look like I need help, sir?’”

Jinx clapped, popping a Skittle into her mouth. “Honestly iconic.”

Vi, sitting behind her with her feet propped on her duffel, smirked and nudged Caitlyn. “You still sure you can handle being paired with her?”

Caitlyn didn’t look up from her travel folder. “I’m not sure I can handle any of you.”

You gave her a wink and blew her a kiss. Caitlyn pretended not to notice, but her ears turned pink.

Jayce and Viktor stood off to the side, half-watching the group while pretending to go over the itinerary on Viktor’s clipboard. Jayce looked sleep-deprived. Viktor looked unreadable. Neither of them were doing a good job of hiding the tension between them.

Ekko walked back from the convenience kiosk holding a Coke and a pack of gum, arguing loudly into his flip phone.

“No, Ma, I told you, I have my passport! Jesus, can you just—no, I’ll call you when I land.”

He caught your eye as he passed and gave you a tired grin. You returned it easily.

You knew how to float between people. How to fit the mood, slide into conversations like sunlight through cracks. You’d helped Ran tape up the strap on her sketchbook just fifteen minutes ago. You’d shared your body spray with Elora and given Gert one of your backup hair clips. You and Maddie had already made a shared photo album plan for the trip.

Everyone loved you.

Everyone except—

Sevika sat alone.

Leaning against the far wall, hoodie pulled up, earphones in. Not talking. Not looking. Just chewing gum with a permanent scowl like the very existence of other people pissed her off.

You refused to look at her. You hadn’t spoken a word to her since the party. Not after what she said. Not after the way she looked at you. Not after the sick, twisted way her face had crawled into your head last night when you were naked, vulnerable, with your boyfriend.

The thought made your skin prickle.

You hated her. You really hated her.

And if she so much as tried to talk to you, you were going to claw her eyes out.

“Your bag is vibrating,” Caitlyn said gently.

You blinked. Snapped out of it. “Oh. My—yeah.”

You pulled your pink flip phone from your purse and read the screen.

HENRY: miss you already 🥺💙

You stared at it for a moment. Typed back something flirty. Something empty.

Then tossed the phone back into your bag without sending it.

Across the gate, Sevika glanced up just long enough to meet your gaze.

You looked away first. But not fast enough to miss the smirk on her face.

The seats were buttery leather, soft and oversized—too nice for a bunch of sixteen-year-olds. The private jet smelled like citrus-scented cleaner and new carpet. Everything gleamed: brass fixtures, mahogany trim, polished windows. Rich kid perks, courtesy of Caitlyn’s parents.

Most of the students were buzzing with excitement, snapping pictures, yelling over each other, already unpacking snacks and swapping seat assignments. Jinx was cartwheeling down the aisle, Vi chasing after her, shouting something about breaking a rib before they even got to customs. Maddie and Elora were giggling over magazines. Jayce and Viktor were already up front near the crew, pretending not to watch the chaos unfold.

You were not buzzing with excitement.

You stood in the aisle, staring at your seat assignment.

16B.

16A was already taken.

Sevika had one leg up, foot planted on the edge of her seat like she owned the whole damn plane. She had her hood down, finally, thick hair tied back, her sleeves rolled up over one elbow. She looked half-asleep, earbuds in, gum popping between her teeth.

Her eyes flicked over to you the second you hesitated.

“Aw,” she said, voice dripping with fake sympathy. “Didn’t realize they were assigning seats by emotional damage.”

You didn’t answer. Just stepped past her and dropped into your seat, a little harder than necessary.

She shifted just enough to give you room, her knee brushing yours for a second too long.

You shoved your hand into your bag, pulled out your pink Walkman, and clicked the headphones on with a little more force than needed.

You weren’t in the mood. Not for her. Not for her smirk. Not for her voice that still echoed somewhere in your chest, way too close to where it shouldn’t be.

You hit play.

Avril Lavigne’s voice spilled into your ears. Familiar. Comforting. Loud enough to drown out Sevika’s smug breathing.

But the hum of the engines sent a jolt through your spine.

You didn’t like planes.

You never had.

The way they rattled on takeoff. The way the windows stayed too bright. The sound of air pressure shifting. You pressed your lips together, stomach flipping as the pilot’s voice crackled through the speakers.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re cleared for departure—should be a smooth flight all the way into Montreal. Please stay seated with your seatbelts fastened until we reach cruising altitude.”

You swallowed hard. Wrapped your arms tighter around yourself.

Sevika pulled one earbud out lazily. “You good?”

You ignored her.

“Look like you’re about to throw up.”

You kept your eyes on the seat in front of you. Breathed in through your nose. Out through your mouth. You hated that she could see it—that she was right.

The plane jerked forward as the engines roared.

You clenched the armrest with both hands.

“You want me to hold your hand or something?” Sevika teased.

You glared at her. “Shut up.”

She grinned.

But when the wheels left the ground and your whole body tensed like it might shatter from the inside, she didn’t say anything else.

Just leaned back, arms crossed.

And maybe—maybe—you imagined it, but her knee stayed lightly pressed against yours the whole time.

You didn’t pull away. You were too scared to move. Too stubborn to ask for anything else.

And Sevika… she didn’t smirk again. Not this time.

Not when you were shaking.

Not when your lips parted in a silent prayer you hadn’t spoken in years.

Not even when the first bump of turbulence hit—and your hand accidentally grabbed the edge of her jacket.

She didn’t laugh.

She just let it happen.

Like maybe, for once, she got it.

The flight smoothed out after a while.

You’d never admit it, but having someone next to you—even her—made it a little easier to breathe. You kept your headphones on, your eyes closed, and tried to pretend you were somewhere else. Somewhere still. Somewhere that didn’t hum and shake under your bones.

Sevika didn’t bother you again. No more snide remarks. No more teasing. Just silence, and her thigh warm against yours when you stopped pulling away.

Eventually, you pulled your knees up into the seat, tucked your arms around them, and rested your head against the window. Cold glass. Soft music. A headache blooming behind your eyes.

You drifted in and out.

At some point, someone threw a pretzel at Jinx. Ekko got scolded for blasting music from his speaker. Maddie tripped on a charging cable and called it an assassination attempt. Caitlyn passed out with a book still open on her lap. Vi didn’t stop looking at her.

Time slipped by in pieces.

The lights dimmed to a soft amber glow. The pilot came on again, said something about tailwinds and good visibility.

You didn’t care. You just wanted to land.

And then—

The plane lurched.

Not like turbulence.

Worse.

Deeper.

The kind that made your stomach drop and your ears ring.

Someone yelped. A bag fell from the overhead.

You sat up fast.

Sevika’s arm was already across your chest, holding you back.

You didn’t know if she meant to do it. If it was instinct. But she didn’t move.

Another jolt. The cabin lights flickered.

“Everyone stay seated!” Jayce barked from the front. Viktor was gripping the headrest in front of him, knuckles white.

The oxygen masks hadn’t dropped yet.

But the pressure was changing.

You could feel it. You knew.

Your heart slammed against your ribs. Your mouth went dry.

Sevika looked at you.

Really looked.

“Hey,” she said, low and fast. “Look at me.”

You did. Shaking. Wide-eyed.

“We’re okay. You’re okay.”

You weren’t.

The engine screamed.

The plane dropped.

You screamed with it.

One moment, it was calm.

The sky was still. The cabin quiet. Someone had been laughing. Maybe Maddie. Maybe Ekko. You couldn’t remember.

And then—

Trees.

Green and brown blurs, flashing past the windows like someone had ripped the world off its hinges and spun it sideways. Screams burst from every direction, drowned by metal grinding on metal, the roar of the engine choking and dying in real time.

Your head slammed into the seat in front of you. Your neck snapped sideways. Sevika was yelling something, her arm thrown across your body again, harder this time. The cabin tipped. Luggage rained from the overheads. A water bottle smacked you in the face.

Then—

Fire.

Red, angry, alive. Smoke swallowed the air faster than your lungs could react. It burned going in, clawing down your throat like punishment. Your ears were ringing. Your legs didn’t feel real.

People were screaming.

Vi was the first one moving. You saw her clawing her way toward the side of the wreckage, eyes watering, coughing as she shoved debris off the emergency exit.

“Move! MOVE!” she barked. Her hands found the latch. It screeched as it gave way, metal screaming against metal—and light poured in. Cold, bright, outside.

She pulled it open, fell onto the dirt, gasping.

Smoke poured out behind her.

You turned to Sevika, coughing hard, your voice a rasp. “We need to get out—now.”

She nodded, already climbing over a snapped seat frame. Her hoodie was half-torn, her hands bleeding from where she’d grabbed jagged metal. You started crawling behind her, chest heaving, eyes stinging—

And then you heard it.

“Help! Please—help!”

Caitlyn.

You whipped around.

She was pinned beneath a collapsed section of the cabin—one leg trapped under twisted steel, the rest of her barely visible through a haze of smoke and flickering orange light.

You didn’t hesitate.

You scrambled toward her, coughing violently, eyes watering, fingers burning as you grabbed at the metal, trying to wedge your hands beneath it. “Cait—hang on, I’m here—I’ve got you—”

She was crying. Trying not to. “I can’t move—please, I can’t—”

Sevika was beside you a second later, yelling, “We don’t have time!” But she still dropped to her knees. Still grabbed the edge of the steel with both hands and heaved.

The metal groaned but didn’t move.

The flames were getting closer. You could feel it—your skin prickling, air going too thin.

“We’re almost there!” you shouted.

But Sevika had already shifted.

Not toward the wreckage.

Toward you.

Her hands were on your waist, pulling. “We have to go, we have to go right now—”

“I’m not leaving her!”

“You want to die in here?”

You reached for Caitlyn—her hand was inches from yours, shaking, slick with blood—but Sevika yanked you back hard. You screamed, kicked at the ground, your fingers brushing Caitlyn’s one last time before Sevika threw her full weight into dragging you through the smoke.

You didn’t stop screaming.

You screamed for Caitlyn, for help, for something, as your body crashed through the torn side of the plane and hit the forest floor with a sick thud. Sevika landed hard next to you.

The world was red and black and screaming.

You curled forward, choking. Smoke poured out of your mouth. Your eyes watered so bad you couldn’t see.

Someone—maybe Elora—was sobbing nearby. Gert was crawling away from the wreckage on her stomach. Maddie had her face pressed into her hands. Mel stood a few feet off, stumbling backward, her white button-down soaked through with blood at the shoulder, shock frozen across her perfect features.

Lest was covered in ash, holding one of the younger girls against her chest, rocking her like a child.

Jinx was gasping, wild-eyed, blood running down the side of her head. Vi was next to her, holding her face gently, whispering over and over again: “You’re okay, I’ve got you, you’re okay.”

Ran had her sketchbook clutched in one hand, pages singed. Ekko was limping in circles, calling out names.

Someone was on fire.

Someone else was silent.

You didn’t see Caitlyn.

You didn’t know if she was still alive.

You curled onto your side, coughing, vomiting nothing but black smoke and panic, and Sevika knelt beside you.

She didn’t say anything.

Didn’t touch you again.

Just crouched there, breathing hard, her arms shaking.

And around you, the wreckage of your life burned.

The heat still clung to you like skin. You could hear the fire crackling behind you, the wreckage collapsing in slow groans and shudders. The air stank—metal, smoke, burning plastic, flesh.

You turned on Sevika, your chest heaving.

“You didn’t have to drag me out like that!” you shouted, voice raw. “I almost had her, she was right there—”

“She was trapped, you idiot!” Sevika snapped, eyes blazing. “We were seconds from going up with the rest of the fucking plane!”

You stepped closer, rage tightening your throat. “You didn’t know that!”

“I knew enough!”

“You left her to die!”

“You think I wanted to—!”

A rustling sound.

Both of you turned.

Emerging through the smoke—limping, soot-covered, blood streaked down her calf, one shoe missing—was Caitlyn.

Alive.

Her blazer was torn. Her leg was gashed open and slick with red, but she was walking. Her face was pale and furious, jaw clenched so hard you could see the twitch in her temple.

You froze.

“Cait—”

“You left me,” she said, her voice deadly quiet. She wasn’t looking at you. She was looking straight at Sevika. “You both did.”

“I tried,” you said quickly, running to her, your throat tightening with guilt. “I—I swear I tried, I didn’t want to—”

Caitlyn let out a shaky breath, eyes softening just enough as you wrapped your arms around her. She didn’t hug you back at first. Then she let out a quiet, pained grunt and leaned into you slightly.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Another voice rang out from the other side of the clearing.

“Uhhh… guys?”

Jinx.

She was halfway across the field of wreckage, dragging a shredded Hello Kitty duffle bag behind her and staring at something just out of view.

“What is it?” Vi called, already jogging over.

Jinx didn’t answer. Just tilted her head, eyes wide.

The rest of you followed.

There, barely conscious, was Jayce. Half his body was under a massive, jagged piece of fuselage. Blood pooled around his waist. His leg—his right leg—was crushed. Not pinned. Flattened. The bone had come through the skin.

Viktor was crouched beside him, face blank, voice low. He was trying to stop the bleeding with his jacket.

Jayce was sobbing in short, panicked breaths, his hands clawing at the dirt. “I can’t—I can’t feel it—I can’t—”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Maddie said, spinning away and vomiting in the bushes.

Ran dropped her sketchbook.

Mel covered her mouth with one perfectly manicured hand and stumbled back, horrified.

Vi was the first to act, hands braced under the metal. “Help me lift this!”

Sevika moved in instantly, her jaw tight. You rushed over next to her, followed by Mel and Gert. The metal was hot—too hot—and heavier than it looked.

You all strained together, grunting, screaming, crying.

It didn’t move.

Jayce’s screaming got louder.

“It’s crushing his artery,” Viktor muttered, his voice like ice. “If we don’t act now, he’ll bleed out.”

“We’re trying—!” you snapped, shoulders screaming.

“No,” Viktor said softly, eyes locked on the leg. “We need to cut it off.”

Everyone went still.

You blinked. “What?”

He didn’t repeat it.

Just looked at Jayce. Then at the rest of you.

Jayce was begging now. “Please—I can’t—please don’t let me die—”

“NO ONE’S cutting anything off!” Vi shouted. “We can lift it—just—just help me—!”

And then—

Without a sound—

Jinx stepped forward.

Holding the emergency axe.

It must’ve come from the cockpit. You didn’t even see her grab it. Her hands were shaking. Her eyes weren’t blinking. She looked gone.

“Jinx,” Vi said, voice cracking. “Put that down.”

Jinx didn’t even hesitate.

With a scream, she brought the axe down.

A wet crunch.

Jayce’s body arched.

Blood sprayed, hot and violent, across your face, your hands, your chest. It hit your cheek, your lips.

You didn’t even move.

You couldn’t.

Everything stopped.

All you could hear was Jayce’s sobbing, the sound of something being hacked through, and the wet squelch of tissue and torn jeans.

You couldn’t look away.

You couldn’t scream.

You just sat there, frozen, covered in blood, your hands shaking.

For a second, no one breathed.

The axe hung in Jinx’s hands, her knuckles white, her chest heaving. Jayce’s scream tore itself ragged and then broke into gulping sobs. Blood pattered off the blade, dotted the moss, freckled your cheeks. Everything smelled like hot iron.

“JINX!” Vi’s voice cracked in a way you’d never heard. She lunged, grabbing Jinx’s wrist mid-swing. “Stop—stop—hey—look at me!”

Jinx blinked as if waking up from underwater, eyes glassy, pupils blown. “He—he was going to die,” she said, voice small, almost childlike. “It was stuck. It was stuck.”

Viktor was already moving. Calm in a way that didn’t look human. “Tourniquet,” he snapped, pressing both hands into the ruin of Jayce’s thigh. “Something strong. Belt. Cord. Now.”

Sevika tore her belt free so fast the leather snapped against her palm. She dropped to her knees opposite Viktor, threading the belt high on Jayce’s thigh and wrenching it tight. Jayce howled. You flinched, then went forward anyway, sliding in close to his head, your knees in the wet dirt. You caught his flailing hand.

“Hey—Jayce—look at me,” you said, and your voice wasn’t steady at all. “You’re here. Breathe with me, okay? In. Out. In—”

He tried to match you. Failed. Tried again.

Mel yanked off her silk scarf, folded it into a thick pad, and shoved it under Viktor’s hands. “Pressure,” she said, jaw set, accent sharper than usual. “Tell me where.”

“Here,” Viktor murmured, guiding her. His forearms were streaked red to the elbow. “Do not lift.”

Caitlyn limped up on your other side, face white, lips blue-tinged, the entire back of her calf a sheet of blood. She stared at the stump, then at Jinx, then at Vi. Fury flickered—then something like terror extinguished it. She knelt despite the wince that moved through her whole body and braced Jayce’s shoulders. “I’ve got him,” she said through gritted teeth. “I’ve got him.”

Maddie sobbed into her hands. Elora swayed, then abruptly turned and retched. Ran stood too still, sketchbook hanging loose at his side, a single red drop blooming in the center of a half-finished drawing. Lest—hands trembling—shucked off her denim overshirt and pushed it at Sevika. “For the… the… wrap. God.” She was crying, but her voice stayed clear. “What else?”

“Stretcher,” Viktor said without looking up. “Flat. Rigid. Two poles if you can.”

Ekko spun on his heel and bolted for the wreckage. “Seat backs—door—whatever I can rip off!”

Gert knelt, bare knees in mud, whispering something that might’ve been a prayer, or might’ve just been syllables to keep her mouth moving. She slid closer to Jinx and, very carefully, pried the axe from her fingers. “I’ve got it, babe. Let go. Let go.” Jinx didn’t fight her. Her hand opened like it didn’t belong to her anymore.

“Pressure’s good,” Mel said tightly, eyes fixed on the dark pad that kept turning darker. “But it’s still seeping.”

“Belt tighter,” Viktor said.

Sevika leaned across the mangled limb and twisted the belt another notch, face carved from stone. Jayce’s heel drummed against the ground; a strangled sound tore out of him, then collapsed into shallow panting. You squeezed his hand until your knuckles hurt.

“Jayce. Stay with me,” you said. “Tell me something stupid you made us do in lab. Go.”

His eyes skittered, unfocused, then landed on your face. “The—egg—volcano,” he choked.

You laughed, a wet, wrong sound. “Yeah. The egg volcano. You owe me a new hoodie for that.”

A deep WHUMP rolled through the trees.

All heads snapped up.

The fuselage belched fire and then blew, a concussive bloom of orange that punched the air out of your lungs and flattened the treetops in a bow. Heat slapped your face. The ground trembled. For a heartbeat, everyone ducked, flinched, covered.

Then the forest hissed with settling ash.

“Move him now,” Viktor said, voice suddenly urgent. “We don’t know what else will go.”

Ekko reappeared dragging a slab of aluminum with seatbelts threaded through torn holes. “This—this’ll work—grab corners!”

Vi shoved Jinx backward, not unkindly, and sprang to help. Sevika slid an arm under Jayce’s hips; Caitlyn and Mel took shoulders; you kept his head turned into your lap, talking, talking, anything to anchor him. On three, you all lifted, a ragged chorus of grunts and hisses as weight and pain and gravity fought you.

“Set,” Viktor directed, guiding the stump carefully onto the makeshift stretcher. He tied off the tourniquet with a brutal final yank, then met your eyes for the first time. His were steady. “We need heat. Cautery. If we have it.”

A beat of silence passed through the group like a shadow.

Jinx’s voice came from somewhere small and far away. “The axe head. It’ll—if we—”

“No,” Vi snapped on reflex, then caught herself. She looked at Viktor. “Will it help?”

“If controlled,” Viktor said. “If not, it will only harm. But the tourniquet cannot stay hours. We do not have hours of luck.” He glanced at the burning wreck. “Find metal not painted. Heat until dull red.”

Sevika was already moving, rising in one fluid push. “Ran. Ekko. With me.” She paused, tipped her chin at you without quite meeting your eyes. “You keep him talking.”

You nodded, swallowing against the metallic taste at the back of your throat. Your hands were sticky. Your face itched where blood was drying in hairline cracks down your cheek. You didn’t wipe it away.

Caitlyn shifted closer, her thigh shaking under her torn skirt. Quietly, to you: “Thank you for trying.” Not a full pardon. But not blame, either. Then, louder, harder, to Jinx: “You don’t move,” she said, every syllable a command. “You hear me? You don’t move.”

Jinx stared past all of you—at the space where the axe had been, at nothing. Vi crouched in front of her, palms on Jinx’s knees, voice low and fierce. “Hey. Hey. Look at me. You saved him. You hear me? You saved him.” Her eyes were wet. She didn’t blink.

Jinx’s mouth trembled. “I… I didn’t want him to die.” A tear cut a clean track through the soot on her cheek. “I didn’t want anybody to die.”

“Then stay with me,” Vi said. “That’s your job now. Stay.”

Mel’s scarf was soaked. Lest swapped in folded T-shirts ripped from abandoned luggage. Gert hovered with the med kit she’d somehow scavenged from under a seat, hands shaking but precise. Elora, finally steady, moved along the edge of the clearing, gathering bottles of water, granola bars, anything not charred.

You kept talking. About nothing. About everything. About how Jayce’s ridiculous volcano had set off the smoke alarm and Viktor made you all write reflections on “the dignity of controlled variables.” About how he owed you the fancy mechanical pencil you liked. About how the cafeteria’s Friday pizza was a crime against humanity. You ran out of jokes and kept going anyway.

Sevika came back with Ran and Ekko, carrying a short length of unpainted metal they’d pried from a seat frame, three feet long and an inch wide, its edge filed rough against a rock. Ekko held a scavenged grill grate with a pair of tongs; Ran had found a flare. Together, they set a small fire from plane insulation and dry branches away from the wreck and laid the metal across it. Heat shimmered. The metal’s color deepened, orange creeping along it like sunrise.

Viktor looked to Jayce. “This will hurt,” he said, and the gentleness in his voice finally cracked your composure. “But it will help you live.”

Jayce squeezed your fingers so hard you thought they’d break. “Do it,” he rasped.

You nodded at Viktor, then at Sevika, then at Vi.

You wished you could promise anything would ever be okay again.

You couldn’t.

But you could hold on.

You tightened your grip.

You breathed.

You didn’t look away.

 2021 Stillwater, Oregon

She stood in the quiet after the door shut, listening to her own pulse in her ears. The slip of the reporter’s card was still a small, hard knot in her fist. She opened her hand, looked at the crumpled paper, and dropped it on the counter like it might burn through.

Freezer. Back right corner, behind a bag of peas and a chipped ice tray. The coffee tin rattled when she lifted it. Inside: a cheap prepaid, wrapped in a rubber band and paper towel to keep the battery from nudging loose. The screen lit a tired blue when she held the button.

No contacts saved. Never.

She typed the number from memory, the way you remember a scar with your fingertips.

It rang once. Twice.

“Unknown numbers don’t last long on this line,” Vi said by way of hello. The old rasp, the bite under it. “You got fifteen seconds to sound like you before I hang up.”

“It’s me.”

A beat, then a soft exhale. “Sev.”

“You talk to a reporter today?”

A pause long enough for drywall to crack. “She stopped by,” Vi said carefully. “I didn’t invite her in. I told her it was private property and shut the door. End of story.”

“End of story for you or end of story for her?” Sevika rested her hip against the counter, the phone warm against her palm. “Because she came to my house. Said she’d already spoken to you. Said ‘aftermath.’ Said ‘human interest.’ You know what that sounds like to me?”

“Like trouble,” Vi said. “Yeah. I know.”

“What did you say?”

“Nothing that matters.” She could hear Vi moving—door chain sliding, a bolt thunking into place, steps across old hardwood. “I didn’t give her the woods. I didn’t give her the rules. I didn’t give her names. I said she was trespassing and I shut the door. You want me to carve it into the glass so you believe me?”

“You could have called first.”

“I’m calling now.”

“You’re answering now,” Sevika corrected. Her jaw flexed. “Don’t let them near you. Don’t let them near any of us. We’re all fucked if anyone puts the right questions in the right order.”

“They won’t,” Vi said, too quick. Then quieter, honest: “I won’t let them.”

Sevika pinched the bridge of her nose. The apartment hummed around her, an old building’s nervous system—pipes, ducts, the anxious tick of heat. “She asked me about getting close to people we wouldn’t have picked before.”

“That’s their angle this year,” Vi said, dry. “Healing. Sisterhood. Survivor bonds.”

“She said Mel’s name.”

There was the smallest flinch in Vi’s breath. “Yeah. She asked me about that too.”

“You know about the campaign?”

“Hard to miss.” Vi’s voice turned wry and tired at once. “Every third billboard on I-84 has her face on it. ‘A steadier tomorrow,’ or whatever consultant phrase they’re paying for.”

“It’s too public,” Sevika said. She’d meant it to come out even. It came out like ground glass. “Cameras. Donors. Debate moderators. Opposition research. People digging because it’s their job to dig.”

“I know.”

“If anyone starts tugging the wrong thread—”

“I know, Sev.” Vi’s tone sharpened just enough to cut through the panic. “I know the calculus. I know the risk. I know the nine. I know what we chose.”

Silence stretched between them like wire.

“Why is she doing this?” Sevika asked finally. Not the political answer. The real one.

“Because power is a better shield than none.” Vi let the words sit. “Because she’s good at making lists when everything’s on fire. Because she can stand behind a podium longer than the rest of us can stand to be seen. Pick one.”

“She’ll have to give interviews.”

“She’s been giving them for years,” Vi said. “School boards, city council, state senate. We never came up.”

“Not like this,” Sevika said. “Governor is different. The questions get meaner.”

“I told her that,” Vi said. “She told me she knows how to say no in six ways and make them thank her for it.”

Sevika pictured it—Mel in a suit that fit like armor, mouth ironed flat, cameras popping, hands shaking hers with smiles that showed too many teeth. “Doesn’t matter,” she said. “It still puts light on the wrong porch.”

“I’m not disagreeing,” Vi said. “I’m just telling you she’s not stupid.”

“Being smart never saved us,” Sevika muttered.

On the other end, Vi didn’t argue.

A car rolled past outside, bass thudding, then gone. The apartment felt too small for the noise in Sevika’s head. She shifted the phone to her other ear and stared at the black square of the safe across the room, its door still ajar like a mouth.

“How’s Jinx?” she asked, and hated how careful she sounded saying it.

The air changed on Vi’s line—quieter, colder. “She’s… in Switzerland. The clinic outside Zurich. The one with the lake.”

“Still?”

“Yeah.”

“Voluntary?”

“As voluntary as a locked ward gets,” Vi said, flat. Then, softer: “The Kiramman trust handles the bills.”

Of course they did. The taste of iron rose in Sevika’s mouth anyway. “And you?”

“We don’t talk much,” Vi said. Something creaked in her house—floorboard, or a part of her she usually kept braced. “Last time we tried, it turned into the same three minutes looped for an hour. The axe. The fire. The knocking. I don’t… We don’t like to talk anymore.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Me too.”

They sat with that. The line hissed faintly, more old wire than static. On Sevika’s counter, the reporter’s card lay like a dare.

“She said Mel by name,” Sevika said again, because saying it once hadn’t emptied it out of her. “She had a list. Vi, she had a list.”

“Alina Reddick,” Vi said, surprising her. “Stillwater Chronicle. I looked it up after I shut the door. She’s local—grew up two towns over. Did a series on water rights last year that was actually good. Doesn’t mean I’m inviting her in for tea.”

“So she’s good at her job. That’s worse.”

“It means she won’t print bullshit if we don’t give her anything,” Vi said. “And we won’t.”

“Don’t say ‘we’ like we’re a thing,” Sevika said before she could stop herself.

Another silence. Not angry. Just old.

“Burner protocol still stands,” Vi said at last, measured, as if she were ticking items down a list they’d made long ago. “No names. No specifics. No calls longer than five. Rotate numbers monthly. No texts. No photos. You still swapping SIMs?”

“Tin in the freezer.” Sevika glanced at the coffee can. “I break them after.”

“Good.”

“You on a schedule?”

Vi gave a quiet, humorless laugh. “My schedule is not dying of heartburn at three in the morning and not letting strangers stand on my porch without a chain between us.”

“You still in the same place?”

“Don’t ask that,” Vi said without heat. “Don’t say my street and I won’t say yours.”

“Right.”

The timer in Sevika’s head ticked down. Five minutes went fast when every word had to tiptoe.

“I don’t like the anniversary,” she said. It sounded juvenile out loud. She didn’t care. “I don’t like how loud it makes everything. The podcasts. The documentaries. The threads with the wrong photos. The way people say ‘closure’ like it’s a grocery item.”

“Yeah.” Vi breathed out through her nose. “Me neither.”

“I’m not doing another year of this,” Sevika said, a vow to nobody. “If they come back to my door, I’ll—”

“You’ll not open it,” Vi said. “You’ll let them talk to your deadbolt. If they get cute, you call me on the tin toy. If they get cuter, you call the lawyer Caitlyn keeps on retainer to scare cameras. You don’t use your real phone. You don’t get clever. You don’t get mad on the record.”

“I don’t get mad,” Sevika lied.

“You’re mad right now.”

“That’s private.”

Vi made a sound that might have been a smile. “Keep it that way.”

The seconds were almost gone. Sevika stared at the safe again—at the tapes stacked like vertebrae, the journals breath-warm from her hands earlier, the one she hadn’t opened in months because she knew exactly how it ended and it wasn’t with words.

“You think Mel wins?” she asked suddenly.

Vi took her time. “If she does, it won’t be because they found us,” she said. “And it won’t be because they didn’t.”

“That supposed to make me feel better?”

“It’s supposed to remind you that no one knows the right shape of the story,” Vi said. “Except us. And we don’t tell it.”

The timer in Sevika’s head hit zero. She let the quiet sit one second too long anyway.

“Burn this number,” she said.

“Already smashing it,” Vi said. “You too.”

“Yeah.”

“Hey, Sev?”

“What.”

“Sleep,” Vi said, plain and impossible. “You won’t. But try.”

The line clicked dead.

Sevika stood there a moment, phone warm in her palm, the freezer gaping open like a bad habit. Then she popped the back off the cheap plastic, slid the SIM into her palm, and cracked it with her thumbnail. The phone went into three pieces with three hard twists—casing, battery, board. She dropped each into a different bag: trash under the sink, recycling by the door, a coffee can of screws she’d never use.

The apartment went back to humming. The reporter’s card glared up from the counter. She snapped the safe shut with her hip, spun the dial once out of instinct, and killed the closet light on her way back to the couch.

She sat. Stared at the dark screen of the TV and saw trees moving too fast. Fire. Red, angry, hot.

Across town, a woman who had once been her enemy and then something no word covered was probably leaning on a chain-locked door, head tipped back, not sleeping either.

Too public, Sevika thought. Too loud. Too late for some things and not nearly late enough for others.

She rubbed the heel of her hand over her sternum like it would quiet the knock that lived there and counted down from ten, then ten again, then ten again, until the numbers turned into a language no reporter would ever know how to ask in.

2006 Home

Smoke lay in the trees like a low ceiling, turning the light a sick color. The wreck coughed and popped behind you, throwing heat that licked the backs of your legs as you waded into the debris field. Suitcases were everywhere—burst open, half-zipped, pitched at angles in the torn earth. A pink wheel rolled lazy circles until it tipped and fell on its side.

“Just—grab… anything,” Vi rasped, not quite an order and not quite a plea. Her voice was wrecked from shouting. “Water. Bandages. I don’t care—just—”

No one moved in a straight line. People drifted, doubled back, stared too long at the wrong things.

Jinx went to her knees beside a shredded duffel. Her hands sank into sequins, tights, the crinkly cough of snack wrappers. She pulled out a small stuffed cat with a bent ear—yellowed from years of being loved—and then a rabbit with one eye loose, a thread dangling like a tear. For a second she just looked at them, wide-eyed, like they were a message she couldn’t read. Then she hugged them to her chest and didn’t let go.

There were bodies.

You kept trying not to see them and still saw them anyway: the flight attendant by the emergency row with her hair fanned over the aisle; the pilot slumped forward against his harness in a ragged mouth of aluminum; a classmate you barely knew—Cole?—half under a seat frame, shoe off, foot at the wrong angle. The smell came in waves—hot plastic, metal, something sweet-that-wasn’t.

“Don’t look,” Ekko said too late, stepping in front of Maddie as she started to sway. He turned her by the shoulders and parked her on a chunk of fuselage like it was a bench, then immediately staggered away to retch behind a split tree.

Mel stumbled over the overturned galley cart and froze. Tiny liquor bottles and cans of ginger ale had exploded across the ground, sticky and sparkling. There were sleeves of pretzels, two packets of hummus ruptured and drying to paste, and—miracle—plastic-wrapped stacks of water bottles cushioned by a torn blanket. She didn’t call out a count. She didn’t sort. She just started throwing bottles to whoever was close.

“Here,” she said, voice flat as paper. “Here. Here.”

Viktor hovered over Jayce, both hands braced on the stretcher’s edge as if he could hold the world still. The stump was ugly, sealed, angry. Jayce’s eyes flickered, unfocused. “Sip,” Viktor told him, tipping one bottle to his lips. “Slowly. Slowly.”

Caitlyn limped through torn luggage with her jaw locked, one hand pressed to the long red seam down her calf. When a bottle hit her palm she didn’t drink; she tucked it under her arm and kept moving, searching faces, counting like a metronome only she could hear.

You hauled a navy duffel out from under a branch and yanked the zipper open. Clothes. A sweater. A travel mouthwash. A first-aid kit with three bandages and an antiseptic wipe. You grabbed it all anyway. Your hands shook. You couldn’t tell if it was fear or adrenaline or both playing tug-of-war with your fingers.

“Here,” Sevika said behind you, and shoved another bag with her boot. Her hoodie sleeve had burned through at the elbow; soot traced the tendon in her neck. “Check this.”

It came out before you could stop it. “You shouldn’t touch me.”

A muscle jumped in her cheek. “I’m handing you a bag.”

“You left her,” you said. “You dragged me out and you left her.”

“Caitlyn is walking,” she said, even, as if saying it kept it true. “You are breathing. That’s what happened.”

“You don’t know what would’ve happened if we stayed.”

“I know what happens in fire.” She jerked her chin at the wreck, where something inside groaned and fell with a soft collapsing whump. “It eats.”

You threw the mouthwash at her chest. She caught it without blinking. “Then eat that. Sterilize something with it. Do something useful that isn’t playing God.”

Her nostrils flared. “You want me to say I’m sorry.”

“I want you to feel it,” you said, and your voice broke on it, stupid and young. “I keep hearing her scream.”

Something flickered in her eyes—too fast to catch—and was gone. “I hear you,” she said, so low you almost missed it.

“Don’t—” you started, but Vi’s voice cut across both of you, raw and urgent.

“Water! There’s water!”

Heads turned. For a second relief shot through the clearing—the kind that hurts worse than pain—but it wasn’t a creek, it was the airline stash: shrink-wrapped flats of bottles wedged under a bent service trolley. Vi hauled two out with a growl and kicked the plastic until it split, flinging bottles like she could pelt thirst into submission.

Jinx reached for one with her stuffed cat still tucked in her elbow. The bottle slipped, rolled, bumped a pale hand under a shredded seat cover. She went still. The rabbit’s glass eye looked at nothing.

“Jinx.” Vi was there in two strides, toeing the fabric back just enough to be sure and then easing it down again. “Don’t look, baby. Come on.”

Jinx’s mouth trembled. “I thought… I thought they were sleeping.”

“I know,” Vi said, and hugged her with one arm and didn’t make Jinx let go of the toys.

Elora drifted by holding a tangled pile of chargers like a net. “Does anyone have a… I don’t know. Anything that still turns on?” Her voice sounded like frost.

Gert knelt in the dirt, ripping pads open with her teeth and pressing them into Caitlyn’s hands. “For the bleeding,” she said. “They’re clean.” Caitlyn blinked at her, then nodded once and set to work wrapping her leg without a word.

Ran stood too long staring at the flight attendant’s hair, then snapped his gaze away like it had bitten him. He bent, picked up a fallen scarf from the ground, and draped it over her face with both hands, careful. “Sorry,” he said softly, to her or to the trees.

Ekko staggered back with a small blue case. He opened it, blinked. “Airline first-aid. There’s… tape. Gauze. Scissors. One of those triangle bandage things.” He sounded like he was narrating a dream.

“Bring it,” Viktor said without looking up. “Please.”

You tore another suitcase open. A sweater. A pack of gum. A hairbrush clogged with somebody else’s life. At the bottom, a plastic-wrapped blanket flashed silver. You held it up, not sure if you wanted applause or to throw up. “Found one,” you said, not loud, and Vi peeled away from Jinx long enough to yank it from your hands and snap it open with a crackle.

“Jayce,” she said to Viktor, and they draped the crinkling metal over his chest and shoulders, tucking the edges under his sides.

Mel wiped ginger ale off her hands and then stopped halfway through the motion because it was rubbing soot into her palms. She stared at them like she didn’t recognize the shape. “We should… we should move them,” she said, not looking at the bodies. “The ones—” Her voice failed. “Before dark.”

“No,” Caitlyn said, too sharp, and then softer. “Not yet. We don’t even know everyone who—” She shut her mouth. Bit the inside of her cheek until color returned to her lips.

Your stomach rolled. You closed the suitcase and your fingers slipped on the zipper because they were slick with something, and you lost a second to the dizzy, hateful thought that maybe it was someone.

Sevika’s shadow fell over you again. “Water,” she said, holding a bottle out. You didn’t take it right away. She tipped it toward your mouth like a dare. “Drink before you fall down.”

You snatched it and drank too fast and choked and hated that she was right.

A low bang staggered the clearing—a piece of fuselage collapsing in on itself—and everyone flinched. Ash fell like a gray snow that didn’t thaw.

“Is anyone else—” Maddie’s voice pitched high, wild. “Where’s Lester? Where’s—where’s Milo? Where’s—”

“Don’t,” Mel said, quick, not unkind. “We’ll count later.” She had a handful of pretzels and a mini vodka bottle in her fist like a rosary. “Eat something now.”

“I’m not hungry,” Maddie said.

“Eat something anyway.”

You fumbled another zipper. Found a scarf. Socks. A half-melted lip balm. The stupid, normal things were worse than the blood. You wanted a pot. You wanted gauze. You wanted an adult who wasn’t bleeding.

“Here!” Ran shouted from a pocket of brush. He lifted a hard-sided case in both hands like he’d wrestled it out of the roots. “Medical—real medical—” He brought it stumbling to Viktor, who opened it with the quick hands of a man who had been waiting for a miracle and got a partial credit instead: saline, tape, compression bandages, a single suture kit in a sealed pouch. Viktor’s mouth twitched toward thank you and never made it.

Jinx sat cross-legged in the needles with her stuffed cat and rabbit in her lap, eyes somewhere far away. She poked the rabbit’s loose eye back into place with a thumb and it popped out again immediately, a stupid mechanical failure that made her snort once, hard, like a laugh had slipped and broken its ankle. Vi stroked her hair without looking at her hand, her gaze raking the tree line like it might answer.

“Don’t go past the… the…” Vi gestured vaguely at a torn seat belt looped around a sapling, as if it made a fence. “Stay where I can see you. Anyone. Everyone.”

“Caitlyn,” you said, moving because you needed to, because not-moving meant seeing things you couldn’t unsee. You knelt beside her. “Let me—” You reached for the makeshift wrap at her leg. “The antiseptic—”

“I have it,” she said, and when you tried to help anyway, she let you. Your fingers worked together, awkward, efficient, not enough. Her eyes flicked up once to Sevika, then away.

“She dragged me,” you blurted, like Caitlyn had asked for a confession. “I would’ve stayed.”

Caitlyn’s jaw tightened. “And then what.”

“I don’t know,” you said, hating the truth of it. “I don’t know.”

“Then save the argument,” she said, not cruel. “We can pick it up later if you still want it.”

Sevika had drifted ten feet off, turning a cheap plastic lighter over in her fingers like she could figure out a way to make it into something else. Her hands were steady now that there were things to hold. She looked up at the sound of your voice and then pretended she hadn’t.

You pushed the last strip of tape down. “Sorry,” you whispered. For earlier. For now. For the way your brain kept flickering back to the moment your fingers had been inches from hers in the hot dark.

Caitlyn grunted, which might have been acceptance, or might have been pain, and then tipped her head toward Viktor. “Go,” she said. “He needs you more.”

You went because you didn’t know what else to do.

By the time dusk started to bruise the clearing, the piles of useful and not useful weren’t piles at all—just scatter that looked slightly less hopeless than before. The cart food was dented but edible; the bottles of water looked like lies in their clear skins. No one had said the word camp. No one had said night. They kept not saying them until the light made the decision for them.

From somewhere deeper in the trees came the hollow sound of wood on wood. Two knocks. A pause. Two more.

“Branches,” Vi said, automatic. No one corrected her out loud.

You sank onto a torn seat cushion, bottle clutched stupidly in both hands, and stared at the print on your jeans where something dark had dried into a handprint shape. You rubbed at it with your thumb until the skin burned and nothing changed.

Sevika stood with her back half-turned to you, profile hard, eyes on the rusting orange of the wreck. Smoke pulled in tired strings toward the canopy. An ember flared and died like a heartbeat.

You wanted to tell her you still hated her.

You wanted to tell her you didn’t.

comment to be tagged!!

[cup1drul3z]

I hate using my platform like this but a creator here on tumblr has been very transphobic on tiktok while also promoting a sub culture that’s supposed to be open and inclusive

Said to a person complaing about not looking masculine enough btw :)

[cup1drul3z]

I’m back with a rant. Something that pisses me off about both lesbians and the arcane fandom is that the stereotype that masc’s are always on top. LIKE NO I want to see violet and sevika RECEIVING BACKSHOTS (from me). And it’s ok to have preferences, BUT NOT WHEN YOU LITERALLY DEGRADE PEOPLE WHO DO LIKE BOTTOM MASCS. It’s usually the same crowd who treats masc’s, butches and studs like boyfriends with boobs. What have we come to as a society

[cup1drul3z]

★ — Melancholy

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴏɴᴇ : ᴀɴ ᴜɴʜᴇᴀʟᴛʜʏ ᴏʙꜱᴇꜱꜱɪᴏɴ

ʙᴀʀᴛᴇɴᴅᴇʀ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ x ꜱᴛᴀʟᴋᴇʀ!ꜱᴇᴠɪᴋᴀ | 12.1ᴋ

TAGS : Stalking, smut, jealous sevika, modern AU, slow burn obsession, mutual pining, height difference, chubby reader, POV shifts

A/N : this took longer then im proud to admit

SUMMARY : Sevika’s isolated past contrasts with a fateful night when she meets you at the bar and becomes quietly fixated. Drawn into your world, she starts watching more closely, learning details about your life and forming an intense, possessive interest she has no intention of letting go.

The house was always too quiet after her mother died. Sevika was seven when the cancer took her—seven and already learning what it meant to lose the only person who’d ever really looked at her with warmth.

Her father tried. In his own stiff, fumbling way, he tried to keep things normal: packed her lunch, drove her to school, stood in the doorway when she had nightmares. But there were gaps in his care—big, yawning spaces where her mother’s love used to live. Spaces Sevika didn’t know how to fill.

She didn’t cry at the funeral. She didn’t scream or cling to anyone’s leg, begging for her mom to come back. She just stood there, expressionless, staring at the coffin while the adults whispered about how “strong” she was. They didn’t see the truth—that she wasn’t strong, she was empty.

By the time she was ten, the teachers had started calling her father. “She doesn’t interact with the other children.” “She seems angry all the time.” “She never smiles.”

He took her to a psychiatrist in a room that smelled like lemon cleaner and cheap coffee. The man asked her questions she didn’t care to answer:

Do you ever feel sad?

Do you have friends at school?

What makes you happy?

Sevika stared at the floor and muttered something about liking movies. When the diagnosis came—Schizoid Personality Disorder—she didn’t understand what it meant at first. But the way her father looked at her afterward, like she was fragile glass, made her hate the word before she even knew it.

“You’re not broken,” her father said on the drive home. But to Sevika, the label felt like a cage.

Middle school was a blur of stares and whispers. Other kids thought she was weird, scary, untouchable. She spoke only when spoken to, her tone flat and blunt. She learned to keep to herself. Loneliness became the background hum of her life, a constant she stopped noticing after a while.

By her teenage years, she found herself drawn to horror movies. The gorier, the better. It wasn’t about enjoying the blood—it was about the way the movies made her feel. The way a sudden scare or gruesome scene could send a ripple through her otherwise still waters. She’d think about them for days after, dissecting every detail. It was the only thing that stuck.

