Pairing: idol!ni-ki x hater!fem!reader
Genre: toxic, oneshot, idol au, smut MDNI
Synopsis: You hate Ni-ki. How is it that your high school bully gets away with this and becomes a popular idol? Loved, admired, and praised, when he’s just a pathetic guy with a dark past. You can’t accept that… so you became his nightmare, his obsession, his one and only number one hater.
Warnings: handjob (m!rec), degradation, sub!ni-ki, protected!sex, swearing, bullying (mentionned), revenge, slapping, blood
WC: 4k
Notes: A really old request (sorry to this anon 🥹) I'm working on so much WIPs my head's gonna explode!!! But I'm not gonna let you guys down and keep writing!!! 🤧
The stadium lights on your phone screen are blinding, a wash of electric blue and magenta that illuminates the dim corners of your bedroom. You're propped up against a mountain of pillows, the blanket pulled up to your chin as you watch the live broadcast of Ni-ki's latest solo performance.
On screen, he's a vision of perfection, his blond hair catching the light as he executes a sharp, fluid dance move that sends the crowd into a frenzy. His voice, smooth and auto-tuned to a glossy sheen, pours from your phone's speakers. You feel the familiar burn of irritation coil in your stomach. Everyone else sees a god. You see the ghost of a high school tyrant.
With a practiced tap, you navigate to the comment section of the live clip. The screen floods with adoring praise.
"King!"
"He's so talented!"
"My angel!"
Your thumb hovers, then stabs decisively at the reply box. The words flow easily.
"Another forgettable song from an idol whose relevance is hanging by a thread. All this production for a performance that lacks any real soul. In five years, no one will even remember his name."
You hit post, a grim satisfaction settling over you as your comment, under the familiar username Opium_Red, joins the sea of love. It's a drop of poison in an ocean of sugar, and you take a small, private joy in that. You close the app, lock your phone, and the room is dark again.
Meanwhile, across town in a sterile, windowless practice room, the air is thick with the scent of sweat and floor cleaner. Ni-ki is sprawled on the polished wood, his chest heaving, his blond hair now damp and plastered to his forehead. He blindly reaches for his phone, his fingers moving on muscle memory. He doesn't bother looking at the thousands of positive notifications. He filters, his thumb scrolling with a singular, obsessive purpose, searching for one specific thing.
And there it is. The familiar sting.
He's been hunting this username for nearly a year now. Opium_Red. While other haters came and went, this one was constant, a persistent thorn in his side with a vocabulary that cut deeper than the usual mindless insults.
At first, it was just annoying. Then, it became fascinating. The sheer dedication of it, the way this person seemed to see through the carefully constructed persona to the person beneath, or at least, to a version of him he didn't recognize. It wasn't just hate; it was analysis, a deconstruction of his every move. It had twisted into a sick obsession for him, a burning need to know who this person was who refused to love him, who saw him so clearly and disliked what they saw.
He needed to find them. Not to confront them, but to… what? To make them see he wasn't what they thought? To win them over? The desire was a knot in his gut, a puzzle he had to solve.
He clicks on the profile, as he does a hundred times a day. It's the same blank avatar, the same lack of personal information. A dead end.
Frustration claws at him. He lets the phone drop onto his stomach, staring up at the ceiling lights. His manager pokes his head in, reminding him about the high school reunion happening tonight. Ni-ki had initially refused, but now, a flicker of something, desperation, boredom, a sliver of hope, makes him sit up.
"I'll go," he says, his voice rough. "Just for a little while. Lowkey."
The reunion is held in a rented-out bar downtown. You're nursing a glass of wine, making polite small talk with a few former classmates you barely remember. It's exactly as awkward as you expected.
You see him the moment you walk in, of course. Ni-ki.
He's tucked away in a corner booth, wearing a black face mask and a beanie pulled low, but there's no hiding that aura, that quiet magnetism that draws people's eyes even when he's trying to be inconspicuous. A part of you, the teenage girl you once were, flinches. The larger part, the adult you've become, feels nothing but a dull indifference. You acknowledge his presence with a silent internal nod and then deliberately turn your attention elsewhere, engaging in a conversation about someone's new job. He doesn't exist to you.
Ni-ki, however, is painfully aware of you. He sees you the second you arrive, and his carefully constructed composure almost shatters. It's you. The girl from high school. The quiet one he and his friends used to tease, whose notebooks they'd knock to the floor, whose answers they'd mock in class. He hadn't recognized your name on the guest list, but your face is burned into a corner of his memory he usually keeps locked away.
Guilt, cold and sharp, floods him. This is why he felt so awkward. He watches you laugh with someone else, a genuine expression that makes his chest tighten. You look… happy. Completely unaffected. You haven't even glanced in his direction a second time. He feels a strange pang, a mix of shame and something else he can't name.
An hour passes and he stays in his booth, you mingle with the crowd. Finally, needing a moment of escape from the forced cheerfulness, you slip away towards the relative quiet of the hallway leading to the restrooms. You pull out your phone to pass the time.
A new notification pops up, a post from Ni-ki on Weverse, a backstage selfie from a performance. Without a second thought, you open it. Your fingers fly across the screen, the familiar contempt rising again.
"Same soulless expression in a different room. Try looking in the mirror and finding an actual person instead of a product."
You're so engrossed in typing your comment that you don't hear the soft footsteps behind you. Ni-ki had seen you leave, and on a whim, decided to follow, needing a drink from the bar just past the hallway. He rounds the corner, his eyes adjusting to the dimmer light, and they land on you. And then they drop to the phone in your hand.
He sees it all in an instant, he way your thumbs move with such familiar, practiced fury. The sharp, critical glint in your eyes as you stare at his own face on the screen. And then, he sees the username appear in the preview as you hit send: Opium_Red.
The world stops. The air rushes from his lungs. The pieces click into place with a deafening finality. The relentless hater. The girl from high school. The one person who saw through his facade. It was you all along. And the obsession, the desperate need to make this one person like him, suddenly has a face, a history, and a name. And it's the one person he has every reason to believe will never, ever forgive him.
A soft scrape of a shoe on the concrete floor makes you freeze, your thumb hovering just above your screen. Your head snaps up, and it's him. Ni-ki. He's standing just a few feet away, his body angled towards the bar, but his face is turned towards you, the lower half obscured by his black mask. For a terrifying second, you think he saw everything.
But then he gives a slight, almost imperceptible nod, his eyes sliding past you to the drink menu hanging on the wall behind your head. "Sorry," he says, his voice muffled by the mask but still unmistakably his. "Didn't mean to startle you. Just trying to get to the bar."
You force a nonchalant shrug, your phone disappearing into your pocket. "No worries," you say, your voice coming out cooler and more composed than you feel. "Didn't even notice you."
A blatant lie, and you both know it. He lingers for a moment, an awkward silence stretching between you, thick with unspoken history. The low thump of the party music feels a world away.
"It's… been a while," he tries again, shoving his hands into the pockets of his designer hoodie. "You look good. Happy."
"I am," you reply, your tone flat and final. You offer nothing more, creating a wall of polite disinterest.
He shifts his weight, his shoulders slumping slightly. The casual act is crumbling. "Y/N," he says, and the sound of your name in his voice sends a jolt through you. It's the first time he's said it in years. "Can we… can we talk? For real? Not just this awkward small talk."
You raise an eyebrow, genuinely intrigued now. This is not the nonchanlant, untouchable idol from the screen. This is something else. Something uncertain. "Talk about what, Ni-ki? I think we covered everything in high school."
"Please," he insists, and the word is so raw, so devoid of his usual stage confidence, that it catches you off guard. "Just five minutes. Outside."
You study him, searching for the trick. All you see is a pair of dark, desperate eyes pleading with you from above the mask. Against your better judgment, you find yourself nodding. "Fine. Five minutes."
You lead him to a small, secluded alleyway beside the venue. He pulls down his mask, the sharp jawline, the full lips, the intense eyes.
He takes a deep breath, as if bracing himself. "I know," he says, his voice quiet but clear in the quiet alley. "I know you're Opium_Red."
Your blood runs cold, then hot. You open your mouth to deny it, to laugh it off, but the look in his eyes stops you. It's not accusatory. It's not angry. It's just… knowing.
"And I'm not mad," he continues, taking a hesitant step closer. "I'm not upset at all. I've been… obsessed with finding out who you were for a long time. I just needed to know." He looks down at his expensive sneakers, then back up at you. "And now that I do, there's something else I need to say. I'm sorry. For high school. For everything I did to you. For being a coward and a bully. It was… it was disgusting. And I am so, genuinely sorry."
The apology hangs in the air between you, heavy and useless. You let out a short, sharp laugh that holds no humor. "Sorry?" you shake your head, a bitter smile twisting your lips. "You think a single sorry fixes years of making me feel small? You think it erases the memory of you and your friends doind the unspeakable to me? It doesn't, Ni-ki. It doesn't fix anything."
"I know," he says, his voice cracking. "I know it doesn't fix it. But I have to start somewhere." He drops to his knees, right in front of you. His head is bowed, his hands clasped in front of him as if in prayer. "Please," he begs. "Please, Y/N. I have to know you forgive me. I need it. I'll do anything. Just… please forgive me."
You stare down at him, at the famous idol kneeling in the dirt before you. It's a surreal, pathetic, and utterly intoxicating sight. A strange heat blooms in your chest, a heady mix of shock and a dark, thrilling current of desire. This is what he reduced you to, and now look at him. Look at him begging.
You crouch down, bringing your face level with his. You can feel the warmth radiating from his skin, see the frantic pulse beating in his neck. "Oh, Ni-ki," you murmur, your voice a low, dangerous purr. "If you want it, if you really want it… it'll be on my terms. Whatever I say. Whatever I want. Do you understand?"
He looks up, his eyes wide with a desperate, unwavering hope. "Yes," he breathes, without a moment's hesitation. "Anything."
"Good," you say, standing up and smoothing down your dress. You offer him your hand. "Then get up. We're not staying here."
He takes your hand, his grip surprisingly strong, and lets you pull him to his feet. He follows you without question as you walk to the curb and hail a cab. You give the driver the name of a high-end hotel downtown, one you know is discreet.
Ni-ki sits beside you, rigid with anticipation, his gaze fixed on you. You can feel his eyes on you, and you revel in it. This is just the beginning.
The elevator ride to the suite is a silent. You lead the way into the room. Ni-ki follows, his steps hesitant like a lamb walking into a slaughterhouse.
You turn to face him, leaning against the back of a pristine white sofa. "Apologies are words, Ni-ki," you say, your voice low and steady. "Words are cheap. They're like your posts, empty noise designed to create an impression. If you want my forgiveness, you're going to have to pay with something more substantial. You're going to have to pay with your dignity."
His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows hard, but his eyes don't waver. "I'll do whatever you want," he whispers, the words a sacred vow.
"Good." A slow smile spreads across your face. You pull out your phone, your thumb finding the camera app with practiced ease. "Get naked."
The command hangs in the air, stark and absolute. For a moment, he just stares at you, his face a canvas of pure terror. His hands clench into fists at his sides, and you can see the war raging within him, the instinct to flee, to preserve his idol image, clashing violently with the desperate, gnawing need for your approval. But the need wins. It always does.
A tremor runs through his body, but his fingers move to the hem of his hoodie, pulling it over his head. He folds it neatly, placing it on a chair. Then his t-shirt. His jeans. Soon, he stands before you in nothing but his black briefs.
"All of it," you command, your phone camera recording.
He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his briefs and pushes them down. He steps out of them, kicking them aside. He's completely bare now, and you watch, fascinated, as a conflicting array of emotions plays across his face. Humiliation, yes, but something else too. A dark, undeniable flush of arousal. His body is betraying him, responding to the degradation with a twitch of interest.
"Touch yourself," you say, your voice devoid of all emotion. "And while you do, I want you to tell me what a pathetic, worthless piece of shit you are. I want you to list all the reasons why you don't deserve forgiveness. Do it for me."
His eyes squeeze shut for a second, and when they open. His hand wraps around his half-hard cock, and he begins to stroke himself slowly, awkwardly. "I'm… I'm nothing," he starts, his voice a choked whisper. "I'm a product. A puppet. My fans love a lie. I bullied you because I was weak and I wanted to feel powerful. I'm a terrible person. My music is empty. I don't deserve… I don't deserve to be looked at. I'm worthless."
He continues, his words growing more frantic as his strokes become more earnest. You keep the camera trained on his face, capturing the raw, agonized pleasure in his eyes. This is better than any hate comment. This is a masterpiece of his own making.
"Stop," you order. He freezes instantly, his hand still gripping himself. "Come here." You sit down on the edge of the sofa, hiking up your dress. "Be a good dog. And apologize like you should."
He falls to his knees on the plush carpet without hesitation. He crawls the short distance to you. He presses his lips against the top of your foot, then the arch.
With every press of his lips, he murmurs a broken apology. "I'm sorry… I'm so sorry… For everything… Please… forgive me…" You can feel the heat of his breath, the slight tremble in his lips. The sight sends a jolt of arousal straight through you.
His kisses travel upward, along your calf, his hands gripping your legs as he worships them. He's kissing up your inner thighs, his breath coming in ragged pants, until he's nuzzling his face against the fabric of your panties, sniffing the most intimate part of you with a whine of pure need. He's like a starving animal finally offered a scrap of food.
The sight is so depraved, so beautifully debasing, that it snaps something in you. "Stop," you say, your voice sharp as a whip. He freezes, looking up at you with dazed, confused eyes. You raise your hand and bring it down across his face with a resounding smack. His head snaps to the side. "You look like a miserable dog in heat," you hiss, your voice dripping with contempt. "Is that what you are? A slut for validation? So desperate for it you'll degrade yourself for the one person who hates you the most?"
He slowly turns his head back to face you, a red handprint already blooming on his cheek. His eyes are glazed over with a terrifyingly ecstatic lust. He looks from your furious face to the phone still recording in your hand. A slow, blissful smile spreads across his bruised lips.
"Yes," he breathes, his voice thick with desire. "I'm a slut for your validation." He leans into your space, his eyes pleading. "Do it again. Please. Slap me again."
He wants this. He needs this. And you are more than willing to give it to him. You slap him again, harder this time. And again. You lose count, your arm moving in a rhythm, the sound of flesh hitting flesh filling the luxurious suite. He takes it all, moans of pained pleasure escaping his lips. It's only when you feel something warm and wet on your fingers that you stop. You look down. A trickle of blood is running from his nose, a stark crimson line against his pale skin.
He doesn't even seem to notice. He just looks up at you, his face a mess of blood, tears, and ecstatic bliss. "Please," he begs, his voice a ragged, desperate whisper. "Please, Y/N… let me please you. I'll do anything."
He surges forward, not with aggression, but with a frantic, supplicating energy. His hands, still trembling, grip your hips as he presses his face against your stomach. "Please," he whimpers against the fabric of your dress. "Let me… let me show you. Let me make you feel good."
You allow it, your grip on your phone unwavering. You watch as he fumbles with his own erection, guiding it to rub against the damp fabric of your panties. The friction is maddening, a perfect, torturous edge. He's grinding against you, his hips moving in a desperate, pleading rhythm, the hard length of him sliding along your clothed folds. The camera captures everything: the desperate gasps for air, the single tear tracing a path through the drying blood on his cheek.
"Is this all you're good for?" you taunt, your voice a low purr that you make sure the phone's microphone picks up perfectly. "Humping my leg like a pathetic, broken animal? You really are just a toy, aren't you? A toy that's desperate to be played with."
"Yes," he chokes out, his voice thick with lust and humiliation. "God, yes. I love it. I love it when you talk to me like that." His hips buck faster, the pressure against your clit becoming more insistent. "Please, Y/N… please let me inside you. I need to be inside you. I'll be so good, I promise. Please, just let me feel you."
"No," you say, the single word a slap of its own. You push him back slightly, and he whines at the loss of contact. You reach down, replacing the friction of his body with your own hand. You wrap your fingers around his hard cock, stroking him with a firm, relentless grip that has him arching his back, a strangled cry tearing from his throat. He's leaking, trembling, his hips thrusting into your fist.
"Please, please, please," he chants. "I'm begging you. Let me be inside. I'll do anything. I need it. I need you."
You watch him, a predator observing its prey at the moment of surrender. "Oh, alright," you sigh, your tone dripping with condescending permission. "If you're going to whine about it. But you'd better make it worth my while."
He practically sobs in relief, scrambling for his discarded jeans. He fumbles in the pocket, pulling out his wallet and retrieving a foil packet with shaky hands. His fingers are clumsy as he rolls the condom on.
He positions himself between your legs, which you've now spread wide for him. He enters you slowly, so slowly, his eyes squeezed shut as if he's trying to memorize the sensation, to make it last and stave off the orgasm that's been threatening to consume him all night.
He starts a slow, deliberate rhythm, his movements controlled, almost reverent. "Harder," you command, your voice sharp. "I said fuck me, not make love to me. Do you need me to show you how?"
His eyes snap open, and the look in them is pure submission. "No," he breathes. "I can do it." He obeys instantly, his hips snapping forward with a newfound force that steals your breath. The slow, tentative worship is gone, replaced by a deep, powerful stroking. His hips are skilled, hitting a spot inside you that makes your own walls clench. You can't stop the moan that escapes your lips.
He looks from your face to the camera in your hand, a look of ecstatic, horny submission on his face, and he drives into you harder. The wet slap of skin on skin fills the room, mingling with your moans and his desperate grunts. The camera shakes slightly in your hand as you struggle to hold it, your own pleasure building to an impossible peak. He's watching you, watching the camera, completely lost in the act of pleasing you, of being recorded by you.
"Y/N," he gasps, his rhythm faltering. "I can't… I'm gonna…"
"Come for me," you command, and the words are his undoing. He shudders violently, burying himself deep inside you as he spills into the condom. A wave of intense pleasure crashes over you, and you cry out as your body convulses, your release soaking him and the sheets beneath you.
For a moment, you both lie there, panting. Then, he begins to move again, not with his hips, but with his lips. He kisses your stomach, your hips, your thighs, his touch reverent, worshipful. He's cleaning you with his mouth. You look down at the top of his blond head. You feel a strange sense of peace.
"I forgive you, Ni-ki," you say panting.
He lifts his head, his eyes shining with joy. "Really?" he whispers, a hopeful smile spreading across his face. "Thank you. Thank you so much." He looks at you with tenderness. "We can do this again, right? Secretly?"
You just smile, a mysterious, knowing smile. "We'll see."
The next evening, Ni-ki is on cloud nine. He's floating through his schedule, a secret smile playing on his lips. He checks his phone during a break, his thumb automatically navigating to his notifications. He's looking for a message from you, a burner number he doesn't have. Instead, he sees a notification that makes his blood run cold. A new video post, tagged in a fan community, is going viral. The username is one he knows all too well: Opium_Red.
With a growing sense of dread, he clicks on the link. The video loads. It's him. His face, tear-streaked and bloody, looking into the camera. The audio is crystal clear. "Yes," his voice, desperate and aroused, fills his headphones. "I'm a slut for your validation." The video cuts. Then another clip. Him on his knees at your feet. Then another. His face, contorted in ecstasy as he begs. The final shot is a close-up of his body thrusting inside you.
The caption reads: "The real Ni-ki. Not so perfect now, are you?"
The video has millions of views. The comments are a firestorm of shock, disbelief, and mockery. His career flashes before his eyes, crumbling to ash. He feels sick, his heart pounding in his chest like a trapped bird. He scrambles to block the user, to report the video, but it's too late. It's everywhere. He looks at the username again: Opium_Red. It wasn't forgiveness. It was a setup. It was a performance. And he was the fool who played the leading role.You didn't want his apology. You wanted his destruction. And you got it.
Bro deadly sinners IS AMAZING. And it's like 20k+ words LIKE YOU COOKED SO BADDDDD AMAZING AMAZING AMAZING. It's the perfect bedtime story (it's not boring) it's like the perfect length bro. KEEP IT UP POOKS💞💞💞
COMPLIMENTS TO THE CHEF cause they cooked
AAAAAH thank you sweetheart!! 💕💕 I really had mixed feelings about writing it back when I started the brainstorming (if it was too complex or boring) but after seeing all the good feedbacks I'm soooooo happy I went on with it!!! Stay tuned for the next chapters!!!!
hey hey! just want to express how I LOVE SEVEN DEADLY SINS SO MUCH!! it’s kinda rare to see actual enha ot7 fics (like yours) on this platform 🥲 but the way you write it is so good, i feel so immersed and i’m truly invested! have you ever thought of becoming a book author or writer?? you have talent! i can’t wait for the next chapter hopefully soon (??) 🥹
HIIIII thank you so much for ur interest and appreciation!!! 💓 I never really thought about becoming a book author (I don't think I'm that skilled yet for writing books lmao) but who knows If I work harder maybe I will consider writing a book haha
PS: I'm still writing the next chapter for Deadly Sinners I think I will post a Jungwon fic first lol
First of all, I am a new follower, and that is because I couldn’t resist after reading chapter one of seven deadly sins. It’s so well written and organized. You are such a good writer like wth~~~. I can’t wait to read the rest of your work coz I think imma die of anticipation waiting for chapter two. Also, this isn’t a suggestion or me giving my input, it’s just me saying a thought out loud to someone because I don’t have anyone to share it with. But a part of me feels pity for the old y/n. She gets killed, and even though I know it’s critical to the plan, this random girl from another dimension swoops in and essentially steals her life. I know it’s to get her justice, but damn…. We in like barely day 3, and she already did stuff with her childhood bestie, slept with her current bestie, having chem with her ex-fiancée. Mind you if this girl never came in, these were supposed to be the people mourning her, but she gets stripped of that privilege coz she’s replaced before anyone even notices she’s gone. I know I’m overthinking it, but I would sad if that were me. Even though they look exactly the same, they are not the same soul. The old y/n had memories and experience and lived a life, only to be replaced 🥲.
Damn I’m sorry. This is looongg. I got a little carried away 😭😭. Anyways, I’m desperately waiting to see where this story goes, I genuinely haven’t read something this good in ages.
OMGGG thank you for your appreciation!!!! 💓💓💓 I totally get you!!!! Even tho the old Y/N was not the best person the fact that she got replaced so easily is indeed sad, but don't worry there's more to it than that I promise!!! (maybe you will even change ur opinion on that 👀)
bro I would never judge somebody for being unemployed like ME TOO TWIN me too btw not having a job is not pathetic. Its the economy's fault for being THIS bad.
I was gonna send you a cute little photo of a turtle with its tongue out but it won't let me😔😔
random question abt seven deadly sins but when sunoo was getting freaky with y/n do u reckon if was similar or different to sun he would with the old one??
lol i'm sorry this is so random but i kept thinking abt this the whole time reading it! i love ur work btw 💘
On the physical aspect yes Sunoo thinks it’s the same as when he would do it with the old Y/N but as an incubi he also feeds on emotions and that’s where the difference lies because the old Y/N and the actual Y/N feels totally different about doing it with Sunoo!!! Sunoo couldn’t depict what the old Y/N felt except from pleasure when they had sex but with the actual Y/N he felt much more emotions like pleasure, fear, guilt or contentment (he likes it better with the actual Y/N)
bro genuine question like how do you have the time to write such amazing stories with 20k words, 10k words or more and then post them not too far apart?
DID I MENTION AMAZING WRITING? LIKEEEEEE SO GOOD
Some of them were WIPs so I just had to finish them plus I’m currently unemployed so you can imagine how much free time I have 😔 I spend my whole day writing since I’ve got nothing else to do (put like that it sounds really pathetic but it helps me get through the day without feeling useless 🚬) but yeah pls don’t judge me I swear I’m looking for a job!!! 😭
hi i NEED to mention how much i loved ur most recent fic!! the world building was a 10/10 and i love the whole entire plot in general. 💘
i can imagine how long it took to write such a masterpiece so i really do applaud you for that queen. thank you for FEEDDINGGG us omg 🥹💓🫶🏽
HIIIII!!!! Thank you so much! I was really worried because I felt like I hadn't described the world or the story well enough (I don't want to bore you or confuse you with all this) I tried to make everything easy to understand but of course if anyone has questions or doesn’t understand something, don’t hesitate to ask me I’d be happy to explain!!!! I won’t disappoint for the next chapters I promise!!!!💕🤧
Queen what happened to bodyguard Jay? I’ve been looking forward to it for so longgg🥹
Hiiiii!!! I gotta rewrite the end...I didn't liked the ending I initially went with so I need to write it again...I'm sorry you have the right to cut my head...😔😔😔
𖤝 𝔓𝔞𝔦𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔤: OT7 x fem!reader (whoever you fuck in each chapter will be a surprise. Why?Bcs I can and it's more fun that way hehe)
𖤝 𝔊𝔢𝔫𝔯𝔢: reverse!harem, smut MDNI, fantasy, dark academia, serie
𖤝 𝔖𝔶𝔫𝔬𝔭𝔰𝔦𝔰: You’re a student like any other, drowning in debt and hounded by loan sharks. You decide to use the last resort: ending your life. But before you have time to pull the trigger, a mysterious young man emerges from a portal and offers you another option: replace a deceased version of yourself in another world and kill the witch who murdered your doppelganger. With nothing left to lose, you accept and now find yourself leading a new life in a magical academy reserved for sinners. You’ll meet seven skilled sinners and become entangled in this intricate story and the mysteries surrounding your doppelgänger’s death.
𖤝 𝔚𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: surnatural, unprotected!sex, spooning, oral (both!rec), handjob, swearing, 69, fingering, alcohol, death, suicide, violence
𖤝 𝔚ℭ: 20.3k
𖤝 𝔑𝔬𝔱𝔢: It's finally here!!!! I will try to post a chapter every week!!! Taglist is open!!! (look closely you might find something interesting while reading hehe)
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ✦ 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 1 ✦
You are going to die.
This is not a dramatic statement. This is simply the truth, the same way the sky is blue or the rent is due or the loan sharks have been calling your phone every hour for the past three weeks. You are twenty-one years old, you are drowning in debt you will never repay, and you are sitting on the edge of your bathtub with a gun in your lap that cost you the last of your cash and most of your dignity.
The bathroom light flickers. It's been doing that for months. You never fixed it. Why would you? You weren't planning to be here long enough for it to matter.
Your phone buzzes on the sink. Another text from a number you've memorized but never saved.
"We know you're home. Pay what you owe or we take fingers this time."
You turn the phone facedown. Your fingers ache. Two of them healed crooked from the last warning.
You press the barrel to your temple. The metal is cold. You didn't expect it to be cold. You expected it to feel like nothing, the way everything else has felt like nothing for months now.
Your finger finds the trigger. You close your eyes.
You think: I'm sorry.
You think: I don't even know who I'm apologizing to.
You pull the trigger. And everything stops. Not in the way you expected. Not the white light or the rushing tunnel or the life flashing before your eyes. No. The world simply... pauses. The flickering bathroom light freezes mid-flicker, stuck between on and off, casting the room in a strange half-glow. The drip from the leaky faucet hangs suspended. And the gun doesn't fire.
You pull the trigger again. Nothing. Again. Nothing. You pull it three more times in rapid succession, your breath coming faster now, panic replacing resignation, because you can't even do this right, you can't even die properly-
"That's really not going to work."
The voice comes from somewhere to your left. Somewhere that should not contain a voice, because your bathroom is approximately the size of a broom closet and you are very definitely alone in it. Or you were. You should be.
You turn your head slowly, the gun still pressed to your temple, and find yourself staring at a tear in reality. That's the only way to describe it. The air beside your shower has split open, and through the gap spills light that is somehow both gold and pink at the same time, and standing in the middle of this impossibility is a young man who looks approximately your age and approximately like he's never had a bad day in his entire life.
He's wearing what appears to be some kind of uniform, dark fabric, sharp lines, an emblem you don't recognize embroidered on the collar, but he's wearing it wrong, top button undone, sleeves rolled to his elbows and tie hanging loose.
He smiles at you. It's the kind of smile that knows exactly how charming it is. "Hi," he says. "You're not hallucinating."
"I'm definitely hallucinating," you say. Your voice comes out hoarse. When was the last time you spoke to another person? Two days? Three? "This is a hallucination. I'm having a mental break. That's fine. That tracks."
The young man steps out of the tear in reality and into your bathroom. The portal doesn't close behind him. It just hovers there. "You're not hallucinating," he repeats. He reaches out and plucks the gun from your hands. "This is real. I'm real. The portal is real. And you're not dead, which I feel like we should focus on right now."
You stare at him. You stare at the portal. You stare at your empty hands, which are trembling. "I pulled the trigger," you say.
"You did."
"It didn't work."
"I stopped it."
"You stopped it."
"Time, mostly. Just this room. Just for a minute." He says this like it's a minor inconvenience, like he's explaining how he fixed a leaky faucet. "The bullet will resume its trajectory if I let go, so I'd appreciate it if you'd step away from the line of fire before I do."
You look down. There is a bullet hanging in the air six inches from your head. Frozen. Motionless You slide off the bathtub edge and press yourself against the opposite wall. Your legs don't feel like legs. The young man waves his hand. The bullet drops to the floor with a small tink. Time resumes. The light flickers properly. The faucet drips. The tear in reality stays exactly where it is.
"There," he says pleasantly. "Crisis averted. You're welcome, by the way."
"Who," you manage, "the hell are you?"
He places a hand over his heart, mock-offended. "I'm hurt. I go through all this effort to save your life and that's the tone you take?" Then he drops the act and grins. "My name is Sunoo. You're Y/N. Well, you're a Y/N. One of them. There are more than you'd think, actually. Infinite universes, infinite variations. Most of you are very boring, but you-" He points at you. "You're interesting."
You slide down the wall until you're sitting on the bathroom floor. "I don't understand anything you're saying," you tell him.
"That's fair." Sunoo crouches down to your level. He's still smiling, but something in his expression shifts. Softens. It's almost convincing. "Let me start over. You were about to do something permanent. I'm here to offer you an alternative."
"What kind of alternative?"
"The kind where you don't die and instead get a new life, a new identity, and a purpose." He tilts his head. "Also there's magic. And an academy. And you might have to kill someone. But we can get to that part later."
You stare at him. The gun is on the floor between you. Neither of you reaches for it. "Magic," you repeat.
"Magic."
"Academy."
"Academy."
"Killing someone."
"Allegedly. It's more of a long-term goal than an immediate requirement."
You press the heels of your palms against your eyes. When you open them, he's still there. The portal is still there. The bullet is still on the floor. You are still alive, which was not the plan five minutes ago. "Okay," you say, because what else do you say to the impossible when it shows up in your bathroom? "Explain."
Sunoo explains. He explains it slowly, patiently, like he's talking to a child or a particularly skittish animal. There is a world called Emperion. It runs on magic drawn from sin, anger, greed, pride, all the worst parts of human nature, harvested and weaponized. In this world, there was another version of you. A wealthy, powerful, deeply unpleasant version of you who attended an elite magical academy and made a lot of enemies and one very bad decision.
"She made a deal with something she shouldn't have," Sunoo says. "A deity outside the sanctioned seven. Tristitia. The Sorrow. It gave her power, and then it took her life. Or rather, a witch took her life. Working for Tristitia. The details are messy."
"Messy how?"
"Messy in the sense that I don't fully know them." He says this lightly, but his eyes flick away for just a moment. "I was there when she died. It happened fast. One moment she was casting, the next she was-" He makes a vague gesture. "Not casting. Very permanently not casting."
You're still on the floor. Your legs have gone numb. "And you want me to replace her."
"I want you to be her. There's a difference." He stands up and offers you his hand. "She's dead. No one knows except me. If you take her place, you get her life, her room, her status, her spot at the Academy. All you have to do is pretend to be her and help me find the witch who killed her."
"Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why do you care who killed her?"
Something flickers across Sunoo's face. It might be grief. It might be guilt. It might be neither. With him, it's hard to tell.
"She was my best friend," he says. "Is that enough of a reason?"
You don't know if you believe him. But you also don't know if it matters. You're sitting on a bathroom floor with a bullet on the tiles and a portal to another universe hovering beside your shower. Your options are limited. They've been limited for a long time.
"What if I say no?"
Sunoo shrugs. "Then I leave. Time resumes its normal flow. The bullet stays on the floor. You're back exactly where you started, with exactly the same options you had before I arrived." He pauses. "I won't stop you a second time, if that's what you're asking. I'm offering you a choice, not a prison sentence."
You look at the gun. You look at the portal. You think about the loan sharks and the hospital bills and the two crooked fingers that ache every time you try to move them. You think about the silence that has followed you since you were fifteen years old, since your parents died and left you with nothing but a cramped apartment and a stack of unpaid bills and the slow realization that no one was coming to save you.
But someone did come, didn't they? Someone just walked through a hole in reality and offered you an escape. Not a savior. A deal. "Is it dangerous?" you ask.
"Extremely."
"Am I going to die?"
"Possibly. But not tonight. Tonight you'll be safe."
You take his hand. His palm is warm. You didn't expect that. "Okay," you say. "I'm in."
Sunoo's smile returns, brighter this time. "Wonderful. Now for the unpleasant part."
"The unpleasant part?"
"The switch."
He doesn't explain what "the switch" means. He just raises his hand and makes a gesture like he's turning a page in a book, and suddenly there's a body on your bathroom floor.
Not just any body. Your body.
It's you. The other you. The dead one. She's wearing the same uniform as Sunoo, dark fabric and sharp lines and an emblem on the collar. Her hair is the same as yours. Her face is the same as yours. But she's paler, and her lips are slightly blue, and she's very, very dead.
You stumble backward. Your hip bangs against the sink. "What the fuck."
"Language."
"What the actual…why is there a…where did you-"
"I retrieved her from where I've been keeping her preserved. Temporal stasis. Very useful." Sunoo says this like he's discussing meal prep. "She needs to be found here. In your world. If she just disappears from Emperion, people will ask questions. So we're leaving her body in your apartment, staged to look like she's you, and then you're coming with me."
"You want me to just-" You gesture wildly at the corpse. "Leave a dead body in my apartment?"
"It's not your apartment anymore. You're not coming back." Sunoo is already crouching beside the body, adjusting her position with unsettling gentleness. "She'll be found. She'll be identified as you. Your debts will die with her. Your loan sharks will move on. You, meanwhile, will be in another world entirely, attending a prestigious academy and sleeping in a much nicer bed."
You want to argue. You want to point out all the ways this is insane. But you find yourself watching his hands as he aRranges the other you's hair, and you can't stop thinking about how strange it is to see yourself from the outside. She looks peaceful. You've never looked peaceful. You've always looked tired.
"Did she suffer?" you ask quietly.
Sunoo's hands pause. "No," he says. "It was very fast."
You don't know if he's lying. You decide it doesn't matter. "Okay," you say. "Let's do this before I change my mind."
Sunoo stands and offers you his hand again. "Hold on tight. First-time travel can be disorienting."
You take his hand. His fingers close around yours. The portal pulses once, twice, and then the world dissolves.
Teleportation, as it turns out, feels like being turned inside out and then right-side in again, but very quickly, and with a lot more colors than you've ever seen before. Your stomach lurches. Your vision whites out. For a single, horrible moment, you feel like you're falling in every direction at once.
Then your feet hit solid ground, and you're somewhere else entirely.
You stumble, and Sunoo catches your elbow. "Easy. It passes."
You want to tell him you're fine, but you're too busy staring at everything. You're standing in what appears to be a dormitory hallway, but it's like no dormitory you've ever seen. And the window at the end of the hallway shows a sky that is definitely, absolutely, not the sky you grew up under. It's purple. Deep purple, scattered with more stars than you've ever seen. And the moon-
"There are two moons," you say. Your voice comes out faint.
"Yes," Sunoo says. "Selene and Noctis. The sisters. They've been chasing each other across the sky for ten thousand years."
"Chasing each other?"
"It's a myth. I'll tell you later." He's already steering you down the hallway. "Keep your voice down. Most students are asleep, but some of them have very good hearing."
"What species has very good hearing?"
"Werewolves, mostly. Vampires. Shapeshifters in bat form. The occasional paranoid elf." He counts them off on his fingers. "Oh, and the Hypogean, but they don't sleep, so they don't count."
You have no idea what a Hypogean is. You're not sure you want to know. You let him guide you down the hallway, past identical doors with nameplates you can't read. "Is the whole world like this?" you ask.
"Nocthaven is special. It's the only territory under perpetual night. The rest of Emperion has a normal day-night cycle." Sunoo pauses in front of a door. "This is mine."
The nameplate reads: Kim Sunoo - Goat Hall. The emblem beside it is a goat with curling horns.
"Goat Hall," you read aloud.
"It's the Lust dormitory."
You stare at him.
"I'm an incubus," he adds, as if this explains everything. Which, given the context, it sort of does.
"Of course you are," you mutter.
Sunoo grins and pushes the door open. "Come in. We have a lot to cover and not much time before morning."
His room is exactly what you would expect from someone who introduced themselves by stopping time and stealing a corpse. It's large, larger than your entire apartment, with silk sheets on the bed, candles that light themselves as you enter, and a balcony that overlooks the Academy grounds. You stand in the center of the room, not sure where to put yourself. Sunoo gestures at a velvet armchair.
"Sit. You look like you're about to collapse."
You sit. The chair is too comfortable. You hate it a little. "The other me," you say. "The dead one. Tell me about her."
Sunoo settles onto the edge of his bed, crossing one leg over the other. "What do you want to know?"
"Everything. If I'm going to pretend to be her, I need to know everything."
"She's human," he begins. "That's important. Most of the elite students at the Academy are something more, vampires, demons, elves. She was fully mortal, which made her talent even more impressive. Or infuriating, depending on who you ask."
"What was she like?"
Sunoo considers this. "Cold. Confident. Kind of a bitch if you ask me. She was the top of our class without seeming to try. People admired her or hated her. There wasn't much middle ground."
"That's not very helpful. What did she like? What did she do? How did she treat people?"
"She treated people like furniture," Sunoo says frankly. "She was not a nice person, Y/N. I know it's weird to speak ill of the dead, but you should know what you're stepping into. She was my best friend, and I loved her, and she was also a nightmare."
This is not comforting. "Great. So I'm replacing a nightmare."
"You're replacing a nightmare and you need to convince everyone you're still her. Which means you need to be cold and confident and kind of mean, at least at first." He tilts his head, studying you. "Can you do that?"
You think about the loan sharks. You think about the way you learned to make yourself small, to avoid eye contact, to apologize for things that weren't your fault. The opposite of cold and confident. The opposite of mean. "I don't know," you admit.
"You'll learn." He says it like it's a guarantee. "Now. Magic."
"Magic."
"The old Y/N had no defined sin affinity."
You frown. "What does that mean?"
"Most sinners have a natural pull toward one of the seven sin categories by the time they reach adolescence. It's like-" He pauses, searching for his words. "It's like a calling. A resonance. You feel drawn to a particular type of magic the way some people feel drawn to music or art. The old Y/N never felt that pull. She was completely neutral. It's rare. It's also why she was so powerful. She could theoretically access any of the seven."
"But she couldn't?"
"She was still waiting for her affinity to manifest. Most students have theirs by sixteen at the latest. She was twenty. It was a point of... frustration for her. One of the reasons she made that deal with Tristitia." Sunoo's expression darkens briefly. "She was tired of waiting."
You digest this. "So I'm supposed to have no magic?"
"For now. But here's the thing." He leans forward. "You're not her. You're from another universe. Your soul is different. Exposure to Emperion might trigger an affinity in you that she never had. Or it might not. We won't know until we know."
"How do we find out?"
"We wait. You should feel it eventually, if it's going to happen. A pull. A resonance. Something that feels like-" He gestures vaguely. "Like coming home."
You sit in the too-comfortable chair and try to feel something. Anything. A pull, a resonance, a sense of coming home. You close your eyes and reach out with whatever internal sense you're supposed to have.
Nothing.
Just the vague nausea of teleportation and the lingering shock of not being dead. "I don't feel anything," you say.
Sunoo's brow furrows. "Nothing at all?"
"Nothing."
"That's..." He trails off. "Weird. Usually Dimensionals start feeling the resonance within hours of arrival. Your soul should be reacting to the ambient sin energy by now."
"Is that bad?"
"I don't know." He doesn't sound happy about this. "It might mean your affinity will take longer to develop. It might mean you don't have one at all. It might mean something else entirely." He waves a hand. "We'll figure it out. For now, the important thing is that no one finds out you're not her."
"How do I explain not knowing things I should know?"
"Head injury." Sunoo says it immediately, like he's already thought this through. "The mission where she died…where she was supposed to have died involved a confrontation with a witch. We'll say she took a magical blow to the head. It affected her memory. It's not uncommon. Sloppy spellwork can scramble things. People will believe it because they'll want to believe it. No one likes the alternative explanation."
"The alternative explanation being that I'm an imposter from another dimension?"
"Exactly. Which you can never, ever tell anyone." His voice loses its playful tone. He is suddenly, startlingly serious. "Dimensional travelers are rare, Y/N. They're studied. Dissected. The Academy would love to get their hands on someone from a non-magical universe. You'd spend the rest of your life in a research cell. Do you understand?"
You swallow. "I understand."
"Good." The playfulness returns, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "I'll tell you everything else you need to know step by step. There's no point overwhelming you tonight. Tomorrow, we'll start with the basics. The Academy layout. The other students. The professors. What classes you're supposed to be taking." He stands up. "For now, you should sleep."
"Here?"
"Where else?"
"In your room?"
"It's fine. The old Y/N stayed over all the time." He says this casually, already moving toward his closet. "We had an arrangement."
You feel your face do something complicated. "An arrangement."
"Mutually beneficial." He pulls out a spare blanket and tosses it to you. "We slept together. It wasn't romantic. Don't look at me like that."
