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ㅤCH. 5 : UNDER OPEN SKY

☆ pairing. bonten trio x fem! reader

☆ summary. when one of sanzu’s breakdowns escalates into a dangerous test of loyalty, your captors’ reactions reveal how deeply entangled the four of you have become. but under the quiet sprawl of stars, you’re forced to confront whether this connection is a fatal illusion— or the first real thing you’ve felt in years.

☆ warnings. extremely dark content, please read all the warnings. 18+ ; MDNI. bonten timeline. bank robbery. hostage situation. guns. kidnapping. chloroform. cigarettes. anxiety. panic attacks. objectification. misogyny. sanzu has a drug addiction. stockholm syndrome. brief mention of cancer.

☆ wc. 7.9k words

☆ author's note. hi guys! i actually struggled a lot with this chapter because i wasn't sure if the pacing is going too slow, but i think it's safe to say that this series will definitely be longer than 7 chapters! i realized it's actually impossible to wrap everything up in two more chapters, especially with all the ideas i have (': so my apologies to everyone who wanted a conclusion soon but i promise i won't make you wait until the last chapter for smut now <333

╰ pretty hostage m.list | previous chapter | next chapter

You wake to cold sheets.

Your hand reaches across the mattress before your mind fully catches up, searching for warmth that isn't there anymore. The bed still holds the impression of another body— a Ran-shaped hollow in the mattress beside you with an indent where his head rested on the pillow.

He left.

The realization settles over you like cold water, and with it comes a feeling that you immediately recognize as absurd. Worse than absurd— it's pathetic. You have no right to feel abandoned. You have no right to feel anything about Ran's absence except maybe relief.

But the empty bed feels like rejection anyway.

You sit up slowly, pulling your knees to your chest as you try to identify the exact moment you started expecting him to stay. When did you begin to rely on the weight of his arm draped across your waist? The sound of his breathing evening out in the darkness? The way he'd murmur something unintelligible when you shifted, pulling you closer without fully waking?

He's your captor. He held a gun to your head. He's the reason you're here in the first place.

But.

You dig your nails into your palms, jaw clenched against the hot pressure building behind your eyes. What's wrong with you? The question sits in your throat, bitter and unanswerable. This is what they do— what they've been doing since day one. Breaking you down so gradually you don't notice the erosion until you’re already worn smooth, reshaped into something that fits in their hands.

Forcing yourself out of bed, your feet hit the cold hardwood, and the temperature change jolts you further into wakefulness, chasing away the last remnants of sleep. Your reflection catches in the mirror across the room, and for a moment, you barely recognize yourself.

The girl who walked into that bank a week and a half ago wouldn't recognize you either. She had a routine, a job, a life that was small but predictable. Safe. Boring, maybe, but it was hers.

This girl staring back at you? You don't know who she is anymore.

Trudging down the stairs, the kitchen is brighter than your room, with late morning sunlight streaming through the windows. There's breakfast laid out on the counter— eggs kept warm under foil, toast stacked on a plate, and coffee in the pot still hot. You pour yourself a cup, and steam curls up into the cool air. They haven't been gone long, then. Or at least one of them hasn't.

You're adding sugar to your coffee when you hear footsteps on the stairs, heavy and uneven. Not Ran's measured tread or Rindou's purposeful stride.

Sanzu.

He appears in the doorway looking like death personified. His pink hair is a disaster, sticking up in every direction, and the tank top he's wearing is on backwards, the tag visible at his throat. But it's his eyes that stop you cold— pupils contracted to pinpricks, the blue around them almost colorless in the harsh morning light. His skin has a grayish cast, and there's a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead despite the cool air circulating through the house.

He's coming down. Hard.

You've seen him high before, seen him manic and energized and moving at twice the speed of a normal person. But you've never seen the aftermath like this— the crash when the chemicals run out and his body starts demanding payment for all that borrowed energy.

“Morning,” you venture carefully, keeping your voice soft and non-threatening.

He doesn't respond, doesn't even acknowledge that you spoke. He just moves past you to the coffee pot with jerky movements that remind you of a wounded animal. His hands shake as he pours, liquid sloshing over the rim of the mug and onto the counter, but he doesn't seem to notice, lifting the mug to his lips before grimacing at the heat or the taste or both.

You retreat to the kitchen island with your own mug, perching on one of the tall chairs as the silence stretches out between you. You can feel the volatility coming off him in waves, like heat shimmering on summer asphalt.

“I can make you a plate if you're hungry,” you offer, gesturing to the food Rindou left out.

“Not hungry.” His voice is hoarse, scraped raw. He still hasn’t looked at you, continuing to stare down into his coffee.

You sip your own coffee and say nothing else. Sometimes the best thing to do with Sanzu is to be quiet and let him work through whatever's happening in his head without external interference.