High school came and went with few memories. She didn’t date. She didn’t have friends. There were a few drunken hookups at parties she barely remembered attending—moments where she felt something warm, something almost human, only for it to fade into nothingness the next morning.

Adults said she had a temper, but she didn’t. She just had boundaries people crossed without understanding the warning signs. Her blank expression and sharp jawline did the work for her. No one pushed too hard. No one stayed close.

By the time Sevika reached her twenties, she had built her life on silence. Work, home, the occasional drink in a dim bar where nobody knew her name. She didn’t need anyone; she convinced herself of that every day. Emotions were distant, like stars she could see but never touch.

Until one rainy night in downtown New York.

The bar was a haze of dim lights, sticky floors, and the heavy smell of alcohol clinging to the air. You’d been moving non-stop since your shift began—mixing, pouring, smiling through the ache in your cheeks. It was one of those nights where every type of person came crawling out: creepy men twice your age who thought a wink was enough to get free drinks, frat boys who slurred their orders like they were doing you a favor, single moms downing legal-limit shots with a look in their eyes that said they needed this. Gay couples, straight couples, everyone paired off and laughing in their own little bubbles.

And you? You were forever alone, serving drinks and watching the world spin around you.

You looked the part tonight, though. Low-cut corset vest hugging every curve, the latex mini skirt reflecting the bar’s colored lights, the rhinestone belt catching glints with every movement. Your jewelry layered over everything, clinking and jingling as you walked—bracelets sliding down your arms, rings catching against the glass you set down, necklaces resting right where eyes couldn’t help but wander. You knew you looked good. You always did.

Another order here, another smirk there. You charmed your regulars, teased the shy newly-21s who stammered when you asked what they wanted, rolled your eyes at the men who called you sweetheart like it was supposed to melt you. Same old.

And then she walked in.

The door opened with a rush of cold rain, and she stepped through like a storm had followed her in. Broad shoulders under a soaked leather jacket, boots heavy against the floor. She shook rain from her dark hair, every movement slow, deliberate. Her expression was unreadable—sharp features locked into something close to a scowl, but not quite.

You were drawn to her immediately, like every nerve in your body snapped to attention. She was different.

You saw your coworker—some guy who’d been trying to flirt with you all night—heading her way to take her order. No way. Not this one. You practically shoved him aside, fingers sliding through your hair as you sauntered over to where she sat. You let the clink of your bracelets announce you, the soft chime of chains with every sway of your hips.

Leaning against the counter with a grin that usually never failed, you looked down at her.

“Hey gorgeous,” you said, voice syrupy sweet. “What can I get you?”

For a moment, she didn’t respond. Her eyes lifted slowly, meeting yours—and it felt like being pinned. No flirt, no smile, just that blank, unreadable stare. Her voice, when it came, was low and blunt.

“Whiskey, please.”

That was it. Two words. No smile, no charm, no acknowledgment of the way you were leaning over the bar like a damn pin-up.

It hit you like a slap. Your ego, so used to winning every interaction, faltered. You muttered an “okay” under your breath, straightening just a little as you poured the whiskey into a glass. Sliding it over to her without your usual spark, you felt that twist of irritation in your chest. Rejected? Was she actually rejecting you?

You turned away, lips pressed together, trying not to show it.

Across the counter, Sevika watched you with the same still expression—but inside, her thoughts were spiraling. Why did your tone just drop? Did she do something wrong? You’d called her gorgeous. You’d smiled at her like sunshine breaking through storm clouds. No one had ever looked at her like that. And now you sounded sad.

She gripped the glass, staring into the amber liquid, completely thrown. What just happened? Why do I care so much?

For the first time in her life, Sevika’s chest ached with something she couldn’t name. You thought she was rejecting you. She thought she’d somehow ruined everything.

And she couldn’t stop watching you as you moved down the bar, jewelry chiming, hair catching the light—completely unaware that you’d just become the center of her entire world.

You didn’t go back to her right away. Pride had its claws in you, and that brief little bruise to your ego kept you moving down the bar, smiling at other patrons, laughing a little too brightly at some college kid’s bad joke. You told yourself you didn’t care—so what if she wasn’t into it? You’d had a hundred women and men fall at your feet for less effort.

But every time you passed her in your periphery, you felt her eyes.

Sevika stayed where she was, sitting rigidly on the barstool like she was welded to it. Her jacket still damp, her hands steady as she brought the whiskey to her lips. She didn’t look like someone who belonged in this noisy, crowded place. She looked like she belonged in a shadowed alley, or in some quiet room where nothing touched her. Yet here she was, and she was drinking slowly, deliberately, not because she wanted to savor the taste but because it gave her an excuse to stay.

You walked past her again, the clink of your bracelets cutting through the hum of voices. Her eyes flicked up to you—just for a second—but it was enough to make your skin prickle. Her stare wasn’t like other people’s. It wasn’t appreciative, or lustful, or even annoyed. It was… consuming.

A group of drunk guys down at the end started getting rowdy, one of them yelling your name like he owned it. You plastered on a smile, poured their drinks, dodged a grabby hand with practiced ease. You were good at this—charming, untouchable, slipping through unwanted attention like smoke. Still, you caught the way she tensed when one of the guys leaned too far over the bar, his voice slurred and loud.

You dismissed it as coincidence.

Another hour dragged by. The crowd thinned a little, leaving behind the regulars and the stragglers. Sevika was still there. Same drink, same seat, same unreadable expression. Most people would have left by now, but she stayed, watching the world through that blank stare. Watching you.

Finally, you found yourself back in front of her, wiping down the counter more out of habit than necessity. You tilted your head, forcing back the sting of your earlier embarrassment. “You’ve been here a while,” you said, trying to sound casual. “You good?”

Her eyes lifted to yours, slow and deliberate, and you felt pinned all over again. “Yeah,” she said simply. Her voice was low, almost monotone, but it carried a weight that made the air between you feel heavy.

You huffed a little laugh, shaking your head. “Not much of a talker, huh?”

“No,” she admitted. There was no apology in it, just fact.

You leaned your elbows on the counter, chin in your hand, studying her. “So why stick around if you’re not gonna talk to anyone?”

For a long moment, she didn’t answer. Then, finally, she said, “I like it here.”

Something about the way she said it—not looking around, not gesturing to the bar—made your heart skip. She wasn’t talking about the place. She was talking about you.

You didn’t know that in her head, things were spiraling. Sevika’s thoughts weren’t calm. They were chaos, a storm tearing through her usually quiet mind. She replayed your smile, the sound of your voice when you’d called her gorgeous, the way your jewelry jingled like tiny bells every time you moved. She thought about the faint sweetness she caught when you leaned close earlier, something warm and spicy that cut through the smell of liquor and sweat.

She’d never felt this before. Not for anyone. It wasn’t just want—it was need.

You left her again to serve another table, your laughter echoing back to her as you leaned close to a group of women taking shots. She watched the way you smiled at them, the way they touched your arm and laughed with you, and something dark twisted low in her stomach.

For the first time, Sevika felt jealous.

By the end of your shift, most of the crowd had cleared out. You were tired, wiping down the counters while your coworker counted tips in the back. You didn’t notice that she was still there, sitting in the corner like a shadow, until you turned and almost jumped.

“You’re still here,” you said softly, voice lower now that the bar had quieted.

She just nodded, watching you with that same unwavering stare.

You hesitated, fiddling with the rag in your hands. “Well… I’m closing up soon.”

Another pause. Then she stood, slow and deliberate, leaving a few bills on the counter. More than the drink cost—more than the night was worth. She stepped closer, towering over you just slightly, and for a moment you thought she might say something. But she didn’t.

She just looked at you one last time, her expression unreadable, before turning and walking out into the rain.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, heart pounding for reasons you didn’t understand.

Outside, Sevika didn’t go home. She stood across the street under the cover of a dark awning, watching as you locked up the bar and walked out, jingling faintly with every step.

She followed you at a distance, silent as a shadow, her thoughts burning.

The rain followed you all the way home, soaking into your hair and clinging to your clothes as you walked fast, jewelry jingling with every determined step. You just wanted to get inside, throw your shoes off, maybe drink something strong before collapsing into bed. But when you turned the corner to your apartment building, your pace faltered.

There was someone waiting at your door.

Even from a distance, Sevika recognized the shift in your posture—shoulders tightening, chin lifting as you walked toward the guy. She stood across the street, partially hidden by the cover of a bus stop, rain sliding off her leather jacket. Her chest burned with something sharp as she watched you stop in front of him.

Your voice carried faintly across the wet street—angry, clipped words flung at him as you gestured with your hands. She couldn’t make out what you were saying, but she could see the heat in it, the way you were trying to push him back. He grabbed your arm, and for a split second, Sevika started to move.

But then you kissed him.

The world tilted.

You kissed him back, hands clutching at his shirt as if the fight had melted into something else entirely. Sevika froze where she stood, her breath turning to smoke in the cold air. In her chest, something sharp splintered. She didn’t understand—weren’t you just angry? Why were you kissing him like that?

Who the fuck is he?

Sevika’s hands curled into fists. Heat rose in her throat like bile. She felt something ugly and possessive coil in her gut, tightening like barbed wire. How could he touch you? How dare he?

You disappeared inside with him, the door shutting behind you, but Sevika didn’t move. She walked slowly, like a predator, until she found herself at the side of the building where your living room window glowed faintly through the curtains. They were half-drawn, just enough to let her see you.

Inside, the guy was already on you, his hands grabbing clumsily at your clothes as you stumbled to the couch. Sevika’s jaw clenched so hard it ached. Every part of her screamed to tear through that door, to rip him away from you, to make sure he never touched you again. But she stayed.

She stayed and watched.

The sex was quick, sloppy—him grinding into you while you laid there, your expression tight and unreadable. Sevika scanned every inch of your face, memorizing the way your lips parted, the slight arch of your back, the furrow of your brow. She couldn’t hear you, but in her mind, she imagined the sound you made—high-pitched, soft, the kind of sound that would drive her insane. The thought was equal parts creepy and unbearably arousing.

And then it was over.

Ten minutes. That’s all. He pulled out, adjusted his jeans like he’d just done something worth bragging about, and left without a backward glance.

Sevika’s fingers twitched at her side. Pathetic.

Inside, you sat there on the couch, your expression shifting—anger first, then something sadder, emptier. You looked down at yourself like you hated what just happened. And then your hand moved lower.

Sevika’s breath caught.

You slipped your hand between your thighs, your other arm curling over the back of the couch as you touched yourself. Slowly at first, almost hesitating, then with growing urgency. Your head fell back, eyes fluttering shut, and Sevika knew—knew exactly why. That asshole hadn’t even tried to make you finish. He hadn’t given you what you needed.

Her brows furrowed, chest rising with a slow, heavy breath. In the dim glow of the room, she could see the way your body shifted, the way your lips parted in a soft gasp she couldn’t hear.

Without thinking, Sevika reached into her jacket and pulled out her phone.

The camera clicked softly as she zoomed in, snapping a photo of the guy walking away down the street—his face caught in a blur of rain. Then, with deliberate slowness, she turned the lens back to the window.

She took another photo—this one of you, sprawled out on your couch, touching yourself with that frustrated, desperate look that made her blood burn.

Sevika lowered the phone, staring at the screen for a long time.

The image burned into her mind, sealing itself there.

You were hers. You didn’t know it yet—but after tonight, Sevika knew she’d make sure no one else ever got to touch you like that again.

The glow of your apartment window dimmed as you stood from the couch, fingers brushing lazily through your hair. SevThe glow of your apartment window dimmed as you stood from the couch, fingers brushing lazily through your hair. Sevika’s sharp eyes followed your every step as you disappeared down the hallway, the sound of running water faintly reaching her ears. She stayed where she was, motionless, watching the steam rise behind the frosted glass of your bathroom window. You were showering—washing off that guy’s touch, washing away the night.

Her hands unclenched slowly. The rage simmering inside her had no place to go while you were in view. But when you stepped out of the living room, when the shower curtain rustled faintly, Sevika’s head turned in the direction the man had gone.

Rain still poured in sheets, masking her steps as she slipped from the side of the building into the shadows of the street. Her boots splashed silently through shallow puddles, her shoulders hunched under the weight of her soaked jacket.

He wasn’t hard to find. Idiots like him never were.

The man—your so-called boyfriend, or whatever he was—stumbled down the street with his hands shoved in his pockets, head bent against the rain. He was whistling to himself, smug and oblivious, like he’d just done something worth remembering.

Sevika followed him silently, her presence as dark as the night. She hung back just far enough to avoid suspicion, her long strides easily matching his pace. They passed under the flickering light of a streetlamp, and she moved closer, close enough to smell the cheap cologne still clinging to his clothes.

The alley came up on the right—a narrow cut between two old buildings, littered with trash bags and the faint smell of rot. Sevika’s hand brushed the wall as they turned into it, and with a speed that didn’t match her size, she surged forward.

Her hand clamped around his mouth before he could scream.

He barely had time to gasp before she yanked him into the shadows, slamming him against the cold brick wall. His muffled shout was swallowed by the rain as her mechanical arm pinned him by the throat, the pressure enough to make his eyes bulge.

“You touched her,” she said, her voice low and calm, almost conversational. “You touched what’s mine.”

The man’s panicked eyes darted around, his hands clawing at her arm, his legs kicking weakly against the wet pavement. He tried to speak, tried to choke out some excuse, but her grip tightened until he wheezed.

“You didn’t deserve her,” Sevika growled, leaning close so he could see the fury in her eyes. “You never even tried to make her feel good. You used her. And now you’re done.”

The pressure increased. The metal creaked against his windpipe, and his face turned from red to purple as he gasped uselessly for air. Sevika’s expression never changed—stoic, cold, but her heart pounded with something primal. She held him there, feeling the last tremors of life drain from his body as his eyes rolled back.

When he finally went limp, she let him slide to the ground like discarded trash. The rain washed streaks of grime down the brick behind him, pooling around his lifeless body.

Sevika crouched, rifling through his pockets with deliberate calm. She pulled out his phone, the screen lighting up under her fingers. She scrolled through quickly—texts, photos, your name in his contacts. She clenched her jaw, pocketing it.

Her gaze dropped back to him. She considered leaving him there, but the shadows were deep, and the rain would keep washing away any evidence. No one would find him until morning, maybe later. Nobody would care.

Standing, Sevika adjusted her jacket, the streetlight above flickering weakly as if it knew what she’d done.

She walked back the way she came, her boots silent despite the pounding in her ears. By the time she reached your building again, the water had cooled her rage into something steady, something hungry.

The shower had stopped. Through your window, she saw the faint glow of your bedroom light and your silhouette moving past the curtains, towel wrapped around you.

Sevika leaned against the wall across the street, pulling the dead man’s phone from her pocket. She flipped through the photos again, deleting one of you he had saved—one he didn’t deserve to have.

Now, he was gone.

And you were safe.

sevika’s sharp eyes followed your every step as you disappeared down the hallway, the sound of running water faintly reaching her ears. She stayed where she was, motionless, watching the steam rise behind the frosted glass of your bathroom window. You were showering—washing off that guy’s touch, washing away the night.

Her hands unclenched slowly. The rage simmering inside her had no place to go while you were in view. But when you stepped out of the living room, when the shower curtain rustled faintly, Sevika’s head turned in the direction the man had gone.

Rain still poured in sheets, masking her steps as she slipped from the side of the building into the shadows of the street. Her boots splashed silently through shallow puddles, her shoulders hunched under the weight of her soaked jacket.

He wasn’t hard to find. Idiots like him never were.

The man—your so-called boyfriend, or whatever he was—stumbled down the street with his hands shoved in his pockets, head bent against the rain. He was whistling to himself, smug and oblivious, like he’d just done something worth remembering.

Sevika followed him silently, her presence as dark as the night. She hung back just far enough to avoid suspicion, her long strides easily matching his pace. They passed under the flickering light of a streetlamp, and she moved closer, close enough to smell the cheap cologne still clinging to his clothes.

The alley came up on the right—a narrow cut between two old buildings, littered with trash bags and the faint smell of rot. Sevika’s hand brushed the wall as they turned into it, and with a speed that didn’t match her size, she surged forward.

Her hand clamped around his mouth before he could scream.

He barely had time to gasp before she yanked him into the shadows, slamming him against the cold brick wall. His muffled shout was swallowed by the rain as her mechanical arm pinned him by the throat, the pressure enough to make his eyes bulge.

“You touched her,” she said, her voice low and calm, almost conversational. “You touched what’s mine.”

The man’s panicked eyes darted around, his hands clawing at her arm, his legs kicking weakly against the wet pavement. He tried to speak, tried to choke out some excuse, but her grip tightened until he wheezed.

“You didn’t deserve her,” Sevika growled, leaning close so he could see the fury in her eyes. “You never even tried to make her feel good. You used her. And now you’re done.”

The pressure increased. The metal creaked against his windpipe, and his face turned from red to purple as he gasped uselessly for air. Sevika’s expression never changed—stoic, cold, but her heart pounded with something primal. She held him there, feeling the last tremors of life drain from his body as his eyes rolled back.

When he finally went limp, she let him slide to the ground like discarded trash. The rain washed streaks of grime down the brick behind him, pooling around his lifeless body.

Sevika crouched, rifling through his pockets with deliberate calm. She pulled out his phone, the screen lighting up under her fingers. She scrolled through quickly—texts, photos, your name in his contacts. She clenched her jaw, pocketing it.

Her gaze dropped back to him. She considered leaving him there, but the shadows were deep, and the rain would keep washing away any evidence. No one would find him until morning, maybe later. Nobody would care.

Standing, Sevika adjusted her jacket, the streetlight above flickering weakly as if it knew what she’d done.

She walked back the way she came, her boots silent despite the pounding in her ears. By the time she reached your building again, the water had cooled her rage into something steady, something hungry.

The shower had stopped. Through your window, she saw the faint glow of your bedroom light and your silhouette moving past the curtains, towel wrapped around you.

Sevika leaned against the wall across the street, pulling the dead man’s phone from her pocket. She flipped through the photos again, deleting one of you he had saved—one he didn’t deserve to have.

Now, he was gone.

And you were safe.

The next morning, the city was gray and slick with the remnants of last night’s storm. Sevika walked through the streets like a ghost, her leather jacket stiff from the rain, the scent of wet concrete still clinging to the air. Her expression didn’t give away the events of the night before—no one looking at her would suspect the blood still metaphorically on her hands. Inside, though, her thoughts were razor sharp, circling only one thing: you.

She needed to see more. She needed to see everything.

The small electronic store she entered smelled faintly of plastic and ozone, the hum of overhead lights filling the otherwise empty space. Rows of tech lined the walls—flat screens, smartphones, shelves of neatly packaged cameras. Sevika’s boots clicked against the polished floor as she moved straight to the camera section, scanning the models with a calculating stare.

She crouched slightly, reading specs she didn’t really care about—megapixels, zoom ranges, stabilizers. What she needed was something powerful, something that could capture you even from a distance. She wanted to see every detail of your face, every shift in your expression, every jingle of your jewelry when you walked.

A sales clerk approached, a young guy in a bright polo shirt with the store logo embroidered over his chest. His smile was the practiced, friendly kind. “Can I help you find anything today?” he asked, voice chipper, almost too chipper for the mood that radiated off her.

Sevika didn’t look up right away. She stayed crouched, staring at the camera box in front of her, before slowly rising to her full height. The kid took an instinctive step back when her eyes finally met his—cold, flat, the kind of look that could peel the skin off your bones.

“No,” she said simply, her tone low and uninviting.

He nodded quickly and began to step away, but her voice stopped him. “Actually…”

The clerk froze mid-step, turning back nervously. Sevika tilted her head slightly, her expression unreadable.

“Which ones are good for taking…” She paused, the words deliberate, her voice dropping into something colder, calculated. “…far away shots?”

The clerk blinked, caught off guard by the phrasing. “Uh—well, depends on what you’re photographing. Wildlife? Sports?”

Sevika didn’t answer. She just kept staring at him, and under her gaze he stumbled over his words, quickly moving to the display. “These here,” he said, pointing to a few high-end models. “They’ve got really good zoom lenses, up to three hundred millimeters. Clear even at long distances. Customers say they’re great for, uh, capturing… details from far away.”

Her gaze followed his finger, scanning the boxes he indicated. He rambled about customer reviews, autofocus capabilities, night settings—she barely listened. Her hand finally rested on one, heavy and sleek with an attachable telephoto lens. Perfect.

“This one,” she said flatly, picking it up with ease.

The clerk swallowed, nodding quickly. “Yeah, that’s one of the best models. Excellent range, low-light performance, very quiet shutter—”

Sevika cut him off with a single look. He went silent.

Without another word, she turned and walked to the counter, the box under her arm. The cashier, an older woman with tired eyes, greeted her with a standard smile that faltered when she met Sevika’s glare. The woman scanned the box, her hands moving a little faster than usual, and Sevika pulled out her wallet with practiced ease. Bills slapped against the counter.

“No bag,” Sevika muttered when the cashier reached for one.

The transaction finished quickly. Sevika picked up the box, tucking it under her arm like it belonged to her, like it was an extension of her plan. Without another glance at the store employees, she walked out into the cool morning air, the bell above the door jingling faintly behind her.

She didn’t look back.

The camera was hers now, and soon, so would be the view it gave her—the ability to watch you whenever she wanted, to capture every second of you that the world didn’t deserve to see.

As Sevika walked down the street, the weight of the box felt satisfying in her hands. She was already picturing where she’d set it up, how she’d use it to watch you from angles no one else would think to look.

You wouldn’t even know.

But she would.

Sevika’s apartment was small, almost sterile, the kind of place that looked like no one really lived there. The walls were bare except for a few old posters, the furniture functional rather than comfortable. No clutter, no personal touches. Just a bed, a couch, a TV that rarely turned on, and the faint smell of cigarettes clinging to the air.

She set the new camera box on the kitchen counter and stood there for a long moment, staring at it like it was something alive. Her fingers traced over the edges, the weight of it grounding her. But even with the new tool sitting there, her mind wasn’t calm. It kept circling back to you—your laugh, your perfume, the way your jewelry jingled every time you moved.

Sevika turned away sharply and went to her bedroom.

The journal sat on her nightstand, a small black notebook with worn corners. She hadn’t touched it in months. When she opened it, the pages crackled faintly, revealing just three entries spaced far apart. The handwriting was sharp, almost aggressive, the kind of script that looked like it had been carved rather than written.

She flipped to the next blank page, sat down on the edge of the bed, and stared at it for a long time. She wasn’t used to writing. Words didn’t come easily to her; they felt clumsy in her hands. But tonight, they poured out because they were about you.

She gripped the pen tightly and started.

Y/N L/N [Your address scrawled beneath, ink pressed heavy into the paper]

You were wearing that tiny black skirt last night. Latex. It caught the light when you moved, made every step look like it was choreographed to drive me insane. That rhinestone belt glittered like you knew someone was watching. Maybe you did.

You walked like you owned the world. The sound of your jewelry carried across the bar, little bells announcing your arrival. Every time I heard it, my head turned without thinking.

You said, “Hey gorgeous, what can I get you?” I’ve replayed those words in my head a hundred times already. The way your voice dripped sugar, the way your lips curled around the word gorgeous like you meant it. No one’s ever said anything to me that stuck like that.

You looked at me like I was worth something, even if it was just for a second.

And then I hurt you. I don’t know how, but I did. Your voice cracked when you said okay. You looked… sad. I don’t understand it. People don’t care what I say, but you did. It bothers me.

I watched you leave. I followed you. You didn’t see me, but I was there. You were arguing with that man outside your apartment. He touched you. I wanted to break his hands. Then you kissed him, and I thought maybe I was wrong about everything I felt.

But I wasn’t.

He didn’t deserve you. He didn’t deserve your mouth, your hands, your body. He didn’t make you feel good. I know, because I watched your face. You looked bored. Angry. Sad. And when he left you there, empty, you touched yourself.

You were beautiful when you thought no one was looking. You made the sweetest little expressions, even when you were mad. I couldn’t hear you, but I imagined what you sounded like. I’ll hear it someday.

You belong to me.

You don’t know it yet.

Sevika stared at the page, the words digging into the paper like scars. Her hand ached from pressing the pen so hard, but she didn’t care. She closed the journal slowly, her thumb brushing over the edge before she set it back on the nightstand.

Leaning back against the wall, she lit a cigarette and watched the smoke curl up toward the ceiling. The image of you burned behind her eyes, every detail so vivid it was almost painful. She thought about the camera sitting on the counter, about how soon she’d have every piece of you recorded, captured, hers.

You’d never know how close she was.

But you’d feel it. Eventually, you’d feel it.

The following afternoon, the sun sat high but dull, filtering through the overcast sky as if it, too, was still waking up. Sevika walked the familiar streets leading to your apartment, the camera case slung casually over her shoulder. Her movements were slow, measured, her eyes cutting over every detail of the route like she’d memorized it. She knew you’d be home. 

When she arrived, the building was quiet. The only sound was the occasional car passing and the faint chirp of birds. She scanned the area—no neighbors peeking through curtains, no one lingering outside. Good.

The tree beside your bedroom window stretched tall, branches thick enough to hold her weight. She gripped the bark and climbed with a predator’s ease, boots digging in, the camera strap brushing against her chest as she ascended. It was almost too easy. She found her spot nestled in the branches just beyond your window, hidden by the leaves but with a perfect view.

You were still asleep.

The curtains were drawn halfway, sunlight spilling just enough to illuminate the soft rise and fall of your chest. The room around you was messy in that lived-in way—clothes draped over a chair, an empty glass on your nightstand, jewelry scattered like glitter over the dresser. You were curled on your side, hair messy from sleep, one arm tucked under your pillow.

Sevika’s chest tightened. She lifted the camera slowly, the lens focusing until your face filled the frame. Click. Click. The shutter was quiet, barely audible beneath the rustle of leaves. Each photo captured something different—your parted lips, the crease in your brow as you shifted, the way your bare leg peeked out from under the blanket.

You stirred, rolling onto your back, the sunlight kissing your skin. Sevika didn’t move. Her grip on the branch tightened, but her focus stayed steady as she snapped another photo. Then another.

Your alarm went off faintly, a soft tune you must have set to avoid jolting yourself awake. You groaned, stretching slowly, the movement making your shirt ride up just enough for Sevika to see a glimpse of your stomach, the piercing glinting faintly. She adjusted the zoom, capturing it with a sharp inhale.

Finally, you sat up, rubbing your eyes and yawning, still half-asleep. You swung your legs off the bed, standing with lazy grace as you padded into the connecting bathroom. The door stayed open, just enough for Sevika to catch a sliver of you brushing your teeth, tying your hair up messily, splashing water on your face. She didn’t take photos then—she just watched, soaking in every detail like she was memorizing it.

Three minutes later, you walked out, towel-drying your hair as you moved to your dresser. Sevika’s heart thudded low in her chest, fingers tightening around the camera as you started to change.

You peeled off your oversized sleep shirt, tossing it aside carelessly. The morning light clung to every curve of your skin, highlighting the freckles scattered over your shoulders, the stretch marks along your hips. Sevika’s breath hitched; the lens captured all of it—perfect, untouched moments of you that no one else would ever have.

You reached for the white ruffled skirt, stepping into it and pulling it up over your hips. The fabric hugged you, soft and sweet in contrast to the sharp edge of your tattoos and piercings. Sevika snapped another photo, zooming in to catch the way the material fluttered against your thighs as you adjusted it.

Next came the cropped band tee—black with a faded graphic, the hem just barely brushing the top of your skirt. You tugged it down, smoothing it out before tying a knot at the side to make it sit even higher.

Sevika exhaled slowly through her nose, lowering the camera for a brief moment just to look at you without the lens between you. You stood in front of the mirror now, layering your jewelry piece by piece—chains, rings, bracelets, each one chiming softly in the still room. She could hear it even through the glass.

You grabbed your makeup bag and sat at the edge of your bed, starting to apply eyeliner with practiced precision. Sevika raised the camera again, catching the way you tilted your head, the slight pout of your lips as you focused. Every tiny movement was captivating—things no one else would notice, but she did.

After finishing your makeup, you stood again, slipping on platform shoes that made your legs look impossibly long. You grabbed your bag, tossing your phone in with a clatter, and checked yourself one last time in the mirror. You smiled faintly at your reflection, that small, private smile Sevika had never seen you give anyone else.

Click. She caught it.

When you finally left the bedroom, Sevika stayed in the tree, waiting. She didn’t climb down until she heard the front door open and the jingle of your bracelets echo down the stairwell. You walked out into the fading sunlight, looking every bit like the goddess she believed you were, and headed toward the bar.

Only then did Sevika descend silently, landing on the ground with the camera still in her hands.

She glanced down at it, scrolling through the photos she’d taken. Each one was perfect. Each one was yours.

As she walked away, the ghost of that private smile burned behind her eyes, and she knew—she’d keep watching. Always.

The bar was alive again that night, music pulsing through the walls, lights dimmed just enough to give everything a hazy, intimate glow. It smelled of liquor and sweat, the air heavy with chatter and laughter. You moved through it like you owned the place—white ruffled skirt swaying, band tee hugging you just right, bracelets chiming as you weaved between tables. You were busy, but you were glowing in your element, flipping bottles, flashing smiles, teasing regulars.

Sevika lingered outside at first, smoking a cigarette under the faint neon glow of the bar sign. She was early, and she liked it that way—it gave her time to watch you through the window, to see you laughing with a coworker, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. Her fingers twitched slightly around the cigarette as that familiar warmth spread through her chest, the warmth she hated admitting felt good.

When she finally walked in, it was as if the entire place shifted. Not for anyone else, but for her. She was a presence—tall, broad, shoulders set like she dared anyone to get in her way. A few heads turned, but she ignored them all, eyes zeroed in on you.

You noticed her almost immediately. You didn’t mean to, but you did. Something about the way she carried herself made her impossible to ignore. And God, she looked good tonight—dark jeans, black tank under her open jacket, silver chain catching the light. She walked straight to the bar and sat in the exact same seat as last time, expression as unreadable as ever.

You swallowed, fixing your hair quickly before sliding behind the counter. “Well, look who came back,” you said with a playful lilt, leaning casually against the bar. “Couldn’t stay away, huh?”

Her eyes lifted slowly, meeting yours. That same sharp, consuming stare. “Whiskey,” she said simply.

You raised an eyebrow, a teasing smile tugging at your lips. “Straight to the point. Not even a ‘hi, how are you?’”

Silence stretched between you. You almost thought she wouldn’t answer, but then she said, quietly, “Hi.”

You blinked, caught off guard, and let out a small laugh. “Hi.” You poured her drink, sliding it over with a flourish. “You’re a woman of few words, huh?”

Sevika took the glass, fingers brushing the edge where yours had just been. “I don’t like wasting them,” she said, her tone flat but not unkind.

You tilted your head, intrigued despite yourself. “So… what made you come back?”

For a moment, she didn’t answer. Her eyes stayed locked on yours, and you swore you saw something flicker there—something darker, deeper. Then she said, “The drink was good.”

You smirked, leaning a little closer. “Just the drink?”

Sevika’s jaw tightened. No. Not just the drink. You. But she didn’t say that. Instead, she just took a slow sip of her whiskey, her gaze never leaving yours.

You felt that stare under your skin, prickling heat along the back of your neck as you moved away to serve another customer. But every time you glanced back, she was still watching. Always watching.

Later, when the crowd swelled and the bar grew louder, you caught her intervening once—subtle but undeniable. A drunk guy had leaned too far over the counter, his words slurred and hands reaching where they shouldn’t. You were about to snap at him when Sevika’s chair scraped against the floor. She didn’t say a word; she just stood, towering over the man with an expression that promised pain. The guy backed off instantly, muttering something before stumbling away.

You looked at her, wide-eyed. She just sat back down, sipping her whiskey like nothing happened. “Thanks,” you said softly when you passed her.

She didn’t reply, but you saw the faintest twitch of her mouth—almost a smile.

By the end of the night, she was still there, still silent, still watching. You walked up to her as you were wiping down the counter, exhaustion creeping in but curiosity burning brighter. “You’re… different,” you said, tilting your head.

Sevika stared at you, and for a heartbeat, it felt like she might actually open up, say something real. Instead, she finished her drink and placed the glass down carefully. “See you,” she said simply, her voice low.

You frowned slightly, but before you could respond, she stood and walked out into the night.

You watched her go, biting your lip, wondering why she lingered in your head when you had customers, coworkers, and a thousand other things to think about.

Across the street, hidden by the shadows, Sevika stopped. She turned back once, eyes catching on you through the bar’s glass, watching as you leaned on the counter, lost in thought.

Her chest tightened again. She’d be back. She wasn’t done with you—not even close.

The door to Sevika’s apartment creaked shut behind her with a quiet finality. The hum of the city still clung to her coat, the scent of the bar still lingering faintly on her skin—alcohol, sweat, perfume… you.

She didn’t turn the lights on. The apartment was dim, shadowed by the soft glow of her laptop as she set it down on the kitchen table. Her new camera rested beside it, a symbol of how far things had already gone. But tonight wasn’t about watching.

Tonight was about knowing.

She sat down slowly, pulling her chair close to the desk like she was preparing for surgery. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, unsure where to start. Then, with mechanical precision, she typed your name:

Y/N L/N

Your full name, neatly copied from your apartment mailbox, stared back at her as she hit search. The screen populated with pages of links and images, and her eyes devoured every single one.

First, your Instagram. Your handle was cheeky, flirty, the kind of thing that made people smile when they saw it. Your feed was a perfect collage of curated chaos:

Mirror selfies in tiny skirts and cropped band tees, always tagged with “#bartenderlife” or “#y2kbaby.”

Posts of your Ragdoll cat, a fluffball named Lemon, lounging in sun patches or sprawled across your lap.

Group pictures—your arm wrapped around vibrant, dangerous-looking girls she recognized from somewhere.

That sweet smile she’d memorized already, caught candidly in videos and stories.

Sevika stared at the photos for a long time, clicking through each one like they were sacred. Her favorite was one where you wore a sheer top over a lacy bra, your lips shiny with gloss, eyes half-lidded with the caption: “just got home, drunk & bored.” The thought of who else had seen it made her jaw clench.

She opened your most recent story. You were dancing in your bedroom in nothing but a tank top and panties, camera propped at an angle, music thumping. You laughed halfway through, off balance and adorable. Sevika didn’t blink as she watched.

Next was your TikTok. Sevika didn’t even have an account, but she found your profile easily.

It was full of fit checks, transitions showing you go from sleepwear to full club-ready outfits. There were also short “day in the life” clips—shots of you waking up, doing your makeup, feeding Lemon, picking jewelry. You narrated in a sleepy voice, sweet and casual like you were talking to a close friend.

In one video, you were lip-syncing something about being a “high-maintenance slut with a soft heart.” You winked at the end.

Sevika didn’t smile. But she watched it twice.

Then came Twitter, and this was where her breath caught.

You were filthy on Twitter. Your timeline was flooded with retweets of BDSM memes, soft dom/little sub gifs, porn gifs, quotes like “if she’s not crying, did you even fuck her right?” with an added “me” and a sparkle emoji in your QRT.

There were thirst traps—cleavage-heavy selfies, captions like “slutty & starving” or “I could take him. no really, I could take all of him.”

And your tweets…

“it’s embarrassing how bad i need to be choked rn.”

“god i miss my slut era.”

“i’m not gonna beg... unless you want me to.”

Sevika stared at the screen, her hand gripping the edge of the desk hard enough to make her knuckles pale. The idea that others were reading this—liking it, DMing you, imagining you—made her stomach twist.

But she wasn’t done.

She scrolled deeper. More posts, more pictures, more windows into who you were when you thought no one was watching. And then she found it—a retweet from years ago, an old post where someone mentioned your mother’s name in a memory.

She followed the trail.

A few clicks later, she found the obituary.

Carmen L/N Died at age 39. Cause: Complications from an overdose. Survived by her daughter. No mention of a father.

The obituary was short. Bare. Cold. Sevika read it three times. She didn’t know why it made her feel something—maybe it was the silence between the lines. The pain you never talked about, but carried in every joke, every flirt, every night you poured drinks like you didn’t want to go home.

Sevika clicked out of it without breathing.

She turned back to your Instagram, pulling up the group photos again. She began matching faces to names, then opened a new page in her journal.

She wrote in block letters, clean and even:

Y/N L/N — TARGET DOB: [She filled it in] ADDRESS: [Your apartment number] Socials:

Insta: @________

Twitter: @________

TikTok: @________

Mother: Carmen L/N — Deceased (OD)

Known Associates / Friends:

Jinx Warwick — spotted in 5+ posts. Loud. Chaotic. Drug-adjacent.

Vi Warwick — more stable, presence in bar photos. Protective. Possibly close.

Mel Medarda — fashionable, high-income friend, often tags locations. Possible employer contact.

Viktor — shy, appears rarely. May be more of a work connection.

Jayce Talis — only one tagged photo, unclear relationship. Monitor.

She stared at the page, letting the ink dry, then closed the journal softly.

She had more now. She had pieces.

And tomorrow, she’d be back at the bar. Watching. Learning. Waiting.

The night was quiet. Too quiet.

Sevika lay sprawled in her bed, one arm behind her head, staring at the ceiling. She wasn’t the type to toss and turn—usually, she’d close her eyes and slip into that cold, dreamless nothing she’d known most of her life. But tonight, her mind wouldn’t shut off.

Every time she closed her eyes, she saw you.

Not just in the way she usually thought about you—walking behind the bar, jewelry jingling, skirts clinging to your hips—but vivid. Tangible. Almost touchable.

It started slow. In the dream, you were leaning over the bar toward her, skirt riding up just enough to tease, that knowing smile tugging at your lips. She could hear the faint clink of your bracelets when you rested your elbows on the counter, could see the way the neckline of your top dipped just low enough to make her pulse throb.

“You’ve been staring all night,” dream-you said, voice dripping honey. “You gonna do something about it?”

Her chest tightened. In the dream, she stood, towering over you, and for once you weren’t hiding behind playful banter. Your eyes held hers, steady and hot, as if you were daring her.

The scene blurred, shifting without warning the way dreams do, and suddenly her hands were on you—at your waist, dragging you into her lap as she sat on the barstool. Your thighs straddled hers, your skirt bunched up, the warmth of you pressing down against her.

She could feel your breath on her neck, your fingers curling in the front of her shirt as you whispered something she couldn’t quite hear. And then your mouth was on hers—soft at first, then hungrier, wetter, your tongue piercing clinking faintly against her teeth as you deepened the kiss.

In the dream, it was all heat. Your nails dragging up her arms, the grind of your hips against her thigh, the tiny whimper you let out when she grabbed a fistful of your hair. She could smell you—warm and sweet, like pumpkin and apple, wrapping around her and making her dizzy.

Her hand slid between your thighs in the dream, fingers pushing your panties aside. You were wet already, slick against her calloused fingertips, and the sound you made when she touched you—high and breathless—went straight to her spine.

You rode her hand shamelessly, your skirt still bunched at your hips, your head thrown back so she could watch every twitch of your mouth, every gasp. She was grinding into you too, every movement sending jolts of heat through her until it was all she could feel.

And then—

Sevika woke with a sharp breath, eyes snapping open to the dark. Her sheets were twisted around her legs, her heart pounding hard enough to echo in her ears. For a moment she lay there, trying to steady her breathing, but the images didn’t fade.

You. On her lap. Moaning against her mouth. The sound of your bracelets when she pinned your wrists. The smell of you. The way you looked at her like you wanted her.

Her chest rose and fell faster. She wasn’t used to this—this tight, coiled ache low in her stomach. It had been… she didn’t even remember how long since she’d felt it. Most nights, nothing got through the wall inside her. Not porn, not one-night stands, not anything.

But this?

She shut her eyes, and you were right there again, whispering in her ear, grinding against her hand. Her jaw clenched as her own hand slid down beneath the waistband of her sweats.

She didn’t rush. She pictured your mouth first—the way it had looked in the dream, slick and swollen from kissing her. Her fingers traced circles, slow at first, and she imagined it was you touching her instead. You’d look down at her with that sly little grin, knowing exactly what you were doing.

Her breathing hitched. She pressed harder, picturing you leaning over her, your skirt brushing her thighs, your perfume thick in the air between you. In her mind, you were talking—teasing her, moaning her name, gasping when she grabbed you harder.

She slid her fingers lower, dipping into her own wetness, and the jolt of sensation made her back arch. She thought about your thighs spread across her lap, your hips rocking against her, the feel of your nails in her skin.

The pleasure built faster than she expected—hot and overwhelming, like every nerve had been lit up at once. She pressed her face into the pillow, biting back a groan, her fingers moving harder, faster, chasing the rhythm in her head.

And then she came.

It hit hard, her muscles tightening, breath spilling out in a low, shaky sound she barely recognized as her own. For a few seconds, she just lay there, eyes closed, her hand still between her thighs as the aftershocks ran through her.

When she finally opened her eyes, the room was quiet again. But she didn’t feel the same.

Her fingers were still damp, her heart still unsteady, and all she could think about was you. The way you looked when you smiled. The way you’d sound if you really were moaning her name.

She turned onto her back, staring at the ceiling, and realized she’d be seeing you tomorrow.

And now she knew exactly what she wanted to do to you.

The bar was alive in that way it always was on a Thursday night—music just loud enough to blur the edges of conversation, lights dim but warm, the smell of liquor, sweat, and perfume mingling in the air.

You were in your element again, moving between customers with that familiar sway of your hips, bracelets chiming softly with each pass. Tonight you’d dressed in a fitted jean skirt and a tank top with a pink cheetah print—pink base with black spots—low enough that the lace edge of your bra peeked over the neckline. Every time you leaned over the bar, it was just visible enough to draw eyes.

And Sevika noticed. She noticed everything.

She was already there, sitting in her usual spot at the far end of the bar, whiskey in front of her, elbow resting lazily on the counter. She watched you work, not moving much, not speaking to anyone. But her gaze was glued to you.

You caught her staring and smiled—part playful, part genuine. You’d started to enjoy seeing her here. It was strange, but comforting. Like having a quiet shadow in the corner, one that only seemed to focus on you.

When the crowd thinned enough for you to breathe, you made your way over to her, setting your rag down on the bar and leaning against it. “So,” you started, tapping your nails against the wood. “I feel like I know nothing about you.”

Sevika’s eyes lifted, steady and unreadable. “What do you want to know?”

You tilted your head, considering. “Do you have any friends?”

Her answer came without hesitation. “No.”

You blinked, caught off guard by how blunt it was. “Like… none?”

“None,” she repeated, taking a sip of her whiskey.

Your brows lifted. “Okay… do you want friends?”

She smirked faintly—just a twitch of her mouth, but it was there. “Not really.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “Alright, mystery woman. What are you doing in New York then?”

There was a pause. For a second you thought she might ignore the question entirely, but then she set her glass down and said, “Needed a change. Somewhere new. Somewhere I could… disappear, if I wanted to.”

It was more than you’d expected her to say. You studied her face for a moment, trying to read between the lines. She didn’t look away, but there was something there—something in the way her jaw set and her eyes stayed locked on you—that made you want to push a little further.

She was surprised, though, at the fact you were even asking. No one asked her about her life. No one cared to know where she came from or why she stayed. But you were looking at her like it mattered. Like she mattered.

Before the silence could stretch too long, you leaned forward on your elbows, grinning. “You doing anything tomorrow night?”

For a fraction of a second, her heart jumped. She thought—finally. Thought you were going to ask her out, thought this was the moment she’d hear you say something that would make that warm ache in her chest catch fire.

But then you added, “I’m going to the club with some friends. You wanna come?”

Her chest dropped like a stone in water. The disappointment was sharp and immediate, though she didn’t let it show on her face. A slow blink was the only sign of it. “A club?” she asked flatly.

“Yeah,” you said, that playful glint in your eye. “Dancing, drinking, bad decisions. You’ll love it.”

“I doubt it,” she muttered.

You tilted your head, leaning closer just enough for your perfume to curl around her, warm and sweet. “Come on,” you coaxed, giving her the full force of your puppy look—soft eyes, slightly tilted smile, like you were inviting her into some secret. “It’ll be fun.”

She wanted to say no. She should have said no. Crowded clubs weren’t her thing, strangers weren’t her thing. But you? You could’ve told her to follow you into a burning building, and she might’ve done it just to keep that look on your face.

“…Fine,” she said finally.

Your grin widened. “Good. It’s a date—well, not a date-date, but you know what I mean.”

Her jaw flexed at the words not a date-date, but she just nodded, watching as you bounced away to serve another customer.

She sat there for the rest of the night, quietly nursing her drink, the sound of your laugh carrying through the noise. Disappointment still sat heavy in her chest… but underneath it was something else.

 she’d be somewhere she could watch you even closer. And no one would notice.