"I'm not looking at you like anything."
"You're looking at me like I just confessed to murder."
"You did confess to stealing a corpse!"
"That was retrieval. Very different." He drapes himself across his bed. "Look, the old Y/N and I were close. We were friends. We were also both attractive and bored and neither of us had any interest in emotional attachment. It worked for us. If people think we're still doing that, it gives you an excuse to spend time with me. And you need to spend time with me, because I'm the only one who knows your secret."
This is, unfortunately, logical. You hate it. "Fine," you say. "But I'm sleeping in the chair."
"Suit yourself. The bed is big enough for two."
"I'm sleeping in the chair."
"Your loss."
You wrap the blanket around yourself and curl up in the velvet armchair. "Weird," you whisper to yourself. "Everything is so weird."
Sunoo has already closed his eyes. His breathing is slow and even. You don't know if he's actually asleep or just pretending. With him, it's impossible to tell.
You don't sleep. You can't. Every time you close your eyes, you see the other you's face, pale and peaceful on your bathroom floor. You see the bullet hanging in the air. You see the portal. You hear Sunoo's voice: She was not a nice person. She was my best friend, and she was also a nightmare.
You think about the fact that you are, technically, dead. Y/N died tonight in a cramped bathroom.
But eventually, despite everything, your body gives up. Your eyes grow heavy. And you dream. You are in a garden.
Not the Academy grounds. Something else. Somewhere else. The garden is vast and formal. Roses climb trellises made of bone-white wood. The flowers are red. So red they're almost black. The sky above you is neither purple nor blue. It's gray. Featureless.
You walk down a path of crushed white stone. The roses watch you. You can't explain how you know they're watching, but they are. Their petals turn to follow your movement. The path ends at a fountain. The water in the fountain is black. Not dirty. Just black, like ink, like oil. It reflects nothing.
"Do you like my garden?"
The voice comes from everywhere and nowhere. It is not a voice so much as the memory of a voice, the impression of sound pressed directly into your mind. It is cold. It is very, very interested in you. You turn. There is nothing behind you. There is nothing anywhere, except the roses and the fountain and the gray sky.
"I asked you a question."
"I-" Your voice echoes strangely. "Who are you?"
A pause. The roses rustle, though there is no wind. "Disappointing," the voice says. "You're not her. You're wearing her shape, but you're not her. The contract was with her. Not you."
"Contract?"
"The Sorrow remembers its own. You are not its own." A sigh, like stone grinding against stone. "I will have to start over. How inconvenient."
The roses burst into flame. Not real flame, black fire that consumes without heat. The petals curl and blacken. The bone-white trellises crack. The crushed stone path turns to ash beneath your feet. The fountain boils, and the black water rises, and the voice speaks one last time:
"Find me anyway. Perhaps you'll be more useful than she was."
You wake up. You're still in the chair. The blanket is tangled around your legs. The candles in Sunoo's room have burned down to stubs. Outside, the purple sky has lightened slightly, taking on a grayish tinge. Dawn, or whatever passes for dawn in a land without sun.
Sunoo is sitting up in bed, watching you. His expression is unreadable. "You were talking in your sleep," he says.
You press a hand to your chest. Your heart is pounding. "I had a dream. There was a garden. Roses. A voice."
"A voice."
"It said I wasn't the real contractor. It said-" You struggle to remember the exact words. "The Sorrow remembers its own. I am not its own."
Sunoo goes very still. "That's Tristitia," he says quietly. "That's the deity she made the deal with. It spoke to you."
"It wasn't happy."
"No. It wouldn't be." He swings his legs over the side of the bed, suddenly all business. "This complicates things."
"What things?"
"Everything." He stands up and crosses to the window, looking out at the impossible sky. "Tristitia doesn't let go of contracts easily. If it knows you're not her, it might come looking for answers. Or payment. Or just to express its displeasure."
"Can it hurt me?"
"I don't know. Probably. Eventually." He turns back to you, and his smile is back. "But that's a problem for later. Right now, we have a more immediate concern."
"What?"
"Breakfast." He tosses you a folded uniform from his closet. It's identical to the one he's wearing. "Put this on. You have a reputation to maintain, and mean girls don't skip meals."
You catch the uniform. It's heavier than it looks. You stare down at the emblem on the collar, the crest you don't recognize, the colors you've never worn.
Somewhere in the back of your mind, you can still smell the burning roses. Find me anyway, the voice said. Perhaps you'll be more useful than she was. You don't know what that means. You don't know what any of this means. But you're here now, in a world with two moons and purple skies and seven kinds of sin magic, wearing a dead girl's clothes and carrying a dead girl's secrets.
And breakfast, apparently, waits for no one. "Alright," you say. "Let's go."
Sunoo grins. "That's the spirit."
You're not sure it is. But it's the only spirit you've got.
The uniform fits perfectly. This is unsettling for several reasons. First, because it means the dead girl really was identical to you in every physical way, down to the exact measurements of your shoulders and the precise length of your legs. Second, because the uniform itself is clearly expensive in a way you've never experienced, the fabric is soft and heavy and probably costs more than your monthly rent. Third, and most disturbing, because when you look at yourself in Sunoo's full-length mirror, you don't see yourself at all.
You see her.
The old Y/N stares back at you with your eyes. She wears the dark uniform with casual elegance, the emblem on her collar catching the candlelight. Her hair falls exactly the way yours does, but somehow it looks intentional on her. Like she woke up this morning and decided to be beautiful, and her body simply obeyed.
You lean closer to the mirror. Your reflection leans closer too. You try to find something in her expression that looks like you, the girl who worked double shifts at a convenience store, the girl who ate instant noodles for dinner six nights a week, the girl who sat on a bathtub with a gun in her lap and didn't die.
She's not there. Or maybe you're not here. Maybe you're both somewhere in between.
"You're making a weird face," Sunoo says from behind you.
"I'm practicing my mean face."
"That's your constipated face. Very different."
You turn away from the mirror. Sunoo is already dressed, which seems unfair given that you didn't see him change. He's leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, watching you with an expression that might be amusement or might be assessment.
"How do I look?" you ask.
"Like her." He says it simply, without flattery or comfort. "Your posture is wrong, though. She stood straight and confident. You stand like you're apologizing for taking up space."
"Sorry."
"Don't apologize. That's exactly what I mean."
You straighten your spine. Pull your shoulders back. Lift your chin. It feels ridiculous. It feels like wearing someone else's bones.
"Better," Sunoo says. "Still not right. But better. We'll work on it."
"Can we just go to breakfast? I'm starving."
"Just remember-" He opens the door and gestures for you to follow. "You're not the new girl. You're the old girl. You've been here for years. You own this place. Everyone else is beneath you."
"I thought you said she was a nightmare."
"She was. But she was their nightmare. They respected her for it." He flashes you a grin over his shoulder. "Fear and respect are the same thing in this academy. Remember that."
You follow him into the hallway. A group of students passes you in the hallway. They're younger than you, first or second years, probably, and the moment they see your face, something changes in their expressions. Eyes widen. Postures straighten. One of them actually stops mid-sentence, her mouth hanging open slightly.
"Morning," you say, because you don't know what else to say.
The students exchange glances. One of them, a girl with pointed ears and silver hair, clearly an elf manages a nervous nod.
"Good morning, Lady Y/N," she says. Her voice is slightly shaky. "We heard you were injured on your last mission. We're glad to see you recovered."
Lady Y/N. You have a title. Of course you have a title.
"It was nothing," you say, channeling every mean girl you've ever seen in a movie. You let your voice go flat. Dismissive. "A scratch."
The students don't question this. They just nod rapidly and hurry past, their whispers trailing behind them like smoke. You keep walking. Your heart is pounding so hard you can feel it in your teeth.
"That was good," Sunoo murmurs. "The it was nothing was a nice touch. Very her."
"Who calls someone 'Lady'?"
"You do. Well, you don't. But people call you that. Your family is nobility. Old blood. Lots of money. I probably should have mentioned that earlier."
"You think?"
"Shh. More students."
Another group rounds the corner. These ones are older, your age, maybe, or close to it. Their reactions are more subtle but no less noticeable. Conversations pause. Eyes track your movement. One boy with dark hair and distinctly wolfish features actually flattens himself against the wall to let you pass.
You don't know whether to be flattered or horrified. "Do they always do this?" you whisper.
"Always. She was the top of the food chain. Everyone else is just trying not to get eaten."
"Great. No pressure."
You reach the end of the hallway and descend a spiral staircase that seems to go on forever.
The dining hall is at the bottom of the stairs. It's massive, far larger than you expected, with vaulted ceilings supported by pillars carved to look like the seven animals of the sins. A peacock pillar. A lion pillar. A pig, a toad, a goat, a snake, and a snail, all rendered in dark wood that gleams in the candlelight.
The tables are arranged by dorm affiliation. You can tell by the banners hanging above each section: the peacock for Pride, the lion for Wrath, the pig for Gluttony. Students cluster together in their respective groups, and the room hums with the low murmur of conversation and the clink of silverware.
Sunoo guides you toward the Goat section with a hand on your lower back. His touch is light, familiar. You realize with a start that he's performing, that this is what the old Y/N and Sunoo looked like together. Intimate. Comfortable. Two people who shared more than friendship.
You try not to stiffen under his hand. "Relax," he breathes. "You're doing fine."
"I haven't done anything yet."
"Exactly. Keep doing nothing. Nothing is very in-character for her."
The Goat table is populated by students who all share Sunoo's particular brand of effortless beauty. Incubi and succubi, mostly, though you spot a few humans and what might be a siren based on the faint iridescence of her skin. They greet Sunoo with casual waves and lazy smiles. They greet you with something closer to wariness.
Sunoo steers you to a seat at the end of the table, slightly apart from the others. A plate of food materializes in front of you the moment you sit down. You stare at it.
The food is... not what you expected.
The main dish appears to be some kind of meat, but it's faintly blue and glistening. The side dishes include something that looks like purple mashed potatoes studded with silver seeds, and a bread roll that appears to be steaming, except the steam is going downward instead of up. The drink in your goblet is clear, but when you tilt it, the liquid moves in slow motion.
"This is breakfast?" you ask.
"Welcome to Emperion cuisine," Sunoo says cheerfully. "The blue thing is moonhare. It's a delicacy. The purple mash is starroot. The bread is…well, it's bread. Mostly. And the drink is crystallized dawn mist. Very refreshing."
"Refreshing."
"Try it."
You pick up your fork. The moonhare quivers slightly. You cut a small piece and lift it to your mouth. It tastes like someone liquefied a dream and then added salt. You swallow convulsively. Your throat tries to reject it. You manage to keep It down through the knowledge that vomiting at breakfast would probably not be in-character for the old Y/N.
"Good?" Sunoo asks innocently.
"Delicious," you manage. Your voice comes out strangled.
"You're a terrible liar."
"I know. I'm working on it."
You push the moonhare around your plate and focus on the bread instead. The bread, at least, tastes like bread. Normal bread. You tear off pieces and chew slowly while Sunoo launches into what you quickly realize is a prepared lecture.
"The Academy operates on a term system," he says, his voice low enough that the other students can't hear. "Eight terms per year. Each term is four weeks. You've already completed six terms of your third year, which means you have two terms left before the final assessments."
"What are the final assessments?"
"Combat trials. Academic examinations. And the Selection." He pauses. "The Selection is the most important part. It's when the Imperial Division chooses the next seven Deadly Sins. You’re possibly one of the seven."
"One of the seven."
"Obviously. You're one of the strongest sinners in the Academy." He says this matter-of-factly. "Or you were. Before you died. But I don’t think the old Y/N would have go for the Imperial Division, that’s not her style at all."
"Great. No pressure. Again."
"Your schedule is as follows: Sin Theory in the morning, taught by Professor Vex. She's a demon. Don't make eye contact for too long. Then Combat Training with Professor Thornwood, he's a Graveborn, very stern, hates tardiness. Then Basic Hexes and Curses after lunch, which is taught by Professor Willowisp. She's an elf, she's been alive for nine hundred years, and she will know if you haven't done the reading."
"I can't do any of those things."
"You can't do them yet. That's what the extra lessons are for." He spears a piece of moonhare and eats it without flinching. "After classes, I'll teach you the basics. What you should already know. We'll start with magical theory and work our way up to practical application."
"And if I can't learn?"
"Then we're both in trouble." He says it lightly, but his eyes are serious. "This isn't a game, Y/N. If people find out you're not her, it's not just embarrassment. It's dangerous. For both of us."
"I know."
"Do you? Because you keep making jokes."
"I make jokes when I'm terrified. It's a coping mechanism."
Sunoo studies you for a moment. Then his expression softens, just slightly. "Fair enough. Just be careful. Not everyone here is as forgiving as me."
"Are you forgiving?"
"No," he admits. "But I'm on your side. That's almost the same thing."
You're not sure it is. But before you can argue, a voice cuts across the dining hall.
"Y/N!"
The voice is loud and warm. You turn toward it and see a young man weaving through the tables toward you. He's mortal. You can tell immediately, though you're not sure how, something about the way he moves, the way his eyes are just eyes. He has brown hair that flops across his forehead and a smile that takes up his entire face and arms that are already reaching for you before he's even close enough to touch.
"Y/N! You're back! I heard you got hurt and I was so worried and Sunoo wouldn't tell me anything and I thought-" He reaches your table and pulls you into a hug without breaking stride. "I'm so glad you're okay!"
You go rigid. His arms are around you, warm and solid and completely unexpected. He smells like something sweet, honey, maybe, or vanilla. You have no idea who he is. Your arms stay at your sides. Your spine locks up. Your brain, which has been handling the morning's challenges with surprising competence, decides to shut down. You stand there, frozen, while a stranger hugs you like you're his favorite person in the world.
"Um," you say.
The young man pulls back. His smile flickers. "Y/N? Are you okay?"
Say something. Do something. Be mean. Be cold. That's what she would do.
"I'm fine," you manage. "Just tired."
He doesn't look convinced. "Are you sure? You seem..."
"She's recovering," Sunoo cuts in smoothly. He's suddenly at your side, his hand on your elbow. "Magical injury. It's affected her memory a bit. She's still getting her bearings."
"Memory?" The young man's expression shifts to concern. "How bad is it?"
"Nothing permanent. Just some gaps. She'll be fine in a few days." Sunoo's voice is perfectly casual. "Right, Y/N?"
"Right," you echo. "Gaps. Temporary. No big deal."
The young man looks between you and Sunoo. His brow furrows. "You're being weird. Both of you."
"We're always weird," Sunoo says. "Jake, don't you have somewhere to be? Don't you have…what is it you do…eating? Don't you have eating to do?"
Jake. His name is Jake. You file this away frantically.
"I was eating. Then I saw Y/N and came over to say hi." Jake crosses his arms. "Is that a crime now?"
"Technically, yes. New Academy rule. No saying hi to Y/N without written permission."
"There's no such rule."
"I'm proposing it. I have connections."
While they bicker, you study Jake. He's wearing the emblem of the pig on his collar, Gluttony, the Gula dorm. He's mortal, which is rare among the elite students. And he knows you. He knows you well enough to hug you in public, well enough to notice when you're acting strange, well enough to look at you with those worried eyes and make you feel like the worst person in the world for deceiving him.
"We should get to class," Sunoo says abruptly. "Jake, we'll catch up later. Y/N needs to-"
"Wait." Jake reaches out and touches your arm. His hand is warm. "Y/N. If something's wrong, you can tell me. You know that, right? We've known each other since we were kids. You can always tell me."
Childhood friends. This man was the old Y/N's childhood friend. "I know," you say quietly. "Thank you, Jake."
His smile returns, smaller this time but real. "Okay. Good. Come find me later? I missed you."
"I will."
He squeezes your arm once and then heads back to his table, where a plate piled high with food waits for him. You watch him go and feel like the worst kind of fraud.
"Come on," Sunoo murmurs. "Before anyone else decides to check on you."
He pulls you out of the dining hall and into a side corridor. The moment you're out of sight of the other students, you slump against the wall and press your hands to your face.
"That was awful."
"That was fine."
"He knew something was wrong. He could tell."
"Jake always knows. He's perceptive in ways people don't expect." Sunoo's voice is thoughtful. "But he doesn't know what he's perceiving. He just knows something's different. We can work with that."
"Who is he?"
"Jake. Gluttony. Pig dorm. Your oldest friend." Sunoo leans against the wall beside you. "Your families were neighbors when you were children. He's known you since before you got into the Academy."
"Great. So he knows the real me better than anyone."
"He knew the real her. Not the real you." Sunoo tilts his head. "That's an important distinction. The girl he grew up with was already on her way to becoming the nightmare. You're not her. You're something else entirely."
"A worse liar."
"True. But maybe a better person." He pushes off the wall. "Come on. We have time before your first class. I should show you around."
"Wasn't my first class like twenty minutes ago?"
"I told Professor Vex you were still recovering. She was... understanding."
"Understanding? You said she was a demon."
"She is. Demons understand injury. They also understand the importance of appearing strong. She agreed that you shouldn't return to class until you can make a proper entrance." He grins. "See? I'm good at this."
You're not sure if "good at this" means good at lying or good at manipulating demons, but either way, you're grateful. You push yourself off the wall and follow him back into the main corridor.
The Academy tour takes the better part of an hour.
Sunoo shows you everything. The Verity Palace, where most academic classes are held, The Stellar Chamber, an observatory whose ceiling shows a real-time map of the night sky, The library, a multi-story cathedral of books where the shelves rearrange themselves when you're not looking and certain texts are chained to their pedestals with chains that glow faintly red.
"The restricted section is through there," Sunoo says, pointing to an iron gate at the back of the library. "Don't go in without permission. The books bite."
"The books."
"Some of them. Others just scream. It's very distracting."
You file this under "things I wish I'd known before signing up" and keep walking.
The greenhouse is next. It's a massive glass dome filled with plants that move. Some of them turn toward you as you pass, their leaves rustling like whispers. One vine reaches out and tries to grab Sunoo's ankle; he steps over it without breaking stride.
"The Venomous Kiss," he says, gesturing at a flower with petals the color of dried blood. "Beautiful but fatal. Students use it in potions. Carefully."
"What happens if you're not careful?"
"Then you don't make it to graduation."
The tour continues. The Nocturna Dorms, seven buildings arranged in a semicircle around a central courtyard where a fountain sprays water that glows faintly silver. The medical wing, where a harried-looking healer is treating a student whose arm appears to have been temporarily turned into glass. The administrative offices and then the arena.
It's a massive stone amphitheater, open to the purple sky, with tiered seating that could hold the entire student body. The floor is sand, but it's not normal sand, it's darker than it should be, and it shifts occasionally, as if something beneath it is breathing.
And in the center of the arena, a young man is training.
He's tall. Pale. His hair is black as ink and his face is the kind of beautiful that makes your brain skip a beat. He's wearing training clothes instead of the uniform, simple black fabric that clings to his shoulders and arms in ways that seem specifically designed to make thinking difficult. He's holding a sword that appears to be made of crystallized shadow, and he's moving through forms with a precision that is almost hypnotic.
Around the edges of the arena, students have gathered to watch. They're not subtle about it. They're staring openly, whispering to each other, pointing. A few of them are fanning themselves.
"Who is that?" you ask.
"That," Sunoo says, his voice carrying a note of warning, "is Sunghoon. Avaritia. Greed. Your ex-fiancé."
"My what!?"
"Ex-fiancé. You broke up with him last year. Well, the old you did. She said he was boring." Sunoo's tone is carefully neutral. "He's been trying to win her back ever since."
You stare at the young man in the arena. He finishes a particularly complicated sequence, the shadow-sword cutting through the air and pauses. His chest is rising and falling with exertion. His dark hair is slightly mussed. There's a sheen of sweat on his forehead that catches the light from the purple sky and makes him look like a painting come to life.
"Boring," you repeat.
"Her words, not mine."
"She called that boring?"
"Are you okay? You look a little flushed."
"I'm fine. I'm totally fine. I'm just processing the fact that I apparently broke off an engagement with someone who looks like he was carved out of moonlight by a team of very dedicated artists."
Sunoo makes a face. "Please don't romanticize him. It's bad enough that he's been pining for a year. If you start encouraging him-"
In the arena, Sunghoon looks up. His eyes find you instantly, as if he knew exactly where you were standing. As if he always knows where you are. His expression shifts, and a smirk spreads across his face, slow and confident and deeply irritating.
He raises his hand in a wave. And you, operating on pure instinct, raise your hand back. It's small and shy and accompanied by a smile that you didn't give permission to appear.
Sunghoon's smirk falters. His hand freezes mid-wave. His pale cheeks flush slightly, barely noticeable, but you catch it. His eyes widen just a fraction. He looks, for a single moment, completely thrown off balance. Then he recovers, his smirk returning, but it's different now. Softer. Almost uncertain.
You realize what you've done. "Oh no," you whisper.
"Yeah," Sunoo says. He grabs your arm and starts dragging you away from the arena. "Oh no is right."
He pulls you around a corner and into an empty corridor. The moment you're out of sight, he rounds on you with an expression somewhere between exasperation and horror. "What was that?"
"I waved!"
"You waved. You did not just wave. You did a whole thing. You did a shy little wave with a shy little smile and he blushed, Y/N. I have known Sunghoon for three years and I have never seen him blush. He doesn't have enough blood flow for blushing. He's a Graveborn. He's technically dead."
"It was an accident! I panicked! He waved first!"
"Waved? Waved? He was being arrogant. You were supposed to ignore him. That's what the old you would have done. She would have looked at him like he was a piece of furniture and then walked away."
"I don't know how to do that!"
"Clearly."
You press your back against the corridor wall. "I'm going to mess this up. I'm going to mess everything up. I can't do this."
Sunoo sighs, his expression shifting from exasperation to something closer to sympathy.
"You can do this," he says. "You just need to be more careful. Sunghoon is…he's intense. He loved her. The old her. He loved her even when she was cruel to him. If he thinks she's suddenly become soft-"
"Maybe that's a good thing? Maybe people will think she changed after the injury?"
"Maybe. Or maybe they'll think something else happened. Something worse." Sunoo's eyes are serious. "There are people at this Academy who would love to find a weakness in you. In her. If they think you're vulnerable, they'll exploit it."
"So what do I do?"
"You learn. You adapt. And you stop waving at your ex-fiancé like you're in a romance novel."
You groan and drop your head into your hands. "Who is he, anyway? You said ex-fiancé. Why were we engaged?"
"Your families arranged it when you were children. Noble politics. Sunghoon's family is old money, older than yours, actually. The engagement was meant to merge your houses. And then you broke it off because you got bored."
"Bored."
"According to her, he was too sincere. Too devoted. She said it was exhausting being loved that much."
You think about the young man in the arena. The way he looked at you like you were the only person in the world. The way your tiny, accidental wave made him blush.
"That's really sad," you say quietly.
"It's also not your problem." Sunoo stands and offers you his hand. "You're not her. You don't have to love him or hate him or anything in between. You just have to avoid making him suspicious."
"What if he already is suspicious?"
"Then we deal with it. But for now…Let's focus on getting through your first day. One disaster at a time."
"I think I've already had three disasters."
"Those were small disasters. Practice disasters. You haven't even met Jay yet."
"Who's Jay?"
Sunoo's smile turns slightly evil. "He hates you. Well, he hated her. He's going to hate you too, but for different reasons."
"What reasons?"
"Because you won't be able to do any of the things she could do. And he's going to notice." Sunoo pats your shoulder. "Good luck."
You stare at him. "I thought you said you were on my side."
"I am. That doesn't mean your life is going to be easy."
You follow him down the corridor, your mind spinning with new information. Jake, the childhood friend who knows you too well. Sunghoon, the ex-fiancé you apparently broke for no reason. And somewhere out there, Jay, the guy who hates you and is about to discover you can't do magic. You've been in this world for less than twelve hours, and you're already exhausted.
"What was the old me even like?" you mutter. "How did she handle all of this?"
Sunoo glances back at you. "She didn't have to handle it. Everyone was either beneath her notice or a tool to be used. She didn't worry about what people thought because she genuinely didn't care."
"That sounds lonely."
"It was. I think that's why she made the deal with Tristitia." His voice goes quiet. "She wanted power because power was the only thing that made her feel safe. And in the end, it killed her."
"I'm not her," you say finally. "I can't be her. I don't know how to be cold and cruel and untouchable."
"No," Sunoo agrees. "You can't. But you can pretend. And maybe-" He pauses, something flickering in his expression. "Maybe pretending will be enough."
You hope he's right. You really, really hope he's right. Because if he's not, you're going to have a lot more problems than expected.
The rest of the day is a masterclass in improvisation. Your first class, Sin Theory with Professor Vex. Sunoo guides you to the front row before the other students arrive, his hand on your elbow steady.
"The front row?" you hiss. "Why am I in the front row?"
"Because the old Y/N always sat in the front row. She said it was easier to intimidate the professor that way."
"How does sitting in the front row intimidate anyone?"
"Eye contact. Unbroken eye contact. For the entire lecture." Sunoo pats your shoulder. "Good luck."
He retreats to a seat near the back before you can protest. Other students file in, filling the rings around you. You feel their eyes on the back of your head like tiny lasers. You stare straight ahead. Your spine is rigid. Your face is, you hope, expressionless. The old Y/N wouldn't turn around. The old Y/N wouldn't acknowledge the whispers. The old Y/N would sit here like she owned the room and everyone in it.
Professor Vex enters through a side door.She stops when she sees you. Her black eyes fix on your face. "Lady Y/N," she says. Her voice is like silk. "You've returned."
"Professor Vex." You incline your head slightly. Sunoo told you not to make prolonged eye contact. You make exactly two seconds of eye contact and then look at a point just over her shoulder. "I apologize for my absence."
"No apology necessary. Magical injuries are unpredictable." She moves toward her desk, her robes sweeping the floor. "I trust you've recovered sufficiently?"
"Mostly."
"Good. We were discussing the theoretical foundations of cross-affinity contamination. Perhaps you can enlighten the class on the Terullian Paradox?"
You have no idea what the Terullian Paradox is. You have never heard those words in that order. For all you know, the Terullian Paradox is a type of pastry.
But Sunoo, bless his manipulative heart, prepared for this. "I'm afraid my memory is still... fragmented," you say, exactly as he instructed. "The healer advised against intellectual strain for the first few days of recovery. I'm here to observe and reacquaint myself with the material."
Professor Vex considers this. Her black eyes are unreadable. Then she nods slowly. "Very well. Observation is acceptable. I expect you to catch up on the missed material by next week."
"Of course."
She turns to the rest of the class. "The Terullian Paradox, then. Who can explain it?"
A student in the third row raises her hand. You let out a breath you didn't realize you'd been holding.
The lecture continues. You take notes frantically, scribbling down terms you don't understand. Sin magic, you learn, is not just about drawing power from wrongdoing. It's about resonance, the way a sinner's personal sins align with their deity's domain. A wrathful person draws Ira more easily. An envious person channels Vanagloria. The magic shapes the sinner, and the sinner shapes the magic.
It's fascinating. It's also terrifying, because you have no idea what sins you carry or which deity might claim you. If any deity claims you. You still haven't felt the pull Sunoo described. The resonance. The sense of coming home.
The second class is Combat Training with Professor Thornwood. The training ground is an outdoor space adjacent to the arena, covered in the same dark sand that shifts occasionally. Professor Thornwood is a Graveborn, tall and gaunt with hollow cheeks. He speaks in short, clipped sentences and does not appear to be the warmest person (literally).
"Today," he announces, "We practice defensive warding. Partner up. Y/N, you're with me."
You freeze. "Professor?"
"You've been absent. I need to assess what you've retained."
Sunoo, who was already moving toward you, stops in his tracks. His expression flickers with alarm before smoothing into careful neutrality. He catches your eye and mouths something that might be good luck or might be don't die. It's hard to tell.
You walk toward Professor Thornwood. "Defensive ward," Thornwood says. "Basic barrier. Show me."
You raise your hands. You've seen enough movies to know how this is supposed to look. You spread your fingers. You concentrate. You try to feel something, anything, any spark of magic, any pull of sin, any resonance whatsoever.
Nothing happens.
Thornwood waits. The students watch. The dark sand shifts beneath your feet. "Whenever you're ready," Thornwood says.
"I'm-" You lower your hands. "The injury. It's affected my connection. The healer said it might take time."
Thornwood's hollow eyes study you. For a long moment, he says nothing. Then he nods once. "Magical disruption is common after head trauma. We'll focus on physical conditioning instead. Run the perimeter. Ten laps."
The perimeter of the training ground is approximately half a mile. Ten laps is five miles. You haven't run five miles since high school gym class, and even then you walked most of it.
"Of course," you say, because the old Y/N wouldn't complain. The old Y/N would probably run twenty laps just to show off.
You start running. By lap three, your lungs are burning. By lap five, you've developed a stitch in your side that feels like someone is stabbing you with a very small, very persistent knife. By lap seven, you're fairly certain you're going to die a second time, and this death will be even less dignified than the first.
You keep running. The other students have moved on to practicing wards, their barriers shimmering in the air. Sunoo catches your eye as you pass and gives you a sympathetic grimace.
By lap ten, you're barely upright. You stumble to a halt in front of Thornwood, gasping for breath, sweat soaking through your clothes.
"Acceptable," Thornwood says. "We'll work on your stamina. Dismissed."
You nod, not trusting yourself to speak, and stagger toward the edge of the training ground. Sunoo appears at your side with a flask of water. "That was painful to watch," he says.
"That was painful to do."
"At least he bought the injury excuse."
"Is everyone going to buy the injury excuse?"
"Probably not. But we only need it to work for a few weeks." He hands you the flask. "Drink. You look like you're about to collapse."
You drink. The water tastes faintly of something floral, probably not normal water, probably enchanted or blessed or whatever they do to water in this world but it's cold and wet and you're too exhausted to care.
"Next class is Basic Hexes and Curses," Sunoo says. "Professor Willowisp. She's old, she's observant, and she doesn't like excuses. We need a different strategy."
"What strategy?"
"You're going to have a magical flare-up."
"A what?"
"Magical disruption from head trauma can cause unpredictable bursts of power. It's a documented phenomenon." Sunoo's voice takes on a scholarly tone. "If you accidentally destroy something in class, it'll explain why you can't do anything the rest of the time. Everyone will assume your magic is unstable rather than absent."
"Destroy something."
"Nothing important. A desk. A window. Something dramatic but non-lethal."
"How am I supposed to destroy something if I can't do magic?"
Sunoo reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, glass sphere. Inside it, something dark swirls like smoke caught in a bottle.
"Throw this at the ground when I give the signal. It'll create a concussive blast. Very showy. Very convincing."
You take the sphere. It's warm in your palm, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat. "Where did you get this?"
"I have a supplier. Don't worry about it." He glances at the sky. "We have ten minutes before class starts. Try not to drop that before then."
Professor Willowisp's classroom is in the Verity Palace, on the third floor. The walls are lined with jars containing things you'd rather not identify. Professor Willowisp herself is ancient. Nine hundred years old, Sunoo said, and she looks every century of it. When she looks at you, you feel like she's reading your thoughts, which is probably not paranoia given that mind-reading magic almost certainly exists in this world.
"Lady Y/N," she says. "You've returned to us."
"I have, Professor."
"How fortunate. We were just beginning our unit on emotional affliction curses. Perhaps you'd care to demonstrate?"
The class goes very quiet. You grip the glass sphere in your pocket. "I'm not sure that's wise, Professor. My magic has been... unstable since the injury."
"Unstable?"
"Fluctuations. The healer warned me." You're getting better at lying. The words come easier now. "I wouldn't want to accidentally harm anyone."
Willowisp's ancient eyes study you. "A considerate concern. However, this classroom is warded against magical accidents. Whatever happens within these walls will be contained."
She's not going to let this go. She wants to see you do magic. She wants to test you. Sunoo catches your eye from across the room. He gives a tiny nod.
Now.
"Very well," you say. "But don't say I didn't warn you." You walk to the front of the classroom. Your heart is hammering. Your palms are sweating. The glass sphere is warm against your fingers. "What curse shall I demonstrate?" you ask, stalling for time.
"The Despondency Hex. A simple emotional affliction. Target the practice dummy." Willowisp gestures to a mannequin in the corner of the room. You position yourself in front of it, your back to the class.
You take a deep breath. You raise your hands dramatically. You make a show of concentrating, your brow furrowing, your fingers trembling with apparent magical effort. Then you "lose control." You throw your hands wide, stumble backward, and hurl the glass sphere at the ground between you and the practice dummy. The sphere shatters. A wave of force erupts from the impact point, sending the practice dummy flying across the room. The windows rattle. The jars on the walls shake. Several students scream. One desk is knocked over.
When the dust settles, you're on the floor, deliberately, because it sells the performance and the practice dummy is in pieces against the far wall. Professor Willowisp is staring at you. Her expression is unreadable.
"I did warn you," you manage.
For a long moment, no one speaks. Then Willowisp's ancient face creases into something that might be a smile. "Fascinating," she says. "A magical flare-up of considerable intensity. You're excused from practical demonstrations until your condition stabilizes. Please observe from the back of the room."
You pick yourself up off the floor. Sunoo helps you to a seat in the back row, his hand steadying your elbow. "Perfect," he whispers. "Absolutely perfect."
"I almost hit the ceiling."
"But you didn't. And now everyone thinks your magic is dangerously unstable. No one will ask you to demonstrate anything for weeks."
"Great." You slump into your seat. "Weeks of pretending to be magically volatile. This is going to be exhausting."
"Welcome to your new life."
After the final class, Sunoo walks you toward the training grounds. "Classes are done for the day, which means we have time for your first real lesson," he says. "Professor Thornwood might have bought your excuse, but you still need to learn basic combat skills. I'll teach you what I can."
"I thought you said we'd start with magical theory."
"We will. But you also need to know how to defend yourself physically. Magic isn't always available. Sometimes you just need to know how to throw a punch."
You've never thrown a punch in your life. You've been punched, the loan sharks' enforcer had a mean left hook but you've never hit anyone back. The idea of learning how feels strange.
"Wait here," Sunoo says when you reach the training ground. "I need to grab some equipment from storage. Don't talk to anyone."
"Who would I talk to?"
"Anyone. Everyone. You're a magnet for attention. Just stand here and look unapproachable."
He disappears into a nearby building, leaving you alone on the edge of the training ground. You stand there, trying to look unapproachable. It probably looks more like you're constipated.
A shadow falls over you.
"There you are." You turn. Sunghoon is standing behind you, closer than you expected. He's still wearing his training clothes from earlier, though he's added a jacket that makes him look somehow even more put-together. His eyes are fixed on your face with an intensity that makes your stomach do something complicated.
"Sunghoon," you say. Your voice comes out slightly strangled.
"I've been looking for you." He steps closer. You step back. He steps closer again. "You left so quickly this morning. I didn't get a chance to welcome you back properly."
"I was busy. Classes."
"Classes." He says the word like it personally offends him. "You almost die on a mission and your first priority is classes?"
"The old Y/N would have prioritized classes."
"You're the old Y/N." He tilts his head. "Aren't you?"
Danger. Danger. Abort mission.
"Obviously, it’s just sarcasm," you say. "What do you want?"
"What I've always wanted. You." He says it simply, without embarrassment, like he's stating a fact. The sky is purple. The moons are sisters. He wants you. "I've been thinking about us."
"There is no us."
"There was."
"And now there isn't."
"Because you got bored." He doesn't sound angry. He sounds curious. "I've been trying to understand it. You said I was boring. But I remember the way you looked at me. I remember the way you-"
"Sunghoon."
"-responded to me. We were practically married, Y/N. Everyone assumed we'd formalize it eventually. And the physical aspect of our relationship was-"
"Oh my god."
"-extremely satisfying for both of us. You told me so yourself. Multiple times. You were quite vocal about it, actually."
Your face is on fire. "Please stop talking."
"I'm just trying to understand." He takes another step closer, and this time you're backed against the wall of the equipment building and there's nowhere left to retreat. "You ended things without explanation. You said you were bored, but you weren't bored. I know you weren't bored. So what was it?"
"I don't-" You struggle to remember what Sunoo told you. "I just needed space."
"Space." His eyes search your face. "You've had space. You've had a year of space. And now you're back, and you're different."
"I'm not different."
"You are. You waved at me this morning."
"So? People wave."
"You never wave. You used to walk past me like I didn't exist." His voice softens. "Today you waved. And you smiled. A real smile. Not the cold one you used to give me. A real one."
You have nothing to say to that. You can't explain it without revealing everything. So you just stand there, pressed against the wall, your heart pounding and your face burning, while your dead self's ex-fiancé looks at you like you're a puzzle he's desperate to solve.
"You're blushing," he observes.
"I'm not."
"You are. It's charming." He reaches up and brushes a strand of hair from your face. His fingers are cold against your skin. "I've never seen you blush before."
"I hit my head. It damaged my blood Circulation."
"That's not how blood circulation works."
"It's magical blood circulation."
He laughs. It's a soft sound, barely more than an exhale, but it transforms his face. "I've missed you," he says. "Even when you were cruel to me. Even when you ignored me. I've missed you every day."
"Sunghoon-"
"I know you don't want this. I know you don't want me. But I'm not giving up." He leans in, and before you can react, his lips brush against your cheek. It's barely a kiss, light, fleeting, cold and warm at the same time. "One day, I'll convince you to go on a date with me. A real date. And you'll remember why we worked."
He pulls back. Then he turns and walks away, his jacket billowing slightly in the breeze, leaving you pressed against the wall with your hand over your cheek and your brain completely offline.
Sunoo returns approximately thirty seconds later, carrying a bag of training equipment. "Why do you look like you've seen a ghost?" he asks. "You're pale. Paler than usual. What happened?"
"Sunghoon happened."
"What?"
"He came over. He said-" You press your hands to your burning face. "He said they had a very satisfying physical relationship and she was very vocal about it and he kissed my cheek and said he'd convince me to go on a date one day and I just stood there like an idiot because I didn't know what else to do!"
Sunoo drops the training bag. "He kissed you?"
"On the cheek! Just the cheek! But still!"
"Where?"
"My cheek! I just said!"
"No, I mean where were you? Were there witnesses?"
"I don't know! I was too busy having a crisis!"
Sunoo pinches the bridge of his nose. "Okay. Okay. This is fine. Sunghoon has been trying to win her back for a year. It's not suspicious that he's still trying. The cheek kiss is new, but it's not-" He pauses. "Did you respond?"
"I stood there like a statue!"
"Good. That's good. That's in-character. The old Y/N would have been cold about it. Dismissive."
"Sunoo, I think I blushed."
"You what?"
"I blushed. He noticed. He said it was charming."
Sunoo stares at you. Then he closes his eyes and takes a very deep breath. "I'm going to be honest with you," he says. "I don't know how to handle this. Sunghoon is not supposed to be charmed by you. He's supposed to be pining from a distance while you ignore him. That's the dynamic. That's how it's always been."
"Maybe he's just glad I'm not being cold to him anymore?"
"Which is exactly the problem." Sunoo opens his eyes. "The old Y/N was cruel. That's who she was. If you're not cold, people will notice. Sunghoon has already noticed. Jake noticed this morning. How long before everyone notices?"
"What do you want me to do? Start being mean to people?"
"Maybe! I don't know!" He throws his hands up. "I didn't plan for this. I planned for a smooth transition. I planned for you to be cold and distant and slowly warm up over time. I did not plan for you to be accidentally charming your ex-fiancé on day one."
"I wasn't trying to be charming!"
"That's the worst part! You're not even doing it on purpose!"
You both stand there in frustrated silence. "Can we just do the combat training?" you ask finally. "I think I need to hit something."
Sunoo exhales. "Fine. But we're not done talking about this."
The combat training is a disaster.
"Okay," Sunoo says, standing in the center of the training ground with a padded dummy. "The most basic defensive maneuver is the shield ward. It creates a temporary barrier between you and an attack. Even if you don't have an affinity yet, you should be able to produce at least a flicker of one. The theory is simple."
He explains the theory. It involves visualizing your sin energy, whatever that means, and channeling it through your hands into a physical barrier. The barrier doesn't need to be strong. It just needs to exist.
"Go ahead," he says. "Try it."
You raise your hands. You concentrate. You try to visualize your sin energy. Nothing happens.
"Try harder."
You try harder. You scrunch up your face. You push with your mind. You make straining noises that would be embarrassing if you weren't already beyond embarrassment. Nothing happens.
"Maybe try a different approach," Sunoo suggests. "Instead of pushing, try pulling. Imagine drawing energy from the air around you."
You imagine drawing energy from the air. The air does not cooperate. The air, in fact, seems actively uninterested in being drawn from.
"Anything?" Sunoo asks.
"Nope."
"Okay. Let's try a physical approach instead." He gestures to the dummy. "Basic punch. Just hit it."
You punch the dummy. It's not a good punch. Your thumb is inside your fist, which you're fairly certain is wrong. Your wrist bends at an awkward angle. The impact sends a jolt of pain up your arm.
"Ow."
Sunoo stares at you. "Have you ever thrown a punch before?"
"No."
"Ever?"
"I've been punched. Does that count?"
"No. It doesn't." He walks over and adjusts your stance. "Feet shoulder-width apart. Weight on your back foot. Thumb outside your fist, outside, Y/N, not inside. You're going to break your thumb if you punch like that."
"My thumb already hurts."
"Because you punched wrong. Do it again. Properly this time."
You punch again. It's slightly better. Your thumb remains unbroken. The dummy wobbles a little.
"Better," Sunoo says. "Now do it fifty more times."
"Fifty?"
"Muscle memory. Your body needs to learn what your mind already knows. Again."
You punch the dummy fifty times.
"Good," Sunoo says. "Now the other hand."
"The other- are you serious?"