The silence continues for several more minutes. You can hear the kitchen clock ticking, marking time in a way that feels oppressive as Sanzu drinks his coffee in small sips. His hands are still shaking slightly, knuckles white where they grip the mug.

“Where's Ran?” The question comes out before you can stop it, your voice sounding too loud in the silence.

Now Sanzu looks at you, pale eyes focusing with an intensity that makes you want to lean back. “Why?” There's something cruel in his tone. “You miss him already?”

You don't answer, taking another sip of coffee to avoid having to respond.

“He had business,” Sanzu continues, circling around the island toward you. “Rindou too. Went for a run first— very disciplined, our Rindou— then business.” He takes another sip of coffee before his mouth twists. “So it's just you and me this morning, princess.”

The endearment sounds wrong in his current state— less playful and more poisonous. Like he's turned the word into a weapon.

“Sanzu—” you start, but he cuts you off.

“Don't.” He sets his mug down hard enough that coffee sloshes out again, adding to the puddle already on the counter. “Don't do that. Don’t use that soft voice like I'm a bomb you're trying to defuse. I'm not gonna fuckin’ explode.”

“I wasn't—”

“You were.” He's still approaching, backing you into the counter without touching you, using his presence alone to trap you. “You do it with all of us. Learned what makes us tick and figured out how to manage us.” His smile is all teeth. “You’re a smart girl, but y’know what? I'm not feelin’ very manageable today.”

Your heart is hammering against your ribs so hard it hurts. This is different from his usual demeanor— that has an element of play to it, a sense that despite the unpredictability, he's in control. This is rawer, more jagged around the edges.

“Where's your breakfast?” he asks suddenly, his gaze dropping to your empty hands. “We have all this food and you're not eatin’. Rindou made it special, and you're not even touchin’ it.”

“I wasn't very hungry either.”

He reaches past you and grabs a piece of toast from the plate. “Eat.”

You take the toast, acutely aware of how close he is. The edge of the counter presses into your back, but you force yourself to take a bite. It tastes like sawdust in your dry mouth, but you swallow it down.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, and the words make your skin crawl because they sound nothing like when Ran says them. “See? You're so good at followin’ orders now. Bet you didn't even think about it, did ya? Just did what you were told like a pretty lil’ pet.”

“Why are you doing this?” Your voice comes out steadier than you feel.

Something flickers across his face. “Doin’ what?”

“Being cruel.”

The words hang between you, stark and accusatory, and Sanzu laughs, the sound making the hair on the back of your neck rise to attention. “Cruel? Oh baby, this isn't cruel.” But there's something almost vulnerable underneath the venom, something that looks like pain if you squint hard enough. “You want to know what's cruel? Ran crawlin’ into your bed at night like you're his fuckin’ girlfriend. Rindou lookin’ at you like you're—”

He cuts himself off, jaw clenching hard enough that you can see the muscle pulse.

“You're gettin’ too comfortable here,” he says, his voice dropping lower. “And that's dangerous. For all of us.”

“What do you want from me?” The question bursts out as frustration overrides fear. “You took me. You’re keeping me here. You’re making me live with you. What the fuck do you want from me? To stay terrified forever? To spend every day crying and begging to go home?”

His eyes widen slightly. You haven’t sworn at him since the first night in the house. You've been careful, trying to survive by being accommodating, but something inside you has snapped.

“There she is,” he says, and there's something almost reverent in his voice. “I wondered where that girl went. The one who pounded on the window and cried to go home.” He leans in closer, close enough that you can see your reflection in his eyes. “Where'd she go, huh? What'd we do to her?”

You don't have an answer. The girl he's describing feels like a stranger, someone you used to know but can't quite remember anymore. That girl thought she had something to go back to. That girl believed rescue was coming.

Sanzu stares at you for another long moment, then he steps back abruptly, releasing you from the invisible cage of his presence. “Finish your breakfast,” he says, his voice flat now, emptied of the cruel edge. “I'm going back to bed.”

He leaves the kitchen without another word, taking his coffee with him. You hear his footsteps on the stairs, the creak of his door opening and closing, and the loud thump of music starting up moments later.

You're left alone in the kitchen with a piece of half-eaten toast in your hand and your heart still racing.

Your coffee has gone cold.

—

The afternoon passes in tense, uncomfortable silence.

Sanzu doesn't come back downstairs. His music plays on a loop— aggressive and angry, the kind that's meant to drown out thoughts rather than accompany them. You try to read, curling up in the living room with the same Camus novel you've been working through, but the words blur together. You can't sink into the narrative when your own reality feels so unstable.

Around four, you hear Ran's voice in the entryway and Rindou's lower rumble in response. They're back. The relief that washes over you is immediate and damning— you shouldn't be this happy to see them, but you are.

You stay in the living room, giving them space to decompress while you listen to the sounds of them moving through the house. Water running and doors closing, the low murmur of conversation you can't quite make out. Normal sounds that shouldn't feel as comforting as they do.