The morning light was pale, almost silvery, as Sevika sat hunched over her kitchen table, the glow of her laptop still fresh in her eyes. She hadn’t been asleep long—she rarely was these days—but she’d been up enough hours to scroll through everything she could find about you since leaving the bar last night.

That’s when she saw it.

Buried in a casual tweet from one of your friends—tagged location, timestamped for this morning. "Coffee with my girl ☕💖" The photo was grainy but clear enough: you, sitting in a corner booth of a café just a few blocks from your apartment. Across from you, Vi Warwick.

Her jaw clenched. She didn’t like that name.

She sat back, exhaling slowly through her nose. She could’ve just… stayed here. Let it go. But the thought of you laughing with someone else, leaning in over a coffee, giving the attention she wanted—it gnawed at her like rust on metal.

Within minutes, she was out the door.

The café’s big street-facing windows made it easy to find you. You were in a booth by the glass, sunlight catching the curve of your smile as you gestured mid-story. Vi sat across from you, relaxed and casual, her hand wrapped around a steaming mug.

Sevika lingered outside for a moment, jaw tight. She could already feel the simmering annoyance in her gut. Vi was leaning in just a little too comfortably.

She sighed once, forcing her face neutral, and pushed open the door.

The smell of espresso and warm pastries hit instantly. She moved to the counter like she belonged there, like she wasn’t here for anything other than caffeine. The barista greeted her; she ordered a plain coffee, her voice low and clipped.

As the cup slid into her hand, your laugh rang out across the café. Her head turned automatically, eyes locking on you.

You gasped, surprised, and waved her over with a bright, eager grin. “Sevika! Hey! What are you doing here?”

For the smallest beat, she almost smiled back—it was hard not to when you looked at her like that. But the words that left her mouth were blunt, flat. “Needed coffee. This place was close.”

Her gaze flicked to Vi, sharp and assessing. Vi, mid-sip, froze just slightly, her eyes widening as she took in Sevika’s size, the set of her shoulders, the way her stare didn’t waver.

Then Sevika’s eyes came back to you, and her entire expression softened. Just for you.

“Come on,” you said, still smiling. “Sit with us.” You patted the seat beside you, your tone almost pleading.

She slid into the booth, the paper cup warm in her hand.

“This is Vi,” you said cheerfully, gesturing to the redhead. “She’s one of the friends coming to the club with us tomorrow.”

Sevika’s jaw flexed. She turned to Vi, forcing her lips into something that might pass for a smile but didn’t reach her eyes. “Great.” The word was low, almost gritty, and her hand tightened around the paper cup until it crinkled faintly.

Vi gave a small, polite smile, clearly not sure what to make of her. “Nice to meet you,” she said, her voice just a touch higher than before.

The conversation flowed mostly between you and Vi—plans for the club, a story from work, some inside joke you shared—but Sevika sat like a quiet wall at your side. She didn’t interrupt, didn’t add much, but every time Vi’s gaze drifted to her, Sevika’s eyes were there—steady, unreadable, faintly threatening.

Vi’s voice wavered each time she caught it.

Still, whenever you turned toward Sevika, her expression shifted. The hard lines softened, her mouth relaxed, her gaze warm enough to pass for friendly. She nodded when you talked, asked a quiet question or two—nothing more, but enough to keep you happy.

And all the while, she sat with her shoulder just close enough to yours that she could feel the warmth radiating from you, her grip tightening slightly on the coffee every time you laughed at something Vi said.

It was fine.

Tomorrow, she’d be there at the club.

And Vi would understand exactly where she stood.

The café had begun to fill up around you, the hum of conversation and clinking cups rising as the morning wore on. Your latte was half gone, Vi’s was down to the dregs, and Sevika’s plain coffee sat mostly untouched in her hands. She’d been quiet most of the time, her gaze sweeping between you and Vi, her grip on the paper cup tightening whenever you laughed at something Vi said.

She’d already made her move earlier—quietly, casually, while you were leaned toward Vi mid-story. Your phone had been sitting on the table by your elbow, screen dark. Sevika’s hand, large and deliberate, had brushed it as if adjusting her cup, sliding it smoothly into the deep pocket of her jacket.

Now, as you all began to gather your things, she watched from the corner of her eye.

You slipped your bag over your shoulder, reaching instinctively toward the table. Your fingers touched the empty space where your phone should’ve been. You froze.

“Wait,” you said, patting the table again, then the seat beside you. “Where’s my phone?”

Vi looked up. “You had it here, right?” She set her coffee down and leaned across the table, scanning the area.

You were already pulling up cushions, checking under the table. “Yeah, I… I had it right here. I just—” You stood, glancing around the floor, the booth, even your bag. Your smile was gone now, replaced with the furrowed frustration of someone who’d already had too many mornings start this way. “I don’t understand, I just had it.”

Vi got up too, joining you in the search. “It’s probably just slipped somewhere,” she said gently, her voice soft with reassurance. She placed a steadying hand on your shoulder.

Sevika’s fingers twitched against her cup. The sight of Vi’s hand on you, even in a moment this small, sent a sharp spike of heat through her chest. It was territorial, ugly. She wanted to knock that hand away. But she didn’t move, didn’t speak.

She just stood back, silent, watching you crouch to check under the table while Vi murmured comforting words.

And she knew—she knew exactly where the phone was. She could feel its weight against the inside of her jacket, resting where she’d tucked it earlier. The guilt pressed cold in her gut for half a second when your brows knit in upset, when you exhaled hard and muttered, “I really need that thing…”

For a flicker of a moment, she almost considered giving it back right there. Almost.

But she didn’t.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Vi was saying, straightening up. “It’ll turn up. You can use mine to call it when you get home.”

You sighed, shouldering your bag again, still scanning the booth like the phone might magically appear. “Yeah… okay.”

Sevika just watched you, her face unreadable, but her chest tight. She didn’t like seeing you upset. And she hated, even more, knowing she was the reason for it.

The three of you stepped out into the street together, the air cool and bright. You and Vi said your goodbyes, heading in separate directions. Sevika lingered, letting you and your friend walk ahead before turning down her own path, the stolen phone still secure in her pocket.

She told herself it was for the best. That it was better this way.

But the way you’d looked back at the café, lips pressed together in frustration, stuck in her head long after you were gone.

Sevika shut the door to her apartment with a slow, deliberate push, the faint click of the lock sealing her in. Her jacket was still on when she sat at the table, pulling the stolen phone from her pocket and setting it in front of her.

It looked harmless there—small, pink case with a couple of glittery stickers on the back—but she knew better. This was a vault. Your vault. And now it was hers.

The screen lit up when she pressed the button, bathing her in that faint glow. A rainbow zebra print wallpaper filled the lock screen, loud and flashy in a way that felt so you she almost smirked. It was messy and bright, clashing colors screaming for attention—and yet, somehow, you made it work.

Her thumb hovered for a moment over the Messages icon. There was a hesitation she wasn’t used to feeling, a sharp awareness in her chest that whatever she found inside could change the way she thought about you. Could show her things she didn’t want to see.

She opened it anyway.

Contacts. The names were mostly familiar—faces she’d seen tagged in your posts, the friends she’d already written down in her journal. Mel. Jinx. Caitlyn. Vi. Jayce. Viktor. A few random numbers with barely any history—just short, dead-end threads about party times or someone awkwardly confessing they liked you, only for you to turn them down in that easy, almost playful way you seemed to do everything.

She scrolled deeper until a certain chat caught her eye: Baddies Only.

The members: Mel, Jinx, Caitlyn… and you.

The group thread was chaos. Blown-up selfies. Outfit check mirror shots. Random gossip. Screenshots of private DMs with commentary. It was the kind of group chat where filters dropped and the tone got raw—swearing, inside jokes, and the kind of honesty that never hit social media.

It was also littered with nudes.

Sevika’s brow furrowed slightly. Most of them weren’t you, and she skipped over those without a second glance, her thumb moving fast until—

She froze.

One image stopped her dead: you. Sitting on your bed, wearing nothing above the waist except for two tiny pieces of jewelry catching the light. Your freshly pierced nipples—the skin around them still slightly red—framed perfectly in the photo.

Her breath hitched, sharp and low. The air in her apartment suddenly felt warmer. Her hand tightened on the phone, and she stared for a few seconds longer than she should’ve before forcing herself to click out of it, jaw tense.

She moved to the main group chat—a bigger thread with Vi, Mel, Jinx, Caitlyn, Jayce, Viktor, and Ekko all together.

It was lively, buzzing with back-and-forth messages: Candid pictures from parties, Inside jokes and memes flying at all hours, Planning nights out and roasting each other.

It was ordinary in a way Sevika didn’t understand. Comfortable. She could almost see you sitting in the middle of a group like that, leaning on a friend’s shoulder, laughing without holding anything back.

If she’d had a friend like you in high school… maybe things would’ve been different. Maybe she wouldn’t have been so cut off. Maybe she wouldn’t feel this deep, bone-deep urge to keep you all to herself now.

Click. She closed Messages and tapped into Photos.

The screen bloomed into your life, hundreds—thousands—of little squares, each one a piece of you.

She started scrolling.

selfies of you and your group crammed into bar booths, grinning in bad lighting. Blurry concert shots, arms thrown over each other’s shoulders. Lazy afternoons at someone’s apartment, hair messy, pizza boxes on the table.

a few old photos with people she didn’t recognize, arms around you, smiling like they had something she didn’t. She lingered on each one a second too long, cataloging faces, silently committing them to memory.

Of course there were nudes, a lot of them—mirror selfies in skimpy lingerie, artful shots of you sprawled on your bed, videos where your voice was just barely audible, playful and breathy. There were thirst traps meant for Instagram drafts, and ones clearly never meant for anyone but the person you sent them to. Her pulse was heavy in her throat as she swiped past them slowly, unable to look away.

candid snaps of coworkers, crowded nights with people clinging to the counter, close-up shots of drinks you’d made, glittering under the neon lights.

short clips of you laughing into the camera, dancing in your bedroom, panning down to your outfit of the night. Videos from the bar, you in the middle of the crowd, sweaty and smiling, someone else filming you from across the room. 

your ragdoll cat sprawled across your lap, curling into your hair while you slept, blinking lazily at the camera as you giggled in the background.

By the time she stopped scrolling, she’d seen so much of you—more than anyone else probably had all at once—that her head felt full.

It was overwhelming. Not just because of the intimacy of what she’d seen, but because it made you feel so close, like she could almost reach out and touch you from here.

Her thumb hovered over the camera roll again before she locked the screen and set the phone down slowly.

The image that stuck in her mind wasn’t the nudes, wasn’t the parties—it was a short video of you at home, hair messy, face bare, laughing so hard you had to wipe your eyes.

She sat back in her chair, breathing slow, and thought about what it would take to keep that laugh for herself.

comment to be added to the taglist!!

[cup1drul3z]

Need some omegaverse requests plsplsplsplspls

[cup1drul3z]

Your reminder to not name your finch sevika

[cup1drul3z]

Would you guys like a sevika stalker fic where reader is a bartender or is that too basic?

[cup1drul3z]

★ — Heat of the moment

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 2 : ꜰʀᴀᴄᴛᴜʀᴇ

ᴇᴍᴛ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ x ꜰɪʀᴇꜰɪɢʜᴛᴇʀ!ꜱᴇᴠɪᴋᴀ | 12.1ᴋ ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ

TAGS ; workplace setting, medical situations, death, substance use, infidelity, pregnancy, age gap, smut, angst

A/N ; i love watching Chicago med while writing this fic

SUMMARY ; You collapse during a call and wake in the hospital to shocking news that shakes you to your core. Back on shift, you save a suicidal teen and help deliver a baby, but your personal life unravels when you uncover your boyfriend’s betrayal. In the chaos, Sevika’s presence becomes the one thing you can rely on.

previous chapter

Your alarm buzzed quietly at 5:00 a.m., the sound soft enough not to wake the man beside you. You silenced it quickly, sliding out of bed with the care of someone sneaking away from a crime scene. Your boyfriend didn’t stir; he just rolled over, mumbling something incoherent before drifting deeper into sleep.

You dressed quickly in your EMT uniform, the familiar navy t-shirt and cargo pants. But this morning felt different—you caught yourself lingering in front of the mirror. You stood there, hairbrush in hand, and for once, instead of shoving your hair into a quick ponytail, you actually spent time on it. You smoothed every strand, making sure it sat perfectly.

When you were done, you tilted your head, adjusting the angle until a few pieces fell loose around your face. You paused, brushing one misplaced strand back before letting it spill forward again.

For a second, you just stared at yourself.

Why am I doing this?

The thought hit like a jolt. Am I… prettying myself up for Sevika?

You froze, fingers lingering on the elastic in your hair, hesitating. You could undo it, throw it back into the sloppy ponytail you usually wore. You almost did.

But instead, you took a slow breath and left it the way it was.

When you stepped out the door, you had extra time to kill—unusual for you. Maybe it was nerves. Maybe it was something else entirely. Either way, you decided to take a detour to Starbucks.

The smell of roasted coffee beans hit you the second you walked in, warm and inviting. There were only a handful of customers this early, and you scanned the line, tugging your jacket closer around you. That’s when you spotted her.

Jinx.

She was easy to recognize—bright blue braids swaying as she stood in line, scrolling on her phone with one hand. The second her eyes lifted and landed on you, her face lit up with a huge grin.

She giggled and started waving you over like a maniac, earning a few curious stares from the other customers. “Rookie! Over here!”

You hesitated for half a second—cutting the line felt wrong—but she kept motioning, her grin infectious. You finally gave in, slipping into line beside her. Nobody stopped you. And honestly, who was going to tell an EMT on her way to work no?

“Look at you!” Jinx said, nudging you with her elbow. “Perfect ponytail, bright-eyed at five in the morning? You’re spoiling me.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips. “Don’t get used to it.”

The two of you chatted quietly as the line moved, talking about yesterday’s calls and the psychic shop from the last run. Jinx snorted into her sleeve when you imitated the father yelling about crystals, nearly making herself choke with laughter.

Finally, you reached the counter.

The teenage cashier looked up, dead-eyed but polite. “Hi, what can I get for you?”

Jinx leaned dramatically on the counter, flashing him a mischievous grin. “Okay, so, I’ll have a venti caramel ribbon crunch frappuccino with extra drizzle—oh, and make it half almond milk, half oat milk, light on the whip, double blended, with two pumps of white mocha and a splash of cold brew on top. And—oh!—can you drizzle the cup with mocha too? Thanks.”

The poor cashier blinked at her, looking like he was trying to remember a test he didn’t study for. He started scribbling on the cup, running out of room halfway through and flipping it over to keep writing.

You tried not to laugh as Jinx added, “Oh, and a shot of espresso in there. Gotta stay awake somehow.”

When the cashier looked up, his eyes were wide, clearly praying he’d repeated it right. He recited the order slowly, and Jinx clapped like he’d just won a game show.

By the time he turned to you, you were fighting a yawn, leaning on the counter.

“Uh…” you said softly, biting the inside of your cheek. “Just a venti regular coffee with cream, please.”

The relief that washed over his face was almost comical. “Coming right up.”

As he rang it up, you pulled out your card, but Jinx’s hand shot out like lightning, blocking you.

“Ah-ah,” she said, smirking. “I’m paying.”

You frowned. “No, I’ve got it.”

She stepped in front of you, holding her card up high. “Nope. My treat. Don’t argue with me, rookie.”

You narrowed your eyes, trying to sidestep her to tap your card, but she physically turned you by the shoulders, shoving you back gently. “Go wait by the pickup counter before I pin you down right here and force you to let me pay.”

You glared at her, cheeks heating. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re adorable when you’re mad,” she teased, swiping her card with a flourish.

You huffed, stomping (lightly) toward the pickup counter as she grinned behind you. When she joined you a moment later, she looked entirely too pleased with herself.

“You owe me,” she said with a wink.

You crossed your arms, still glaring but unable to stop the smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth.

When your coffee was ready, you grabbed it and took a sip, savoring the warmth. As you both walked out together, the sky just starting to glow with sunrise, you couldn’t help but think… mornings like this? You could get used to them.

The station was lively when you and Jinx arrived, the smell of coffee and engine oil mixing in the air as morning crews shuffled around. You clocked in beside her, still sipping the last of your Starbucks. Jinx was chattering about something—probably her elaborate coffee order—when you spotted Caitlyn across the bay.

She was leaning casually against the ambulance she’d just finished cleaning, dark blue hair falling over her shoulder in waves. Even after a night shift, she looked annoyingly composed, her EMT jacket zipped halfway as she typed something into her tablet.

“Look who’s still alive,” you teased as you walked over, Jinx smirking beside you.

Caitlyn looked up, that gap-toothed smile flashing as soon as she saw you. “Barely. Two more hours and I’m free.”

You chuckled softly. “Guess we’ll at least get one call together, then.”

Before Caitlyn could respond, movement in the corner of your eye made you pause. You turned slightly, and there she was.

Sevika.

She stood by one of the trucks, arms crossed, her expression hard. Those sharp eyes were locked on you—staring almost angrily, like she was daring you to keep smiling at Caitlyn. Heat crept up your neck, and you quickly turned back to Caitlyn, forcing yourself to focus. You wanted to stay away from her. You really did.

But before you could think too hard about it, the tones dropped, blaring through the station.

“Car collision. Multiple vehicles. Highway. EMS and fire response requested.”

Jinx grinned. “Showtime.”

You grabbed your gear, and within seconds, you, Jinx, and Caitlyn were climbing into the ambulance while Sevika and her crew rolled out with the fire truck. The sirens screamed, cutting through the early morning traffic as you raced toward the scene.

The highway was already blocked off when you arrived, police lights flashing red and blue across the asphalt. The wreckage wasn’t catastrophic—two vehicles crumpled in the front, airbags deployed—but tension hung heavy in the air. A woman in her late 30s stood by one car, shouting furiously at a man in his 40s by the other.

“You cut me off! You could have killed me!” she yelled.

“You slammed on your brakes! This is your fault!” he roared back.

The police were trying to separate them, their voices firm but calm. One officer finally stepped in, physically guiding them away from each other to get their statements.

You grabbed your kit and headed straight for the woman, Jinx right beside you. Her forehead was bleeding, a thin line of red cutting through her temple. She was shaky, but still standing.

“Ma’am, I’m going to check you out, alright?” you said gently, guiding her to sit on the curb.

She nodded, muttering under her breath about the other driver. You put on gloves and carefully dabbed at the wound, checking for any signs of a concussion. No confusion, no vomiting. Her pupils were equal. Still, Jinx called in a transmission just to be safe, ordering a hospital transport.

While you worked, an officer approached to take her statement—broad-shouldered, with a buzzed cut and a presence that was both intimidating and oddly approachable. You noticed the way she glanced at Jinx, the corner of her mouth twitching in a smirk.

“Vi,” Jinx called, grinning. “Didn’t know this was your scene.”

The officer—Violet, apparently—snorted. “Didn’t know this was yours. Keep your rookie out of the way.”

You rolled your eyes but said nothing, focusing on checking the woman’s reflexes. You shined a penlight into her eyes, then shifted slightly to reach your kit. That’s when it hit you.

A wave of dizziness crashed over you, sudden and strong. Your stomach churned violently, nausea clawing its way up your throat.

You froze, the penlight trembling in your hand. You looked at Jinx, panic flickering in your eyes.

“Rookie?” she asked, her grin fading.

Vi’s brow furrowed as she stepped closer. “Hey, you good?”

You shook your head faintly, your voice barely a whisper. “Um—”

That was all you managed before your stomach lurched. You doubled over, vomiting onto the pavement beside you, your whole body trembling. The world tilted, the noise of the scene fading into a dull roar as your vision blurred.

The last thing you felt was Vi’s strong arms catching you just as your knees buckled.

“Got her!” Vi barked, lowering you carefully to the ground.

Caitlyn was on you in an instant, her tablet hitting the asphalt as she dropped to her knees. “Y/N! Talk to me!”

Jinx was right there too, ripping open the trauma kit. “She was fine a second ago—what the hell—”

Your breaths came shallow as Caitlyn checked your pulse, her fingers firm but gentle on your neck. “Pulse is rapid. She’s burning up.”

“She’s out,” Jinx said tightly, her voice shaking. “Load her up. Now.”

The other EMTs rushed the stretcher over, and with Vi’s help, they lifted you carefully, securing you onto the gurney. Caitlyn climbed into the back with you, already hooking you up to vitals while Jinx slammed the ambulance doors shut.

The sirens wailed again, louder this time, as the rig tore off toward the hospital. Caitlyn’s voice was calm but urgent as she worked, brushing damp strands of hair from your face.

“You’re gonna be okay, Y/N,” she said softly, almost like a promise.

You stirred faintly, your world spinning, Sevika’s truck fading into the distance behind you as the ambulance raced away.

The sirens screamed through the morning traffic, weaving the ambulance down the highway toward the hospital. The flashing lights reflected off every passing car, painting the world in pulses of red and white. Inside, the air was tense and filled with the rhythmic beeping of the monitor clipped to your finger.

You were barely conscious, the nausea rolling in waves, your head pounding. Every bump in the road made your stomach flip. Caitlyn stayed by your side, her gloved hand gently stabilizing your head, her voice calm and steady as she spoke to you.

“Y/N, stay with me,” she said, leaning close so you could hear over the sirens. “Your vitals are a little all over the place, but you’re okay. You’re safe.”

You forced your eyes open, the harsh interior lights blurring into white halos. Caitlyn’s face was the only thing clear, her dark blue hair framing a face filled with concern. You tried to speak, but only a weak sound came out. She squeezed your hand gently.

Jinx’s voice called from the front through the small sliding window. “How is she?”

Caitlyn didn’t look away from you. “She’s holding on. Fever’s high. Keep driving.”

The ambulance tilted slightly as Jinx took an aggressive turn, the siren blaring louder. You drifted in and out, your body hot and cold at the same time. Through the haze, flashes of the scene kept looping—Vi’s arms catching you, Jinx’s panicked shout, Caitlyn’s face hovering over you. And somewhere in the back of your foggy brain, Sevika’s sharp eyes were there too, watching from the edge of the highway.

Minutes felt like hours until the ambulance finally screeched into the ER bay. The doors burst open, and suddenly you were moving—fast. The gurney rolled down the ramp, EMTs on both sides shouting vitals to the waiting hospital staff.

“Fever’s spiking—possible infection or hepatitis exposure, nausea, fainting!” Caitlyn called out, her voice carrying as she jogged beside you, not letting go of your hand until she absolutely had to.

The ER team took over, surrounding you in a flurry of voices and hands. You caught snippets—liver panel, isolation precautions, get an IV started. Someone slid a needle into your arm, cold fluids rushing through your veins.

You wanted to fight it, to stay awake, but the exhaustion was overwhelming. The last thing you saw was Caitlyn’s face disappearing as the doors to the treatment room swung closed.

Back at the scene, Jinx was packing up their equipment with shaky hands. She tried to play it cool, but Vi saw right through her.

“You good?” Vi asked, crossing her arms, her usual intimidating stance softened by concern.

Jinx scoffed. “No, Vi, I’m not good. My rookie just puked and passed out on me. That doesn’t exactly scream fine.”

Vi’s brows furrowed. “She didn’t look right before it happened. You think it’s… bad?”

Jinx’s jaw tightened. “I don’t know. But if it is, someone’s gonna answer for it.

Meanwhile, Sevika was still by her truck, the police tape fluttering in the breeze. She’d watched the entire thing—the way you’d gone pale, the way you’d collapsed, Vi catching you like you weighed nothing.

She lit a cigar, her hands uncharacteristically unsteady as she took a long drag. She shouldn’t care. You were just another rookie EMT. But that image—your body going limp, Jinx yelling for a stretcher—was burned into her brain.

She blew out the smoke, her jaw tight. “Damn it, rookie,” she muttered to herself.

For a moment, she considered calling the hospital to check on you. But she stopped herself, grinding the cigar under her boot. No. She’d wait. She’d find out soon enough.

Hours later, you were lying in a hospital bed, an IV hooked to your arm, the steady beep of monitors filling the quiet room. You were stable now, but weak, your head foggy.

A nurse stepped in, checking your chart. “You’re lucky,” she said gently. “Severe dehydration and infection signs. We’ll keep you overnight to be safe.”

You nodded faintly, too tired to answer.

As the nurse left, the door cracked open again. You turned your head slowly, expecting hospital staff—only to see Caitlyn slip inside, still in her EMT jacket, her hair messy from the long shift.

She smiled softly when she saw you awake. “Hey, rookie.”

Your lips twitched in a tired smile. “Hey.”

She pulled a chair up to your bed, settling in beside you. “You scared the hell out of us, you know that?”

You managed a weak laugh. “Sorry.”

Caitlyn leaned back, her hands resting on her knees. “Don’t be. You’re tougher than you think. I’m glad you’re okay.”

You closed your eyes for a moment, her words settling over you like a blanket. For the first time that day, you felt like maybe—just maybe—you were safe.

But somewhere deep down, you knew this wasn’t over.

The room was calm for a moment, the quiet broken only by the steady beeping of the heart monitor beside your bed. Caitlyn was still sitting next to you, leaning back in her chair as she sipped from a water bottle. You were staring at the ceiling, exhaustion making every thought feel slow and heavy.

The door opened, and the nurse stepped back in, holding a small clipboard and a paper in her hand. She was smiling, bright and cheerful, as if she carried good news.

“Y/N,” she said warmly, “congratulations!”

You blinked, your brows knitting. “…For what?”

The nurse tilted her head, still smiling. “Your pregnancy test came back positive. You’re pregnant.”

The words hit you like a punch to the chest. Your mouth fell open, and for a moment, you just stared at her.

Caitlyn, mid-sip of her water, choked and spat it out, coughing as the liquid dripped down her chin. “Wait—what?!”

Your voice came out louder than you meant, shaky and panicked. “I’m WHAT?!”

The nurse’s smile faltered slightly at your reaction, her brows raising. “You… didn’t know?”

Caitlyn stood quickly, the chair scraping against the floor. Her eyes flicked between you and the nurse, wide and stunned. “Uh, this seems like a private conversation,” she said quickly, rubbing your shoulder in an awkward but comforting gesture. “You’re gonna be okay.” Her voice was soft, like she wanted to reassure you, but you were too shocked to process it. She gave you a quick, apologetic smile before slipping out of the room, leaving you alone with the nurse.

Your breathing started to pick up, chest rising and falling too fast. “No. No, no, no, no—this isn’t—there’s no way. It’s just stress. It’s stress! I’m not—” Your voice cracked, trembling as panic clawed its way up your throat.

The nurse stepped closer, hands raised in a calming gesture. “Y/N, take a deep breath for me, okay? It’s going to be alright. We’ll talk through your options, but right now I need you to breathe.”

You shook your head, clutching the sheets in your fists. “I can’t—I can’t—this isn’t supposed to happen. Oh my God—”

The beeping on the heart monitor spiked, the sharp rhythm growing faster, almost frantic.

“Sweetheart, I need you to stay calm,” the nurse said gently, her voice even but firm. She reached for the call button, pressing it. “You’re safe, but you need to slow your breathing.”

You were hyperventilating now, tears streaming down your face as you clutched at your stomach like it was something foreign. “I—I can’t—”

The door opened, and two doctors rushed in, their expressions focused and calm as they approached the bed. One of them quickly checked the monitor while the other knelt beside you.

“She’s panicking,” the nurse explained quickly. “Positive pregnancy test, she didn’t know.”

The doctor nodded, his voice low and soothing. “Y/N, listen to me. You’re okay. But your heart rate is too high, and we need to help you relax.”

You tried to shake your head, but everything was spinning—the lights, the walls, even the voices around you blurred together. Your breaths came in short, sharp gasps, the beeping becoming almost unbearable in your ears.

“I can’t—I can’t—please—”

“It’s alright,” the doctor said gently, motioning to the nurse. “We’re going to give you something to help calm you down, okay? You’re safe. Just breathe.”

You felt the cool touch of an alcohol swab on your arm, then the slight pinch of a needle as they administered the sedative into your IV. You tried to protest, but your voice was slurred now, weak, the panic fading as the medication pulled you down.

The last thing you heard before the darkness took you was the nurse’s soft voice. “You’re safe. We’ve got you.”

And then everything went black.

The locker room smelled faintly of smoke, sweat, and cheap deodorant—the usual end-of-shift perfume. Jinx was rummaging through her locker with one hand while texting furiously with the other, her blue braids swinging around as she tossed items into a duffel.

She pulled out your EMT bag and slung it over her shoulder, muttering under her breath. “Hospital food is garbage. I’m grabbing her a taco on the way. Maybe two.”

A deep voice cut through her thoughts. “Are you seeing Y/N?”

Jinx froze, hand still gripping her phone. Slowly, she turned her head, and there was Sevika, leaning casually against the row of lockers. Except nothing about her posture was casual—the tension in her shoulders and the sharp set of her jaw said otherwise.

Jinx went back to rummaging, not sparing her a glance. “Yeah, I’m going to see her. She’s my rookie, and she’s stuck in the hospital. Someone’s gotta make sure she’s okay.” She tugged out a hoodie and stuffed it into the bag. “Plus, I need to give her her stuff.”

Sevika hesitated for half a beat before speaking, her voice softer than usual. “Can I come?”

That made Jinx spin around so fast one of her braids whipped across her own face. She blinked at Sevika, stunned. “You? You want to see a rookie?” Her tone dripped with disbelief.

Sevika’s eyes flickered away, her expression hardening to hide something underneath. “Yeah. So what?”

Jinx crossed her arms, staring at her like she was trying to read her mind. “Since when do you care about rookies? You eat rookies for breakfast.”

Sevika shifted her weight, looking uncomfortable—something Jinx rarely saw. “I just… I want to see how she’s doing.”

Jinx’s eye twitched. She stepped closer, lowering her voice as she glanced around to make sure no one was nearby. Then she narrowed her eyes and whispered, “Did you sleep with her?”

“What?!” Sevika’s voice jumped, echoing through the locker room.

“Shh!” Jinx hissed, smacking her arm. “You have a history, Sev. You’ve gotten in trouble for this crap before!”

Sevika pinched the bridge of her nose, sighing like she wished she were anywhere else. “No, Jinx. I didn’t sleep with her.”

Jinx wasn’t convinced, her glare sharp as ever. “Then why do you care so much? You barely look at half the people you work with.”

Sevika rubbed the back of her neck, her jaw tight. Finally, she muttered, almost too low to hear, “I kissed her.”

Jinx blinked. “You what?”

Sevika looked away, grimacing. “I kissed her.”

The silence stretched for a beat.

“When?” Jinx asked flatly, her voice low and dangerous.

Sevika sucked in a slow breath, clearly regretting saying anything. “Uh… her first day.”

Jinx’s jaw dropped, her eye twitching harder. “ARE YOU SERIOUS?!” she shouted, loud enough to make a firefighter passing by stop in his tracks and quickly scurry away.

Sevika winced, glaring at her. “Keep your voice down!”

“You kissed her on her first day?!” Jinx hissed, her voice now a harsh whisper. “Do you even know how bad that looks?!”

“It wasn’t like that,” Sevika snapped, finally meeting her eyes. “She didn’t push me away. She wanted it. And I—” She stopped herself, rubbing the back of her neck again. “It just happened.”

Jinx stared at her, lips pressed into a thin line, like she was debating whether to throw a punch or laugh. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m not asking for your blessing,” Sevika said through clenched teeth. “I just want to see her.”

Jinx looked away, exhaling sharply. She tapped her fingers against the strap of the bag, clearly thinking it over. After a long pause, she muttered, “Fine. But you’re not saying one word that’s gonna stress her out more, got it?”

Sevika’s mouth twitched into a faint smirk. “Got it.”

Jinx slung the bag over her shoulder again and shook her head, muttering under her breath. “I feel like im stuck in fan fucking fiction.”

Sevika raised an eyebrow but didn’t respond, following Jinx toward the station doors.

“Don’t get weird,” Jinx warned as they stepped into the sunlight.

Sevika just smirked faintly, lighting a cigar as she walked beside her. “No promises.”

The hospital smelled faintly of antiseptic and stale air, the hum of fluorescent lights buzzing overhead as Jinx pushed through the sliding doors. She had your duffel bag slung over her shoulder and a takeout bag with tacos in her other hand. Behind her, Sevika followed, hands stuffed into her jacket pockets, her usual intimidating presence softened just slightly by the sterile surroundings.

They walked down the hallway together, Jinx leading with quick steps. Nurses glanced at them curiously, but no one stopped them—Jinx’s EMT jacket and badge clipped to her pocket gave her just enough authority to move through without question.

When they reached the nurse’s station outside your room, Jinx set the bags down on the counter. “Hi. We’re here to see Y/N L/N,” she said, her voice polite but edged with concern.

The nurse glanced up from her computer, recognition flashing in her eyes. “She’s stable. Room 207, but she’s sedated right now.”

Jinx blinked. “Sedated? Why would she be sedated?”

Sevika stepped closer, her brows furrowing. “Yeah. What happened?”

The nurse hesitated, glancing between them. “Normally we wouldn’t disclose that information to anyone but family…” Her eyes narrowed slightly at Sevika, but when she looked back at Jinx, her tone softened. “But I see you’re EMTs. You were probably on shift with her?”

Jinx nodded quickly. “Yeah. We’re her crew.”

The nurse sighed, lowering her voice. “She experienced an acute panic attack. Her heart rate skyrocketed, she was hyperventilating, and she wasn’t responding to verbal calming techniques. The doctor had to sedate her to stabilize her vitals.”

Jinx’s jaw tightened. “What triggered it?”

The nurse hesitated again, clearly weighing whether to share. After a moment, she leaned closer. “She found out she was pregnant.”

The words hung heavy in the air.

Jinx’s mouth dropped open, her blue braids swaying as she jerked back slightly. “She’s—what?”

Sevika’s jaw tensed, though her expression remained controlled. Her eyes darkened, the muscles in her arms flexing as her fists curled in her pockets.

“She didn’t know,” the nurse continued gently. “The test results came back this morning. She reacted badly—panic, denial. It was severe enough that the doctor decided sedation was the safest option.”

Jinx rubbed her forehead, muttering under her breath, “Oh, rookie…” She shook her head, frustration and worry mixing on her face. “She must’ve been so scared.”

Sevika didn’t say a word, but her eyes flickered toward the room down the hall, her jaw clenching harder. Something twisted in her chest at the thought of you lying there alone, terrified, and unable to breathe.

“Is she going to be okay?” Jinx asked, her voice quieter now.

The nurse nodded. “Physically, yes. Emotionally… that’s another story. She’ll need support.”

Jinx exhaled slowly, grabbing your bag and the takeout. “Thanks for telling us.”

The nurse gave a small nod and returned to her charting as Jinx and Sevika made their way to your room.

When they stepped inside, the room was dimly lit, the blinds drawn to keep out the harsh sunlight. You lay on the bed, IV hooked to your arm, your chest rising and falling steadily in sedation. The heart monitor beeped at a slow, calm rhythm.

Jinx set the bags on the chair by the bed, her usual energy dimmed as she looked at you. “She looks so small like this,” she said softly, almost to herself.

Sevika stood at the foot of the bed, her arms crossed, her expression unreadable but her eyes never leaving your face. She took in every detail—the way your hair fell across the pillow, the faint crease in your brow even in sleep, the slight tremor in your fingers resting on the blanket.

“She’ll wake up soon?” Jinx asked, glancing at Sevika like she expected her to know.

“Yeah,” Sevika muttered, voice low. “She will.”

Jinx looked between you and Sevika, biting her lip. “She’s gonna need someone to be there when she wakes up. To explain everything.”

Sevika’s jaw tightened. “Then she won’t be alone.”

Jinx glanced at her, surprised by the conviction in her tone. For a moment, she thought about questioning her again, about pushing the whole kiss on the first day thing—but she didn’t. Instead, she nodded, pulling up a chair and sitting beside the bed.

“You staying?” she asked, arching an eyebrow.

Sevika leaned against the wall, lighting a cigar only to remember where she was and shove it back into her pocket. “Yeah,” she said simply.

Jinx smirked faintly. “Didn’t think so many people would fight to be by my rookie’s bedside.”

Sevika didn’t answer. Her eyes stayed locked on you, her expression softening for just a second—something no one else in the room would notice.

The two women stayed there in silence, the only sound the steady beep of the monitor, waiting for you to wake up.

Jinx sat slouched in the chair by your bed, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, idly spinning the empty taco wrapper between her fingers. She’d been there for over an hour, alternating between staring at her phone and at you. The tacos were long gone, eaten during the wait, but she’d saved one in the bag just for you when you woke up.

Her gaze shifted toward the door before flicking back to you. “You know what’s weird?” she said aloud, her voice low, more to herself than to Sevika. “Where’s her boyfriend? Shouldn’t he be here freaking out or something? Bringing her flowers? Doing the bare minimum at least?”

Sevika stood against the wall, arms crossed tightly, her posture deceptively relaxed. At Jinx’s words, she almost smirked—but stopped herself. Internally, though, the thought of that guy not being here was a relief. The last thing she wanted was to see him standing over your bed, pretending to care. The idea of it made her jaw tick.

“Maybe he’s busy,” Sevika said flatly.

Jinx rolled her eyes. “Busy? His girlfriend collapses on a call, gets rushed to the hospital, and he’s too busy to show up? Yeah, sure.” She snorted, shaking her head. “Figures.”

Sevika said nothing, but inwardly she was glad. No boyfriend meant no one to interfere. No one to see how soft her gaze was when it landed on you. No one to notice that she hadn’t taken her eyes off you the entire time.

The room stayed quiet for another few minutes. The only sound was the faint beep of the heart monitor and the soft whoosh of the ventilator system. Then, you stirred.

A small whine slipped from your throat as you shifted against the pillows, your face scrunching slightly. Your fingers twitched, and your eyes fluttered open, squinting against the dim hospital lighting.

The first thing you saw was a bright blur of blue in the corner of your vision.

“Jinx?” you croaked, your voice weak and scratchy.

Her head snapped up, and the grin that spread across her face was instant. “Hey, rookie. About time you woke up. You had me sitting here like some worried mom.”

You blinked, your gaze finally focusing. Jinx’s familiar bright hair was the first thing that grounded you. She leaned forward in the chair, her elbows resting on her knees as she looked at you with an expression that was equal parts relief and playfulness.

“You feeling human again?” she asked.

You groaned, pressing a hand to your forehead. “What… happened?”

“You passed out. Scared the hell out of me. Vi caught you before you faceplanted, so hey, points for style,” Jinx said lightly, but her eyes softened as she studied your face. “You’ve been out for a while.”

Your memories came rushing back—the crash scene, the dizziness, the vomiting, and then nothing. Your stomach turned as flashes of the hospital room earlier, the nurse’s words, crept back into your mind.

Jinx must have seen your expression falter. She leaned forward, her voice lower. “Hey. You don’t have to think about that right now, okay? You’re safe.”

Your lip trembled slightly, but before you could say anything, a low voice came from the corner.

“You gave everyone a scare, rookie.”

Your head turned slowly toward the wall, and your breath hitched when you saw her. Sevika stood there, arms crossed, leaning casually but watching you with eyes that seemed to pierce right through you.

“Sevika?” you whispered.

She gave a small nod. “Yeah. Don’t move too fast.”

Your heart fluttered, and you quickly looked back at Jinx, trying to hide the heat creeping into your cheeks. “You… both stayed?”

“Of course we stayed,” Jinx said, rolling her eyes like it was obvious. “What kind of partners would we be if we didn’t?”

Sevika didn’t say anything, but her eyes never left you. The unspoken weight of her stare was almost too much to bear, making your stomach twist in a way that had nothing to do with nausea.

Jinx reached into the bag and pulled out the last taco, holding it up. “Got you something. Hospital food sucks, so I figured you’d thank me later.”

You managed a weak laugh, taking the wrapped taco with shaky hands. “Thanks, Jinx.”

She winked. “Don’t mention it.”

For a moment, the room was quiet again, but this time it wasn’t tense—it was something softer. You took a small bite, the warm flavor grounding you. Sevika shifted against the wall, her posture still guarded but her eyes softening almost imperceptibly as she watched you eat.

When you finally set the taco down, exhausted from even that small effort, Jinx patted your hand. “Get some rest. You need it.”

You nodded, your eyelids heavy. As you drifted back toward sleep, the last thing you saw was Sevika’s silhouette still in the corner, unmoving, watching over you like a silent sentinel.

And for the first time since everything happened, you felt just a little less alone.

The next morning, the station smelled like burnt coffee and diesel fuel—comforting in a strange way. The chatter of the morning crew died down as soon as you stepped through the bay doors, your EMT jacket zipped up neatly, hair tied back in its usual ponytail.

Conversations halted, heads turned, and you could feel the weight of every pair of eyes on you. The rookies whispered, the veterans looked curious, and even the firefighters by the engine stopped what they were doing for a beat.

Jinx was the first to break the silence. She hopped down from the side of the rig she’d been checking, her blue braids bouncing as she jogged over with a wide grin. “Rookie! What the hell are you doing here? You were discharged yesterday.”

You smiled, brushing off the concern like it was nothing. “I’m fine, Jinx. I didn’t want to sit at home doing nothing.”

“Uh-huh.” She narrowed her eyes, looking you up and down. “You sure about that?”

You laughed softly. “Positive. Besides, the station would be boring without me.”

That earned a snicker from a few people nearby, and just like that, the tension broke. Conversations picked up again, though you could still feel Sevika’s eyes on you from across the bay. She didn’t say anything—she just watched you, arms crossed, as if assessing every move you made.

Before anyone could ask more questions, the tones dropped, loud and urgent.

“Priority two. Downtown commercial district. Report of a fall—male, mid-forties, unknown injuries.”

Jinx clapped her hands together. “You heard the lady. Let’s go, rookie.”

You grabbed the gear bag without hesitation, jogging alongside her to the ambulance. The ride over was smooth, sirens cutting through the traffic, the sun glaring down on the windshield.

When you arrived, a small crowd had gathered outside a hardware store. A man in his mid-forties sat on the sidewalk, grimacing as he held his ankle. A ladder lay on its side nearby, and a coworker hovered nervously beside him, wringing his hands.

Jinx jumped out first, her voice loud and commanding. “EMS! Back up, give us space!”

You followed, kneeling beside the man with practiced calm. “Hey, sir. I’m Y/N, this is Jinx. Can you tell me what happened?”

He grunted, shifting slightly. “Ladder slipped. Landed on my ankle. Think I twisted it.”

You nodded, gently setting down the bag. “Okay, I’m going to check that out, but first, any head pain? Did you hit your head when you fell?”

“No, just my ankle,” he said through clenched teeth.

You palpated the area carefully, checking for deformities. He hissed when you touched a certain spot. “Hurts there?” you asked.

“Yeah,” he groaned.

“Looks like a sprain, maybe a small fracture. We’ll stabilize it and get you transported to confirm.” You reached into the bag, pulling out the splint as Jinx asked the coworker about any underlying medical conditions.

Working quickly, you wrapped and stabilized his ankle, your movements steady and precise. The man muttered a quiet “thanks” as you secured it.

“No problem,” you said with a small smile. “We’ll get you loaded onto the gurney and to the hospital so they can take a closer look.”

The other EMTs brought the stretcher over, and with their help, you lifted him carefully. Jinx winked at the coworker, reassuring him. “He’ll be fine. You’ll probably see him hobbling around here in a week.”

The man chuckled weakly as you secured him onto the gurney.

On the way to the ambulance, you felt a small flicker of pride—this was where you were meant to be. The fear from the hospital hadn’t gone away completely, but out here, helping someone, it didn’t weigh quite as heavy.

As you climbed into the rig beside the patient, Jinx gave you a nod. “See? You’re fine.”

You smiled back, genuinely this time. “Yeah. I am.”

The sirens wailed again as you pulled away from the scene, the city blurring by outside. For the first time since everything happened, you felt like you were back in your element—rookie or not.

The tones had dropped just after the last call, the dispatcher’s voice clipped and tense:

“Suicidal subject. Female, teenage. On the roof of the Miramont Building. Threatening to jump. Police requesting EMS and fire support.”

The ride to the building was quiet. Jinx, who normally filled silences with jokes or offbeat commentary, said nothing as she checked gear and tapped her fingers against the side rail. Caitlyn sat stiffly with her arms crossed, her eyes fixed on the floor, while you stared out the window, the sirens casting red and blue shadows across your face.

When you arrived, the crowd was already huge. Police had blocked off the area, but people were pressing against the tape, gasping and shouting every time the girl on the roof moved even an inch. Her small figure stood out against the gray sky, swaying slightly as she clung to the railing.

You could barely hear over the hum of voices and the pounding of your own heart.