"Most people are right-handed, which means they expect attacks from the right. If you can throw a decent left hook, you'll have an advantage. Again. Fifty times."
You punch the dummy fifty more times with your left hand. Your left hand is even less coordinated than your right. Several punches miss entirely. One hits the dummy's stand and sends a fresh jolt of pain through your wrist.
"I hate this," you announce.
"You hate it because you're bad at it. You'll hate it less when you're good at it."
"Will I ever be good at it?"
Sunoo considers this. "Probably not. But you'll be better than you are now."
"That's not comforting."
"It wasn't meant to be. Again. This time, try a kick."
You kick the dummy. You miss and your momentum carries you around in a full circle. You end up facing the wrong direction with your back to the dummy and your arms pinwheeling for balance.
Sunoo covers his mouth with his hand. His shoulders are shaking.
"Are you laughing at me?"
"No," he says, his voice strangled. "Absolutely not."
"You're laughing at me."
"I'm not. I'm-" A snort escapes him. "Okay, I am. I'm sorry. It's just…you spun. You spun like a top. How did you spin like a top?"
"I don't know! Physics happened!"
"Physics doesn't usually make people pirouette!"
"I wasn't pirouetting!"
"You were definitely pirouetting. If we were grading this, you'd get full marks for artistic impression and zero for technique."
You grab a handful of training sand and throw it at him. He dodges, still laughing, and the sand scatters harmlessly across the ground.
"This is serious!" you protest. "I'm trying to learn how to defend myself!"
"You're right, you're right." He composes himself with visible effort. "I'm sorry. Let's try again. This time, don't spin."
"I didn't spin on purpose!"
"Plant your foot. Keep your weight centered. Kick through the target, not at it."
You try again. This time you don't spin, but your kick connects with the dummy's stand instead of the dummy, and the whole thing topples over. The dummy hits the ground with a thud that echoes across the training ground.
"I'm never going to be able to do this," you say quietly.
Sunoo walks over and rights the dummy. "You're not going to be able to do it today. Or tomorrow. Or probably next week. But eventually-"
"Eventually I'll what? Learn to throw a punch? That's not going to help against witches and demons and whatever else is out there."
"No. But it's a start." He turns to face you. His expression has lost its humor. "Y/N, I know this is overwhelming. I know you feel like you're drowning. But you're not alone. I'm going to help you. We're going to figure this out."
"And if we can't?"
"Then we'll figure out something else." He picks up the training bag. "That's enough for today. Let's go back to the dorm. We have plans tonight."
"Plans?"
"We're going to Malachar. There's someone I need you to meet."
The teleportation stone is a small, flat disc that fits in the palm of Sunoo's hand. "Teleportation stones are rare," Sunoo explains as you stand in his dorm room. "Most people use portals, but portals can be tracked. Stones are untraceable. This one is keyed to a specific location in Malachar, an underground bar called the Rusted Nail. Not the kind of place Academy students usually frequent."
"Then why are we going there?"
"Because the person we need to talk to doesn't frequent Academy-approved establishments."
He presses the stone into your palm and closes his fingers around yours. The stone is warm, warmer than it should be, and the silver veins pulse faster.
"Hold on," he says.
The world dissolves. This time, the teleportation is slightly less disorienting than before. Maybe you're getting used to it. Maybe the stone is smoother than whatever portal Sunoo used earlier. Either way, when your feet hit solid ground, you only stumble a little.
"Where are we?"
"The Undermarket," Sunoo says. "Goblin territory. It's the black market of Malachar. Anything can be bought here if you know who to ask."
"And we're meeting a witch."
"An old contact of mine." He says it casually, but something in his tone makes you look at him sharply.
"An old contact?"
"We used to have an arrangement." He starts walking toward the end of the alley. "She provided certain services. I provided certain payments. It was mutually beneficial."
"What kind of arrangement?"
"The kind that's none of your business."
"Sunoo."
He sighs. "We slept together. Occasionally. It wasn't romantic. She's a witch, I'm an incubus, we both had needs. Are you happy now?"
You're not sure if "happy" is the right word. You're not sure what you're feeling. Surprise, maybe. Curiosity. A strange, uncomfortable twist in your stomach that you decide to ignore. "Is there anyone in this world you haven't slept with?"
"Plenty of people. I'm selective." He grins over his shoulder. "Don't worry. You're not my type."
"I wasn't worried."
"You looked worried."
"I looked curious. It's different."
He doesn't argue, but his grin widens. The Rusted Nail is tucked between a weapons shop and what appears to be a brothel. Its sign is a literal rusted nail. The door itself is iron, heavy and black, and it groans when Sunoo pushes it open. Inside, the bar is dim and smoky. Sunoo approaches the bar and orders two drinks in a language you don't recognize. The bartender, a goblin with one eye and a scar across his throat, grunts and produces two glasses filled with amber liquid.
"Don't drink too much," Sunoo says, sliding one glass toward you. "This stuff is stronger than anything in your world."
You take a cautious sip. It burns going down, but it's not unpleasant. It tastes like honey and smoke and something else, something that makes your head swim slightly. "The witch?" you ask.
"She'll be here soon. I sent word ahead."
You wait. Then the door opens, and a woman walks in. She's wearing robes that are clearly expensive but deliberately understated, and when she sees Sunoo, her lips curve into a smile that's equal parts warmth and wariness.
"Sunoo," she says. Her voice is low and smooth. "It's been a while."
"Mara." Sunoo rises to greet her. They don't embrace, but there's a familiarity in the way they stand close to each other. "Thank you for coming."
"You said it was urgent." Her golden eyes flick to you. "Who's this?"
"A friend. I need information."
"What kind of information?"
"About Tristitia."
Mara's expression doesn't change, but something in the air shifts. "Sit down," Mara says quietly. "And order me a drink." Sunoo signals the bartender. Another glass of amber liquid appears. Mara takes a long sip before speaking. "Tristitia," she says. "You don't ask easy questions, do you?"
"I wouldn't be here if I did."
Mara's golden eyes study you again, more intently this time. "Why do you want to know about the Sorrow?"
"I'm looking for a witch," you say. "One who serves Tristitia. She killed someone important to me."
"Who?"
"Someone I can't name."
Mara is silent for a moment. Then she shakes her head slowly. "I can't help you."
"Why not?"
"Because the Tristitia coven isn't like other covens. They don't operate in the open. They don't trade with other witches. They don't even acknowledge the rest of us exist." She takes another sip of her drink. "Most covens have structure. Hierarchy. Rules. The Tristitia witches are... something else. They answer only to the Sorrow itself, and the Sorrow doesn't share its secrets."
"So you know nothing?"
"I know they exist. I know they're dangerous. I know that anyone who makes a deal with Tristitia ends up dead or wishing they were." She sets her glass down. "That's all anyone knows. The Tristitia coven is a mystery, and it's a mystery that kills people who try to solve it."
You exchange a glance with Sunoo. His expression is unreadable, but you can see the tension in his jaw. "There has to be something," you press. "Any rumor. Any lead. Anything."
Mara considers you for a long moment. Then she leans forward, her voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "There's a place in the Wraithwood. Deep in the forest, some say the Tristitia witches gather there, but no one who's gone looking has ever come back." She sits back. "That's all I have. And frankly, I'm risking my life just telling you that much."
"Why?"
"Because the Sorrow doesn't like being discussed. And the Sorrow's servants don't like people asking questions." She finishes her drink in one long swallow. "My advice? Let it go. Whatever revenge you're looking for, it's not worth what you'll find."
You want to argue. You want to demand more. But Sunoo puts his hand on your arm, a gentle warning. "Thank you, Mara," he says. "We appreciate the information."
"Don't thank me. I didn't give you anything useful." She stands, pulling her hood up over her dark hair. "Be careful, Sunoo. I'd hate to hear you got yourself killed."
"I'm always careful."
"No, you're not. You're just good at surviving anyway." She smiles, but it doesn't reach her golden eyes. "Take care of yourself. And your friend."
She leaves. The door groans shut behind her. The bar resumes its low murmur, the other patrons returning to their drinks and their card games as if nothing happened.
"Well," Sunoo says, "that was unhelpful."
"She seemed scared."
"She was. Mara doesn't scare easily." He stares at his glass for a moment. "The Tristitia coven is even more secretive than I thought. This is going to be harder than I expected."
You watch him. His usual playful mask has slipped, and underneath it you can see something else. Frustration. Worry. Maybe even fear.
"Why do you care so much?" you ask quietly. "About finding this witch?"
He doesn't answer right away. When he does, his voice is softer than you've ever heard it. "Because she killed my best friend. And I couldn't stop it."
"Is that the only reason?"
He looks at you. "What other reason would there be?"
"I don't know. That's why I'm asking."
A long pause. Then Sunoo's mask slides back into place, and he smiles, bright and charming and completely fake. "We came all the way to Malachar," he says. "We might as well enjoy ourselves while we're here. Drink up. The night is young."
An hour later, you're both slightly tipsy. The amber liquid is stronger than you thought. Your limbs feel loose. Sunoo has abandoned his careful composure and is sprawled in his chair, laughing at something you said that wasn't even that funny.
"You're a terrible liar," he says, pointing at you. "Terrible. The worst. You couldn't lie to a rock."
"Rocks can't hear."
"That's how bad you are. You couldn't even lie to something that can't perceive lies."
"I lied to Professor Vex."
"You lied to Professor Vex with a script I wrote for you. That doesn't count."
You laugh. It feels good to laugh. The past two days have been so strange and terrifying that you'd almost forgotten what it felt like.
"Sometimes I think you're not telling me everything," you say.
"I'm not telling you everything. I've been very upfront about that."
"That's not comforting."
"It wasn't meant to be comforting. It was meant to be honest."
You drain the last of your drink. "I don't understand you," you say. "You found a dead body. You stopped time. You recruited a stranger from another universe. You're risking everything to find a witch who might be impossible to find. And you're doing it all with a smile on your face like none of it bothers you."
"It bothers me."
"It doesn't look like it bothers you."
"That's the point." He takes a sip of his drink. "I'm an incubus. We're not supposed to be bothered by things. We're supposed to be charming and carefree and shallow. That's what people expect. That's what people want."
"But it's not who you are."
He doesn't answer. "We should go back," he says. "It's late."
"Okay," you say. "Let's go back."
He pays the bartender with coins. Then he takes your hand and presses the teleportation stone into your palm, and the world dissolves.
Back in Sunoo's dorm room, he collapses onto his bed with a groan. He looks exhausted, not just physically, but something deeper. His skin is paler than usual. His eyes has dimmed.
"Are you okay?" you ask.
"I'm fine. Just... drained."
"Drained how?"
He hesitates. "Incubi need to feed. Emotional energy, physical intimacy. It's been a few days since I've-" He gestures vaguely. "It catches up with me."
"Is that why you look like death?"
"Thank you for that charming description." He pushes himself up on his elbows. "I'll be fine. I just need to find someone. There are usually willing partners in Goat Hall at this hour."
He starts to get up, but you reach out and catch his arm. "Wait." He looks at you. His expression is wary. "You've been helping me all day," you say. "You've been covering for me and teaching me and dragging me across the city to talk to witches. You're exhausted because of me."
"It's not because of-"
"It is. And I haven't done anything to help you." You take a breath. "So let me help you now."
The words hang in the air. Sunoo's eyes widen slightly. "Y/N..."
"I know what I'm offering. I'm not drunk. Well, I'm a little drunk. But I'm not so drunk I don't know what I'm saying." You meet his eyes. "You need to feed. I'm willing. It's the least I can do after everything."
"You don't have to-"
"I know I don't have to. I'm offering." You're blushing again. Your face is definitely on fire. But you don't look away. "The old Y/N did it, right? You said you had an arrangement. So it's not weird. It's not out of character. And you need it."
Sunoo stares at you. For a long moment, neither of you speaks. Then he laughs, a real laugh, surprised and slightly incredulous. "You're something else," he says. "You know that?"
"I've been told."
He sits up fully. His expression is still tired, but there's warmth in it now. "Are you sure?"
"Do I look unsure?"
He considers this. Then he reaches out and cups your face with his hand. His palm is warm. "Tell me to stop," he says quietly, "and I'll stop. At any point. For any reason. Do you understand?"
"I understand."
"I mean it. I don't care if we're in the middle of-"
"I understand, Sunoo."
He looks at you for another long moment. Then he leans in, and his lips meet yours. The kiss deepens, growing hungrier with each passing second. Sunoo's lips move against yours with practiced expertise, his tongue tracing the seam of your mouth before slipping inside. His hands find your waist, pulling you closer until there's no space between your bodies.
When he finally breaks the kiss, both of you are breathing heavily. His eyes, now glowing with renewed energy, lock with yours. "Last chance to back out," he murmurs, though his hands are already sliding under your shirt.
You shake your head, reaching for the hem of your shirt and pulling it over your head. "I'm not going anywhere."
A genuine smile spreads across Sunoo's face as he watches you undress. His own shirt follows, revealing his torso. As he removes his pants, your eyes catch something unusual, a dark, intricate mark on his lower belly, just above his waistline. It looks like a tattoo of swirling patterns that almost seem to move in the dim light.
"That's..." you start, but words fail you.
"The incubus mark," he finishes, noticing where you're looking. "It glows when I'm... well, you'll see."
Before you can respond, he gently pushes you back onto the bed. The mattress dips under your combined weight as he follows, hovering over you. His fingers deftly unhook your bra, tossing it aside before his mouth finds your breast.
Sunoo's lips close around your nipple, his tongue swirling in patterns that make you arch against him. One hand cups your other breast, thumb rubbing circles around the hardened peak while his free hand slides down your stomach, hooking into the waistband of your panties. He doesn't remove them immediately. Instead, his fingers dip beneath the fabric, tracing patterns on your skin that send shivers through your body. You can feel his smile against your breast as he feels your reaction.
"Sensitive," he murmurs against your skin before shifting his attention to your other breast.
When he finally slides your panties down, you're already wet with anticipation. His fingers part your folds, exploring with a familiarity that surprises you. Sunoo's fingers are skilled, moving with a precision that speaks of centuries of practice. He finds your clit immediately, circling it with just the right pressure to make your hips buck. Then he's sliding lower, collecting your wetness on his fingertips before returning to your sensitive bundle of nerves.
"You're so responsive," he whispers, his voice husky with renewed energy. "I can feel your emotions, your pleasure. It's... intoxicating."
As if to demonstrate, he increases the pressure slightly, and you gasp as a wave of pleasure washes over you. His mark begins to emit a soft purple glow, pulsing in time with his movements. "I want to hear you moan," he says, looking up at you with darkening eyes. "Your sounds... they feed me as much as your touch."
His words send another jolt through you, and you can't help but moan as he slides a finger inside you, then another. His thumb continues to work your clit as his fingers curl inside, finding that spot that makes you roll your eyes.
"That's it," he encourages, his own breathing growing heavier. "Let me hear you."
The magic is unmistakable now, each touch seems amplified, each sensation more intense than you've ever experienced. Sunoo shifts, turning you onto your side. He positions himself behind you, one arm wrapped around your waist to keep you close as he enters you with a smooth, practiced motion. The angle is new to you, hitting spots inside you that you didn't know existed.
"Is this okay?" he asks, his voice strained with restraint.
"More than okay," you manage to gasp out.
He begins to move, his hips rolling in a rhythm that has you moaning continuously now. Each thrust sends waves of pleasure through your body, building steadily toward something you've never experienced before. You can feel his mark growing hotter against your lower back, the purple glow intensifying.
"Sunoo..." you moan, reaching back to tangle your fingers in his hair.
He responds with a particularly deep thrust that makes you cry out. His own sounds join yours now, soft whimpers and moans that vibrate against your back. The closer he gets to his own release, the more his mark glows, bathing the room in an ethereal purple light. You've never enjoyed sex like this before. Every nerve ending is alive, every touch electric. You're so wet you can hear it with each movement, the sounds mixing with your moans and his to create a symphony of pleasure.
"I'm close," Sunoo gasps, his movements becoming more erratic.
His hand slides down to your clit again, rubbing in time with his thrusts. That extra stimulation is all it takes to push you over the edge. Your orgasm crashes over you with the force of a tidal wave, your body convulsing with pleasure as you cry out his name. Sunoo follows almost immediately, pulling out at the last second. You feel his warm release against your pussy and inner thighs as he moans your name, his mark flaring brightly before dimming slightly.
Before you can recover, he's shifting again, turning you onto your back and positioning himself between your legs. His eyes meet yours as he lowers his head.
"Sunoo, what-"
Your question cuts off in a gasp as his tongue laps at the mixture of your release and his on your skin. He's thorough, cleaning every drop with an enthusiasm that sends aftershocks of pleasure through your still-sensitive body. When he finally reaches your center, his tongue delves inside, and you arch off the bed. The pleasure is almost too much, too intense, but you don't want it to stop. You can feel him drawing energy from you, not just physical but emotional, the remnants of your pleasure, your contentment, your satisfaction.
With each pass of his tongue, you can see the color returning to his skin, the glow in his eyes brightening. His mark, once again dark, seems to pulse with renewed energy. Finally, when you're spent and trembling, he lifts his head. His face is flushed, his lips glistening, and he looks... healthy. Vital. The exhaustion that had plagued him earlier is gone, replaced by a vibrant energy that makes him seem almost otherworldly.
"Thank you," he says, his voice soft but strong now. "Are you okay for another round?"
You nod, still catching your breath. "Why am I still feeling hot though?"
"Incubi magic." He says with a small smile.
You wake up sore.
Not the pleasant kind of sore that comes from a good workout. Not even the satisfying sore of muscles that have been productively used. This is the kind of sore that makes you question every life choice that led you to this moment. Your thighs ache. Your back protests when you try to move. Sunoo, the absolute menace, is already awake and looking disgustingly fresh. He's perched on the edge of his bed, his bed, which you are still in, because apparently you fell asleep here after last night's... activities, and he's scrolling through something on a thin crystal tablet that seems to function as this world's version of a smartphone.
"Good morning," he says cheerfully. "You look terrible."
"I feel terrible." You attempt to sit up and immediately regret it. "Oh my god. What did you do to me?"
"I did exactly what you asked me to do. Multiple times, if I recall correctly. You were very enthusiastic."
"Was I?"
"Incredibly. It was flattering, honestly. At one point you said-"
"Please don't finish that sentence."
"-something about my eyes being like honeyed starlight. It was very romantic. I didn't know you had it in you."
You grab a pillow and press it over your face. The pillow smells like him, something floral and slightly citrusy. "I was tipsy and under your incubi magic."
"You were two drinks in. That's not tipsy, that's barely buzzed. And my magic doesn’t make people poetic, it just makes them extra horny there’s a difference."
"I wish I was dead."
"That seems extreme." He plucks the pillow off your face. "Come on. We have classes in an hour. You need to shower, eat something, and figure out how to walk without limping."
"I'm not limping."
"You're definitely limping. I saw you try to stand earlier. It was pathetic."
You throw the pillow at him. He catches it without looking, which is infuriating. His reflexes are annoyingly good. Probably an incubus thing. Probably all the feeding he did last night, which, okay, you're not going to think about that. You're not going to think about any of it. You're going to shower and eat breakfast and pretend last night was a normal, reasonable thing that normal, reasonable people do.
Sunoo grins. It's the same grin he wore last night when he first kissed you, equal parts mischief and affection. "You're cute when you're flustered."
"I'm not flustered. I'm sore. There's a difference."
"Whatever helps you sleep at night." He stands and stretches, his shirt riding up to reveal a strip of stomach that you absolutely do not look at. "Bathroom's through there. Use whatever products you want. I recommend the blue bottle for muscle aches. It's enchanted."
"Enchanted how?"
"It makes your muscles stop hating you. Very useful for mornings after."
You stare at him. "Do you have a lot of mornings after?"
"I'm an incubus who lives in the Lust dorm. What do you think?"
"I think I don't want to know."
"Probably wise." He tosses you a towel. "Go shower. I'll get breakfast. You're going to need your strength, we have Potiology today, and Professor Thornwood doubled your conditioning laps."
"He what?"
"I may have mentioned that you were eager to improve your stamina. He was impressed by your dedication."
"Sunoo."
"Yes?"
"I'm going to kill you."
"That's the spirit. Channel that anger. Maybe it'll trigger your Ira affinity."
You throw the pillow at him again. He dodges again. You limp to the bathroom and slam the door.
The shower helps. The enchanted blue bottle helps more. By the time you're dressed and fed and walking (mostly) normally, you've been staring at Sunoo like he murdered your ancestors.
"Why do you keep making that face?" Sunoo asks as you walk toward the Verity Palace.
"What face?"
"That scrunched-up thinking face."
"I don't have a scrunched-up thinking face."
"You absolutely do. It's very endearing."
"I'm not-" You take a breath.
He pauses. "Are you sure you're fine?"
"I will throw you down these stairs."
"That's a no, then."
The first classes are doing strangely great for you. The break between Combat Training and Basic Hexes is when everything starts to go wrong.
You're sitting in the classroom, waiting for Professor Willowisp to arrive, when the door opens and a young man walks in. He's not the professor. He's a student, an elf, you can tell by the pointed ears and the faint luminescence of his skin. He's also, you notice, wearing the emblem of the snake on his collar. Vanagloria. Envy.
"Good afternoon," he says. His voice is smooth and pleasant and somehow makes you feel like you're being evaluated. "I'm here to collect the mid-term consent forms. Professor Willowisp asked me to handle the paperwork before class begins."
Consent forms. You have no idea what consent forms he's talking about. You have no idea if the old Y/N turned hers in. You have no idea what's happening at all. The other students are pulling papers from their bags. You sit frozen, your hands empty, your expression carefully blank.
The elf makes his way around the room, collecting forms from each student. When he reaches your desk, he pauses. "Y/N," he says. "Your form?"
"Right." You don't move. "The form."
"The mid-term consent form for practical hex application. It was due today."
"Of course. The form." You pat your bag, pretending to search for it. "I must have... forgotten it. In my room. The injury. Memory gaps."
The elf's eyes narrow slightly. "You forgot?"
"Temporarily. It'll come back."
"I see." He doesn't sound like he sees. He sounds like he's cataloging this information for future use. "I'll note the late submission. Professor Willowisp may deduct points."
"That's fine. Points are... fine."
He studies you for a moment longer. Then he smiles, a smile that doesn't reach his eyes, and moves on to the next student. You don't realize you've been holding your breath until he's on the other side of the room.
When the elf finally leaves, papers in hand, Sunoo slides into the seat beside you. His expression is carefully neutral. "That was Jungwon," he says quietly. "Student representative. Head of every committee. Controls the flow of information in the Academy like a spider controls a web." Sunoo's voice is low. "And he's suspicious of you."
"I noticed."
"Jungwon doesn't forget things. If he thinks something's wrong with you, he'll dig until he finds out what it is."
"Great." You press your palms against your eyes. "Another person I have to worry about."
"Jungwon is different from Jake or Sunghoon. They care about you. Jungwon cares about leverage. If he figures out you're not the real Y/N, he won't keep it secret out of loyalty. He'll use it."
"So what do I do?"
"Avoid him. Don't give him anything to work with. And for the love of all seven deities, turn in your paperwork on time."
"I didn't know there was paperwork!"
"Now you do." Sunoo squeezes your shoulder. "It's fine. One late form isn't proof of interdimensional identity fraud. Just be more careful."
Potheology is your first class without Sunoo. It takes place in the greenhouse. Sunoo isn't in this class. He's across campus in Advanced Luxuria Theory, which is apparently restricted to incubi and succubi for reasons you don't want to think about. You're on your own for this one. No safety net. No whispered instructions. No one to cover for you if you mess up.
You take a seat near the back, hoping to blend in.
Then Jake walks in. He spots you immediately. His face lights up. "Y/N! You're in this class?"
"Apparently."
"I didn't know you took Potheology. I thought you said potions were beneath you."
The old Y/N said potions were beneath her. Because of course she did. "I changed my mind. The injury. It's given me a new perspective."
Jake's expression softens. "I'm glad. It's nice to have you here." He takes the seat next to you, dropping his bag on the floor. "Fair warning, today's lesson is on aphrodisiacs. Professor Nightshade thinks they're medicinally significant but really she just likes making students uncomfortable."
"Wonderful."
Professor Nightshade enters before Jake can elaborate. She surveys the class with the expression of someone who has seen everything and been disappointed by most of it.
"Aphrodisiacs," she announces without preamble. "Contrary to popular belief, they are not recreational substances. They are medically significant compounds used to treat a variety of conditions, including emotional trauma, sensory deprivation, and certain types of magical damage. Today you will learn to brew a basic desire tincture. The instructions are on your desks. Begin."
You look at the instructions on your desk. Moonbloom petals. Siren's tear essence. Crushed firepearl. Powdered duskwing moth. You have no idea what any of these things are.
"Need help?" Jake asks.
"No," you say automatically. Then, because you're trying to be better at accepting help: "Actually, yes. The injury. I'm having trouble remembering the... ingredient properties."
Jake's face softens even further. "Of course. Here, let me show you."
He walks you through the brewing process step by step. "The key is the proportions," Jake explains, his hands steady as he measures ingredients. "Too much moonbloom and it's basically a love potion. Too much firepearl and it's just... spicy. You want balance."
"Right. Balance."
"You're doing Great."
You're not doing great. Your tincture is a muddy brown color while Jake's is a shimmering rose gold. But you're following instructions and not actively setting anything on fire, which feels like a victory. By the end of class, you've produced something that might technically qualify as an aphrodisiac. It's lumpy and it smells slightly burnt, but Professor Nightshade passes by your station with only a raised eyebrow and a muttered "acceptable."
"See?" Jake says, beaming. "Told you you could do it."
"Thanks to you."
"That's what friends are for." He packs up his supplies while you do the same. "Hey, do you want to study together later? I know you've been spending a lot of time with Sunoo since you got back, but I thought maybe we could-"
"Actually, I'm going to the library after this. Sunoo said I should catch up on magical theory."
"Oh." Jake's face falls slightly. "Okay. Maybe another time?"
"Definitely."
He brightens. "Great! I'll hold you to that."
You feel a twinge of guilt as he leaves.
The Delictum Academy library is, as Sunoo mentioned during your tour, a multi-story cathedral of books with shelves that rearrange themselves when you're not looking. You find a seat in a quiet corner and pull out the list Sunoo gave you. Magical Theory for Beginners. A History of Sin Magic. It's a lot of reading. It's more reading than you've done in your entire college career combined.
But you need to understand this world. You can't keep faking your way through classes forever. Eventually, someone is going to ask you a question you can't deflect, and you need to have an answer ready. You start with A History of Sin Magic, Volume I. By the time you finish the third chapter, your eyes are starting to glaze over. You need a break. You need to stretch your legs. You need to-
You need to find information about Tristitia.
It's been lurking in the back of your mind all day, ever since last night's meeting with Mara. The Tristitia coven is a mystery. No one knows anything about them. But this is a library. Libraries have information. Libraries have records. Maybe there's something here that no one's thought to look for.
You glance around the reading room. The other students are absorbed in their own work. The librarians are busy at the front desk. No one is watching you.
You stand up, leaving your books on the table, and slip between the shelves. Tristitia is something else, a deity outside the sanctioned system, forbidden and dangerous. If there's information about it, it wouldn't be in the main sections. It would be in the restricted area.
You find the iron gate Sunoo pointed out during your tour. It's at the back of the library, tucked behind a row of shelves that seem to have been deliberately arranged to obscure it. You try the gate. It's locked.
Of course it's locked. You didn't expect it to be unlocked. But you also didn't come all the way here just to give up at the first obstacle. There has to be another way in. A side door. A gap in the wards. Something.
You circle the perimeter of the restricted section, looking for weaknesses. And then you see it. A gap in the shelves. Not a door, exactly, but a space where two shelf units don't quite meet. It's narrow, barely wide enough for a person to squeeze through and it's partially hidden by a tapestry. You check your surroundings. Still no one watching. Still no one paying attention.
You slip through the gap.
The restricted section is darker than the main library. You move carefully between the shelves, reading the labels. None of them mention Tristitia by name. None of them even hint at the Sorrow. You spend what feels like an hour searching. But nothing specifically about Tristitia. Nothing about its coven. Mara was right. The Tristitia coven is a mystery, and it's a mystery that doesn't want to be solved.
Frustrated, you slip back through the gap and return to your table. You came to this library hoping for answers, and all you found was more questions.
"Y/N!"
You look up. Jake is hurrying toward your table, something clutched in his hand. "Hey," you say, closing your book. "What are you doing here?"
"You left this in the greenhouse." He holds up the vial of your lumpy aphrodisiac. "I thought you might want it. Professor Nightshade said it was acceptable, which is basically an A in her class."
"Oh. Thanks." You take the vial from him. It's still warm from the greenhouse. "You didn't have to track me down for this."
"I wanted to." He grins. "Also, I was hoping to convince you to take a study break. You've been in here for hours. Your brain needs rest."
"My brain is fine."
"Your brain is going to turn to mush if you keep reading magical theory without breaks. Trust me. I've seen it happen."
"That's not a real thing."
"It's absolutely a real thing. Last year, a fifth-year tried to read the entire Terullian Principles in one sitting and his brain literally liquefied. They had to call a healer."
"You're making that up."
"Maybe. But do you want to risk it?"
You laugh despite yourself. Jake has a way of making everything feel lighter. Less serious. He's the opposite of Sunoo's calculated charm, he's just genuinely, effortlessly warm.
"Fine," you say. "A short break."
"Yes!" He pumps his fist. "Okay, so there's this spot in the greenhouse I want to show you. There's a plant that only blooms during the false dawn, and if you time it right, you can see-"
He's gesturing enthusiastically as he talks, his hands moving in wide arcs. One of those arcs catches the aphrodisiac vial, still balanced precariously on the edge of the table.
Time slows down. You see the vial tip. You see Jake's face shift from excitement to horror. You see his hand reach out, too late, as the vial tumbles off the table and hits the floor.
It shatters. The liquid inside, your lumpy, "acceptable" aphrodisiac spreads across the stone floor in a shimmering puddle. And the smell that rises from it is... intense. Floral and spicy and something else, something that makes your head swim and your skin prickle.
"Oh no," Jake breathes.
"What?"
"That's the aphrodisiac. The concentrated aphrodisiac. And we just-" He gestures at the puddle, then at the two of you, standing directly over it. "-inhaled a lot of it."
"How much is a lot?"
"I don't know. I've never-" He swallows. "Do you feel anything?"
You open your mouth to say no, of course not, you feel fine. But the words don't come out. Because you're suddenly very aware of the fact that you don't feel fine. You feel warm. Too warm. Your skin is tingling, and your heart is beating faster than it should be, and when you look at Jake, really look at him, you notice things you didn't notice before. The way his hair curls slightly at the ends. The way his eyes catch the light. The way his uniform fits across his shoulders.
This is bad.
"I feel something," you admit.
"Me too." Jake's voice is slightly higher than usual. "Okay. Okay, this is fine. Aphrodisiacs are temporary. The effects wear off. We just need to-"
He's interrupted by voices. Loud voices, coming from the direction of the library entrance.
"-absolutely unacceptable. The restricted section has been accessed without authorization."
"I'm aware, Headmaster. We're investigating."
Professors. Multiple professors. And they're heading this way. If they find you here, standing over a shattered aphrodisiac vial, clearly affected, alone together-
"We need to hide," Jake hisses.
"Where?"
"I don't know! Somewhere!"
He grabs your arm and pulls you between the shelves. The voices are getting closer. You can hear footsteps now, heavy and purposeful. The professors are searching the library, and they're going to find you if you don't find cover immediately.
Jake's eyes dart around wildly. Then they land on something, a panel in the wall, barely visible, half-hidden behind a bookshelf. "There!" He pushes against the panel, and it swings open to reveal a small, dark compartment. "In here!"
There's no time to argue. No time to think. You dive into the compartment, and Jake dives in after you, and the panel swings shut behind you just as the professors round the corner. The compartment is tiny. Cramped. It was clearly designed for storage, not for people. There's barely enough room for one person, let alone two people to hide.
You and Jake are pressed together in the darkness, your bodies flush against each other. It takes you a moment to realize what position you've ended up in. Your head is down near his legs. Your rear end is... somewhere near his face.
"Is your-" Jake's voice comes out strangled. "Is your- are you-"
"What?"
"Your... ass. It's on my face."
You close your eyes. You want to die. You want the floor to open up and swallow you. You want to go back in time and never come to this library, never brew this aphrodisiac, never agree to hide in this horrible, tiny compartment.
"I'm aware," you manage.
"Okay. Okay, that's- that's fine. This is fine. Everything is fine."
"Stop saying everything is fine."
"I can't. If I stop saying it, I'll start screaming."
The voices are right outside now. You can hear them clearly through the thin wall of the compartment. "-no sign of the intruder. The restricted section appears undisturbed."
"Keep searching. The wards were triggered. Someone was here."
You hold your breath. Jake holds his breath.The aphrodisiac is definitely still burning. You can feel it. Every point of contact between your body and Jake's is electric, heightened, overwhelming. The warmth of his chest. The press of his hands on your hips, trying to steady you. And from the way his breathing keeps catching, from the way his fingers are gripping your hips a little too tightly, you're pretty sure he's feeling it too.
"This is bad," you whisper.
"Very bad," he agrees.
"The aphrodisiac-"
"I know."
"It's making me-"
"I know. Me too."
You both fall silent. The professors are still outside, their footsteps heavy on the stone floor. The compartment is still dark, still cramped, still unbearably warm. And the aphrodisiac is still working its way through your bloodstream, turning every accidental touch into something more. Jake shifts slightly, trying to find a more comfortable position. You bite your lip to keep from making a sound.
"Sorry," he breathes.
"It's fine."
"It's not fine. Nothing about this is fine." A pause. "Can I just say, for the record, that this is not how I imagined my evening going?"
"You imagined your evening?"
"I imagined a lot of things. None of them involved hiding in a closet with my childhood best friend's ass on my face."
"Can we stop talking about my ass?"
"I would love to stop talking about it. Unfortunately, it's very present."
You would laugh if you weren't so mortified. You would cry if you weren't so pent up. The aphrodisiac is reaching its peak, you can tell, the warmth is spreading through your entire body now, pooling low in your stomach, making your thoughts hazy and your skin hypersensitive. And Jake is right there. His body warm and solid and smelling like honey and vanilla and something else, something that the aphrodisiac is making you notice far too intensely.
"Y/N," Jake says. His voice is strained. "We might have a problem."
"What kind of problem?"
"The kind of problem that is... physically manifesting."
It takes you a moment to understand what he means. When you do, your face burns so hot you're surprised the compartment doesn't catch fire.
"Oh," you say.
"Yeah."
"That's- that's the aphrodisiac."
"I know."
"It's not- you're not-"
"I know. But my body doesn't know. My body thinks-" He cuts himself off with a strangled sound. "Can you please stop shifting?"
"I'm not shifting!"
"You're shifting! Every time you move, your-"
The compartment door rattles. You both freeze.
"Is someone in there?" a voice calls out. One of the professors. Right outside. Right there.
You don't breathe. He doesn't breathe. The compartment is silent, and dark, and so hot that you're both sweating, and the aphrodisiac is still pulsing through your veins, and this is quite possibly the worst moment of your entire life.
The footsteps move away. The voices fade. "Must have been a false alarm. The old wards are too sensitive."
"We'll check again in the morning." The footsteps retreat. The library falls silent.
You don't move. Jake doesn't move. The two of you stay frozen in the darkness, pressed together, hearts racing, the remnants of the aphrodisiac still singing through your blood.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Jake speaks. "We should probably-"
"Yeah."
"Wait until we're sure they're gone."
"Yeah."
The silence stretches, thick and heavy in the darkness. You can still hear some faint voices.
"We should..." Jake starts, his voice a strained whisper. "We should try to stay still. Control our breathing. It'll pass faster if we don't... feed it."
You nod. Control. That's a good idea. A rational idea. You try to focus on your breath, pulling in slow, steady inhales and pushing them out. But every time you breathe in, you fill your lungs with Jake's scent, all amplified by the potion into something intoxicating, something that makes your mouth water. The heat inside you isn't fading. It's building. It pools in your stomach, a low, heavy ache that spreads downwards, between your thighs. You can feel a dampness gathering there, a slick warmth that has nothing to do with sweat and everything to do with the man pressed against you.
Jake shifts, a tiny, aborted movement meant to create space, but it only makes things worse. His hips roll forward, just slightly, and the hard line of his erection drags against the right side of your face. A gasp tears from your throat before you can swallow it.
"Sorry," he grits out, his voice tight. "I'm sorry. I'm trying."
"I know," you whisper back, your own voice shaky. "Me too."
His hands are still on your hips, his fingers gripping you through the fabric of your uniform skirt. You can feel the heat of them even through the layers of cloth. You want him to move them. You want him to take them away. You want him to slide them under your skirt and press them directly against your skin. The thought is so shocking, so potent, that it makes you dizzy. You're not supposed to be thinking about his hands on your bare skin.
You feel one of his hands move. It slides slowly, tentatively, from your hip to the hem of your skirt. His knuckles brush against the back of your thigh, and you shudder, a full-body tremor that you can't control.
"Y/N," he breathes, his voice right next to your ear, a puff of hot air that makes you clench. "I can’t hold back anymore."
You don't say anything. Screw your inhibition. You just press back against him, a silent, involuntary plea. He takes it as permission. His fingers hook under the waistband of your tights. He pauses for a second, giving you one last chance to refuse. You don't. You hold your breath, your entire body tensed in anticipation. Slowly, carefully, he peels the tights down, followed by your underwear. The fabric whispers down your legs, bunching around your knees. The cool air of the compartment hits your heated flesh, and you gasp.
"Jake," you whisper, his name a ragged sound. "What are you-"
And then you feel something else. It's the wet, heat of his tongue, tracing a slow, deliberate line up your inner thigh. You bite down hard on your lip to keep from crying out. The sensation is overwhelming, a jolt of pure pleasure that shoots straight to your core. He does it again, on the other thigh, his movements slow and unhurried, as if he has all the time in the world. His thumbs part your folds, exposing you completely to him. And then his mouth is on you.
Not a tentative lick, but a firm, confident press of his lips against your most sensitive spot. A choked moan escapes your lips.
"Quiet," he whispers against you, the vibration of his voice sending another shockwave through you. "We have to be quiet."
You nod frantically, trying to focus, to muffle the sounds he's pulling from you, but it's impossible. He starts to move his tongue, and all rational thought dissolves. He's not rushing. He's exploring. He licks around your clit, tracing the shape of it. He dips down, gathering your wetness on his tongue before circling your entrance, teasing you with shallow thrusts that make you buck back against him. The aphrodisiac is amplifying everything, turning every flick of his tongue into a bolt of lightning, every slow lap into a wave of fire.
He builds a rhythm, a slow, maddening tempo that has you climbing higher and higher. He alternates between broad, flat strokes that cover your entire core and sharp, precise flicks of his tongue directly on your clit. It's too much and not enough. You can feel the pressure coiling in your stomach.
You're lost in it. Your mind is blank, filled only with the feeling of his mouth on you, his hands on your hips, the scent of his skin. And then, through the haze of pleasure, a new thought surfaces. Your own hands begin to move. You fumble in the darkness, your fingers searching for the button of his trousers. You find it, your knuckles brushing against the hard length straining against the fabric. He groans against you, a low, guttural sound that vibrates through your entire body.
Your fingers are clumsy, shaking with a combination of the aphrodisiac and your own rising desire. You manage to undo the button. His erection springs free, hot and heavy in your hand. You wrap your fingers around him, and he hisses, his hips jerking forward. You stroke him once, twice. A bead of moisture gathers at the tip, and you swipe at it with your thumb. He shudders.
You shift your position slightly, Until you can take him into your mouth. The taste is clean and salty. You hollow your cheeks, sucking gently, and he rewards you with another groan, the sound muffled against your skin. This is it. This is the breaking point. You're pleasuring him while he pleasures you, a tangle of limbs and mouths in the suffocating darkness. Every time he flicks his tongue, you tighten your grip on him. Every time you take him deeper into your mouth, his own movements become more frantic.
You have to swallow your moans, muffle your cries against his skin. He has to muffle his groans against you. The sounds you do make are choked, breathless, desperate. The pressure inside you is almost unbearable now. You're so close. You can feel the orgasm building. Jake seems to sense it too. He focuses his attention, his tongue working faster, harder, with a devastating precision. He slides one hand from your hip, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing in tight, circles as his tongue continues its assault. That's all it takes. The wave breaks and your orgasm crashes over.
𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞 : fluff, slight angst, smut (MDNI)
𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 : swearing, mention of depression, mention of violence, blood, mention of drugs, unprotected sex, p in v, oral sex (m, f receiving), fingering, creampie, kissing, jealousy, ni-ki is clingy
𝐰𝐜 : 23.2k
𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓─── (lyrics are all related to the story)
♪ Best Mistake - Ariana Grande ft. Big Sean
♪ better off - Ariana Grande
♪ Break From Toronto - PARTYNEXTDOOR
♪ everytime - Ariana Grande
♪ GREENGREENGREEN - Chase Atlantic
♪ Is There Someone Else? - The Weeknd
♪ Tidal Wave - Chase Atlantic
♪ Agora Hills - Doja Cat
♪ Hold Me Tight - BTS
♪ Focus - H.E.R
♪ Deep - Summer Walker
♪ PERSIAN RUGS - PARTYNEXTDOOR
‼ 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐍𝐎𝐖 : Best Mistake - Ariana Grande ft. Big Sean
2 years, 4 months and 11 days.