Around six, you make a decision. You're not sure what possesses you to do it— maybe it's the need to feel useful again. Maybe it's because you're tired of feeling like a ghost haunting their space, taking up room but barely contributing anything.

Or maybe— and this is the thought that makes your hands shake as you pull ingredients from the fridge— maybe you're trying to prove Sanzu wrong. To prove that you can exist here and participate in their life without it meaning what he thinks it means.

You find chicken in the freezer and vegetables in the fridge. There's rice in the pantry, soy sauce, fresh ginger, and sesame oil. You can make something with this.

You set to work, losing yourself in the familiar rhythm of cooking. Dicing the chicken into uniform pieces. Slicing the vegetables thin and even. Measuring the rice, rinsing it until the water runs clear, and setting it to cook. The mundane tasks quiet your racing thoughts, giving your hands something to do.

Ran finds you first, drawn by the sounds and smells of cooking. He appears in the doorway, suit jacket already discarded somewhere, tie loosened with the top button of his shirt undone.

“Well, well, well,” he says, and you can hear him smiling. “What's all this?”

You glance over your shoulder, offering a small shrug. “I got bored. Thought I'd make myself useful.”

“Mmm.” He moves into the kitchen, coming to stand beside you at the stove. “Smells amazing. What are we having?”

“Teriyaki chicken and stir-fried vegetables with rice.”

“Impressive.” His hand comes to rest on the small of your back, and the touch sends heat radiating through your body that has nothing to do with the stove. “Where'd you learn to cook like this?”

“My mom.” The answer comes automatically, and then you freeze, because you haven't talked about your life before. You haven't allowed yourself to think about your apartment standing empty, or your job that’s probably been filled by someone new, or your mother who's definitely called your phone dozens of times only to find a voicemail box that's been full for days—

“Hey.” Ran's voice slices through the spiral, his hand pressing more firmly against your back. “Stay here with me. Don't go there.”

You focus on stirring the vegetables, on the sizzle and pop of oil, on the way the colors brighten as they cook. “I'm here.”

“You know what I mean.”

You do. He's asking you not to disappear into your head. Not to dwell on the life you can't get back to. Not to succumb to the guilt and grief of everything you've lost. He's asking you to stay in this moment, in this kitchen, with his hand on your back and dinner cooking on the stove.

You're saved from having to respond by Rindou's entrance. He's showered since you saw him last and changed into clean clothes— soft gray sweatpants and a black V-neck. His hair is still damp, pushed back from his face, and his eyes track from you to the stove to Ran's hand on your back.

“She's making dinner,” Ran explains, unnecessarily.

Rindou grunts, moving to the fridge. “You don't have to do that.”

“I wanted to.” It's true, you realize as you say it.

Pulling a bottle of water from the fridge, Rindou drinks it in silence as he leans against the counter, watching you work. It should feel uncomfortable, being observed like this, but it doesn't. It feels almost normal— like you're just roommates sharing space.

You're plating the food when Sanzu comes downstairs. You hear him before you see him— his footsteps heavier than usual, that telltale unevenness that means he's still not quite right. When he appears in the kitchen doorway, he's changed clothes too, looking marginally more human than he did this morning, but his eyes still have that brittle quality that makes you nervous.

He stops in the doorway, taking in the scene— the three of you gathered around the counter, the home-cooked meal laid out on plates, the easy way Ran's still touching you while Rindou sets out silverware.

Something dark crosses his face.

“How adorable,” he says, his voice dripping with an acidity that burns. “Playin’ house again, are we?”

The temperature in the room drops twenty degrees. Ran's hand falls away from your back, and Rindou goes still, water bottle halfway to his mouth.

“Sanzu,” Ran says quietly, his voice carrying a clear note of warning.

But Sanzu's already moving into the kitchen, that neurotic energy back in his movements despite the obvious exhaustion weighing him down. “No, this is good. This is great, actually. Our pretty little hostage is makin’ us dinner like the good housewife she is." He picks up one of the plates you've prepared and examines it with exaggerated interest. “You put a lot of effort into this, didn't ya? So thoughtful.”

“Sanzu.” Rindou now, his voice harder than Ran's. “Drop it.”

“Drop what?” Sanzu's smile is sharp enough to draw blood. “I'm just appreciating the way she's settlin’ in so nicely.” His eyes find yours and hold your gaze. “Tell me somethin’, princess. What do you think’s happenin’ here?”

You don't answer. You can't find any words that won't make this worse.

“You think you're one of us now?” He takes a step closer, and Ran and Rindou both tense but don't intervene— not yet. They're giving him rope, waiting to see if he'll hang himself with it. “You think ‘cause you cook our dinners and sleep in our beds and learn our little quirks, that makes you part of this? Part of us?”

“That's enough,” Ran says, pushing off the counter, but Sanzu talks over him.

“You're a fuckin’ hostage!” The words crack through the kitchen like a gunshot. “That's all you are. All you'll ever be!”