The firefighters—including Sevika—were already coordinating with police when you approached. You caught Sevika’s gaze for a moment; her jaw was clenched, her expression unreadable, but her eyes lingered on you before she looked away.

“Top floor’s locked,” one of the officers said. “We’ve got her cornered but she’s threatening to jump if anyone tries to grab her.”

“Let’s move,” Jinx said, motioning for you and Caitlyn to follow.

Inside the building, the elevator ride was suffocatingly quiet. Jinx glanced at you. “Rookie, are you good at talking people down?”

The question made something twist in your chest. The answer came out of you too fast, almost panicked: “No.”

Jinx raised an eyebrow at how quickly you’d said it but didn’t push. “Alright. I’ll take lead.”

You nodded, but your stomach was tight. You didn’t need to explain why—you just knew. Something about this call hit a nerve deep inside you, one that throbbed with an old ache you didn’t talk about.

The top-floor door was locked, chained from the inside. Sevika stepped forward without a word, her boot slamming against the frame. The metal gave way with a loud crack, the door flying open.

Wind roared over the rooftop. The sky stretched endlessly above, clouds rolling like waves. And there she was—a teenage girl, trembling as she clung to the railing, her shoes balanced precariously on the edge.

“Don’t come any closer!” she screamed, her voice shaking but sharp.

Everyone froze.

Jinx held her hands up, taking a careful step forward. “Hey, hey, it’s okay. My name’s Jinx, I’m here to help. Can you tell me your name?”

The girl shook her head violently, crying harder. “Stay back! Don’t try to trick me! I’ll jump!”

Jinx tried again, her voice soft and coaxing, but nothing worked. The girl wasn’t hearing her, her sobs drowning out every word.

You watched helplessly, heart pounding, as she inched closer to the drop. Something deep inside you stirred—a voice you didn’t want to hear, a memory you didn’t want to see. The last time you’d stood this close to someone on an edge, you hadn’t been able to reach them. You hadn’t saved them.

Not again.

The girl’s foot shifted, and the crowd below screamed. She sobbed harder, rocking forward slightly.

And before you realized it, you stepped forward.

“Hey!” your voice cracked, but it made her stop. She turned her tear-streaked face toward you, eyes wide.

You took another careful step, your hands raised slightly. “You don’t know me. And that’s okay. But I know what it feels like to stand where you’re standing right now.”

The girl sniffled, trembling. “No, you don’t! You don’t know anything about me!”

“You’re right,” you said softly, another slow step forward. “I don’t know everything you’ve been through. But I know what it’s like to feel so tired you can’t imagine waking up again. To believe no one would notice if you were gone. To think the pain is louder than anything else.”

Your voice trembled, but you kept going.

“I’ve been there. I know what it’s like to feel trapped, to feel like nothing you do matters. But I promise you, this isn’t the only way. You’re not broken. You’re not alone.”

Her sobs hitched. You were close now, only a few feet away.

“You think nobody cares,” you whispered, tears burning in your eyes. “But I do. We all do. There are people out there who will fight for you, who will sit with you in the dark until the sun comes back. You deserve to see that sun again. You deserve to live.”

The wind whipped around you, but you barely felt it. You extended your hand, your heart in your throat. “Please. Take my hand. Let me help you.”

For a moment, the world held its breath.

The girl’s grip on the railing loosened. Her chest heaved with another sob, and slowly—hesitantly—she reached out.

The second her fingers brushed yours, you grabbed her firmly, pulling her back over the railing in one strong motion. She collapsed into you, crying so hard she could barely breathe, clutching your shirt like it was the only thing keeping her upright.

“I’ve got you,” you whispered, holding her tight. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

Behind you, Jinx exhaled sharply, wiping at her eyes. Caitlyn let out a quiet sigh of relief, and even Sevika—still standing by the door—watched with something soft flickering in her expression.

You didn’t let go until the girl was in the hands of the medics, still crying but alive. You kept your arm around her until the very last second, whispering that she wasn’t alone anymore.

Because this time, you’d reached them in time.

The sun was dipping low when you all returned to the station, casting long shadows across the bay. The rooftop call had drained everyone. Jinx immediately excused herself to grab a shower, muttering something about needing to scrub the fear off her skin. Caitlyn stayed behind to finish reports with the officers who had come back with you. The firefighters dispersed to their gear checks, leaving the space oddly hollow.

You were left standing near the lockers, your gear bag still slung over your shoulder, your body buzzing from adrenaline and exhaustion. The image of the girl crying in your arms was burned into your mind. You’d saved her. For the first time in what felt like forever, you felt like you had pulled someone back from the edge—literally.

You bent down to unzip your bag, focusing on the mundane task of tucking away your gloves when you felt it: a presence behind you, heavy and unmistakable.

You straightened slowly, heart skipping when you turned and saw Sevika leaning against the lockers a few feet away, arms crossed, watching you. The station was almost empty now, the echo of distant voices making the silence between you sharper.

“You did good out there,” she said, her voice low and rough, the kind that carried even when she wasn’t speaking loudly.

You swallowed, trying to play it cool. “Thanks. I just… did what I had to.”

Sevika tilted her head, studying you like she could see through the calm mask you were wearing. “Not everyone could’ve done that.”

You laughed softly, nervously. “Yeah, well… I didn’t think I could either.”

For a moment, neither of you moved. The air between you felt charged, humming with something unsaid. Sevika pushed off the locker and took a slow step closer, her boots loud on the concrete.

“You keep surprising me, rookie,” she murmured, her gaze locked on yours.

Your breath caught, your back hitting the lockers as she closed the distance. You should’ve stepped away. You should’ve said something. Instead, your heart pounded in your chest, your body frozen as she stopped just inches away, towering over you.

“You’re supposed to stay out of trouble,” she teased, her voice dropping, the corner of her mouth twitching into the faintest smirk.

You tilted your chin up, your lips curling into a shaky smile. “Guess I’m bad at following rules.”

That was all it took. Sevika’s hand came up, brushing against your jaw as she leaned down, her breath hot against your lips. The smell of smoke and leather clung to her as her mouth claimed yours in a kiss that was rough, desperate, like she’d been holding back since the last time.

You gasped into it, your hands gripping her jacket as she pressed you against the lockers. Her metal arm braced beside your head, caging you in as her other hand slid to your waist, pulling you flush against her.

The kiss deepened, teeth clashing, her tongue brushing against yours in a way that made your knees weak. You whimpered softly, the sound swallowed by her mouth, and she growled low in her throat, gripping your hip harder.

You broke away for air, panting, your head spinning. “Sevika…” you breathed, your voice trembling.

Her forehead rested against yours, her smirk wicked. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”

You didn’t. Instead, you pulled her back in, your lips meeting hers again, fiercer this time. Her hand slid lower, fingers pressing into your thigh as she lifted it slightly against her hip, forcing you to cling to her. The lockers rattled behind you from the force of her body pressing into yours.

For a moment, the rest of the world didn’t exist. There was no station, no risk of being caught—just her mouth on yours, her hand gripping your body like she owned it, and the heat pooling low in your stomach.

When she finally pulled back, her breathing was ragged, her eyes dark and intense as they scanned your face. You were flushed, lips swollen, chest heaving.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, rookie,” she whispered, her voice laced with heat.

You bit your lip, smirking faintly despite yourself. “Maybe I like danger.”

Sevika chuckled low, her hand brushing over your jaw one last time before she stepped back, forcing space between you. The loss of her warmth made you shiver.

“We’ll finish this later,” she said with a grin that promised trouble, before turning and walking away, leaving you leaning against the lockers, trying to catch your breath.

And God, you already couldn’t wait for later.

The call came in mid-afternoon, the dispatcher’s voice echoing over the station speakers:

“Fire alarm activation. Eastview High School. Evacuation in progress. Fire department requested to clear building.”

Sevika was already on her feet, helmet in hand before the last word finished. The crew moved fast—turnout gear pulled on, SCBA tanks strapped, radios checked. They climbed onto the truck, the engine roaring to life as sirens wailed.

The ride was short, and when they arrived, the scene outside was controlled chaos. Teachers were herding clusters of students across the front lawn, police were securing the area, and administrators rushed around frantically trying to keep count of everyone. Smoke wasn’t visible, but the alarm continued to blare through the building.

Sevika jumped down from the truck, scanning the building with narrowed eyes. “Where’s the fire?” she barked at one of the officers.

The officer shook his head. “No visible smoke, no heat signatures from outside. Alarm might’ve been pulled as a prank, but protocol says you sweep the entire school.”

Sevika grunted, not hiding her irritation. Pranks wasted everyone’s time—and her patience. Still, orders were orders. She motioned to her team. “Alright, we sweep it. Move.”

The crew moved through the hallways in pairs, checking classrooms, bathrooms, stairwells. Everything was empty—desks scattered, books left behind, lockers hanging open. The alarms screamed in the background, and the flashing lights painted everything red.

For a moment, it seemed like it was going to be just another false alarm.

Then Sevika saw him.

A boy—maybe fourteen—stood alone in the hallway, half-hidden by the corner. His face was pale, hands twisting nervously at the hem of his shirt.

One of the firefighters stepped forward, crouching slightly. “Hey, kid. You need to get outside with the others. This area’s clear, let’s move.”

The boy shook his head quickly, his voice trembling. “I—I can’t.”

The firefighter frowned. “What do you mean you can’t? You have to go—”

The boy’s eyes darted to Sevika, and he spoke louder this time, his voice cracking. “I need your help.”

That made everyone stop. The hallway went eerily still, the alarms fading to background noise. All eyes turned to Sevika, who stepped forward slowly, towering over the boy. Her voice was low, rough.

“With what?” she asked, her tone gruff, clearly not in the mood for games.

The boy hesitated, glancing down the hall. “Please… just follow me.”

He didn’t wait for them to answer, just turned and started walking quickly. The firefighters exchanged uncertain glances, but when the boy kept looking back at them with wide, desperate eyes, Sevika growled, “Let’s go,” and followed.

They trailed him down the hall to the girls’ bathroom, the alarm echoing off the tiled walls. The boy stopped at the door, looking back nervously. “She’s in here,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

Sevika’s eyes narrowed, but she pushed the door open.

The smell of sweat hit immediately, mixed with the sharp tang of fear. On the floor, near the sinks, a girl—no older than the boy—was lying on her side. A sweatshirt was bunched under her head as a makeshift pillow. Her hair clung to her face, her skin slick with sweat. Her hands gripped her swollen stomach, and she groaned low in her throat, tears streaking her cheeks.

She was very visibly pregnant.

Sevika froze for a split second, her breath catching. Her eyes flicked to the boy, who stood just inside the doorway, wringing his hands so tightly his knuckles were white.

“I—I did everything she told me,” he stammered, his voice trembling as he stared at the girl. “I tried to help her, but I didn’t know what else to do. They took our phones—she said she couldn’t make it to the office, so I pulled the alarm to get you here.”

Sevika’s jaw clenched as the girl let out another weak cry of pain, clutching her stomach harder. The alarms outside felt distant now, drowned out by the pounding of her own heart.

She turned sharply toward her crew, her voice cutting like a blade. “Get EMS here. Now.”

No one hesitated. One firefighter was already on the radio, calling in the emergency with urgency.

Sevika crouched beside the girl, her large hand gently resting near her arm, her voice softer now but firm. “You’re gonna be okay, kid. We’ve got you.”

The girl whimpered, her breath coming in shallow gasps.

Sevika glanced back at the boy, who was on the verge of tears. “Stay right here. Help is coming.”

The crew moved quickly, clearing the bathroom and preparing for EMS arrival. Sevika stayed planted by the girl’s side, her presence steady and grounding amid the chaos.

Outside, the distant wail of sirens began to rise again—this time, bringing the help the girl desperately needed.

The station had just settled into that calm lull between calls. You were perched on a bench in the bay, sipping at a lukewarm coffee while Jinx leaned against the wall scrolling on her phone. She was grinning faintly, mumbling something about a meme she wanted to show you, when the tones suddenly blared overhead.

“Medical emergency. Eastview High School. Immediate response requested.”

Both of you froze at the name of the location.

Jinx straightened, shoving her phone into her pocket. “That’s… the same school Sevika’s crew was dispatched to earlier.”

Your brows knitted in concern as you stood quickly, grabbing your bag. “Wasn’t that supposed to be a false alarm?”

“Guess not,” Jinx muttered, her tone tense.

As you climbed into the ambulance and the sirens wailed, your chest tightened. Something about the tone of the dispatcher's voice made your stomach knot.

When you arrived at the school, police were already guiding you through the halls. The alarms had been silenced, leaving an eerie quiet broken only by the distant echo of students murmuring outside. You followed Jinx down the corridor, the smell of smoke replaced by something more human—fear, sweat, and the faint metallic tang of blood.

You turned the corner and stopped in your tracks.

The firefighters were clustered around the doorway of the girls’ bathroom, their faces a mixture of tension and focus. Inside, the scene made your breath catch.

A teenage girl—barely old enough to be in high school—was lying on the floor, her sweatshirt bunched under her head as a makeshift pillow. Her face was flushed, streaked with sweat and tears, and her hands clutched her swollen belly. Her breaths came in rapid, shallow gasps.

And there, kneeling beside her, was Sevika.

Her fire jacket was gone, rolled up and tucked under the girl’s head. She was down to just her black t-shirt and cargo pants, her dark hair clinging slightly to her temple with sweat. She didn’t look at anyone—her entire focus was on the girl, her posture protective, grounded, her large hand resting lightly on the girl’s shoulder in a rare gesture of comfort.

The sight stole the air from your lungs.

“Y/N, you’re up,” Jinx said quickly, shaking you from your thoughts.

You nodded, immediately dropping to your knees on the other side of the girl and opening your kit. “Sweetheart, I’m Y/N, an EMT. I’m going to help you, okay?”

The girl whimpered, nodding weakly.

You worked quickly, taking her vitals—heart rate rapid, breathing shallow but steady, blood pressure elevated from stress. “Vitals are high but holding,” you said, glancing at Jinx.

Jinx crouched by the girl’s feet, her voice calm but firm as she asked, “Honey, we need to know—how far along are you?”

The girl shook her head, tears spilling over. “I—I don’t know. I hid it. No one knows.”

You and Jinx exchanged a sharp glance.

Sevika’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t say a word, just shifted slightly to keep the girl grounded.

Jinx put on gloves, her expression tense. “We need to check dilation.”

The girl whimpered again but nodded. “Okay…”

Jinx moved carefully, speaking gently to her the whole time. But when she looked, her eyes went wide, and she froze.

“Y/N,” she said, her voice sharper now.

You looked over from where you were setting up oxygen. “What?”

“She’s at ten centimeters.” Jinx’s tone left no room for doubt. “This kid is coming now.”

Your stomach dropped. You crawled quickly to Jinx’s side, eyes widening when you saw for yourself. The baby wasn’t waiting for anyone.

“What do we do?” you asked, your voice hushed but urgent.

Jinx’s jaw tightened. “We deliver her right here.”

There was no time to transfer her, no time to wait for OB. You took a deep breath, forcing the panic down as you grabbed clean blankets and towels from your kit, laying them out beneath the girl.

Sevika glanced at you, her eyes sharp, steadying. “You got this, rookie.”

The words struck something deep in you. You nodded. “We’ve got this.”

Jinx positioned herself to guide the delivery while you supported the girl’s upper body, speaking softly to her. “Sweetheart, I know you’re scared, but you’re not alone. You’re so strong. You’re going to meet your baby soon.”

The girl cried harder, gripping your hand like a lifeline. Sevika crouched behind her, holding her shoulders steady with surprising gentleness. “You’re doing fine, kid,” she murmured. “Just breathe.”

The next few minutes were chaos—controlled chaos. The girl screamed, clutching your arm, as Jinx coached her through pushes. “Good, that’s it—big push, just like that!”

You brushed her hair back from her face, murmuring encouragements, your heart pounding. Time blurred. You could hear the distant shuffle of firefighters outside, the steady tone of Jinx’s voice, the girl’s cries—and then—

“It’s crowning!” Jinx called, her voice urgent. “One more push, come on—one more!”

The girl screamed again, her grip crushing yours, and with a final push, the tiny wail of a newborn filled the bathroom.

Your breath hitched. The baby—a tiny, perfect baby—was crying, flailing its little arms as Jinx quickly suctioned the airway and wrapped it in a blanket.

“You did it,” you whispered to the girl, tears stinging your own eyes. “You did it, sweetheart. Your baby’s here.”

The girl sobbed, reaching weakly for her child. Jinx placed the baby against her chest, and the girl clung to it, crying softly as the newborn quieted, nuzzling close.

The bathroom seemed to exhale with you. Even Sevika’s shoulders dropped slightly, a faint softness flickering across her face as she looked at the girl and her baby.

In that moment, as you watched the new life swaddled in the trembling arms of its young mother, something shifted in you. Your own hand instinctively brushed your stomach, a fleeting thought flashing through your mind—Would anyone hold me like this if it were me?

You quickly shoved it away, focusing on the mother. You checked her vitals again, speaking gently. “You’re okay. You’re both okay.”

Sevika met your eyes for a brief second. She didn’t say anything, but the look she gave you—steady, almost knowing—lingered longer than it should have.

By the time EMS backup arrived to take over, the baby was resting peacefully against its mother, and you were still kneeling there, heart pounding, feeling something you couldn’t quite name.

As they wheeled the girl and her newborn out, Sevika stayed behind for a moment, watching you as you packed up. You didn’t look at her, but you felt her eyes on you—heavy, unreadable.

And deep down, you knew this call would stay with you forever.

The locker room was quiet at the end of your shift, the usual chatter of crews long gone. The overhead lights buzzed faintly as you stuffed the last of your things into your bag, your hands trembling slightly though you tried to keep them steady. The events of the day still clung to you—the screaming girl, the tiny crying baby, the overwhelming rush of life and fragility colliding in one place.

You zipped your bag slowly, almost reluctant to leave, when the door creaked open.

You didn’t have to look up to know who it was.

Sevika stepped in, her heavy boots echoing softly against the tile. She was still in her black t-shirt and cargo pants, soot stains smudged faintly across her forearms. Her jacket was nowhere in sight—probably still drying somewhere from earlier. Without saying a word, she walked over and sat on the bench across from you, elbows resting on her knees, gaze fixed on the floor.

The silence stretched.

You hesitated, the weight of the conversation you’d been dreading settling on your chest. You knew this was coming.

Finally, you spoke, your voice quiet but firm. “Sevika… I can’t keep doing this.”

Her head lifted slightly, her sharp eyes catching yours. “Doing what?”

You swallowed, forcing the words out even as they scraped your throat. “This. Whatever this is between us. I’m pregnant. With my boyfriend’s baby. And as messed up as things are between us… I have to try. I owe it to that baby to give it a shot with him.”

Sevika’s jaw flexed, and she looked away for a moment. Her silence was heavy, her expression unreadable. Inside, though, her thoughts were spiraling. He doesn’t deserve her. He never did. He wasn’t here when she needed him, he’s never enough for her… The thought of you choosing him burned like a slow flame in her chest.

But when she looked back at you, none of that showed. Her face was calm, almost resigned. “If that’s what you need to do, rookie… then do it.”

Your throat tightened at the softness in her voice, hidden beneath its usual rough edge.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

Sevika shook her head slightly. “Don’t be. You’re doing what you think is right. Can’t fault you for that.”

You stepped closer, your fingers gripping the strap of your bag tightly. “You’ve… been there for me in ways I didn’t expect. And I’m grateful. But I can’t let this turn into something it shouldn’t. Not now.”

Sevika gave a small nod, leaning back slightly on the bench. “Guess I’ll just have to get used to yelling at you without… all the extra stuff.”

That made you smile faintly, your chest aching. “Guess so.”

For a moment, you just stood there, taking her in—the stoic expression, the strength she carried even when she was breaking inside. You wanted to reach out, to say something more, but you knew if you did, you might not leave.

So instead, you offered her a small, genuine smile. “Take care of yourself, Sevika.”

She met your gaze, and for just a second, her guard cracked. “You too, rookie.”

You turned, pushing open the locker room door. The cool evening air met you as you stepped outside, the sky painted with streaks of orange and pink. You walked to your car with a lump in your throat, glancing back once to see if she was still there.

She wasn’t.

You drove home quietly, the city lights blurring past your window. When you got there, your boyfriend greeted you with a half-smile and an arm around your shoulder, and you let him. You hugged him back because you’d promised yourself you would try.

But even as you stood there in his arms, a part of you ached for the woman you’d just left sitting alone on that bench.

The television flickered lazily across the darkened living room, the low hum of a sitcom laugh track barely cutting through the static in your chest. You were curled up on the couch, legs tucked beneath you, a blanket draped over your lap. Your boyfriend sat at the other end, scrolling absently on his phone between bites of leftover pizza, laughing half-heartedly at the TV.

It was domestic. Normal. Boring in the way relationships sometimes got. You told yourself this was what you were supposed to want—quiet evenings, shared couches, trying to make it work for the sake of the baby growing inside you.

“Be right back,” he said suddenly, standing and stretching before heading toward the kitchen. “Gonna grab a beer.”

You nodded absently, eyes on the screen. But when he walked away, his phone buzzed where he’d left it on the coffee table.

The screen lit up.

You didn’t mean to look. But the name burned into your brain the moment you saw it. Britney ❤️

Your brows furrowed. Who the hell is Britney? You froze, staring at the notification—it was a message, long enough to cut off, but you caught the first few words. Last night was amazing…

Your heart dropped into your stomach.

Without thinking, your hand moved. You picked up the phone, swiping it open with the passcode you’d memorized a long time ago. You told yourself it was wrong. You told yourself you shouldn’t look. But your fingers were already moving, opening the message thread.

The screen lit up with an endless chain of texts—flirty, explicit, unmistakably romantic. Pictures you didn’t want to see. Her body. His responses. God, I miss you. When can I see you again?

You scrolled faster, your heart hammering, your breaths coming sharp and shallow. And it wasn’t just her. There were other names. Other women. Dating apps you didn’t even know he had. Hookup messages with timestamps that made your skin crawl—some from nights he told you he was working late. Nudes sent back and forth, conversations dripping with things he never said to you.

Your hands shook violently, the phone slick against your palm.

Every memory, every choice you’d made to stay, to try, to be loyal—shattered. You could barely breathe as the betrayal twisted like a knife in your gut.

He’s been lying to me. This whole time. While I’ve been carrying his child.

The room spun. The TV’s laugh track sounded distorted, cruel. You felt hot all over, your vision tunneling in on the glowing screen, the proof of everything you’d been too afraid to see.

The sound of the fridge door shutting snapped you back.

His footsteps were casual, unhurried, as he walked back into the room with a beer in hand. He looked relaxed, like nothing in the world was wrong.

And you were still sitting there, clutching his phone, your eyes wide, your breath unsteady.

When he stepped into the living room, you looked up at him, slowly, your grip tightening around the phone.

Your face was no longer blank.

It was furious.

He froze in the doorway, confused by the expression on your face. The phone buzzed again in your hand—another message from Britney.

You didn’t break eye contact.

The station was winding down into the stillness of late evening, the kind of lull where the hum of the overhead lights and the occasional clang of metal seemed louder than anything. Jinx sat on a crate near the rigs, scrolling through her phone, chewing lazily on a piece of gum. Across from her, Sevika leaned against Engine 3, arms crossed, jaw tight, staring at the floor like it had personally offended her.

The air around her practically vibrated with tension.

Jinx glanced up, her blue braids swaying as she tilted her head. “What’s—uh—what’s going on with you?” she asked, eyeing Sevika like she was poking a bear to see if it’d growl.

“I’m fine,” Sevika replied gruffly, in the most not fine tone ever.

Jinx raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Yeah, no, that’s not convincing at all. Is it… Y/N?”

That was all it took. Sevika’s eyes snapped up, and she scoffed, her voice low but dripping with frustration.

“That piece of shit she calls a boyfriend,” she growled, pushing off the rig to pace. “She’s out there trying to make it work with someone who’s just using her—someone who doesn’t deserve a damn thing about her. And she’s doing it because she’s too damn loyal for her own good.”

Jinx blinked, leaning back as Sevika continued, voice rising slightly with every word.

“She’s stronger than she realizes, and he’s dragging her down. And I’m supposed to just stand here and do nothing while she ruins her life trying to make it work with someone who wouldn’t cross the street for her?” Sevika spat the words out, clenching her fists. “It’s bullshit. She deserves better. She deserves—”

She stopped herself, grinding her teeth, shoving her hands back into her pockets as if that would keep the rest from spilling out.

Jinx whistled low. “Damn. You’re really in your feelings about this, huh?”

Before Sevika could snap back, the station tones blared again.

“EMS requested. Domestic dispute. 320 Palmer Street. PD on scene, requesting medical support.”

Jinx’s phone slipped slightly in her hand. Her eyes widened. “Wait—Palmer Street? Isn’t that—”

“Her address,” Sevika said sharply, already moving toward the rig.

Jinx grabbed her jacket, shouting to Caitlyn across the bay, “We’ve got a domestic! You’re with me!”

Caitlyn was already jogging over, pulling on gloves. The tension in her posture was stiff, her face cold.

Sevika was right behind them, steps heavy, shoulders tight.

“Fire wasn’t requested,” Jinx started as she climbed into the driver’s seat, but Sevika’s voice cut her off, rough and desperate in a way Jinx had never heard.

“Please.”

Jinx froze for just a second, her lips pressing into a thin line. She nodded, jerking her thumb toward the back. “Get in.”

The ride was silent except for the sirens screaming through the night. Sevika sat in the back, hunched forward, elbows on her knees, staring at the floor with a storm brewing in her chest. Every bump in the road only wound her tighter.

When they pulled up to the apartment building, the scene outside was chaos. Police cruisers lined the curb, their lights flashing red and blue across the walls. Neighbors had gathered at their doors, whispering, watching.

Jinx parked fast, Caitlyn hopping out with her med bag. Sevika followed, her stride purposeful, her eyes scanning until she saw—

You.

You were at the center of it all, dressed in an oversized band tee and shorts, your hair messy, tears streaking your cheeks. Two cops were holding you back, your body thrashing against their grip as you kicked and screamed, your voice breaking with every sob.

“Let me go! Let me go!”

Across from you, your boyfriend stood near another officer, his voice frantic as he yelled over you. “She’s overreacting! She’s crazy! She—she found my phone and started losing it, she wouldn’t stop screaming! I’m sorry, baby, I didn’t mean it! Come on, it was just a mistake!”

Then his tone snapped, sharp and venomous. “You were gone all the time! At work! Acting like some fucking hero while I’m here alone! You’re not perfect! You’re the reason this is falling apart!”

Then—like a switch—he softened again, pleading. “Please, baby, come on, don’t do this to us.”

Your sobs grew harsher, your legs buckling slightly as the cops tried to keep you steady.

Jinx’s chest tightened, her hands balling into fists at her sides as she glanced at Caitlyn, who was already moving to you.

Sevika didn’t move at first. Her jaw was tight, her eyes locked on you, watching the way your entire body shook with rage and heartbreak. Inside, something snapped.

She stormed forward, her voice cutting through the noise like a blade. “Get your hands off her. Now.”

The cops hesitated, recognizing her authority as a first responder. One of them glanced at the supervising officer, who nodded. They released you carefully, and you collapsed to your knees, gasping.

Sevika was there in an instant, crouching in front of you, her large hand steadying your shoulder. Her voice was low, almost gentle. “Rookie. Look at me.”

You lifted your head, your tear-streaked face meeting her eyes.

Behind you, your boyfriend was still yelling apologies, insults mixing with pleas, his voice desperate and pathetic. Jinx turned toward him with a glare that could cut steel, stepping into his path. “You open your mouth one more time, and I swear to God I’ll make you wish you didn’t.”

The officer quickly stepped between them, ordering the boyfriend to step back.

Caitlyn crouched beside you, checking for injuries, her voice calm but clipped as she asked, “Y/N, are you hurt anywhere?”

You shook your head, sobbing harder, clinging to Sevika’s arm like a lifeline.

Sevika looked up at the officers, her expression dark and cold. “She’s coming with us.”

No one argued.

Jinx glanced at Sevika, her voice low as she nodded toward the ambulance. “Get her inside.”

Sevika didn’t say a word. She just scooped you up in her arms, cradling you against her chest like you weighed nothing, and carried you toward the rig.

Your hands fisted into her shirt, your voice hoarse as you whispered, “I—I can’t believe this. I can’t—”

Sevika’s grip tightened protectively. “You don’t have to. You’re safe now.”

As she carried you into the ambulance, the flashing lights painted everything red and blue, but all you could feel was the warmth of her arms and the steady beat of her heart against your cheek.

comment to be added to the taglist!

@slutforsmut2003 @undercoverdesire @weirdoillustrates @anthorius @honeybadger6122 @kuntie99 @kittyk-14 @wishingonjellyfish @keiameeee @barelykiramman

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★ — Heat of the moment

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 1 : ᴜɴᴅᴇʀ ᴘʀᴇꜱꜱᴜʀᴇ

ᴇᴍᴛ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ x ꜰɪʀᴇꜰɪɢʜᴛᴇʀ!ꜱᴇᴠɪᴋᴀ | 11.9ᴋ ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ

TAGS ; workplace setting, medical situations, death, substance use, infidelity, pregnancy, age gap, smut, angst

A/N ; thank you to CNA simulator on roblox for giving me this idea

SUMMARY ; Your first day as an EMT throws you into chaos—saving lives, losing one, and feeling the crushing weight of failure. Jinx keeps things light, but Sevika’s harsh mentorship and unexpected kiss leave you shaken, torn between guilt, longing, and a secret you can’t ignore.

next chapter

Your phone alarm splits the quiet of your tiny apartment at exactly 5:00 a.m.—that shrill, insistent tone you set last night so you wouldn’t oversleep your first day. The sound cuts through the hazy fog of half-sleep, mingling with the warmth pressed against your back.

You blink groggily at the glowing screen on your nightstand, trying to silence it before it wakes up the whole world.

“God, turn that thing off…” a low, annoyed voice groans behind you.

You reach over to swipe it away, but before you can, his arm snakes around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. You can smell the remnants of last night’s cologne, faint under the musk of sex and sweat from the night before.

“Babe,” you whisper, still half out of it, “I have to get up. It’s my first day—”

He doesn’t answer, just slides his hand lower, palm cupping your hip and guiding you back against him. His breath is hot against your ear, his morning erection pressing insistently at the back of your thighs.

“Five more minutes,” he murmurs, voice husky with sleep. “C’mon, you can’t leave me like this.”

Your heart stutters—because you want to stay, because it’s so easy to give in to him. You’ve been with him almost a year now, and these early-morning hookups have become a routine. He always wants you when you’re too sleepy to protest, when your defenses are down.

Still, you sigh and roll onto your back, meeting his lazy grin in the dim light creeping through the blinds. He leans down to kiss you, deep and unhurried, and despite your better judgment, you let him.

“Just quick,” you mumble against his lips, already knowing it won’t be.

His hand slips under your oversized sleep shirt, fingers tracing the curve of your waist, the softness of your stomach, before sliding lower. You gasp softly, arching into his touch as he pushes your legs apart, settling between them.

You’re warm and pliant under him, your body responding even as your brain screams you’re going to be late. Every time he moves, he mutters things—half praise, half possession—like, “God, you feel so good in the mornings,” and “You’re mine, you know that?”

By the time it’s over, the alarm on your phone is going off again.

You push him away with a breathless laugh, shoving at his shoulder when he tries to hold you there. “No—seriously. I have to get ready. If I’m late on my first day, they’ll kill me.”

He groans dramatically, flopping back against the pillow. “You worry too much. It’s just… whatever it is you’re doing now.”

Your jaw tightens at the dismissive tone, but you don’t argue. Instead, you swing your legs out of bed, feeling his eyes on you as you grab your uniform neatly folded on the chair.

The navy EMT shirt feels stiff as you pull it over your head, tucking it into the matching cargo pants. You move quickly through your routine—deodorant, brushing your teeth, tying your hair back into a ponytail. You glance at your reflection in the mirror. The uniform clings to your curves, the belt cinching your waist. You look… young. Nervous.

From the bed, he whistles low. “Damn, that’s kinda hot.”

You roll your eyes but can’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. “I’ll see you tonight,” you say, grabbing your bag.

“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbles, already reaching for his phone. No good luck, no be safe.

You swallow the irritation, sling your bag over your shoulder, and head out the door.

The early morning air hits you sharp and cold as you walk to your car. Your stomach twists with a mix of nerves and excitement.

By the time you pull into the firehouse parking lot, the sun is barely rising. The building looms ahead, busy with movement—firefighters already in gear, trucks glinting under the streetlights.

You take a deep breath, step out, and walk toward the station, ready—or at least pretending to be.

Inside, you spot her immediately.

Sevika.

Tall, broad-shouldered, with a presence that fills the room even when she’s not speaking. Her dark hair is pulled back, and the sleeves of her uniform are rolled up to reveal strong, scarred forearms. She’s leaning against the truck, talking to another firefighter, but when her eyes land on you, they narrow just slightly.

The look says everything: rookie.

Your heart pounds. This day is about to be hell.

You step into the station’s main bay, the smell of diesel and disinfectant mingling in the air. The place is alive—voices calling back and forth, boots thudding against concrete, the clang of tools being checked and rechecked. You feel small in the middle of it, clutching the strap of your bag like it’s a lifeline.

A bubbly voice cuts through the noise. “You must be the newbie!”

You turn and see her. She’s about your height, maybe a little shorter, with an EMT uniform that somehow manages to look relaxed on her. But the first thing you notice—the thing that’s impossible not to notice—is her hair. Bright, electric blue, pulled into messy twin braids that swing when she walks. It looks like something out of a comic book.

You blink. “Uh… yeah. That’s me.”

She grins, all teeth and mischief, and sticks out her hand. “Jinx. I’m your mentor, lucky you.”

You shake her hand, still trying to process the blue hair. “Is that… uh, is that even allowed?”

“What, this?” She tugs on a braid, feigning innocence. “Totally natural. Grew up like this. Came out of the womb and the doctors were like, ‘Whoa, she’s glowing.’”

You laugh despite yourself, tension easing just a bit.

She winks. “Relax, rookie. They don’t care what color your hair is as long as you don’t screw up. And trust me, with me showing you the ropes, you’ll only screw up, like… half the time.”

Your brows lift. “That’s supposed to be reassuring?”

“Of course. Half is better than all, right?”

You find yourself smiling again. There’s something easy about her energy—like she’s been doing this forever, like nothing phases her. She leads you around the station, pointing out where everything is: the supply shelves, the med kits, the break room where a pot of coffee looks like it’s been there since last week. She chats the whole time, tossing in random stories about past calls, ridiculous coworkers, and growing up as Vander’s daughter.

“Wait—the Vander?” you ask as she punches a code into the supply cabinet.

“Yep, Chief Vander. The one and only. He’s a big softie though, don’t let the badge fool you.” She smirks, clearly used to people’s reactions. “Kinda makes me EMT royalty, I guess. But don’t worry, I’m not a snob about it.”

You shake your head, amused. “This is so weird. You’re like… famous.”

“Nah,” she says with a shrug. “I just like helping people. And driving fast. And scaring rookies when they least expect it.”

Your stomach twists again, that nervous flutter reminding you this isn’t just a tour—your first call could come at any second. You glance toward the trucks where Sevika is still talking with another firefighter. She hasn’t looked at you again, but you can feel her presence, heavy like a storm cloud.

Jinx notices where your eyes go and follows your gaze. “Ah, Sevika,” she says, voice dropping into something conspiratorial. “Don’t let her scare you too much. She’s… intense. Hates rookies. But she’s the best firefighter we’ve got, hands down.”

“I kinda got that impression,” you mumble.

Jinx claps you on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, stick with me and you’ll survive. Maybe.”

Before you can reply, the station alarm blares to life, loud enough to rattle your teeth. Red lights flash, voices rise, and suddenly everything is moving—firefighters rushing to the trucks, EMTs grabbing gear.

Jinx’s grin sharpens into focus. “That’s us, rookie. First call. Let’s go!”

Your heart slams against your ribs as you follow her at a run, adrenaline kicking in. This is it. No more practice. No more nerves.

Time to prove yourself.

Jinx tosses you a pair of gloves as you both sprint toward the ambulance. “Get in, rookie! Back seat’s yours for now—watch and learn.”

You barely have time to process as you climb in, strapping yourself into the jump seat while she slides effortlessly behind the wheel. The siren wails to life, slicing through the dawn. You grip the edge of the seat, knuckles white, as the ambulance tears out of the bay and onto the road.

“Car crash,” Jinx yells over the sound of the sirens. “Single vehicle. Teen driver, apparently. PD’s already on scene.”

Your stomach drops. A crash? Already? You’ve trained for this, but the thought of a real patient—someone hurt, scared—makes your pulse race.

Jinx glances at you in the rearview mirror, smirking. “Don’t puke. First rule of the job.”

“I’m not—” you start, but you’re cut off as she takes a sharp turn that nearly sends you sliding.

Minutes blur by, siren screaming, lights flashing. Finally, the scene comes into view: flashing blue and red lights, a crumpled sedan half up on the curb, steam rising from its hood. Police cars block off the road, and you spot Chief Vander himself, talking to an officer. Even from here, you can see his broad frame, hands gesturing as he directs the scene.

Jinx parks with practiced precision, slamming the vehicle into park. “Alright, rookie. Stay close, do what I say, and don’t freeze up. Got it?”

You nod quickly, your throat tight.

She throws open the doors and you follow her out into the chaos. The air smells of burnt rubber and gasoline. People are shouting, radios crackling. The teenager—maybe seventeen—is sitting on the curb, knees pulled to their chest, face streaked with tears. Their hands tremble as they clutch at a scraped knee.

You feel a pang in your chest. They’re just a kid.

Jinx kneels beside them immediately, her voice soft and soothing. “Hey, sweetheart. I’m Jinx, and this is my partner. We’re here to help you out, okay? Can you tell me your name?”

You crouch nearby, pulling out the trauma kit, hands shaking slightly as you unzip it. The kid sniffles and tells her their name, voice cracking.

While Jinx checks for obvious injuries, you hand her supplies—gauze, antiseptic wipes, whatever she asks for. You focus hard on the motions, trying to ignore the way your nerves are buzzing under your skin.

“You’re doing fine,” Jinx murmurs to the patient as she cleans the scrape. “Lucky escape, huh? Car’s banged up, but you’re tougher than you look.”

The kid gives a weak laugh, and you can’t help but smile faintly.

Behind you, there’s a loud voice: Sevika’s. She’s talking to another firefighter near the car, her tone clipped and commanding. Something about the engine, the risk of a fuel leak. You glance over just in time to see her looking in your direction, eyes narrowing. Like she’s already judging every move you make.

You straighten your shoulders and focus back on the patient. You’re not giving her a reason to call you out.

Jinx finishes patching the scrape, talking the kid through every step. “You feeling dizzy at all? Head hurt?”

The teenager shakes their head. “Just… scared.”

“Yeah, that’s normal,” Jinx says gently. “You’re okay. We’re gonna check you out in the rig, just to be safe.”

Together, you help the kid up and walk them toward the ambulance. They cling to you more than Jinx, and you feel a fierce protectiveness swell in your chest. You get them settled inside, wrapping a blanket around their shoulders as Jinx checks vitals.

For a moment, everything feels calm. Manageable.

Then it happens.

A loud pop cuts through the air, followed by a burst of heat. The car—still smoking—erupts with a small explosion, the hood flying up and flames licking the air. The shockwave knocks you backward, the kid tumbling off the bench as the ambulance rocks from the blast.

You hit the floor hard, ears ringing. The world spins—screams, shouts, someone yelling for water, for backup. The smell of burning metal chokes your lungs.

Strong hands grab you, hauling you upright. You blink up into Sevika’s face—grim, sharp, eyes blazing with anger.

“What the hell were you doing so close to the damn car?” she snarls.

You’re too stunned to answer, chest heaving, adrenaline flooding you.

She shakes her head, jaw tight. “Rookie mistake. You stay where you’re told, or next time you’ll be on a stretcher instead of saving someone.”

The words cut deep, but there’s no time to argue. She shoves you toward the ambulance, barking at Jinx to keep you inside until the scene’s secure.

You sit there trembling, clutching the edge of the bench as the kid clings to your arm. Outside, Sevika moves through the chaos like she owns it, commanding everyone with an iron voice.

You can’t tell if you’re more shaken by the explosion… or by the way she looked at you, like you were both a liability and someone she wasn’t willing to lose.

The ride back to the station is quiet at first, the hum of the engine and the occasional rattle from equipment filling the silence. You’re sitting in the back, arms crossed tightly over your chest, staring at the floor but not really seeing it. Every bump in the road seems to jolt the frustration in your body higher and higher.

Your jaw aches from clenching it. You can still hear Sevika’s voice barking at you, that sharp tone cutting through everything else. Rookie mistake. Stay where you’re told. The words echo in your head like an unwanted mantra.

You know she was right—part of you knows that—but the way she said it, like you were some idiot who didn’t belong there? That stings. You’re new, yeah, but you’re not helpless. You trained for this. You want to do this.

You feel your face twisting with every bitter thought—your nose scrunching, your lips pressing together, your brows furrowed like they’re permanently stuck that way.

From the driver’s seat, Jinx glances up at the rearview mirror. Her bright blue braids sway as she leans back slightly, eyeing you. “You uh… doing okay back there?” she asks, her tone light but curious.

You snap your head up, caught. “I’m fine. Why do you ask?”

The words come out too sharp, too defensive. Definitely not fine.

Jinx raises an eyebrow, smirking just a little as her eyes meet yours in the mirror. “Because your face says otherwise. It’s all scrunched up, and your eyebrows? They’re like, super furrowed. You look like you’re plotting someone’s death back there.”

You blink at her, opening your mouth to deny it, but the dam bursts.

“I just—ugh! She’s so—” You throw your hands up, words spilling out faster than you can stop them. “Sevika is the biggest bitch I have ever met in my life. She didn’t even know me, and she’s already on my ass like I’m some useless kid who can’t tie my own shoes. All I did was do my job, and then the car exploded and suddenly it’s my fault? Like what was I supposed to do, predict it with psychic powers?!”

Jinx’s shoulders shake as she tries not to laugh. “Oh boy, here we go…”

You lean forward, gripping the edge of the seat. “She talks to me like I’m an idiot, and she’s so… so condescending. Like, yeah, okay, I’m new, but she doesn’t have to treat me like garbage. And the way she looks at me—god, it’s like she’s just waiting for me to screw up so she can rip me apart. Who even likes her?!”

“She’s not so bad,” Jinx says between chuckles. “You just gotta… get used to her style.”

“Style?” you repeat, incredulous. “That wasn’t style, that was straight-up bullying.”

Jinx glances back at you briefly, grinning. “Look, Sevika’s rough around the edges, but she knows her stuff. And, believe it or not, she actually cares. She wouldn’t yell if she didn’t.”

You scoff. “Oh, so I’m supposed to take her screaming as a sign of affection? Great.”

“Exactly,” Jinx says cheerfully, eyes back on the road.

You groan and flop back against the seat, arms crossed even tighter. The adrenaline from the call is still buzzing in your veins, mixing with your irritation until you’re practically vibrating.

Jinx catches your expression again in the mirror, her grin widening. “You know, the more you complain, the more I think you’re secretly obsessed with her.”

Your head snaps up. “What?!”

“I’m just saying,” she teases, “you’ve been talking about her this whole ride. That’s dedication.”

You glare, cheeks heating. “I am not obsessed. I just—she—ugh! Forget it.”

Jinx laughs, loud and unbothered, and the sound fills the cab. “Don’t worry, rookie. Everyone hates her at first. It’s like… a rite of passage. Survive Sevika, and you can survive anything.”

You sink back into your seat, muttering under your breath. We’ll see about that.

Outside, the station comes into view again, the rising sun casting everything in gold. Your heart is still pounding, but somewhere under the anger, there’s a tiny spark of something else—something you can’t quite name.

You barely have time to grab a drink of water before the alarm blares again, shrill and demanding. Your head snaps up, and Jinx is already tossing you a pair of gloves with that mischievous grin like she’s been waiting for this.

“Another one, rookie,” she says, hopping into the driver’s seat. “Ready for round two?”

You groan under your breath, but your pulse spikes with adrenaline. “Do I even have a choice?”

“Not a damn one,” she chirps. “Buckle up.”

The sirens scream to life once again as you’re hurled back into the chaos, lights strobing against your vision. Jinx glances at the tablet mounted to the dashboard. “Fall victim, female, mid-thirties. Dispatch said she fell down, not responding. No further details.”