That's how long it's been since the news report. Since the photo of his face flashed across the screen and the words ‘body not recovered’ carved themselves into your brain like a tattoo. The case went cold after six months. ‘Settled on hold’ they called it. It was just an excuse to cover the fact that no one knows anything and no one is looking anymore. You stopped checking the news after the first year, you stopped hoping after the 18th month. Somewhere around the 20th month, you finally admitted it to yourself in the dark of your bedroom, staring at the ceiling : he's not coming back. He's dead. The depression came in waves when it started. After weeks, it became the tide, always there, pulling at your ankles even on the good days. You went to class, you graduated, you found a job you don't hate. Nevertheless, you never went on a single date and never let anyone touch you.
Jess tried in the beginning. She'd send you dating app profiles, drag you to parties or set you up with "nice guys" who had steady jobs and good personalities. You'd go through motions, but your heart was a locked door and you'd lost the key somewhere in the back of that black Camaro. She stopped trying about a year ago because she realized you needed something different.
──────
The airport is crowded. You're standing near the arrivals gate, holding a sign you made as a joke, "WELCOME BACK, LOSER", because Jess texted you that she missed your stupid face and you figured you'd match the vibe. Her flight from London landed 20 minutes ago. You watch the glass doors slide open and shut at least 2 times, each time releasing a new wave of tired travelers dragging suitcases.
You finally spot her. Jess's hair is shorter. She's wearing a leather jacket you've never seen before. She looks older in a way that suits her, making her look more mature than she was before. When she spots you, her face breaks into a grin you'd know anywhere and she drops her carry-on right there in the middle of the terminal to run at you. You barely catch her.
"Oh my God," she says into your shoulder, squeezing tightly. "You're real. You're actually here."
"Where else would I be?"
"I don't know. I've been gone for a year. I thought you might have turned into a ghost."
"Only on the inside."
She pulls back and stares at your face. Her eyes search yours, and you know she's cataloging the changes, your dark circles that never went away, the weight you lost and never gained back, and most importantly, how you don’t smile like before.
"You look good," she says softly.
"You almost look the same." You smile weakly.
She grabs her bags and you walk out into the cold air. Her car is in short-term parking, she left it at your place before she flew out, and you've been driving it once a week to keep the battery alive.
"I missed this," she says, settling into the passenger seat. "I missed you…and the shitty weather."
"You've been in London. The weather there isn't exactly better than here."
"Yeah, but still, it's different when it's yours."
You pull out of the parking garage and head toward her apartment. The city hasn't changed much in a year. Jess fills the silence with stories ; her flatmates, her job, a guy she dated for two months who turned out to have a girlfriend in Manchester. You listen and nod. She doesn't ask about you yet. She's waiting for the right moment, and you appreciate that more than she'll ever know.
──────
Her apartment is exactly how she left it, with plants dead on the windowsill, mail stacked on the kitchen counter, a blanket still draped over the couch from the night before she flew out. You help her drag her suitcase inside and she immediately goes for the bottle of wine she left in the fridge.
"Emergency stash," she says, twisting off the cap. "I knew I'd need it."
You take a glass and she takes the whole bottle. She kicks off her shoes and collapses onto the couch, patting the spot next to her. You sit. The wine tastes cheap but it’s warm enough to make you feel something.
"Okay," she says, not looking at you. "I have news."
"Good news or bad news?"
"Hmmm, it depends on how you feel about change."
You wait. She takes a long sip from the bottle.
"I'm getting married."
The words hang in the air. You blink at her.
"What?"
"In two weeks. Alex proposed to me. I picked out the ring and organized everything. I'm freaking out."
Alex. You've met him twice. He's fine. Tall, quiet, works in finance. He makes Jess laugh, which is really the only standard that matters.
"You're getting married, like, at 23?" you say slowly.
"Yeah? Why not? I mean, I feel like there’s no proper age to do that." She sets the bottle down and turns to face you, pulling her knees up. "And I need you, emotionally. For support. Because this is huge and I'm terrified. I can't do it without my best friend."
Your throat tightens. "Jess."
"I know you've been through hell. I know you're not okay and I'm not asking you to pretend to be okay for me." Her voice cracks. "I'm just asking you to be there. That's all."
You reach over and take her hand. Her fingers are cold from the wine bottle.
"I'll be there," you say. "Obviously I'll be there."
She exhales like she's been holding that breath for a year. "Thank you."
The wine loosens things after a while. She tells you about the after-wedding plan, a hike at sunset, a picnic, etc. You tell her about your job, about the cat you adopted six months ago, his name is Miso, about the therapy you started and stopped and started again.
She doesn't bring up Ni-ki and you don't either. The ghost quietly sits between you anyway.
"So," she says, refilling your glass even though it's still half full. "We need to talk about the honeymoon."
"You're planning the honeymoon before the wedding?"
"Alex’s family is really intense. I need something to look forward to." She pulls out her phone, scrolling through a notes app. "We're thinking maybe Europe. Or East Asia. He really wants to try Japan."
"Japan?"
"Yeah. Tokyo, Kyoto, everything. He's obsessed with the food." She shrugs. "I'm not opposed. It's supposed to be beautiful."
You nod, staring at your wine. "It is. I've heard."
"And here's the thing." She puts her phone down and looks at you. "I want everyone there. The whole group : Jay, Jake, Jungwon, all of them. I want them to be groomsmen. And I want you to be my maid of honor, obviously."
Your heart aches.
"And," she continues, "I want to take them on the honeymoon. Alex's bringing his friends too. We're thinking maybe a big trip for, I don’t know, 10 days. Everyone together."
You stare at her. "You want to bring your friends on your honeymoon ?"
"It's not a honeymoon ‘honeymoon’. It's a post-wedding celebration trip. We'll call it something else." She grins. "Come on, it’ll be fun. You, me and the guys. In Japan."
Jake, Jay and Jungwon. All the names you've been avoiding for two years because they remind you of him. Jess sees something shift in your face. Her smile fades.
"You don't have to decide now," she says quietly. "Just think about it."
You pick up your wine and take a long drink. The apartment is quiet now.
"Okay," you say finally. "I'll think about it."
Jess leans her head on your shoulder. The weight of her is familiar and warm. "Hey," she says. "We're gonna be okay. You and me."
As hours passed, the wine bottle is empty. The second one is halfway there. You're both on Jess's living room floor now, surrounded by takeout containers and the crumpled bags from the face masks she insisted on. The sound of the TV playing in the background.
Jess is on her stomach, chin propped on her hands, feet kicked up behind her. You're leaning against the couch, legs stretched out.
"I have an idea," Jess says. The wine has made her voice loose and excited.
"Oh please—"
"Hear me out." She sits up cross-legged, her hair falling out on her face. "My wedding dress came in last week. It's in my closet, in the garment bag."
You blink at her. "You want me to look at it?"
"I want you to try it on."
"Jess. That's your wedding dress."
"Yeah, and you're my maid of honor. I want to see what it looks like on someone who isn't me." She's already scrambling to her feet, grabbing your hand. "Come on, it's not weird. People do this."
"Do they?"
"They do in movies."
You let her pull you up, arguing with Jess when she's like this is like arguing with a wall. She drags you to her bedroom, flips on the light and dramatically unzips the closet. The garment bag is white, obviously. It hangs in the center like it's the star of a one person show. Jess unzips it slowly and steps back. The dress is simple. You expected lace and layers, but it's clean, made of satin, off-the-shoulder, with a silhouette that hugs and then flows. It's elegant, it’s very Jess.
"I'm going to cry," you say.
"Not yet you idiot. Try it on first, then you can cry." She pulls the dress off the hanger and holds it out to you. You hesitate for only a second before taking it.
"You need help with the zipper?"
"Yeah I think."
You strip down to your underwear in front of her closet mirror, the way you've done a hundred times in dorm rooms and shared apartments. The dress slides over your head, cold and heavy, and settles against your body. It's a little loose in the chest, a little long, but it fits better than it has any right to. Jess steps behind you and pulls the zipper up. Her fingers are warm against your spine.
"Okay," she says. "Look."
You turn to face the mirror. The woman staring back at you doesn't look like yourself. She looks like someone who could get married, who could stand at an altar and make promises and whose heart isn't buried in a cold case file somewhere.
"You look beautiful," Jess says quietly.
You don't answer as you can feel your throat tightening. She wraps her arms around you from behind, resting her chin on your shoulder, and the two of you stand there in the silence of her bedroom, staring at your reflection in her wedding dress.
"He would have wanted you to be happy," Jess whispers. You close your eyes. You don't know what Ni-ki would have wanted. You never got to ask. All you have left are the things he didn't say and all the times he pushed you away.
"Maybe," you say. "I don't know."
Jess squeezes you tighter. "Well, I want you to be happy, and I'm not dead. So listen to me."
A laugh cracks out of you. You lean back into her.
"Okay," you say.
She lets go and spins you around by the shoulders. "Now help me take this off before I cry and ruin the satin." She unzips you. You step out of the dress and hangs it back in the closet, zipping the garment bag like you’re putting a secret away. She grabs your hand and pulls you back to the living room where the wine is waiting.
You just drink the rest of the bottle and fall asleep on her floor, tangled in blankets, holding onto each other like you're the only two people left in the world who understand what it means to lose something and keep going anyway.
──────
‼ 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐍𝐎𝐖 : better off - Ariana Grande
It’s the morning of the wedding. You're standing in the corner of the bridal suite, holding a glass of champagne you haven't touched, watching six women in matching silk robes run around like the building is on fire. Jess is in the center of it all, calm as a lake, while her mother fusses with her veil and her sister chases down a missing earring. You should be helping because you're the maid of honor. Your job is to fix things and fetch things and tell Jess she looks beautiful every three minutes. However you can't stop staring at her. She's radiant. Seeing her genuinely happy wants to make you cry so much.
"Y/N." Jess catches your eye in the mirror. "You're going to make me cry if you keep looking at me like that."
"Sorry." You blink and take a sip of your drink. "You just look—"
"Don't say beautiful, everyone's said beautiful."
"Like you're exactly where you're supposed to be."
Her face softens. She reaches out and grabs your hand, squeezing once. You two don’t even have to communicate to understand each other.
The ceremony is outside, under a wooden arch wrapped in white flowers. The sky is bright blue, it nearly makes you believe in good omens. You walk down the aisle first, alone, because Jess wanted it simple. The groomsmen are already up front ; Jay, Jungwon, Alex's two brothers, and Jake. He smiles when he sees you. His suit is navy and his tie slightly crooked. You fix it when you reach your spot, because someone has to, and he mutters ‘thanks’ under his breath. Afterward the music changes so everyone stands. Jess appears at the end of the aisle, her father's arm linked through hers and the whole world goes quiet. You don't cry during the vows, you had to hold it together, but when Jess looks at Alex and says "I knew it was you from the beginning," something cracks behind your ribs and it’s not for her.
──────
Finally, the reception. It’s in a simple but well-decorated barn. The tables are decorated with wildflowers and tea candles. The DJ is playing something slow while people finish their dinner. You're seated between Jungwon and a cousin of Alex's whose name you've already forgotten. You push food around your plate and drink two glasses of wine, not more, and you try to force a laugh at every joke you didn’t quite understand.
Jake is across the room, at the groomsmen's table, talking to Jay with his hands. He catches you looking and raises his glass and you raise yours back.
It's past ten and the dance floor turns into a mess. Someone started a conga line, Jess is barefoot, her dress hiked up as she’s laughing so hard she's crying. Alex is trying to keep up but he's stepped on three people's feet.
You slip outside. The air is cool enough to make you relax for a bit. You find a bench near the fence line, away from the lights and the noise, and you sit. The moon is half-full, crickets are doing their thing. You just feel the bench shift when he sits down.
"Hey," Jake says.
"Hi."
He's loosened his tie. His sleeves are rolled up. His forehead is glistening with sweat.
"You okay?" he asks.
"Fine. I just needed air."
He nods, staying quiet. That's what you've always liked about him. He knows when to speak or not. For a while, you just sit there, the music from the inside is muffled, you’re just hearing bass notes and occasional cheers.
"I miss him too, you know ?" Jake says quietly. You can’t look at him.
"I know, I think everyone does."
"Like, not the way you do, obviously." He runs a hand through his hair. "But I think about him. I mean—Random stuff. And that stupid exhale thing he did when he laughed."
You smile despite yourself. "The nose thing."
"Yeah, the nose thing." Silence stretches between you. "I ran into someone last month," Jake says. "At a bar. It was a guy who knew some guys who knew some guys. And…he said he heard that Ni-ki might still be alive."
Your heart stops.
"Jake."
"I know, I know. It's probably nothing and people like to talk." He turns to look at you, and his eyes are sad, you’ve never seen him like this before. "But I thought you should know. Even if it's just a rumor and even if it's bullshit." You stare at the barn, at all those people dancing without knowing what happened 2 years ago.
"Why are you telling me this?" Your voice sounds far away.
"Because you've been waiting." He says it simply like it's obvious. "For two years, you've been waiting. I don't know if you're waiting for closure or for him to come back and give you a permission to stop. But I figured...maybe if you knew there's a chance, even a small one, you could decide what you actually want."
You turn to face him. His jaw is set, his hands are clasped between his knees.
"Thank you," you say.
"Don't thank me. I'm not trying to give you false hope. I just—" He stops and starts again. "You're my friend. I hate watching you live half a life."
Something hot pricks behind your eyes but you blink it away.
"I don't know how to live a whole one," you admit.
Jake reaches over and takes your hand. His palm is warm.
"Maybe start small," he says. "Like dancing with me at this wedding. Before Jess kills us for hiding outside during her first dance."
A laugh escapes you. "She did say she wanted photos."
"She's going to be insufferable about it." He stands and pulls you up. His hand stays in yours. "Come on." You walk back toward the barn together, the music getting louder with each step. The door is propped open with a potted plant. Inside, everyone is spinning, laughing, and alive. Jess spots you immediately. She's back in her heels, dancing with Alex’s youngest brother, she yells something unintelligible that's probably a threat. Jake leads you onto the floor. The song is fast now, something with a beat you can feel in your teeth. He lets go of your hand and starts moving so weirdly that you can't help but laugh.
"Don't film this," he warns.
"I'm absolutely going to film this."
You almost forget about his ghost and the two years of waiting. You just dance with your friends at your best friend's wedding. And it's not happiness, not really, yet it feels like crack of light through a door you thought you'd locked. It’s still something. When the song ends, Jake pulls you into a hug. His chin rests on the top of your head.
"Whatever happens," he says into your hair, "you're not alone. Okay?"
You nod against his chest.
"Thank you," you whisper.
The DJ starts playing something slow. Couples pair off. Jake steps back and looks at you, questioning. You shake your head. He nods, understanding and walks toward the bar.
You find Jess instead. She's fanning herself with her hand, flushed and glowing.
"Having fun?" she asks.
"Yeah," you say, almost feeling it.
──────
Back at Jess’s apartment, it still smells like the arrangement of flowers from her wedding bouquet. She's got the leftover centerpieces scattered around like she's trying to squeeze the last bit of joy out of them. You're on the couch, legs tucked under you, watching her spread maps across the coffee table. Jake is in the armchair, feet up on the ottoman and phone in hand. Jay is on the floor, back against the couch, eating grapes from a bowl in his lap. Jungwon is late, as usual.
"Okay guys," Jess says, clapping her hands. "Japan. We need to figure out actual plans. We can’t play the ‘we’ll figure it out there’ because Alex’s friends will literally wander into traffic without a schedule." Jay pops a grape in his mouth. "How many of his friends are coming?"
"Four. Plus Alex, plus us, so…nine in total." She starts pulling sticky notes out of nowhere. "I already found a house in Kyoto. It has a garden and a weird amount of cat statues." Jake looks up from his phone. "Cat statues?"
"The reviews said they're spiritually significant. I'm not going to ask questions."
You lean forward, looking at the printouts. There's one of a bamboo forest, one of a temple at sunset, one of some street food. It makes your stomach growl despite the grapes you’ve already eaten. "When are we supposed to do this?" you ask. "With work and everything."
Jess waves a hand. "October. Everyone's taking time off. Alex already cleared it with his boss. Jay's job is flexible and Jake can quit."
Jake snorts. "I'm not quitting my job for a trip."
"You could get another job."
"I could not. The market's shit."
Jay reaches for more grapes. "What about you, Y/N? Can you get time off?"
You nod slowly. "Yeah. I have days saved up. I haven't used them in...a while." No one comments on why. The silence is brief but noticeable. Jungwon finally shows up, out of breath and apologizing for his bus being late. He squeezes onto the couch next to you, close but not uncomfortably so. "What'd I miss?"
"Cat statues." Jake says.
"That’s fucking cool. I'm in."
Jess continues. "So the house has 6 bedrooms. We'll have to double up. Couples get their own rooms obviously and the rest of us are splitting."
Jay raises a hand. "I'm not sharing with Jake. He snores."
"I do not snore."
"You snore so loud I heard you through the wall last week." Jay and Jake live in the same apartment complex since college.
"That was the neighbor's dog."
"We don't have a neighbor with a dog." The argument devolves into the two of them arguing about decibel levels and who kept who awake during a camping trip three years ago. Jess ignores them and turns to you. "You okay sharing with someone? Or do you want your own room?"
You pause to think about it. Sleeping alone in a foreign country, in a house full of people, with nothing but your thoughts ? Or sharing a room with someone who might ask questions you don't want to answer ?
"I can share," you say. "Whoever."
Jess nods, making a note. "Jungwon, you're with Jay. Jake, you're with—"
"If I have to hear one more thing about Jake's sleep apnea—" Jay starts.
"I don't have sleep apnea, you motherfu—"
"You stop breathing in your sleep. That's literally the definition."
"It's a deep breath. It's relaxing."
Jungwon is watching them like a tennis match. He leans toward you. "They do this every time."
"I've noticed."
Jess slams a sticky note onto the table. "Enough. Jay, you're with Jungwon. Jake, you're with Y/N. Problem solved."
Jay looks offended. "Why do I get demoted to Jungwon?"
"Because Jungwon doesn't snore."
"I don't snore, for fuck’s sake !” Jake throw back his head on the couch in frustration.
"Just admit it, it’s not gonna kill you." The conversation spirals again about diverse subjects. You listen, half-participating. At some point, Jake catches your eye from across the room. He tilts his head slightly, checking in.
You give him a small nod. I'm fine. He nods back. Okay.
Jess is now explaining the itinerary she's already half-planned, 3 days in Tokyo, a day in Kyoto, a day trip to Nara to see the deer. She's vibrating with excitement, pen behind her ear and hair falling in her face.
"We should also do karaoke," Jay says. "I mean, we have to."
"Obviously."
"And we need to try that crazy vending machine stuff."
"And hot springs," Jungwon adds. "The ones outside, with the monkeys."
Jess points the pen at him. "Monkey hot springs are already on the list."
You lean back into the couch cushions. The conversation washes over you, it’s loud, messy, and full of interruptions.
Jess looks at you. "You're being quiet. What’s up?"
"I’m just thinking."
"About what ?"
You shrug. "Monkey hot springs."
She laughs. "That's the spirit."
Jake throws a pillow at you from across the room. You catch it and throw it back. He misses and it hits Jay in the face.
"Who threw that?"
"Jake."
"Jake, I swear to God—" The argument starts again. Jungwon steals the last grape. Jess adds "buy more grapes" to her sticky note. You sit there, in the middle of it all, feeling something you haven't felt in a long time. Something close to happiness, an ordinary chaos that reminds you you're still alive.
──────
At the airport, people are everywhere. Luggage carts weaving through crowds and children screaming. You're standing there, clutching your passport while Jess argues with a check-in agent about baggage weight. "It's not my fault the souvenirs from the duty free will add three kilos," she's saying. "That's future me's problem." Alex puts a hand on her shoulder. "Babe. Let it go."
"I will never let it go."
Jake is sprawled across three seats near the window, his phone in hand and earbuds in. He looks up when you pass and pulls one earbud out. "Nervous?"
"No," you say. "Maybe."
"First time on a plane?"
"First time out of the country." He whistles low. "Damn. And you're starting with Japan. That’s crazy."
"Yeah, I guess."
Jay and Jungwon come back from the coffee shop, each holding a drink. Jay hands you one without asking. You don't remember telling him to bring you one but apparently you did at some point. "Flight's on time," Jungwon says, checking the board. "Boarding in 40 minutes." Everyone settles into a cluster of seats. The conversation begins with work, rent and memories from college. Jay is on his phone, scrolling, the way he's been doing for the past 10 minutes. His thumb stops. "Huh," he says. No one pays attention. "I said huh." Louder this time.
Jake looks over. "What ?"
He holds up his phone. " A news article. About Tokyo." He reads aloud. "'Local authorities report a sharp increase in criminal activity over the past six months, with drug trafficking and money laundering operations expanding into residential areas. Police have made several arrests but warn tourists to remain vigilant.'"
Your stomach drops. Jess frowns. "That's where we're going?"
"Apparently." Jay keeps scrolling. "It says here they've been trying to crack down on a network connected to...wait." He pauses, squinting at the screen.
"What ?" Jake asks.
"It mentions something about a cold case from a couple years ago. Some rich kid who got caught up in it. Shot, body never found." Jay looks up. "That sounds a bit too familiar." The silence that follows is heavy enough to crush something. You feel everyone's eyes flick to you. Jungwon clears his throat. "It’s probably not related."
"I guess so," Jay agrees, but he's still staring at his phone. Jake stands up. "I'm gonna grab another coffee. Anyone want anything?" A chorus of no's. He walks off, not looking back.
Jess reaches over and puts her hand on your knee. "You okay?"
"Yeah." Your voice sounds like it belongs to someone else. "Fine."
"You don't have to be fine, you know ?"
"I know."
She leaves her hand there. The airport buzzes around you with announcements and footsteps. Jay locks his phone and shoves it in his pocket. "Sorry. I shouldn't have read that out loud."
"It's okay," you say again. The news exists whether you hear it or not. The world keeps spinning, crime increases, cases go cold and people disappear. You’re getting on a plane to a country where the same shit that took him away is still happening.
Jake comes back with his coffee. He stands near your seat, close enough that his leg is almost touching yours.
"Y/N," he says quietly. "We don't have to go. We can change plans and go somewhere else."
You look up at him. His face is serious and he rarely is.
"No," you say. "Jess wants this. I'm not ruining her trip because of...because of something that happened two years ago."
"That's not ruining anything. That's called taking care of yourself."
You shake your head. "I'm tired of running away from things. If there's crime in Tokyo, fine. We'll be careful, we’ll stay in safe areas and won't do anything stupid." You pause. "I'm not letting him take this from me too."
Jake holds your gaze for a long moment before he nods.
"Okay," he says. "But if you need to tap out at any point, you tell me. Not Jess, because she'll make it a whole thing. Just tell me."
"I will."
He squeezes your shoulder once and goes back to his seat. Jess is looking at you with a mixed expression. She doesn't say anything.
The boarding announcement crackles over the speakers. Group 1 and then group 2. You pick up your carry-on and stand in line with everyone else, your passport in one hand, your boarding pass in the other. The anxiety is real once you get to the jet bridge. You walk toward the plane. Ahead, you hear a flight attendant smiles and says "Welcome aboard." You find your seat at the window. You press your forehead against the cold glass and watch the ground crew load the last of the bags.
Jess sits next to you and she takes your hand and holds it until the plane takes off.
──────
The house sits at the end of a narrow street in Kyoto's Higashiyama district, a traditional machiya with wooden lattices and a sliding door that sticks halfway through. You drag your suitcase across the threshold and stop.
The place is gorgeous, with polished concrete floors in the entryway give way to tatami mats in the main room. A low wooden table sits in the center with a tea set already arranged. The garden out back is small but immaculate, a single maple tree dropping leaves into a stone basin.
"Holy shit," Jay says behind you, pushing past with his duffel. "Jess, how did you find this ?"
"TikTok and prayers."
Jake is already wandering toward the back hallway, running his fingers over the wood frames. "There are six bedrooms. I'm calling dibs on the one with the private bath."
"You don't even know which one has the private bath," Jungwon points out.
"I'll find it."
You grab your bag and head down the hallway, glancing into rooms as you pass. Futons on the floor and paper lanterns hanging from hooks. The last room at the end has two futons already laid out and a window facing the garden.
Jake appears behind you. "This one's ours."
Ours. Right. The room assignment Jess had finalized weeks ago. You'd forgotten until now. You set your bag down and unzip it, pulling out your toiletries and a change of clothes. Jake does the same on the other side of the room, humming a melody. The space is small enough that when you both turn around at the same time, you almost bump into each other.
"Sorry," you say.
"Don't apologize. It's a small room." He grins. "Guess we'll have to get used to it."
You roll your eyes and shove his shoulder. He stumbles back onto his futon, laughing, and you can't help but smile. It feels foreign and welcoming at the same time.
An hour later, everyone is showered, changed and hungry enough to eat a horse. Jess has a list of restaurants saved on her phone. TikTok recommendations again.
"This one has good reviews for ramen," she says, holding up her screen. "And it's a 10 minutes walk."
"I could eat ramen every day for the rest of my life," Jay announces.
"You'd get stomach aches."
"Worth it."
The streets of Kyoto are narrower than you expected, lined with small shops and vending machines that glow in the afternoon light. You walk in a loose group, Jess and Alex holding hands up front, Jay and Jungwon arguing about something behind them and Jake beside you with his hands in his pockets.
The ramen shop is tiny, fitting maybe ten seats at a wooden counter, steam fogging up the windows and an old man behind the stove who nods at you when you enter. You squeeze in, elbows touching, and order without really understanding the menu. The broth arrives dark and rich, pork slices floating on top and green onions scattered like confetti.
You eat until your stomach hurts.
After eating ramen, Jess insists on hitting a dessert place she found online ; some spot that does mochi stuffed with sweet red bean paste. It's down a side alley and behind a curtain that looks like someone's front door, but inside it's warm and smells like rice flour. The old woman serving doesn't speak English yet she smiles at you like a grandmother would and you point at things until you end up with a plate of green mochi, matcha flavored.
Jungwon checks his phone. "There's a place nearby that does yakitori. Like, grilled skewers. There’s chicken, beef, vegetables. That actually sounds fucking good."
"That's the most real food I've ever heard."
You end up at a yakitori spot that's essentially a guy with a grill on the sidewalk and a few plastic stools. The smoke curls up into the evening air and the chicken is charred perfectly, salty and sweet. You eat standing up, sauce dripping down your fingers and no one cares because everyone else is doing the same thing.
The bar is a recommendation from the guy running the yakitori grill. He wrote the name on a napkin in kanji , which you couldn't read, and pointed down the street, saying something about whiskey and good music.
It's a basement place, stairs leading down into darkness with a red curtain at the bottom. Inside, the lighting is low, jazz playing from speakers, bottles lined up behind a bartender. You find a booth in the corner, leather seats worn smooth and slide in.
Jess orders champagne for the table because it's her engagement celebration and she can do what she wants. The bottle arrives in an ice bucket and she pours everyone a glass with shaking hands.
"Toast," she says, holding hers up. "To Japan and to this trip. To Alex for putting up with me."
"To Jess for planning everything so I didn't have to," Alex counters.
"To Y/N for finally leaving the country," Jake adds and everyone laughs.
You raise your glass and take a drink. The champagne is dry and cold, it bubbles up your nose. Two bottles later, the conversation has scattered to a dozen different places. Alex and Jess are tucked into their own world at the end of the booth, foreheads touching, whispering things that make her giggle. You're sitting next to Jake, your shoulder pressed against his while watching the bartender polish a glass with a rag.
"I'm glad you decided to come," Jake says, not looking at you.
"Me too."
"It’s good to see you lighter and…happier, than usual."
He's not wrong. The weight in your chest hasn't disappeared but it's shifted somehow, it became something you can carry without hunching your shoulders. Or maybe it's the champagne, or it's the city as it’s full of things you've never seen, surrounded by people who refuse to let you disappear into yourself.
"Maybe I'm getting better," you say.
Jake turns his head to look at you. His face is open in a way it rarely is, no jokes hiding behind his eyes.
"You are," he says.
Jess stands up suddenly, nearly knocking over the ice bucket. "I have to pee," she announces. "After that we're doing shots."
"We're doing shots ?" Alex asks, alarmed.
"We're celebrating. Shots are made for it."
No one argues. The bartender lines up glasses and pours vodka in tiny glasses. Jay downs his in one go and coughs so hard Jungwon has to slap his back. Jess does a little dance after hers. Jake holds his up to you before drinking, a silent cheers, and you clink your glass against his.
You're not sure you believe in happiness anymore. However all of this ; the noise, the warmth, how your face hurts from smiling — this is something. It’s making you feel better, making you feel like you’re alive.
──────
The walk back to the house is quiet, only the distant sound of a train carries with your footsteps on the concrete. You're tired but it feels good, like you've earned it. Jake keeps bumping into your shoulder accidentally on purpose. Jess is leaning on Alex so heavily he's practically carrying her.
The house greets you with its wooden warmth and the faint smell of the tatami. Shoes come off in a pile by the door. You brush your teeth in a shared bathroom, elbows knocking against Jay's, spitting into the same sink because there are too many people and not enough space. It should be gross but it’s just familiar.
Back in the room, Jake is already on his futon, phone face-down on his chest and his eyes closed. You crawl onto yours and pull the blanket up to your chin. The garden window is dark now, it’s just a square of deeper black.
"Goodnight," you whisper.
"Mmph," he responds.
Sleep comes faster than it has in years.
──────
Morning light filters through the shoji screens, soft and warm, turning the whole room alive. You wake up on your stomach, cheek pressed into the pillow, and for a disorienting second you don't know where you are. You hear Jake snoring lightly on the other side of the room and everything clicks back into place. He's still asleep, mouth slightly open, one arm flung over his head. You just notice before you look away.
The kitchen is already active as you wander out in your sweats. Jess is making coffee with a setup she found in the cupboard. Alex is reading something on his phone and Jay is slumped at the low table, head resting on his arms, clearly not recovered from yesterday’s flight.
"There's a bakery two streets over," Jess says without looking up. "They have pastries like croissants and stuff. Jungwon found it on Google."
"I'm going," you say.
"Take Jay and Jungwon with you. I need to talk to Alex about something." Jay groans but stands up. Jungwon emerges from the bathroom, hair still wet and looking disgustingly awake.
You enter a tiny bakery, where everything is made in the back and displayed in a glass case. The woman behind the counter has flour on her apron and kind eyes. You point at things : a custard-filled bun, a flaky pastrywith red bean, a sesame pastry that looks delicious and she boxes them up with careful hands.
Outside, the three of you find a low stone wall to sit on, the morning sun warm on your shoulders and you tear into the pastries like animals.
"I heard that," Jungwon says between bites, "the hot spring baths in Kyoto are different from Tokyo, right? They’re more traditional?"
Jay nods, his mouth full. "Yeah. The ones here are like—outdoor, natural, they’re mixed sometimes. Tokyo is more like—Commercial and super modern."
"I want to do the outdoor one with the monkeys."
"You and everyone else." Jay brushes crumbs off his lap. "But when we get to Tokyo, there's this sento near the place we're staying. It’s kind of old school."
"Sounds authentic."
"Original, I would say."
You're quiet, listening, the pastry warm in your hands. The street is waking up.
"Is it weird?" you ask. "The whole...I mean—being naked with strangers ?"
Jungwon shrugs. "I don’t know about you, but for me, I get over it after five minutes. Everyone's too busy relaxing to care."
Jay points a sesame crust at you. "First time, you'll be nervous. Second time, you'll be planning your next visit. It's so relaxing that it’s almost addictive."
You take a bite of the custard bun. It’s sweet and soft, the filling warm against your tongue.
"Maybe I'll try it," you say. "The one here, not the monkey one. Just a regular one."
Jungwon smiles. "I'll go with you. If you want."
"Yeah, let’s do it one day."
You’re having dinner at night. Twelve courses at a kaiseki place where each dish looked like a painting and tasted like nothing you'd ever had before. You ate fermented soybeans that made Jay gag, a new kind of jelly, and a piece of fish so fresh you could still taste the ocean. By the time you rolled back to the house, everyone was too full to speak.
Sleep came heavy and dreamless.
──────
Morning arrives with suitcases zipped and the house returned to its original state. Jess does a final sweep of the rooms while Alex hauls bags to the curb. The taxi to the station is cramped, knees knocking, someone's elbow in your ribs but you don't mind. The shinkansen slides into Kyoto Station like a silver bullet, it’s quiet and terrifyingly fast. You find your seats and settle in for the 2 hours ride. Jake falls asleep within five minutes, his mouth open, head lolling toward the window. You watch the countryside blur past, mountains, small towns with train crossings and vending machines. Very different from home.
As you arrive in Tokyo, it’s totally different. Crowds push from every direction, buildings stacked on top of buildings and noise from a thousand sources. The hotel is in Shibuya, a slim tower with a lobby. The check-in is smooth.
"We've got four rooms," Jess announces, handing out key cards. "Couples get their own. The rest of you, pair up however."
Jungwon catches your eye. "Roommates ?"
"Yeah sure."
He hands you a key card which says Room 129.
The room seems small at first but efficient. Two twin beds separated by a nightstand. A window overlooking an alley, a bathroom so compact you can sit on the toilet and wash your hands at the same time. You toss your bag on the bed by the window and Jungwon takes the one near the door. You unpack in comfortable silence. He's easy to be around. He hums while he folds his shirts. You hang your dress in the tiny closet.
After a few minutes, he sits on the edge of his bed and looks at you.
"Y/N," he says. "Can I ask you something?"
"You just did."
He smiles, his teeth slightly showing. "That article at the airport. The one Jay read about the crime in Tokyo."
Your hands pause on your suitcase.
"I've been thinking about it," he continues. "About how you reacted. You went really quiet. I know you've been doing better on this trip. I’ve seen that you've been smiling more, laughing too. It's good to see." He pauses. "But…I don't want to pretend like that article didn't happen and like…we didn't all read it and think of him."
You sit on your bed facing him.
"You want to talk about it ?" you ask.
"I don't know. Do you?"
That past is the past after all. Yet you could feel the ache from holding back everything you’ve been wanting to say since then.
"I need to get over it already," you say. "That's the truth. I've been stuck on something that happened two years ago, it’s something I can't change. And mostly someone who's not coming back." You pick at a thread on the duvet. "Everyone else has moved on. Why can't I?"
He doesn't jump in with reassurance as he lets the question hang.
"I don’t know…maybe because moving on isn't a straight line," he says finally. "You may not be as stuck as you think. You're here, in Tokyo, eating new things and sharing new memories with us. That's not nothing."
You look at him. His face is calm and patient.
"I just don't want to be the person who's still crying over a ghost 2 years from now," you say.
"You don't have to be." He says it simply, "But don't beat yourself up for taking the time you need either. You're not on anyone else's schedule."
You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding.
"Thanks," you say.
"For what ?"
"For not telling me to just get over it."
He shrugs. "That would be stupid advice."
You let out a small laugh, barely audible.
Jungwon stands up and stretches. "Come on. Jess said she wants to do some department store food hall thing for lunch. She wanted to try sushi, I think."
"Okay, let’s go."
You grab your jacket and follow him out. The elevator doors close behind you, and you don't look back.
──────
The hotel room is dark, you could only see the red little light coming from the air conditioner. Jungwon's breathing has been even for hours, a tiredness coming from too much walking and too much visiting. You've been staring at the ceiling for what feels like forever, your phone on the nightstand reading 2:47 AM.
Your legs feel restless and your brain won't shut off.
You decide to slip out of bed without making the floor squeak, pull on a hoodie and grab your room key. The hallway is empty and the elevator silent. The lobby has one person at the front desk, a young man scrolling through his phone, who nods at you without interest as you walk past.
The night air hits you immediately as you step out of the lobby. Tokyo in spring is cooler than you expected, it’s damp, and the streets shining from a rain you didn't even hear fall. The convenience store is two blocks down, its bright lights spilling onto the sidewalk, a little place for insomniac and broken people. You've been that person before, you're still that person now.
The store is warmer than the outside when you make your way inside. You grab a basket and wander the aisles without purpose. You take ramen in a black cup, chips and a little salmon onigiri wrapped in plastic. You also take on the way a can of soda. The cashier is a girl with tired eyes, she seems like she doesn’t sleep either, not like she had the choice. She scans your items without speaking. You eat outside, sitting on the low concrete wall that separates the parking lot from the street. The ramen is too salty and the chips aren’t making it better but you eat them anyway.
The street is quiet at this hour. You're thinking about nothing, really, perhaps the texture of the noodles, when you hear it.
A thud and then another. It’s wet and heavy. So you look up.
Across the street, in the gap between two buildings where the streetlight doesn't reach, two shapes are moving. One is on the ground, the other is standing over him, arm pulling back and his fist connecting with something soft.
Your body moves despite your fear.
"Hey !" The word comes out loud and sharp. "Stop it !"
The figure on the ground scrambles backward, he gets to his feet and runs. His shoes slap against the pavement, echoing down the street until they fade. He doesn't look back and you can’t even blame him.
The other man doesn't run, he stays still. He just stands there, breathing hard, his head down. A hoodie obscures his face. His hands are hanging at his sides, one of them bloody, the knuckles split open in the dark.
You cross the street without thinking. The pavement is wet, making your sneakers squeak.
"What the fuck is your problem ?" you say.
He doesn't respond. His chest is heaving.
"I said—"
He looks up.
The hood falls back slightly, just enough for the streetlight to catch his face. His jaw is sharper than you remember. The scar near his eyebrow. His eyes are the same, dark, and so tired. You can feel it, your stomach dropping under you.
Ni-ki.
You stop breathing. He looks at you like he's seen a ghost, like you're the one who shouldn't be here.
"Y/N ?" he says.
His voice is rougher than before. It’s sounds older. You can’t believe it’s him. Your hands are shaking. Your whole body is entirely shaking.
"You're dead," you whisper. "You're supposed to be dead."
He doesn't say anything, standing there, bleeding, breathing, and real.
You slap him.
Your palm connects with his cheek and the sound cracks through the quiet street as sharp as a gunshot. His head turns with the impact, hood slipping further back, and when he looks at you again there's a red mark blooming across his skin.
"You asshole," you say. Your voice breaks. "You absolute fucking asshole."
You hit him again and again. Your fists are clumsy, landing on his shoulders, his chest, and anywhere you can reach. He doesn't block you nor move, he takes it like he deserves it, because he does, he let you think he was dead for two years while you drowned in your own grief. The tears come, streaking down your face, choking your throat. You can't see him anymore.
"Y/N." His voice is quiet. His hands close around your wrists, gentle but firm, stopping your fists mid-swing. "Y/N, stop."
"Don't touch me."
"I'm not going to hurt you."
"You already did." You're sobbing now, you haven't done it since the first month after he disappeared. "You already did and you don't even know."
He holds your wrists and doesn't let go. His thumbs press against your pulse points, feeling your heart race.
"You're right," he says. "I don't know. But I want to. So let me explain."
A black car appears from nowhere or maybe it was parked nearby the whole time. You let him open the passenger door and you climb inside because your legs won't hold you anymore. The leather seats are warm and the engine is already running.
He gets in on the driver's side and pulls away from the curb without checking his mirrors.
For a block, both of you stay completely silent. Your breathing is still uneven, tears still wet on your cheeks and your hands shaking in your lap.
"How the fuck are you alive ?" The words come out strangled. "They said you were shot. Your body wasn't found but everyone assumed—"
"I was shot." His voice is flat. "I am alive. Both things are true." You turn to look at him. His profile is illuminated by the passing streetlights, the scar near his eyebrow catching the glow.
"Where have you been then? Two years, Ni-ki. Two fucking years. I went to your house, I watched the news every night like a crazy person hoping for—" You stop to swallow. "Jess had to drag me out of my apartment because I stopped leaving, eating. I stopped everything."
His jaw tightens. His hands grip the steering wheel.
"I know," he says.
"How could you know? You weren't there."
"I had someone watching. Not—not in a creepy way. I was just checking, and making sure you were okay."
You stare at him. "You had someone watching me while you were playing dead. Are you out of your mind ?"
"It wasn't playing dead, I was trying to stay alive."
The car stops at a red light. The city is quiet around you. "Show me," you say.
He looks at you. "What ?"
"The shot. Show me."
He hesitates before he pulls up the hem of his hoodie and the shirt beneath, just enough to expose his torso. In the hazy light from the dashboard, you see it ; a scar just below his ribs, round and puckered, the edges jagged like the bullet tore through him instead of cutting clean. It's healed.
You reach out, your fingers hover over the scar without touching it, you could feel the heat radiating from his skin.
"Does it hurt ?" you whisper.
"Not anymore."
The light turns green. He pulls his shirt down and drives.
"Why were you beating that man ?"
He doesn't answer right away, letting the question hanging. The car winds through streets you don't know, away from the bright lights of Shibuya, into a neighborhood that's quieter and darker.
"He owed me money," he says finally.
"So you beat him up ? In the middle of the street?"
"He wasn't going to pay otherwise."
You shake your head. "Why are you even doing this? In a whole different country?You're supposed to be—" You stop. "What are you, Ni-ki?"
He's quiet for a long moment. The car turns into a gated driveway, the gates swinging open automatically and you catch a glimpse of the house before he pulls into the garage.
"It's complicated," he says, cutting the engine. "Long story short, the people who shot me are still out there. I couldn't go back and call. I couldn't risk anyone knowing I was alive because if they found out, they'd come after me again, and they'd come after anyone connected to me."
Your heart pounds. "Connected to me ?"
"Yes."
"So you just...disappeared and let everyone think you were dead."
"It was the only way to keep all of you safe."
The garage is dark. His face is half in shadow.
"Am I supposed to thank you?" Your voice is bitter. "Is that what you want? A thank you for breaking my heart?"