The silence that follows is absolute. You can hear your own heartbeat thundering in your ears, feel the sting of tears you absolutely refuse to let fall. Not here. Not in front of him. Not when he's looking at you like this, like he's trying to break something inside you just to prove he can.

Sanzu reaches behind him and pulls out the gun he always carries tucked into his waistband. Your body locks up instantly, but he doesn't point it at you. Instead, he sets it on the counter between you with a heavy thunk that echoes through the kitchen.

“You know what usually happens to hostages?” His voice has gone quiet now, almost conversational. “Want me to tell you?”

“I swear to god—” Rindou starts, taking a step forward, but Sanzu cuts him off with a scowl.

“Stay out of this, Rin. This doesn't concern you.”

“The fuck it doesn't—”

But Sanzu's already picking up the gun again. He checks the chamber, and when he finds it empty, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a single bullet, holding it up to the light so you can see it clearly.

“They get used up. Wrung out for whatever information or leverage they're worth.” He loads the bullet. “And then, when they're not useful anymore…” He snaps the chamber shut. “They disappear.”

You can't breathe. You can’t move. You can’t bring yourself to look away as he holds the gun loosely in his hand, his finger nowhere near the trigger, but the threat implicit in every line of his body.

“One bullet,” he says, almost gently. Almost tenderly. Like he's explaining something to a child. Then he does something that stops your heart— he holds the gun out to you, handle first. “Go ahead. Take it.”

“Absolutely fucking not.” Ran moves toward you.

“Shut the fuck up, Ran.” Sanzu barks, holding up his other hand to motion him to stop. “She's a big girl. She can make her own decisions. Can't you, princess? Take the gun.”

Your hands are shaking so badly that you almost drop it when he presses it into your palm. The weight is familiar now— he taught you to shoot in the basement, stood behind you with his hands over yours and his breath hot on your neck as he murmured instructions. But this is different. This isn't target practice. This is real.

“Point it at me,” Sanzu instructs, backing up a step and spreading his arms wide. “Right here.” He taps his chest, over his heart. “C’mon.”

“What the fuck are you doing?” Rindou's voice has gone sharp with something that might be panic.

“Provin’ a point.” Sanzu's eyes never leave yours, bright and feverish. “Do it. Point the gun at me.”

The gun wavers in your grip. You can barely hold it, your arms shaking so badly that the barrel dips and rises erratically.

“Is it because you can't?” Sanzu continues, taking a step closer even though you're pointing a loaded weapon at him. “Or is it because you won't?” Another step, and now he's close enough that you'd have to be deliberately trying to miss. “Which is it? Are you too weak to pull the trigger, or are you too comfortable here to want to leave?”

“Stop,” you whisper, and you hate how your voice breaks.

“Make me.” He's close enough now that the gun barrel is pressed directly against his chest, right over his heart. His hand comes up to cover yours, pressing it more firmly against his chest. “Do it. Pull the trigger. Prove you're still that girl who got taken, not the girl who decided to stay.”

“Get your fucking hands off her.”

Before you can process what's happening, Rindou is across the kitchen in three strides. He rips Sanzu away from you with such force that Sanzu stumbles backward. The gun drops from your hand, clattering to the floor and spinning on the tile between you.

The first punch lands before Sanzu can get his guard up— Rindou's fist connecting with his jaw in a crack that makes you flinch. Sanzu's head snaps to the side, blood immediately springing from his split lip, and then Rindou hits him again. And again.

“She's not—” Punch. “—yours—” Punch. “—to break.”

It's quick and brutal and completely one-sided. Sanzu doesn't fight back, taking the hits and letting blood dribble down his chin. There’s a wild look in his eyes like this is what he wanted all along. Like he needed this, needed the violence to match what's happening inside his head.

Ran finally moves, grabbing Rindou's arm before he can land another punch. “Enough, Rin.”

Rindou shakes him off but steps back, his chest heaving with ragged breaths. His knuckles are split open, blood dripping onto the pristine kitchen floor. Sanzu straightens slowly, touching his mouth and examining the blood on his fingers with detached curiosity.

“Feel better?” he asks, and he's smiling. Actually smiling, even though it makes his split lip bleed harder. Laughing, even though it comes out wet and thick.

“Get out,” Rindou snaps. “Get the fuck out of here before I actually hurt you.”

Sanzu looks from Rindou to you, then down at the gun on the floor between you. He laughs again— an eerie, broken sound that makes something inside your chest ache.

“She didn't shoot me,” he mutters as he wipes the blood from his chin with the back of his hand. “She had the gun.. I gave her permission— practically begged her to do it.” His eyes find yours, and he holds your gaze with an uncomfortable intensity. “And she didn't.”

Then he's gone, shouldering past Ran and heading up the stairs. A door slams shut somewhere above, hard enough that you feel it in your bones.