Your stomach knots. This one’s worse than a scared teenager with a scraped knee. You grab onto the seat as Jinx swerves through traffic with terrifying confidence, every corner sharper than the last.

By the time you screech up to the address—a small, rundown apartment building—you’re already unbuckling. Sevika’s truck pulls up just behind, the woman herself stepping out like some force of nature, towering and unbothered even in the rising heat of the day. She glances at you once, her eyes cutting sharp, before striding toward the building.

You and Jinx race up the narrow stairwell, gear in hand. The door to the unit is locked. Jinx knocks, loud and clear.

“EMS! Open the door!”

No response. Just the distant hum of something electrical and the pounding of your own heart in your ears.

Sevika takes one step forward, planting herself in front of the door. “Move,” she growls. You and Jinx step back instinctively. She raises one boot, braces, and with a single brutal kick, the door splinters inward, crashing against the wall with a deafening crack.

You swallow hard. Okay… why is that hot?

You shake the thought away violently, covering it up with a scowl. Of course it’s not hot. She’s just—ugh—so dramatic.

Jinx smirks, like she knows exactly what’s running through your head, but doesn’t say a word.

“Go!” Sevika barks, waving you forward.

You and Jinx rush inside first, the air stale and smelling faintly of dust. You spot the woman almost immediately—mid-thirties, sprawled on the kitchen floor, motionless.

Jinx drops to her knees, her demeanor snapping from playful to serious in a heartbeat. She checks the wrist, fingers pressed against the artery. Nothing. Then the neck. Her expression doesn’t change, but her voice sharpens. “Flat. No pulse.”

Your heart stutters.

Jinx looks up at you, eyes fierce. “Rookie, compressions. Now.”

Panic surges through you. “I—I—”

“Now!” she snaps, louder this time.

Your training kicks in, pushing the fear aside. You kneel beside the woman, placing your hands where you practiced a hundred times—heel of your palm on her sternum, fingers interlocked. You line up, arms straight, and push.

One, two, three—your body moves on autopilot, muscles burning as you count in your head. You focus on the rhythm, on the way her chest rises and falls under your hands. There’s no room for hesitation now.

Sevika kneels nearby, watching like a hawk. You can feel her eyes on you, that heavy, assessing stare. You’d think it would make you stumble, but instead, it fuels you. You press harder, faster, sweat dripping down your temple as you fight for the woman’s life.

Minutes stretch like hours. Your arms ache, but you don’t stop. You don’t even notice Sevika’s expression shift—from that usual cold scrutiny to something else. Something almost… impressed.

“Keep going,” Jinx says, checking for signs of life between compressions. “You’re doing perfect, rookie.”

Perfect. The word blurs in your head, but it keeps you moving. You refuse to let go.

Then, suddenly, the woman jerks, a faint gasp escaping her lips. Her chest rises with a shaky breath. You freeze for half a second, heart pounding, before Jinx grins.

“She’s breathing. We got her.”

Relief crashes through you like a wave. You fall back on your heels, panting, arms trembling from the effort. You can barely process the EMT crew that rushes in to assist, attaching monitors and oxygen, as you sit there stunned, staring at the woman you just brought back.

Behind you, Sevika’s voice cuts through the noise, low but clear. “Not bad, rookie.”

You turn, blinking at her. There’s no sarcasm in her tone this time, no bite. Just… something grudgingly genuine.

Your lips part to say something, but the words don’t come.

Sevika stands, towering over the chaos, and turns away before you can find your voice. “Wrap it up,” she orders the others.

You glance at Jinx, who gives you a proud nod. “Told you you’d be fine.”

Your chest still heaves, but for the first time since the morning, you feel something else—something fierce and steady.

You saved someone’s life. And Sevika noticed.

The rest of the day blurs into a dizzying montage of chaos, adrenaline, and exhaustion.

You and Jinx answer a handful of calls—each one stranger or more serious than the last. There’s an elderly man who insists he’s dying, only for you to discover it’s just severe heartburn. A toddler with a Lego lodged firmly up his nose. A young woman who’d fainted at the sight of her own blood from a paper cut.

Then there’s the bad one: a motorcycle crash, the rider pinned under his bike, screaming in pain as you and Jinx work quickly to stabilize him while firefighters—Sevika front and center—lift the wreckage away. You swear you feel her eyes on you every time you move, every time you make a decision. She doesn’t say a word, but that silent judgment presses heavy on your back.

By the time your shift winds down, you’re sore, sweat-dampened, and running on fumes. The station is quieter now, the chaos replaced with a drowsy hum as people grab bits of rest where they can. A few are sprawled on couches, boots still on, others half-asleep in their bunks. The smell of coffee lingers in the air.

You head for the lockers, craving the feel of your own bed and maybe a hot shower to scrub away the grime of the day. The hall is dim, shadows stretching long under the flickering lights. You reach your locker, spinning the combination with practiced ease, and pull out your crossbody bag.

You’re just slinging it over your shoulder when a shadow falls across you.

“Not bad, rookie.”

The voice is low, rough, unmistakable.

You turn and there she is—Sevika—leaning against the opposite row of lockers like she owns the space. Arms crossed, expression unreadable, her gaze sliding over you with something sharp and dangerous. The room is empty except for the two of you; everyone else is out cold or on duty.

Your heart skips, but you mask it with a glare. “Do you always sneak up on people like that?”

A slow smirk tugs at the corner of her mouth. “Do you always make it this easy?”

You roll your eyes and step to the side, trying to brush past her, but she moves faster than you expect. Her arm shoots out, blocking your path, and then she’s crowding you back until your spine hits the cold metal of the locker behind you.

You inhale sharply, staring up at her. The height difference is overwhelming, her broad frame caging you in effortlessly.

Your expression hardens into a silent challenge. Are you serious right now?

Sevika chuckles under her breath, leaning down just enough that you can feel the heat radiating off her. “Relax, rookie. You look like you’re ready to bite.”

“Maybe I am,” you shoot back, voice low.

That earns you another smirk, and her gaze drops briefly to your lips before climbing back up to meet your eyes. “Feisty. I like that.”

You laugh, biting the inside of your cheek to stop the nervous flutter building in your chest. “I have a boyfriend,” you say, the words laced with just enough defiance to make it clear you’re not afraid of her.

You don’t push her away though. You’re still pressed to the locker, and the smirk on your face betrays you.

Sevika tilts her head, her voice dropping to a husky whisper as she leans closer to your ear. “Something tells me he doesn’t treat you as well as a woman can.”

The words send heat rushing straight to your cheeks. You can’t stop the flush that blooms across your face, or the way your breath catches when her scent—smoke and leather—fills your senses.

You feel her hand then, slow and deliberate, sliding up the outside of your thigh. Your body goes rigid, but not with fear—with anticipation. She pauses halfway, scanning your face, searching for any sign of discomfort.

You meet her gaze, your heartbeat pounding so hard you’re sure she can feel it through the air between you. Instead of pushing her away, your hand comes up to grip her bicep, fingers curling around the firm muscle there.

That’s all the permission she needs.

Her hand ventures higher, fingers brushing the curve of your ass, the touch teasing and testing. She’s still watching you, her eyes sharp and intent, ready to pull back if you so much as flinch. But you don’t. You just hold on tighter, your breath quickening.

The tension between you coils tighter, electric. Neither of you moves for a long moment, the silence filled with the thrum of your pulse in your ears.

Then she closes the gap.

The first kiss is rough, almost punishing—heat and dominance wrapped in a single motion. Her mouth claims yours like it’s inevitable, like she’s been waiting for this moment as much as you have. You gasp against her lips, and she takes advantage, deepening the kiss until you’re dizzy, your back pressed hard into the lockers.

You melt into it, fingers curling into the fabric of her shirt, pulling her closer even as your mind screams this is wrong.

But God, it feels so right.

The kiss turns passionate, desperate, all the tension from the day burning between you. Her hand stays firm on you, keeping you grounded, while the other braces against the locker by your head. Every move, every touch is controlled—she’s testing the limits, but you’re not stopping her. You’re kissing her back with everything you have, losing yourself in the heat of it.

When she finally pulls back, just barely, her breath is hot against your lips.

“You gonna tell me to stop, rookie?” she murmurs, voice rough.

You can only shake your head, breathless, eyes wide.

Sevika smirks, the kind of smirk that promises this is only the beginning.

The sound of your phone ringing shatters the heated silence between you. It’s shrill, almost mocking, cutting straight through the haze of Sevika’s kiss still lingering on your lips. You flinch, eyes darting to the screen, and your stomach sinks when you see the name flashing there.

Your boyfriend.

Your brows knit together as you hesitate, the phone vibrating insistently in your hand. For a moment, you think about letting it go to voicemail, but you know that’ll only raise questions. With a shaky breath, you swipe to answer, turning your back to Sevika as you lift the phone to your ear.

“Hey, baby,” you say, voice soft and breathless.

You wince the second the words leave your mouth—you sound guilty, like you’ve just been caught doing something you shouldn’t. Which, technically, you have. You cross one arm over your stomach, gripping your side like you can hold yourself together.

On the other end, his voice is sharp, suspicious. “Why are you so late? And why do you sound out of breath?”

You glance at the floor, refusing to look at Sevika. The taste of her kiss is still on your tongue, your lips swollen. You wipe at the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand, smearing away the faint trace of spit.

“I, um…” Your voice stutters, and you clear your throat quickly. “I ran a few miles on the treadmill after my shift. Thought I’d… burn off some stress.”

It’s a weak lie, but it’s the first thing that comes to mind. You start picking at your nails with your free hand, anything to avoid thinking about how close Sevika still is behind you.

He sighs through the line, the sound grating. “You’re going to wear yourself out doing that crap after a long shift. Just hurry home, alright? I’m waiting.”

You hum, low and noncommittal. “Yeah… okay. I’ll be there soon.”

The call ends with a click, leaving the room unbearably quiet again.

You lower the phone slowly, staring at it for a second longer than necessary. Your chest rises and falls in uneven breaths.

Finally, you risk a glance over your shoulder.

Sevika is standing a few feet away now, her back partially turned to you as if she’s giving you space. But when you shift your gaze higher, you catch her in the act—she’s staring at you from the corner of her eye, face composed, unreadable.

Her arms are crossed over her chest, and there’s something in her stance that’s almost… restrained. Like she’s holding herself back.

You swallow hard, tucking your phone into your bag.

The silence stretches, heavy and thick.

Then, without saying a word, Sevika pushes off the locker and walks toward the door. She doesn’t touch you this time, doesn’t tease. She just stops for the briefest moment beside you, close enough that her presence makes your skin prickle.

When she finally speaks, her voice is low, barely above a whisper. “See you next shift, rookie.”

And then she’s gone, leaving you standing there against the cold metal, heart pounding, trying to process the storm she left behind.

The drive home is a blur of headlights and quiet streets. You grip the steering wheel so tight your knuckles ache, replaying everything in your head—the kiss, the way Sevika’s hands felt on you, the heat of her breath against your ear. The way she walked away like nothing happened while you were left standing there, heart in pieces and on fire all at once.

By the time you pull into your apartment’s parking lot, the sun has long since set. You sit there in the dark car for a moment, forehead resting against the steering wheel, trying to breathe. The guilt crawls under your skin, hot and uncomfortable. You have a boyfriend. You’ve been with him for a year. You’re supposed to love him.

You drag yourself upstairs, the hallways blurring until you’re at the door. When you step inside, he’s there, lounging on the couch, scrolling through his phone. He barely glances up when you walk in.

“Hey,” he says, voice flat.

“Hey,” you echo, forcing a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes.

He stretches, stands, and without asking how your day was, without noticing the turmoil written all over your face, he wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you toward the bedroom. His touch is familiar but lacking, his lips pressing against yours without any heat.

You let him. You let him kiss you, let him peel off your clothes, let him guide you to bed. You let him move against you while your body responds out of habit, but your mind is a million miles away.

Every time his hands slide over your skin, you’re thinking of someone else.

Sevika.

The rough grip of her fingers on your thigh. The way her mouth claimed yours like she meant it. The way she said those words—something tells me he doesn’t treat you as well as a woman can—and how they’ve been looping in your head ever since.

You close your eyes and bite your lip, trying not to imagine her instead of him. But the more you try to push her away, the clearer her image becomes—towering over you, teasing you, daring you to give in.

When it’s over, he rolls onto his side, scrolling through his phone again like nothing happened. You lie there staring at the ceiling, heart pounding with frustration and something darker you don’t want to name.

You’re angry—at Sevika for starting this, at yourself for letting it happen, for wanting it to happen. You should’ve shoved her away. You should’ve told her no. Instead, you’d let her touch you, let her kiss you, and then watched her walk out like she owned you.

The anger churns with something else, something messier—longing.

You don’t sleep. Not with his arm thrown lazily over your waist, not with his soft snores filling the room. You lie there wide-eyed in the dark, staring into nothing, every nerve in your body still wired and restless.

And no matter how many times you tell yourself to stop thinking about her, Sevika’s face is the only thing you see when you close your eyes.

The red glow of your alarm clock blinks 4:00 a.m. back at you. One more hour before you’re even supposed to be awake. You’ve been lying here all night, staring at the ceiling, staring at that damn clock, unable to rest with his arm draped heavy across your waist like a weight you can’t push off. The sheets smell like him. You hate that they don’t drown out the phantom smell of smoke and leather that’s been stuck in your head since last night.

Finally, you’ve had enough. You slip out from under his arm carefully, moving like a thief in the dark. The floor is cold under your bare feet as you pull on your navy EMT t-shirt and cargo pants. You grab your jacket—the one with the station’s logo stitched across the back—and shrug it over your shoulders. Your hair goes into a ponytail, messy with loose strands framing your face, but you don’t bother fixing it.

The drive to the station is quiet, the city still asleep. You roll through familiar streets under the dim streetlights, your hands gripping the wheel tighter than they need to.

When you step inside, the station has that in-between feeling: some people ending their shift, others just starting. A couple of firefighters nod at you as they pass, heading for the bunks. You murmur something back, clutching your gym bag closer. You’re not here for them.

You head straight for the locker room, throwing your bag into your locker with more force than necessary. The metal clang echoes in the otherwise empty hall. You peel off your jacket, folding it neatly despite the frustration boiling inside you, and shut the locker with a slam.

The private gym is at the far end of the station, and you’re grateful for it—no gawkers, no distractions. You push the door open expecting silence.

Instead, you hear the rhythmic clank of weights and the deep, controlled breaths of someone mid-set.

Your stomach drops when you see her.

Sevika.

She’s lying on the bench press, muscles straining as she pushes almost 400 pounds like it’s nothing. Her tank top clings to her skin, damp with sweat, every line of her arms and shoulders flexing with power. You freeze in the doorway, eyes locked on her, and for a moment you hate yourself for staring. But you can’t stop. The sheer strength, the way her jaw tightens with each rep—it’s intoxicating.

You must have been staring too long, because she notices. She racks the bar with a heavy clang and sits up, towel in hand. Her dark eyes lock onto yours, a smirk ghosting her lips.

“What are you doing here so early?” she asks, voice rough from exertion, low enough to make something twist in your gut.

The heat rushes to your cheeks, and you quickly furrow your brows to mask it. You’re still angry—at her, at yourself, at everything. “Why do you care?” you snap, brushing past her toward the treadmill without waiting for an answer.

You hear her chuckle under her breath, the sound sending an irritating shiver down your spine. You step onto the treadmill, hitting the button to start at a slow walk, eyes fixed straight ahead.

Sevika doesn’t go back to lifting. Instead, you hear the soft thud of her boots approaching. You keep your eyes forward, refusing to give her the satisfaction of looking.

She leans one hand on the console of the treadmill, her shadow falling over you. Her voice drops to that husky tone that makes your chest tighten. “Is this about last night?” she whispers, close enough that her breath grazes your ear.

You inhale sharply, biting down on the inside of your cheek. The blush creeps up your neck, no matter how hard you fight it. You turn your head just enough to glare at her, whisper-yelling through clenched teeth, “You cornered me and made out with me.”

Her smirk deepens, like your anger only amuses her.

“I’m a horrible person,” you continue, voice shaking as you look away, your feet still moving against the treadmill’s belt. “You made me a horrible person.”

Sevika leans back slightly, her eyes scanning over you like she’s reading every thought you’re too scared to say. “You didn’t seem to mind,” she murmurs, that flirtatious lilt curling around her words. “In fact, if I remember right… you kissed me back.”

You glare harder at the wall in front of you, jaw tight.

Satisfied, Sevika steps back, throwing the towel over her shoulder. “Relax, rookie. You’ll figure out what you want eventually.” She turns, her broad shoulders gleaming under the gym’s harsh lights as she strolls back to the bench press, picking up where she left off like she hadn’t just unraveled you with a few words.

Your heart is pounding so hard you can barely breathe. You slam your headphones on, shoving them into your ears as if they can block her out. With a huff, you crank the treadmill up to a run, the belt whirring faster and faster beneath your feet.

You keep your eyes locked on the numbers climbing on the display, but out of the corner of your vision, you see her watching between sets—cool, calm, like she has all the time in the world to wait you out.

By the time you finish your run and wipe the sweat from your forehead, the station has started to come alive. You head back to the locker room, swap your gym clothes for a fresh uniform, and tie your hair back again—this time neater, tighter. Your body hums with exhaustion, but it’s the kind that feels almost good, grounding.

When you step back into the bay, Jinx is just walking in through the main doors, balancing a latte in one hand and her phone in the other. Her blue braids sway as she glances at her watch.

“Look at you!!” she says with a wide grin. “Early!”

You shrug like it’s no big deal, but the corner of your mouth twitches upward despite yourself.

“If this becomes a habit,” she continues, stepping forward and looping an arm around your shoulders, “I would love to start getting coffee with you in the mornings. You, me, caffeine—dream team.”

You chuckle softly, the tension from earlier easing a little. “We’ll see if I survive today first.”

“Pfft, please. After yesterday? You’re a natural.” Jinx gives your shoulder a friendly squeeze before letting go, sipping her latte.

The two of you chat casually while heading to clock in—little things about the calls yesterday, a joke about how you’re probably already fitter than half the station after your early gym session, even a bit about her dad being weirdly overprotective. For a moment, everything feels almost normal.

But the peace doesn’t last.

The tones drop, loud and urgent, followed by the dispatcher’s voice: “Priority one. Male, late sixties. Chest pain. Responding unit…”

Jinx’s expression sharpens. “That’s us.”

You grab your gear, adrenaline spiking, and follow her into the ambulance. The other EMTs pile into a second rig, leaving the two of you to lead.

As Jinx speeds through traffic, lights flashing and sirens wailing, she tosses you a quick glance. “Chest pain calls are tricky. Could be nothing, could be a heart attack. Just stay calm, do your part, and we’ll handle it.”

You nod, gripping the side rail as the city blurs by.

When you arrive, the scene is tense. An older man, maybe late sixties, sits hunched in a chair by the window, clutching his chest with one hand. His breathing is shallow, his face pale. Standing near him is a woman in her late twenties, pacing, her voice sharp with panic.

“Dad, please, you need to let them take you in—”

“I’m fine!” he barks back, waving her off with his free hand. “I don’t need a damn hospital.”

You and Jinx exchange a quick look as you step inside, the other EMT team right behind you. The daughter’s relief when she sees you is immediate.

“Thank God you’re here,” she says, voice cracking. “He won’t listen to me.”

Jinx crouches slightly, her tone calm and professional. “Sir, I’m Jinx, this is my partner. We’re here to help you, but we need to check you out first.”

The man grumbles something under his breath, still clutching his chest, but doesn’t immediately refuse.

You step forward cautiously, pulling out the blood pressure cuff. “Um, sir, I’m going to check your vitals, okay?” you say gently, trying to keep your voice soothing.

He doesn’t answer, just stares at you with narrowed eyes as you start to wrap the cuff around his arm. The moment you begin pumping it, he jerks violently, swatting your hands away.

“Get your hands off me!” he yells, lurching to his feet.

You stumble back instinctively, heart pounding, as Jinx’s brows furrow. She steps forward, positioning herself between you and the patient. “Sir, please sit down,” she says firmly, holding her hands up in a calming gesture. “We need to check your vitals to help you.”

“Goddamnit, Dad, just let them check you!” the daughter yells, tears spilling over her cheeks.

The man opens his mouth to shout something back, but instead, he staggers, his face twisting in pain. His knees buckle, and before anyone can catch him, he collapses hard to the floor.

“Get the gurney! Now!” Jinx barks to the other team, dropping to her knees.

You’re already moving, adrenaline spiking like fire in your veins. One EMT checks his pulse—nothing. Oxygen monitor flashes low readings.

“Pulse is weak—no, wait—he’s flat,” Jinx says sharply.

You kneel on the other side of him, gloves snapping into place, heart hammering so hard you can barely breathe. Jinx meets your eyes. “CPR. Now.”

You don’t hesitate this time. You line your hands on his sternum and start compressions, counting under your breath. The daughter is crying hysterically, being pulled back by another EMT so she’s not in the way. You block it out, focus only on the rhythm—down, up, down, up.

You push harder, faster, arms burning. You can feel sweat sliding down your temple. Jinx is at the head, bagging him between your compressions, her movements fast and precise. The other team is setting up the gurney, prepping equipment, shouting vitals.

“Come on,” you mutter under your breath. “Come on, come back.”

The man’s chest rises and falls under your hands, but there’s no response. No spark. You push harder, ignoring the pain screaming in your muscles. You did this yesterday. You saved someone yesterday. You can do it again.

But minute after minute drags by, and nothing changes. The monitor stays flat. The man’s body doesn’t respond.

“Switch!” Jinx yells, and another EMT takes over compressions while you stumble back, chest heaving. You watch them work, silently begging for a miracle.

The daughter is sobbing in the corner, clinging to one of the EMTs for support.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the call is made. “Time of death, 08:27.”

The words hit like a physical blow. You stand frozen, your gloves slick with sweat, your chest hollow.

You failed.

You help lift the man’s body onto the gurney, the motions mechanical, your mind spinning. The ride to the hospital is silent except for the hiss of oxygen and the dull beep of equipment that doesn’t matter anymore.

You sit in the back, staring at the man’s still face, your hands trembling in your lap. Jinx glances at you from across the rig, her expression softer than usual, but she doesn’t say anything.

When you roll the gurney through the hospital doors and hand him off, you feel like something inside you stays behind with him.

Dead on arrival.

Your first failed save.

The ambulance backed into the bay just as the morning sun climbed higher, spilling pale light across the concrete floor. The station was awake now, the scent of burnt coffee and the hum of conversation hanging in the air—until you stepped out of the rig.

The second your boots hit the ground, the noise died. Every head turned. Conversations cut short. Firefighters and EMTs alike stared, their expressions a mix of pity, curiosity, and something else you didn’t want to name.

You felt their eyes on you like needles. You bit the inside of your cheek hard, your jaw clenching until it hurt. Without looking at any of them, you adjusted the strap of your crossbody bag and walked straight past, your shoulders stiff.

Nobody said a word. The silence was louder than any siren.

Behind you, Jinx slammed the ambulance door and turned on the crowd, her voice rising like a whip. “Seriously?!” she barked, glaring at the room. “You’re all just gonna stand there and stare? She did everything right! You think gawking is helping? Show some damn respect!”

No one answered. A few looked away, suddenly very interested in their boots.

You didn’t wait to hear more. You pushed through the side door, the cool morning air washing over you as you stepped outside. Your chest felt tight, too tight, like you couldn’t get a proper breath no matter how hard you tried. You kept walking—past the trucks, past the edge of the bay—until the station was a few feet behind you.

Only then did you stop.

With trembling hands, you dug into your pocket and pulled out your vape. You stared at it for a second, ashamed of how badly you needed it, then brought it to your lips. The first inhale burned your throat, but the rush of minty vapor calmed your shaking—if only slightly.

You exhaled hard, your leg kicking out against the gravel like a nervous tic. Another hit. Then another. But the tightness in your chest didn’t ease. It only swelled until your eyes stung.

You tried to blink it away, but the tears came anyway, spilling hot down your cheeks. You sank onto the curb, curling into yourself, your free hand gripping your knee. You pressed the back of your hand to your mouth to muffle the sobs, but it didn’t matter. The sound broke out of you, raw and ugly.

You couldn’t stop seeing his face—ashen and still as you pressed down on his chest again and again. Couldn’t stop hearing the monitor flatline, the daughter’s scream. You’d failed. Even though you’d done everything, even though Jinx said you were perfect, it didn’t matter. He died anyway.

Your shoulders shook as you cried, your vape slipping from your fingers into the gravel. You barely noticed the shadow stretching across you until it was too late.

Boots. Heavy ones.

You looked up through wet lashes and immediately wished you hadn’t.

Sevika.

Of all people, of course it had to be her. The last person you wanted to see you like this.

She stood there with her arms crossed, watching you with that maddeningly unreadable expression. When she finally spoke, her tone was low, laced with that teasing edge you hated. “Vaping, huh?”

Your cheeks burned hotter. You snatched the vape off the ground, shoving it into your pocket as if hiding it could erase the moment. You looked away, ashamed of your puffy, blotchy face.

“I’m not an addict,” you said softly, voice raw from crying. “I just… do it when I need to.”

Sevika didn’t reply right away. You heard the flick of a lighter, the faint crackle as she lit a cigar. The smell of it mingled with the crisp morning air. She took a slow drag, exhaling smoke in a lazy cloud, her eyes never leaving you.

You curled your arms tighter around your knees, voice trembling. “I can still see her face. The daughter. When they said the time of death…”

Your nose crinkled up as another sob tore through you, quieter this time but no less painful. You pressed your forehead against your arms, wishing you could disappear.

For a moment, there was only the faint hiss of her cigar and the distant hum of the station behind you. Then Sevika’s voice came—lower than you’d ever heard it, stripped of its usual bite.

“My first year,” she began, her eyes distant, “we got called to a house fire. Small place, flames were mostly under control by the time we got there. We thought everyone was out.”

You looked up at her, sniffling. She wasn’t looking at you—she was staring past you, like she was back there in that moment.

“Then we heard screaming. Back room.” She took a drag, exhaled slowly. “They wouldn’t let me back in. Said the structure was about to collapse. I fought them, but they held me back. I stood there while the roof caved in.”

Your chest tightened.

“It was a mother,” Sevika said, voice rougher now. “Her kid couldn’t have been older than thirteen.” Her jaw flexed, the memory visibly clawing at her. “I can still hear it sometimes. Smell the smoke. See the flames.”

You wiped at your eyes, swallowing the lump in your throat. “How do you… deal with that?”

Sevika finally looked down at you, her gaze sharp but softer than usual. “You don’t. Not at first. Hell, maybe not ever. You just… keep going. Because someone else is going to need you. And if you quit, who’s gonna be there for them?”

You nodded slowly, tears still clinging to your lashes.

She took one last drag from her cigar and dropped it to the gravel, crushing it under her boot. “You did good, rookie. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Not even yourself.”

You sniffled again, and she started to turn away. But before she walked off completely, she glanced back with the faintest smirk.

“Next time, try crying somewhere less obvious”

Despite everything (only you..), a weak laugh escaped you.

You sat there for another minute, letting Sevika’s words settle into you like embers—burning, but strangely comforting. Eventually, you wiped the last of your tears on the sleeve of your jacket, pulled yourself together, and stood. Your legs still felt heavy, but you forced them to move. You weren’t going to let anyone see you break again.

By the time you walked back into the station, the stares were gone. Jinx caught your eye across the bay, her expression soft but not pitying, and gave you a little nod. You nodded back, shoulders squaring. You weren’t fine, not yet—but you were going to keep going.

You barely had time to breathe before the tones dropped again.

“Priority two. Residential area. Possible overdose, unconscious female, caller is a neighbor.”

Jinx shot you a quick glance as you both rushed to the ambulance. “You good for this one?”

You swallowed hard, but your voice came out steady. “Yeah. I’m good.”

She gave you a quick grin. “That’s what I like to hear.”

You hopped into the rig, gear clattering as you strapped in. The sirens wailed to life, slicing through the morning as Jinx tore out of the bay and into traffic. The city blurred by, the adrenaline rising in your veins like an old friend.

The address was a modest house in a quiet neighborhood. A worried-looking neighbor stood outside, waving frantically as you pulled up. “She’s inside! Bathroom, second door down the hall! I think she took something—she’s not waking up!”

Jinx thanked him briskly and grabbed the kit. You followed, heart pounding, every nerve on edge. Inside, the house smelled faintly of perfume and cleaning supplies.

You found her slumped on the bathroom floor, an empty pill bottle lying nearby. She was in her twenties, pale, lips tinged slightly blue.

“Airway’s clear,” Jinx said, kneeling beside her. “Pulse is slow but present. Breathing shallow.” She glanced at you. “Narcan, rookie.”

Your hands moved on instinct, grabbing the nasal spray from the kit. Kneeling beside the woman, you tilted her head back gently and administered the dose. You watched, holding your breath, as the seconds ticked by.

Jinx kept checking her vitals, her voice calm but firm. “Stay with us, sweetheart. You’re not going anywhere today.”

A faint cough rattled from the woman’s throat, followed by a weak groan. Relief rushed through you as her breathing picked up. She blinked, disoriented, tears welling in her eyes as she muttered something about not meaning to scare anyone.

“Hey,” you said softly, your hand brushing hers as you reassured her. “You’re okay. We’ve got you.”

Jinx glanced at you, a small smile flickering on her face. “Good work.”

Together, you and the other team got her onto a gurney, monitoring her vitals as you rolled her to the rig. The neighbor hovered at the door, wringing his hands, thanking you both repeatedly.

In the back of the ambulance, you sat beside the patient, holding her hand while Jinx drove. She drifted in and out of consciousness, whispering apologies you didn’t fully understand, but you stayed with her the whole way, telling her she was safe, that she wasn’t alone.

When you handed her over to the ER staff, she gave your hand one last squeeze. It was faint, but it was there.

The sun was higher now, warming your skin as you stepped back outside. You took a deep breath, the air tasting fresher than it had all morning.

Jinx leaned against the rig, stretching her arms over her head. “See? Not all calls end bad.”

You gave her a tired but genuine smile. “Yeah. I needed that.”

She bumped your shoulder with hers. “Told you, rookie. You’re built for this.”

As you drove back to the station, the knot in your chest loosened a little. The daughter’s face from the earlier call still haunted you—but now it was joined by the image of the young woman breathing again, holding your hand, alive.

And for the first time that day, you felt like maybe you were going to make it through.

The station was in its usual midday rhythm—people moving around with coffee mugs, boots scuffing against the floor, the smell of oil and smoke clinging to everything. Sevika had just finished signing off on some reports in her office and stepped out into the bay, cigar stub already between her fingers.

As she walked past the rigs, she caught the low murmur of conversation near the supply shelves. Two younger guys—a firefighter she didn’t know well and an EMT still practically fresh out of training—were leaning against the wall, talking just loud enough to be overheard.

“Second day,” the EMT said, voice tinged with something smug. “And she’s already lost a patient? That’s not exactly a promising start.”

The firefighter snorted under his breath. “I heard she froze up. Probably didn’t even know what she was doing.”

Sevika’s brow furrowed instantly, the sharpness in her eyes cutting through the smoke as she took a slow drag of her cigar. She paused, half-hidden behind the truck, listening despite herself.

The EMT continued, his tone careless. “I mean, how do you screw up CPR? The guy was alive when they got him. If Jinx wasn’t covering her ass, maybe—”

“Shut it,” the firefighter muttered nervously, glancing around. “You don’t know the whole story.”

But the EMT just shrugged. “All I’m saying is, some people aren’t cut out for this job. Better to find out now than later.”

Sevika exhaled smoke slowly, the words crawling under her skin. Why did it bother her so much? She didn’t even like rookies—hell, she’d made it clear she couldn’t stand them. But something about hearing them talk about you like that—when she’d seen you push through panic, when she’d seen the look on your face outside the station earlier—made her blood boil.

She shouldn’t care. She told herself that as she flicked the ash from her cigar. She shouldn’t care. And yet, her boots were already carrying her toward them.

The two of them didn’t notice her approach until her shadow fell over them.

Sevika stood there, towering, arms crossed over her chest, her expression carved from stone. The faint curl of smoke from her cigar made her look even more imposing.

The EMT’s voice faltered as he noticed her, the color draining from his face. The firefighter straightened immediately, his posture snapping to attention like he’d just been caught doing something illegal.

Sevika took one last drag before speaking, her voice low and rough, every word deliberate. “You two got something to say about how my EMTs handle themselves?”

The EMT stammered, “No, Chief, we were just—”

“Talking shit.” Sevika’s tone was like a knife, cutting him off mid-sentence. “You think you know what it’s like out there? You think it’s easy to lose someone on a call and keep your head straight?”

They both said nothing, frozen under her glare.

She stepped closer, close enough that they could smell the smoke on her breath. “Here’s what’s gonna happen. You’re gonna shut your mouths and go do your vehicle inspections. Now. Or I’ll have you both written up so fast you’ll wish you kept your gossip to yourselves.”

The EMT swallowed hard, nodding quickly. “Yes, Chief.”

The firefighter muttered, “Yes, ma’am,” before grabbing the clipboard from the wall.

“Good.” Her tone was final, leaving no room for argument.

They scattered, practically running toward the rigs to avoid her wrath.

Sevika watched them go, exhaling another cloud of smoke, her jaw tight. She shouldn’t feel this angry. She shouldn’t care what they said about you. But as she flicked the end of her cigar into the trash and turned back toward her office.

The call sheet was odd from the start—six-year-old female, fever and nausea, jaundice noted by the caller. But the address was what made Jinx raise an eyebrow as she drove: a psychic shop downtown, the kind of place with neon palm-reading signs and crystals in the window.

You clutched your crossbody bag tightly as you followed Jinx up the narrow steps. The air smelled faintly of incense, thick and sweet. The door creaked open, and you stepped into what looked like someone’s living room converted into a shop—shelves lined with stones, herbs hanging from the ceiling, and a beaded curtain swaying gently in the back.

The parents were waiting—both in their mid-30s. The mother had a long flowy skirt and an armful of bracelets, her expression calm to the point of eerie. The father stood rigid beside her, arms crossed, his glare sharp.

Your attention went straight to the little girl on the couch. She was hunched over, clutching her stomach, her tiny face streaked with tears. Her skin had a sickly yellow tinge, her eyes glassy with fever. Every instinct in you screamed that this wasn’t something crystals could fix.

The EMTs immediately went to work, setting down equipment. You knelt beside the girl, your voice soft as you introduced yourself. “Hi, sweetie. I’m here to help you, okay?”

She whimpered but nodded faintly. You slipped a thermometer under her tongue, checked her pulse, then gently lifted one eyelid to check her eyes. The yellowing was worse there—your brows knitted tight.

Jinx, meanwhile, was questioning the parents, her tone professional but firm. “How long has she been like this? Any vomiting? Has she eaten anything unusual?”

The mother responded in a serene tone, “She’s been off for a few days. She’s just… cleansing. Her body is rejecting toxins.”

You glanced over your shoulder. “Does she have her vaccinations?” you asked, your voice tight as you kept your focus on the child. “It looks like hepatitis.”

Jinx’s eyes snapped to the parents.

“We don’t believe in vaccines,” the mother said, her voice almost proud, like it was a badge of honor.

Your stomach sank.

Jinx straightened, her usual easygoing demeanor gone. “We need to get her to the hospital. Now. This isn’t something you fix with home remedies.”

One of the EMTs wheeled in the gurney, ready to move the child.

But before they could get closer, the father stepped in front of them, blocking the way. His face was red with anger. “You aren’t taking her anywhere!” he barked. “We can heal her. She just needs crystals, her chakras are misaligned.”

Jinx stepped closer, her hand resting on her hip. “Sir, your daughter is very sick. She could be in liver failure. If we don’t take her, she could die.”

“She’s not going to die!” he yelled back. “You’re just trying to scare us so you can pump her full of chemicals.”

The little girl cried harder, clutching at your arm weakly. You stayed kneeling beside her, shielding her slightly with your body as you spoke gently. “Sweetheart, we’re going to take care of you, I promise.”

“Sir.” Jinx’s voice sharpened to a dangerous edge. “You are interfering with medical treatment. If you keep this up, we’ll have to involve law enforcement.”

“You think you can just threaten me in my own home?” he spat, stepping closer.

The tension thickened. The other EMTs exchanged nervous glances but stayed ready, their hands on the gurney.

You looked up, heart hammering. “Please,” you said softly, your voice cracking under the weight of the child trembling against you. “She’s so scared. She’s in pain. She needs help.”

The father’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t move.

Jinx pulled out her radio, her expression unyielding. “Dispatch, this is Unit 14. We have a pediatric patient with suspected liver failure. Parents are refusing transport. Requesting immediate police assistance.”

The mother gasped. “You can’t call the police! You have no right!”

“The second your child’s life is in danger, we do,” Jinx shot back coldly.

Within minutes, the distant wail of sirens filled the street outside. The father’s bravado faltered as two officers entered, Chief Vander himself among them. His presence was commanding, calm but firm.

“What’s going on here?” Vander asked, eyes scanning the tense room.

“She’s fine!” the father shouted. “They’re trying to take her against our wishes!”

Vander’s gaze hardened. “Sir, if medical professionals say your child is in danger, you don’t get to argue. Step aside.”

The father looked ready to fight, but one officer moved closer, hand resting near his holster—not threatening, but enough to make the man think twice. His shoulders sagged, his fists clenching.

Jinx nodded to you. “Go.”

You scooped the little girl up gently, cradling her against your chest as you carried her to the gurney. She clung to you, her tiny fingers gripping your shirt. “You’re okay,” you whispered, brushing her damp hair back. “I’ve got you.”

The EMTs secured her quickly, and you climbed into the rig beside her. The parents shouted after you, their protests fading as the doors slammed shut.

Jinx climbed into the driver’s seat, her jaw set. “Hold on, rookie,” she called back as she flipped the sirens on. “We’re not losing this one.”

You sat beside the girl, monitoring her vitals, whispering soothing words as the ambulance tore through the streets. Her small hand stayed clutching yours the whole way to the hospital.

By the time you handed her off to the pediatric team, her fever had stabilized slightly with the oxygen and fluids you’d started. She looked up at you with weak, tearful eyes, and you smiled through the tightness in your chest.

This time, when you stepped back out into the morning sun, you didn’t feel hollow. You felt like you’d made a difference.

And that feeling? You held onto it tightly.

The locker room was empty except for the faint hum of the fluorescent lights overhead. You were moving slowly, the weight of the day settling into your bones as you stuffed your things into your crossbody bag. The last shift of the day always hit differently—exhaustion mixed with relief, but also that weird emptiness from knowing you’d be back here soon enough.

You pulled your EMT jacket from its hook, slinging it over your arm, and turned to leave—only to stop short.

Someone was leaning casually in the doorway.

It wasn’t Sevika.

For once, it was someone else—a tall woman with dark blue hair that fell in waves around her shoulders, the color catching in the dim light. She had an EMT jacket zipped up halfway, and she was standing with her hands stuffed into her pockets, watching you with an expression you couldn’t quite read.

You raised an eyebrow, tilting your head slightly. “Hello?”

The woman blinked like she’d been caught staring, her eyes widening. Her cheeks flushed faintly as she straightened. “Sorry! I didn’t mean to stare, I just—” She rubbed the back of her neck awkwardly. “I heard about your patient this morning. I’m so sorry. That must’ve been rough.”

Your chest tightened at the memory, and you bit the inside of your cheek, glancing away. “Yeah,” you muttered, your voice soft. “It was.”

She took a step closer, her posture losing its initial awkwardness. “I’m Caitlyn,” she said, offering her hand.

You hesitated, glancing between her hand and her face. She had a small, nervous smile that didn’t quite hide the warmth in her eyes. You finally reached out, shaking her hand lightly.

“Y/N,” you said quietly.

Her smile widened, showing the faintest gap between her front teeth. “Sucks you’re just getting off,” Caitlyn said with a little laugh. “I clock in in twenty.”

You found yourself fighting a smile, even as you pulled your hand back.

“Hopefully,” she added, her tone softening, “we’ll get a shift together soon.”

There was something in the way she said it—hopeful, maybe even a little flirty. Before you could think too hard about it, Caitlyn gave you a small wave and turned, walking down the hall toward the bay with a confident stride.

You stood there for a moment, watching her go, before sucking in a deep breath and shaking your head.

Internally, your thoughts were spiraling. Why do so many sexy women work here? First Sevika, now her? What is this place?

You exhaled slowly, pressing a hand to your face, then grabbed your bag and headed out.

The sun was just beginning to dip low in the sky, casting everything in a warm orange glow. You stepped out into the evening air with a sigh, your boots scuffing against the pavement. The day had been long, messy, and full of emotions you didn’t quite know what to do with.

Still, as you walked away from the station, there was a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at your lips.

Your apartment was quiet when you got home, the kind of quiet that weighed on you after a long shift. You dropped your bag by the door and kicked off your boots, your body aching from the day’s calls. The smell of something reheated—probably leftovers—hung faintly in the air.

Your boyfriend was sprawled across the couch, eyes glued to his phone, barely glancing up when you walked in.

“Hey,” he said flatly.

“Hey,” you echoed, exhaustion dripping from your voice.

You didn’t expect comfort—you’d learned a long time ago not to. Instead, you went through the motions. A shower to scrub off the day, a change into soft shorts and a t-shirt, brushing your teeth with that same hollow routine. By the time you came out, he was already in the bedroom, phone tossed aside, waiting.

You barely had time to crawl under the sheets before his hands were on you. It wasn’t tender, wasn’t loving—it was just sex. Mechanical, like something he expected. You let him. You let him kiss you, touch you, move against you. Your body responded, but your mind? It was somewhere else entirely.

It was back at the station.

Back in that locker room, Sevika pinning you against the cold metal, her voice low and dangerous as she whispered things that made your knees weak. The way her hand gripped your thigh, the way her mouth claimed yours with heat that set your whole body on fire. You thought of her strength, the smell of smoke on her skin, the roughness of her voice when she called you rookie.

Every thrust from your boyfriend only made the contrast clearer. He wasn’t Sevika. He’d never be Sevika.

You bit your lip, not from pleasure but to keep your thoughts from spilling out, to keep your breathing steady. When he finished, it was quick, almost thoughtless. He rolled off you with a satisfied sigh, already reaching for his phone again.

You stared at the ceiling, your chest tight, the unbearable pit in your stomach growing heavier by the second. Something gnawed at you, something you couldn’t ignore.

When was your last period?

Your brows furrowed as you tried to count back. It should’ve been… last week? Or the week before? No. You were sure it was due a few days ago. Maybe more than a few.

Your heart skipped a beat.

No. No, no, no. There’s no way.

It’s just stress. That’s what you told yourself. Stress from the new job, the long shifts, the emotional calls. That’s all it was. Periods got weird under stress. Right?

But the thought burrowed deeper, making your stomach churn. You turned your head to the side, staring at your boyfriend. He was already half-asleep, breathing slow, oblivious to the storm building in your chest.

You looked back at the ceiling, eyes wide, fingers twisting in the sheets. The room felt smaller, the walls closing in.

A baby. The word echoed in your head, unwanted, terrifying. You pressed your hands to your stomach, as if you could will away the possibility.

No. It’s just stress.

You repeated it over and over, like a mantra, staring at the cracks in the ceiling as if they could give you an answer. But the pit in your stomach didn’t go away. It only grew.

comment to be added to the taglist!!

[cup1drul3z]

★ — Her Voice

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 3 : ɴᴏᴡ ᴛʜᴀᴛꜱ ᴀ ᴘʀᴇꜱꜱ ʀᴜɴ

ɢᴜɪᴛᴀʀ ᴘʟᴀʏᴇʀ!ꜱᴇᴠɪᴋᴀ x ᴘᴏᴘꜱᴛᴀʀ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | 9.1ᴋ ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ

TAGS : Emotional distress, Identity crisis and public exposure, Verbal abuse from a manager, Industry pressure, Cyberbullying, Self-harm, Obsessive behavior, Implicit sexual themes (lyric content, comments), Alcohol and drug use, Strong language

A/N : ch 3 baby

SUMMARY : Sevika’s late-night visits grow into something intimate, until Glassgrave unexpectedly invades your safe space. Amid the chaos, laughter, and shared secrets, your connection with her deepens. In Tokyo, the pressure mounts, but a quiet dinner leads to confessions, and the night ends in a passion that feels like both release and comfort.

previous chapter

It started as a fluke.

One night. One bottle of wine. One unexpected knock at your door that cracked open something you hadn’t felt in years.

But then it happened again.

And again.

And again.

A quiet little pattern that slipped into your life without permission—but didn’t feel unwelcome. Not really.