"No." He reaches over and takes your hand. His palm is rough, the knuckles still bloody. "I want you to be angry. You should be angry and I'm angry too. Every single day, at myself, and at the people who did this, at the whole fucking situation." He squeezes your fingers. "But I'm not sorry I did it. Because now you're alive."
His house is huge. Not the same as the one back home, it’s smaller, maybe, yet still too big for one person. It’s modern, all glass and concrete with warm light spilling from windows that face a garden you can't see in the dark. The entranceway has a high ceiling and a wooden bench where you sit to take off your shoes.
He leads you through a living room with a low sofa and art on the walls, then to a kitchen that looks like someone actually uses it. A kettle on the stove and dishes in the rack.
"You live here?" you ask.
"Mostly."
"It doesn't seem like you're living off debts."
He fills the kettle and puts it on the stove. "I'm not. The money situation got...resolved. After the shooting."
"Resolved how?"
He doesn't answer as he pulls two mugs from the cupboard and sets them on the counter. You lean against the kitchen island, watching him. He moves differently than before, more cautious and less careless. The nonchalance is gone. He still has the same face, the same hands, the same way of not quite meeting your eyes, however he's different. The two years changed him the way they changed you.
"Who shot you?" you ask.
He turns to face you, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed.
"The people I was involved with. The drugs, the money, all of it. I thought I could walk away but…they didn't agree." He pauses. "The night my dad called me to his estate, I told him everything. He was fucking furious but he helped and got me out of the country, he set me up here and made sure the right people knew I was dead."
"Your dad helped you fake your death?"
"He helped me survive, if we can say it like that."
The kettle whistles. He pours the water into the mugs, steam rising between you.
"Why now?" you ask.
He slides a mug toward you. His fingers brush yours. "I didn't come back for you," he says. "I didn't even know you were in Japan. I was handling business and you just...appeared, like you always did." A ghost of a smile crosses his face. "You never could mind your own business."
You wrap your hands around the mug. The warmth seeps into your palms. "I thought you were dead," you say again. "For two years, I thought you were dead. And now you're standing in front of me like nothing happened."
"Something happened." His voice drops. "Something happened every single day. I just couldn't tell you."
The man you loved and lost, the one you mourned day and night, is standing three feet away, alive and real, covered in someone else's blood.
"What happens now?" you ask.
Ni-ki looks at you. His eyes are the same and different, depth where there used to be walls.
"I don't know," he admits. " You're here and I'm here."
You drink your tea while he drinks his.
The night stretches on, long and strange. You don’t know which questions you should ask or not.
He takes your empty mug and sets it in the sink, then nods toward the hallway. "Come on. I'll show you around."
You follow, your legs are still unsteady, your mind still stuck on the image of him looking up from that bloody fist, the hood falling back. The house is bigger than it looked from outside. He leads you through a living room with floor-to-ceiling windows like the one you used to come over, a study with books, you're not sure he's read, a guest bedroom that looks untouched, and a master suite at the end of the hall.
"Bathroom's there," he says. "If you need it."
You’d rather need answers.
"You still haven't explained," you say, stopping in the middle of the hallway. "The money, your house, your car. The way you're living. You said the situation got resolved but that doesn't just happen. Like, someone doesn't just give you all of this because you got shot."
Ni-ki turns to face you. His expression unreadable.
"I had help," he says.
"From who ?"
"My father and some people he knows. It's not—" He pauses, running a hand through his hair. "It's not clean, Y/N. I'm not going to pretend it is, but I'm not doing anything I wasn't already doing before. I just got better at it."
You stare at him. "What in the hell—"
"Forget it."
Your chest tightens. "You're into something, that might be dangerous. Ni-ki, it’s something that got you shot and you're still doing it, here in Japan. Do you realize how twisted that it ?"
He doesn't deny it. You know you’re right.
"Ni-ki." Your voice is quieter now. "You have to admit it. You're running something. Drugs or money or both. That's why you have all of this, that’s why you can't go home."
His jaw tightens. Before he could argue back, his phone rings. He pulls it from his pocket, glances at the screen, and steps away from you. "I have to take this."
You watch him walk to the end of the hallway, phone pressed to his ear. You catch fragments of the conversation ; "the shipment," "tell them tomorrow," "I don't care about the cost." He's speaking in a practiced and controlled tone. This is not his first time having this conversation.
You lean against the wall and wait. Your phone rings in your hoodie pocket. Jess.
"Hey," you answer, trying to keep your voice steady.
"Where are you ?" She sounds groggy, like she just woke up. "I knocked on your door and Jungwon said you weren't there. It's like four in the morning."
"I couldn't sleep so I went for a walk."
"A walk in Tokyo. At four in the morning." She pauses to let out a yawn. "Are you okay?"
You glance at Ni-ki. He's still on the phone, back turned but he glances over his shoulder at you. His eyes meet yours as he stays silent. He just mouths four words.
Keep your mouth shut.
Your stomach turns. "Yeah," you say into the phone. "I'm fine. I just needed some air. Don’t worry, I'll be back soon."
Jess hesitates. You can hear her breathing and the soft rustle of sheets. "Okay," she says finally. "But text me when you're back. I'm not going back to sleep until I know you're in your room."
"I will." You hang up. The phone feels heavy in your hand. Ni-ki finishes his call and walks back toward you. He shoves the phone in his pocket and looks at you with a slight guilty expression.
"Jess?" he asks.
"Yeah."
"You didn't tell her. Right ?"
"No." Your voice is flat. "I didn't."
He nods like that was the right answer of a test he made you pass. You push off the wall. "Take me back to the hotel."
"Y/N—"
"Now." Your voice cracks. "I can't do this tonight. I can't look at you and lie to my best friend and pretend I understand any of what's happening. So take me back." He doesn't argue. He grabs his keys from the counter and heads toward the garage. You follow, your feet heavy but your chest heavier. You don’t talk to each other during the drive to the hotel. The streets are still dark, the city is still asleep. When he pulls up to the curb, you don't wait for him to put the car in park, you just open the door and step out.
"Y/N."
You stop but don’t turn around.
"I'm sorry," he says. You don't answer. You walk into the hotel lobby, past the front desk and get into the elevator. The doors close and you lean against the wall, staring at the numbers as they climb.
Room 129. Jungwon is still asleep when you slip inside and still breathing evenly, still dreaming whatever he's dreaming. You crawl into your bed and pull the blanket over your head.
Your phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number.
Unknown number [04:38 AM]
Same place tomorrow. 2 PM.
Please.
You hold the phone to your chest and stare at the dark ceiling until the sun comes up.
──────
The sun is out but the wind has teeth, cutting through the observation deck of Tokyo Tower. You're leaning against the railing, phone in hand, pretending to take photos of the city sprawled below. In reality you've been staring at the same cluster of buildings for five minutes.
Jake appears next to you, elbows on the railing, not looking at you.
"You've been really quiet since yesterday," he says.
"I'm always quiet. What do you mean ?"
"I don’t know." He turns his head slightly. "I just have a weird feeling."
The wind whips your hair across your face and you tuck it behind your ear. Jess wanders over, phone out. "Let's get a group photo. Everyone squeeze in."
People shuffle and rearrange. Jay makes a face. Jungwon adjusts his stance. You move to the edge of the frame, half-smiling. Almost a fake smile. Jess notices. The photo happens. There’s someone's thumb is in the corner so Jay wants a retake. You drift back to the railing.
An hour later, you're in the base of the tower, standing in front of a vending machine that sells everything from hot coffee to canned corn soup. Your phone buzzes and it’s a text from the unknown number.
Unknown number [2:11 PM]
You coming?
You type back.
You [2:12 PM]
Soon.
Jess appears at your shoulder, a bottle of green tea in her hand. "Everything okay?"
"Yeah. I’m a bit tired though."
"You've been tired since we got here. More than usual."
You shrug. "Maybe the time difference is hitting me late."
She doesn't look convinced. "Y/N. We've known each other for years. You don't have to lie to me. But…you also don't have to tell me anything if you're not ready." A pause. "Promise me that you will not disappear on me, okay? Not here."
Your throat tightens. "I'm not going to disappear, I promise."
"I love you so much." She bumps your shoulder with hers. "Anyway, I have a whole list of shitty souvenirs I need help carrying."
You laugh as you follow her.
A bit later. "I forgot my charger at the hotel," you announce when the group is debating lunch options. "I should go back and get it before we eat."
Jake frowns. "You can use mine. I have a portable one."
"No, it's fine. I need to grab something else anyway." You're already backing away. "I'll meet you at the restaurant. Text me the address."
"You want company?" Jungwon asks.
"No, no. I'll be quick."
You're gone before anyone can argue.
The taxi’s driving you to the address Ni-ki gave you. You spend the drive staring out the window, watching the city change from tourist crowds to quiet residential streets, you notice the gated entrance you remember from last night. The gate swings open automatically when the driver pulls up to the intercom.
The house looks different in daylight. It’s less intimidating and more like somewhere someone actually lives. The garden is visible now ; a small pond with koi fish and little stones scattered everywhere. You ring the bell and the door opens before you finish knocking.
Ni-ki is wearing a black t-shirt and gray sweatpants. His hair is wet, like he just showered. The cut on his knuckle is already scabbing over.
"Damn, you actually came." he says.
"Don't sound so surprised."
He steps aside and you walk in. The living room is flooded with natural light, white sofas and a glass coffee table. You sit on the couch, tucking your legs under you. He sits on the other end, facing you with one arm draped across the back.
Silence settles between you. It’s somewhere between uncomfortable and soothing.
"Hum," he says, looking at the orchid pot instead of you. "Two years is a long time."
"It is."
"Have you been with anyone? Since...then?"
‘Why would he even ask that, right now?’ You ask yourself.
"No."
"No one?"
"No." You pick at a loose thread on your jeans. "I wasn't exactly in a dating mindset."
He nods slowly. His jaw works like he's chewing on something.
"What about you?" you ask. "Any girlfriends? Or just...business partners?"
The corner of his mouth twitches. "Just business."
"I shouldn’t have asked you—"
"I’m joking."
You lean back into the couch. The cushions are soft and expensive, they could swallow you whole. "You haven't changed."
"I've changed." His voice drops. "Not in the ways you can see."
The room is quiet. A bird sings somewhere in the garden, filling the silence of the room.
"Why did you ask?" you say.
"Asking if you had a boyfriend?"
"Yeah."
He looks at you then. His eyes are the same dark brown you remember, you’ve looked into them too many times to forget.
"Because I needed to know if you'd moved on," he says. "If you'd found someone who wasn't...this." He gestures at himself. "Someone who could make you feel good things."
You swallow. "What if I had?"
He holds your gaze. "Then I would have let you go."
The words hang in the air between you for a fragile instant.
"Hopefully you didn't," he says. "So now I have to figure out what to do with that."
You don't have an answer as you don't think he expects one. You sit there. The silence stretches long enough that you start counting the ripples in the koi pond through the window. One, two, three. The orchid on the coffee table looks fragile yet beautiful. You focus on that instead of the weight of his gaze.
When he finally speaks, his voice is lower than before.
"What kind of love did you have for me?"
The question catches you off guard. "What?"
"Like, romantically? Or just...I don't know. You couldn’t let go because you were used to the pain?" He pauses, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'm not good at this, with words and all. But I need to know what I'm working with."
You open your mouth to close it right after. Your chest feels like someone cracked it open with a crowbar.
"I don't know," you admit. "I spent two years thinking you were dead. I didn't have the luxury of categorizing my feelings. I could only miss you everyday, and…that made everything else feel bad."
He nods slowly. "That's fair," he says. He shifts on the couch, turning his body toward yours, one knee pulled up on the cushion.
"I have a request," he says. "And you can say no. Like, genuinely no. I'm not gonna be a dick about it."
You wait.
"Can you stay? For a bit. I mean, not forever, I'm not asking you to move in or some crazy shit." He exhales. "But stay so I can apologize, properly. Not with words, obviously, because words are cheap and I've never been good at them anyway. I want to show you I changed, or at least that I'm trying to." His fingers tap against his thigh, nervous. "I want to do it right this time. I can’t keep pushing you away because I'm scared. I want to try to be someone worth coming back to."
Your throat feels tight.
"You don't owe me that," you say.
"I’m aware of that." He holds your gaze. "That's why I'm asking."
You pause for an exhale.
"Okay," you say.
His eyebrows lift. "Okay? That easy?"
"Don't make me say it twice."
His face loosens, a tension unknotting itself. "Thank you," he says.
You stay on the couch, and he stays on the couch, the afternoon light shifts across the floor, bringing a soft atmosphere.
That's a start.
Suddenly your phone buzzes. Jess's name lights up the screen, and you know she's not going to stop until you answer. She's been patient all day, but patience has its limits and you've been pushing them since the convenience store situation.
"Sorry," you mutter to Ni-ki, holding up the phone. "I have to take this. She'll send a search party." He nods, leaning back into the couch cushions. "Take it."
You swipe answer. "What’s up?"
"Where the hell are you?" Jess's voice is sharp with concern. "You said you were going to the hotel for a charger. That was two hours ago. I called the hotel front desk and they said you never came back."
Your stomach drops. Oh she checked up on you.
"I'm fine," you say. "I just—I ran into someone."
"Ran into someone? Here? Who do you even know in Tokyo?"
You glance at Ni-ki. He's watching you, head tilted slightly, reading your face. His expression shifts when he hears the panic in your voice.
"Jess," you say carefully, "I can't explain right now. But I'm safe, I promise."
There's a long pause on her end. You can hear her breathing, the muffled sound of Jay asking something in the background.
"Y/N." Her voice drops, quieter now. "You're scaring me."
You look at Ni-ki. He holds your gaze for a second before he gives a small nod. Permission.
"It's him," you say. "Ni-ki. He's alive."
The silence on the other end is deafening.
"That's not funny," Jess whispers.
"It's not a joke."
"He's dead. We watched the news. His face was on the screen."
"I know, I know. He's not dead. He's here in Tokyo. I'm at his house right now."
Jess doesn't respond. You hear her hand over the microphone, muffled words you can't make out. She comes back, her voice shaky.
"I'm coming to get you."
"No please, Jess. I need to figure out what's happening first. But I needed you to know, because you're my best friend and I can't lie to you."
A long exhale. "You're really okay?"
"I'm really okay."
"Text me the address."
"Jess—"
"Text me the address, Y/N. I'm not fucking kidding." Her voice hardens. "I don't care if he's alive or a ghost or whatever. I'm not letting you disappear into some rich asshole's house in a foreign country without knowing where you are."
You look at Ni-ki. He shrugs. "She's not wrong."
You text Jess the address. She says she'll be outside in 30 minutes and hangs up. The phone feels hot in your hand.
"She's coming," you say.
"Yeah, I figured."
"She's going to lose her mind when she sees you."
"She's going to punch me," Ni-ki says flatly. "I'd bet money on it."
You couldn’t agree more.
──────
The doorbell aggressively rings. Ni-ki stands up, smooths his shirt, and walks toward the entrance. You hear the door open, unknown voices, and the shuffle of shoes on the entryway floor. You stay on the couch because you don't know if you're supposed to be seen.
He comes back with two men behind him.
They're both in dark jackets, they look expensive. One is older, maybe in his forties, with a shaved head. The younger one has a tablet in his hand and looks like he hasn't slept in days.
"The numbers from last quarter are finalized," the younger one says without looking up from his screen. "The Osaka route cleared customs this morning without a single issue."
The older one nods toward you. "Boss, we didn't know you had company."
Boss. Oh Ni-ki you’re fucked.
Ni-ki's jaw tightens. "It's fine. She's with me."
The two men exchange a glance. The older one's eyes linger on you for a little too long, assessing and cataloging. He finally looks back at Ni-ki.
"We can come back," he says.
"No. Give me the report now." Ni-ki walks toward the kitchen and the two men follow. Their voices drop to murmurs, words you can't catch, but you catch the tone, it’s business and it’s serious.
You sit frozen on the couch, replaying the word in your head.
Boss. He’s not just some guy who got mixed up in bad things or a random survivor. He might be the person in charge.
When Ni-ki comes back alone a few minutes later, the men gone, you're still staring at the spot where they stood.
"They called you boss," you say.
He doesn't deny it.
"Ni-ki. What the fuck ?"
He sits down across from you, elbows on his knees and his hands clasped.
"It's not what you think," he says.
"Explain it to me. Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you're running the exact same shit that got you shot."
"I'm not running anything," he says finally. "I own it."
Your blood runs cold.
"Same thing," you whisper.
"No." His voice is sharp. "It's not. Running means doing the dirty work. Owning means other people do the dirty work and I make sure no one dies." He pauses. "No one else dies."
You want to scream at him, leave and never look back again but your legs just won't move.
"Jess is going to be here any minute," you say. "What am I supposed to tell her?"
Ni-ki looks at you. His face is tired, it looks older than 23, weighed down by something heavy.
"Tell her the truth," he says. "Just not all of it. You can’t yet."
"That's not fair to her."
"I know." He rubs his eyes with the heel of his palm. "None of this is fair but I'm not asking you to lie. I'm asking you to be careful. That’s all."
Outside, headlights flash through the window. A car pulls up to the gate. Jess is here. You stand up, heart pounding. Ni-ki stands too, shoving his hands in his pockets.
"You ready?" he asks.
"No."
"Good, neither am I."
He walks with you to the front door, and you step out into the evening air, toward your best friend and whatever comes next.
Jess's rented car idles at the gate for a full minute before Ni-ki pulls out his phone and taps the screen. The gates swing open. She drives in slow, like she's expecting an ambush, and parks behind the black car you arrived in last night.
She gets out and just stands there for a second, taking in the house, the garden and the whole absurdity of the situation. Next, she sees him. Ni-ki is standing in the doorway, hands in his pockets, his expression totally blank. She walks toward him like she's approaching a wild animal.
You step out from behind him and she stops. "You're not joking," she says.
"No."
She looks at Ni-ki, slightly squinting her eyes.
"Two years," she says. "Two fucking years."
"Jess—" he says.
"You let her think you were dead. You let all of us think you were dead. I watched her fall apart and held her while she cried. I picked her up off the floor more times than I can count." Her voice cracks yet she doesn't cry. Jess is tougher than that. "And now you're just...here."
"I'm sorry," he says. "I know that doesn't fix anything. But I am really sorry."
Jess stares at him for a long moment. After ward, she walks past him into the house without waiting for an invitation. You follow as Ni-ki closes the door.
Jess sits on the edge of the couch like she's afraid of getting it dirty. You sit next to her. Ni-ki stays standing, leaning against the wall near the window.
"Explain," Jess says. "From the beginning, don't you dare leave anything out."
He does. He tells her about the shooting, the hospital stay he wasn't supposed to survive, his father's connections, the people who wanted him dead, the fake death, the move to Japan. His voice stays flat through most of it, it looks like he's reciting a report, as he gets to the part about leaving you behind, his mask subtly cracks.
"I couldn't reach out," he says. "If anyone knew I was alive, they would have come after me again. And they would have used anyone I cared about to get to me." He looks at you. "That meant staying away from her, even though I hated every second of it."
Jess absorbs this. Her fingers twist in her lap.
"So what now?" she asks.
Ni-ki pushes off the wall and sits on the coffee table across from you both.
"Now I'm trying to figure out how to do this without getting anyone killed," he says. "Which is not a great answer, but it's the truth."
Jess turns to you. "And you? What do you want?"
You look at your hands, not wanting to meet her eyes.
"I want to stay," you say. "For a little while. I need to know if there's anything left of what we had or if I've been mourning a ghost for two years for nothing."
Jess is quiet for a long time. "Okay," she says finally.
You blink. "Wait what?"
"Okay." She stands up, pulls out her phone, and starts typing. "I'll tell the others you met an old friend from college who lives here. Someone you haven't seen in years. You're going to crash at their place for a few days to catch up. It's not even a lie, technically."
"Jess."
She looks up. Her eyes are red, she's holding it together.
"I don't like this," she says. "I don't like him. I don't like that he's involved in whatever the hell this is." She looks around, at everything. "Y/N, I trust you. If you need to do this, I'm not going to stand in your way. Just..." Her voice wavers. "Please don’t disappear like I said. Text me every day. Let me know you're alive."
"I will."
She pulls you into a hug, tight and fierce, that’s her way to say that she loves you and she’s scared, don't make her regret this all at once. After that, she pulls back, wipes her eyes, and looks at Ni-ki.
"If you hurt her again," she says, "I don't care how many bodyguards you have. I will find you and I will make your life hell."
Ni-ki nods. "Noted."
Jess walks to the door and pauses. She looks back at you.
"Call me tomorrow. I love you."
"I love you too."
She leaves. The door closes. You hear the sound of the engine starting and fade. Now it's just you and Ni-ki, in his huge mansion, once again. He standing right in front of you, waiting to give you space to change your mind.
You don't change your mind.
"What now?" You ask.
He exhales, long and slow. "Now I make you dinner and you can ask me all the questions you didn't ask last night. I’ll just try really hard not to fuck it up."
"Oh really?"
"Yeah."
──────
The blue light from the massive TV screen is illuminating the living room, casting long shadows across the marble floors. It’s quiet as you’re sitting on the edge of the sectional, still nursing that low level sound of anxiety that comes with being around someone who went missing for two years.
Ni-ki is slumped at the other end, looking entirely too comfortable for a man who basically rose from the dead. He’s staring at the screen, one hand mindlessly messing with the remote, until he suddenly winces, making a sharp and hissed sound.
"You good?" you ask, shifting toward him.
He presses a finger to his jaw, his expression flat but pained. "Bit my cheek. The inside."
You reach for the glass of water on the coffee table and hand it over. He takes it, the condensation cold against his skin, and takes a slow sip. He doesn't say thank, the two of you have always had a rhythm that skipped the formalities.
"Better?" you ask.
He swallows, setting the glass down. He looks at you then, his dark eyes fixed on yours. "Not really. My mom used to say a kiss on the cheek makes things heal faster."
He says it with such a straight face, his voice devoid of any typical ‘flirting’ inflection, that it catches you off guard. It’s a ridiculous, childish line coming from a man who spent the last two years in the underworld, yet he’s just sitting there and waiting.
"You’re serious ?" You feel the heat creep up your neck. "That’s...that's not how it works, Ni-ki."
"At least I tried," he mutters, turning back to the TV like he didn't just ask for something that made your heart do a nervous stutter.
You look away, staring at the screen without seeing it. "I’m tired. Where’s the guest room ? I’ll just head up."
"Follow me."
He stands up in one fluid motion, not waiting to see if you’re coming. You follow him up the glass staircase and down a wide hallway. He stops at a tall oak door, pushes it open and walks inside. You stand in the doorway, looking at the cal king-sized bed, the discarded watch on the nightstand, and the faint scent of his cologne. "This is your room."
"Yeah, and ?" He’s already pulling his shirt over his head, tossing it onto a chair.
"I asked for the guest room, Ni-ki." Your voice is a mix of frustration and that recurring shyness you can't seem to shake.
"Sheets aren't changed in the other rooms. The dust's bad," he says, his back to you. He turns around, his expression nonchalant as he gestures to the vast expanse of the bed. "It’s a big bed. Just stay here. I’m not going to do anything."
"That’s not the point. It’s weird."
"It was only weird two years ago because we made it ‘weird’," he says, voice dropping lower. He doesn't move toward you, staying rooted where he is. "I’m tired, you’re tired. Let’s just sleep."
You bite your lip, the silence stretching between you. Eventually, the exhaustion wins. You move to the far side of the bed, staying as close to the edge as humanly possible while he clicks off the lights.
The darkness is heavy. You lie there, staring at the wall, listening to the sound of his breathing. You expect to stay awake all night but the silence of the mansion eventually pulls you under.
A few hours later, the shift happens. It’s gradual ; a weight dipping the mattress, a sudden warmth pressing against your back. In his sleep, Ni-ki doesn't have his guard up. He moves by instinct, his arm sliding over your waist, pulling you back until there’s no space left between you.
His forehead rests against the nape of your neck, his breathing deep and steady. It’s the most clingy he’s been since he resurfaced, a silent and unconscious admission that he’s glad you’re actually there. You stay frozen for a second, heart racing, before your own muscles finally relax into the familiar heat of him.
The next day, the room feels more like a gallery than a bedroom as the light shines through the curtains. You wake up tangled in a silk duvet, the space beside you is empty. The only proof he was even there is a slight indent in the pillow and the faint, lingering scent of his cologne, something crisp and expensive, a far cry from the scent of coffee he used to carry.
You reach for your phone. A single notification sits on the screen.
Ni-ki [9:34 AM]
Had to head in.
I’m coming back a bit late tonight.
Eat whatever you want, the fridge is stocked.
It’s typical and short. He doesn’t apologize for leaving you alone in a house that feels like a maze, he assumed you’ll manage.
The silence of the house is heavy. After a few hours of wandering through the high-tech kitchen and staring at the sprawling view of the estate, curiosity finally wins. You find yourself back in his room, hovering by the bedside table. Back in college, Ni-ki always smelled faintly of smoke, either the sharp scent of cigarettes during finals week or the hazy, sweet smell of weed when things got stressful. It was a constant.
You open the top drawer of his nightstand. There’s nothing but a high-end watch box and a stack of documents in Japanese. You check the bathroom, no lighters hidden behind the mirror, no stray rolling papers in the cabinets. You even check the pockets of a discarded jacket hanging in the closet. There’s absolutely nothing.
The air in the room is perfectly filtered, devoid of any grit. It’s unsettling. It’s like he’s scrubbed away every habit that made him human, replaced by this clinical, almost polished version of a man who runs empires.
As the sun dips below the horizon, the mansion transitions from modern to eerie. You’re sitting on the massive sectional in the living room, the TV on mute just to have some flickering light. By 9:00 PM, the isolation starts to grate on your nerves.
You pull out your phone and hit his contact. It rings three times before he picks up.
"Yeah ?" His voice is filtered through some background noise, the muffled sound of doors closing and distant voices. He sounds tired, but his tone is level and sounds almost detached.
"Hey," you say, your voice sounding small in the giant room. "I was just making sure if you were close."
"I’m still busy," he says. There’s a brief pause, the sound of him exhaling. "Give me a bit. I’m wrapping things up now and I'll be back soon."
Right before he hangs up, his voice softens just a fraction, losing that sharp edge. "Don't lock the main door. I have my key."
The line goes dead. You set the phone down on the velvet cushion, the silence of the house settling back in, but feeling slightly less hollow now that you know he's on his way.
‼ 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐍𝐎𝐖 : Focus - H.E.R
The click of the heavy front door echoes through the foyer, breaking the silence you’ve been sitting in for hours. You stand up as Ni-ki walks into the light of the living room. He looks exhausted, his shoulders slumped like he never allows when he’s putting on his ‘professional’ and cold side, however it’s his left hand that makes your breath stop.
The knuckles are split, and a dark, drying smear of red covers his palm and fingers, staining the cuff of his expensive shirt.
"Ni-ki," you whisper, moving toward him, your hands reaching out instinctively. "What happened? Are you hurt? Is it yours?"
He doesn't bother to look at his hand. He stops in front of you, his eyes searching your face with a weary intensity. Before you can grab a towel or start a frantic interrogation, he exhales a shaky breath.
"Just...give me a second," he mutters. He reaches out with his clean hand, hooking it around your waist and pulling you flush against him. "Hug me. Please."
You hesitate for a fraction of a second, worried about the blood, but you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him in. He sinks into you, his head dropping onto your shoulder, his weight heavy and direct. You can feel the pounding beat of his heart slowing down against your chest. The smell of the cold night air and a metallic tang clings to him, and beneath that, he still smells like himself.
"Don't do this again," you say into his shoulder, your voice thick with a mix of anger and fear. "Don’t disappear and hurt yourself...I can't look at you like this and pretend it’s okay."
He stays quiet for a long time, his grip on your waist tightening. "I'll try," he says, the words muffled against your skin.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, his thumb brushing your cheek. "You showered already?"
You nod slowly.
"Go to the bedroom," he says, his voice low but steady. "Wait for me there. I just need to get clean."
The sound of the shower runs for a long time. You sit on the edge of the bed, the vastness of the room feeling smaller now that he’s home. When the water finally stops, the door opens, and Ni-ki emerges in nothing but loose grey sweats, his hair damp and messy. The lethal, untouchable version of him from the foyer is gone, replaced by the boy you used to know, the one who was just a little too tired for his age.
He doesn't say a word as he climbs onto the mattress. He doesn't go to his side, he moves toward you, lying down and shifting until his head is resting firmly on your stomach.
"Cuddle me," he murmurs, his eyes already drifting shut. "I don't want to talk. I just want this."
You lie back against the pillows, adjusting so he’s comfortable. Your hand finds its way to his hair, your fingers weaving through the damp strands, massaging his scalp in slow, rhythmic circles. He lets out a long, shuddering sigh of relief, his body finally losing its tension.
In the quiet of the room, the outside world and the two years of silence feel like a fever dream. Here, with his weight grounding you and your fingers carding through his hair, it’s just the two of you. He turns his face slightly, pressing his forehead into the soft fabric of your shirt, breathing you in like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground. You don't dare to ask him any more questions, you’d rather hold him, your thumb tracing the line of his ear, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest until the shadows of the room feel a little less cold.
He suddenly shifts, his arms tightening around your waist, almost in a possessive way. He’s usually so composed, so untouchable, yet right now he’s acting like he’ll disappear if he lets go for even a second. He nuzzles closer, his voice muffled by your shirt.
"You’re too soft," he mutters. "I forgot how calm you are. Everything else is loud, but you’re just being quiet."
You stop your hand in his hair for a moment, surprised by the sudden honesty. "Is that your version of a compliment?"
"Take it or leave it," he says, though he doesn't move an inch. He lets out a small, contented hum, his breath warm against your skin. "You smell so good too."
He stays like that for a few minutes, being uncharacteristically clingy, refusing to give you any personal space. Just as the atmosphere starts to feel deeply, almost with romance, you feel him shift again. The weary tension in his shoulders seems to evaporate, replaced by a sudden, mischievous energy you haven't seen since college.
He lifts his head just enough to find a spot on your midriff, and before you can ask what he’s doing, he leans in and blows a sharp, loud raspberry against your skin.
The vibration and the sudden rush of air make you jump, a startled laugh bubbling out of you. "Ni-ki ! Stop !"
He does it again, higher up this time, his eyes crinkling at the corners as you squirm beneath him, trying to push his head away.
"Stop, it tickles !" you gasp, breathless from laughing.
"You were getting too serious," he says, a rare, genuine smirk tugging at his lips as he looks up at you. He settles back down, resting his cheek on your stomach again and looking up at you with a look that’s far too fond for someone who claims to be nonchalant. "Stay like this. Don't move."
The laughter from the tickling session fades as the room settles back into its quiet intimacy. Ni-ki doesn't move his head from your stomach, he shifts slightly, tucking his arm more firmly around your waist as if ensuring you can't go anywhere.
You resume the slow, rhythmic motion of your fingers through his hair. The strands are drying now, they’re soft and cool. "I was looking around earlier," you say quietly, your voice vibrating slightly against his ear. "You don't smoke anymore? Not even when things get…hard?"
Ni-ki is quiet for a beat, his eyes fixed on the far wall of the dark room. He exhales a long breath.
"Nah," he mutters, his voice low and raspy. "I stopped about a year ago."
"Just like that?"
He nudges his face deeper into the fabric of your shirt, his nose brushing against your skin. "I just wanted to change things. Everything felt messy, and that was one thing I could actually control. Plus," he adds, his tone shifting back to that effortless laziness, "I know it’s not good for me. It’s hard to stay fast if your lungs are trashed."
You smile a little, the honesty of the answer surprising you. "Look at you, being responsible."
"Don't make it a thing," he grumbles, though he sounds more relaxed than he has all day. He turns his head, looking up at you from his position on your lap. His eyes are soft, devoid of the coldness they held when he first walked through the door. "I just—I didn't want to be that version of myself anymore."
He reaches up, his hand tangling with yours to pull it down from his hair so he can press a lingering, lazy kiss to your palm. He doesn't let go afterward, instead interlacing his fingers with yours and resting both your hands over his heart.
"You're staying," he says, a quiet demand. He closes his eyes again, his breathing hitching once before evening out into a deep, steady rhythm. He’s starting to be clingy, his heavy weight a constant reminder that for all his money and power, just lying here with you is the only place he actually wants to be.
When you wake up, the room isn't empty and Ni-ki is still there, lying on his side and watching you with a heavy-lidded, sleepy stare. He doesn't look like a man who was covered in blood twelve hours ago ; he looks like he’s still 21 and back in college.
"Stop staring at me," you murmur, your voice thick with sleep.
"It’s my bed. I can look where I want," he says, his voice a low, morning rasp. He doesn't move to get up. He just reaches out, his fingers tracing the line of your wrist where it peeks out from the duvet. "I’m not going in today. I told them I’m busy."
"Busy doing what?"
"Nothing," he says simply. "With you."
The day unfolds. He doesn't call for a chef or take you to some expensive brunch spot where you have to dress up because you personally asked him to do that. He leads you down to the kitchen in his sweatpants, standing barefoot on the cold marble as he fumbles with an espresso machine.
"Don't laugh," he says, narrowing his eyes at the blinking lights on the display. "It’s complicated."
"You can run a business in Tokyo but you can't make a latte?"
"I have people for the coffee," he mutters, though there’s no heat in it. He eventually hands you a cup that’s surprisingly decent.
You spend the afternoon in a room you hadn't seen yet, it’s a massive home theater that feels more like a lounge, filled with deep velvet couches and stacks of vinyl records. For a few hours, the cold version of Ni-ki vanishes completely. He sits on the floor with his back against the sofa, showing you music he found while he was away, passing you one of the headphones so you can listen together.
At one point, you find an old gaming console tucked away in a cabinet. When you challenge him, he directly dives in. He’s competitive—viciously so, leaning forward with his jaw set as he tries to beat your score, his shoulder bumping into yours every time you get ahead.
"You’re cheating," he accuses, his eyes fixed on the screen.
"I’m better than you anyway."
He scoffs, a second later, he’s leaning his weight into you, trying to distract you by nudging his head against your shoulder. It’s a cheap move and it works. When you lose the round, he lets out a short triumphant breath, looking at you with a look of pure, smug satisfaction.
"Really mature of you, Ni-ki."
"A win’s a win," he says then his expression softens. He reaches over, tugging at the hem of your sleeve until you shift closer to him on the floor. He rests his chin on your shoulder, watching the menu screen loop. The mansion is still huge and a little cold, and the shadows in the corners still remind you of the world he belongs to now. Yet for this afternoon, it feels like the 2 years gap never happened. He’s just a boy who’s a little too clingy, a little too competitive, and very clearly trying to make sure you don't feel like a guest anymore.
By late afternoon, the quiet of the mansion starts to feel a bit too heavy, so Ni-ki pulls on a black trench coat and leads you out to the garage. He drives a car that’s far too fast for city streets, his hand resting loosely on the gear shift, looking like he’s in his natural element behind the wheel.
He pulls up to a chic pastry shop tucked away in a quiet district. The interior is all white marble and gold accents, the scent of sweets hits you instantly. You stand in front of the glass display case, staring at the rows of perfect and colorful macarons. They look like jewelry.
"See anything ?" Ni-ki asks, standing just behind you, his presence a warm weight at your back.
"They all look so good," you murmur, leaning closer to the glass. You look at the employee behind the counter, who’s waiting with professional patience. "Could I get five, please ? The pistachio, the earl grey and…the—"
"Just give us all of them," Ni-ki interrupts. He’s not even looking at the display. He’s looking at his phone, his tone so flat and casual he might as well have been ordering other pastries.
The employee blinks, her eyebrows shooting up. "All of them, sir? We have 24 different flavors today."
"Yeah. All of them. Double up on the ones she just mentioned," he adds, finally pocketing his phone and looking at the girl behind the counter with a ‘did I stutter ?’ look.
"Ni-ki, wait," you whisper, your face heating up as the employee starts pulling out a massive, ornate gift box. You can feel the eyes of the other two customers in the shop on you. "I don't need 24 macarons. I can’t even eat that many."
"You can eat them tomorrow," he says, leaning his elbow on the marble counter. He looks at you, a ghost of a shrug in his shoulders. "I’m not going to watch you stand here for 10 minutes trying to decide which ones are better. It’s easier this way."
"It’s embarrassing," you hiss, shifting on your feet. "It looks like we’re showing off."
"I'm not showing off. It's called being practical," he counters though there’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes. He taps his black credit card on the reader without even looking at the total. When the girl hands over the heavy, ribbon-tied box, Ni-ki takes it with one hand and uses the other to guide you toward the door. Once you’re back in the car, he places the box into your lap.
"There," he says, starting the engine. "Now you don't have to wonder what the other 19 flavors taste like."
You look down at the box before raising your gaze at him. He’s already looking back at the road, his expression back to that neutral state, but the way he lingers for a second before pulling out of the parking spot just to make sure you’ve buckled your seatbelt, gives him away. He isn't trying to be the "big spender", he just genuinely doesn't see the point in you having to choose when he can just give you everything.
The sugar from the macarons is still a lingering sweetness on your tongue as Ni-ki steers the car away from the busy district. He’s driving with one hand, the other resting on the center console, fingers drumming a light, rhythmic beat against the leather.
"Where are we going now ?" you ask, glancing at him. "I thought we were heading back."
"You ask too many questions," he says, the corner of his mouth twitches. "You’ll see. It’s on the way."
He pulls up to a quiet side street where the buildings look ancient but impeccably maintained. There’s a storefront with tinted glass and a heavy steel door with no sign, no logo and no window displays. It looks more like a private bank than a shop.
When you walk in, the air is cool and smells expensive. A man in a perfectly tailored suit looks up from the counter. The moment his eyes land on Ni-ki, his posture shifts in practiced respect.
"Mr. Nishimura," the man says, bowing slightly. "You’re early."
"I was in the area," Ni-ki replies, his voice dropping into that tone he uses with everyone but you. "Is it ready?"
"Of course. It arrived from the workshop this morning."
The man disappears into a back room for a moment and returns with a small, heavy box wrapped in textured black paper. No money changes hands and no receipts are signed. Ni-ki only takes the box with a short nod and gestures for you to follow him back out. Once the doors of the car are shut, sealing the two of you back into your own private world, the silence feels heavy somehow. He doesn’t start the engine yet, he shifts in his seat to face you, holding out the small black box.
"Here," he says. His voice is back to its usual tone, he’s watching your hands as you take it.
"What is this ?"
"Open it."
You carefully undo the wrapping. Inside is a sleek black velvet case. When you flick it open, the interior light of the car catches the glint of polished metal. Resting on the cushion is a solid silver cross necklace, the pendant is hanging from a delicate but sturdy chain.
Your breath hitches. You look at the necklace then up at Ni-ki. Your eyes instinctively go to his neck, where the identical silver cross ; the one he’s worn since college hangs against his skin.
"It’s the same as yours," you whisper, your fingers trembling slightly as you touch the cool metal.
"I had them make a second one," he says, leaning back against his seat and looking out the windshield, though his focus is clearly still on you. "The one I have doesn't tarnish. I wanted you to have something that lasts."
"Ni-ki, this is too much. First the macarons, now this ?" You feel that familiar wave of shyness, mixed with a strange tightening ache in your chest.
He finally looks at you, his expression softening just enough to let you in. He reaches out, his thumb grazing the back of your hand.
"It’s not 'too much.' It’s just so people know."
"Know what ?" you ask softly.
"I don’t know. That you're with me," he says simply.
He takes the box from your lap, lifts the necklace out, and moves closer. His scent, that expensive cologne, wraps around you. You lift your hair, feeling the cold slide of the silver against your skin as he clips the clasp at the nape of your neck.
His fingers linger there for a second, a gentle and protective pressure before he pulls back.
"It looks better on you anyway," he mutters, finally turning the key in the ignition.
You arrive at his mansion. The moment the heavy front door clicks shut, Ni-ki’s bored composure starts to dissolve. He doesn't even bother taking off his trench coat before he’s behind you, his arms wrapping around your waist and his chin dropping onto your shoulder.
"Couch," he mutters, his voice vibrating against your collarbone. "Please."
"You’re barely inside the house, Ni-ki," you say, though you’re already letting him lead you toward the living room.
"It was a long drive," he counters, which is a blatant lie considering he drives like a F1 racer.
He practically pulls you down onto the oversized leather sectional, not bothering with personal space. He sprawls out, pulling you into the crook of his arm so your head is resting on his chest. His hand, now clean and bandaged from the night before, finds yours, his fingers tracing the new silver chain around your neck.
He’s being uncannily needy, his other hand tangling in your hair to keep you close. He leans in slightly to pull you into a slow kiss.
"You're being incredibly clingy these days," you whisper against his lips, pulling back just enough to look at him. "And you’re spoiling me too much. The all-flavors box ? This necklace ? It’s a lot."
He looks at you with a flat, unimpressed stare, yet his grip on your waist doesn't loosen. "I have the money. Why wouldn't I spend it on you ? Besides," he adds, his voice dropping to a low mumble, "you look like you belong here now. It was a calculated investment."
"An investment ?" You huff a laugh, poking him in the chest. "That’s fucking ridiculous."
"Whatever," he mutters, pulling you back down to hide his face in the crook of your neck. "Just stay still."
The peace lasts for exactly an hour before his phone starts vibrating violently on the marble coffee table. He ignores the first three times but on the fourth, he lets out a sharp frustrated hiss.
He reaches for it, eyes scanning the screen. His entire posture shifts instantly, the softness vanishes and it’s replaced by that cold, sharp focus you saw when he first returned home.
"I have to go," he says, sitting up and running a hand through his messy hair. "There’s an emergency at the docks. One of the shipments got flagged."