The kitchen is silent except for Rindou's harsh breathing and the drip, drip, drip of blood hitting the floor. You're still staring at the gun lying there on the white tile, black and deadly against the smooth surface.

“Are you hurt?” Ran asks, moving toward you carefully.

You shake your head, unable to form words yet.

“Look at me.” He steps in front of you, his hand catching your chin, fingers firm but not painful. He tilts your face up, forcing you to meet his eyes. “Are. You. Hurt.”

“No.” The word comes out hoarse, and you have to swallow twice before you can speak again. “I'm not hurt.”

Ran's eyes flick to Rindou, and then Rindou is turning away, his bloodied knuckles still clenched into white-knuckled fists as he stalks toward the door.

“Where are you going?” you ask, brows pinching together.

He pauses in the doorway, but he doesn't turn around. His shoulders are rigid, every muscle in his body pulled taut. “Roof. Need to cool off before I go back up there and finish what I started.”

“Rindou—”

“I'm fine.” He cuts you off, his jaw working. “Just need some air.”

Then he's gone too, and you're left alone with Ran in a kitchen that smells like dinner and blood.

Almost immediately, Ran guides you away from the kitchen— away from the gun and the metallic scent of copper and the ruined dinner still sitting on the stove. He sits you down on the couch in the living room and presses a glass of water into your shaking hands. “Drink.”

You obey mechanically, the cold water helping anchor you back in your body.

“He's not wrong, you know,” Ran says quietly, sitting beside you on the couch. “About you getting comfortable here. About things changing.”

You turn to look at him, searching his face for— what? Condemnation? Agreement with Sanzu's assessment? But his expression is softer than you expected.

“But he's wrong about why that scares him,” Ran continues. “Do you know why Sanzu breaks the things he cares about?”

You shake your head.

“Because that's the only way he knows how to interact with them. Breaking things is safe— you know what's going to happen, you're in control of the destruction. But caring about something that might leave, that might be taken away?” Ran's smile is sad. “That terrifies him.”

The explanation sits heavy in your chest, settling alongside all the other complicated truths you've accumulated about these men. You think about Sanzu's face when he walked into the kitchen and saw you cooking, the barely concealed panic underneath the cruelty.

“I should have stopped him sooner,” Ran says, and now there's regret in his voice. “Before it went that far. Before he put a gun in your hands. I'm sorry.”

“You're apologizing to me?” The absurdity of it makes you laugh, borderline hysterical. “You kidnapped me, Ran. You held a gun to my head and drugged me and now you're apologizing because your friend had a breakdown in the kitchen?”

“I did all those things,” Ran agrees, not flinching from it. “Doesn't mean I want you traumatized in my kitchen. There's a difference between necessary cruelty and pointless harm.”

You laugh again, and this time it doesn't stop. It bubbles up from somewhere deep in your chest, and you can't make it quit. You're laughing or crying or both, and Ran just pulls you against his chest and lets you shake apart, one hand moving in slow circles on the small of your back while you come undone.

—

You sit on the couch for over an hour after Ran leaves you— he had phone calls to make, damage control for whatever business they'd been handling today. The house feels too quiet around you, and the kitchen is still a disaster zone. The dinner you'd made sits abandoned on the stove, probably cold now, congealing in its dishes.

You keep thinking about the weight of the gun in your hands. About how Sanzu was right— you could have done it. You could have pulled the trigger and watched him fall, made a run for it while Ran and Rindou were too shocked to react. The math was simple: one of them injured or dead, two others caught off guard, and you with a head start.

But the thought never even crossed your mind. Not in any serious, actionable way.

That's what scares you most— not that you had the opportunity and didn't take it, but that taking it never felt like a real option. Like somewhere along the way, escaping stopped being the goal.

When did that happen? When did you stop wanting to leave?

The question circles your mind like a vulture, and you don't have an answer you're willing to examine too closely.

Eventually, you can't sit still anymore. The walls of the living room feel like they're closing in, the air too thick to breathe properly. You need to move. Need to see the sky and feel air that hasn't been circulated through the house's ventilation system.

You find the entrance to the roof in the hallway outside Rindou's room— a hatch in the ceiling with a pull-down ladder attached. You've never been up there before, but you heard him mention it a few times, talking to Ran about needing air when the house got too claustrophobic.

The ladder creaks under your weight as you climb, each rung protesting your presence. Cool night air hits your face as you push through the hatch, and then you're out, standing on the flat roof under an open sky studded with stars.

Rindou is sitting near the edge with his back against a raised lip, one knee drawn up with his arm resting on it. He's smoking— you can see the cherry glowing orange in the darkness, the tang of tobacco carried on the breeze.

“You shouldn't be up here,” he says without turning around. His voice is clipped, but he doesn't tell you to leave.

You cross the roof carefully, and when you reach him, you hesitate for just a moment before sitting down a few feet away, leaving space between you that feels both necessary and insufficient.