After ten p.m., like clockwork, Sevika would show up.

Sometimes she brought takeout in crumpled brown paper bags. Sometimes she brought beer and wore an old hoodie that smelled like smoke and citrus and her. Sometimes she just brought herself—tired, quiet, leaning against your doorframe like a sin you couldn’t stop letting in.

And you always let her.

Every night began the same. Small talk. Music low. You in something oversized and soft, fresh from the shower, no makeup. Sevika in whatever half-put-together outfit she’d worn to rehearsal, her jacket slung over the back of your kitchen chair, her boots kicked off at the door. She looked more at home in your apartment than you did.

The drinks came next. A shared bottle. A few lazy clinks of glasses.

You’d start talking.

Not about the tour. Not about Tokyo. Not about SIR3N.

But about everything else.

She told you about her first guitar. The one Vi had stolen from a pawn shop and gifted to her at fifteen, still covered in stickers and blood from some long-forgotten fight. She told you about her mom. About a summer she spent living in a friend’s garage. About Mel—how beautiful she was, and how lonely.

You told her about the night you changed your name. The real one. About how it felt to step on stage for the first time. About how you wrote songs in math class and skipped prom to record demos in a basement with broken speakers and a mic held together with duct tape.

The nights stretched longer.

The space between you shrank.

Her hands started to linger. On your wrist. Your thigh. Your lower back as she passed behind you to refill her glass.

You started to lean into her shoulder when you laughed.

It was slow. Careful. Like neither of you wanted to acknowledge what was happening too fast, in case you ruined it.

But it was happening.

By night four, Sevika was calling you trouble.

By night six, it was sweetheart.

And you didn’t correct her.

You blushed, sure. Rolled your eyes, shoved her arm—but you didn’t stop her.

And sometimes, she’d murmur it so softly, so lazily, you weren’t sure she even meant to say it aloud.

“Pass me that, sweetheart.” “Damn, you look good like that, trouble.” “You always get like this when you’re tipsy, huh, baby?”

Each one sank into you like a hook, pulling your breath from your lungs and leaving your skin hot.

And she knew it.

Of course she knew it.

She’d smirk when you froze. Let her fingers brush yours on purpose. Sit just close enough that your knees touched on the couch and neither of you moved away.

It was electric.

It was dangerous.

But it was addictive.

You didn’t talk about what it was. You didn’t need to. Not yet.

You just kept opening the door at 10:04 p.m.

You opened the door like you had every night for the past week.

It was muscle memory now. A little thrill behind your ribs, your hand on the knob, anticipation buzzing in your chest like static. You were already halfway into a grin, already ready to roll your eyes at whatever nickname Sevika would murmur tonight—trouble, baby, maybe something new.

But when the door swung open—

Your heart dropped.

Sevika was standing there, alright.

But she wasn’t alone.

The rest of Glassgrave flanked her like a chaotic parade. Vi had her arms crossed, already scanning the hallway like she was casing the joint. Jinx was grinning, bouncing on her heels, hair in messy buns and makeup smeared like she’d either just finished a show or started a fight. Caitlyn looked out of place in her sleek blazer and combat boots, one hand resting on her hip like this was an interrogation. Jayce was finishing a drink in a disposable cup, sipping lazily like he didn’t even realize where they were.

You blinked.

Sevika blinked back.

“They followed me,” she said flatly.

You stared at her. “…So you let them?”

Her mouth twisted in annoyance—at them, not you. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

Before you could say anything, Jinx was already sliding past Sevika into your apartment like she owned the place.

“Oh my God, this is gorgeous,” she cooed, eyes darting over your foyer, then toward the open-plan living room, the city view flooding in from the wall-length windows. “SIR3N’s castle, huh? I’d sell a kidney for these acoustics.”

You opened your mouth. No words came out.

Vi and Caitlyn followed next—Vi whistling low at the skyline, her arm brushing Caitlyn’s as they stepped to the window. Caitlyn said nothing, but her face twitched in subtle approval as she looked around.

Jayce wandered in last. He tossed his empty cup in your trash can without asking, then plopped down onto your velvet couch with a pleased sigh, stretching his long legs across your throw pillows.

The door was still wide open.

You turned to Sevika with a face that said, are you fucking kidding me?

She looked almost sheepish. Almost. Her glare was pinned firmly to her bandmates like she’d already mentally thrown each of them out a window. “I told them I was coming here. I didn’t think they’d follow me.”

“Do I have a choice now?” you muttered under your breath as you gently closed the door.

You weren’t dressed for this. Weren’t ready for this. No makeup. Hair in a messy clip. Bare legs under a long sweater. Vulnerable in a way you hadn’t felt in weeks.

Your apartment had never felt this small.

You stood awkwardly in the entryway as all four of them made themselves at home.

Jinx was already snooping through your record collection. “You have three Lana albums on vinyl?” she gasped. “You are gay.”

Vi grinned, peeking at a framed lyric sheet on your wall. “Is this real? Damn, I’d hang one of Sev’s in my bathroom.”

Jayce had already kicked his shoes off.

Caitlyn glanced back at you with something that almost resembled sympathy, as if she understood what it felt like to be blindsided by this crew.

You caught Sevika’s eye again.

Her face was tight. Jaw tense. Her fingers were shoved into the pockets of her low-slung jeans, the hem of her tank top still giving you an annoying peek of abs and the slightest trail of inked skin.

She looked like she wanted to kill all of them.

You sighed, biting the inside of your cheek, then raised your voice enough to be heard over the band’s chatter.

“Um… do you guys want anything to drink?”

They all turned at once.

The same way wolves turn when someone makes a sudden move.

“…You got whiskey?” Vi asked, already heading toward the kitchen without waiting for an answer.

“Wine?” Jinx chimed, now halfway into your hallway where she definitely had no business being.

“Tea would be lovely, actually,” Caitlyn said, the corner of her mouth twitching upward.

Jayce raised a lazy hand. “I’m good.”

You blinked. “Right. Okay. Drinks. Sure.”

You turned and headed into the kitchen, your heart in your throat, muttering under your breath as you went. Sevika followed, trailing behind you like a shadow.

Once you were both in the kitchen, she leaned against the counter beside the fridge and crossed her arms.

“I didn’t ask them to come,” she muttered.

“Yeah, well…” You grabbed glasses from the cabinet, your hands just a little shaky. “You didn’t stop them either.”

She exhaled through her nose. “I was gonna text you. I swear. They wouldn’t drop it.”

You poured the wine into two glasses and grabbed a bottle of bourbon for Vi. “You bring them over a lot?” you asked, trying to keep your tone light.

“No,” she said.

You handed her a glass.

Your fingers brushed.

And for just a second, there was a flicker of you and her again. That quiet rhythm you’d found. The safety in the silence. The teasing. The warmth.

Then: “JINX! Get out of her bedroom!” Caitlyn’s voice rang through the apartment.

“Oh, come on!” Jinx shouted back. “You think I’m not gonna snoop around a pop princess’ lair?!”

You groaned into your glass.

Sevika grimaced. “You want me to drag them out?”

You considered it.

But then, somehow… you didn’t.

Because as completely unhinged as they were, as awkward as this felt, it was the first time in forever that your apartment didn’t feel like a performance space. Like a glass cage.

It just felt… full.

You glanced at Sevika again, her fingers curled around the glass of wine. Her eyes were still soft, despite the tight line of her mouth.

You exhaled. “…They can stay.”

She blinked. “You sure?”

You gave a half-smile. “Yeah. But they’re sleeping on the floor.”

It was hours later, well past midnight, when the mood shifted.

The sharp edges of the awkward arrival had softened, dulled by alcohol and laughter and the slow-blooming buzz of something warmer. The once-quiet penthouse now echoed with half-drunk voices and the low hum of music playing through your speakers—some playlist Jinx had hijacked, an oddly perfect mix of grungy emo tracks and soft pop bangers.

Your living room looked like the aftermath of a sleepover no one planned for.

Jinx was curled up in a pile of your throw blankets and eating cold grapes directly from the container. Vi and Caitlyn were sitting cross-legged on your floor, backs against your couch, sharing a whiskey bottle and some private joke that made Caitlyn actually smile more than once. Jayce had knocked out on the rug with a pillow over his face. You were tucked on the couch between Sevika’s spread legs, a throw pillow wedged between your stomach and your folded arms like a barrier you were pretending not to need.

And then Vi spoke.

It started innocent enough.

“So,” Vi said, swirling what was left in her glass, “has she told you about the time she got banned from that one festival in New Jersey?”

Sevika groaned instantly, her head dropping back against the couch with a thud. “Vi. Don’t.”

You blinked, already smiling. “Wait—what? No. What happened?”

“Oh, it was beautiful,” Vi grinned, scooting forward. “So picture this: twenty-year-old Sevika, freshly dumped, drunk off her ass, wearing—what was it? Oh right, a fishnet crop top and leather shorts—”

“You’re exaggerating.”

“She jumped the barricade during another band’s set, stole their mic, and screamed into it: ‘Your sound guy’s a fraud and your drummer has no rhythm!’”

Caitlyn covered her mouth to hide a laugh. “She didn’t.”

“Oh, she did,” Vi confirmed. “Security dragged her off stage. Jinx was crying from laughter. I was hiding behind a merch table. Jayce got punched trying to apologize.”

You turned, wide-eyed, to Sevika, who was now glaring at Vi like she could burn her alive with her mind.

“Is that true?” you asked.

“…Mostly,” she muttered, sipping her wine and refusing to meet your eyes.

“She wasn’t even wrong about the drummer,” Jinx piped up from her blanket fort. “The guy sucked. We just don’t say that on stage like psychopaths.”

You laughed—really laughed, body shaking, head dropping to Sevika’s thigh. She froze for a second, but you didn’t notice—too caught up in the moment. When you glanced back up, she was watching you, not smiling, but something softened in her face. Her hand, resting near your arm, twitched like it wanted to touch you but didn’t yet.

The group kept going.

Questions came next.

Vi again: “So, SIR3N… what about you? You got any skeletons in your pink glitter closet?”

You flushed. “Uhh… define skeletons.”

“Any weird tour stories? Awkward crushes? Emotional breakdowns in a Waffle House parking lot?”

You snorted. “I mean, I did once get locked in a dressing room for four hours because someone thought I was a fan who snuck backstage.”

Vi cackled.

Caitlyn raised a brow. “No security?”

“They were late,” you muttered. “It was after my second album dropped. I wasn’t huge yet. And apparently wearing a hoodie and no makeup makes me unrecognizable.”

“Relatable,” Jinx called out.

They asked more.

You answered—slowly, shyly at first, but it was easy. Weirdly easy.

You told them about the time you fell off stage mid-song and tried to play it off by dancing harder. About the girl you used to sneak out to meet at seventeen, the one who gave you your first real kiss behind a chain-link fence and then ghosted you a week later. About the fake tabloid rumor that you had a child hidden in a European boarding school, which you still couldn’t figure out the origin of.

Every story peeled another layer back.

And every laugh, every shocked gasp, every groan of “no fucking way” made you feel something you hadn’t felt in a long time.

Normal.

Wanted.

Known.

Sevika didn’t talk much during all of this. She just watched you. Quiet. Present. Her expression unreadable, but her body language loud—relaxed, knees still brushing your thigh, fingers tapping against her glass in that restless way you were starting to recognize.

When things finally started to lull, when Jayce began snoring and Caitlyn leaned her head against Vi’s shoulder, Jinx yawned and mumbled, “Your place is like, freakishly peaceful. I kinda get why she keeps coming over.”

Your eyes flicked to Sevika.

She didn’t look away.

Neither did you.

Something buzzed low in your gut.

And when Vi said, “So who’s sleeping where?” you answered without thinking:

“I’ve got a pull-out couch. You guys can take the living room.”

You stood and grabbed a few blankets, heart thudding loud.

Sevika stood too.

You didn’t ask her to.

You didn’t have to.

The penthouse was quiet again.

Not the tense kind of quiet from earlier—but soft, breathing quiet. A silence that only comes after laughter, after the heat of too many bodies and too much noise finally simmers down. Glassgrave had taken over your living room like squatters in a luxury Airbnb. You’d managed to wrangle a few extra pillows, set out a tray of water bottles and Advil, and made a mental note to disinfect your entire couch later.

But right now?

Right now you were standing at your bedroom door, arms crossed, one foot twisting against the floor as Sevika leaned against the hallway wall a few feet away—hands in her pockets, hoodie half-zipped, eyes on you.

“Well?” she asked, low, unreadable.

You hesitated.

“I’m not really used to… having people over,” you mumbled. “Especially not them.”

Sevika huffed softly, half a smirk tugging at her mouth. “Yeah. They’re a lot.”

You nodded.

Another pause.

“I, uh…” Your voice dropped to a whisper. “I don’t wanna be alone tonight.”

She straightened slightly.

You rushed to explain. “I mean—not like, that. Just. After everything. It’s been… loud in my head lately. I don’t think I’ll sleep.”

The smirk disappeared. Her face softened.

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “Okay.”

You didn’t need to say more. She followed you in without a second thought.

Your bedroom was dimly lit—just your salt lamp glowing pink on the bedside table and the faint golden haze of the city skyline filtering in through the window. Your sheets were cool. The air faintly smelled like rosewater and vanilla from your linen spray.

You slid into bed first, pulling the blanket up around your waist. Sevika hesitated only briefly before tugging off her hoodie and boots, then climbing in beside you, her body heavy and warm under the covers.

Neither of you faced each other at first.

You laid on your side, staring at your phone screen, scrolling nothing. She was on her back, arms folded behind her head, silent.

It should’ve been awkward.

It wasn’t.

It was… still.

Safe.

You broke the silence first.

“Do you… regret leaking that video?” you asked softly, not turning around.

There was a long pause.

Then: “Yeah. I do.”

Your fingers clenched around your phone.

She exhaled beside you. “I was being an asshole. Trying to provoke you. I didn’t think anyone would recognize you. I didn’t think about what it would do to you.” A beat. “That’s on me.”

You turned over slowly to face her. Her eyes were still fixed on the ceiling.

“I used to be that girl,” you whispered. “The one in the video.”

Sevika looked at you now.

“I was messy,” you said. “Reckless. I didn’t care if people judged me. But then the label cleaned me up. Turned me into SIR3N. Cute, shiny, digestible. And I let them. Because I thought that’s what it took to be loved.”

Sevika’s brow furrowed. “You think people only love the fake version of you?”

You swallowed. “I think it’s easier to love someone who smiles all the time. Someone who sings about heartbreak in metaphor. Not the girl who used to steal vodka and cry in public bathrooms.”

Sevika shifted closer, not touching you, but close enough that you could feel the heat of her body.

“I think…” she said carefully, “anyone who only loves you when you’re perfect doesn’t really love you at all.”

Your throat tightened.

You turned your face into the pillow, blinking fast.

“You ever miss it?” she asked quietly. “The before?”

You nodded.

“Yeah. I miss her. The version of me who didn’t give a fuck.”

Sevika hummed. “I saw her.”

You blinked. “When?”

“In the way you sang that old video. The way you used to write.” A pause. “She’s still there.”

You didn’t say anything.

You didn’t need to.

Because something inside you loosened at her words. Like a knot unwinding. Like a piece of yourself you’d buried deep finally breathing again.

You rolled onto your back and looked up at the ceiling beside her. You both laid there for a long time. Silent. Close.

Then softly:

“I don’t think I’ve ever had someone stay the night like this.”

Sevika chuckled under her breath. “I don’t usually stay. I’m not good at… this.”

“This?”

“Being close,” she said. “Letting people in. Not running.”

You turned your head.

“I don’t want you to run.”

Her eyes met yours.

“I won’t,” she said, after a long pause. “Not from you.”

And that was it.

No kiss. No dramatic confessions.

Just two broken girls, tangled in shadows and honesty, sharing a bed while the city kept breathing outside your window.

And for the first time in a long, long time—

You slept.

The sky outside your penthouse was still dark, stained a soft navy-blue that promised dawn but hadn't quite reached it. The city below buzzed faintly—restless even at 5 a.m.—but inside your bedroom, the only sound was the zip-zip-zip of your suitcase being opened, closed, opened again. Clothes were everywhere. Outfits you didn’t like. Outfits you liked too much. Shoes that didn’t match. Travel-sized skincare bottles that rolled off the edge of your dresser, bouncing against the hardwood floor as you muttered curses under your breath.

You paced.

Back and forth. Back and forth.

Tokyo.

Two weeks ago, it was a distant storm cloud you swore would blow over. Now it was here. On your doorstep. And you weren’t ready.

You hadn’t been onstage since the video leaked. Since the headlines. Since your identity started to unravel like badly stitched thread. And now they wanted you to perform at one of the biggest international festivals in the world like nothing ever happened.

And to top it all off?

You wouldn’t even be flying with Sevika.

You weren’t allowed to.

Derek had made that painfully clear. "I don’t care if you’re dating her, fucking her, or praying for her," he’d snapped. "If she so much as breathes in your PR shot radius, you’re done.”

You told Sevika you were fine with it.

You lied.

Now she was stretched out on your bed, propped up on one elbow, watching you pace with a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. Still wearing the clothes from the night before—her tank top riding up slightly with every shift, those damn low-rise jeans hanging off her hips like a sin she refused to repent for.

“Sweetheart,” she drawled lazily, “you’re gonna wear a hole in the floor.”

You didn’t answer.

You just ran your fingers through your hair and muttered something unintelligible, then turned and started digging through your suitcase again.

“Do you need seven pairs of sunglasses for a five-day trip?” she added, teasing. “Or is that a popstar ritual thing?”

Your jaw tightened.

“I swear to God,” you muttered, “if you make one more joke right now—”

Her brow lifted. “What?”

You snapped.

“I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, okay?” you shouted, spinning around to face her, your arms flailing in frustration. “I’m being thrown into the spotlight again with my career hanging on by a fucking thread and I can’t even breathe without someone watching me! I’m tired, Sevika! I’m tired of smiling, of pretending, of stitching my whole identity back together with glitter and lies, and you just—you just sit there like you’ve never panicked a day in your life!”

Silence.

Your heart hammered in your chest, your breath ragged.

Sevika didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch.

She just looked at you. Calm. Steady. Her eyes unreadable, her expression blank—but not cruel. Not cold. Just... still.

And suddenly your knees felt weak.

“Oh my God,” you whispered, tears brimming at the corners of your eyes. “I—I didn’t mean that. I didn’t mean any of that, I’m just—”

You sniffled, turning away from her and pressing the heels of your palms to your eyes. “Fuck, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—please don’t go—”

You didn’t hear her get up.

You just felt it.

Her arms came around you slowly. Not a tug. Not a pull. But a quiet, grounding embrace—her chest against your back, her cheek resting gently atop your head. One hand slid down your arm to your wrist. The other moved under your chin, gently coaxing your face upward.

You let her turn you.

And when you looked up at her—eyes red, lip trembling—she brushed your cheek with the back of her knuckles and murmured, “You don’t have to apologize for falling apart. I’m not gonna leave.”

Your lip quivered.

Her hand cupped your chin, her thumb brushing your lower lip so gently it made your heart ache. The tension between you stretched and twisted, delicate and fragile, but real. And when her forehead leaned against yours, her breath tickling your skin, you finally closed your eyes and leaned into the warmth like your entire body had been craving it for years.

“I don’t know how to do this,” you whispered.

“I do,” she whispered back. “Just this part.”

And then she kissed you.

It was slow.

Careful.

Not the kind of kiss her bandmates would tease her about. Not the kind of kiss the headlines could print.

It was quiet.

Sacred.

Her mouth moved over yours like she’d been waiting for this—aching for this—but was afraid to take too much. And you kissed her back like you’d finally stopped pretending to be someone else.

Her hands cupped your jaw, her thumbs brushing the corners of your mouth, like she was afraid you’d vanish if she didn’t hold you still. And you let her. You let yourself be held.

You melted.

Right there in her arms, the panic bled out of you, the dread shriveled to ash, and the looming shadow of Tokyo dulled into something you could survive.

Because Sevika was here.

With you.

For real.

And when she pulled back just a little, resting her forehead against yours again, she whispered something you barely caught over the sound of your pulse in your ears.

“Guess I gotta find a seat near you on the flight back, huh?”

You smiled through your tears.

“Yeah. You better.”

The terminal doors slid open with a cold rush of air, and you stepped straight into chaos.

Flashes. Shouting. Fans crammed behind ropes, their phones raised high. Paparazzi crowding security’s edge, yelling your name like it belonged to them.

“Sir3n! Sir3n! Over here!” “Look this way!” “Are you excited for Tokyo?!”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your throat had gone tight the moment the crowd roared at your arrival.

Security surrounded you in an instant, but even they couldn’t shield you from everything. The flashes were too fast. The voices too loud. The swarm too close.

You clutched your small black purse against your hip, the strap biting into your shoulder as you walked fast, head down. Your light blue velour sweatsuit felt too warm now—sticking to your skin where nerves made you sweat beneath your cropped tank top. You had on a cap pulled low over your platinum hair, and a black mask covering most of your face, but it didn’t matter.

They still knew it was you.

They always knew.

You kept your eyes on the ground, sneakers padding quick and silent beside the heavy boots of your bodyguards. Every few seconds, one of them barked an order—“Back up!” or “No photos!”—but it didn’t stop anything. Cameras still fired. Questions still came.

“Are you and Glassgrave feuding?” “Is it true you’re only performing because of the backlash?” “Smile for us, Sir3n!”

You didn’t even flinch anymore.

Your fingers curled tighter around the strap of your bag as you pushed forward. You couldn’t see the exit yet, but you knew it had to be close. Just a few more minutes of this. You could survive that. You always had.

Someone stepped too close.

Security shoved them back gently.

Someone yelled that they loved you.

You pretended not to hear.

The space between the noise and your heartbeat blurred. You were getting good at this—faking calm. Pretending the flash didn’t make your vision swim. Pretending the chants didn’t feel like pressure, like weight, like you were about to collapse under the idea of who you were supposed to be.

You hadn’t been “Y/N” in so long. Just Sir3n.

A symbol. A headline. A trend.

You kept walking.

One of your guards gently touched your back, guiding you past the velvet rope and toward the secured gate entrance. You stepped through the last stretch of flashing lights and stepped into the cold, echoing quiet of the VIP terminal.

Silence.

Just the low hum of AC vents. The polished floor beneath your shoes. The metallic click of the automatic door sliding closed behind you.

You stopped.

Exhaled.

You hadn't even realized you were holding your breath.

Sliding your mask down slightly, you leaned against the wall and pulled your phone out, fingers trembling. Notifications were stacked like bricks—news alerts, trending tags, blurry fan cams, speculation, praise, hate, predictions, edits. So many eyes. So many voices.

You locked the phone again and stared blankly at the far wall.

Tokyo.

You were heading straight toward it.

And for the first time in a while, you weren’t sure who you were going to be when you got there.

The private car barely made it through the crowd outside the terminal before they were completely swarmed.

Glassgrave hadn’t even stepped out of the SUV yet.

“Jesus Christ,” Vi muttered from the back seat, squinting out the tinted window as camera flashes popped off like fireworks. “Are we sure this isn’t the VMAs?”

“Should’ve worn a damn helmet,” Jinx added, already pulling her hoodie over her head, stuffing her hair inside like a pillowcase. “They’re feral.”

“Feral is generous,” Caitlyn muttered under her breath, adjusting her sunglasses and tightening the strap on her shoulder bag.

Jayce was unbothered as usual—chewing gum, scrolling through his phone like it was just another day. He leaned forward toward the driver. “Are they all here for us?”

The driver gave a short, nervous nod. “Yes, sir. Airport staff says your entrance will need a full escort. They’ve already closed a side entrance for you. Just… stay close to security.”

The moment the door opened, the screaming hit.

Sevika stepped out first, the flash of a hundred cameras igniting at once. Her shades were already on, her jaw set tight, black duffel slung over her shoulder. She barely glanced at the crowd—but the noise only got louder when her boots hit the pavement.

“Glassgrave!!” “Sevika, over here!” “Look this way—Jinx! JINX!!”

Vi was next, ducking out with Caitlyn right behind her, followed by Jayce and Jinx—hoodie pulled low, middle finger raised just enough for the closest paparazzi to catch.

Security had to form a wall.

A solid line of suits in sunglasses, shoulder to shoulder, clearing a path through the chaos. But even with them in place, the pressure of the crowd was intense—phones extended into their faces, signs being waved overhead, fans sobbing just to catch a glimpse.

“This is fucking insane,” Vi hissed, dodging a stray mic shoved toward her face.

“Feels like we’re headlining the festival,” Jayce said dryly. “Except we’re not. She is.”

The unspoken name hung between them.

Sir3n.

It had been all over the news since the Tokyo announcement—SIR3N BREAKS SILENCE, RETURNS TO STAGE AFTER LEAKED VIDEO—and now the public had turned sympathetic. She was trending again, this time with heart emojis and taglines like “she deserves better.” The rumor mill couldn’t even keep up.

And Sevika felt it like a stone in her stomach.

Because none of them knew the truth.

None of them knew she was the one who’d leaked that video. Or at least, the one who forgot to make sure it was edited out. It didn’t matter that it had been a throwaway comment, a drunk joke. It had gone viral. It had hurt her. And everyone assumed it had been some anonymous troll with a grudge.

Yet.

“You okay?” Caitlyn asked suddenly, falling into step beside Sevika as they neared the VIP entrance. Her tone was casual, but her eyes flicked toward her with quiet curiosity.

Sevika nodded once, too clipped. “Fine.”

Caitlyn narrowed her eyes. “You don’t look fine.”

“It’s just the crowd,” she said quickly. “Didn’t think we’d need this much security.”

“Well,” Vi chimed in from ahead, “maybe if we didn’t have half the internet thinking we’re planning to fistfight a popstar live on stage, we wouldn’t.”

Jinx snorted. “Honestly, I’d pay to see that.”

“Can we not joke about this?” Caitlyn muttered. “We’re going into another country. For the biggest show of our career. Maybe let’s not start an international incident.”

They finally made it through the double doors, the soundproof walls muffling the chaos outside in a sudden hush that felt too sharp. The glass shook from fans pressing up against it.

Inside, airport security was already waiting to escort them straight to the VIP terminal.

The band paused, shaking off the adrenaline in different ways—Vi pulled out a cigarette and grumbled when she remembered she couldn’t smoke inside. Jayce sat down with a groan and opened Twitter, watching the trending tab like it was a scoreboard. Jinx pulled her phone out and immediately started recording TikToks again, whispering to herself about airport fits and “feral fan behavior.”

Sevika stood back.

Still.

Watching the glass shake.

Thinking about you.

How overwhelmed you must’ve felt. How scared. How tightly you must’ve been gripping your bag. Had you looked back? Had you wondered if she was on the flight behind you?

She felt her chest twist with something she didn’t want to name.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket.

A reminder: TOKYO SHOWCASE IN 48 HRS. PRESS RUNS TOMORROW.

She locked the screen without looking at it and adjusted the strap on her shoulder. She wasn’t ready for Tokyo.

Not because of the fans. Not because of the stage.

But because you were going to be there.

And for the first time in her life, Sevika didn’t know if she’d be able to hide what she felt.

The Tokyo air was thick with heat and camera flashes, the kind of muggy overcast weather that stuck to your skin like syrup—especially when you were dressed in layers of curated chaos.

Glassgrave walked into the press event like they owned the goddamn country.

Platform boots hit the ground with heavy rhythm, each step exaggerated by flashbulbs and gasps. The moment the black van door slid open, the cameras screamed. Reporters flooded the ropes. Stylists and handlers scrambled like ghosts behind them, but the band didn’t seem to notice.

Vi led the pack—black leather jacket over a tiny tank top and ripped low-rise jeans, her belt a safety chain looping around her hips. Her hair was spiked up today, dramatic and angular. Caitlyn trailed beside her in a dark plaid miniskirt and thigh-high boots, silver hoops in her ears, her button-up shirt half-open over a mesh crop top.

Jinx was pure chaos in a pair of torn fishnets under cargo shorts, oversized band tee cut so haphazardly it barely hung on her frame, her combat boots completely mismatched and scuffed. A razor blade charm bounced from her choker with every jump she made.

Jayce was the most subdued in an “I’m too cool to try” way—baggy jeans, Doc Martens, sleeveless hoodie, arms fully inked and sunglasses hiding a hangover.

And then there was Sevika.

She stepped out last.

Baggy charcoal cargo pants sat low on her hips, cinched in place by a rhinestone-studded belt that sparkled under the press lights. Chains swung from her belt loops, catching and reflecting every flash. Her shirt was a faded vintage Glassgrave tour tee, tucked loosely in the front to show off the belt, sleeves ripped off at the shoulders. Over it, she wore a massive fuzzy black jacket that hung off her like a cloud of static and swagger. Her hair was braided back from her face, her nose ring in, a single silver hoop in one ear.

She looked bored. Dangerous. Beautiful.

And she knew it.

They made their way down the black carpet, posing for the fan zones and doing brief interviews along the branded backdrop wall. The venue was a towering performance arts building downtown, turned temporarily into a press junket madhouse—LED walls behind them looping teasers of the festival, festival staff running around with clipboards, and fans watching from rooftops and balconies across the street.

“Glassgrave! Glassgrave, over here!”

“What are you most excited for this weekend?” “Do you plan to attend Sir3n’s performance?” “Is it true there’s a collab in the works?”

The band mostly ignored the nosier questions.

Jinx did a dramatic bow and pretended to faint into Vi’s arms.

Jayce waved vaguely. “We’re just here to melt faces and look hot.”

Caitlyn gave a polite, practiced smile. “We’re honored to be performing in Tokyo. The fans here are always incredible.”

Sevika didn’t speak at all.

She stood back during interviews, always half-turned away from the reporters, arms crossed loosely, watching.

Every now and then, her eyes would flick up toward the building across the street—the hotel where she knew Reader was staying. The black glass reflected back nothing but clouds. But Sevika imagined you were up there, watching. She imagined you’d see her looking.

She hadn’t texted since the airport. Since the kiss.

And you hadn’t either.

The world hadn’t even begun to guess. No one knew anything about you and Sevika’s stolen late nights, the rehearsals, the wine, the looks, the way your head fit against her chest like you were born to rest there.

No one knew she’d started writing again. No one knew every new lyric she scribbled down had your name in it, even if she never said it.

“Yo, Sev.” Vi’s voice dragged her back to reality.

She blinked, turning.

“What?”

“We’re up next for the main interview. With the streaming network.” Vi gestured with her head toward the larger stage setup, a small faux living room built under a huge lighting rig.

“Right,” Sevika said, voice low. She adjusted the shoulder of her jacket and followed behind them, boots thudding on the stage steps.

As she sat down in the center of the faux-set couch, arms thrown over the backrest, camera lights warming her face, she glanced up again.

Still no sign of you.

But you’d be there. Eventually.

You were the only reason she was nervous at all.

The soft hum of the Tokyo hotel suite wrapped around you like static, muted by the thick glass windows and the weight in your chest. The curtains were only half-drawn, casting long gold bars of light across the plush carpet as the afternoon sun slid further down the skyline. You were curled up sideways on the couch, legs tucked beneath you, phone in hand.

Twitter was a battlefield.

A glowing, chaotic, obsessive battlefield.

Your thumb scrolled, flick after flick, absorbing everything and nothing all at once.

#GlassgraveTokyo #SevikaLooksLikeSin #ViDeservesHerOwnTour #JinxWasBuiltInAFire

Fan cams, outfit breakdowns, “who wore what,” gif sets already forming like wildfire. You paused at a video of them walking the carpet—Vi’s cocky smirk, Caitlyn waving politely, Jinx flipping someone off in slow motion. And then there she was.

Sevika.

Head tilted, fuzzy black jacket slipping off one shoulder, that bored half-lidded glare that somehow looked hotter than anyone else’s best pose. Your eyes locked on her face longer than you meant to, long enough that your stomach gave that nervous, inconvenient flutter it always did.

You swiped away from the tweet with more force than necessary.

But that only opened the next thread. And this one wasn’t about them.

It was about you.

#ProtectSir3n #SheDeservesRest #LetHerHeal “She looks so tired lately, it’s breaking my heart.” “I know she says she’s okay but… idk. This industry chews people up.” “I really hope someone is taking care of her behind the scenes.”

You blinked at the screen.

At first, it felt like love. The kind of warm, protective fandom love that had carried you through every single lonely night. But the deeper you scrolled, the more it started to sting. Like they were diagnosing you from a distance. Like they saw something you hadn’t even admitted to yourself yet.

You didn’t feel like Sir3n anymore.

You didn’t even feel like Y/N.

You felt… hollow.

Performing on autopilot. Smiling through cracked lips. Nodding through meetings you didn’t even remember. Running rehearsals you couldn’t finish. Saying yes to things that made your chest cave in like a kicked ribcage.

You were tired.

You were so tired.

But it wasn’t the kind of tired a nap could fix. It was something else. Something deeper. Something that made your bones ache and your voice tremble during warm-ups. Something that made your lyrics sound like they were echoing from the bottom of a well. Something you’d been trying to outrun since you were sixteen years old.

You stared at the tweets until they blurred.

You didn’t know it yet—not fully—but your body did.

Your soul did.

You were reaching your breaking point.

And this festival? It might just be the last thing holding the old you together.

The silence in the hotel room was too loud.

The kind that filled your ears with your own heartbeat, your own breath, your own thoughts—spiraling, spinning, echoing off the luxury walls like they had nowhere else to go.

The suite was gorgeous, of course. All glass and gold, polished wood and minimalist furniture. Tokyo glittered outside the window, stretching endlessly beneath the high-rise like a technicolor dream. But none of that touched you. None of it made it past the tightness in your chest, the twist in your stomach, the crawling sensation under your skin.

Your suitcase was still half-open at the foot of the bed. Clothes spilled out like a slow collapse—lingerie sets, performance gear, hair clips, the rhinestone microphone case you'd stopped even looking at. The air still smelled faintly like your setting spray and tired perfume.

You were on the floor in one of Sevika’s old Glassgrave shirts. The one she’d left folded on your bed. The one you told her you didn’t care about, but never gave back.

You were supposed to be rehearsing. Or sleeping. Or journaling. Or something.

But instead, you sat cross-legged on the carpet with your back against the bed, hunched forward, scrolling Twitter and trying not to cry.

The posts about you had grown teeth.

Some were gentle—fans begging you to rest, to eat, to take care of yourself. But some weren’t. Some accused you of being dramatic, of exploiting sympathy, of setting yourself up as the victim again. Some said you looked “exhausted” in your airport pictures. That you “lost your edge.” That maybe you weren’t built for the stage anymore.

Your lip quivered.

Your eyes burned.

You locked your phone and threw it across the bed.

But it buzzed again. And again. Until finally, on the fourth buzz, you sighed and crawled across the sheets to snatch it back up.

Unknown Number: Hey. You still breathing?

You blinked.

Sat up straighter.

A pause. Then another text.

Don’t freak out, I got your number from Mel. Didn’t think you’d pick up if I called.

Your stomach twisted. Your fingers hovered over the screen, pulse pounding. The name still wasn’t saved, but you knew. You knew from the way it felt reading her words. That low, blunt cadence. No punctuation except when it mattered.

Sevika.

Another buzz.

There’s a hotpot place in Shibuya. Super private. No cameras. You can yell at me in peace. 8:30. I’ll be there.

You stared at the screen.

Read it again.

And again.

The room suddenly felt smaller. Warmer. Like you could breathe again, but only halfway. You hated that she could still do this—shake you out of your spiral with just a few lines of text. You hated how your chest tightened, not with panic, but hope.

You were exhausted. And she knew it. And maybe that was why she reached out.

You pulled the shirt tighter around yourself and set the phone down on your nightstand. You didn't reply—not yet. But you stared at the clock.

It was 7:43.

Your hands trembled.

But you were already standing.

The hostess bowed politely as the door slid closed behind you, the soft scent of broth and soy sauce wrapping around your senses like a blanket. The private hotpot restaurant was hidden behind a curtain of bamboo and soft signage—no flashing lights, no fans, no press. Just dim lighting, warm wood, and quiet.

You adjusted your sunglasses with one hand and clutched your small crossbody bag with the other.

The outfit you chose was the opposite of a Sir3n look. No rhinestones. No heels. No corsets or shimmer or stage-ready glam.

Just oversized gray sweatpants dragging against your sneakers, a slouchy zip-up hoodie with a surreal sun face stretched across the chest, and a tank top underneath that peeked out every time you moved. You didn’t even put on mascara.

You weren’t Sir3n right now.

You were just Y/N.

And that was terrifying.

The hostess led you through the private booths, past the murmur of diners and the bubbling of shared pots, until she reached a half-curtained corner table tucked near the back.

Sevika was already there.

Leaning back against the cushioned bench with one arm sprawled along the wood, her black beanie pushed halfway up her hair, exposing just enough of her buzzed undercut. Her tattoos peeked out from under a short-sleeved faded band tee, layered under a slouchy fuzzy black jacket, chains clinking gently from her belt loop to her pocket.

Her eyes lifted when she saw you—and for a moment, the usual blankness faltered. Just a blink, a slow rake of her gaze over your outfit, and something soft flickering behind it.

“You came,” she said simply, sitting up a little straighter.

“Don’t sound so surprised,” you muttered, tugging your sunglasses off and folding them onto the table. “You made it sound like you’d cry if I didn’t.”

Sevika snorted, reaching for her glass of water. “I don’t cry.”

“Not even when Jinx took a bat to your favorite amp?”

She squinted at you. “...That was one time.”

You bit your lip to hide the smile tugging there and lowered yourself into the booth across from her. The cushion squeaked under your weight, your bag thumping beside you. You sat with your legs curled slightly under the table, hoodie sleeves pulled over your knuckles, unsure of what this was. A peace offering? A trap? A date?

...Was this a date?

“You look...” Sevika paused, head tilting. “...Different.”

“Is that a nice way of saying I look like shit?”

She blinked. Then her mouth curled—slow, amused. “Nah. Just... not so put together. Not in a bad way. Just... real.”

You stared at her. “That supposed to be flattering?”

She shrugged. “Only if you want it to be.”

Your face warmed—goddamn it—and you looked away quickly, fiddling with the edge of the hotpot menu even though you couldn’t read a word of it. You felt naked. Not in the literal sense, but in the way that she was seeing you. Actually seeing you. No camera. No stage lights. No voice filter or backup dancers.

“You thought the others would be here, huh?” Sevika asked after a beat.

You looked up.

She was watching you with an eyebrow raised, like she’d caught your thought mid-sentence.

You nodded once. “Kinda.”

“They wanted to come,” she admitted. “Jinx said something about bringing her own mushrooms. I told them it was a one-on-one thing.”

You blinked. “...Why?”

She picked up a chopstick, twirling it between her fingers like she wasn’t doing something dangerous with her words. “Because if I brought the whole band, you’d act like Sir3n the whole night. And I didn’t want that.”

A silence settled between you.

Hot and heavy and personal.

Your voice came out smaller than you meant. “So who do you want me to be, then?”

Sevika looked up at you. Really looked. Her expression lost all its usual teasing.

“I want you to be the girl who stood on a stage at seventeen and sang a filthy punk song with chipped nail polish and no backup dancers. The one who gave zero fucks about who was watching.”

Your breath caught.

You couldn’t look away.

“And maybe,” she added after a moment, “the one who wears weird giant sweatpants and drinks hot broth with someone who might’ve fucked up... but who’s trying not to fuck up again.”

You stared at her. At the flush behind your chest. At the tiny quake of something underneath your skin.

Then, quietly:

“...So you admit it?”

Sevika blinked. “Admit what?”

“That you fucked up.”

She leaned back again, lips twitching. “Yeah. I admit it.”

You settled into your seat a little deeper, hoodie sleeve dragging as you reached for the tiny teacup in front of you. “Good. That’s hot.”

Sevika let out a soft, startled laugh.

You took a sip of tea, the steam kissing your lip gloss-free mouth, and tried to ignore the fact that this strange, gentle warmth inside you had absolutely nothing to do with the food.

The table was already set—bowls of thinly sliced meats, trays of mushrooms and bok choy, tofu cubes, noodles, dipping sauces, and a gently bubbling pot of broth right in the center, steam curling up like breath.

You stared at it like it might bite you.

“...So I just throw it in?” you asked, hesitantly picking up a strip of beef with your chopsticks.

“Yeah, princess,” Sevika muttered, watching you with that lazy smirk. “That’s the whole point. Cooking. Yourself. Revolutionary, I know.”

You rolled your eyes, sliding the beef into the broth. It sizzled gently, bobbing once before vanishing beneath the surface. You stared for a moment, then reached for another.

“You know, I’ve never done this before.”

Sevika raised an eyebrow, teasing. “You’re a hotpot virgin?”

You made a face. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Why not?” Her smirk widened. “You’re popping your first time right now. All nervous. Sweaty. Afraid of overcooking your meat.”

You choked on your tea.

Sevika laughed—really laughed—deep and warm and full, and you looked away quickly, biting back your own grin. God, she was annoying. She was awful. You hated her stupid band and her stupid smirk and her stupid muscles and—

“Hey.”

You looked up.

She was resting her chin on her palm, elbow braced on the table. Watching you. Still smiling, but less like she was trying to get under your skin and more like she just… liked looking at you.

“You okay?”

You nodded too fast. “Fine. Totally fine. This is fine.”

Sevika hummed. “You keep saying that like it makes it true.”

You blinked.

Her tone had shifted—low, quiet. Not teasing now. Just curious.

You looked down at your bowl, swirling your spoon, watching flecks of chili oil swirl.

“I’m tired,” you said finally.

There it was. Just the truth, naked and trembling on your tongue.

“I’m tired all the time. And I don’t know if I’m… allowed to be tired? Everyone keeps saying I should rest but then they book another stage or post another statement and—” You sighed, rubbing your temple. “—I’m not even sure if anyone cares that I’m a person. Like. A real one. With organs and shit.”

Sevika didn’t answer right away.

She just leaned back again, tossing a mushroom into the pot like she was letting your words sink in.

“I care,” she said, finally.

It came so quietly you almost missed it.

You glanced up, startled.

She shrugged, casually, like she hadn’t just flipped your whole nervous system inside out. “You’re not just a stage outfit and a dance break. You’re the girl I looked up on some sketchy yearbook archive because I couldn’t stop wondering what your real name was.”

You stared.

“Don’t act like that’s normal,” you said.

“It’s not,” she agreed.

You blinked again.

Then, voice dry, “Are you… flirting with me?”

“Now you notice?” she said, smirking again. “I’ve been flirting with you for three nights straight, Y/N.”

You shifted in your seat, heart hammering. Her voice wrapped around your name like silk—too smooth, too deliberate.

And god help you, it felt good.

Too good.

“You said you wanted to hate fuck me,” you muttered, raising your brows. “That’s not flirting.”

Sevika leaned in across the table, elbows on the edge, grin lazy. “Yeah, well. I’ve learned a lot about myself since then.”

“Like what?”

“That I don’t hate you.”

You held your breath.

She kept going, voice slow, heavy with implication. “And that maybe I don’t just want to fuck you, either.”

Your face burned.

There was broth between you, sure—but it was nothing compared to the heat rising behind your collarbones.

You dropped your chopsticks. “Jesus.”

Sevika chuckled and reached across the table, handing you another pair. Her fingers brushed yours—brief, electric.

“You’re a brat, you know that?” she muttered, but there was no malice behind it. Just heat.

“I’ve been told.”

“Bet you act innocent in public, though. All sweet and quiet and wide-eyed. Then behind closed doors—”

“Sevika.”

She paused.

You were staring at her now, expression unreadable. Breath shallow.

She raised a brow. “Yeah?”

“...Shut up and eat your noodles.”

But you were smiling.

And Sevika—cocky, ridiculous, sinful Sevika—just leaned back with a grin and dropped a bunch of enoki mushrooms into the pot.

“Whatever you say, pop princess.”

Sevika’s mouth crashed against yours the second the hotel door clicked shut behind her.

You’d barely taken two steps into the room, hadn’t even kicked your shoes off, and already her hands were on your waist—firm, demanding, anchoring you like she was afraid you’d disappear again.

Your back hit the wall, and your breath hitched.

She kissed you harder.

And you let her.

Because it wasn’t just about lust anymore.

It was all the nights she showed up uninvited but stayed until you fell asleep. All the quiet glances across crowded rooms. All the unspoken apologies curled into the way she looked at you when she thought you weren’t watching.

And God, her body—

You were so much smaller than her. She’d always been tall, but with her height over you, the slope of her shoulders, the breadth of her thighs, the strength in her hands—it made your stomach flip in the best way.

“You’re sure?” she asked against your lips, her voice hoarse.