He’s already on his feet, reaching for his keys. He looks professional again, like the man who disappeared for two years. But as he reaches the door, he pauses, looking back at you sitting alone on the giant couch, surrounded by his expensive things and a half-eaten box of pastries.
A smirk ; sharp, dry, tugs at the corner of his mouth.
"Try not to cry while I'm gone," he says, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "I know it’ll be devastating for you to spend three hours without me. I'll miss you so much."
He gives you a mock, lazy salute before disappearing out the door, the roar of his car engine signaling that the rest day is officially over.
The clock on the wall clicks over to 2:00 AM. You’ve sent three texts. None of them have been read. You’re pacing the length of the marble floor, the silver cross he gave you feeling heavy and cold against your skin.
When the front door finally groans open, the sound is hefty, lacking the usual sharp energy that Ni-ki carries. He steps into the foyer, his coat hanging loosely off one shoulder, his face pale under the yellow hallway lights.
"Y/N" he says, his voice little more than a ghost of a sound. He leans against the doorframe. "Come here. Just give me a hug."
You move toward him, your heart hammering against your ribs, relief already starting to wash over you. But as you get close enough to reach out, the light catches his face. A jagged cut sits right along his hairline, the blood starting to dry in a dark smear down his temple.
You stop dead, your hands hovering in mid-air. "Ni-ki, what is that?"
He shifts his gaze, looking at the floor. "Nothing. It was just a misunderstanding at the site."
"A misunderstanding ?" Your voice rises slightly, the fear you've been sitting with for hours finally curdling into sharp, hot frustration. "People don't get gashed across the head during a 'misunderstanding’. What happened?"
"It doesn't matter," he mutters, closing his eyes like the sound of your voice is physically taxing. "I'm home, and tired. Just drop it."
"I won't drop it." You’re trembling now, the silver necklace catching the light as you gesture wildly. "This is dangerous. You’re coming home covered in blood every night, acting like it’s just another day at the office. You have to stop this. You have to stop beating people and putting yourself in these situations."
Ni-ki stands there, his expression flat and weary, watching you with eyes that look older than they should. "You don't understand how this works," he says quietly. "It’s not as simple as just stopping."
"It is. It’s a choice." you snap, the worry in your chest making it hard to breathe. "I can’t sit here and wait for the night you don’t walk through that door because a 'misunderstanding' went too far. I can't do it again."
"I'm not going anywhere," he says, his voice devoid of emotion which only makes you angrier.
"You can’t predict things, Ni-ki." You turn away from him, your eyes stinging. You aren't angry at him, you’re terrified for him, and the fact that he’s staying so calm, so careless about his own safety, feels like a slap in the face.
"I'm sleeping in the guest room," you say, your voice tight.
Ni-ki finally moves, reaching out to catch your wrist. "Don't do that. Please Y/N—"
"No." You pull your arm back, the movement sharp and final. "If you’re going to act like your life doesn't matter then I don't want to be the one watching you throw it away."
You turn and walk down the long hallway. You find the first guest room you can, throw yourself inside, and turn the heavy iron lock. The click of the bolt feels deafening in the silence. You lean your back against the door, sliding down until you’re sitting on the floor, listening for his footsteps.
On the other side of the door, there’s a long silence. You expect him to knock but you just hear the soft, receding sound of his footsteps walking away, leaving you alone in the dark.
You wake up and the guest room feels cold cold, a stark contrast to the heavy warmth of the night before. You wake up with your head throbbing, it’s already 11:00 PM. For a moment, the silence of the mansion feels oppressive, reminding you of the lock you clicked into place and the heavy footsteps you heard walking away.
You head straight for his master suite, your heart doing a nervous gallop, but the bed is perfectly made, it’s too perfect. No indent in the pillow, no discarded shirt on the chair. He’s gone.
As you step out of the bedroom and head toward the main living area, the air changes. The sterile scent of the mansion has been completely overwritten by a thick fragrance.
The living room is entirely transformed. It’s a sea of color, there’s bouquets of deep red roses, pale lilies, and white hydrangeas are overflowing from every available surface. Vases are lined up on the marble coffee table, the sideboards, and even the floor near the windows. It looks less like a home and more like a garden.
Your breath catches as you walk toward the kitchen, finding even more arrangements crowding the breakfast bar. Resting right in the center, propped against a crystal vase, is a small card.
You pick it up, your fingers tracing the expensive cardstock. The handwriting is unmistakably Ni-ki’s, it’s sharp and slanted.
I’m not good at the talking part, especially when I’m tired. You were right to be angry. I don’t want you waking up in a guest room ever again. I’m sorry for the scare.
Get ready. There’s a dress in the bag near the bed. A car will be at the front at 7:00 PM. I will wait for you.
Ni-ki.
You look around the living area being filled with flowers, the anger from last night softening into a knot of affection and lingering worry. He didn't promise to quit, he’s too honest for a lie that big but this was his version of a white flag.
You spend the rest of the afternoon in a daze, the scent of the lilies following you through the house. At the foot of the bed in his room, you find the black shopping bag he mentioned. Inside is a dress that feels like liquid silk, chosen with the same silent and focused precision he uses for everything else.
By 6:55 PM, you’re standing in the foyer, the silver cross necklace resting against your collarbone. At exactly 7:00 PM, the low rumble of a car pulls up to the front gates. You take a deep breath, smoothing down the silk of your dress, and step out into the evening air, wondering exactly what kind of "apology" Ni-ki has planned for the rest of the night.
The driver doesn't speak, and you spend the trip staring at your reflection in the window, your fingers habitually reaching up to touch the silver cross at your neck.
When the car pulls up to a discreet, ivy-covered building in an unknown area, the valet opens the door. You’re led to a private elevator that opens directly onto a rooftop. The wind is cool up here.
Ni-ki is leaning against the railing near the entrance, looking detached as he watches the skyline. He’s changed into a dark suit with no tie and the top buttons undone, the cut on his forehead is hidden beneath his hair. When he sees you, his posture straightens, his eyes dragging slowly from your heels to your face. He gives a short, approving nod and holds out his hand.
"You look really pretty," he says, his voice low.
He leads you to a table set at the very edge of the roof, giving you a panoramic view of the glowing city. The dinner is effortless. For the first two hours, the tension of the previous night is buried under "everything and nothing." You talk about the music he’s been listening to, the strange people he’s met in Japan, and how he still can't stand the taste of certain vegetables. He listens more than he speaks, his chin resting in his palm, watching you with intensity, making the bustling restaurant feel miles away.
He’s back to his usual self, cracking dry jokes and making fun of the way you hold your wine glass, but there’s a softness in his gaze that wasn't there two years ago.
As the dessert plates are cleared and the city lights seem to burn a little brighter, a lull falls over the table. You watch him trace the rim of his glass, his expression unreadable. The weight of the flowers, the necklace, and the empty guest room from last night all sit heavy in your mind.
"Ni-ki?" you ask softly.
"Mmh?" He doesn't look up, his thumb still circling the glass.
"Can I ask you something? And don't give me a sarcastic answer."
He finally looks at you, his dark eyes steady. "Depends on the question."
"The flowers, the dress, the necklace...and the fact that you stayed calm even when I was yelling at you last night." You lean forward slightly, your voice calm but searching. "Do you actually feel something serious for me ? Or am I just the only person from your past that you felt like keeping around?"
It’s just an honest question from someone trying to find their footing in a life that feels like shifting sand.
Ni-ki sets his glass down, the ring of the crystal the only sound between you. He leans back, exhaling a slow breath. He looks away for a second, out toward the horizon, before turning his gaze back to you.
"I don't 'keep people around' out of habit," he says, his voice devoid of its usual playful mockery. "If I didn't want you in that house, you wouldn't be there. If I didn't want you wearing that necklace, I wouldn't have spent the last 2 days for the right jeweler."
He pauses, his fingers drumming once against the tablecloth. "Two years is a long time to be looking over your shoulder. The only thing that didn't feel like a weight was the idea of coming back and finding you exactly where I left you."
He reaches across the table to rest his fingertips near yours, settling a quiet, grounded connection.
"I'm not good at talking, you already know that, and I'm definitely not good at being a normal guy," he admits, a small, self-deprecating smirk touching his lips. "But I think the fact that I’m sitting here trying to explain myself to you, instead of just walking away like I do with everyone else, should tell you the answer."
He looks at you, his mask finally cracking just enough to show the raw and quiet affection underneath. "It’s serious. It’s been serious since college. I just had to survive long enough to tell you."
You both get home after dinner. The heavy front door of the mansion clicks shut, locking out the cool night air and the rest of the world. The foyer still smells faintly of the lilies and roses Ni-ki filled the house with earlier. You’ve barely stepped onto the marble floor, your hand still on the strap of your dress, when your phone starts vibrating violently in your palm.
Jess.
You slide the answer button, pressing the phone to your ear. "Hey, Jess—"
"Oh my god, finally," Jess’s voice bursts through the speaker, loud enough that you have to pull the phone a few inches away. "You haven’t texted me back in hours. Are you okay? Is everything fine? Did he actually take you somewhere nice or am I going to have to fly out there and rescue you?"
You catch Ni-ki’s eye. He’s already tossed his suit jacket onto the bench by the door, unbuttoning his cuffs with slow movements. When he hears Jess's voice echoing faintly from the speaker, his eyebrows twitch in slight irritation. He doesn't like sharing your attention, especially not tonight.
"Yeah, everything is totally fine," you say, a soft smile tugging at your lips as you watch him walk toward you. "We just got back from dinner. It was—"
Before you can finish the sentence, Ni-ki steps right into your space. He slides his hands around your waist from behind, pulling your back flush against his chest.
"Wait, what was that?" Jess asks on the other end. "Are you guys home?"
"Yeah, we just...walked in," you stammer.
Ni-ki leans down, his hair brushing against your cheek as his lips find the sensitive skin right beneath your ear. He presses a slow, warm kiss there, his breath hot against your neck. You freeze, a sharp breath catching in your throat.
"I'm fine !" you say, a little too quickly. You try to elbow Ni-ki gently in the ribs, but he just tightens his grip on your waist, anchoring you to him. He moves his lips down your neck, tracing the line of your collarbone, right next to the silver cross necklace he gave you. He’s doing it on purpose, a lazy, teasing smirk evident as his lips curve against your skin.
"Seriously, Jess, I'll call you tomorrow," you squeak out, your shoulder bunching up as you try to escape the ticklish, intoxicating sensation of his mouth on your skin. You grab his wrist, trying to pull his hand away, but he doesn't budge. He nuzzles deeper into your pulse point, making your heart race.
"Alright, alright, you sound busy. Call me in the morning with details !"
"Will do. Bye !" You practically slam your thumb onto the red button to end the call, tossing the phone onto the nearest console table. You turn around quickly in his arms, your face burning with a mix of shyness and frustration. You look up at him, putting on your best exasperated expression.
"Are you serious?" you huff, poking him sharply in the chest. "That was Jess. She already thinks you're dangerous, and you’re out here trying to tease me while I’m actively talking to her."
Ni-ki doesn't look even remotely guilty. His hands resting loosely on your hips, watching your flushed face with total satisfaction.
"She talks too much," he says, his tone perfectly careless, though his eyes are dark and focused entirely on your lips. "And I waited 2 hours at that restaurant while you talked to the waiter and looked at the sky. My patience expired when we hit the driveway."
"You're spoiled," you mutter, though you can't stop the smile from breaking through. "And clingy."
"Shut up," he murmurs softly.
He reaches up, his thumb catching your chin to tilt your face up. The teasing vanishes in an instant, replaced by that heavy, genuine warmth from the rooftop. He leans down and kisses you for real ; there’s no more playing around, no more distractions. It’s deep, slow, and entirely possessive, effectively wiping any lingering thought of the phone call completely from your mind.
The grand foyer of Ni-ki's mansion fades into the background as his lips claim yours with urgent need. The marble columns and crystal chandelier become irrelevant as his hands grip your waist, pulling you flush against his body. You can feel the hard planes of his chest through your dress, his heartbeat thudding against yours.
"God, I've been wanting to do this all night," he murmurs against your lips before deepening the kiss. His tongue traces the seam of your lips, demanding entrance. You part them willingly, and the kiss becomes hungry, desperate. One of his hands slides up your back, tangling in your hair while the other presses against the small of your back, arching you into him. Your own hands explore his shoulders, the muscles tensing beneath your touch.
Without breaking the kiss, Ni-ki lifts you effortlessly. Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively as he carries you through the sprawling mansion. Each step sends a jolt of anticipation through your body. The journey to his bedroom feels both endless and too short.
He kicks open the door to his bedroom and gently lays you on the cal king-sized bed. The room is dimly lit with soft moonlight filtering through the large windows. Ni-ki hovers over you, his hair falling into his eyes as he leans down to capture your lips again. This time his hands explore more boldly. He traces the curve of your hip, slides up your ribcage, and cups your breast through the fabric of your dress. You arch into his touch, a soft moan escaping your lips. His thumb circles your nipple, causing it to harden instantly beneath the fabric.
"Take this off," he whispers, tugging at your strap.
You raise your arms obediently as he pulls the dress over your head, tossing it aside. His eyes darken with desire as he takes in the sight of you. He lowers his head, taking one nipple into his mouth while his hand continues to play with the other. The wet warmth of his tongue against your sensitive skin sends shivers down your spine.
Your hands find the hem of his shirt, and you unbutton it, revealing the toned muscles of his chest and abdomen. Your fingers trace the lines of his abs, feeling the muscles contract beneath your touch. Ni-ki moves lower, pressing kisses down your stomach. His hands work at the button of your panties, sliding them down your legs. You're completely exposed now, vulnerable beneath his gaze.
"You're so fucking beautiful," he murmurs, his eyes dark with hunger.
He positions himself between your legs, lowering his head. The first touch of his tongue against your folds makes you gasp. He's careful and thorough, exploring every part of you with his mouth. His fingers join in, one then two sliding inside you as his tongue works your clit.
The pleasure builds rapidly, coiling in your stomach. Your hips move instinctively, grinding against his face. His fingers curl inside you, finding that spot. The combination of his tongue and fingers is overwhelming, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.
"Ni-ki," you gasp, your hands tangling in his hair. "I'm—"
He doesn't let you finish, doubling his efforts. The orgasm crashes over you, wave after wave of pleasure. Your back arches off the bed as you cry out his name. He continues his ministrations, drawing out your pleasure until you're trembling and spent.
He moves up your body, capturing your lips in a deep kiss. You can taste yourself on his tongue, which only adds to the intimacy of the moment.
"Your turn," you whisper, pushing him onto his back.
You position yourself between his legs, your hands working at the button of his pants. He lifts his hips to help you slide them down, along with his boxers. His erection springs free, hard and ready.
You wrap your hand around his length, feeling the weight and heat of him. Ni-ki watches you, his eyes half-lidded with desire. You lower your head, taking him into your mouth. He groans, his hands tangling in your hair as you begin to move.
"Fuck, yes," he breathes. "Just like that. Take it deeper."
You follow his guidance, adjusting your pace and pressure based on his reactions. His hips begin to move, thrusting gently into your mouth. You can feel him getting closer, his breathing becoming more ragged.
"Look at me while you do that," he commands. "God, your lips look so good wrapped around my cock."
You meet his gaze, maintaining eye contact as you continue to pleasure him. His eyes are dark with lust, his pupils blown wide.
"Play with my balls," he directs. "Gently."
You comply, cupping them with your free hand as you continue to work his length with your mouth. His response is immediate ; a deep groan and a slight thrust of his hips.
"Shit, I'm close," he warns. "Stop. I want to be inside you."
You move up his body, straddling his hips. He positions himself at your entrance, but hesitates.
"Are you on birth control ?" he asks, his voice tight with concern.
You shake your head. "No."
Ni-ki's expression clouds with worry. "Maybe we should—"
"It's okay," you interrupt, placing a hand on his cheek. "I want this. I want you."
He searches your eyes, then nods slowly. "If you're sure."
You lower yourself onto him, taking him inch by inch. The stretch is slight but pleasant, a feeling of fullness that's both intense and comforting. Once he's fully inside you, you pause, adjusting to his size.
"Are you okay?" he asks, his voice gentle.
You nod, leaning down to kiss him. "Perfect."
You begin to move, slowly at first, finding a rhythm that works for both of you. Ni-ki's hands rest on your hips, guiding your movements. The pace gradually increases, the pleasure building with each thrust.
"I've missed you so much," he says, his voice strained with emotion.
You lean down, capturing his lips in a deep kiss. The intimacy of the moment is overwhelming, a perfect blend of passion and affection. His hands roam your body, memorizing every curve and dip.
The position changes, with Ni-ki now on top. He supports his weight on his arms, thrusting into you with a steady rhythm. His eyes are locked on yours, the connection between you palpable.
"You feel so good," he murmurs, his voice low and husky. "So perfect."
The pleasure builds, coiling in your stomach. You can feel another orgasm approaching, this one deeper and more intense than the last. Ni-ki must sense it too, because he increases his pace, hitting that spot inside you with each thrust.
"Come for me," he whispers, his voice strained. "Let me feel you."
That's all it takes. The orgasm crashes over you, more intense than before. Your body convulses around him, waves of pleasure coursing through you. Ni-ki follows soon after, his body tensing as he finds his own release.
He collapses beside you, pulling you into his arms. You're both breathless, bodies slick with sweat. The room is quiet except for your ragged breathing.
Ni-ki brushes a strand of hair from your face, his touch gentle. "I love you," he says softly.
You turn to face him, your heart swelling with emotion. "I love you too."
He kisses you, a soft, tender kiss that speaks volumes. The night is far from over, and for now, you're content to lie in his arms, basking in the afterglow of your lovemaking. The mansion around you feels less like a grand structure and more like a home, filled with the warmth of your shared intimacy.
The tangles of the duvet are warm around your legs when awareness returns, slow and heavy. For the first time since arriving here, there’s no sudden jolt of panic upon waking. Ni-ki is already awake, propped up on one elbow, his thumb tracing the small depression of your collarbone just below the silver cross. In the diffused morning light, the sharp angles of his jaw look softer, shadowed by a faint trace of sleep.
He shifts his weight, leaning down to press his forehead against yours, letting his eyes close again. It’s a quiet gesture that feels entirely separate from the massive estate surrounding you.
"Your skin is cold," he murmurs, his voice a low in a gravelly vibration. He pulls the blanket higher, tucking it securely around your shoulders before sliding his arm beneath your neck to draw you flush against him. You rest your palm over his chest, listening to the steady, unhurried thud of his heart.
An hour later, you both decide to get up and eat breakfast. You’re sitting on the high stool at the marble island, watching him navigate the space quietly. The peace fractures when your phone rings against the countertop, sliding slightly with the vibration.
The screen reads Jake.
You pick it up, sliding the bar to answer. "Hi."
"Hey. God , I finally caught you," Jake’s voice comes through, underscored by the faint background noise of a television. "Look, I’m just calling to make sure you’re actually functioning. Jess told us you skipped out on the rest of the trip because of some sudden errand, but she was being weirdly evasive about it. You’re good, right ?"
"Yeah, completely fine," you say, shifting your gaze to Ni-ki, who has stopped mid-motion, a plate held loosely in his hand. "I just had some things to sort out here."
"Alright. Just checking. It’s boring without you here anyway," Jake sighs, a brief rustle of paper audible on his end. "We’re wrapping things up and heading back home in three days. I just wanted to see if you were going to join us at the station or if we should just see you back at the hotel."
"Three days," you repeat, the timeline suddenly tasting heavy. "Yeah. I’ll—I’ll figure out let you know."
"Cool. Don't do anything stupid. See you." As the line goes dead, you set the device back down. Ni-ki places the plate of food in front of you with a bit more force than necessary. The ceramic clinks sharply against the stone. He sits on the stool beside you, picking up his coffee mug and staring into the dark liquid, his jaw visibly set.
"Who's that?" he asks. His tone is intentionally light, an obvious attempt to sound detached, but the tight grip of his fingers around the handle gives him away. "Jake," you reply softly, watching his profile. "Remember ?"
"I remember," he mutters, taking a slow sip. He keeps his eyes fixed ahead, his shoulder shifting away from you by a fraction of an inch. "It sounds like he’s keeping close tabs on your calendar."
"He's just a friend, Ni-ki. We’re supposed to be all on a trip right now." He lets out a short, humorless breath through his nose, setting the mug down. "Whatever. Eat your food before it gets cold." You watch him pick at his own breakfast, his movements rigid. "Ni-ki," you start, setting your fork down. "I have to leave in three days. I have to go back home with them."
The announcement causes him to freeze entirely. He doesn't look up, but his shoulders drop slightly. He pushes his plate away, leaning his elbows on the counter and burying his face in his hands.
"Three days is nothing," his voice comes out muffled, thick with a stubborn, brooding reluctance. "Just don't go. Tell them you're staying here. What's the difference?"
"The difference is that I vanished into thin air, Ni-ki," you explain, your voice laced with gentle frustration. "What am I supposed to tell them? 'Guys, remember our friend who we thought died two years ago ? He’s actually living in a fortress, and I’ve been staying with him instead of being on a trip with y’all.' They’d think I’ve lost my mind."
He drops his hands, turning his head to look at you. His eyes are slightly narrowed, a sulky, dark look clouding his features. "Let them think whatever they want. Why do you care so much about what they think?"
"Because they're my friends. They were your friends, too."
That hits a nerve. The silence that follows is prolonged, punctuated only by the distant sound of the clock. Ni-ki looks away, his fingers tracing a small pattern on the marble island. The brooding irritation slowly drains from his face, replaced by a weary expression.
He stands up, walking over to the window that faces the expansive grounds. He stays there for several minutes, his back to you, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his sweatpants.
"Fine," he says suddenly, turning around. His voice has regained that flat, decisive edge. "I’ll go with you."
You blink, caught entirely off guard. "What?"
"I’ll come with you in three days," he repeats, walking back toward the island. He stops right in front of you, looking down with a steady, unblinking focus. "I’m tired of hiding behind a dead name anyway. Jay, Jungwon, Jake... they deserve to know I'm not in a ditch somewhere. And I'm not letting you walk out that door alone."
──────
The platform at the regional train station is crowded, filled with the echo of announcements and the rush of commuters. You’re standing near the exit gates, the weight of the silver cross cold against your collarbone under your jacket.
Beside you, Ni-ki stands perfectly still. He’s pulled a black baseball cap low over his eyes, a high-collared coat shielding most of his face, but his presence is still massive, drawing occasional glances from passersby. His hand is tucked into yours inside his coat pocket, his grip almost uncomfortably tight.
"They're coming," you whisper, catching sight of three familiar figures navigating through the crowd near the baggage car.
Jay is leading the way, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, talking animatedly to Jungwon, who is looking down at his phone. Jake follows just behind, laughing at something Jay said. They look exactly as they always did ; untouched by the dark reality that has consumed Ni-ki’s life for the past two years.
As they approach the gate, Jake’s eyes scan the crowd and lock onto you. "Hey ! Over here!" he calls out, raising a hand.
Jay and Jungwon look up, their faces instantly brightening with familiar smiles. They cut through the remaining commuters, stopping a few feet away from you.
"You actually made it," Jay says, setting his bag down with a heavy thud. "Jess was acting so weird, we thought you’d—"
He cuts himself off. His eyes slide past your shoulder, landing on the tall figure standing directly beside you.
Ni-ki reaches up, his movements deliberate and unhurried. He takes off his cap, letting his hair fall over his forehead, and raises his chin to look them in the face.
The silence that hits the group is instantaneous and total. It’s as if the sound of the entire station has been sucked out of the air.
Jake’s hand, which was about to reach for his phone, freezes mid-air. His jaw slackens, his eyes widening to a degree that looks almost painful. Jungwon takes a involuntary step backward, his breath catching sharply in his throat, his gaze darting from Ni-ki’s face to yours, searching for some sign that this is a hallucination.
Jay is the only one who moves forward, though his boots heavy against the tile. His expression hardens, a mixture of profound shock and a sudden rising anger twisting his features. He stops barely two feet from Ni-ki, his chest rising and falling rapidly.
"What is this ?" Jay’s voice is a low rasp, completely devoid of its earlier warmth, a glimpse of tears in his eyes. "Is this some kind of joke ?"
Ni-ki doesn't flinch. He stands his ground, his face pale but completely steady, his hand still holding yours tightly inside his pocket. "It’s not a joke," Ni-ki says quietly, his voice cutting through the tension with a chilling familiarity. "I'm back."
𖤝 𝔓𝔞𝔦𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔤: OT7 x fem!reader (whoever you fuck in each chapter will be a surprise. Why?Bcs I can and it's more fun that way hehe)
𖤝 𝔊𝔢𝔫𝔯𝔢: reverse!harem, smut MDNI, fantasy, dark academia, serie
𖤝 𝔖𝔶𝔫𝔬𝔭𝔰𝔦𝔰: You’re a student like any other, drowning in debt and hounded by loan sharks. You decide to use the last resort: ending your life. But before you have time to pull the trigger, a mysterious young man emerges from a portal and offers you another option: replace a deceased version of yourself in another world and kill the witch who murdered your doppelganger. With nothing left to lose, you accept and now find yourself leading a new life in a magical academy reserved for sinners. You’ll meet seven skilled sinners and become entangled in this intricate story and the mysteries surrounding your doppelgänger’s death.
𖤝 𝔚𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: surnatural, unprotected!sex, spooning, oral (both!rec), handjob, swearing, 69, fingering, alcohol, death, suicide, violence
𖤝 𝔚ℭ: 20.3k
𖤝 𝔑𝔬𝔱𝔢: It's finally here!!!! I will try to post a chapter every week!!! Taglist is open!!! (look closely you might find something interesting while reading hehe)
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ✦ 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 1 ✦
You are going to die.
This is not a dramatic statement. This is simply the truth, the same way the sky is blue or the rent is due or the loan sharks have been calling your phone every hour for the past three weeks. You are twenty-one years old, you are drowning in debt you will never repay, and you are sitting on the edge of your bathtub with a gun in your lap that cost you the last of your cash and most of your dignity.
The bathroom light flickers. It's been doing that for months. You never fixed it. Why would you? You weren't planning to be here long enough for it to matter.
Your phone buzzes on the sink. Another text from a number you've memorized but never saved.
"We know you're home. Pay what you owe or we take fingers this time."
You turn the phone facedown. Your fingers ache. Two of them healed crooked from the last warning.
You press the barrel to your temple. The metal is cold. You didn't expect it to be cold. You expected it to feel like nothing, the way everything else has felt like nothing for months now.
Your finger finds the trigger. You close your eyes.
You think: I'm sorry.
You think: I don't even know who I'm apologizing to.
You pull the trigger. And everything stops. Not in the way you expected. Not the white light or the rushing tunnel or the life flashing before your eyes. No. The world simply... pauses. The flickering bathroom light freezes mid-flicker, stuck between on and off, casting the room in a strange half-glow. The drip from the leaky faucet hangs suspended. And the gun doesn't fire.
You pull the trigger again. Nothing. Again. Nothing. You pull it three more times in rapid succession, your breath coming faster now, panic replacing resignation, because you can't even do this right, you can't even die properly-
"That's really not going to work."
The voice comes from somewhere to your left. Somewhere that should not contain a voice, because your bathroom is approximately the size of a broom closet and you are very definitely alone in it. Or you were. You should be.
You turn your head slowly, the gun still pressed to your temple, and find yourself staring at a tear in reality. That's the only way to describe it. The air beside your shower has split open, and through the gap spills light that is somehow both gold and pink at the same time, and standing in the middle of this impossibility is a young man who looks approximately your age and approximately like he's never had a bad day in his entire life.
He's wearing what appears to be some kind of uniform, dark fabric, sharp lines, an emblem you don't recognize embroidered on the collar, but he's wearing it wrong, top button undone, sleeves rolled to his elbows and tie hanging loose.
He smiles at you. It's the kind of smile that knows exactly how charming it is. "Hi," he says. "You're not hallucinating."
"I'm definitely hallucinating," you say. Your voice comes out hoarse. When was the last time you spoke to another person? Two days? Three? "This is a hallucination. I'm having a mental break. That's fine. That tracks."
The young man steps out of the tear in reality and into your bathroom. The portal doesn't close behind him. It just hovers there. "You're not hallucinating," he repeats. He reaches out and plucks the gun from your hands. "This is real. I'm real. The portal is real. And you're not dead, which I feel like we should focus on right now."
You stare at him. You stare at the portal. You stare at your empty hands, which are trembling. "I pulled the trigger," you say.
"You did."
"It didn't work."
"I stopped it."
"You stopped it."
"Time, mostly. Just this room. Just for a minute." He says this like it's a minor inconvenience, like he's explaining how he fixed a leaky faucet. "The bullet will resume its trajectory if I let go, so I'd appreciate it if you'd step away from the line of fire before I do."
You look down. There is a bullet hanging in the air six inches from your head. Frozen. Motionless You slide off the bathtub edge and press yourself against the opposite wall. Your legs don't feel like legs. The young man waves his hand. The bullet drops to the floor with a small tink. Time resumes. The light flickers properly. The faucet drips. The tear in reality stays exactly where it is.
"There," he says pleasantly. "Crisis averted. You're welcome, by the way."
"Who," you manage, "the hell are you?"
He places a hand over his heart, mock-offended. "I'm hurt. I go through all this effort to save your life and that's the tone you take?" Then he drops the act and grins. "My name is Sunoo. You're Y/N. Well, you're a Y/N. One of them. There are more than you'd think, actually. Infinite universes, infinite variations. Most of you are very boring, but you-" He points at you. "You're interesting."
You slide down the wall until you're sitting on the bathroom floor. "I don't understand anything you're saying," you tell him.
"That's fair." Sunoo crouches down to your level. He's still smiling, but something in his expression shifts. Softens. It's almost convincing. "Let me start over. You were about to do something permanent. I'm here to offer you an alternative."
"What kind of alternative?"
"The kind where you don't die and instead get a new life, a new identity, and a purpose." He tilts his head. "Also there's magic. And an academy. And you might have to kill someone. But we can get to that part later."
You stare at him. The gun is on the floor between you. Neither of you reaches for it. "Magic," you repeat.
"Magic."
"Academy."
"Academy."
"Killing someone."
"Allegedly. It's more of a long-term goal than an immediate requirement."
You press the heels of your palms against your eyes. When you open them, he's still there. The portal is still there. The bullet is still on the floor. You are still alive, which was not the plan five minutes ago. "Okay," you say, because what else do you say to the impossible when it shows up in your bathroom? "Explain."
Sunoo explains. He explains it slowly, patiently, like he's talking to a child or a particularly skittish animal. There is a world called Emperion. It runs on magic drawn from sin, anger, greed, pride, all the worst parts of human nature, harvested and weaponized. In this world, there was another version of you. A wealthy, powerful, deeply unpleasant version of you who attended an elite magical academy and made a lot of enemies and one very bad decision.
"She made a deal with something she shouldn't have," Sunoo says. "A deity outside the sanctioned seven. Tristitia. The Sorrow. It gave her power, and then it took her life. Or rather, a witch took her life. Working for Tristitia. The details are messy."
"Messy how?"
"Messy in the sense that I don't fully know them." He says this lightly, but his eyes flick away for just a moment. "I was there when she died. It happened fast. One moment she was casting, the next she was-" He makes a vague gesture. "Not casting. Very permanently not casting."
You're still on the floor. Your legs have gone numb. "And you want me to replace her."
"I want you to be her. There's a difference." He stands up and offers you his hand. "She's dead. No one knows except me. If you take her place, you get her life, her room, her status, her spot at the Academy. All you have to do is pretend to be her and help me find the witch who killed her."
"Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why do you care who killed her?"
Something flickers across Sunoo's face. It might be grief. It might be guilt. It might be neither. With him, it's hard to tell.
"She was my best friend," he says. "Is that enough of a reason?"
You don't know if you believe him. But you also don't know if it matters. You're sitting on a bathroom floor with a bullet on the tiles and a portal to another universe hovering beside your shower. Your options are limited. They've been limited for a long time.
"What if I say no?"
Sunoo shrugs. "Then I leave. Time resumes its normal flow. The bullet stays on the floor. You're back exactly where you started, with exactly the same options you had before I arrived." He pauses. "I won't stop you a second time, if that's what you're asking. I'm offering you a choice, not a prison sentence."
You look at the gun. You look at the portal. You think about the loan sharks and the hospital bills and the two crooked fingers that ache every time you try to move them. You think about the silence that has followed you since you were fifteen years old, since your parents died and left you with nothing but a cramped apartment and a stack of unpaid bills and the slow realization that no one was coming to save you.
But someone did come, didn't they? Someone just walked through a hole in reality and offered you an escape. Not a savior. A deal. "Is it dangerous?" you ask.
"Extremely."
"Am I going to die?"
"Possibly. But not tonight. Tonight you'll be safe."
You take his hand. His palm is warm. You didn't expect that. "Okay," you say. "I'm in."
Sunoo's smile returns, brighter this time. "Wonderful. Now for the unpleasant part."
"The unpleasant part?"
"The switch."
He doesn't explain what "the switch" means. He just raises his hand and makes a gesture like he's turning a page in a book, and suddenly there's a body on your bathroom floor.
Not just any body. Your body.
It's you. The other you. The dead one. She's wearing the same uniform as Sunoo, dark fabric and sharp lines and an emblem on the collar. Her hair is the same as yours. Her face is the same as yours. But she's paler, and her lips are slightly blue, and she's very, very dead.
You stumble backward. Your hip bangs against the sink. "What the fuck."
"Language."
"What the actual…why is there a…where did you-"
"I retrieved her from where I've been keeping her preserved. Temporal stasis. Very useful." Sunoo says this like he's discussing meal prep. "She needs to be found here. In your world. If she just disappears from Emperion, people will ask questions. So we're leaving her body in your apartment, staged to look like she's you, and then you're coming with me."
"You want me to just-" You gesture wildly at the corpse. "Leave a dead body in my apartment?"
"It's not your apartment anymore. You're not coming back." Sunoo is already crouching beside the body, adjusting her position with unsettling gentleness. "She'll be found. She'll be identified as you. Your debts will die with her. Your loan sharks will move on. You, meanwhile, will be in another world entirely, attending a prestigious academy and sleeping in a much nicer bed."
You want to argue. You want to point out all the ways this is insane. But you find yourself watching his hands as he aRranges the other you's hair, and you can't stop thinking about how strange it is to see yourself from the outside. She looks peaceful. You've never looked peaceful. You've always looked tired.
"Did she suffer?" you ask quietly.
Sunoo's hands pause. "No," he says. "It was very fast."
You don't know if he's lying. You decide it doesn't matter. "Okay," you say. "Let's do this before I change my mind."
Sunoo stands and offers you his hand again. "Hold on tight. First-time travel can be disorienting."
You take his hand. His fingers close around yours. The portal pulses once, twice, and then the world dissolves.
Teleportation, as it turns out, feels like being turned inside out and then right-side in again, but very quickly, and with a lot more colors than you've ever seen before. Your stomach lurches. Your vision whites out. For a single, horrible moment, you feel like you're falling in every direction at once.
Then your feet hit solid ground, and you're somewhere else entirely.
You stumble, and Sunoo catches your elbow. "Easy. It passes."
You want to tell him you're fine, but you're too busy staring at everything. You're standing in what appears to be a dormitory hallway, but it's like no dormitory you've ever seen. And the window at the end of the hallway shows a sky that is definitely, absolutely, not the sky you grew up under. It's purple. Deep purple, scattered with more stars than you've ever seen. And the moon-
"There are two moons," you say. Your voice comes out faint.
"Yes," Sunoo says. "Selene and Noctis. The sisters. They've been chasing each other across the sky for ten thousand years."
"Chasing each other?"
"It's a myth. I'll tell you later." He's already steering you down the hallway. "Keep your voice down. Most students are asleep, but some of them have very good hearing."
"What species has very good hearing?"
"Werewolves, mostly. Vampires. Shapeshifters in bat form. The occasional paranoid elf." He counts them off on his fingers. "Oh, and the Hypogean, but they don't sleep, so they don't count."
You have no idea what a Hypogean is. You're not sure you want to know. You let him guide you down the hallway, past identical doors with nameplates you can't read. "Is the whole world like this?" you ask.
"Nocthaven is special. It's the only territory under perpetual night. The rest of Emperion has a normal day-night cycle." Sunoo pauses in front of a door. "This is mine."
The nameplate reads: Kim Sunoo - Goat Hall. The emblem beside it is a goat with curling horns.
"Goat Hall," you read aloud.
"It's the Lust dormitory."
You stare at him.
"I'm an incubus," he adds, as if this explains everything. Which, given the context, it sort of does.
"Of course you are," you mutter.
Sunoo grins and pushes the door open. "Come in. We have a lot to cover and not much time before morning."
His room is exactly what you would expect from someone who introduced themselves by stopping time and stealing a corpse. It's large, larger than your entire apartment, with silk sheets on the bed, candles that light themselves as you enter, and a balcony that overlooks the Academy grounds. You stand in the center of the room, not sure where to put yourself. Sunoo gestures at a velvet armchair.
"Sit. You look like you're about to collapse."
You sit. The chair is too comfortable. You hate it a little. "The other me," you say. "The dead one. Tell me about her."
Sunoo settles onto the edge of his bed, crossing one leg over the other. "What do you want to know?"
"Everything. If I'm going to pretend to be her, I need to know everything."
"She's human," he begins. "That's important. Most of the elite students at the Academy are something more, vampires, demons, elves. She was fully mortal, which made her talent even more impressive. Or infuriating, depending on who you ask."
"What was she like?"
Sunoo considers this. "Cold. Confident. Kind of a bitch if you ask me. She was the top of our class without seeming to try. People admired her or hated her. There wasn't much middle ground."
"That's not very helpful. What did she like? What did she do? How did she treat people?"
"She treated people like furniture," Sunoo says frankly. "She was not a nice person, Y/N. I know it's weird to speak ill of the dead, but you should know what you're stepping into. She was my best friend, and I loved her, and she was also a nightmare."
This is not comforting. "Great. So I'm replacing a nightmare."
"You're replacing a nightmare and you need to convince everyone you're still her. Which means you need to be cold and confident and kind of mean, at least at first." He tilts his head, studying you. "Can you do that?"
You think about the loan sharks. You think about the way you learned to make yourself small, to avoid eye contact, to apologize for things that weren't your fault. The opposite of cold and confident. The opposite of mean. "I don't know," you admit.
"You'll learn." He says it like it's a guarantee. "Now. Magic."
"Magic."
"The old Y/N had no defined sin affinity."
You frown. "What does that mean?"
"Most sinners have a natural pull toward one of the seven sin categories by the time they reach adolescence. It's like-" He pauses, searching for his words. "It's like a calling. A resonance. You feel drawn to a particular type of magic the way some people feel drawn to music or art. The old Y/N never felt that pull. She was completely neutral. It's rare. It's also why she was so powerful. She could theoretically access any of the seven."
"But she couldn't?"
"She was still waiting for her affinity to manifest. Most students have theirs by sixteen at the latest. She was twenty. It was a point of... frustration for her. One of the reasons she made that deal with Tristitia." Sunoo's expression darkens briefly. "She was tired of waiting."
You digest this. "So I'm supposed to have no magic?"
"For now. But here's the thing." He leans forward. "You're not her. You're from another universe. Your soul is different. Exposure to Emperion might trigger an affinity in you that she never had. Or it might not. We won't know until we know."
"How do we find out?"
"We wait. You should feel it eventually, if it's going to happen. A pull. A resonance. Something that feels like-" He gestures vaguely. "Like coming home."
You sit in the too-comfortable chair and try to feel something. Anything. A pull, a resonance, a sense of coming home. You close your eyes and reach out with whatever internal sense you're supposed to have.
Nothing.
Just the vague nausea of teleportation and the lingering shock of not being dead. "I don't feel anything," you say.
Sunoo's brow furrows. "Nothing at all?"
"Nothing."
"That's..." He trails off. "Weird. Usually Dimensionals start feeling the resonance within hours of arrival. Your soul should be reacting to the ambient sin energy by now."
"Is that bad?"
"I don't know." He doesn't sound happy about this. "It might mean your affinity will take longer to develop. It might mean you don't have one at all. It might mean something else entirely." He waves a hand. "We'll figure it out. For now, the important thing is that no one finds out you're not her."
"How do I explain not knowing things I should know?"
"Head injury." Sunoo says it immediately, like he's already thought this through. "The mission where she died…where she was supposed to have died involved a confrontation with a witch. We'll say she took a magical blow to the head. It affected her memory. It's not uncommon. Sloppy spellwork can scramble things. People will believe it because they'll want to believe it. No one likes the alternative explanation."
"The alternative explanation being that I'm an imposter from another dimension?"
"Exactly. Which you can never, ever tell anyone." His voice loses its playful tone. He is suddenly, startlingly serious. "Dimensional travelers are rare, Y/N. They're studied. Dissected. The Academy would love to get their hands on someone from a non-magical universe. You'd spend the rest of your life in a research cell. Do you understand?"
You swallow. "I understand."
"Good." The playfulness returns, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "I'll tell you everything else you need to know step by step. There's no point overwhelming you tonight. Tomorrow, we'll start with the basics. The Academy layout. The other students. The professors. What classes you're supposed to be taking." He stands up. "For now, you should sleep."
"Here?"
"Where else?"
"In your room?"
"It's fine. The old Y/N stayed over all the time." He says this casually, already moving toward his closet. "We had an arrangement."
You feel your face do something complicated. "An arrangement."
"Mutually beneficial." He pulls out a spare blanket and tosses it to you. "We slept together. It wasn't romantic. Don't look at me like that."