“I wanted to thank you,” you say, looking out at the Shibuya skyline rather than at him. “For earlier.”

“Don't.” He takes a drag from his cigarette and exhales, lazy tendrils of smoke curling up into the air. “Don't thank me for basic human decency. That's a really low bar.”

“Is that what it was?” You risk a glance at him. “Basic human decency?”

He finally looks at you, and in the moonlight, his lavender eyes are shadowed. “What else would it be?”

You don't answer. You don't know how to put it into words— the barely controlled fury you saw in every punch, the way he'd looked at you afterward like he was checking for cracks in your foundation.

“Why did you stop him?” you ask instead, the same question from downstairs, but it means something different up here.

Rindou is quiet for a long time. He finishes his cigarette, stubbing it out beside him. “Because you're not a toy,” he says. “And he needs to remember that.”

“He was right, though,” you continue, pulling your knees up to your chest and wrapping your arms around them. “About me getting comfortable. About…” You pause, choosing your words carefully. “I didn't pull the trigger.”

“Of course you didn't. You're not a killer.”

“Maybe not,” you admit. “But that doesn’t change the fact that I had the chance and I didn’t take it.” You press your forehead to your knees, voice muffled against your legs. “What does that make me?”

Rindou shifts beside you, and you can feel his eyes on you. “Human. It makes you human.”

You lift your head. “Is that supposed to be comforting?”

“It’s honest.” He shrugs, taking another drag from his cigarette before exhaling slowly. “Do you think pulling that trigger would have made you something better?”

“No! I just… I just know that when Sanzu put that gun in my hands, the only thing I could think about was how much it would hurt to use it.” The confession spills out before you can stop it. “How wrong it felt to even consider it.”

Rindou doesn’t speak for a long moment— so long that you think maybe you’ve said too much, revealed something that’s changed everything irrevocably. Your heart hammers against your ribs as you wait for his response.

Then, unexpectedly, he stubs out his cigarette and stands, offering you his hand.

“Come on.”

You stare at his extended hand, your brows dipping into a slight furrow. “Where are we going?”

“Just trust me.” His voice is softer than you’ve ever heard it, and you blink up at him before laying your hand in his, allowing him to help you up and lead you to a different section of the roof. Here, the view is less obstructed— the stars scattered across the darkness like diamond dust.

He sits, tugging you down beside him, and points upward. “Look.”

The sky stretches above you, vast and infinite and beautiful in a way that steals your breath. You've lived in Tokyo your whole life, and you've forgotten what it's like to really see the stars— to feel small beneath their endless expanse.

“That's Cassiopeia,” Rindou says, tracing the distinctive W shape with his finger. “The queen who was so vain she claimed to be more beautiful than the gods, so they put her in the sky as punishment. And there—” He shifts slightly, his shoulder brushing yours as he points to another constellation. “Cygnus. The swan. In Greek mythology, it's Zeus hoping to woo another conquest.”

“How do you know all this?” Wonder colors your voice. Of all the things you've learned about Rindou thus far, this wasn't something you would have guessed. He seems too practical for something as abstract as astronomy.

His hand drops, and for a moment, you think he won't answer. When he does, the words come out rough, like they cost him something to say. “My mom taught me. Before everything went to shit.”

He pulls out another cigarette but doesn't light it, rolling it between his fingers in a nervous gesture you've never seen from him before. “She used to take me and Ran out on the balcony and point them out. Said that no matter how bad things got down here, the stars stayed the same. That they'd been there for thousands of years and they'd be there for thousands more.”

He's never talked about his past before. None of them have, not in detail. They've dropped little hints here and there— references to a life before this one, mentions of choices and circumstances— but nothing concrete. Nothing this personal.

“What happened?” you ask softly, afraid that speaking too loudly might shatter the moment. “To make everything go to shit?”

“She got sick.” He finally lights the cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating the harsh lines of his face. “Cancer ate her up from the inside.”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, and although sincere, the words feel painfully inadequate.

“Why are you apologizing? You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Neither did you. Neither did Ran. You were just kids.”

“Well, kids don't stay kids for long in our world.” His smile is bitter. “You grow up fast, or you don't grow up at all. And we had to grow up real fuckin’ fast.”

You don’t know what to say to that, so you just sit with him in silence for a few moments. The stars continue to sparkle overhead, indifferent to the small tragedies playing out beneath them.

It's only when Rindou lifts his cigarette to his mouth that you notice the state of his hands. The movement draws your attention, and your breath catches when you see his knuckles properly for the first time since coming up here.

The skin is split across two of them, angry red edges crusted with dried blood. The surrounding flesh has already started to bruise, mottled purple and blue spreading across his hand. It looks painful— it has to be painful— but he hasn't mentioned it once.

“Your hands,” you say, reaching out instinctively before stopping yourself. “I didn't realize they were that bad.”