You nodded, breathless. “Yes.”

“Say it.”

“I want you.”

That was all she needed.

Sevika lifted you with ease, one arm under your thighs, carrying you like you weighed nothing. You squeaked, clinging to her neck, heat blooming across your face. She only grinned, cocky and breathless, as she laid you down on the plush bed.

Her hands were everywhere—peeling off your hoodie, sliding under your tank top, dragging your sweatpants down your legs. You trembled under her gaze, under the heat of it.

She kissed down your stomach slowly, worshipfully, then reached into her bag and pulled something out.

A harness.

Your eyes widened slightly.

She looked up at you as she adjusted it around her hips—leather, sleek, practiced.

“I’ve thought about this too many times,” she muttered, almost like she was talking to herself. “You—under me. Begging.”

You whimpered.

Sevika climbed back over you, letting the tip of the strap brush against your inner thigh as she leaned down to kiss you again.

“Legs up, pretty girl,” she whispered.

You obeyed without thinking, wrapping your legs around her waist. The stretch was immediate, intimate, and your fingers dug into the sheets.

She was slow at first. Gentle.

Letting you feel every inch as she pushed in, her hands bracing on either side of your head, her mouth ghosting across your cheekbone, your jaw, your throat.

“You’re so fucking tight,” she groaned. “You feel so good.”

Your hips rolled up to meet her rhythm, breath stuttering in your throat. She was thick, heavy, and the angle—God, the angle—had your eyes rolling back.

“Touch yourself for me,” Sevika growled.

Your hand slipped between your thighs, fingers circling your clit, and the extra stimulation made your legs shake. Sevika leaned in, her chest pressing against yours, her strap hitting that perfect spot with every thrust.

“You gonna come?” she rasped.

“Y-Yeah—”

“Let me feel it. Right there, baby, don’t stop—”

You came with a cry, back arching, body trembling under her as your orgasm crashed over you. Sevika didn’t stop—she fucked you through it, chasing her own high, grinding deep into you until she was moaning your name against your neck, hips stuttering.

She collapsed on top of you after, sweaty and breathless, her head resting between your breasts as your hands threaded through her hair.

It was quiet for a moment.

Then she lifted her head slightly, smirking.

“Well,” she murmured, “now that’s a press run.”

You slapped her shoulder, laughing through your tears.

comment to be added to the taglist!!

@jannesyjane @riotstemple29 @gumbaghoul @sevikaspet @barelykiramman

[cup1drul3z]

★ — Her Voice

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 2 : ᴡʜᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴇʟʟ ᴀʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜ?

ɢᴜɪᴛᴀʀ ᴘʟᴀʏᴇʀ!ꜱᴇᴠɪᴋᴀ x ᴘᴏᴘꜱᴛᴀʀ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | 7.6ᴋ ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ

TAGS : Emotional distress, Identity crisis and public exposure, Verbal abuse from a manager, Industry pressure, Cyberbullying, Self-harm, Obsessive behavior, Implicit sexual themes (lyric content, comments), Alcohol and drug use, Strong language

A/N : coughs

SUMMARY : You relive a buried memory in your dreams, only to wake up to the aftermath of your identity being leaked, your past dragged into the spotlight. Tensions explode when you confront Sevika, leading to an emotional showdown that spills into the public eye. By the end, you're raw, exposed, and forced to decide whether to keep performing as SIR3N—or rediscover the version of yourself the world tried to erase.

previous chapter

The dream came slow.

It didn’t start with a feeling—it started with a sound. A bass line. Low, dirty, vibrating against the soles of your boots.

Then came the heat.

The suffocating warmth of too many bodies in one place, the breath of cigarette smoke clinging to velvet wallpaper, and the sweet, spiked burn of someone else’s drink on your lips.

You were there again. Back in that place. Back in that body.

Before the fame. Before the brand.

You were sixteen, maybe seventeen. Too much eyeliner. Too much lipstick. Too much skin showing through torn fishnets and a corset that didn’t quite fit.

And you were thriving.

The bar was underground—half-legal, fully chaotic. The kind of place that didn’t ask questions and wouldn’t call the cops if you passed out in the bathroom. Neon beer signs buzzed against brick walls, and the air smelled like tequila, sweat, and perfume someone forgot to water down.

Mel was beside you, laughing—gorgeous in her usual effortless, expensive way. Even back then, she wore eyeliner like it was armor and held her head like the whole world owed her something.

“I can’t believe you actually got us in,” she said, voice already thick with vodka and mischief.

You winked, flashing your fake ID like a badge. “Told you I was charming.”

You hadn’t stopped moving since you walked in. You were on your third drink—someone else’s. You didn’t know who gave it to you. Maybe the boy with the skull tattoo. Maybe the girl who bit your lip behind the pool table.

You’d made out with both of them. Maybe more.

Everyone here was older. That was the point.

You weren’t trying to be good. You were trying to be felt.

“Slow down,” Mel warned, catching your elbow as you swayed.

You turned to her with a grin. “Don’t you want to see me be famous?”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t let go.

The band on stage was tuning their instruments—some local post-punk noise act with a girl drummer and a guy who looked like he hadn't slept in four days. The crowd wasn’t paying attention yet.

And that’s when the idea hit.

You pulled the worn black notebook from your bag—the same one you’d bled into for two years straight. Lyrics written in anger. In heat. In fear. In smoke. Nothing about love. Everything about power and pain and wanting to destroy something soft.

Mel saw it in your hands and groaned. “Y/N, no.”

“Y/N, yes,” you teased, already breaking away from her and stumbling toward the stage.

You didn’t even ask for permission.

You hopped up onto the corner of the platform and shoved the notebook toward the guy tuning his bass.

“Play this,” you said, breathless. “It’s already structured. Verse, chorus, bridge, twice. You’ll figure it out.”

The guy looked at you like you were a ghost. “Who the fuck are you?”

“I’m your lead singer,” you said, and your voice dared him to say no.

He flipped through the pages. Paused. His brow twitched. Then he glanced at the drummer.

She shrugged. “Fuck it. Let’s play.”

You didn’t wait for an invitation. You grabbed the mic.

The stage lights were yellow and greasy and too close, and your heart was pounding so hard you could hear it in your teeth—but it didn’t matter. Because as soon as the drums hit and the bass kicked in and the first line came spilling out of you—

You became something else.

The crowd stopped talking. People turned.

And you? You let it rip.

“Rip me open, write your name in my blood— You don’t want love, you want someone to break.”

Your voice was low and sharp, cracking at the edges. You weren’t polished. You weren’t perfect. You were raw.

And they loved it.

You were sweat-soaked and mascara-smeared by the end of it. Mel was in the front row with her jaw slightly open, one hand over her mouth. The girl you kissed earlier was filming with a shaky phone. The guy with the skull tattoo was holding your drink like it was communion.

You took a bow. Middle finger raised. A smile like sin stretched across your face.

And in the dream—

You looked happy.

Not like SIR3N. Not like a star. Like a girl who made something, screamed it into the void, and for once— The void screamed back.

The dressing room was crowded with bodies, clothes, lights, cameras—and tension.

They were all supposed to be getting ready for a PR shoot. Polished looks. Coordinated outfits. Perfect teeth and edgy poses. Glassgrave’s image had never been this high-profile, and the label wanted them looking “expensive and feral.” Whatever the hell that meant.

Vi was adjusting her leather jacket in the mirror, snapping her gum loudly as a stylist tried to spike the sides of her undercut.

Sevika sat slouched in the makeup chair, legs spread, arms crossed, sunglasses still on even though they were indoors. Silent. Still.

Uncharacteristic.

Caitlyn, applying her own lip stain, glanced at her through the reflection. “You okay over there?”

Sevika grunted. Didn’t answer.

Jinx was laying on the floor, scrolling through TikTok. She didn’t look up but chimed in anyway. “She’s been weird all morning. Didn’t even yell at me when I stole her charger. Something’s wrong.”

“I knew it,” Vi muttered, tossing her jacket over a clothing rack. “You’ve been all quiet and broody since rehearsal yesterday. You’re always broody, but this is like... extra.”

Jayce, sprawled on the couch with a cup of espresso, finally looked up. “Alright, someone spit it out. What the hell’s going on?”

They all turned to Sevika.

She exhaled through her nose, rubbing the heel of her palm against her forehead like she could scrub the guilt out. But it clung to her skin. To her throat. To the silence between all of them.

Then she said it.

“I leaked it.”

Everything stopped.

“What?” Caitlyn blinked.

“I leaked the video,” Sevika said again, louder this time. “The one of Y/N. Of her singing. The pre-fame shit.”

No one moved.

Jinx sat up slowly, the phone dangling from her hand.

“Are you joking?” Vi asked, voice hard. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

“I didn’t mean to leak it. I didn’t post it publicly, I just—I found it. I was curious. I wanted to see who she really was.” Sevika ran a hand through her hair, jaw clenched. “I thought it was private. Just for me.”

Jayce stood, his espresso forgotten. “Private? You really thought that video wasn’t gonna make it online? Are you serious?”

“She wasn’t even tagged!” Sevika snapped. “It was buried. In some archive. No one should’ve found it!”

“But they did,” Caitlyn said coldly. “And now everyone knows. Her name. Her past. Her voice. Everything she tried to hide.”

Sevika dropped into a nearby stool, head in her hands. “I didn’t think they’d know it was her. It’s blurry, her face isn’t even in frame for half of it—how did they figure it out so fast?”

Vi crossed her arms. “Because the internet has no chill and you made it their business.”

Jinx stayed quiet, eyes narrowed, legs pulled up to her chest like a kid watching a storm roll in.

“Well,” Caitlyn said, crossing the room, “we have to do something. The press is already swarming, and if her label finds out we’re connected—”

“I am connected,” Sevika muttered, bitter. “They’re already saying we’re shipped. Hate-fuckgate 2025.”

Jayce rubbed his temples. “We need to spin it.”

“Spin it how?” Vi snapped. “You can’t un-leak something, Sev.”

Then—

“I’ve got it.”

Everyone turned.

Caitlyn’s eyes were wide, hands frozen mid-air like the thought had struck her full force.

“Let’s say it was Jinx.”

“What.” Sevika blinked.

Caitlyn shrugged, too calm. “The video’s low quality. You can barely see her face. The hair’s the same color as Jinx’s back then—long, dark, messier than it is now. It tracks.”

Sevika narrowed her eyes. “You really think that’d work?”

“I mean…” Caitlyn tilted her head. “You want to fix this? Make it disappear? Give them another narrative.”

Jinx slowly stood up, brushing off her oversized hoodie.

She looked at Caitlyn. Then at Sevika. Then at the rest of the group.

“...I mean,” she said with a grin, “I was going through a slutty phase that year.”

Sevika raised an eyebrow. “You’d really take the hit for this?”

Jinx shrugged. “What can I say? I’m iconic. And chaotic. And if it means the rest of us don’t get sued for trauma-bombing a pop princess, then sure.”

“Her name is Y/N,” Sevika said softly.

Jinx blinked. “Yeah, well… good luck getting her to talk to you again.”

Sevika swallowed hard and looked down at the floor.

“Yeah,” she said. “I know.”

The apartment was silent—except for the hum of the city far below, and the soft, golden light just beginning to creep across the hardwood floors.

Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the world was waking up. Skyscrapers shimmered with the last remnants of office lights, and the river that snaked through the skyline reflected the sunrise in soft reds and golds. It was a breathtaking view—clean, expensive, perfect.

And none of it felt real.

You were passed out on your living room couch, curled under a throw blanket, one arm draped over your stomach and the other resting limply against the floor. An empty bottle of wine lay tipped over on the coffee table. Next to it: a long-stemmed glass, lipstick-stained and still half full, deep red soaking into the napkin beneath it like spilled blood.

Your makeup was smudged. Your hoodie had a wine stain near the collar. Your throat ached. The skin beneath your eyes felt swollen and raw.

You didn’t remember falling asleep.

But you remembered the video.

Your old voice—gritty and hot, snarling through a secondhand mic. The comments. The chaos. The shame.

You groaned when your phone started buzzing.

Loud. Persistent. Sharp against your temple.

You blinked hard and pawed around for it, knocking the wine glass over in the process. It hit the hardwood with a soft clink, rolling in a lazy circle.

You squinted at the screen. Your manager.

You answered with a dry, scratchy voice. “Hello…?”

“Have you seen Twitter?!” he snapped, not even bothering with a hello.

You winced and sat up, pressing your palm to your forehead. “Jesus. No. What—”

“Check it. Now. Right now. You’re trending again. But—just. Look.”

Your heart dropped.

You opened the app with shaking fingers.

Top of your feed. Trending tab: #JusticeForSIR3N, #NotHer, #GlassgraveClarifies

Your vision swam as you clicked the link.

There it was.

A clean, corporate tweet from Glassgrave’s official account posted just under an hour ago.

✴️ STATEMENT: We’ve seen the circulating video and the speculation about who’s in it. To clarify: The person singing is not SIR3N. It’s our own JINX, in a performance from years ago. This was a personal archive clip accidentally made public. We apologize for any confusion.

You stared. Frozen. Jaw slack.

Below it, hundreds—thousands—of retweets, apologies, fan theories melting away like ice under a heat lamp.

“i feel so bad for her omg she really said ‘that’s not me’ and no one listened 😭” “people owe sir3n an APOLOGY y’all were so quick to cancel her 😐” “wait so it was JINX this whole time??? lmfao i thought that video looked sus” “ok but lowkey jinx singing slutty lyrics? i’d stream”

Your phone buzzed again. This time it was a flood of DMs and missed texts.

Your manager’s voice broke through your haze. “Do you understand how lucky this is? Someone actually covered your ass. People believe it. You’re in the clear.”

But all you could do was sit there, staring at the sunlight bleeding across the perfect curve of your designer couch. The skyline still looked stunning. Distant. Cold.

You weren’t relieved. Not even close.

Because it was you in that video. And now the whole world had erased you again—this time with a lie.

You blinked slowly, the weight of it all settling into your bones.

They apologized to SIR3N. But they didn’t even know who you were.

And someone—someone—had made that decision for you.

Sevika groaned as she peeled herself off the couch, one hand half-heartedly brushing chip crumbs off her sweatpants.

Inside the apartment, the band was sprawled out like overfed cats after the PR shoot. The living room reeked of cheap takeout and body spray. Cartoons played on low volume—something Jinx insisted on watching because "it helps with post-interview brain rot." Vi had her feet propped up on Jayce, Caitlyn was half-asleep with a pillow over her face, and Jinx had stolen someone’s socks.

Another knock.

“Someone else get it,” Sevika grumbled, already halfway to the door.

No one moved.

Typical.

She tugged the handle open, ready to yell at whatever delivery guy forgot the dipping sauces again— But no one was there.

Not at first.

Then she looked down.

And nearly forgot how to speak.

You were standing there—small, compact, furious. Baseball cap low over your face, sunglasses on, a cropped jacket slung over your white tank top, the hem just brushing your ribs. Flared leggings hugged your legs, sneakers worn but spotless. No glam squad. No security. No label shadowing you like a leash.

You had snuck out.

“Y/N—” Sevika started, throat tight.

Then caught herself. “I mean—SIR3N?”

You pulled your sunglasses off slowly and looked up at her.

Your eyes were red. Raw. Your voice cracked as you asked, “Did you guys leak that video?”

Sevika froze.

Behind her, the apartment stirred like a nest of startled animals.

“Holy shit,” Vi blurted. “It’s SIR3N.”

Caitlyn elbowed her so hard she choked on her spit.

Jinx sat up from the floor, wide-eyed. “No way. Like, actually her?”

But before anyone could say anything else—before the awkwardness could stretch into catastrophe—a voice echoed from down the hallway of the apartment building.

“Wait—did someone say SIR3N’s here?!”

You flinched.

Eyes wide. Face tense.

You were seconds from being seen.

Sevika didn’t think—she moved.

She grabbed your wrist and yanked you inside, slamming the door shut behind you.

You stumbled forward, heart hammering in your chest, and Sevika pressed her back to the door like she could physically hold the rest of the world out with her shoulders.

Everyone was staring.

No one spoke.

The silence cracked first at your voice—soft, broken, raw.

“Tell me the truth.” Your eyes locked onto Sevika’s.

The tension in the room was suffocating. You stood just a few steps inside the doorway, arms stiff at your sides, cheeks still flushed from the hallway sprint, your voice raw and trembling.

“Do you guys…” You swallowed. “Do you hate me or something?”

The band blinked at you in unison like you’d spoken in another language.

“What? No—” Caitlyn started.

“Absolutely not,” Jayce added, sitting up straighter on the couch.

“Are you kidding?” Vi said, stepping forward a little. “You're—like—look, we respect you, alright? No one here hates you.”

“Yeah!” Jinx called from behind a pillow. “Your PR people, maybe. But you? You’re cool.”

You stared at them, arms trembling, eyes stinging—but you couldn’t stop. Your voice rose before you could choke it down.

“Then why the fuck would you do this? That video was buried! My name—my face—my past was buried! Do you have any idea what that cost me?!”

They all looked at each other, wide-eyed.

Sevika rubbed her jaw, jaw clenching once, twice—before she stepped in front of them, expression unreadable.

“Don’t take it out on them,” she said quietly. “It was me.”

You blinked.

She didn’t move. Didn’t look away. Just said it again, more solid this time:

“It was me.”

Silence.

You let out a small, humorless laugh. Crossed your arms. “Of course it was.”

Sevika's brow twitched.

You took a step forward. “Of course the girl who said she wanted to hate-fuck me on a livestream is the same one who leaks my very complicated past for fun.”

The air snapped.

“That wasn’t for fun,” Sevika snapped, voice sharp. “I didn’t mean for it to go public. I found it, yeah—but I wasn’t trying to expose you.”

“No? Then what were you doing?” you demanded. “Studying me? Researching your next PR stunt? Looking for more ‘slutty clips’ to jerk off to?”

The band collectively winced.

“I wanted to know you!” Sevika shot back. “Not the girl on the magazines. Not the interviews. Not the princess on strings your label parades around—you. And when I found her, I couldn’t stop thinking about her.”

“Oh my god,” you groaned, throwing your head back. “You sound obsessed.”

“Maybe I am!” Sevika barked.

The band, still seated, now resembled an audience at a tennis match—Caitlyn and Jayce both slowly turning their heads from one of you to the other after every outburst, Vi mouthing “holy shit” under her breath, and Jinx eating popcorn she definitely didn’t have two minutes ago.

You threw your arms out, pacing now. “You don’t get to say that like it’s romantic! You humiliated me. You took something I buried and dragged it into the light and now everyone is calling me ‘real’ and ‘authentic’ and—I never asked for that. I never wanted to be known like that!”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Sevika said, voice lower now, more jagged.

“But you did!” you yelled, rounding on her. “And you can’t just smirk your way out of it!”

“I’m not smirking!” she snapped, hair falling into her face as she stepped forward, too.

“You were smirking when you said you wanted to fuck me.”

“I said hate-fuck!” she yelled, defensive.

“Oh, my bad!” you shrieked, throwing your hands in the air. “Because that’s so much better!”

“I didn’t mean it like that!”

“Well guess what—I didn’t mean to cry on the floor of my apartment for twelve hours straight either! But here we are!”

Jayce quietly slid a water bottle toward Vi without breaking eye contact with the argument.

Vi popped the cap and took a long sip, muttering, “I feel like I shouldn’t be here.”

“No, no,” Jinx whispered, fully entertained, “this is so much better than cartoons.”

Sevika ran a hand down her face, voice shaking now. “Look—I fucked up. I fucked up, okay? I’m sorry. But I didn’t do it to destroy you.”

You stood there, chest heaving, vision blurry. You didn’t know if it was rage or exhaustion or heartbreak—or some cruel blend of all three.

“You already did,” you whispered.

And the room fell dead silent.

You didn’t wait.

You didn’t need to hear another word, or see the guilt on Sevika’s face, or the awkward glances from the rest of the band, or let the moment hang heavy in the room any longer. Your chest was too tight. Your ears were ringing. Your throat hurt like you’d swallowed fire and regret.

So you ran.

You spun on your heel, yanked the door open, and burst out of the apartment like it was on fire.

You forgot the sunglasses.

Forgot the hat. Forgot the cover.

You were just you—exhausted, pissed, broken open.

The hallway was too bright, too echoey, and already not empty.

There were people down the hall—neighbors? fans? someone with a loud voice and fast fingers.

“Oh my god,” someone gasped. “Is that SIR3N?!”

You froze for a split second. That was all they needed.

Phones came out like weapons. Flashes. Clicks.

You turned away fast, yanking your hood up, heart hammering in your chest.

“She just came out of that apartment—who lives there?!” someone shouted.

“I knew she was dating someone in Glassgrave!”

“DID YOU GET THE SHOT?!”

“Y/N! Y/N, IS IT TRUE?!”

“WERE YOU HOOKING UP WITH SEVIKA?!”

You squealed—actually squealed—a panicked, breathless noise ripped straight from your throat, and ran.

Down the hall. Around the stairwell. Not toward the elevator—too risky. You shoved open a door to the fire escape and slammed it shut behind you, heels pounding down the stairs, two at a time.

Didn't matter.

You hit the alley behind the building in a sprint, barely breathing. The city air was cold and sharp in your lungs as you ducked behind a dumpster, heart racing.

From behind you, a voice echoed faintly down the alley.

“Was that really her?”

You bolted again.

Turning corners. Cutting through side streets. Using your old instincts. The ones that knew how to disappear.

Your legs were burning. Your throat felt like gravel. And your mind? It was screaming.

Because now they knew. Not just the press. Not just your fans.

Everyone.

You weren’t SIR3N in that moment. You were Y/N. Out in the open. Exposed. Messy.

And all of it—every inch of this spiral—had led you here like the whole world was chasing you.

Because maybe it was.

The second the front door to your penthouse slammed shut behind you, you locked it. Bolted it. Then slid down against it, breathing like you’d just run a marathon—and in a way, you had.

Your legs gave out. You sank to the cold marble floor, face hot, throat aching, every breath shaking.

The silence hit hard. Deafening. Too clean. Too sterile. Like the apartment had been scrubbed of every version of you except the one that smiled on camera.

You pulled your knees to your chest. Your hoodie was still half-zipped, the inside damp with sweat. Your sunglasses were gone. Your privacy was gone.

And you could feel it building—behind your ribs, behind your eyes, behind your tongue. That pressure. That storm.

When the sob finally broke loose from your throat, it was ugly. Crooked.

Not cinematic. Not pretty. Real.

You curled forward and screamed into your hands.

One breath. Two. Then your phone started going off.

It buzzed once. Then again. And again.

You didn’t look.

You couldn’t. Not yet.

But it didn’t stop.

It kept vibrating, chiming, singing with every new notification like the world had decided your suffering was a song.

You forced yourself to crawl toward where you’d tossed it on the kitchen counter. Pulled it down like it weighed fifty pounds.

You braced yourself.

The lock screen was a horror show.

138 missed texts. 52 missed calls. Twitter: #SIR3N trending at #1 worldwide. New mentions from every tabloid you could name. Entertainment Buzzfeed: “SIR3N Spotted Leaving GLASSGRAVE Guitarist’s Apartment Barefaced —What Does It Mean?” PopCrave: “Confirmed: SIR3N Visited GLASSGRAVE Band House—Sevika Love Triangle Rumors Ignite the Internet.”

And then the photos.

Blurred. Bright. You—wide-eyed and flushed, bursting out of the building. Your hoodie slipping off one shoulder. You running like something was chasing you.

You looked like prey.

The world was chewing you up.

“this is crazy i thought she was dating a ceo or something” “NO WAY shes with sevika what does this MEAN” “the hate-fuck era is REAL” “her face😭 she looks like she saw a ghost” “this is so sad she’s clearly not okay wtf leave her alone”

You dropped the phone on the couch like it burned.

You backed away from it like it would grow teeth.

Then you collapsed again—this time against the arm of the couch, your head buried in the cushions, fists clenched in the fabric. You couldn’t even scream now. The tears came too fast. Too hot. They soaked your skin and soaked the furniture and soaked the image of yourself you’d spent years trying to hold together.

Because no matter how tightly you tied your laces, or painted on your gloss, or hit your notes—

You were still Y/N. Still the girl from the video. Still the one the world wanted to rip open and devour.

And Sevika… She saw you first.

And now everyone did.

—

Your face was buried in the couch cushions, tears soaking through the velvet, body trembling with every shallow breath that refused to calm. Your hoodie was twisted around your waist, your hands clenched into fists under your cheek, and the throb in your head pulsed in time with the buzz of your phone across the floor.

You didn’t want to answer it.

You couldn’t answer it.

Not after the hallway. Not after the photos. Not after the internet exploded with versions of your life that you hadn’t agreed to share.

You wanted to disappear. To vanish into the fabric of the couch. To rewind the last twenty-four hours and start over somewhere no one knew your name.

But the phone didn’t stop buzzing.

And finally—finally—you cracked one bloodshot eye open, sat up with a shuddering breath, and crawled to where it had landed near the leg of the coffee table.

You didn’t even register the name on the screen until it was already mid-ring.

Then you froze.

Mel Medarda.

You stared at the contact like it had grown claws. Your thumb hovered.

Mel hadn’t called you in a long time. Not for birthdays. Not for career highs. Not even after your first #1.

She had always been there, sure—at a distance. Watching. Lurking on the fringes of your rise, offering the occasional like or cryptic comment on a story. You hadn’t spoken in forever.

But now she was calling. Now.

The screen flickered. And you answered.

“…hello?”

“Y/N.”

Just your name. Steady. Familiar. Infuriatingly calm.

You blinked hard. Your throat tightened. You hated the way her voice still hit you—cool and low and always with that faint, pitying lilt.

“You’re really calling me right now?” you said, trying for strength, but your voice cracked halfway through.

“I saw the videos,” Mel said simply. “And the photos. And the trending hashtags. And the fifteen-second edit of you running down a sidewalk set to Florence and the Machine.”

You groaned into your palm. “Fuck.”

“I figured you wouldn’t pick up for your manager, and I knew better than to text. So.” A pause. “You okay?”

You laughed. Bitter. Wet. “What do you think, Mel?”

Silence.

You sniffed and curled back onto the couch, wrapping yourself tighter in the throw blanket. The city light was warm on your arms now, the sun rising higher, almost mocking you.

“Why are you calling?” you asked. “Really.”

“Because I helped leak it.”

That made you sit up straighter.

Your fingers curled around the edge of the blanket.

You didn’t say anything. Just waited.

“I gave her your name,” Mel said, voice low. “Sevika. She asked for it. She said she wouldn’t use it. I didn’t think she would… I didn’t know she found the video.”

You sucked in a breath.

Your chest caved around it.

“You gave it to her?”

“She was desperate,” Mel said. “She looked guilty before anything even happened. And… part of me thought it wouldn’t matter. Part of me thought maybe you needed someone to see you.”

You shook your head, eyes stinging again. “You had no right.”

“I know.”

“I trusted you.”

“I know, Y/N.”

The silence stretched.

The ache deepened.

“I wasn’t ready to be her again,” you whispered, tears clinging to your lashes. “Not like this. Not… for them.”

“I don’t think she meant to hurt you,” Mel said after a long moment. “But she did.”

You pressed the heel of your hand to your chest. “And now I’m the girl from the bar again. I’m a walking headline. They’re saying I’m ‘back in my raw era.’ Like I’m some fucking moodboard.”

“You are more than what they see,” Mel said gently.

You let out a shaky breath.

“I just wanted to be someone else.”

“I know.”

Another pause.

“If you want me to,” Mel said slowly, “I’ll fix it. I’ll do an interview. I’ll say it was a stunt. I’ll say I made it up. I’ll drag Glassgrave through the dirt if I have to.”

You stared at the phone like it could see your face.

And all you said was:

“I don’t know what I want right now.”

“That’s okay,” Mel said softly. “Just know I’ve got you. Still.”

You didn’t reply. Couldn’t.

But when the call ended, you didn’t scream. Didn’t cry again.

You just stared out at the city through the floor-to-ceiling glass, glowing gold and blue and bright with possibility.

And you wondered—

If they’d already seen the worst of you… What the hell did you have to lose now?

Your phone lit up again.

You knew who it was before you even looked. The name flashing across your screen made your stomach twist into something tight and mean. Derek – Manager. You didn’t want to answer. Every part of your body screamed don’t pick up, don’t let him in, don’t give him more control than he already has.

But you did.

You always did.

The second you pressed accept and brought the phone to your ear, the storm hit.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?!”

No “hello.” No “are you okay.” Just rage, loud and breathless, already rolling down the line like thunder.

You winced, tucking your shoulder up like that would protect you from the impact. “Derek—”

“Don’t you ‘Derek’ me!” he snapped. “You snuck out. Alone. In broad daylight. Without a disguise—in front of paparazzi—to the home of the girl whose band is FACING LOVE TRIANGLE ACCUSATIONS”

“I was wearing a hat,” you said weakly.

“Oh, well thank God for the hat,” he bit out. “What were you thinking, Y/N? Seriously. What the fuck were you thinking?!”

You squeezed your eyes shut and curled tighter into the corner of the couch, pulling the blanket around your legs like it would soften the edges of his voice.

“I needed answers.”

“Answers?!” he laughed—loud, disbelieving. “You needed answers so badly you decided to give the media a goddamn field day?! Do you realize how this looks? You got caught leaving Sevika’s apartment in the same clothes you were seen wearing at rehearsal. People are saying you spent the night.”

You didn’t say anything. You couldn’t.

Derek kept going. “We’re fielding hundreds of calls. Journalists. Executives. Your mother texted me. Do you know how many brand deals are on the line right now?! You think Fenty wants to release a clean skincare line with the girl who ‘hate-fucks emo rock stars and lies about it’ trending on Twitter?!”

Your face burned. You didn’t even realize tears were falling again until one hit your collarbone.

“I didn’t sleep with her,” you said hoarsely.

“Oh, congratulations! You only snuck into her apartment, screamed at her in front of her entire band, ran out into the street, and now you’re on the front page of every tabloid from here to Tokyo!” he shouted.

You flinched. You couldn’t breathe.

“All I’ve done for the last four hours is put out fires you started. We were supposed to be in recovery mode, Y/N. We had the statement. We had sympathy. We had #JusticeForSIR3N. People were on your side. Do you know what you did with that?”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

“You torched it.”

You curled your fingers into the hem of your tank top. Your nails dug into the fabric, the skin underneath.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

“Not good enough,” he snapped. “Because now we have a problem. Not just a reputation problem. A career one. You’re not just off-brand, you’re off-script.”

You bit the inside of your cheek so hard it bled.

“Get it together, Y/N,” he said coldly. “Or they’ll replace you. You understand that? They’ll keep the name. The label owns SIR3N. If you keep slipping like this, they’ll turn someone else into you. And you’ll be nothing but the footnote they make documentaries about in ten years.”

He hung up.

You didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Just sat there—legs curled in tight, hands shaking, phone buzzing against your thigh from new alerts.

And somewhere in the back of your mind, a voice whispered the one truth you’d tried so hard to ignore.

Maybe you weren’t losing control of SIR3N. Maybe SIR3N was never yours to begin with.

The conference room smelled like lemon-scented glass cleaner and expensive anxiety.

Reader sat stiffly in the center of the long, glossy table, arms crossed over her chest as the low hum of voices filled the space. It was overlit—brutally bright overhead lights making every flaw impossible to hide. Assistants lined the wall, pens poised, tablets ready. Producers sat on one end of the table with bland expressions, while marketing executives whispered in sharp little bursts across branded folders and bottled water.

And at the head of it all—Derek.

Still furious. Still polished. Still smiling like a shark.

You hadn’t said a word yet.

You were technically still on your “break”—the one the team agreed to after your voice cracked in rehearsal and the tweets turned brutal. But it didn’t feel like a break. Not when they called you into this emergency meeting at 9 AM on a Friday, barely two days after the photos dropped. Not when the air was thick with the kind of anticipation that meant they’d already made decisions without you.

Someone cleared their throat.

A junior assistant—barely twenty, maybe younger—fidgeted with the corners of her folder. Her voice was high, breathy, nervous.

“S-so the Tokyo Global Festival is in two weeks. Um, we think we should be able to squeeze enough rehearsal time to—”

You lifted your head slowly and tilted it toward her.

“Sorry,” you interrupted, voice calm but firm. “Um—I thought we weren’t doing the Tokyo festival this year?”

Silence. All heads turned to Derek.

He didn’t flinch. He leaned back in his chair, crossed one leg over the other, and fixed you with a cold smile.

“Well, plans change.”

You stared at him.

He continued, voice smooth. “Since we’re under a lot of pressure right now, we think it’s best to show the public that we have nothing to hide. And what better way to do that than by performing live in front of fifty thousand people and thirty-six global livestream platforms?”

You blinked, chewing the inside of your cheek. Hard. The taste of blood returned.

“Right,” you said softly. “So this is about damage control.”

“This is about momentum,” one of the producers cut in, flipping through a document. “There’s real opportunity here. We’ve seen increased engagement across all your platforms. People are talking about you—organically. You haven’t trended like this in months.”

“I trended because I was crying in public,” you muttered, mostly to yourself.

No one acknowledged it.

“We’ve already started teasing the setlist,” another voice added. “If you perform, we can drop the new single immediately after. The narrative will shift. We control it again.”

You swallowed.

Shift the narrative. Control the damage. Show them what they want to see.

Be SIR3N again.

You looked to Derek. He wasn’t blinking.

You knew this look. It was the same look he gave you when you begged not to wear a bodysuit at the Grammys. When you didn’t want to cover up your tattoos for the Billboard shoot. When you asked—quietly, behind closed doors—if you could push the album a week so you could breathe.

He never said no. He just made it impossible to say yes without breaking something in yourself.

You leaned forward, elbows on the table, the tension in your shoulders sharp and electric.

“And what happens if I say no?” you asked, quietly. “If I say I’m not ready? That I don’t want to perform in front of the entire world while people are still tearing apart every piece of my past?”

The room went still.

Derek’s smile thinned.

“Then I remind you that you’re under contract,” he said simply. “And the label owns your next three televised appearances. And if we lose Tokyo, we lose London. We lose Sydney. We lose the award slots. We lose radio play.”

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to.

“And you,” he added, “lose the platform you spent the last four years building.”

You sat back.

There it was.

The threat under the gloss.

The collar tightening around your throat.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t speak. You just stared at your reflection in the black sheen of the table.

All eyes were still on you.

Waiting.

Your reflection stared back at you in the polished table surface—blank eyes, parted lips, the faint outline of your jaw clenched so tight it ached. You didn’t feel like SIR3N. You didn’t even feel like Y/N. You felt like a puppet on strings being dangled over a crowd waiting for you to dance.

And maybe that’s what you were.

You could feel every eye in the room watching, waiting for your answer, the silence a noose growing tighter with each second you didn’t speak.

Derek didn’t push again. He didn’t need to. He’d already said enough.

You breathed in slow. Shallow.

You felt like your ribs were glass.

“...Fine,” you said.

The word barely made it out, hushed and scratchy from disuse. You cleared your throat and repeated it louder. “Fine. I’ll do the show.”

The room shifted like someone let the air back in. A few people exhaled in relief. Someone murmured a quiet “yes” near the end of the table. Pages flipped. Notes were taken. One of the assistants immediately started typing out emails on her tablet.

But you didn’t move. You stayed still.

Because even though you’d just agreed, it didn’t feel like a victory. It didn’t even feel like survival.

It felt like surrender.

Derek smiled—proud, but measured. “Good choice. We’ll adjust rehearsal schedules. I’ll have wardrobe send over the Tokyo concepts by tomorrow. And we’ll loop you in on the livestream contracts before the end of the week.”

You nodded slowly, your face a perfect mask again.

No one saw your hands shaking in your lap.

You tuned out as they shifted the meeting toward logistics—camera angles, set design, security. All things that were supposed to make you feel “safe” while still being palatable, captivating, marketable. You weren’t an artist anymore. You were a weapon. A press release in glitter eyeliner.

But you didn’t argue. Didn’t protest.

Because if you were going to be dragged back onstage, if they were going to strip you down to the roots and parade you across Tokyo…

The bar was loud—one of those hazy, neon-lit dives tucked just off the main road in downtown L.A., where the tables were always sticky, the music was always just too loud to hear yourself think, and the beer tasted like someone dared it to be bad. Glassgrave had taken over the back corner with pitchers of something bright and toxic-looking, celebratory shots scattered across their table like confetti. Vi was already two drinks deep and arguing with a guy at the next table over whether bass players got enough respect, Caitlyn was perched calmly on her lap, sipping a whiskey and watching Vi with amused detachment, and Jayce had abandoned the table entirely in favor of chatting up the bartender.

Sevika was leaning back in her seat, long legs stretched out, nursing a dark bottle of something she barely tasted. She wasn’t the rowdiest one in the group—never was—but tonight, even more than usual, she was quiet. Focused. Still. The buzz of celebration didn’t quite reach her.

It had been a big day.

Their Tokyo festival set was officially locked. The contracts signed. The flights booked. Their first international festival performance.

Vi had screamed when she found out. Jinx threw her phone across the room and did a cartwheel. Even Caitlyn cracked a rare grin. They’d made it—crossed the invisible threshold between “rising star” and world tour candidate. It was everything they’d been working toward.

And still… Sevika felt that itch in the back of her brain. That pull.

Like she’d forgotten something. Or more accurately—someone.

It was Jinx who noticed it first.

She’d been glued to her phone since the drinks arrived, eyes darting across the screen, fingers flying. She was halfway through filming a chaotic TikTok of Vi doing a messy body roll when her screen froze—just for a second. Her thumb hovered. Her whole face dropped.

“…Shit.”

Caitlyn looked over. “What?”

Jinx blinked. Didn’t speak.

Vi leaned in. “What is it?”

Jinx sucked in a sharp breath, then turned her phone around and showed them the screen.

A tweet.

Breaking: SIR3N CONFIRMED to perform at the 2025 Tokyo Global Festival—just two weeks after scandal surrounding leaked video. The princess of pop returns to the stage. Attached was a picture—your picture. Polished. Ethereal. A perfect contrast to the chaos it followed.

The table went quiet.

Caitlyn blinked slowly. “You’re joking.”

Jayce wandered back over with two shots and a confused look. “What’s going on?”

Vi groaned and let her forehead fall to the table. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Jinx made a strangled sound. “She’s—she’s performing at our show. In Tokyo.”

“Why?” Caitlyn muttered. “She was literally in PR crisis mode like, a minute ago.”

“Guess the label wants her back in the spotlight,” Jayce said, shrugging. “No such thing as bad press, right?”

“I told you it was going to bite us,” Vi snapped, pointing at Sevika. “You poked the bear.”

“Technically you mean ‘leaked the emo video of the bear,’” Jinx corrected under her breath, then flinched when Vi elbowed her.

Everyone groaned again—except Sevika.

She hadn’t said a word. Just stared at the tweet.

Her beer sat untouched.

“Sev,” Caitlyn said, glancing at her. “You good?”

Sevika didn’t answer right away. Her jaw ticked once. Her thumb dragged across the screen slowly, as if reading the words would change them.

SIR3N.

You.

Coming to Tokyo.

She should’ve known you wouldn’t stay down. You were never built to disappear.

You were going to be there. On the same lineup. In the same city. Just a few stages away, a few dressing rooms down. And after everything—the video, the argument, the fallout—you were about to be inches away from her again.

The noise of the bar faded.

All she could see was your face.

The one in the grainy footage. The one that had haunted her for weeks.

And now? She was going to see it in real life.

“…Fuck,” Sevika muttered, dragging a hand down her face.

Caitlyn raised an eyebrow. “What do we do?”

“Do we do anything?” Jayce asked. “She’s not our problem anymore.”

“She’s Sevika’s problem,” Vi muttered darkly.

Jinx popped a piece of ice into her mouth and crunched it with a dramatic shrug. “Honestly? The hate-fuck energy’s gonna be crazy on that plane ride.”

Sevika didn’t rise to the bait.

Didn’t joke. Didn’t argue.

She just leaned back in her chair, staring at her drink like it had the answers, your name echoing through her head like it always did now.

Y/N.

Sir3n.

You.

And two weeks suddenly felt like not nearly enough time.

The music echoed low through the apartment—just the instrumental for now. The soft thump of the bass and delicate string overlays filled the cavernous penthouse as you moved through the routine you were trying to rework. Alone. Always alone.

You were barefoot on the hardwood, wearing nothing but an oversized black band tee—one of Glassgrave’s, ironically. It hung off your shoulder, the hem barely grazing your thighs, your hair pulled back in a half-hearted bun that had mostly come undone. Your body glistened faintly with sweat, thighs sore from repetition, your voice hoarse from singing your lungs out to empty rooms.

It wasn’t the same without an audience.

But you were trying. Trying to find that old magic. Trying to own it again.

You hit a spin too hard and stumbled, letting out a frustrated noise as you dropped onto the nearby couch. You reached for your water bottle, chugging it with a sigh, already replaying what you’d just done wrong in your head.

And then—

A knock.

You froze.

Your eyes flicked toward the door.

You weren’t expecting anyone. Security hadn’t buzzed. There wasn’t even a text.

Slowly, cautiously, you padded across the floor, the hem of your shirt fluttering around your bare thighs. You pressed your eye to the peephole.

And nearly fell backward.

Sevika.

Low-rise baggy jeans slung on her hips like they were just barely holding on. A black tanktop stretched across her chest, clinging to the edges of toned abs and the hint of a happy trail that disappeared below her waistband. A plaid jacket tied low around her waist like a belt, her hair messy, her face flushed, a lazy, cocky grin tugging at the corner of her lips.

She was leaning against your door like she belonged there.

You ripped the door open with a hissed breath, your whole body already flushing with a mix of panic and disbelief.

“What are you doing here?!” you whisper-yelled, immediately looking down the hall to see if anyone had noticed. “I’m fucked if someone sees you!”

Sevika just raised her eyebrows and tilted her head.

“Then I guess…” she gave a slow, lazy smile, “you better invite me in.”

You blinked.

Stared.

Tried to process whether or not she was seriously doing this right now. She reeked faintly of tequila and leather and peppermint gum—she was definitely tipsy, but not stumbling. Not reckless. She knew what she was doing.

“…Are you serious right now?” you asked, voice still quiet but sharp with disbelief.

She didn’t answer.

She didn’t have to.

Sevika leaned forward and brushed past you—into your apartment—like she knew exactly where the couch was. Her shoulder grazed yours on the way in, and it was just enough contact to spark something hot and dizzy under your skin. Your eyes followed her as she walked with that same confident swagger she always had, like the world owed her the floor she walked on.

You slammed the door shut and locked it, whispering a harsh, “Sevika—” as you turned.

She’d already flopped down onto the edge of the couch, legs spread, one hand lazily draped over the backrest as she looked around your place like she was checking in on an old memory.

“Nice setup,” she said, voice low. “Bigger than mine. Not cozier, though.”

You crossed your arms, standing just a few feet away, trying not to freak out over the fact that you were still in your underwear and a shirt with her band’s name across the chest.

“What do you want?” you asked, trying to keep your voice from shaking.

Sevika looked up at you, eyes lidded, that grin softening into something more tired. More complicated.

“I wanted to see you,” she said, like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Your heart clenched. You hated how those words made your stomach flip. You hated how they sounded true.

“You can’t be here,” you whispered. “Do you understand how bad this would look if—if anyone found out? They already think I’m spiraling, Sevika.”

Her gaze didn’t waver.

“I know.”

“Then why—”

“Because I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” she cut in quietly.

You went still.

Her voice wasn’t flirty now. It wasn’t taunting. It was just… real.

“I saw your name on that lineup and I knew I was screwed,” she murmured, leaning forward, elbows on her knees now. “You’ve been in my head since before the video. Since before the tweets. Before I even knew your name.”

You stared at her. Hard.

“Then why leak it?” you said, jaw tight. “Why hurt me?”

“I didn’t think people would connect it to you,” she admitted. “I didn’t think they’d see you. I just… I wanted to know you.”

“That’s not how you get to know someone,” you snapped.

“I know that now.”

You ran a hand through your hair, pacing a few steps across the floor, your head spinning. The tension between you two filled the room like smoke. Heavy. Thick. Unspoken.

“You show up here drunk, uninvited, days before the biggest show of my life, and just… what? Say you missed me?” you asked, voice rising.

She stood up slowly. Not threatening. Not smug. Just tall. Close.

“No,” she said. “I came to say I’m sorry.”

You froze.

The silence between you both cracked like glass.

And she took one step closer.

“You can throw me out if you want,” she added, voice barely above a whisper. “I deserve it. But I meant what I said.”