"I'm not looking at you like anything."
"You're looking at me like I just confessed to murder."
"You did confess to stealing a corpse!"
"That was retrieval. Very different." He drapes himself across his bed. "Look, the old Y/N and I were close. We were friends. We were also both attractive and bored and neither of us had any interest in emotional attachment. It worked for us. If people think we're still doing that, it gives you an excuse to spend time with me. And you need to spend time with me, because I'm the only one who knows your secret."
This is, unfortunately, logical. You hate it. "Fine," you say. "But I'm sleeping in the chair."
"Suit yourself. The bed is big enough for two."
"I'm sleeping in the chair."
"Your loss."
You wrap the blanket around yourself and curl up in the velvet armchair. "Weird," you whisper to yourself. "Everything is so weird."
Sunoo has already closed his eyes. His breathing is slow and even. You don't know if he's actually asleep or just pretending. With him, it's impossible to tell.
You don't sleep. You can't. Every time you close your eyes, you see the other you's face, pale and peaceful on your bathroom floor. You see the bullet hanging in the air. You see the portal. You hear Sunoo's voice: She was not a nice person. She was my best friend, and she was also a nightmare.
You think about the fact that you are, technically, dead. Y/N died tonight in a cramped bathroom.
But eventually, despite everything, your body gives up. Your eyes grow heavy. And you dream. You are in a garden.
Not the Academy grounds. Something else. Somewhere else. The garden is vast and formal. Roses climb trellises made of bone-white wood. The flowers are red. So red they're almost black. The sky above you is neither purple nor blue. It's gray. Featureless.
You walk down a path of crushed white stone. The roses watch you. You can't explain how you know they're watching, but they are. Their petals turn to follow your movement. The path ends at a fountain. The water in the fountain is black. Not dirty. Just black, like ink, like oil. It reflects nothing.
"Do you like my garden?"
The voice comes from everywhere and nowhere. It is not a voice so much as the memory of a voice, the impression of sound pressed directly into your mind. It is cold. It is very, very interested in you. You turn. There is nothing behind you. There is nothing anywhere, except the roses and the fountain and the gray sky.
"I asked you a question."
"I-" Your voice echoes strangely. "Who are you?"
A pause. The roses rustle, though there is no wind. "Disappointing," the voice says. "You're not her. You're wearing her shape, but you're not her. The contract was with her. Not you."
"Contract?"
"The Sorrow remembers its own. You are not its own." A sigh, like stone grinding against stone. "I will have to start over. How inconvenient."
The roses burst into flame. Not real flame, black fire that consumes without heat. The petals curl and blacken. The bone-white trellises crack. The crushed stone path turns to ash beneath your feet. The fountain boils, and the black water rises, and the voice speaks one last time:
"Find me anyway. Perhaps you'll be more useful than she was."
You wake up. You're still in the chair. The blanket is tangled around your legs. The candles in Sunoo's room have burned down to stubs. Outside, the purple sky has lightened slightly, taking on a grayish tinge. Dawn, or whatever passes for dawn in a land without sun.
Sunoo is sitting up in bed, watching you. His expression is unreadable. "You were talking in your sleep," he says.
You press a hand to your chest. Your heart is pounding. "I had a dream. There was a garden. Roses. A voice."
"A voice."
"It said I wasn't the real contractor. It said-" You struggle to remember the exact words. "The Sorrow remembers its own. I am not its own."
Sunoo goes very still. "That's Tristitia," he says quietly. "That's the deity she made the deal with. It spoke to you."
"It wasn't happy."
"No. It wouldn't be." He swings his legs over the side of the bed, suddenly all business. "This complicates things."
"What things?"
"Everything." He stands up and crosses to the window, looking out at the impossible sky. "Tristitia doesn't let go of contracts easily. If it knows you're not her, it might come looking for answers. Or payment. Or just to express its displeasure."
"Can it hurt me?"
"I don't know. Probably. Eventually." He turns back to you, and his smile is back. "But that's a problem for later. Right now, we have a more immediate concern."
"What?"
"Breakfast." He tosses you a folded uniform from his closet. It's identical to the one he's wearing. "Put this on. You have a reputation to maintain, and mean girls don't skip meals."
You catch the uniform. It's heavier than it looks. You stare down at the emblem on the collar, the crest you don't recognize, the colors you've never worn.
Somewhere in the back of your mind, you can still smell the burning roses. Find me anyway, the voice said. Perhaps you'll be more useful than she was. You don't know what that means. You don't know what any of this means. But you're here now, in a world with two moons and purple skies and seven kinds of sin magic, wearing a dead girl's clothes and carrying a dead girl's secrets.
And breakfast, apparently, waits for no one. "Alright," you say. "Let's go."
Sunoo grins. "That's the spirit."
You're not sure it is. But it's the only spirit you've got.
The uniform fits perfectly. This is unsettling for several reasons. First, because it means the dead girl really was identical to you in every physical way, down to the exact measurements of your shoulders and the precise length of your legs. Second, because the uniform itself is clearly expensive in a way you've never experienced, the fabric is soft and heavy and probably costs more than your monthly rent. Third, and most disturbing, because when you look at yourself in Sunoo's full-length mirror, you don't see yourself at all.
You see her.
The old Y/N stares back at you with your eyes. She wears the dark uniform with casual elegance, the emblem on her collar catching the candlelight. Her hair falls exactly the way yours does, but somehow it looks intentional on her. Like she woke up this morning and decided to be beautiful, and her body simply obeyed.
You lean closer to the mirror. Your reflection leans closer too. You try to find something in her expression that looks like you, the girl who worked double shifts at a convenience store, the girl who ate instant noodles for dinner six nights a week, the girl who sat on a bathtub with a gun in her lap and didn't die.
She's not there. Or maybe you're not here. Maybe you're both somewhere in between.
"You're making a weird face," Sunoo says from behind you.
"I'm practicing my mean face."
"That's your constipated face. Very different."
You turn away from the mirror. Sunoo is already dressed, which seems unfair given that you didn't see him change. He's leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, watching you with an expression that might be amusement or might be assessment.
"How do I look?" you ask.
"Like her." He says it simply, without flattery or comfort. "Your posture is wrong, though. She stood straight and confident. You stand like you're apologizing for taking up space."
"Sorry."
"Don't apologize. That's exactly what I mean."
You straighten your spine. Pull your shoulders back. Lift your chin. It feels ridiculous. It feels like wearing someone else's bones.
"Better," Sunoo says. "Still not right. But better. We'll work on it."
"Can we just go to breakfast? I'm starving."
"Just remember-" He opens the door and gestures for you to follow. "You're not the new girl. You're the old girl. You've been here for years. You own this place. Everyone else is beneath you."
"I thought you said she was a nightmare."
"She was. But she was their nightmare. They respected her for it." He flashes you a grin over his shoulder. "Fear and respect are the same thing in this academy. Remember that."
You follow him into the hallway. A group of students passes you in the hallway. They're younger than you, first or second years, probably, and the moment they see your face, something changes in their expressions. Eyes widen. Postures straighten. One of them actually stops mid-sentence, her mouth hanging open slightly.
"Morning," you say, because you don't know what else to say.
The students exchange glances. One of them, a girl with pointed ears and silver hair, clearly an elf manages a nervous nod.
"Good morning, Lady Y/N," she says. Her voice is slightly shaky. "We heard you were injured on your last mission. We're glad to see you recovered."
Lady Y/N. You have a title. Of course you have a title.
"It was nothing," you say, channeling every mean girl you've ever seen in a movie. You let your voice go flat. Dismissive. "A scratch."
The students don't question this. They just nod rapidly and hurry past, their whispers trailing behind them like smoke. You keep walking. Your heart is pounding so hard you can feel it in your teeth.
"That was good," Sunoo murmurs. "The it was nothing was a nice touch. Very her."
"Who calls someone 'Lady'?"
"You do. Well, you don't. But people call you that. Your family is nobility. Old blood. Lots of money. I probably should have mentioned that earlier."
"You think?"
"Shh. More students."
Another group rounds the corner. These ones are older, your age, maybe, or close to it. Their reactions are more subtle but no less noticeable. Conversations pause. Eyes track your movement. One boy with dark hair and distinctly wolfish features actually flattens himself against the wall to let you pass.
You don't know whether to be flattered or horrified. "Do they always do this?" you whisper.
"Always. She was the top of the food chain. Everyone else is just trying not to get eaten."
"Great. No pressure."
You reach the end of the hallway and descend a spiral staircase that seems to go on forever.
The dining hall is at the bottom of the stairs. It's massive, far larger than you expected, with vaulted ceilings supported by pillars carved to look like the seven animals of the sins. A peacock pillar. A lion pillar. A pig, a toad, a goat, a snake, and a snail, all rendered in dark wood that gleams in the candlelight.
The tables are arranged by dorm affiliation. You can tell by the banners hanging above each section: the peacock for Pride, the lion for Wrath, the pig for Gluttony. Students cluster together in their respective groups, and the room hums with the low murmur of conversation and the clink of silverware.
Sunoo guides you toward the Goat section with a hand on your lower back. His touch is light, familiar. You realize with a start that he's performing, that this is what the old Y/N and Sunoo looked like together. Intimate. Comfortable. Two people who shared more than friendship.
You try not to stiffen under his hand. "Relax," he breathes. "You're doing fine."
"I haven't done anything yet."
"Exactly. Keep doing nothing. Nothing is very in-character for her."
The Goat table is populated by students who all share Sunoo's particular brand of effortless beauty. Incubi and succubi, mostly, though you spot a few humans and what might be a siren based on the faint iridescence of her skin. They greet Sunoo with casual waves and lazy smiles. They greet you with something closer to wariness.
Sunoo steers you to a seat at the end of the table, slightly apart from the others. A plate of food materializes in front of you the moment you sit down. You stare at it.
The food is... not what you expected.
The main dish appears to be some kind of meat, but it's faintly blue and glistening. The side dishes include something that looks like purple mashed potatoes studded with silver seeds, and a bread roll that appears to be steaming, except the steam is going downward instead of up. The drink in your goblet is clear, but when you tilt it, the liquid moves in slow motion.
"This is breakfast?" you ask.
"Welcome to Emperion cuisine," Sunoo says cheerfully. "The blue thing is moonhare. It's a delicacy. The purple mash is starroot. The bread is…well, it's bread. Mostly. And the drink is crystallized dawn mist. Very refreshing."
"Refreshing."
"Try it."
You pick up your fork. The moonhare quivers slightly. You cut a small piece and lift it to your mouth. It tastes like someone liquefied a dream and then added salt. You swallow convulsively. Your throat tries to reject it. You manage to keep It down through the knowledge that vomiting at breakfast would probably not be in-character for the old Y/N.
"Good?" Sunoo asks innocently.
"Delicious," you manage. Your voice comes out strangled.
"You're a terrible liar."
"I know. I'm working on it."
You push the moonhare around your plate and focus on the bread instead. The bread, at least, tastes like bread. Normal bread. You tear off pieces and chew slowly while Sunoo launches into what you quickly realize is a prepared lecture.
"The Academy operates on a term system," he says, his voice low enough that the other students can't hear. "Eight terms per year. Each term is four weeks. You've already completed six terms of your third year, which means you have two terms left before the final assessments."
"What are the final assessments?"
"Combat trials. Academic examinations. And the Selection." He pauses. "The Selection is the most important part. It's when the Imperial Division chooses the next seven Deadly Sins. You’re possibly one of the seven."
"One of the seven."
"Obviously. You're one of the strongest sinners in the Academy." He says this matter-of-factly. "Or you were. Before you died. But I don’t think the old Y/N would have go for the Imperial Division, that’s not her style at all."
"Great. No pressure. Again."
"Your schedule is as follows: Sin Theory in the morning, taught by Professor Vex. She's a demon. Don't make eye contact for too long. Then Combat Training with Professor Thornwood, he's a Graveborn, very stern, hates tardiness. Then Basic Hexes and Curses after lunch, which is taught by Professor Willowisp. She's an elf, she's been alive for nine hundred years, and she will know if you haven't done the reading."
"I can't do any of those things."
"You can't do them yet. That's what the extra lessons are for." He spears a piece of moonhare and eats it without flinching. "After classes, I'll teach you the basics. What you should already know. We'll start with magical theory and work our way up to practical application."
"And if I can't learn?"
"Then we're both in trouble." He says it lightly, but his eyes are serious. "This isn't a game, Y/N. If people find out you're not her, it's not just embarrassment. It's dangerous. For both of us."
"I know."
"Do you? Because you keep making jokes."
"I make jokes when I'm terrified. It's a coping mechanism."
Sunoo studies you for a moment. Then his expression softens, just slightly. "Fair enough. Just be careful. Not everyone here is as forgiving as me."
"Are you forgiving?"
"No," he admits. "But I'm on your side. That's almost the same thing."
You're not sure it is. But before you can argue, a voice cuts across the dining hall.
"Y/N!"
The voice is loud and warm. You turn toward it and see a young man weaving through the tables toward you. He's mortal. You can tell immediately, though you're not sure how, something about the way he moves, the way his eyes are just eyes. He has brown hair that flops across his forehead and a smile that takes up his entire face and arms that are already reaching for you before he's even close enough to touch.
"Y/N! You're back! I heard you got hurt and I was so worried and Sunoo wouldn't tell me anything and I thought-" He reaches your table and pulls you into a hug without breaking stride. "I'm so glad you're okay!"
You go rigid. His arms are around you, warm and solid and completely unexpected. He smells like something sweet, honey, maybe, or vanilla. You have no idea who he is. Your arms stay at your sides. Your spine locks up. Your brain, which has been handling the morning's challenges with surprising competence, decides to shut down. You stand there, frozen, while a stranger hugs you like you're his favorite person in the world.
"Um," you say.
The young man pulls back. His smile flickers. "Y/N? Are you okay?"
Say something. Do something. Be mean. Be cold. That's what she would do.
"I'm fine," you manage. "Just tired."
He doesn't look convinced. "Are you sure? You seem..."
"She's recovering," Sunoo cuts in smoothly. He's suddenly at your side, his hand on your elbow. "Magical injury. It's affected her memory a bit. She's still getting her bearings."
"Memory?" The young man's expression shifts to concern. "How bad is it?"
"Nothing permanent. Just some gaps. She'll be fine in a few days." Sunoo's voice is perfectly casual. "Right, Y/N?"
"Right," you echo. "Gaps. Temporary. No big deal."
The young man looks between you and Sunoo. His brow furrows. "You're being weird. Both of you."
"We're always weird," Sunoo says. "Jake, don't you have somewhere to be? Don't you have…what is it you do…eating? Don't you have eating to do?"
Jake. His name is Jake. You file this away frantically.
"I was eating. Then I saw Y/N and came over to say hi." Jake crosses his arms. "Is that a crime now?"
"Technically, yes. New Academy rule. No saying hi to Y/N without written permission."
"There's no such rule."
"I'm proposing it. I have connections."
While they bicker, you study Jake. He's wearing the emblem of the pig on his collar, Gluttony, the Gula dorm. He's mortal, which is rare among the elite students. And he knows you. He knows you well enough to hug you in public, well enough to notice when you're acting strange, well enough to look at you with those worried eyes and make you feel like the worst person in the world for deceiving him.
"We should get to class," Sunoo says abruptly. "Jake, we'll catch up later. Y/N needs to-"
"Wait." Jake reaches out and touches your arm. His hand is warm. "Y/N. If something's wrong, you can tell me. You know that, right? We've known each other since we were kids. You can always tell me."
Childhood friends. This man was the old Y/N's childhood friend. "I know," you say quietly. "Thank you, Jake."
His smile returns, smaller this time but real. "Okay. Good. Come find me later? I missed you."
"I will."
He squeezes your arm once and then heads back to his table, where a plate piled high with food waits for him. You watch him go and feel like the worst kind of fraud.
"Come on," Sunoo murmurs. "Before anyone else decides to check on you."
He pulls you out of the dining hall and into a side corridor. The moment you're out of sight of the other students, you slump against the wall and press your hands to your face.
"That was awful."
"That was fine."
"He knew something was wrong. He could tell."
"Jake always knows. He's perceptive in ways people don't expect." Sunoo's voice is thoughtful. "But he doesn't know what he's perceiving. He just knows something's different. We can work with that."
"Who is he?"
"Jake. Gluttony. Pig dorm. Your oldest friend." Sunoo leans against the wall beside you. "Your families were neighbors when you were children. He's known you since before you got into the Academy."
"Great. So he knows the real me better than anyone."
"He knew the real her. Not the real you." Sunoo tilts his head. "That's an important distinction. The girl he grew up with was already on her way to becoming the nightmare. You're not her. You're something else entirely."
"A worse liar."
"True. But maybe a better person." He pushes off the wall. "Come on. We have time before your first class. I should show you around."
"Wasn't my first class like twenty minutes ago?"
"I told Professor Vex you were still recovering. She was... understanding."
"Understanding? You said she was a demon."
"She is. Demons understand injury. They also understand the importance of appearing strong. She agreed that you shouldn't return to class until you can make a proper entrance." He grins. "See? I'm good at this."
You're not sure if "good at this" means good at lying or good at manipulating demons, but either way, you're grateful. You push yourself off the wall and follow him back into the main corridor.
The Academy tour takes the better part of an hour.
Sunoo shows you everything. The Verity Palace, where most academic classes are held, The Stellar Chamber, an observatory whose ceiling shows a real-time map of the night sky, The library, a multi-story cathedral of books where the shelves rearrange themselves when you're not looking and certain texts are chained to their pedestals with chains that glow faintly red.
"The restricted section is through there," Sunoo says, pointing to an iron gate at the back of the library. "Don't go in without permission. The books bite."
"The books."
"Some of them. Others just scream. It's very distracting."
You file this under "things I wish I'd known before signing up" and keep walking.
The greenhouse is next. It's a massive glass dome filled with plants that move. Some of them turn toward you as you pass, their leaves rustling like whispers. One vine reaches out and tries to grab Sunoo's ankle; he steps over it without breaking stride.
"The Venomous Kiss," he says, gesturing at a flower with petals the color of dried blood. "Beautiful but fatal. Students use it in potions. Carefully."
"What happens if you're not careful?"
"Then you don't make it to graduation."
The tour continues. The Nocturna Dorms, seven buildings arranged in a semicircle around a central courtyard where a fountain sprays water that glows faintly silver. The medical wing, where a harried-looking healer is treating a student whose arm appears to have been temporarily turned into glass. The administrative offices and then the arena.
It's a massive stone amphitheater, open to the purple sky, with tiered seating that could hold the entire student body. The floor is sand, but it's not normal sand, it's darker than it should be, and it shifts occasionally, as if something beneath it is breathing.
And in the center of the arena, a young man is training.
He's tall. Pale. His hair is black as ink and his face is the kind of beautiful that makes your brain skip a beat. He's wearing training clothes instead of the uniform, simple black fabric that clings to his shoulders and arms in ways that seem specifically designed to make thinking difficult. He's holding a sword that appears to be made of crystallized shadow, and he's moving through forms with a precision that is almost hypnotic.
Around the edges of the arena, students have gathered to watch. They're not subtle about it. They're staring openly, whispering to each other, pointing. A few of them are fanning themselves.
"Who is that?" you ask.
"That," Sunoo says, his voice carrying a note of warning, "is Sunghoon. Avaritia. Greed. Your ex-fiancé."
"My what!?"
"Ex-fiancé. You broke up with him last year. Well, the old you did. She said he was boring." Sunoo's tone is carefully neutral. "He's been trying to win her back ever since."
You stare at the young man in the arena. He finishes a particularly complicated sequence, the shadow-sword cutting through the air and pauses. His chest is rising and falling with exertion. His dark hair is slightly mussed. There's a sheen of sweat on his forehead that catches the light from the purple sky and makes him look like a painting come to life.
"Boring," you repeat.
"Her words, not mine."
"She called that boring?"
"Are you okay? You look a little flushed."
"I'm fine. I'm totally fine. I'm just processing the fact that I apparently broke off an engagement with someone who looks like he was carved out of moonlight by a team of very dedicated artists."
Sunoo makes a face. "Please don't romanticize him. It's bad enough that he's been pining for a year. If you start encouraging him-"
In the arena, Sunghoon looks up. His eyes find you instantly, as if he knew exactly where you were standing. As if he always knows where you are. His expression shifts, and a smirk spreads across his face, slow and confident and deeply irritating.
He raises his hand in a wave. And you, operating on pure instinct, raise your hand back. It's small and shy and accompanied by a smile that you didn't give permission to appear.
Sunghoon's smirk falters. His hand freezes mid-wave. His pale cheeks flush slightly, barely noticeable, but you catch it. His eyes widen just a fraction. He looks, for a single moment, completely thrown off balance. Then he recovers, his smirk returning, but it's different now. Softer. Almost uncertain.
You realize what you've done. "Oh no," you whisper.
"Yeah," Sunoo says. He grabs your arm and starts dragging you away from the arena. "Oh no is right."
He pulls you around a corner and into an empty corridor. The moment you're out of sight, he rounds on you with an expression somewhere between exasperation and horror. "What was that?"
"I waved!"
"You waved. You did not just wave. You did a whole thing. You did a shy little wave with a shy little smile and he blushed, Y/N. I have known Sunghoon for three years and I have never seen him blush. He doesn't have enough blood flow for blushing. He's a Graveborn. He's technically dead."
"It was an accident! I panicked! He waved first!"
"Waved? Waved? He was being arrogant. You were supposed to ignore him. That's what the old you would have done. She would have looked at him like he was a piece of furniture and then walked away."
"I don't know how to do that!"
"Clearly."
You press your back against the corridor wall. "I'm going to mess this up. I'm going to mess everything up. I can't do this."
Sunoo sighs, his expression shifting from exasperation to something closer to sympathy.
"You can do this," he says. "You just need to be more careful. Sunghoon is…he's intense. He loved her. The old her. He loved her even when she was cruel to him. If he thinks she's suddenly become soft-"
"Maybe that's a good thing? Maybe people will think she changed after the injury?"
"Maybe. Or maybe they'll think something else happened. Something worse." Sunoo's eyes are serious. "There are people at this Academy who would love to find a weakness in you. In her. If they think you're vulnerable, they'll exploit it."
"So what do I do?"
"You learn. You adapt. And you stop waving at your ex-fiancé like you're in a romance novel."
You groan and drop your head into your hands. "Who is he, anyway? You said ex-fiancé. Why were we engaged?"
"Your families arranged it when you were children. Noble politics. Sunghoon's family is old money, older than yours, actually. The engagement was meant to merge your houses. And then you broke it off because you got bored."
"Bored."
"According to her, he was too sincere. Too devoted. She said it was exhausting being loved that much."
You think about the young man in the arena. The way he looked at you like you were the only person in the world. The way your tiny, accidental wave made him blush.
"That's really sad," you say quietly.
"It's also not your problem." Sunoo stands and offers you his hand. "You're not her. You don't have to love him or hate him or anything in between. You just have to avoid making him suspicious."
"What if he already is suspicious?"
"Then we deal with it. But for now…Let's focus on getting through your first day. One disaster at a time."
"I think I've already had three disasters."
"Those were small disasters. Practice disasters. You haven't even met Jay yet."
"Who's Jay?"
Sunoo's smile turns slightly evil. "He hates you. Well, he hated her. He's going to hate you too, but for different reasons."
"What reasons?"
"Because you won't be able to do any of the things she could do. And he's going to notice." Sunoo pats your shoulder. "Good luck."
You stare at him. "I thought you said you were on my side."
"I am. That doesn't mean your life is going to be easy."
You follow him down the corridor, your mind spinning with new information. Jake, the childhood friend who knows you too well. Sunghoon, the ex-fiancé you apparently broke for no reason. And somewhere out there, Jay, the guy who hates you and is about to discover you can't do magic. You've been in this world for less than twelve hours, and you're already exhausted.
"What was the old me even like?" you mutter. "How did she handle all of this?"
Sunoo glances back at you. "She didn't have to handle it. Everyone was either beneath her notice or a tool to be used. She didn't worry about what people thought because she genuinely didn't care."
"That sounds lonely."
"It was. I think that's why she made the deal with Tristitia." His voice goes quiet. "She wanted power because power was the only thing that made her feel safe. And in the end, it killed her."
"I'm not her," you say finally. "I can't be her. I don't know how to be cold and cruel and untouchable."
"No," Sunoo agrees. "You can't. But you can pretend. And maybe-" He pauses, something flickering in his expression. "Maybe pretending will be enough."
You hope he's right. You really, really hope he's right. Because if he's not, you're going to have a lot more problems than expected.
The rest of the day is a masterclass in improvisation. Your first class, Sin Theory with Professor Vex. Sunoo guides you to the front row before the other students arrive, his hand on your elbow steady.
"The front row?" you hiss. "Why am I in the front row?"
"Because the old Y/N always sat in the front row. She said it was easier to intimidate the professor that way."
"How does sitting in the front row intimidate anyone?"
"Eye contact. Unbroken eye contact. For the entire lecture." Sunoo pats your shoulder. "Good luck."
He retreats to a seat near the back before you can protest. Other students file in, filling the rings around you. You feel their eyes on the back of your head like tiny lasers. You stare straight ahead. Your spine is rigid. Your face is, you hope, expressionless. The old Y/N wouldn't turn around. The old Y/N wouldn't acknowledge the whispers. The old Y/N would sit here like she owned the room and everyone in it.
Professor Vex enters through a side door.She stops when she sees you. Her black eyes fix on your face. "Lady Y/N," she says. Her voice is like silk. "You've returned."
"Professor Vex." You incline your head slightly. Sunoo told you not to make prolonged eye contact. You make exactly two seconds of eye contact and then look at a point just over her shoulder. "I apologize for my absence."
"No apology necessary. Magical injuries are unpredictable." She moves toward her desk, her robes sweeping the floor. "I trust you've recovered sufficiently?"
"Mostly."
"Good. We were discussing the theoretical foundations of cross-affinity contamination. Perhaps you can enlighten the class on the Terullian Paradox?"
You have no idea what the Terullian Paradox is. You have never heard those words in that order. For all you know, the Terullian Paradox is a type of pastry.
But Sunoo, bless his manipulative heart, prepared for this. "I'm afraid my memory is still... fragmented," you say, exactly as he instructed. "The healer advised against intellectual strain for the first few days of recovery. I'm here to observe and reacquaint myself with the material."
Professor Vex considers this. Her black eyes are unreadable. Then she nods slowly. "Very well. Observation is acceptable. I expect you to catch up on the missed material by next week."
"Of course."
She turns to the rest of the class. "The Terullian Paradox, then. Who can explain it?"
A student in the third row raises her hand. You let out a breath you didn't realize you'd been holding.
The lecture continues. You take notes frantically, scribbling down terms you don't understand. Sin magic, you learn, is not just about drawing power from wrongdoing. It's about resonance, the way a sinner's personal sins align with their deity's domain. A wrathful person draws Ira more easily. An envious person channels Vanagloria. The magic shapes the sinner, and the sinner shapes the magic.
It's fascinating. It's also terrifying, because you have no idea what sins you carry or which deity might claim you. If any deity claims you. You still haven't felt the pull Sunoo described. The resonance. The sense of coming home.
The second class is Combat Training with Professor Thornwood. The training ground is an outdoor space adjacent to the arena, covered in the same dark sand that shifts occasionally. Professor Thornwood is a Graveborn, tall and gaunt with hollow cheeks. He speaks in short, clipped sentences and does not appear to be the warmest person (literally).
"Today," he announces, "We practice defensive warding. Partner up. Y/N, you're with me."
You freeze. "Professor?"
"You've been absent. I need to assess what you've retained."
Sunoo, who was already moving toward you, stops in his tracks. His expression flickers with alarm before smoothing into careful neutrality. He catches your eye and mouths something that might be good luck or might be don't die. It's hard to tell.
You walk toward Professor Thornwood. "Defensive ward," Thornwood says. "Basic barrier. Show me."
You raise your hands. You've seen enough movies to know how this is supposed to look. You spread your fingers. You concentrate. You try to feel something, anything, any spark of magic, any pull of sin, any resonance whatsoever.
Nothing happens.
Thornwood waits. The students watch. The dark sand shifts beneath your feet. "Whenever you're ready," Thornwood says.
"I'm-" You lower your hands. "The injury. It's affected my connection. The healer said it might take time."
Thornwood's hollow eyes study you. For a long moment, he says nothing. Then he nods once. "Magical disruption is common after head trauma. We'll focus on physical conditioning instead. Run the perimeter. Ten laps."
The perimeter of the training ground is approximately half a mile. Ten laps is five miles. You haven't run five miles since high school gym class, and even then you walked most of it.
"Of course," you say, because the old Y/N wouldn't complain. The old Y/N would probably run twenty laps just to show off.
You start running. By lap three, your lungs are burning. By lap five, you've developed a stitch in your side that feels like someone is stabbing you with a very small, very persistent knife. By lap seven, you're fairly certain you're going to die a second time, and this death will be even less dignified than the first.
You keep running. The other students have moved on to practicing wards, their barriers shimmering in the air. Sunoo catches your eye as you pass and gives you a sympathetic grimace.
By lap ten, you're barely upright. You stumble to a halt in front of Thornwood, gasping for breath, sweat soaking through your clothes.
"Acceptable," Thornwood says. "We'll work on your stamina. Dismissed."
You nod, not trusting yourself to speak, and stagger toward the edge of the training ground. Sunoo appears at your side with a flask of water. "That was painful to watch," he says.
"That was painful to do."
"At least he bought the injury excuse."
"Is everyone going to buy the injury excuse?"
"Probably not. But we only need it to work for a few weeks." He hands you the flask. "Drink. You look like you're about to collapse."
You drink. The water tastes faintly of something floral, probably not normal water, probably enchanted or blessed or whatever they do to water in this world but it's cold and wet and you're too exhausted to care.
"Next class is Basic Hexes and Curses," Sunoo says. "Professor Willowisp. She's old, she's observant, and she doesn't like excuses. We need a different strategy."
"What strategy?"
"You're going to have a magical flare-up."
"A what?"
"Magical disruption from head trauma can cause unpredictable bursts of power. It's a documented phenomenon." Sunoo's voice takes on a scholarly tone. "If you accidentally destroy something in class, it'll explain why you can't do anything the rest of the time. Everyone will assume your magic is unstable rather than absent."
"Destroy something."
"Nothing important. A desk. A window. Something dramatic but non-lethal."
"How am I supposed to destroy something if I can't do magic?"
Sunoo reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, glass sphere. Inside it, something dark swirls like smoke caught in a bottle.
"Throw this at the ground when I give the signal. It'll create a concussive blast. Very showy. Very convincing."
You take the sphere. It's warm in your palm, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat. "Where did you get this?"
"I have a supplier. Don't worry about it." He glances at the sky. "We have ten minutes before class starts. Try not to drop that before then."
Professor Willowisp's classroom is in the Verity Palace, on the third floor. The walls are lined with jars containing things you'd rather not identify. Professor Willowisp herself is ancient. Nine hundred years old, Sunoo said, and she looks every century of it. When she looks at you, you feel like she's reading your thoughts, which is probably not paranoia given that mind-reading magic almost certainly exists in this world.
"Lady Y/N," she says. "You've returned to us."
"I have, Professor."
"How fortunate. We were just beginning our unit on emotional affliction curses. Perhaps you'd care to demonstrate?"
The class goes very quiet. You grip the glass sphere in your pocket. "I'm not sure that's wise, Professor. My magic has been... unstable since the injury."
"Unstable?"
"Fluctuations. The healer warned me." You're getting better at lying. The words come easier now. "I wouldn't want to accidentally harm anyone."
Willowisp's ancient eyes study you. "A considerate concern. However, this classroom is warded against magical accidents. Whatever happens within these walls will be contained."
She's not going to let this go. She wants to see you do magic. She wants to test you. Sunoo catches your eye from across the room. He gives a tiny nod.
Now.
"Very well," you say. "But don't say I didn't warn you." You walk to the front of the classroom. Your heart is hammering. Your palms are sweating. The glass sphere is warm against your fingers. "What curse shall I demonstrate?" you ask, stalling for time.
"The Despondency Hex. A simple emotional affliction. Target the practice dummy." Willowisp gestures to a mannequin in the corner of the room. You position yourself in front of it, your back to the class.
You take a deep breath. You raise your hands dramatically. You make a show of concentrating, your brow furrowing, your fingers trembling with apparent magical effort. Then you "lose control." You throw your hands wide, stumble backward, and hurl the glass sphere at the ground between you and the practice dummy. The sphere shatters. A wave of force erupts from the impact point, sending the practice dummy flying across the room. The windows rattle. The jars on the walls shake. Several students scream. One desk is knocked over.
When the dust settles, you're on the floor, deliberately, because it sells the performance and the practice dummy is in pieces against the far wall. Professor Willowisp is staring at you. Her expression is unreadable.
"I did warn you," you manage.
For a long moment, no one speaks. Then Willowisp's ancient face creases into something that might be a smile. "Fascinating," she says. "A magical flare-up of considerable intensity. You're excused from practical demonstrations until your condition stabilizes. Please observe from the back of the room."
You pick yourself up off the floor. Sunoo helps you to a seat in the back row, his hand steadying your elbow. "Perfect," he whispers. "Absolutely perfect."
"I almost hit the ceiling."
"But you didn't. And now everyone thinks your magic is dangerously unstable. No one will ask you to demonstrate anything for weeks."
"Great." You slump into your seat. "Weeks of pretending to be magically volatile. This is going to be exhausting."
"Welcome to your new life."
After the final class, Sunoo walks you toward the training grounds. "Classes are done for the day, which means we have time for your first real lesson," he says. "Professor Thornwood might have bought your excuse, but you still need to learn basic combat skills. I'll teach you what I can."
"I thought you said we'd start with magical theory."
"We will. But you also need to know how to defend yourself physically. Magic isn't always available. Sometimes you just need to know how to throw a punch."
You've never thrown a punch in your life. You've been punched, the loan sharks' enforcer had a mean left hook but you've never hit anyone back. The idea of learning how feels strange.
"Wait here," Sunoo says when you reach the training ground. "I need to grab some equipment from storage. Don't talk to anyone."
"Who would I talk to?"
"Anyone. Everyone. You're a magnet for attention. Just stand here and look unapproachable."
He disappears into a nearby building, leaving you alone on the edge of the training ground. You stand there, trying to look unapproachable. It probably looks more like you're constipated.
A shadow falls over you.
"There you are." You turn. Sunghoon is standing behind you, closer than you expected. He's still wearing his training clothes from earlier, though he's added a jacket that makes him look somehow even more put-together. His eyes are fixed on your face with an intensity that makes your stomach do something complicated.
"Sunghoon," you say. Your voice comes out slightly strangled.
"I've been looking for you." He steps closer. You step back. He steps closer again. "You left so quickly this morning. I didn't get a chance to welcome you back properly."
"I was busy. Classes."
"Classes." He says the word like it personally offends him. "You almost die on a mission and your first priority is classes?"
"The old Y/N would have prioritized classes."
"You're the old Y/N." He tilts his head. "Aren't you?"
Danger. Danger. Abort mission.
"Obviously, it’s just sarcasm," you say. "What do you want?"
"What I've always wanted. You." He says it simply, without embarrassment, like he's stating a fact. The sky is purple. The moons are sisters. He wants you. "I've been thinking about us."
"There is no us."
"There was."
"And now there isn't."
"Because you got bored." He doesn't sound angry. He sounds curious. "I've been trying to understand it. You said I was boring. But I remember the way you looked at me. I remember the way you-"
"Sunghoon."
"-responded to me. We were practically married, Y/N. Everyone assumed we'd formalize it eventually. And the physical aspect of our relationship was-"
"Oh my god."
"-extremely satisfying for both of us. You told me so yourself. Multiple times. You were quite vocal about it, actually."
Your face is on fire. "Please stop talking."
"I'm just trying to understand." He takes another step closer, and this time you're backed against the wall of the equipment building and there's nowhere left to retreat. "You ended things without explanation. You said you were bored, but you weren't bored. I know you weren't bored. So what was it?"
"I don't-" You struggle to remember what Sunoo told you. "I just needed space."
"Space." His eyes search your face. "You've had space. You've had a year of space. And now you're back, and you're different."
"I'm not different."
"You are. You waved at me this morning."
"So? People wave."
"You never wave. You used to walk past me like I didn't exist." His voice softens. "Today you waved. And you smiled. A real smile. Not the cold one you used to give me. A real one."
You have nothing to say to that. You can't explain it without revealing everything. So you just stand there, pressed against the wall, your heart pounding and your face burning, while your dead self's ex-fiancé looks at you like you're a puzzle he's desperate to solve.
"You're blushing," he observes.
"I'm not."
"You are. It's charming." He reaches up and brushes a strand of hair from your face. His fingers are cold against your skin. "I've never seen you blush before."
"I hit my head. It damaged my blood Circulation."
"That's not how blood circulation works."
"It's magical blood circulation."
He laughs. It's a soft sound, barely more than an exhale, but it transforms his face. "I've missed you," he says. "Even when you were cruel to me. Even when you ignored me. I've missed you every day."
"Sunghoon-"
"I know you don't want this. I know you don't want me. But I'm not giving up." He leans in, and before you can react, his lips brush against your cheek. It's barely a kiss, light, fleeting, cold and warm at the same time. "One day, I'll convince you to go on a date with me. A real date. And you'll remember why we worked."
He pulls back. Then he turns and walks away, his jacket billowing slightly in the breeze, leaving you pressed against the wall with your hand over your cheek and your brain completely offline.
Sunoo returns approximately thirty seconds later, carrying a bag of training equipment. "Why do you look like you've seen a ghost?" he asks. "You're pale. Paler than usual. What happened?"
"Sunghoon happened."
"What?"
"He came over. He said-" You press your hands to your burning face. "He said they had a very satisfying physical relationship and she was very vocal about it and he kissed my cheek and said he'd convince me to go on a date one day and I just stood there like an idiot because I didn't know what else to do!"
Sunoo drops the training bag. "He kissed you?"
"On the cheek! Just the cheek! But still!"
"Where?"
"My cheek! I just said!"
"No, I mean where were you? Were there witnesses?"
"I don't know! I was too busy having a crisis!"
Sunoo pinches the bridge of his nose. "Okay. Okay. This is fine. Sunghoon has been trying to win her back for a year. It's not suspicious that he's still trying. The cheek kiss is new, but it's not-" He pauses. "Did you respond?"
"I stood there like a statue!"
"Good. That's good. That's in-character. The old Y/N would have been cold about it. Dismissive."
"Sunoo, I think I blushed."
"You what?"
"I blushed. He noticed. He said it was charming."
Sunoo stares at you. Then he closes his eyes and takes a very deep breath. "I'm going to be honest with you," he says. "I don't know how to handle this. Sunghoon is not supposed to be charmed by you. He's supposed to be pining from a distance while you ignore him. That's the dynamic. That's how it's always been."
"Maybe he's just glad I'm not being cold to him anymore?"
"Which is exactly the problem." Sunoo opens his eyes. "The old Y/N was cruel. That's who she was. If you're not cold, people will notice. Sunghoon has already noticed. Jake noticed this morning. How long before everyone notices?"
"What do you want me to do? Start being mean to people?"
"Maybe! I don't know!" He throws his hands up. "I didn't plan for this. I planned for a smooth transition. I planned for you to be cold and distant and slowly warm up over time. I did not plan for you to be accidentally charming your ex-fiancé on day one."
"I wasn't trying to be charming!"
"That's the worst part! You're not even doing it on purpose!"
You both stand there in frustrated silence. "Can we just do the combat training?" you ask finally. "I think I need to hit something."
Sunoo exhales. "Fine. But we're not done talking about this."
The combat training is a disaster.
"Okay," Sunoo says, standing in the center of the training ground with a padded dummy. "The most basic defensive maneuver is the shield ward. It creates a temporary barrier between you and an attack. Even if you don't have an affinity yet, you should be able to produce at least a flicker of one. The theory is simple."
He explains the theory. It involves visualizing your sin energy, whatever that means, and channeling it through your hands into a physical barrier. The barrier doesn't need to be strong. It just needs to exist.
"Go ahead," he says. "Try it."
You raise your hands. You concentrate. You try to visualize your sin energy. Nothing happens.
"Try harder."
You try harder. You scrunch up your face. You push with your mind. You make straining noises that would be embarrassing if you weren't already beyond embarrassment. Nothing happens.
"Maybe try a different approach," Sunoo suggests. "Instead of pushing, try pulling. Imagine drawing energy from the air around you."
You imagine drawing energy from the air. The air does not cooperate. The air, in fact, seems actively uninterested in being drawn from.
"Anything?" Sunoo asks.
"Nope."
"Okay. Let's try a physical approach instead." He gestures to the dummy. "Basic punch. Just hit it."
You punch the dummy. It's not a good punch. Your thumb is inside your fist, which you're fairly certain is wrong. Your wrist bends at an awkward angle. The impact sends a jolt of pain up your arm.
"Ow."
Sunoo stares at you. "Have you ever thrown a punch before?"
"No."
"Ever?"
"I've been punched. Does that count?"
"No. It doesn't." He walks over and adjusts your stance. "Feet shoulder-width apart. Weight on your back foot. Thumb outside your fist, outside, Y/N, not inside. You're going to break your thumb if you punch like that."
"My thumb already hurts."
"Because you punched wrong. Do it again. Properly this time."
You punch again. It's slightly better. Your thumb remains unbroken. The dummy wobbles a little.
"Better," Sunoo says. "Now do it fifty more times."
"Fifty?"
"Muscle memory. Your body needs to learn what your mind already knows. Again."
You punch the dummy fifty times.
"Good," Sunoo says. "Now the other hand."
"The other- are you serious?"