Rindou glances down at them like he's only just remembering they exist. He flexes his fingers experimentally, and you wince at the way the split skin pulls. “I've had worse.”

“That's not an answer.”

“It's the only answer I've got.” But there's the ghost of a smile on his lips now, barely visible in the darkness. He takes another drag from his cigarette, then adds, “I heal real fast. Ran says I'm part cockroach.”

The unexpected comparison catches you completely off guard. A laugh bubbles up from somewhere deep in your chest— genuine and unguarded, spilling out before you can stop it. You clap a hand over your mouth, but the laughter keeps coming, bright and surprised in the quiet night air.

Rindou's watching you with something close to wonder, his cigarette forgotten between his fingers.

“What?” you ask when you finally catch your breath, suddenly self-conscious under his stare.

“Nothing. Just…” He shakes his head. “That's the first time I've heard you laugh. Really laugh, not just that polite thing you do when Ran makes a joke.”

Heat creeps up your neck. “You noticed that?”

“I notice a lot about you.” He says it simply, like it's not a confession of how closely he's been watching. “More than I should, probably.”

The admission hangs in the air between you, charged with implications neither of you seems ready to fully explore. You look away, back up at the stars, trying to find your composure.

“You know what the fucked up thing is?” The words come out unbidden, riding the wave of boldness that the laughter created. You take a shaky breath before continuing. “I'm not even sure I'd go back. If you opened that door right now and told me I could leave, that it was safe, that Mikey wouldn't come after me…”

“Stockholm syndrome,” Rindou says, but there's no conviction in it. Just rote repetition of a diagnosis that doesn't quite fit anymore.

“Maybe.” You turn your head to look at him, and find he's already looking at you. His lavender eyes are shadowed in the darkness, unreadable as ever. “Or maybe I just didn't have anything worth going back to. Maybe I didn't even before you took me.”

“Don't say that.” There's an edge to his voice now, something almost like anger tightening his jaw.

“Why not? It's true. I went to work and sold overpriced bags to rich people and came home to an empty apartment and told myself it was enough. That I was fine. That this was what life was supposed to be.” Your voice cracks slightly. “But I wasn't fine. I was barely existing.”

“That doesn't mean you deserved this—”

“I'm not saying I deserved it!” The words burst out louder than you intended, and you're suddenly on your feet without consciously deciding to stand. “I'm saying that maybe... maybe you breaking me out of that life was the only way I was ever going to break free of it myself. Maybe I needed to lose everything to figure out that what I had wasn't worth keeping.”

Rindou stands too, and suddenly the space between you feels too small and too large all at once. “You're traumatized. You're rationalizing your captivity because it's easier than accepting what we've done to you.”

“Stop telling me what I'm feeling! Stop trying to make this simple when it's not. You think I don't know how fucked up this is?” Your hands clench into fists at your sides. “I know exactly how messed up it is that I care about you. All of you. But knowing it doesn't make it stop.”

“You don't care about us. You're just—”

“I do!” The words ring out across the rooftop, raw and desperate. “I care about Ran even though he held a gun to my head. I care about Sanzu even though he's unstable and dangerous and nearly made me shoot him tonight. And I care about you, Rindou. Even though you're standing here trying to convince me that what I feel isn't real.”

The silence that follows is deafening. You're both breathing hard, the space between you electric with tension. Rindou's hands are clenched at his sides, his jaw tight, and he's looking at you like he's seeing you for the first time.

“Don't,” he says finally, but his voice has gone rough again. “Don't look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I'm something other than your captor.” He takes a step closer despite his words, like his body is moving independent of his mind. “Like this could be something other than what it is.”

“What if I want it to be something else?” The question comes out barely above a whisper, but it might as well be a shout for how it lands between you.

“It doesn't matter what you want.” But even as he says it, he's closing the distance between you in slow increments like he's fighting himself with every step. “It doesn't matter what any of us want. You're here because we took you. Because Sanzu made a stupid decision, and now we're all paying for it. There's no version of this that ends well.”

“Then why are you still here?” You stand your ground even as he gets closer, tilting your head back to maintain eye contact. “Why didn't you go downstairs? Why did you bring me over here and show me the stars your mother taught you?”

He doesn't have an answer. Or maybe he does, but he's not willing to say it out loud. You're close enough now that you can see the rapid rise and fall of his chest, the way his pupils have dilated in the darkness, the tension in every line of his body.

His hand comes up slowly, giving you plenty of time to move away if you wanted to. Calloused fingers brush your jaw before tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture is so tender, so at odds with the violence you witnessed earlier, that you feel tears prick at your eyes.

“You're not thinking clearly,” he says, but his hand doesn't move away. It stays cradling your face, his thumb brushing against your cheekbone. “Tonight was fucked up. You're in shock, you're processing, you're—”

“I'm thinking more clearly than I have in weeks,” you interrupt. Your hand comes up to cover his where it rests against your face, holding it there. “And I know what I want.”