You were still trembling. Still staring at her. Still trying to decide if you wanted to scream or sob or kiss her so hard your teeth clashed.

And maybe—

Maybe you’d do all three.

You didn’t say it. You didn’t invite her to stay.

But when you didn’t open the door again… and didn’t tell her to get out… and just stood there as Sevika made herself comfortable in your space like she’d been here before— That was enough.

You turned away and walked back toward your little makeshift rehearsal space, refusing to acknowledge how conscious you suddenly were of your legs, your shirt, the way the room suddenly felt ten degrees warmer. Sevika’s presence was heavy. Not loud, not flashy—just there, like smoke curling under a door, impossible to ignore.

You picked up the mic again—your wireless one, silver with little rhinestoned stars on the handle—and rolled your shoulders out. Your laptop was still connected to the speakers. The beat was still waiting.

You didn’t look at her.

Didn’t ask her to sit.

But she did.

She dropped onto your couch, legs wide, one arm slung across the back like she was at home. She nodded toward the coffee table, where the opened bottle of red wine sat beside your abandoned glass.

She helped herself.

You pretended not to notice. You tapped your mic and cleared your throat.

The beat started.

You sang.

Again.

For the fifth fucking time.

And once again—just as the bridge climbed, as the note started to peak—your voice cracked. Sharp. Painful. Like tearing silk.

You flinched and pinched the bridge of your nose, cursing under your breath.

Behind you, Sevika sipped your wine and exhaled with a soft hum of amusement. Not mocking. Just observant.

“You keep messing it up,” she said casually.

You groaned. “Gee, thanks for the input.”

She tilted her head. “It’s not ‘cause your voice is bad.”

You looked over your shoulder, annoyed, wary, a little curious.

She shrugged and took another sip. “It’s ‘cause the song doesn’t mean anything to you.”

That made you pause.

You turned fully now, mic still in hand, your legs tense, still half-stuck in performer mode. “Excuse me?”

She didn’t backtrack. Didn’t even blink. Just looked up at your ceiling, the high arch of it catching moonlight through the massive windows.

“Well,” she said, as if thinking aloud, “what do the lyrics mean to you?”

You snorted, reflexive. Dismissive. “They’re about heartbreak.”

Sevika raised an eyebrow.

You opened your mouth to say more—obviously you had more, it was your song—but…

You drew a blank.

You blinked once.

Then again.

The lyrics you’d memorized—bleeding them over and over on stage, in rehearsals, during interviews where the word vulnerability got tossed around like a marketing term—suddenly felt hollow. Like someone else’s story you’d been reciting in a glittery costume.

You looked down at your mic.

“Fuck,” you whispered.

And Sevika just watched.

Not smug. Not cruel. Just… watching.

Like she could see the realization click into place.

You sat on the floor then, letting your legs fold beneath you, mic in your lap, and stared across the room like the answer was written somewhere in the grain of the wood. The chorus played softly in the background on loop, and you let it.

Sevika didn’t interrupt. She just leaned back, letting one arm hang behind the couch, fingers tapping along the glass like a metronome.

“I didn’t write it,” you said finally, the words tasting sour.

Sevika looked over.

“The label wrote it. Or like—one of their writers. I just… tweaked a couple lines. Added some vocal runs.”

“You ever try writing something yourself?” she asked, sipping again.

You hesitated. “I used to. A long time ago.”

“Before SIR3N?”

You nodded.

She smirked. “Let me guess—loud, dirty, slutty, emo stuff?”

You threw a nearby pillow at her. “Shut up.”

She caught it, laughing, her grin crooked. “I’m right though.”

You laughed too, reluctantly, and it hit you how long it had been since you laughed like that. Without a camera. Without an audience.

Just… you.

And her.

Sevika finished her wine and leaned forward, elbows on her knees now, eyes locked on yours.

“Write something that means something,” she said. “Sing that.”

You bit your lip.

“I don’t even know if I can anymore.”

“You can,” she said, dead certain. “You just forgot how.”

You stared at her for a long moment.

And she didn’t look away.

comment to be added to the taglist!! @riotstemple29

[cup1drul3z]

★ — Her Voice

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴏɴᴇ : ꜱɪʀ3ɴ

ɢᴜɪᴛᴀʀ ᴘʟᴀʏᴇʀ!ꜱᴇᴠɪᴋᴀ x ᴘᴏᴘꜱᴛᴀʀ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | 7.6ᴋ ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ

TAGS : Emotional distress, Identity crisis and public exposure, Verbal abuse from a manager, Industry pressure, Cyberbullying, Self-harm, Obsessive behavior, Implicit sexual themes (lyric content, comments), Alcohol and drug use, Strong language

A/N : YESSSSS

SUMMARY : After your biggest concert yet, a leaked video exposes the version of you you swore was dead—threatening everything you’ve built as SIR3N. Meanwhile, Sevika becomes obsessed with the real you, digging deeper until neither of you can look away. As the internet explodes, you're both spiraling—for very different reasons.

The chant rose like a wave and swallowed the arena whole.

“SIR3N! SIR3N! SIR3N!”

You hadn’t stepped on stage yet, but they were already screaming like you were mid-encore. Thousands of voices—blended into something primal. Something desperate. Something loud enough to shake the scaffolding.

The lights dipped into a moody blue haze. All around the stadium, your fans raised their shell-shaped lightsticks high into the dark, filling the air with a soft, opalescent glow. Signs bobbed above heads, flashing in sync with the throb of the bass building from the speakers. Some read your name. Some were shaped like hearts. Some just had lyrics scribbled in silver.

No voiceover. No documentary clips. No photos from your past.

Just the screens.

They came to life in pieces.

First—your logo. Bold. Metallic. Backlit like a warning sign. SIR3N, stylized in chrome letters, pulsing to the rhythm like a heartbeat. It filled the entire stage wall, then split into four mirrored fragments that spun away like shattered glass.

Then your eyes.

Just your eyes—half-lidded, glitter-shadowed, staring out from the screen with the kind of practiced stillness only a popstar could pull off. Close-up. Unblinking. All color and control and a flicker of something deeper that only your oldest fans might recognize.

Another flash: your lips.

Painted pink. Slightly parted. A breath caught on the edge of a lyric. You weren’t singing, not yet. But it looked like you might. It looked like you could—if they were good enough. If they screamed loud enough.

Then your lashes. Your nails. A soft arch of your brow.

And then nothing.

Just the logo again. Spinning, bold, untouchable. SIR3N.

They screamed louder. Some of them cried. One girl in the front row dropped to her knees, sobbing into her hands.

You weren’t out there. Not yet.

But they didn’t need to see you to worship you. They already were.

Backstage was chaos—organized, glitter-dusted chaos.

You walked fast, heels clicking sharply against the concrete with a rhythm that didn’t match your heartbeat. It was louder. Harder. Angrier.

A stylist trailed at your side with a compact mirror, touching up the corners of your winged eyeliner as you moved, while another fluffed your hair with one hand and held a can of setting spray in the other. Someone behind you—maybe an assistant, maybe a producer, you didn’t know anymore—was rattling off final cues into a headset. Everyone around you moved like satellites, orbiting your path, never touching but always pulling, pulling, pulling.

“Eyeshadow’s fine, just keep walking—don’t stop,” a voice muttered.

Another: “Watch the wire on the right. She’s going live in thirty.”

You didn’t speak.

You kept your gaze straight ahead, jaw locked, breath tight in your ribs like a corset. You’d already done this a hundred times. The walk. The prep. The ritual of pretending this didn’t make your skin crawl.

From the moment you stepped off the dressing room floor, you stopped being a person. You were SIR3N now.

And SIR3N had to be flawless.

Your manager appeared like a bad omen at your left side—slick suit, cold smile, eyes glued to the clipboard in her hand. “Don’t let the adrenaline mess with your pitch this time,” she said without looking at you. “And remember: they moved the camera track to stage left, so give it your good side. We have investors watching tonight.”

She didn’t wait for a response. She never did.

An assistant rushed forward, holding out the mic—your custom piece, glinting under the low blue hallway lights like a weapon. The grip was wrapped in silver velvet, the head of it adorned with tiny silver stars, each one placed by hand during a fitting session that had gone until 3AM two nights ago. You took it wordlessly, fingers curling around it like it was the only thing anchoring you to this world.

Your platform was waiting just ahead—a flat circle of steel and fog machines, ringed with LED lights and cables.

You stepped onto it.

The screen overhead blared the final visuals of your pre-show loop—your logo spinning, glitching, dissolving into stardust.

A tech did a quick mic check in your earpiece. “You’re hot. Countdown’s at ten. You’re perfect, SIR3N.”

The lights above dimmed. The world outside the curtain held its breath.

You sighed.

Not because you weren’t ready. You always were. But because part of you wished—just once—you didn’t have to be.

You adjusted your grip on the mic. Let your lashes lower. Felt the hum of the platform shift beneath your heels as it began to rise.

Ten. Nine. Eight.

You looked up at the blinding lights above, already starting to glow hot white.

Seven. Six. Five.

The fans were screaming now. Your name. Your song. Every syllable filled with devotion.

Four. Three. Two—

You closed your eyes.

One.

And then you were rising—through the fog, through the lights, through the deafening sound of a thousand people begging to see you.

The second your boots hit the stage, the music crashed like a wave.

And just like that—

You were SIR3N. And the show had begun.

The flat-screen TV mounted on the studio wall blasted high-def color into the dim room, casting flickers of pink, silver, and soft glitter light across the floor. The audio was loud enough to feel—it rumbled in the couch cushions beneath them and made Jinx groan as she dug the tip of her nail file into the corner of her thumbnail.

“SIR3N! SIR3N! SIR3N!”

The chant came from the speakers like thunder, layered and unrelenting. The entire room was drenched in the shrieking of teenage girls.

“God,” Jinx muttered. “Sounds like a flock of pigeons on coke.”

On screen, fans flooded the venue grounds in waves—sparkly jackets, glittered cheeks, pastel cowboy hats. A drone camera soared above it all, revealing a massive sea of lightsticks and waving signs. The aerial shot paused on the screen and captioned the number beneath it.

LIVE FROM LAS RIVAS STADIUM — SOLD OUT. 50,000 IN ATTENDANCE.

“Jesus,” Caitlyn murmured under her breath, head tilted against Vi’s shoulder. “They really packed it out.”

Vi snorted. “Yeah. Say what you want, girl can pull numbers.”

Jayce, half-reclined in the corner of the sectional with his phone propped against his thigh, glanced up from whatever he was scrolling. “She broke records last month, right? Some streaming thing. Beat Ariana or someone.”

The screen cut to pre-show footage—teen girls bouncing in line, some already crying, others being handed merch bags. The volume lowered as a producer began interviewing fans. One of the girls—pink hair, braces, wide eyes—clutched her lightstick like it was sacred.

“She’s been through so much,” she said breathlessly. “Her mom used to ditch her all the time, and she was, like, totally bullied for her voice. People said she was annoying, but she just kept singing. Now she’s the cutest popstar ever and everyone loves her.”

Cut to another girl with glitter stars on her cheeks. “She’s like, hope in human form. If she can survive middle school, I can survive anything.”

The camera panned dramatically across a massive LED billboard downtown. A perfect portrait of SIR3N stared down at the street—flawless makeup, glassy eyes, parted lips, hand curled delicately near her face. Her logo glittered in the background, the billboard looped with text:

TONIGHT ONLY – SIR3N LIVE “SOME GIRLS BREAK. I BURNED INSTEAD.”

Sevika tilted her head, brow lifted. “She’s hot.”

A record-scratch moment passed through the room. Everyone turned to look at her at once.

Caitlyn blinked slowly. Vi made a face like she'd just bitten into a lemon. Jinx stopped filing her nails and gave a theatrical gag. Even Jayce paused mid-scroll to shoot her a side-eye.

Sevika raised both eyebrows, arms folded behind her head, totally unfazed. “What?!”

“You didn’t have to say it out loud,” Jinx muttered, going back to her nail.

“I’m just—observing,” Sevika defended, waving a lazy hand toward the screen. “Look at the face. The lips. She’s a literal doll.”

“More like a living product,” Caitlyn said under her breath, gently adjusting her legs across Vi’s lap. “You think she even gets to eat what she wants?”

Jayce snorted. “Doubt it. You think she wants to be on stage? She looks like she’s about to snap half the time.”

The interview cut off. The lights in the arena dropped. The scream from the crowd was deafening.

Everyone looked back toward the TV as the stage lights flared and fog crawled across the floor.

From the center of it—just barely visible—rose a figure.

Microphone in hand. Hair like spun moonlight. Wrapped in silver and stardust. The platform lifted her up like she was being born from the smoke.

The screen zoomed in on her eyes, then her lips, then her logo.

“Showtime,” Vi muttered.

Sevika smirked, mouth twitching at the edge as she leaned forward slightly, eyes locked on the screen like she was looking straight through it.

She didn’t say anything else. But you could feel it in her stare.

This wasn’t just curiosity anymore. This was interest.

And that was dangerous.

The concert was over. The lights had faded. The screams were gone.

Now, all that remained was the quiet hum of the limo and the voice of your manager echoing like a migraine.

“You dragged that last chorus,” he said, flipping through his tablet like it had personally betrayed him. “I told you the pitch modulator was too subtle—why didn’t you just use your chest voice like we rehearsed? You can’t get sentimental on a live stage, not when you’re being streamed in eight countries.”

You sat across from him in the backseat, shoulders pressed stiffly against the leather, legs tucked under a custom throw blanket from your own merch line. Your mic was gone, your lashes were beginning to lift at the corners, and your entire body still felt like it was vibrating from the bass and the lights and the pressure.

But none of that mattered. Not in here.

The inside of the limo was dim and cold, drenched in the soft blue glow of the overhead lights and the flicker of your manager’s tablet screen as he swiped again. You didn’t answer. You didn’t look at him.

You were picking at the skin around your nails—thumb first, then index—pressing just hard enough for it to hurt.

He didn’t notice.

“I told you we needed a new opener,” he went on, tapping rapidly at his screen. “Mirage is tired. People want edge now. They want bite. They want—”

He stopped.

The silence hit hard. Sudden. You froze mid-pick.

Then you heard the worst sound possible: a scoff followed by a long, slow exhale through his nose.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he muttered. “You’re going to want to hear this.”

You didn’t. But you looked anyway.

He turned the tablet around and held it out. The screen showed a live update of the Top 100 Global Streaming Chart. You already knew what was wrong before you saw the number.

You were #2.

It wasn’t that you hadn’t dropped before—you had. Once. Briefly. After your mom’s second overdose. But this felt different.

This felt intentional.

Above your name, in glowing red letters: #1 – GLASSGRAVE "BLEACH THE MOON" – LIVE FESTIVAL VERSION

You stared at it. Unblinking. Like the letters were burning into your eyes.

“Who the hell is Glassgrave?” you asked, your voice dry.

But you already knew. You’d heard the name before. Recently. At meetings. On your For You Page. Floating around backstage like a virus.

Your manager tossed the tablet onto the seat beside him with a dramatic thud. “Some emo freak band with a gimmick. Tattoos, chains, lyrics about knives and ex-girlfriends. The frontwoman’s the hot one with the scar. They’ve got this whole anarchy chic thing going on.”

He paused, turning to look at you like you’d personally handed them the crown. “And they just ate your fucking spot. Do you get that? You’re not trending. You’re not relevant right now. Do you understand how dangerous that is?”

You didn’t respond. You were too busy pressing your nail into your thumb again. This time harder. A small crescent of blood welled up at the edge of the skin. You wiped it on the inside of your sleeve without thinking.

“They’re a phase,” he snapped, answering his own anger. “They’ll burn out, and you’ll still be here. But not if you keep phoning it in. Not if you keep crying on stage like you're doing art.”

You looked out the window.

The city glided past in smears of gold and black—glass towers, neon signs, the occasional flash of your own billboard high above it all. You wondered if the fans still believed in you right now. If they were home in bed clutching their lightsticks or already streaming someone else’s voice on repeat.

Your phone buzzed in your lap. Notifications. Comments. Mentions. You didn’t check them.

You were too busy thinking about the name.

Glassgrave. Scarred frontwoman. Scarred voice. Scarred lyrics.

Something inside your chest curled tight—ugly and sharp.

You didn’t know her. But now, you needed to.

The apartment was loud. Messy. Alive.

The kind of chaos that smelled like weed smoke, cheap champagne, and whatever the hell Jinx had spilled on the rug thirty minutes ago. Someone had put a speaker on full blast in the kitchen—probably Vi—and the chorus of their chart-topping single was echoing through the open-concept loft like a war cry.

“Bleach the Moon” blared unapologetically, the bass rattling the half-dead succulents on the windowsill.

Jinx was bouncing on the couch cushions in socks and ripped fishnets, phone angled high above her head as she livestreamed on TikTok, lipstick smudged and eyes glittering like she'd snorted the algorithm itself.

“YO!” she screamed into the front camera, grinning wide. “GLASSGRAVE IS NUMBER ONE, BABY! Fucking number one! Fifty thousand people! Bleach the Moon? LIVE VERSION? On top of the goddamn world!”

Caitlyn and Vi were behind her, both flushed from champagne and half-drunk on adrenaline. Vi was mouthing the words to the chorus, flashing peace signs and middle fingers between swigs from a bottle. Caitlyn, more restrained, was perched on the arm of the couch, legs curled up, laughing softly as she held her own phone at a safer angle, recording Vi like she was a feral zoo animal.

Jayce was in the kitchen, shirt unbuttoned and hair a mess, mixing drinks he would absolutely spill before finishing.

“THANK YOU FOR LISTENING TO OUR MUSIC!” Jinx shouted again into the phone, throwing her hands up like she was preaching. “TOUR ANNOUNCEMENT DROPPING TOMORROW! We’re coming for your city. Hide your exes. Hide your stage time. Nobody’s safe.”

The group erupted in cheers.

Except for Sevika.

She was slouched in a cracked leather armchair off to the side, blunt hanging from her lips, half a bottle of cider resting against her thigh. She wasn’t cheering. She wasn’t drinking. She wasn’t even looking at the camera.

She was watching you.

Not on screen. Not on TikTok. In her head.

She could feel what the win meant. Not for the band. Not for the fans. For you.

The #2 spot.

She knew your team tracked the charts obsessively—knew you probably saw the numbers the second you stepped offstage, still dripping in sweat and glitter and god complex.

She wondered how it felt.

To be dethroned.

To watch your name slide down just one line, just far enough to make everything feel like it was slipping out of your hands. To know the girl who took it didn’t cry on stage, didn’t dance in heels, didn’t need a pre-show prayer whispered into a mirror to survive the night.

Sevika exhaled slow, the smoke curling from her lips as Jinx shoved the camera in her face.

“She doesn’t even care,” Jinx cackled to the livestream, dragging Sevika into frame. “Say something, you moody bitch. You’re number one!”

Sevika didn’t look up. She didn’t need to.

She stared straight into the lens and said flatly, “She’s watching.”

That made everyone pause.

Vi blinked, brow raised. “Who?”

Jinx narrowed her eyes. “Wait… are you talking about—”

Caitlyn groaned softly. “Oh my god.”

Jayce, from the kitchen: “I knew you were weirdly quiet.”

Sevika finally looked up, smirking as she plucked the blunt from her mouth. “What? Just saying. If I were her, I’d be watching too.”

Jinx snorted. “So you admit it. You want the pop princess to hate-fuck you.”

Sevika raised both brows and shrugged, unapologetic. “Wouldn’t be the worst PR stunt.”

Laughter broke out again, messy and loud.

But even as the group dissolved back into celebration—more yelling, more drinks, more chaotic TikTok moments—Sevika stayed quiet. The smoke curled from her fingers, her eyes still distant, like she wasn’t fully in the room anymore.

Because somewhere in a cold limo, or a glittered penthouse, or maybe behind the locked door of some perfect, sterile bedroom…

You were spiraling.

And Sevika? She could already feel it.

The penthouse was quiet. Too quiet.

No stage lights. No screaming. No microphones. Just you, lying in the middle of a silk-soft, oversized bed in a room the size of most people’s apartments, the city lights barely reaching through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

The sheets were ivory. The air smelled like lavender. And your face was covered in an overnight skincare mask your dermatologist had custom-formulated to soothe inflammation—though it did nothing for the kind that lived in your chest.

You stared at your phone with the brightness all the way down, thumb scrolling mindlessly.

The algorithm knew exactly what it was doing. Every swipe brought another video.

GLASSGRAVE KILLS THE CHARTS Sevika’s Unbothered Reaction to Going #1 Vi Chugs Straight from the Bottle, Jinx Goes Feral (AGAIN)

You didn’t even follow them. You didn’t listen to them. And yet here they were, filling up your feed like poison in a glass of wine.

You were about to scroll again when a familiar thumbnail caught your eye.

A shaky shot of Jinx screaming into her front camera. Behind her, the entire band laughing, cheering, music playing in the background. A live saved from an hour ago.

You tapped it.

The screen filled with their faces—half-drunk, flushed with victory, caught mid-party. Vi had her arm around Caitlyn, who was smirking softly while trying to keep Vi from knocking over a lamp. Jinx was bouncing around, yelling into the camera, half in-frame.

Then came the voice. Low. Rough. Unmistakable.

“She’s watching.”

Your thumb hovered over the pause button. But you didn’t press it.

The camera swung over to Sevika. She looked up, blunt between her fingers, that slow smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth like she knew.

“If I were her, I’d be watching too.”

“What?” Jinx laughed. “So you admit it. You want the pop princess to hate-fuck you.”

Sevika shrugged. “Wouldn’t be the worst PR stunt.”

The sound that came out of your throat wasn’t even human.

You threw the phone onto the mattress and buried your face into a pillow, muffling a scream that had been building in your chest since the afterparty that never happened. You kicked at the blankets, rolled onto your back, and stared at the dark ceiling with tears brimming just behind your eyes.

Your pulse was crawling under your skin.

"Fucking hate-fuck me?" you muttered to yourself. "I'll show you a fucking PR stunt."

You shoved the pillow aside and launched off the bed, skin still tacky with your face mask. You didn’t even bother turning on the lights. You just padded barefoot across the room to the antique writing desk by the window, yanked open the drawer, and pulled out the only thing that ever made you feel like yourself anymore.

Your notebook.

Black leather cover. Bent pages. Sticky notes shoved between lyrics. Ink stains on the edges. This wasn’t from your label. This wasn’t curated. This was yours.

You flipped to a blank page, tore the cap off your pen with your teeth, and started writing.

The first lines came fast. Sharp. Angry.

She thinks she’s fire / but I’ve been burned / I built this tower / while she watched it turn.

Your hand moved faster.

Bet she likes to bite / well, I’ve bled too / You're a cult, not a band / and I outgrew you.

But then it slowed. Your breath hitched. Your fingers trembled.

You paused.

The lines changed.

You crossed things out. Wrote over them. Changed the rhyme.

Your fury turned softer. Not gentler. Just sadder. And before you could stop it, the lyrics shifted beneath your hand like truth rising to the surface.

Everyone says I’m lucky / but I don’t feel real / They touch my name / but they never feel me.

You swallowed.

If I disappear / would the screams still come? Or would the silence finally win one?

The ink blurred slightly where a tear dropped onto the page. You wiped your cheek with the back of your hand, smeared your mask across your temple, and sat there for a long time—knees drawn up to your chest, notebook in your lap, surrounded by luxury and loneliness.

Somewhere in the city, Glassgrave was still celebrating.

But you?

You were just trying not to fall apart in your own skin.

The next afternoon, the studio smelled like sweat, string polish, and too much energy drink.

They’d been rehearsing for two hours now, and it was starting to show. The amps were too loud, Vi had already broken two bass picks, and Jinx was drumming like the kit owed her money. Caitlyn was sipping herbal tea in between verses, rolling her eyes every time Jayce forgot the bridge.

And Sevika? Sevika kept fucking up.

Her fingers missed another chord—again. A sharp, ugly note screeched through the sound system, killing the momentum of the song instantly.

“Seriously?” Vi groaned, slapping her bass strings to silence. “That’s the third time in, like, ten minutes.”

Caitlyn leaned away from the mic, brows raised. “You good, V?”

Jinx didn’t say anything. Just flipped a drumstick in her fingers and shot Sevika a look like she already knew the answer.

Jayce glanced up from his guitar, squinting. “Is your amp messed up or are you just off?”

Sevika just scoffed and shook her head, dragging a hand through her hair.

“I need five,” she muttered, already pulling the strap of her guitar over her shoulder and heading for the door.

No one stopped her.

She didn’t go far—just down the hall to the old guest room she’d half-claimed as her own in the shared band house. The second the door clicked shut behind her, she dropped onto the edge of the bed and reached for her phone like it had been burning a hole in her pocket all day.

She opened Instagram first.

The official SIR3N account was a polished machine—pictures of flawless outfits, behind-the-scenes shots, glittering teasers, captions that were clearly written by PR. But Sevika didn’t care about the curated posts.

She wanted the tags.

She tapped through one post after another—birthday wishes, old tour footage, grainy group shots with blurred-out faces. You were always in the center, always glowing, always untouchable. But people had been around you. There had to be someone—some thread—she could pull.

Then she saw it.

An older post. A photo you weren’t even tagged in.

But there she was. Mel Medarda.

Standing next to you in a group photo at some coastal retreat. Champagne glass in hand, designer shades, that perfect smirk. And her arm around your waist, like it belonged there.

Sevika stared at it for a long time.

Of course it would be Mel. The universe was cruel like that.

They hadn’t ended on great terms—Sevika and Mel. Their breakup was less of a soft fade and more of a cinematic car crash. They’d “made up” since, sure, but it was the kind of fake polite that still turned any room into a cold war zone when they were forced to be in it together.

Still… Mel knew you. Probably better than anyone else did. And right now, that was worth everything.

Sevika bit the inside of her cheek and scrolled to Mel’s name in her contacts.

She stared at it.

Typed.

hey

Sent it. Regretted it. Considered throwing the phone.

But a few minutes later, the reply lit up her screen.

hi?

Sevika’s fingers hovered. Then she typed again, slower this time.

can i ask a favor?

She could practically feel the silence on the other end. Then—

are you serious?

The typing bubble popped up. Disappeared. Came back. Disappeared again.

Sevika didn’t wait. She typed quickly, before she could overthink it.

your friends with sir3n right? can i have her real name?

The typing stopped.

Then came the reply.

you think shes gonna want to talk to you after you publicly said you wanted to HATE FUCK her?!?

Sevika froze.

What?

Her thumbs hovered. She stared at the message, blood rushing to her ears.

She hadn’t said that publicly. Right?

Unless—

“Jinx,” she muttered, eyes widening.

She backed out of the chat and opened her notifications.

Her inbox was a disaster.

Mentions. Comments. Reposts. Screencaps. Clips of her face. Clips of that line.

“You admit it. You want the pop princess to hate-fuck you.” “Wouldn’t be the worst PR stunt.”

People were freaking out.

Fancams. Ship edits. Reaction videos. #SIR3NIKA was already trending.

Her heart slammed once against her ribs.

Not just a scandal. A viral one.

And you? You’d definitely seen it.

Sevika stared at her phone like it might explode in her hand.

The screen was still lit—Mel’s last text glaring back at her, righteous and venom-laced.

you think shes gonna want to talk to you after you publicly said you wanted to HATE FUCK her?!?

She dragged a hand down her face, exhaling through her nose, muttering under her breath.

“Fucking Jinx.”

She should’ve known the second the phone came out and the livestream went up. Jinx didn’t cut anything. Jinx didn’t edit. Jinx let the whole damn world see Sevika leaning back with a smirk and mouthing off like it meant nothing.

Except now it did.

Now it was viral. Now it was in your feed. And now she was sitting on a creaky bed, strung out from practice and ego-bruised, about to do something she’d told herself she would never do again:

Call Mel.

She stared at the contact name a little longer. “Queen Medarda 💅”—Jinx had renamed it, and Sevika never changed it back.

She hesitated for one more second. Then tapped the button.

The phone rang. Once. Twice. Three times.

Click.

“Wow,” came Mel’s voice, smooth and deeply unimpressed. “She must be really special.”

“Mel—”

“I mean, she’d have to be, right? To make you crawl out of whatever cigarette-smelling hole you’ve been hiding in long enough to call me of all people?”

Sevika sighed. “This isn’t about us.”

“Oh, it never is,” Mel said sweetly. “Until it always is.”

Sevika sat back against the headboard, eyes closing. “I fucked up.”

“That’s an understatement.”

“She saw it,” Sevika muttered, running her thumb over the edge of her phone. “I know she did. Everyone did. I didn’t mean it like that.”

Mel snorted. “You didn’t mean it like that? Do tell—what did you mean when you said on a live stream that you wanted to hate-fuck the country’s most beloved popstar?”

“...It was a joke.”

“A joke that reached twelve million people in two hours.”

Silence.

Then:

“I need to talk to her,” Sevika said, voice low.

Mel sighed, and for a second, her tone softened. “Why? So you can make another viral clip?”

“No. Just…” Sevika ran a hand through her hair, shoulders tensing. “I saw her. At the awards. She looked like she was barely holding it together. Then we went #1, and she dropped. I can’t stop thinking about her face. How that must’ve felt. And now this video’s everywhere, and I know she thinks I’m just another piece of shit in her way.”

“You are,” Mel said. Then, after a long pause, she added quietly, “But maybe not always.”

Sevika said nothing.

Another pause.

Mel sighed again, but this time it was more tired than angry. “You really want her name?”

“I won’t use it publicly. I won’t say a damn thing unless she lets me.”

“She’s not gonna answer you,” Mel warned.

“I know.”

“She’ll probably block you.”

“I’d deserve it.”

There was a long beat of silence. On the other end of the line, Sevika could hear Mel shifting, maybe moving across the room, maybe pacing. She was always pacing when she thought too much. It used to drive Sevika nuts.

Then finally, quietly, like she didn’t want to admit she was doing it—

Mel spoke.

“Her name is y/n.”

Sevika stared at her phone, thumb hovering above the screen, heart thudding like she’d just walked off stage.

The line had gone dead. Mel was gone.

But she'd finally done it. She had your name.

Y/N.

Not SIR3N. Not the headline. Not the viral clip.

Just you.

She whispered it out loud, just to hear it. “Y/N.”

It felt strange on her tongue. Realer than anything you’d ever said into a mic. Realer than that icy stare you gave her backstage at the VMAs. Realer than every glittered, untouchable version of you that had been projected onto every surface in the city.

She tapped it out in her notes app. Then stared at it for a long time, like it might change everything.

And maybe it did. Because now she knew what to call you. Now you weren’t just a brand or a PR scandal or the girl with a thousand screaming fans.

Now you were Y/N.

And Sevika?

Sevika had a feeling that name was going to ruin her.

Sevika sat in the dim quiet of her room, the glow of her laptop screen casting sharp angles across her face. Her guitar leaned forgotten in the corner. Her phone buzzed with new messages and tagged videos she didn’t open. She had only one thing on her mind now.

She had your first name. Y/N.

But it wasn’t enough.

You were still a myth—a pop idol in a crystal cage. Untouchable. Carefully curated. Not someone Sevika could just text or call up like any other girl who'd caught her eye.

She needed more.

And she was nothing if not resourceful.

She chewed the inside of her cheek, fingers flying across the keyboard as she opened a site she hadn’t used since she was seventeen and stoned, looking up her old high school math teacher to see if he really did wear a toupee. Yearbook Archives – U.S. High Schools, All Years

She smirked to herself. “Let’s see if you were as polished in high school, princess.”

She typed in Mel Medarda, filtered by state, then year—figuring she’d graduated a year or two before Sevika. A second later, a long list of digitized yearbooks appeared. Sevika clicked through the first one, flipping fast through page after page of fake smiles and airbrushed dreams.

Until—

There. You.

Halfway down a page titled Underclassmen: Sophomores & Honors Section.

Hair dark. Eyeliner sharp. A band tee half-tucked into a plaid skirt. Slouched posture, a middle finger just barely visible behind someone’s shoulder in the row ahead of you.

She leaned closer to the screen, eyes narrowing.

You looked nothing like the girl on magazine covers. You looked like trouble. Like someone who smoked behind the gym and dared people to fall in love with the worst parts of her.

Beneath the photo:

Y/N L/N

Sevika grinned.

“Gotcha.”

She opened a new tab and typed it in.

Y/N L/N.

And just like that, the screen bloomed with results.

Old local articles: "Rising Local Talent Takes Stage at Battle of the Bands." "Controversy Over Explicit Lyrics at Fall Talent Show." "Suspension Over Vandalism Still Unconfirmed."

Criminal records—mostly sealed, but there were hints. An arrest that didn’t stick. An “altercation” with a teacher over a censorship issue. Juvenile, but messy.

Instagram accounts with your old usernames—ones you probably thought were long gone. Black-and-white filters. Polaroid selfies. Captions like “bite me harder next time” and “don’t tell me to smile, I’ll bite your tongue off.”

Her breath caught when she found the video.

Low quality. Grainy phone cam. Someone zooming in and out while trying to hold the phone steady from the back of a dive bar that looked barely legal.

There you were—center stage. No glitter. No heels. No label. Just a tiny mic stand, a pair of fishnets, combat boots, and rage in your throat.

And the lyrics? Filthy. Loud. Raw. You weren’t just singing—you were snarling.

"Rip me open, write your name in my blood / You don’t want love, you want someone to break.” "If I moan, it's not for you—it’s a fucking war cry.”

Sevika sat there, stunned. Heat curling slow and low in her stomach.

This wasn’t the SIR3N the world knew. This wasn’t the good girl on the Vogue cover or the pop darling with fairy lights in her hair.

This was you. Real, unfiltered, hungry.

And suddenly, the perfect industry darling disintegrated right in front of her—like glitter swept away in a storm.

All that was left was this emo, slutty, angry girl with a voice that cracked at the edges and eyes that didn’t beg to be loved—they dared you to try.

Sevika stared at the frozen frame on her screen.

You, sweaty and smiling at the crowd like you knew you’d ruined them.

She licked her lips.

“Fuck,” she muttered to herself.

You weren’t what she thought.

You were so much worse. And now she couldn’t stop wanting to know more.

The rehearsal room smelled like sweat and stage lights.

You were supposed to be nailing the final bridge—smooth vocals, sharp movements, hit the mark, smile, sell it. But your breath caught halfway through the run. Your voice cracked. Again.

You coughed, hand flying to your throat as the track kept playing behind you, merciless.

Your mic cut, the beat echoed for another second, and then silence.

Your backup dancers froze mid-step. The choreographer lowered her clipboard. A few assistants shifted nervously in the wings.

And then—

"Are you kidding me?"

Your manager’s voice cracked like a whip across the soundstage.

"You had one job. One fucking bridge, and you choke on it? Again?"

You flinched but didn’t answer. You were already sucking in a shaky breath, trying to stop your lungs from folding in on themselves. Your throat burned, dry and raw from the string of back-to-back shows, press events, and fake interviews.

“I told you this set was too much,” one of the dancers muttered, stepping between you and the glare being thrown from the edge of the stage. He crossed his arms, chin lifting. “We’ve been doing back-to-back shows with no vocal rest. You’re running her into the ground.”

The rest of the team murmured in agreement. A couple dancers nodded, a few exchanged glances.

Your manager's nostrils flared. “She doesn’t need rest, she needs to focus. You think anyone gets to take a break when they’re #2?”

The words hit harder than they should’ve.

You stared at the floor.

He wasn’t wrong. You weren’t #1. Not anymore.

From the corner of the room, one of the producers finally stood, adjusting his gold watch as he slowly stepped forward. Calm. Measured. Dangerous in the way only executives could be.

“We take two weeks,” he said.

Your head snapped up.

The manager’s face contorted. “What—”

The producer lifted a hand, silencing him. “I can’t have my star lose her voice.”

He looked at you then, with a sharp little smirk.

His voice dropped into something smooth. “Especially not when we’ve got an album rollout, a tour, and about forty million girls waiting to hear her sing.”

You gave a tiny, nervous smile. One that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

Your manager glared but didn’t argue. Not in front of him.

The producer gave you a little wink before turning away, already pulling out his phone to “make arrangements.” Like your schedule wasn’t already a machine of its own.

You didn’t wait for the conversation to continue. You stepped off the stage, heart still racing, throat still aching. Your limbs felt too heavy and too light at the same time. You wanted to scream. You wanted to cry.

You wanted to rest.

You sat on the edge of the stairs and pulled out your phone.

The screen lit up. Notifications swarmed like flies—mentions, tags, new trending sounds.

And then you saw it.

A thumbnail. Familiar grain. A shaky camera view. You, on a stage that didn’t exist anymore. Fishnets. Combat boots. Microphone clenched like a lifeline. The title:

“IS THIS REALLY SIR3N?? Throwback to her pre-fame slutty era 🤯”

You stared at the view count. Over 700k and climbing fast.

Your stomach dropped.

Your fingers tapped through, and suddenly, your past was right there—ugly and raw and loud. That voice, yours, singing something real, something vulgar, something the label would never let you admit existed.

And the comments?

“She was such a freak I love it.” “She had more personality back then tbh.” “GLASSGRAVE ENERGY WTF.” “Sevika would eat her up no lie.” “Y/N L/N EXPOSEDDDD 😭😭😭”

Your breath caught in your throat again. But this time it wasn’t from the vocals.

The second the elevator doors slid open to your penthouse, you were already kicking off your boots.

Your knees hit the marble floor halfway across the entryway.

You couldn’t breathe.

The city was glittering outside your windows—millions of people living, moving, not caring—but inside your apartment, it felt like the whole world had cracked open and dumped its worst secrets on your doorstep.

Your secrets.

The grainy video was everywhere now. You didn’t even have to search it. It was reposted on TikTok, Twitter, Instagram, Tumblr—people were stitching it, reacting to it, dissecting every lyric. Calling it “iconic.” Calling it “real.” Calling it you.

But it wasn’t you. Not anymore. You buried that girl.

You erased her. Burned the accounts. Cleared the data. Locked your real name behind NDA walls so thick only three people in the world were supposed to know it.

And still, there it was. Y/N L/N. Your face. Your voice.

Your sins.

You collapsed onto your knees beside the couch, trembling hands scrolling through your feed. Comments blurred in your vision—laughing, crying, thirsting, guessing, knowing.

Without thinking, your fingers flew to the keyboard.

You opened Twitter.

Your main account. Verified. Millions of followers.

You typed fast. Frantic.

i don’t know who that is. that’s not me.

Send. The tweet went up. Useless. Weak. It didn’t matter.

The replies came in faster than you could blink.

“girl be serious 😭” “ok miss not me with the same mole on ur neck 💀” “loved this era actually, pls bring it back” “Y/N L/N WE KNOW ITS YOU STOP LYING”

Your phone rang.

You didn’t want to answer it.

But you did.

Your manager’s name glared up at you. You swiped to accept.

The screaming started immediately.

“ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!”

You winced, pulling the phone away from your ear.

“You tweeted? You tweeted?! Do you know how many lawyers I just got off the phone with?! Who gave them that name?! Who gave them that video?!”

You couldn’t speak.

Your breath was caught somewhere in your throat, stuck between a sob and a scream.

“I TOLD YOU TO KILL THIS SHIT YEARS AGO!” he was still yelling. “Your whole brand is built on innocence and reinvention—do you even understand how dangerous this is?!”

You tuned him out.

Your eyes were locked on the screen again.

On the paused frame of you, younger, angrier, untamed, smiling with a mouth full of menace and mascara and glitter that wasn’t approved.

You whispered to no one, “Who found this?”

Not your team. Not your label. Not anyone in the industry.

Only a few people had known where to look. Only a few had the pieces.

Your stomach turned.

Because someone had dug. Someone had wanted to see you. Not SIR3N.

You.

And now, she was clawing her way back to the surface.

Sevika sat alone on the back balcony of the band house, legs stretched out across the cheap outdoor table, a half-burnt joint resting between her fingers and her phone glowing white-blue against the night.

The city was loud below her, all sirens and traffic and neon. But up here, everything was quiet.

Too quiet.

She’d seen the video go viral. She’d seen the fan edits, the reposts, the reaction clips. She’d even seen a few edits of you—Y/N, not SIR3N—with her. Glitchy zooms, grainy overlays, dramatic TikTok sounds, captions like:

“when the emo band girl finds the old you and falls in love with your mess.” “y/n l/n and sevika could ruin me and i’d say thank you.” “hate fuck turned real real fast.”

It should’ve made her laugh. She’d made worse headlines before.

But when the notification hit her phone—when she saw your tweet—everything in her chest went tight.

i don’t know who that is. that’s not me.

Sevika exhaled, slow and sharp, watching the smoke drift up into the night.

She didn’t even realize she’d sat up until her joints cracked.

She tapped into the post again. Watched the retweet count rise in real time. Hundreds of replies flooding in. Some defending you. Some dragging you. But most… just laughing. Like this was entertainment. Like you were a game.

And suddenly, she didn’t feel like smirking anymore.

She could picture you so clearly—knees drawn up, curled somewhere in that cold penthouse of yours, makeup off, throat probably sore from rehearsal, eyes rimmed with whatever was left of your strength.

You’d tweeted that because you were panicking.

You were scared.

And Sevika had made you feel that way.

Not on purpose. She hadn’t meant to. She’d just… followed the trail. Pushed a little. Got curious.

But that curiosity had put your past on blast.

She’d wanted to know the real you, but now that she’d gotten a glimpse, the world had followed—and you were unraveling in front of all of them.

Sevika closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the chair.

“Fuck,” she whispered.

She didn’t delete the yearbook tab. She didn’t erase the video.

But for the first time since this whole thing started— She felt something settle heavy in her chest.

Not regret. Not exactly.

But the weight of knowing—

She’d gone too far. And it was already too late to take it back.

You were face down on the couch.

Pillow smashed against one cheek, legs tangled in your own silk throw blanket, fingers twisted in the hem of your hoodie like you were holding onto the edge of something. You hadn’t moved in hours. You didn’t remember lying down. Just that one second you were standing in your hallway, and the next—your body just gave out.

The only light in the penthouse was the flicker of the TV across the room, casting soft shadows across the floor-to-ceiling windows and the glittering skyline beyond. You didn’t have the energy to turn it off. You weren’t watching it anyway.

But you could hear it. And that was worse.

“—the now-viral video showing what fans claim is a pre-fame version of pop icon SIR3N performing at a small underground venue years before her debut—”

You squeezed your eyes shut.

“—in the footage, she appears to sing a song with provocative, even explicit lyrics—a sharp contrast to the carefully curated, high-gloss image her label has worked to build over the last four years—”

The blanket suddenly felt too tight. Too hot. You kicked at it with your heels until it bunched at your calves.

“While no official statement has confirmed the identity of the girl in the video, online detectives were quick to point out multiple similarities—”

“—leading many to believe this is, in fact, the popstar’s real name: Y/N L/N—”

You sat up too fast, gasping. The room spun.

They said it. Your name. On the fucking news.

The mask was gone.

Your hands trembled as you pushed your hair out of your face, the skin beneath your eyes tight and raw from hours of rubbing, crying, not sleeping. Your throat still burned from rehearsal. You hadn’t even showered. You couldn’t remember if you ate.

The segment kept going.

“—and the internet is already reacting. While some fans are expressing shock and betrayal, others have come out in support, claiming this version of SIR3N feels more authentic—”

A clip played. Your voice, snarling through old speakers:

“If I moan, it’s not for you—it’s a fucking war cry.”

You slammed the remote against the couch cushions, searching for the volume button. Mute. Mute. Mute.

Finally—silence.

You collapsed again, this time onto your back. Staring at the ceiling. At the soft golden beams of light that leaked in from the edge of your windows. Even the silence didn’t help.

The words kept echoing anyway.

Y/N L/N. Explicit lyrics. Pre-fame. Not who she says she is.

You had tried so fucking hard.

You rebranded. You erased. You let them bleach your edges, strip you of sharpness, wrap you in glitter and lace and softly autotuned apologies.

You played the part.

SIR3N wasn’t a lie. She was just… what they needed you to be. And now? Now they’d dragged the past up from the grave, and all you could think was—

Who found it?

Who would want to do that?

Your fans didn’t know. Your team didn’t care to remember. You’d burned those bridges years ago—clean, controlled, silenced with contracts and money and time.

But someone had known where to look.

Someone wanted you, not the image. Someone wanted Y/N.

And that’s what scared you the most.

Because if they could find her once— They could do it again.

And next time, they might not stop at a song.

[cup1drul3z]

New gutair player sevika fic coming soon

[cup1drul3z]

So since my laptop is broken due to a specific SOMEONE I’m borrowing my roommates, but I can’t post the fic I have been working on. BUT! I can tell you what the plot is. Pop star reader x emo guitarist sevika