"Most people are right-handed, which means they expect attacks from the right. If you can throw a decent left hook, you'll have an advantage. Again. Fifty times."
You punch the dummy fifty more times with your left hand. Your left hand is even less coordinated than your right. Several punches miss entirely. One hits the dummy's stand and sends a fresh jolt of pain through your wrist.
"I hate this," you announce.
"You hate it because you're bad at it. You'll hate it less when you're good at it."
"Will I ever be good at it?"
Sunoo considers this. "Probably not. But you'll be better than you are now."
"That's not comforting."
"It wasn't meant to be. Again. This time, try a kick."
You kick the dummy. You miss and your momentum carries you around in a full circle. You end up facing the wrong direction with your back to the dummy and your arms pinwheeling for balance.
Sunoo covers his mouth with his hand. His shoulders are shaking.
"Are you laughing at me?"
"No," he says, his voice strangled. "Absolutely not."
"You're laughing at me."
"I'm not. I'm-" A snort escapes him. "Okay, I am. I'm sorry. It's just…you spun. You spun like a top. How did you spin like a top?"
"I don't know! Physics happened!"
"Physics doesn't usually make people pirouette!"
"I wasn't pirouetting!"
"You were definitely pirouetting. If we were grading this, you'd get full marks for artistic impression and zero for technique."
You grab a handful of training sand and throw it at him. He dodges, still laughing, and the sand scatters harmlessly across the ground.
"This is serious!" you protest. "I'm trying to learn how to defend myself!"
"You're right, you're right." He composes himself with visible effort. "I'm sorry. Let's try again. This time, don't spin."
"I didn't spin on purpose!"
"Plant your foot. Keep your weight centered. Kick through the target, not at it."
You try again. This time you don't spin, but your kick connects with the dummy's stand instead of the dummy, and the whole thing topples over. The dummy hits the ground with a thud that echoes across the training ground.
"I'm never going to be able to do this," you say quietly.
Sunoo walks over and rights the dummy. "You're not going to be able to do it today. Or tomorrow. Or probably next week. But eventually-"
"Eventually I'll what? Learn to throw a punch? That's not going to help against witches and demons and whatever else is out there."
"No. But it's a start." He turns to face you. His expression has lost its humor. "Y/N, I know this is overwhelming. I know you feel like you're drowning. But you're not alone. I'm going to help you. We're going to figure this out."
"And if we can't?"
"Then we'll figure out something else." He picks up the training bag. "That's enough for today. Let's go back to the dorm. We have plans tonight."
"Plans?"
"We're going to Malachar. There's someone I need you to meet."
The teleportation stone is a small, flat disc that fits in the palm of Sunoo's hand. "Teleportation stones are rare," Sunoo explains as you stand in his dorm room. "Most people use portals, but portals can be tracked. Stones are untraceable. This one is keyed to a specific location in Malachar, an underground bar called the Rusted Nail. Not the kind of place Academy students usually frequent."
"Then why are we going there?"
"Because the person we need to talk to doesn't frequent Academy-approved establishments."
He presses the stone into your palm and closes his fingers around yours. The stone is warm, warmer than it should be, and the silver veins pulse faster.
"Hold on," he says.
The world dissolves. This time, the teleportation is slightly less disorienting than before. Maybe you're getting used to it. Maybe the stone is smoother than whatever portal Sunoo used earlier. Either way, when your feet hit solid ground, you only stumble a little.
"Where are we?"
"The Undermarket," Sunoo says. "Goblin territory. It's the black market of Malachar. Anything can be bought here if you know who to ask."
"And we're meeting a witch."
"An old contact of mine." He says it casually, but something in his tone makes you look at him sharply.
"An old contact?"
"We used to have an arrangement." He starts walking toward the end of the alley. "She provided certain services. I provided certain payments. It was mutually beneficial."
"What kind of arrangement?"
"The kind that's none of your business."
"Sunoo."
He sighs. "We slept together. Occasionally. It wasn't romantic. She's a witch, I'm an incubus, we both had needs. Are you happy now?"
You're not sure if "happy" is the right word. You're not sure what you're feeling. Surprise, maybe. Curiosity. A strange, uncomfortable twist in your stomach that you decide to ignore. "Is there anyone in this world you haven't slept with?"
"Plenty of people. I'm selective." He grins over his shoulder. "Don't worry. You're not my type."
"I wasn't worried."
"You looked worried."
"I looked curious. It's different."
He doesn't argue, but his grin widens. The Rusted Nail is tucked between a weapons shop and what appears to be a brothel. Its sign is a literal rusted nail. The door itself is iron, heavy and black, and it groans when Sunoo pushes it open. Inside, the bar is dim and smoky. Sunoo approaches the bar and orders two drinks in a language you don't recognize. The bartender, a goblin with one eye and a scar across his throat, grunts and produces two glasses filled with amber liquid.
"Don't drink too much," Sunoo says, sliding one glass toward you. "This stuff is stronger than anything in your world."
You take a cautious sip. It burns going down, but it's not unpleasant. It tastes like honey and smoke and something else, something that makes your head swim slightly. "The witch?" you ask.
"She'll be here soon. I sent word ahead."
You wait. Then the door opens, and a woman walks in. She's wearing robes that are clearly expensive but deliberately understated, and when she sees Sunoo, her lips curve into a smile that's equal parts warmth and wariness.
"Sunoo," she says. Her voice is low and smooth. "It's been a while."
"Mara." Sunoo rises to greet her. They don't embrace, but there's a familiarity in the way they stand close to each other. "Thank you for coming."
"You said it was urgent." Her golden eyes flick to you. "Who's this?"
"A friend. I need information."
"What kind of information?"
"About Tristitia."
Mara's expression doesn't change, but something in the air shifts. "Sit down," Mara says quietly. "And order me a drink." Sunoo signals the bartender. Another glass of amber liquid appears. Mara takes a long sip before speaking. "Tristitia," she says. "You don't ask easy questions, do you?"
"I wouldn't be here if I did."
Mara's golden eyes study you again, more intently this time. "Why do you want to know about the Sorrow?"
"I'm looking for a witch," you say. "One who serves Tristitia. She killed someone important to me."
"Who?"
"Someone I can't name."
Mara is silent for a moment. Then she shakes her head slowly. "I can't help you."
"Why not?"
"Because the Tristitia coven isn't like other covens. They don't operate in the open. They don't trade with other witches. They don't even acknowledge the rest of us exist." She takes another sip of her drink. "Most covens have structure. Hierarchy. Rules. The Tristitia witches are... something else. They answer only to the Sorrow itself, and the Sorrow doesn't share its secrets."
"So you know nothing?"
"I know they exist. I know they're dangerous. I know that anyone who makes a deal with Tristitia ends up dead or wishing they were." She sets her glass down. "That's all anyone knows. The Tristitia coven is a mystery, and it's a mystery that kills people who try to solve it."
You exchange a glance with Sunoo. His expression is unreadable, but you can see the tension in his jaw. "There has to be something," you press. "Any rumor. Any lead. Anything."
Mara considers you for a long moment. Then she leans forward, her voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "There's a place in the Wraithwood. Deep in the forest, some say the Tristitia witches gather there, but no one who's gone looking has ever come back." She sits back. "That's all I have. And frankly, I'm risking my life just telling you that much."
"Why?"
"Because the Sorrow doesn't like being discussed. And the Sorrow's servants don't like people asking questions." She finishes her drink in one long swallow. "My advice? Let it go. Whatever revenge you're looking for, it's not worth what you'll find."
You want to argue. You want to demand more. But Sunoo puts his hand on your arm, a gentle warning. "Thank you, Mara," he says. "We appreciate the information."
"Don't thank me. I didn't give you anything useful." She stands, pulling her hood up over her dark hair. "Be careful, Sunoo. I'd hate to hear you got yourself killed."
"I'm always careful."
"No, you're not. You're just good at surviving anyway." She smiles, but it doesn't reach her golden eyes. "Take care of yourself. And your friend."
She leaves. The door groans shut behind her. The bar resumes its low murmur, the other patrons returning to their drinks and their card games as if nothing happened.
"Well," Sunoo says, "that was unhelpful."
"She seemed scared."
"She was. Mara doesn't scare easily." He stares at his glass for a moment. "The Tristitia coven is even more secretive than I thought. This is going to be harder than I expected."
You watch him. His usual playful mask has slipped, and underneath it you can see something else. Frustration. Worry. Maybe even fear.
"Why do you care so much?" you ask quietly. "About finding this witch?"
He doesn't answer right away. When he does, his voice is softer than you've ever heard it. "Because she killed my best friend. And I couldn't stop it."
"Is that the only reason?"
He looks at you. "What other reason would there be?"
"I don't know. That's why I'm asking."
A long pause. Then Sunoo's mask slides back into place, and he smiles, bright and charming and completely fake. "We came all the way to Malachar," he says. "We might as well enjoy ourselves while we're here. Drink up. The night is young."
An hour later, you're both slightly tipsy. The amber liquid is stronger than you thought. Your limbs feel loose. Sunoo has abandoned his careful composure and is sprawled in his chair, laughing at something you said that wasn't even that funny.
"You're a terrible liar," he says, pointing at you. "Terrible. The worst. You couldn't lie to a rock."
"Rocks can't hear."
"That's how bad you are. You couldn't even lie to something that can't perceive lies."
"I lied to Professor Vex."
"You lied to Professor Vex with a script I wrote for you. That doesn't count."
You laugh. It feels good to laugh. The past two days have been so strange and terrifying that you'd almost forgotten what it felt like.
"Sometimes I think you're not telling me everything," you say.
"I'm not telling you everything. I've been very upfront about that."
"That's not comforting."
"It wasn't meant to be comforting. It was meant to be honest."
You drain the last of your drink. "I don't understand you," you say. "You found a dead body. You stopped time. You recruited a stranger from another universe. You're risking everything to find a witch who might be impossible to find. And you're doing it all with a smile on your face like none of it bothers you."
"It bothers me."
"It doesn't look like it bothers you."
"That's the point." He takes a sip of his drink. "I'm an incubus. We're not supposed to be bothered by things. We're supposed to be charming and carefree and shallow. That's what people expect. That's what people want."
"But it's not who you are."
He doesn't answer. "We should go back," he says. "It's late."
"Okay," you say. "Let's go back."
He pays the bartender with coins. Then he takes your hand and presses the teleportation stone into your palm, and the world dissolves.
Back in Sunoo's dorm room, he collapses onto his bed with a groan. He looks exhausted, not just physically, but something deeper. His skin is paler than usual. His eyes has dimmed.
"Are you okay?" you ask.
"I'm fine. Just... drained."
"Drained how?"
He hesitates. "Incubi need to feed. Emotional energy, physical intimacy. It's been a few days since I've-" He gestures vaguely. "It catches up with me."
"Is that why you look like death?"
"Thank you for that charming description." He pushes himself up on his elbows. "I'll be fine. I just need to find someone. There are usually willing partners in Goat Hall at this hour."
He starts to get up, but you reach out and catch his arm. "Wait." He looks at you. His expression is wary. "You've been helping me all day," you say. "You've been covering for me and teaching me and dragging me across the city to talk to witches. You're exhausted because of me."
"It's not because of-"
"It is. And I haven't done anything to help you." You take a breath. "So let me help you now."
The words hang in the air. Sunoo's eyes widen slightly. "Y/N..."
"I know what I'm offering. I'm not drunk. Well, I'm a little drunk. But I'm not so drunk I don't know what I'm saying." You meet his eyes. "You need to feed. I'm willing. It's the least I can do after everything."
"You don't have to-"
"I know I don't have to. I'm offering." You're blushing again. Your face is definitely on fire. But you don't look away. "The old Y/N did it, right? You said you had an arrangement. So it's not weird. It's not out of character. And you need it."
Sunoo stares at you. For a long moment, neither of you speaks. Then he laughs, a real laugh, surprised and slightly incredulous. "You're something else," he says. "You know that?"
"I've been told."
He sits up fully. His expression is still tired, but there's warmth in it now. "Are you sure?"
"Do I look unsure?"
He considers this. Then he reaches out and cups your face with his hand. His palm is warm. "Tell me to stop," he says quietly, "and I'll stop. At any point. For any reason. Do you understand?"
"I understand."
"I mean it. I don't care if we're in the middle of-"
"I understand, Sunoo."
He looks at you for another long moment. Then he leans in, and his lips meet yours. The kiss deepens, growing hungrier with each passing second. Sunoo's lips move against yours with practiced expertise, his tongue tracing the seam of your mouth before slipping inside. His hands find your waist, pulling you closer until there's no space between your bodies.
When he finally breaks the kiss, both of you are breathing heavily. His eyes, now glowing with renewed energy, lock with yours. "Last chance to back out," he murmurs, though his hands are already sliding under your shirt.
You shake your head, reaching for the hem of your shirt and pulling it over your head. "I'm not going anywhere."
A genuine smile spreads across Sunoo's face as he watches you undress. His own shirt follows, revealing his torso. As he removes his pants, your eyes catch something unusual, a dark, intricate mark on his lower belly, just above his waistline. It looks like a tattoo of swirling patterns that almost seem to move in the dim light.
"That's..." you start, but words fail you.
"The incubus mark," he finishes, noticing where you're looking. "It glows when I'm... well, you'll see."
Before you can respond, he gently pushes you back onto the bed. The mattress dips under your combined weight as he follows, hovering over you. His fingers deftly unhook your bra, tossing it aside before his mouth finds your breast.
Sunoo's lips close around your nipple, his tongue swirling in patterns that make you arch against him. One hand cups your other breast, thumb rubbing circles around the hardened peak while his free hand slides down your stomach, hooking into the waistband of your panties. He doesn't remove them immediately. Instead, his fingers dip beneath the fabric, tracing patterns on your skin that send shivers through your body. You can feel his smile against your breast as he feels your reaction.
"Sensitive," he murmurs against your skin before shifting his attention to your other breast.
When he finally slides your panties down, you're already wet with anticipation. His fingers part your folds, exploring with a familiarity that surprises you. Sunoo's fingers are skilled, moving with a precision that speaks of centuries of practice. He finds your clit immediately, circling it with just the right pressure to make your hips buck. Then he's sliding lower, collecting your wetness on his fingertips before returning to your sensitive bundle of nerves.
"You're so responsive," he whispers, his voice husky with renewed energy. "I can feel your emotions, your pleasure. It's... intoxicating."
As if to demonstrate, he increases the pressure slightly, and you gasp as a wave of pleasure washes over you. His mark begins to emit a soft purple glow, pulsing in time with his movements. "I want to hear you moan," he says, looking up at you with darkening eyes. "Your sounds... they feed me as much as your touch."
His words send another jolt through you, and you can't help but moan as he slides a finger inside you, then another. His thumb continues to work your clit as his fingers curl inside, finding that spot that makes you roll your eyes.
"That's it," he encourages, his own breathing growing heavier. "Let me hear you."
The magic is unmistakable now, each touch seems amplified, each sensation more intense than you've ever experienced. Sunoo shifts, turning you onto your side. He positions himself behind you, one arm wrapped around your waist to keep you close as he enters you with a smooth, practiced motion. The angle is new to you, hitting spots inside you that you didn't know existed.
"Is this okay?" he asks, his voice strained with restraint.
"More than okay," you manage to gasp out.
He begins to move, his hips rolling in a rhythm that has you moaning continuously now. Each thrust sends waves of pleasure through your body, building steadily toward something you've never experienced before. You can feel his mark growing hotter against your lower back, the purple glow intensifying.
"Sunoo..." you moan, reaching back to tangle your fingers in his hair.
He responds with a particularly deep thrust that makes you cry out. His own sounds join yours now, soft whimpers and moans that vibrate against your back. The closer he gets to his own release, the more his mark glows, bathing the room in an ethereal purple light. You've never enjoyed sex like this before. Every nerve ending is alive, every touch electric. You're so wet you can hear it with each movement, the sounds mixing with your moans and his to create a symphony of pleasure.
"I'm close," Sunoo gasps, his movements becoming more erratic.
His hand slides down to your clit again, rubbing in time with his thrusts. That extra stimulation is all it takes to push you over the edge. Your orgasm crashes over you with the force of a tidal wave, your body convulsing with pleasure as you cry out his name. Sunoo follows almost immediately, pulling out at the last second. You feel his warm release against your pussy and inner thighs as he moans your name, his mark flaring brightly before dimming slightly.
Before you can recover, he's shifting again, turning you onto your back and positioning himself between your legs. His eyes meet yours as he lowers his head.
"Sunoo, what-"
Your question cuts off in a gasp as his tongue laps at the mixture of your release and his on your skin. He's thorough, cleaning every drop with an enthusiasm that sends aftershocks of pleasure through your still-sensitive body. When he finally reaches your center, his tongue delves inside, and you arch off the bed. The pleasure is almost too much, too intense, but you don't want it to stop. You can feel him drawing energy from you, not just physical but emotional, the remnants of your pleasure, your contentment, your satisfaction.
With each pass of his tongue, you can see the color returning to his skin, the glow in his eyes brightening. His mark, once again dark, seems to pulse with renewed energy. Finally, when you're spent and trembling, he lifts his head. His face is flushed, his lips glistening, and he looks... healthy. Vital. The exhaustion that had plagued him earlier is gone, replaced by a vibrant energy that makes him seem almost otherworldly.
"Thank you," he says, his voice soft but strong now. "Are you okay for another round?"
You nod, still catching your breath. "Why am I still feeling hot though?"
"Incubi magic." He says with a small smile.
You wake up sore.
Not the pleasant kind of sore that comes from a good workout. Not even the satisfying sore of muscles that have been productively used. This is the kind of sore that makes you question every life choice that led you to this moment. Your thighs ache. Your back protests when you try to move. Sunoo, the absolute menace, is already awake and looking disgustingly fresh. He's perched on the edge of his bed, his bed, which you are still in, because apparently you fell asleep here after last night's... activities, and he's scrolling through something on a thin crystal tablet that seems to function as this world's version of a smartphone.
"Good morning," he says cheerfully. "You look terrible."
"I feel terrible." You attempt to sit up and immediately regret it. "Oh my god. What did you do to me?"
"I did exactly what you asked me to do. Multiple times, if I recall correctly. You were very enthusiastic."
"Was I?"
"Incredibly. It was flattering, honestly. At one point you said-"
"Please don't finish that sentence."
"-something about my eyes being like honeyed starlight. It was very romantic. I didn't know you had it in you."
You grab a pillow and press it over your face. The pillow smells like him, something floral and slightly citrusy. "I was tipsy and under your incubi magic."
"You were two drinks in. That's not tipsy, that's barely buzzed. And my magic doesn’t make people poetic, it just makes them extra horny there’s a difference."
"I wish I was dead."
"That seems extreme." He plucks the pillow off your face. "Come on. We have classes in an hour. You need to shower, eat something, and figure out how to walk without limping."
"I'm not limping."
"You're definitely limping. I saw you try to stand earlier. It was pathetic."
You throw the pillow at him. He catches it without looking, which is infuriating. His reflexes are annoyingly good. Probably an incubus thing. Probably all the feeding he did last night, which, okay, you're not going to think about that. You're not going to think about any of it. You're going to shower and eat breakfast and pretend last night was a normal, reasonable thing that normal, reasonable people do.
Sunoo grins. It's the same grin he wore last night when he first kissed you, equal parts mischief and affection. "You're cute when you're flustered."
"I'm not flustered. I'm sore. There's a difference."
"Whatever helps you sleep at night." He stands and stretches, his shirt riding up to reveal a strip of stomach that you absolutely do not look at. "Bathroom's through there. Use whatever products you want. I recommend the blue bottle for muscle aches. It's enchanted."
"Enchanted how?"
"It makes your muscles stop hating you. Very useful for mornings after."
You stare at him. "Do you have a lot of mornings after?"
"I'm an incubus who lives in the Lust dorm. What do you think?"
"I think I don't want to know."
"Probably wise." He tosses you a towel. "Go shower. I'll get breakfast. You're going to need your strength, we have Potiology today, and Professor Thornwood doubled your conditioning laps."
"He what?"
"I may have mentioned that you were eager to improve your stamina. He was impressed by your dedication."
"Sunoo."
"Yes?"
"I'm going to kill you."
"That's the spirit. Channel that anger. Maybe it'll trigger your Ira affinity."
You throw the pillow at him again. He dodges again. You limp to the bathroom and slam the door.
The shower helps. The enchanted blue bottle helps more. By the time you're dressed and fed and walking (mostly) normally, you've been staring at Sunoo like he murdered your ancestors.
"Why do you keep making that face?" Sunoo asks as you walk toward the Verity Palace.
"What face?"
"That scrunched-up thinking face."
"I don't have a scrunched-up thinking face."
"You absolutely do. It's very endearing."
"I'm not-" You take a breath.
He pauses. "Are you sure you're fine?"
"I will throw you down these stairs."
"That's a no, then."
The first classes are doing strangely great for you. The break between Combat Training and Basic Hexes is when everything starts to go wrong.
You're sitting in the classroom, waiting for Professor Willowisp to arrive, when the door opens and a young man walks in. He's not the professor. He's a student, an elf, you can tell by the pointed ears and the faint luminescence of his skin. He's also, you notice, wearing the emblem of the snake on his collar. Vanagloria. Envy.
"Good afternoon," he says. His voice is smooth and pleasant and somehow makes you feel like you're being evaluated. "I'm here to collect the mid-term consent forms. Professor Willowisp asked me to handle the paperwork before class begins."
Consent forms. You have no idea what consent forms he's talking about. You have no idea if the old Y/N turned hers in. You have no idea what's happening at all. The other students are pulling papers from their bags. You sit frozen, your hands empty, your expression carefully blank.
The elf makes his way around the room, collecting forms from each student. When he reaches your desk, he pauses. "Y/N," he says. "Your form?"
"Right." You don't move. "The form."
"The mid-term consent form for practical hex application. It was due today."
"Of course. The form." You pat your bag, pretending to search for it. "I must have... forgotten it. In my room. The injury. Memory gaps."
The elf's eyes narrow slightly. "You forgot?"
"Temporarily. It'll come back."
"I see." He doesn't sound like he sees. He sounds like he's cataloging this information for future use. "I'll note the late submission. Professor Willowisp may deduct points."
"That's fine. Points are... fine."
He studies you for a moment longer. Then he smiles, a smile that doesn't reach his eyes, and moves on to the next student. You don't realize you've been holding your breath until he's on the other side of the room.
When the elf finally leaves, papers in hand, Sunoo slides into the seat beside you. His expression is carefully neutral. "That was Jungwon," he says quietly. "Student representative. Head of every committee. Controls the flow of information in the Academy like a spider controls a web." Sunoo's voice is low. "And he's suspicious of you."
"I noticed."
"Jungwon doesn't forget things. If he thinks something's wrong with you, he'll dig until he finds out what it is."
"Great." You press your palms against your eyes. "Another person I have to worry about."
"Jungwon is different from Jake or Sunghoon. They care about you. Jungwon cares about leverage. If he figures out you're not the real Y/N, he won't keep it secret out of loyalty. He'll use it."
"So what do I do?"
"Avoid him. Don't give him anything to work with. And for the love of all seven deities, turn in your paperwork on time."
"I didn't know there was paperwork!"
"Now you do." Sunoo squeezes your shoulder. "It's fine. One late form isn't proof of interdimensional identity fraud. Just be more careful."
Potheology is your first class without Sunoo. It takes place in the greenhouse. Sunoo isn't in this class. He's across campus in Advanced Luxuria Theory, which is apparently restricted to incubi and succubi for reasons you don't want to think about. You're on your own for this one. No safety net. No whispered instructions. No one to cover for you if you mess up.
You take a seat near the back, hoping to blend in.
Then Jake walks in. He spots you immediately. His face lights up. "Y/N! You're in this class?"
"Apparently."
"I didn't know you took Potheology. I thought you said potions were beneath you."
The old Y/N said potions were beneath her. Because of course she did. "I changed my mind. The injury. It's given me a new perspective."
Jake's expression softens. "I'm glad. It's nice to have you here." He takes the seat next to you, dropping his bag on the floor. "Fair warning, today's lesson is on aphrodisiacs. Professor Nightshade thinks they're medicinally significant but really she just likes making students uncomfortable."
"Wonderful."
Professor Nightshade enters before Jake can elaborate. She surveys the class with the expression of someone who has seen everything and been disappointed by most of it.
"Aphrodisiacs," she announces without preamble. "Contrary to popular belief, they are not recreational substances. They are medically significant compounds used to treat a variety of conditions, including emotional trauma, sensory deprivation, and certain types of magical damage. Today you will learn to brew a basic desire tincture. The instructions are on your desks. Begin."
You look at the instructions on your desk. Moonbloom petals. Siren's tear essence. Crushed firepearl. Powdered duskwing moth. You have no idea what any of these things are.
"Need help?" Jake asks.
"No," you say automatically. Then, because you're trying to be better at accepting help: "Actually, yes. The injury. I'm having trouble remembering the... ingredient properties."
Jake's face softens even further. "Of course. Here, let me show you."
He walks you through the brewing process step by step. "The key is the proportions," Jake explains, his hands steady as he measures ingredients. "Too much moonbloom and it's basically a love potion. Too much firepearl and it's just... spicy. You want balance."
"Right. Balance."
"You're doing Great."
You're not doing great. Your tincture is a muddy brown color while Jake's is a shimmering rose gold. But you're following instructions and not actively setting anything on fire, which feels like a victory. By the end of class, you've produced something that might technically qualify as an aphrodisiac. It's lumpy and it smells slightly burnt, but Professor Nightshade passes by your station with only a raised eyebrow and a muttered "acceptable."
"See?" Jake says, beaming. "Told you you could do it."
"Thanks to you."
"That's what friends are for." He packs up his supplies while you do the same. "Hey, do you want to study together later? I know you've been spending a lot of time with Sunoo since you got back, but I thought maybe we could-"
"Actually, I'm going to the library after this. Sunoo said I should catch up on magical theory."
"Oh." Jake's face falls slightly. "Okay. Maybe another time?"
"Definitely."
He brightens. "Great! I'll hold you to that."
You feel a twinge of guilt as he leaves.
The Delictum Academy library is, as Sunoo mentioned during your tour, a multi-story cathedral of books with shelves that rearrange themselves when you're not looking. You find a seat in a quiet corner and pull out the list Sunoo gave you. Magical Theory for Beginners. A History of Sin Magic. It's a lot of reading. It's more reading than you've done in your entire college career combined.
But you need to understand this world. You can't keep faking your way through classes forever. Eventually, someone is going to ask you a question you can't deflect, and you need to have an answer ready. You start with A History of Sin Magic, Volume I. By the time you finish the third chapter, your eyes are starting to glaze over. You need a break. You need to stretch your legs. You need to-
You need to find information about Tristitia.
It's been lurking in the back of your mind all day, ever since last night's meeting with Mara. The Tristitia coven is a mystery. No one knows anything about them. But this is a library. Libraries have information. Libraries have records. Maybe there's something here that no one's thought to look for.
You glance around the reading room. The other students are absorbed in their own work. The librarians are busy at the front desk. No one is watching you.
You stand up, leaving your books on the table, and slip between the shelves. Tristitia is something else, a deity outside the sanctioned system, forbidden and dangerous. If there's information about it, it wouldn't be in the main sections. It would be in the restricted area.
You find the iron gate Sunoo pointed out during your tour. It's at the back of the library, tucked behind a row of shelves that seem to have been deliberately arranged to obscure it. You try the gate. It's locked.
Of course it's locked. You didn't expect it to be unlocked. But you also didn't come all the way here just to give up at the first obstacle. There has to be another way in. A side door. A gap in the wards. Something.
You circle the perimeter of the restricted section, looking for weaknesses. And then you see it. A gap in the shelves. Not a door, exactly, but a space where two shelf units don't quite meet. It's narrow, barely wide enough for a person to squeeze through and it's partially hidden by a tapestry. You check your surroundings. Still no one watching. Still no one paying attention.
You slip through the gap.
The restricted section is darker than the main library. You move carefully between the shelves, reading the labels. None of them mention Tristitia by name. None of them even hint at the Sorrow. You spend what feels like an hour searching. But nothing specifically about Tristitia. Nothing about its coven. Mara was right. The Tristitia coven is a mystery, and it's a mystery that doesn't want to be solved.
Frustrated, you slip back through the gap and return to your table. You came to this library hoping for answers, and all you found was more questions.
"Y/N!"
You look up. Jake is hurrying toward your table, something clutched in his hand. "Hey," you say, closing your book. "What are you doing here?"
"You left this in the greenhouse." He holds up the vial of your lumpy aphrodisiac. "I thought you might want it. Professor Nightshade said it was acceptable, which is basically an A in her class."
"Oh. Thanks." You take the vial from him. It's still warm from the greenhouse. "You didn't have to track me down for this."
"I wanted to." He grins. "Also, I was hoping to convince you to take a study break. You've been in here for hours. Your brain needs rest."
"My brain is fine."
"Your brain is going to turn to mush if you keep reading magical theory without breaks. Trust me. I've seen it happen."
"That's not a real thing."
"It's absolutely a real thing. Last year, a fifth-year tried to read the entire Terullian Principles in one sitting and his brain literally liquefied. They had to call a healer."
"You're making that up."
"Maybe. But do you want to risk it?"
You laugh despite yourself. Jake has a way of making everything feel lighter. Less serious. He's the opposite of Sunoo's calculated charm, he's just genuinely, effortlessly warm.
"Fine," you say. "A short break."
"Yes!" He pumps his fist. "Okay, so there's this spot in the greenhouse I want to show you. There's a plant that only blooms during the false dawn, and if you time it right, you can see-"
He's gesturing enthusiastically as he talks, his hands moving in wide arcs. One of those arcs catches the aphrodisiac vial, still balanced precariously on the edge of the table.
Time slows down. You see the vial tip. You see Jake's face shift from excitement to horror. You see his hand reach out, too late, as the vial tumbles off the table and hits the floor.
It shatters. The liquid inside, your lumpy, "acceptable" aphrodisiac spreads across the stone floor in a shimmering puddle. And the smell that rises from it is... intense. Floral and spicy and something else, something that makes your head swim and your skin prickle.
"Oh no," Jake breathes.
"What?"
"That's the aphrodisiac. The concentrated aphrodisiac. And we just-" He gestures at the puddle, then at the two of you, standing directly over it. "-inhaled a lot of it."
"How much is a lot?"
"I don't know. I've never-" He swallows. "Do you feel anything?"
You open your mouth to say no, of course not, you feel fine. But the words don't come out. Because you're suddenly very aware of the fact that you don't feel fine. You feel warm. Too warm. Your skin is tingling, and your heart is beating faster than it should be, and when you look at Jake, really look at him, you notice things you didn't notice before. The way his hair curls slightly at the ends. The way his eyes catch the light. The way his uniform fits across his shoulders.
This is bad.
"I feel something," you admit.
"Me too." Jake's voice is slightly higher than usual. "Okay. Okay, this is fine. Aphrodisiacs are temporary. The effects wear off. We just need to-"
He's interrupted by voices. Loud voices, coming from the direction of the library entrance.
"-absolutely unacceptable. The restricted section has been accessed without authorization."
"I'm aware, Headmaster. We're investigating."
Professors. Multiple professors. And they're heading this way. If they find you here, standing over a shattered aphrodisiac vial, clearly affected, alone together-
"We need to hide," Jake hisses.
"Where?"
"I don't know! Somewhere!"
He grabs your arm and pulls you between the shelves. The voices are getting closer. You can hear footsteps now, heavy and purposeful. The professors are searching the library, and they're going to find you if you don't find cover immediately.
Jake's eyes dart around wildly. Then they land on something, a panel in the wall, barely visible, half-hidden behind a bookshelf. "There!" He pushes against the panel, and it swings open to reveal a small, dark compartment. "In here!"
There's no time to argue. No time to think. You dive into the compartment, and Jake dives in after you, and the panel swings shut behind you just as the professors round the corner. The compartment is tiny. Cramped. It was clearly designed for storage, not for people. There's barely enough room for one person, let alone two people to hide.
You and Jake are pressed together in the darkness, your bodies flush against each other. It takes you a moment to realize what position you've ended up in. Your head is down near his legs. Your rear end is... somewhere near his face.
"Is your-" Jake's voice comes out strangled. "Is your- are you-"
"What?"
"Your... ass. It's on my face."
You close your eyes. You want to die. You want the floor to open up and swallow you. You want to go back in time and never come to this library, never brew this aphrodisiac, never agree to hide in this horrible, tiny compartment.
"I'm aware," you manage.
"Okay. Okay, that's- that's fine. This is fine. Everything is fine."
"Stop saying everything is fine."
"I can't. If I stop saying it, I'll start screaming."
The voices are right outside now. You can hear them clearly through the thin wall of the compartment. "-no sign of the intruder. The restricted section appears undisturbed."
"Keep searching. The wards were triggered. Someone was here."
You hold your breath. Jake holds his breath.The aphrodisiac is definitely still burning. You can feel it. Every point of contact between your body and Jake's is electric, heightened, overwhelming. The warmth of his chest. The press of his hands on your hips, trying to steady you. And from the way his breathing keeps catching, from the way his fingers are gripping your hips a little too tightly, you're pretty sure he's feeling it too.
"This is bad," you whisper.
"Very bad," he agrees.
"The aphrodisiac-"
"I know."
"It's making me-"
"I know. Me too."
You both fall silent. The professors are still outside, their footsteps heavy on the stone floor. The compartment is still dark, still cramped, still unbearably warm. And the aphrodisiac is still working its way through your bloodstream, turning every accidental touch into something more. Jake shifts slightly, trying to find a more comfortable position. You bite your lip to keep from making a sound.
"Sorry," he breathes.
"It's fine."
"It's not fine. Nothing about this is fine." A pause. "Can I just say, for the record, that this is not how I imagined my evening going?"
"You imagined your evening?"
"I imagined a lot of things. None of them involved hiding in a closet with my childhood best friend's ass on my face."
"Can we stop talking about my ass?"
"I would love to stop talking about it. Unfortunately, it's very present."
You would laugh if you weren't so mortified. You would cry if you weren't so pent up. The aphrodisiac is reaching its peak, you can tell, the warmth is spreading through your entire body now, pooling low in your stomach, making your thoughts hazy and your skin hypersensitive. And Jake is right there. His body warm and solid and smelling like honey and vanilla and something else, something that the aphrodisiac is making you notice far too intensely.
"Y/N," Jake says. His voice is strained. "We might have a problem."
"What kind of problem?"
"The kind of problem that is... physically manifesting."
It takes you a moment to understand what he means. When you do, your face burns so hot you're surprised the compartment doesn't catch fire.
"Oh," you say.
"Yeah."
"That's- that's the aphrodisiac."
"I know."
"It's not- you're not-"
"I know. But my body doesn't know. My body thinks-" He cuts himself off with a strangled sound. "Can you please stop shifting?"
"I'm not shifting!"
"You're shifting! Every time you move, your-"
The compartment door rattles. You both freeze.
"Is someone in there?" a voice calls out. One of the professors. Right outside. Right there.
You don't breathe. He doesn't breathe. The compartment is silent, and dark, and so hot that you're both sweating, and the aphrodisiac is still pulsing through your veins, and this is quite possibly the worst moment of your entire life.
The footsteps move away. The voices fade. "Must have been a false alarm. The old wards are too sensitive."
"We'll check again in the morning." The footsteps retreat. The library falls silent.
You don't move. Jake doesn't move. The two of you stay frozen in the darkness, pressed together, hearts racing, the remnants of the aphrodisiac still singing through your blood.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Jake speaks. "We should probably-"
"Yeah."
"Wait until we're sure they're gone."
"Yeah."
The silence stretches, thick and heavy in the darkness. You can still hear some faint voices.
"We should..." Jake starts, his voice a strained whisper. "We should try to stay still. Control our breathing. It'll pass faster if we don't... feed it."
You nod. Control. That's a good idea. A rational idea. You try to focus on your breath, pulling in slow, steady inhales and pushing them out. But every time you breathe in, you fill your lungs with Jake's scent, all amplified by the potion into something intoxicating, something that makes your mouth water. The heat inside you isn't fading. It's building. It pools in your stomach, a low, heavy ache that spreads downwards, between your thighs. You can feel a dampness gathering there, a slick warmth that has nothing to do with sweat and everything to do with the man pressed against you.
Jake shifts, a tiny, aborted movement meant to create space, but it only makes things worse. His hips roll forward, just slightly, and the hard line of his erection drags against the right side of your face. A gasp tears from your throat before you can swallow it.
"Sorry," he grits out, his voice tight. "I'm sorry. I'm trying."
"I know," you whisper back, your own voice shaky. "Me too."
His hands are still on your hips, his fingers gripping you through the fabric of your uniform skirt. You can feel the heat of them even through the layers of cloth. You want him to move them. You want him to take them away. You want him to slide them under your skirt and press them directly against your skin. The thought is so shocking, so potent, that it makes you dizzy. You're not supposed to be thinking about his hands on your bare skin.
You feel one of his hands move. It slides slowly, tentatively, from your hip to the hem of your skirt. His knuckles brush against the back of your thigh, and you shudder, a full-body tremor that you can't control.
"Y/N," he breathes, his voice right next to your ear, a puff of hot air that makes you clench. "I can’t hold back anymore."
You don't say anything. Screw your inhibition. You just press back against him, a silent, involuntary plea. He takes it as permission. His fingers hook under the waistband of your tights. He pauses for a second, giving you one last chance to refuse. You don't. You hold your breath, your entire body tensed in anticipation. Slowly, carefully, he peels the tights down, followed by your underwear. The fabric whispers down your legs, bunching around your knees. The cool air of the compartment hits your heated flesh, and you gasp.
"Jake," you whisper, his name a ragged sound. "What are you-"
And then you feel something else. It's the wet, heat of his tongue, tracing a slow, deliberate line up your inner thigh. You bite down hard on your lip to keep from crying out. The sensation is overwhelming, a jolt of pure pleasure that shoots straight to your core. He does it again, on the other thigh, his movements slow and unhurried, as if he has all the time in the world. His thumbs part your folds, exposing you completely to him. And then his mouth is on you.
Not a tentative lick, but a firm, confident press of his lips against your most sensitive spot. A choked moan escapes your lips.
"Quiet," he whispers against you, the vibration of his voice sending another shockwave through you. "We have to be quiet."
You nod frantically, trying to focus, to muffle the sounds he's pulling from you, but it's impossible. He starts to move his tongue, and all rational thought dissolves. He's not rushing. He's exploring. He licks around your clit, tracing the shape of it. He dips down, gathering your wetness on his tongue before circling your entrance, teasing you with shallow thrusts that make you buck back against him. The aphrodisiac is amplifying everything, turning every flick of his tongue into a bolt of lightning, every slow lap into a wave of fire.
He builds a rhythm, a slow, maddening tempo that has you climbing higher and higher. He alternates between broad, flat strokes that cover your entire core and sharp, precise flicks of his tongue directly on your clit. It's too much and not enough. You can feel the pressure coiling in your stomach.
You're lost in it. Your mind is blank, filled only with the feeling of his mouth on you, his hands on your hips, the scent of his skin. And then, through the haze of pleasure, a new thought surfaces. Your own hands begin to move. You fumble in the darkness, your fingers searching for the button of his trousers. You find it, your knuckles brushing against the hard length straining against the fabric. He groans against you, a low, guttural sound that vibrates through your entire body.
Your fingers are clumsy, shaking with a combination of the aphrodisiac and your own rising desire. You manage to undo the button. His erection springs free, hot and heavy in your hand. You wrap your fingers around him, and he hisses, his hips jerking forward. You stroke him once, twice. A bead of moisture gathers at the tip, and you swipe at it with your thumb. He shudders.
You shift your position slightly, Until you can take him into your mouth. The taste is clean and salty. You hollow your cheeks, sucking gently, and he rewards you with another groan, the sound muffled against your skin. This is it. This is the breaking point. You're pleasuring him while he pleasures you, a tangle of limbs and mouths in the suffocating darkness. Every time he flicks his tongue, you tighten your grip on him. Every time you take him deeper into your mouth, his own movements become more frantic.
You have to swallow your moans, muffle your cries against his skin. He has to muffle his groans against you. The sounds you do make are choked, breathless, desperate. The pressure inside you is almost unbearable now. You're so close. You can feel the orgasm building. Jake seems to sense it too. He focuses his attention, his tongue working faster, harder, with a devastating precision. He slides one hand from your hip, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing in tight, circles as his tongue continues its assault. That's all it takes. The wave breaks and your orgasm crashes over.
The guide you posted? I don’t think I’ve ever been so enthralled by world building in any fanfic or published book. Every time I finished a section and thought it was done, I scrolled and there was even more deliciousness to consume. I was not in any way, shape, or form prepared for how intricate, complex, and detailed this world would be and I am utterly fascinated and in awe. The naming of the campus buildings and dorms, along with their in-depth descriptions and vivid imagery, have me dying for a map to be illustrated.
And the Seven Deadly Sinners… admittedly, this is not what I expected the story to be when I first saw your pitch post. How it starts with Y/n being tasked with assuming the life and identity of an alternate version of herself. And then I’m further caught off guard by which sins you gave to each member. Still, this makes it all the more intriguing.
I truly can’t remember the last time I was this invested in a fanfic, and I look forward to seeing what you have in store for us🖤
(- that one anon who only dreamed of reading a reverse harem Enha fic that’s 7 deadly sins themed🙏)
Hiiiii babe!!! Thank you so much for your support 💕🥹 you don’t know how much efforts I have put into making everything (the research, the brainstorming, the directive lines ect…) please look forward to the mystery and the lore (there will be easter eggs too in the parts 🤭)