His eyes drop to your mouth before flicking back up to meet your gaze. “What do you want?”

The air between you is charged, crackling with possibility. You can feel the heat radiating off his body, smell the cigarette smoke clinging to his clothes. You could close the distance between you so easily— just lean forward and rise up on your toes—

But Rindou pulls away abruptly, his hand falling from your face as if you've burned him. He takes two steps back, then another, putting a sizable distance between you.

“We can't. Not like this. Not when you're…” He shakes his head, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “Fuck.”

The rejection stings even though you understand it. Even though part of you knows he's probably right. Your hand is still raised where his face had been, fingers curled around empty air.

“When, then? When will it be the right time? When will this situation be less fucked up?”

“I don't know.” His hands are shaking slightly, you notice. He shoves them in his pockets, his jaw clenched so tight you can see the muscle pulse. “Maybe never. Maybe there is no right time for this.”

“Or maybe you're just scared.” Your voice takes on an accusatory, almost plaintive tone. “Is that it?”

Something flashes across his face. “Yeah, I'm scared. You want me to admit it? I'm fucking terrified. Because this—” He gestures between you, the movement sharp and frustrated. “—wasn't supposed to happen. You were supposed to be temporary. You weren’t supposed to matter.”

“But I do.”

“Yeah.” He sounds angry about it. “You do. And that’s the problem.”

The concession should feel like victory, but instead, it just makes your chest ache. You're both trapped in this impossible situation— wanting something that can't be, or shouldn't be, or maybe is already happening, whether either of you wants to admit it or not.

“Come on,” Rindou says after a moment, his voice tired. “It's late. You should get some sleep.”

You want to argue, want to push this conversation toward some kind of resolution. But you're exhausted too— emotionally wrung out by the events of the night. So you nod, wrapping your arms around yourself against the sudden chill, and follow him back across the roof to the hatch.

The climb down is quiet, both of you lost in your own thoughts. When you reach the hallway, you pause outside your door, and Rindou stops with you.

The silence between you is different now— heavier, weighted with everything that almost happened. The hallway is dim, lit only by a small nightlight plugged into an outlet near the bathroom. It casts long shadows across Rindou's face, making it hard to read his expression.

“Thank you,” you say quietly. “For tonight. For defending me. For showing me the stars. For all of it.”

“Don't thank me.” But there's less edge to his voice now, the frustration from the roof already fading. “I should have stopped Sanzu sooner. Before it went that far.”

“Maybe. But you stopped him when it mattered.” You hesitate, then add, “That matters to me.”

He looks at you for a long moment, and in the dim hallway light, you can see the conflict written across his face. Before you can second-guess yourself, you reach out and squeeze his hand— brief and chaste. His knuckles are rough under your palm, the split skin catching slightly against your fingers.

“Goodnight, Rindou.”

His fingers tighten around yours for just a second before he lets go. “Goodnight.”

You're reaching for your doorknob when the question bursts out of you, unable to be contained any longer. Your hand freezes on the metal, and you turn back to face him.

“When will it be the right time?”

You need to know. Need some kind of timeline, some indication that this thing between you might someday become something real. That tonight wasn't just a moment born of trauma and proximity, destined to be forgotten in the morning light.

Rindou turns back to face you fully, his eyes searching your face, looking for something you're not sure you can give him.

“When you stop looking at us like we're your only options,” he says slowly, each word carefully chosen, “and start looking at us like we're your choice.”

Then he's gone, disappearing down the hallway to his own room before you can respond, leaving you standing in your doorway with his words echoing in your head.

The distinction feels impossible. How do you separate those things when they've become so tangled together? When does necessity become want? When does adaptation become desire?

You slip into your room and close the door, leaning against it as you try to process everything that just happened. The conversation. The vulnerability. The almost-kiss that somehow feels more intimate than if you'd actually done it.

Your room is dark and familiar— the bed you've slept in for nearly two weeks now, the dresser with new clothes, the window that won't open. This prison that's starting to feel less like captivity and more like something else entirely.

You change into sleep clothes mechanically, brushing your teeth and going through all the motions of your nighttime routine on autopilot. But when you finally climb into bed, sleep feels impossibly far away.

You lie there in the darkness, staring at the sky you can't see, replaying every moment. The gun in your hands and the weight of Sanzu's eyes. Rindou's fist connecting with his face. The taste of your own fear. The stars overhead and the gentleness in Rindou's voice as he named them. His hand on your face. The space between you closing and then, devastatingly, reopening.

When you stop looking at us like we're your only options and start looking at us like we're your choice.

You roll onto your side, pulling your pillow closer, and something inside you cracks. Because you know the answer. You've known it for days now. You've just been too scared to admit it, even to yourself.

Squeezing your eyes shut, you whisper the answer into the darkness— the answer he never let you give:

“You're already my choice.”

But the walls don’t care. And neither do the stars.

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